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  Darcy told Johanna how sorry she was about Mr. Renfrow, and Johanna accepted her condolences with a quick shake of her head. An uncomfortable silence followed, finally broken by Johanna. “Majoring in Gender Studies, is it?”

  “Women as victims of the process.” Heavily flossed, child-sized teeth beamed at us.

  “Darcy and I spent the afternoon at the Arnold Arboretum,” Glenn said quickly.

  “It’s so peaceful there.” Darcy had a face like a pansy, broad forehead, narrow chin, with a deep groove beneath her lower lip. “I wanted to show Glenn the gingko walk. I find it a spiritual place. A healing place.”

  Shades of Deirdre. If anyone else mentioned healing, I’d argue for pain. Whatever happened to mourning? Just plain old rending your garments and howling your grief.

  In a gesture very like his dad’s, Glenn put his hand on Darcy’s arm. “We stopped by to see if you need anything. Otherwise, we’ll be off.”

  “You should have called.” Johanna stared at Darcy’s teeth, then at her son. Perched on top of her head, her glasses looked like a second set of flashing eyes. “I was worried.”

  “Sorry,” Glenn said.“If you want the car, I’ll take Darcy home and forget the meeting.”

  “What meeting?”

  Darcy answered. “A few friends are getting together to help Glenn meditate.”

  “Meditate?” Johanna managed to make the word sound like “defecate.”

  “Uh,” Glenn studied the floor. “We want to kind of…contemplate Dad’s dove.”

  Her face gone eczema-pink, Johanna got up from her chair and walked around the table. Standing side-by-side, mother and son so resembled each other I wondered how I’d seen Chaz in Glenn’s face. “What exactly do you mean by ‘Dad’s dove’?”

  “Mr. Renfrow’s spirit,” Darcy said.

  “His soul.” Glenn sounded so sad I wanted to pull him to my bandaged breast.

  Johanna moved closer. Darcy held her ground. Glenn looked like a bare bone caught between dogs.

  “We did not have a religious ceremony precisely because your father was an atheist. If you must pray, pray for NGT.”

  After they left, Johanna brought Cordy a dish of ice cream, and I poured more coffee which neither of us drank.

  “I’ll look for those campaign papers tomorrow,” she said. “Names on a petition. There wasn’t anything like that in Charles’ house, or his NGT safe, but I haven’t really gone through his office yet. He was a terrible pack rat. If I find them, you can have them.”

  She propped her chin on her fist. “Susan, I’ve told you why I need the money back, all that hinges on it. I’m willing to forget about the contract.”

  “I’m not. I need to know who forged it, and why.”

  “Take it.” She pushed her envelope toward me. “I made a copy for Sergeant Tyre last night. And the original contract, the police have it. Tyre told me they found it…clenched in Charles’ hand.” In a moment that passed instantly, Johanna may have blinked back a tear. “Will you return the money, Susan?”

  Twenty thousand dollars. For me it meant a little financial security. Debt reduction. Breathing room. Chaz had given it to me unconditionally, but in my heart I knew I hadn’t earned it, or much of it. I ran a reluctant hand through my hair. “I’ll calculate a fee based on time,” I sighed, “and send you the balance.”

  Nino was right. I was a patsy. “You’ll have to sign a blanket waiver of claims against me,” I said, trying for a little belated intransigence.

  “Certainly. I’d like everything settled before I leave for Telford. I’ll be glad to come to your office tomorrow.”

  Although tomorrow was Saturday, we arranged a two o’clock meeting. On my way out I stopped by the library to tell Cordy goodbye. She had fallen asleep to the screech of television cars, the remote still under her veined hand. Her head was askew, her eyelids thin as gauze. A line of saliva had dried on her jaw.

  Johanna saw me to the door. “What do you expect your fee will be?” she said, hesitating, but able to overcome her delicacy. “Ballpark figure.”

  “Not enough, Johanna.” I stepped onto the walk. “Not nearly enough.”

  ***

  Odette Brenner’s white federal house sat on a country lane in the middle of dense suburbia. Most of the lights were out, and while I stood there debating whether to ring the bell or shove the contributors’ list through the mail slot, the door opened.

