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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Chapter 1 - Mid-October

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Sophie’s Favorite Kransakaka Cookie

  By Ellen Hart

  Copyright Page

  To my Sweet Gang of Muses:

  Rufess, Mr. Beau, Sassy, Murphy,

  Lilly, Commander Molly, Mimsy,

  and “The Boys”—Busby and Newton.

  Much Madness is divinest Sense—

  To a discerning Eye—

  Much Sense—the starkest Madness.

  —EMILY DICKINSON

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  SOPHIE GREENWAY: Owner-manager of the Maxfield Plaza in St. Paul. Restaurant critic for the Minneapolis Times Register. Bram’s wife.

  BRAM BALDRIC: Radio talk-show host for WTWN in the Twin Cities. Sophie’s husband. Margie’s father.

  RUDY GREENWAY: Sophie’s son. Food editor at the Minneapolis Times Register.

  MARGIE BALDRIC: Wedding planner. Bram’s daughter.

  BOB FABIAN: Owner and publisher of the Minneapolis Times Register. Valerie’s husband. Andy’s half brother. Phil’s brother-in-law.

  PHIL BANKS: Owner of Banks Construction. Bob’s brother-in-law.

  CHRISTINE (CHRIS) PARILLO: Phil’s girlfriend. Ex-chef.

  VINCE PARILLO: Viet Nam vet. Head chef at the Rookery Club.

  LYLE BOERICHTER: Pilot for Sunrise Airlines.

  DEL IRAZARIAN: Investigative reporter at the Minneapolis Times Register.

  ANDREW (ANDY) GLADSTONE: Bob’s half brother. Anika’s husband. Editor at the Minneapolis Times Register.

  ANIKA GLADSTONE: Andy’s wife. Assistant food and beverage manager at the Maxfield Plaza.

  KENNETH LOY: The man who broadsided Valerie Fabian’s car, killing her.

  HENRY AND PEARL TAHTINEN: Previous owners of the Maxfield Plaza. Sophie’s parents.

  AL LUNDQUIST: Detective with the St. Paul Police Department. Old friend of Bram’s.

  NATHAN BUCKRIDGE: Sophie’s high school sweetheart. Owner of Chez Sophia, a restaurant in Stillwater, Minnesota.

  1

  Mid-October

  When Ken Loy left his house for the last time, it was just beginning to turn dark. His bicycle, a LeMond with a superlight Reynolds 853 mainframe, was leaning against a stack of firewood in the garage. Ken loved riding at night, loved drawing the fresh, cool air into his lungs after being cooped up inside an office all day. He worked such long hours at Miller & Gustafson that his evenings were the only time he had for exercise and relaxation.

  Ken Loy was the divorced father of two teenage daughters. He saw his kids mostly on weekends when he’d take them to a movie or a sporting event— whatever was around that interested them. During the past summer, he’d finally met a woman he liked a lot, but he had so little free time that the relationship had pretty much died on the vine.

  That had been the problem in his marriage, too. Ken never seemed to have enough hours in the day for everything that needed to be done. But how was a guy supposed to get ahead if he didn’t keep his nose to the grindstone? Ken had never believed his wife when she insisted that his job came first, last, and in between. But now he was beginning to wonder if she wasn’t right. If—God forbid—his life should end tonight, he wouldn’t have much to show for it other than a bank account and dozens of empty prescription bottles of Prilosec.

  After checking his water bottle, Ken hopped on. He tightened the strap on his helmet—making sure his earphones were perfectly positioned in his ears— then turned on his CD player, adjusted the sound, and finally pumped off down Raymond Avenue.

  It took only a few minutes to reach his destination— Shepard Road. Sailing along the bike path on the double highway, with railroad tracks on one side of him and the Mississippi River on the other, Ken felt happy for the first time all day. The air was a tonic, and Rod Stewart, his favorite singer, blasted all the cobwebs out of his brain.

  Although the year hadn’t exactly been a banner one for Ken Loy, he was doing his best to put the horror of last fall behind him. Exercise was a big part of that, and tonight it felt especially good to be alive.

