A Crack in Everything Page 20

  “Snap out of it, Susie.” Michael reached over and squeezed my knee. I jerked it away, surprised by the force of my mood. An ominous calm began to spread through my core, and as we drove, I let my mind drift where it would, to sleep, oblivion.

  Next thing I knew, we were parked in front of my house, and Michael was on the sidewalk, opening the car door for me. When I got out, he closed the door on my skirt. I tugged and it ripped. Damn Michael’s country-boy chivalry. I headed down the driveway to my car where I hauled Beau’s hockey gear out of the trunk.

  Michael came up behind me. “What’s that?”

  “I stopped by Beauford’s apartment.” I spilled out the story, even the chapter on cockroaches. “Mrs. Kling chased me down the fire stairs, but I managed to grab this on my way out.” I upended the duffle, and a can of wax hit my foot.

  “You raided Smith’s apartment?” Michael’s pissed-off voice told me he had deliberately, willfully misunderstood.

  “Beau gave me permission, but I didn’t have a key.”

  His cold eyes made me explain too much. “Yes, yes, I lied my way in, but in about two minutes you’re going to thank me.” I hoped.

  I plopped down on the driveway and emptied the bag. Piece by piece, I tore into the equipment, even probing behind the foam pads inside the helmets and under the skates’ grungy tongues. Michael watched in a silence that seemed to shout. After awhile I gave up. “Okay, video’s not here. Satisfied?”

  He bent and began putting helmets and leg guards back into the duffle. “Susan, why don’t we go inside?”

  “Please don’t condescend to me.”

  A puck dropped from his hand. “Maybe I’ve been crowding you these last few days,” he said in the same low voice.

  “And maybe I’ve been expecting too much.” I rested my head against the car, letting warm metal soothe the back of my neck. “You should go home.”

  “I’d rather stay. You need me to fix your supper.”

  His voice seemed to smile, but where I wanted tenderness, I saw only tolerance and resignation on his face.

  “You left me alone for months. What if I’d needed you then?” I scrambled to my feet. “Well, I didn’t. And I don’t need you now.”

  At last I understood how angry I had been all along.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alibi

  Alone in my kitchen, I tried to reach Gordon Brenner and ended up leaving messages with his answering service and voice mail. Next, I called Lauren who wasn’t home, or wasn’t picking up. I told her machine to please say I’d called.

  Supper was peanut butter on toast, as meager as my spirits. An hour in my clawfoot tub wizened my fingers and toes, and now I was shriveled inside and out. I changed the gauze on my breast, and got into bed with Count Tolstoy. Quick as the turn of a page, I forgot about Roddie and Chaz, though it took three chapters to shake off Michael. By chapter five, I’d lost myself too, and that was a relief. The uses of literature.

  At midnight, the telephone jangled me out of a dream that dissolved before I opened my eyes. My heart thudded, not sure whose body it occupied tonight. “Yes,” I croaked.

  It was Gordon Brenner. “They’ve charged Roddie with murder,” he said. “His wife’s not home so I’m calling you.”

  As soon as he said it, I realized I’d known it would happen. “Why?” My croak became a hoarse whisper. “What changed?”

  “They linked the murder weapon to him. Renfrow was strangled with mountaineer’s rope. Doesn’t look good, Susan. Lab report came back. They found microscopic fibers embedded in Renfrow’s neck.”

  “They charged Roddie over a hank of rope?”

  “They found lengths of it in Renfrow’s Lexus, along with that campaign brochure. They’re saying the rope wasn’t on the market yet and could only have come from Roddie.”

  “Lots of that rope out there; it was field tested. And Roddie’s been giving it away like candy. Any fingerprints?”

  “Nothing useful.”

  “So where are we? No fingerprints. And no firm time of death: Chaz could have died as early as one p.m. when Roddie was unequivocally in Denver.”

  “Or as late as midnight, when he wasn’t.”

  “That doesn’t sink my point. All they’ve got is a handful of circumstantial evidence.”