  “Susan. I thought I heard a car.” Odette shooed me inside without spilling a drop of cognac from the snifter she was cradling in her palm. “Roddie’s been trying to reach you. The police are questioning him about that Telford murder.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “About Charles Renfrow?”

  “I think that’s the name.”

  “Renfrow was one of my candidates. Why would the police be talking to Roddie?”

  Odette gave me a sharp look. “He says it’s some kind of mix-up and he’s sure you can fix it. Mix-up!” She shook her head. “It’s murder, and I want to bring in my nephew. Gordon Brenner is the best criminal lawyer in Massachusetts, but Roddie won’t let me. Just because he’s done nothing wrong he thinks he’s got nothing to worry about.”

  She led me down a dimly lit hall, one stocky arm swinging against her loose cotton dress. In a little den off the kitchen, she picked up the desk phone and passed it to me when Roddie came on the line.

  “Susan, don’t you check with your service? I’ve been calling you for hours.”

  For some reason, Roddie needed to put me on the defensive, and he sounded so stressed, I let him. “Sorry, I had my phones off. What’s going on?”

  “The police found one of my surveys in Renfrow’s Lexus, so they think I knew him.”

  “That’s what this is about? Renfrow was a client. I was in his car last week with a bag full of drafts. I must have dropped one. Where are you?”

  “Special Investigations Unit, Boston office.”

  “Who’s questioning you? Put him on.”

  “I’ll handle it now I know what to say.” He hung up before I could stop him.

  “Sounds like he won’t be needing Gordon!” Odette had been hovering near the phone, and now her face bloomed a cheerful pink. She poured me a cognac and topped up her own. “Lauren will be relieved…I assume.”

  It seemed a bizarre thing to say, and her confiding tone incited my nosiness. “Do the Bairds get along?”

  She hesitated. “Lauren is moody. I don’t know her well.”

  An evasion, but except as it affected his race, Roddie’s marriage was none of my business. I kicked off my shoes, tucked myself into an armchair and listened to the sounds of Odette’s snug home. In the kitchen, the freezer chunked ice into a tray. The dishwasher volleyed water down the drain. Somewhere behind me, an air-conditioner hummed. House harmony, I thought, in a melancholy minor mode.

  “Roddie and my husband were good friends,” Odette said. “And Roddie has stayed close to me. Stan died ten years ago. I’m still not over it.”

  She turned on a lamp, and her broad nose and strong chin softened in the dusty amber light. She seemed to float on shadows, an old-master portrait in a summer shift. Sipping my drink, listening to her house sing, I suspected Odette, for all her optimism and brazen hair and legal connections, was lonely.

  “Women mourn,” she said. “Men remarry.” Then she laughed, as if she’d made a wry joke. “And don’t you forget it, Susan.”

  I promised I wouldn’t.

  We chatted for a few minutes about Nino and my mistake, repeated our confidence in Roddie. When she’d drained her glass, she set it on the table. “Well, I’m glad you stopped by. Thank you for the list, all your hard work.”

  A clear signal for me to leave. I slipped on my shoes, but before I made it to the door, Roddie phoned again, h
is voice wound tight. “You better get over here. Sergeant Tyre’s started pushing about when I got back from Colorado.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sticky Strands

  A trooper led me to a fifth floor office crowded with filing cabinets, every windowless wall covered with bulletin boards. Sergeant Tyre was hunched over a cluttered desk, paging through a folder. This place would give a flea the heebie-jeebies, I thought; let alone Roddie, who was sitting off by himself on an orange molded chair. He was dressed like a rugged outdoorsman, staring at his hands as if they were distant mountains.

  “Time to leave, Roddie,” I said.

  He nodded, but didn’t move. “Delta can’t confirm my departure, Susan. I’m on the manifest, but after I fell I switched my flight. Then I got bumped.”

  “What’s that got to do with the price of bananas?”

  “Routine follow up, Suze.” Tyre had decided to notice me. “We’re interested in Mr. Baird’s whereabouts at the time of Renfrow’s murder.” He rubbed his baggy eyelids and stretched his arms over his melon-shaped head.

  “See, Delta put me up in one of those cookie cutter airport hotels, I forget which one,” Roddie blabbered on. “We’re waiting for them to get the name and call me back.”

  Some instinct told me not to press for explanations. I wanted Roddie to shut up. I wanted to get him out of here. But I needed information from Tyre. “What do my client’s travel arrangements have to do with Renfrow’s murder?”

  “They give him an alibi.”

  “He doesn’t need an alibi.”

  “We’re checking everyone who knew Renfrow. Mike vouched for you, Suze.” He tossed me a quick knowing smile. “That campaign paper we found links Renfrow and Baird.”

  “It does nothing of the sort. It’s mine and I dropped it in the SUV. As you know.”

  “I didn’t know till Baird finally got a hold of you.”

  “Well now you know. Let’s go, Roddie.”

  “Hold on.” Tyre grabbed his phone and made a call. “Mike, the political consultant is here. Wants to take her client home.” He jerked his chin in my direction. “Mike wants to see you both. Left on your way out.”

  We got as far as the door before Tyre revved up his Columbo act. “Hey, Suze, this afternoon we found Renfrow’s Lexus in Brookline, four blocks from your street. Any idea how it got there?”

  Four blocks from my street? I managed a casual, “Nope.”

  “One more thing. Renfrow was your candidate. Mr. Baird here is also one of yours.” He paused, possibly waiting for me to clutch my throat and confess to something. “And you’re telling me they didn’t know each other?”

  “Do all your informants hang out together, Paul?”

  ***

  Michael was waiting in the hall. He nodded at me, then turned to Roddie. “If you wouldn’t mind one or two more questions?”

  We followed him into another grim office. At a corner desk, a different trooper tapped on a keyboard. Mr. Coffee sizzled on a shelf, next to a stack of styrofoam cups and powdered creme. Roddie and I sat down at a small round table. “You know the Lieutenant?” he asked in a loud whisper.

  “Not very well.” This was pure unvarnished truth, though I might have said more if the trooper hadn’t brought over coffee and fixings on a tray.

  “Anybody? Fresh pot.”

  I accepted a cup and savored the hint of polycarbon under the burnt jockstrap taste of the brew. Michael joined us at the table, his manner cool and official.

  “Sorry to keep you so late,” he said to Roddie, then launched right in. “I hear you’ve got pretty eclectic business interests.”

  Roddie slitted his eyes in a yawn that looked fake even to me. “I’m a professional trend spotter, Lieutenant. Chlorine-free swimming pools. Miniature satellite receivers. Super light, super strong mountaineer’s rope. Take it from me, extreme climbing is the boomers’ last big adventure.”

  Michael leafed through his notepad. A pack of Old Golds peeked out of his shirt pocket, and his sleeves were turned back, exposing sinewy wrists and a drugstore watch that he’d already checked twice. “Ever invest in biotechnology?”

  “I only invest in things I can see, touch, and feel.”

  “That’s a no?”

  “That’s a no.”

  “How about the Cordelia Guaranty Trust?”

  “What the hell are you driving at? That’s a fund I set up for my daughter. I’ve done the same for my sons.”

  “You manage the trust?”

  “My wife and I are passive trustees. My financial adviser looks after the trust assets.” Roddie turned to me. “You remember him, Susan. John Snow.”

  “Sure do. I remember how quietly he sat at your finance meeting while everyone talked about money.”

  “Financial wizards don’t need to talk. So far, John’s raised most of my campaign contributions.”

  “Snow calls the shots for your daughter’s trust?” Michael said.

  “Yes. He will consult me before he tries something he considers exceptionally risky.”

  “Did he consult you before he invested one and a quarter million dollars of the Cordelia Trust in NGT Corporation?”

  Under his dark beard stubble, Roddie blanched. “That’s the entire fund! What the hell is NGT?”

  I started to tell him, but Michael talked over me. “NovoGenTech. Renfrow’s company. The Cordelia Trust bought convertible debentures from NGT about two months ago. NGT gave back stock, a promissory note, and a small bank account held jointly by Renfrow and the Trust.”