  “Yes, but the circumstances are narrowly focused. The rope. The trust loan. The lies. Tomorrow the D.A. will hammer them home. Arraignment’s at nine o’clock. Where the hell is Mrs. Baird? She never showed for our appointment and hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “I’d guess she’s gone to Maine with her little girl. She’ll get back to you.” I spoke with more hope than conviction.

  “She ought to get back to her husband. Roddie’s worried sick about her.”

  “I’ll come to the arraignment.” As if the sight of his campaign counselor would calm Roddie’s fears. “What room?”

  Gordon told me, and I hung up, feeling as helpless as if Roddie had died. Once Lauren’s affair was exposed, Roddie’s motive for murder would lock into place. And if she talked to Tyre today, the police already knew.

  ***

  No handcuffs. That was the good news.

  The rest made a front-page story in the Boston Globe, Section B, above the fold. I pushed my oatmeal aside and laid the paper flat on the table. Roddie was grinning from a campaign photo I’d blitzed to the media back in May. The headline was two columns wide: Newton Candidate Suspect in Murder.

  Most of the story rehashed what little the police had already released about “the NGT slayings,” names of the victims, a few gruesome physical details, including an update on the rope. Sergeant Paul Tyre was quoted: “The ligature used to strangle Charles Renfrow was manufactured by a company owned by Rodney Baird.”

  Lauren was mentioned in a sidebar about NGT and its products: The biotechnology company had been experiencing “growing pains” at the time of Renfrow’s death. Sources told this reporter that Lauren Baird, Renfrow’s close friend and financial advisor, recently made a substantial loan to NGT from a Baird family trust.

  Close friend. Substantial loan. Sources. Dammit all. Against my advice, Lauren had talked to Tyre, who Michael had long suspected of courting the press. Why didn’t the reporter just spell out Tyre’s innuendo: Lauren Baird and Charles Renfrow were lovers.

  The breakfast crowd at Freddie’s, the plumbers, contractors, office workers, were drinking in the news with their coffees, and the sight of all those Heralds and Globes made a knot in my throat. I grabbed my cellphone and called Lauren. As it had last night, her analog voice invited a message. I complied, warning her about the media coverage. I told her about Roddie’s arraignment and begged her to call Gordon. “And please get back to me? We’re very worried about you.” I hung up, sorry I hadn’t thought to send Delia a hug.

  Breakfast now looked like a lost cause. The gelatinous gruel, so full of buttery comfort a few minutes ago, had gone nearly cold; but I forced it down. To my surprise, the very bulk of it quelled my anxiety. I finished my coffee and added up my check, a few easy numbers whose sum kept eluding me. It was seven-thirty; time enough to stop at my office for Nino’s files which I’d decided to return to him after the arraignment.

  ***

  The usual villains, traffic and parking, delayed me. By the time I hurled myself up the courthouse steps and found the right room, it was twenty past nine. Lauren, I noted with dismay, was not here, and neither was Roddie. At the bench, a judge was conferring with his clerk. Attorneys were standing at tables, shoving papers into briefcases, chatting in low voices as they walked out.

  Though we’d talked on the phone, Gordon Brenner and I had never met. He was prematurely gray Odette had told me, and from my seat I could see that one of the lawyers had a young face and hair like cotton batting.

 
I went out to the hall, and when my target emerged I accosted him. “I’m Susan Callisto,” I said. “Are you Gordon Brenner?”

  He beamed and offered his hand, all the while striding toward the elevators. “Roddie’s in a holding cell.”

  I puffed after him, barely managing to keep pace. “Why hasn’t he been released?”

  He held the doors open for me. “Bail’s going to take awhile.” As we descended, he gave me his news, in the usual order, bad first: Bail was two million dollars.

  My stomach hit the ground floor way ahead of the elevator. “Why so high?”

  “He chartered that jet. DA argued he was a risk to flee. Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”

  Would it? Defense counsel are professional optimists.

  “Roddie’s going to refinance his house and sell some stock,” Gordon said. “We’ll have him back in his own bed tonight.”

  I coughed and almost missed the good news: “Aunt Odette’s taking care of the paperwork. I just spoke to her.”