  This would be the loan Johanna had told me about, and the bank account Chaz must have raided to pay me that hefty fee. The Cordelia Trust was beginning to feel like another sticky strand of a web with my name on it. I shifted on my butt-busting chair, a Marrakesh prison reject along with the coffee.

  “Where’d you hear about this?” From a sleeve pocket, Roddie extracted a tiny compass and took a read, as if checking his emotional bearings, which were grim in every direction.

  “Bart Bievsky,” Michael said. “NGT’s chief financial officer. According to Bievsky, Renfrow kept the loan papers in a safe deposit box, separate from other NGT documents. Bievsky reviewed the transaction, and he remembered the names Baird and Snow on the note. So far we haven’t located Renfrow’s bank, but Snow will have copies.”

  “If Snow invested in NGT, he didn’t consult me. I’ll straighten this out right now. Get him out of bed if I have to.” Roddie began pressing numbers into his BlackBerry.

  “Don’t bother. We tried to reach him, but he’s out of town and out of touch.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. He’s somewhere in Alaska, wilderness camping.”

  “More Boomer adventures.” Michael dropped his Old Golds on the table, tapped out a cigarette, then checked his watch again, which made me wonder whether he was timing the interview or his nicotine breaks. “You’re saying you have no knowledge of Charles Renfrow?”

  Roddie spun his compass. “Never heard of him. Or his company.”

  Eyes half-closed against a phantom drift of smoke from the unlit cigarette, Michael studied my unhappy client, and then dismissed him. “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Baird. We’ll want to talk with you again after we find the loan documents.”

  Without so much as a nod at me, Roddie snatched up his compass and barreled out.

  “Wait!” I called after him. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Save your legs. I’m not up for any more company tonight.” His anger shivered in the air and under my skin. And then he was gone, leaving a reluctant promise to phone me tomorrow.

  “You should’ve let me know about Roddie,” I said to Michael.

  “Didn’t know he was one of yours. Look, Susan, we need to talk about this.” The cigarette was back in i
ts pack, a move that was beginning to look like a tic. “There’s a link between Baird and Renfrow. The survey, the trust, how many coincidences add up to a lie?”

  “Roddie explained all that, and I believe him. You should focus on someone who did know Chaz Renfrow. His wife told me you found an agency contract…at the scene of the crime.”

  “Part of a contract, clutched in Renfrow’s hand.”

  “Did it look like this?” I passed him the copy from my bag. “Courtesy of Dr. Johanna Lang. Says she gave another copy to Tyre yesterday.”

  Michael looked it over. “You signed this last Monday?”

  “I did not! Last Monday I agreed to advise Chaz’s campaign, and we shook hands on it. I never saw, let alone signed, that…document. It’s a forgery. A scam. It excludes the Navy Yard, and whatta ya know, that’s the very site Chaz selected. Johanna wants me to give back my retainer, which she calls a finder’s fee, like I’m trying to cheat her now that Chaz is dead. She tried to bully me out of the money today, and when she couldn’t, she wheedled.”

  He smiled. “And that worked?”

  “Sort of.” I edged toward the door. “I’m leaving, Michael. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “What’s wrong with tonight?”

  ***

  Rain began to fall, a few needle drops that shocked my skin. Michael wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and I hugged his waist, and we moved slowly through the night like invalids bracing. By the time we reached the parking lot, the drops had turned to mist, and every nerve in my body was on fire. We stood beside my car listening to distant thunder, while I fumbled inside my hobo bag for the key.

  “Wouldn’t a briefcase be easier?” Michael pushed my bag aside and kissed me.

  “If I was that buttoned up…” I started to say, my words engulfed by another kiss, “…I’d never have fallen for a madman like you.”

  “Me, a madman?” His fingers wound through my hair, by now a crinkled mop in the saturated air. “What does that make you?”

  “Happy,” I admitted, against all odds and my mother’s advice about discretion.

  With Michael at the wheel, we made it to my house in twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds by my cellphone clock. From the street, the painted lady glowed like a cruise ship in the night; downstairs, the light-timers were doing their two-step, and upstairs, as was my habit since the attack, I’d left on every light.