  That was it. The paperwork. We went outside, passing through a garden of lacy trees that began near the courthouse steps and ended ten feet later at the curb.

  “I don’t suppose anyone reached Lauren?” I said.

  “Not yet. Her cell phone’s off and she’s ignoring her messages.” Gordon pulled a brown bag from his briefcase and offered me a cookie. “The Maine place is a rental, and Roddie doesn’t have the number. As soon as she can, Aunt Odette will run over to his house and see if she can find it.”

  We were munching our way toward the parking lot when Gordon stopped abruptly at a cross street. He tapped his briefcase on his knee and stared at me. “Any idea who’s responsible for the trust fund story in this morning’s Globe?”

  “Don’t give me the fish eye. Lauren warned me she might talk to the police, and Sergeant Tyre has a direct line to the media.”

  “Somebody ought to put a leash on Mrs. Baird. Roddie told me he made that loan.”

  “Lauren plans to consult with you about…things,” I said lamely, and Gordon’s fish eye became the kind of glare that had surely flustered a witness or two. Luckily, apart from the blush, I have a hardy face, part Teflon, part granite. No political consultant, let along lawyer, should leave home without one.

  “What’s going on here?” Gordon pushed.

  “Talk to Roddie. Show him the Globe story.”

  “He’s seen it, and the Herald, and he sticks by his version. You know, Susan, if people aren’t straight with me, it’ll go bad for Roddie’s defense.”

  I was suddenly full of empathy for Gordon, frustration being one of my keenest emotions. “Try talking to him again.”

  ***

  I stopped at Tavola Rustica with Nino’s files, but only Benny was there, minding the stove while Nino picked up a few things at his local grocer’s. Except for the occasional foray to Russo’s in Watertown, Nino shopped in his neighborhood. Not cost-effective, I’d told him more than once. I decided not to leave the files. Benny might drop them in the soup, or maybe I wasn’t quite ready to sever ties with my half-stand-in grandpa.

  By eleven, I was at my desk, staring at Roddie’s campaign calendar. I could only hope he and Lauren would come clean with Gordon. Bail was the first crucial step, but we had to get the charges dropped fast or another candidate would gallop to victory.

  The phone rang.

  “Hey, Ms. Banana, thought you were going to call me.”

  “Oh hi, Al.”

  “Don’t overexcite yourself.”

  “Sorry. I’m a little distracted today.”

  “That your candidate in the Globe?”

  “And the Herald, and probably the regional press, and the online news.” I gave Al a sketchy account of the arrest and the two million dollar bail. “Gordon Brenner’s optimistic,” I said, sounding like Eeyore.

  “And you’re looking on the dark side. Don’t. Brenner’s one of the best.” Al’s low voice soothed like menthol. “Listen, I’ve got a few things on Glendel. I’ll show you this afternoon, at your convenience, as long as it’s around three o’clock.”

  “I’d rather not come to your office, if that’s all right.”

  “I know, I know. Lexophobia.”

  “Actually, I’m afraid the firm might start looking like lost horizons.”

  “Anytime you want to come back, kid. You know that. But my plan was we meet at Caffe Vittoria like the old days.”

  “Sounds good.” My former firm was a brisk walk away from the North End, and Caffe Vittoria had been a favorite after work stop for a few of us in the real estate department. Al’s wife used to join us sometimes, and Gil when he was in town.

  We settled on three o’clock, and then Al dropped his bomb. “I’m sending a cab for Nino Biondi. I played peacemaker this morning, and he’s ready to listen.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say.”

  “Just show up and let me do the talking. What’s the worst that can happen? A good cup of coffee?”

  I hesitated until Al played his ace. “No Caffe Vittoria, no Glendel file.”

  ***

  I popped open a Coke and went back to Roddie’s summer schedule, mostly fluff, ice cream socials, tot lot dedications, events a politician out on bail could duck. While I browsed through autumn, a season of forums and debates, it came home to me that simply getting the charges dropped wouldn’t be enough. Lingering doubt is an insidious poison. Unless they caught the killer, Roddie’s campaign would wither. I put away the calendar and swigged more Coke. Like my mood, it was flat, which was better than angst. Flat, I could live with.

  I decided to cultivate my plants. Though I’d watered all seven of them on Saturday, even the cast-iron plant looked peaked. I snipped a few leaves and, using my coffee carafe, I flooded them with water, which immediately rushed through the pots and drizzled over the floor. Cactuses, I decided, would fit better with my professional life. I was on my knees, sopping up the mess when someone knocked, and the door opened.

  “Hi, Susan.”

  I jumped to my feet. “Hey, Glenn.”

  He was standing in the doorway, a small, dark-haired figure crowding in next to him.

  “And Darcy!” I smiled, agreeably I hoped, given that they’d caught me with my tush in the air. “Come in.”

  I pitched the wet paper towel toward my wastebasket and watched, amazed, as it plopped juicily over the rim. I always missed. “Bull’s eye,” I said coolly, but secretly gratified.

  “‘Swish,’ you mean.” Darcy’s teeth and gums had a Cheshire cat life of their own.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Basketball metaphor, wasn’t it?”

  Why didn’t I like this pansy-faced girl?

  Glenn walked ahead of Darcy, and she hurried to catch up, oversize jeans bagging on top of her sneakers. They both wore blue-and-white shirts, and I wondered if that was a coincidence or an expression of solidarity. They had reached my desk, and Glenn was staring at my pencil pot much as his father had done two weeks and a lifetime ago. Darcy touched his sleeve, as if they’d been quarreling and she was offering to make up.

  I switched off the plant light. “So, what brings you here?”

  He turned, not quite meeting my eyes. “We, uh, we’d like to ask your advice.” He helped himself to a pencil, and studied it. “Ticonderoga.” A dreamy look veiled his face. “My dad used to say Ticonderoga was the sound a pencil makes being sharpened. Ticonderogaticonderoga.”

  “It’s about Mr. Renfrow’s murder,” Darcy said in a rush. “We know who killed him.”

  My pulse quickened. “Let’s find the soft chairs.”

  In a screened area not far from the door, I took the Morris chair. They sat next to each other on the sofa, Glenn jiggling my pencil until Darcy put out a hand. Her backpack, larger
than my hobo bag but very much leaner, took up most of the coffee table.

  “Have you seen this?” She brought out today’s Globe, where the NGT stories were circled in red.

  “Yes,” I said. “Roddie Baird is my candidate.”

  “He’s innocent,” Glenn said, finally looking at me. “Can I speak in confidence?”

  It killed me to say no, but I couldn’t make a promise it wasn’t ethical to keep. “If you have information about the murders, it’s your duty to tell the police. Tell me, and I’ll be obliged to pass it on to them.” Especially if it exonerates Roddie.

  “I’m not exactly sure I should go to the police.”

  “He doesn’t want to be sued for slander or defamation or something,” Darcy explained.

  The pencil started twirling again. “I thought maybe I could hire you so we’d have attorney-client privilege, and I could discuss it.”

  I shook my head. “Can’t do it. I’ll be glad to refer you to another attorney.” Well, not glad. Sad, actually. I wanted to know, immediately, anything that pointed to Roddie’s innocence.

  “Susan, my father is dead. He was your client, too, not just this Baird guy. Mom says Dad paid you very well for what turned out to be no work. Can’t I confide in you, just for a few minutes?”

  With his head down, Glenn looked like a Chaz clone again. The narrow face, the way he stretched his legs and slouched on his spine. He’d inherited the ‘persuasive’ gene too, and if he lacked Chaz’s height and aggression, his mildness evoked tender feelings in me. I wanted to hear him out. Certainly for Roddie’s sake, but also for his own. All of which made me wary as hell. I’d been hoodwinked once by a Renfrow.

  “Let me talk, okay? I won’t ask for confidentiality. I’ll leave that up to you.”

  “All right,” I said, “but no promises.”

  Glenn’s neck was raw where he’d scraped it shaving, and his Adam’s apple bobbed with emotion. “Bart Bievsky murdered my father.”