  Rush hour was long over. Now that the sun was almost down, the traffic had thinned to a trickle. He could see the headlights of cars behind him strike the road ahead, then whoosh past. Downtown St. Paul shimmered in the distance, the last rays of the setting sun hitting the tall buildings and turning them a fiery gold. Ken loved St. Paul, couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Even though he’d never used it, his undergraduate degree from the University of Minnesota was in Urban Studies. If any city in the United States had suffered from a complete lack of urban planning, it was St. Paul. The last governor of Minnesota once commented on national TV that the city had been platted by drunken Irishmen. The uproar the statement had created would dog the poor man to his grave.

  The truth was, the planners probably were drunk, although Irish was by no means the only ethnic group to be evicted from the military compound at Fort Snelling and dumped on the shores of a spectacular bend in the upper Mississippi, shortly to be known as St. Paul. For good or ill, the town had been carved out by bootleggers, French Canadian fur trappers and traders, dishonored soldiers, Swiss refugees—a jumble of assorted outcasts, misfits, and murderers. Ken felt comfortable in that company. Nobody in that lot could judge him and find him wanting.

  Ken always pointed out interesting buildings to his girls, peppering his conversation with the history he’d learned in school. Since the divorce, he had grown closer to his daughters. He called them more and more lately, looking for ways to engage them. As he thought about it now, gazing up at the glowing antique streetlamps that lighted this section of Shepard Road, there was so much he wanted to show them, so much he wanted to see again through their eyes.

  Up ahead, Ken spied a construction site he’d been hoping to get a closer look at. He cycled past it almost every night, but a few of the crew always remained and he didn’t want them to think he was snooping. Tonight, the area was empty of trucks. The new construction was part of a large condo complex on the river. The house he bought after the divorce was so big, he never felt he had enough time to take care of it. A small condo might be the perfect solution. If he lived here, he could even walk to work.

  Before turning off onto a dirt road to take a closer look, Ken glanced over his shoulder and saw bright headlights approaching. He hung a quick right as Stewart’s voice belted out “Downtown Train” in his ears. The breeze off the river ruffled his hair. It was hard to see the building in the darkness, but if he just got close enough . . .

  Suddenly, Ken felt a blow from behind, projecting him up
and over the handlebars with such force that the bike went one way and he went another. He slammed into the dirt on his right shoulder, feeling a bone in his arm snap. Dazed and in pain, he tried to get his bearings. He twisted around just as a vehicle moved up next to him. The headlights were off. The motor was idling. All the windows were closed.

  Ken’s fright turned instantly to fury. “You shit-head!” he screamed. “Look what you did! I’m hurt! For God’s sake, help me!”

  The passenger’s window opened. An arm eased out.

  Ken’s eyes locked on the gun. “Hey,” he said, scrambling backward. “No! Stop! Please!” he pleaded. “You’ve got the wrong guy! My name’s Loy. Ken Loy.”

  The gunshots to Ken’s head had all the earmarks of an execution. In the end, the police would find that it was.

  2

  Valerie. It was always Valerie. Her image in his mind. The dream of drifting downward into her soft brown eyes. Tonight was the first anniversary of her death.

  Bob Fabian had always known what he wanted out of life, and in large measure, he’d attained it. From his days at West Point through his two tours in Viet Nam, he always knew he would be a success. But the day his wife died, Bob’s world ended. He kept on walking around, kept on eating and talking. What else could he do? Friends knew he was suffering— their kindness meant a lot—but every time he took Valerie’s picture out of his wallet and sat down to look at it, he would dissolve into a trance.

  It might sound melodramatic, it might even be the stuff of melodrama, but for Bob, all he wanted was the woman in the photo. Without her, life had no meaning. He listened to his friends, who assured him that time would heal his wounds. They told him that at fifty-six, he was still a young man. He’d move on. Find someone else. He wouldn’t always feel this way. Bob had been waiting for the day his passion for living would return. But it hadn’t. And he knew, deep in his heart, it never would. Valerie was everything to him. But Valerie was in heaven now. And Bob was alone.

  It was just after eight thirty when he pulled into his driveway. He sat for a few moments gazing through the darkness at his house. It looked strange to him now—almost as if he were viewing it for the first time. He’d expected to feel different, but not like this. The world was brighter, bigger, sweeter tonight. All of his senses were dialed up to high. Maybe this was what it felt like to be on LSD—except his perceptions weren’t altered, just intensified.

  After switching off the engine, Bob waited a moment longer, listening to his heart hammer inside his chest. Maybe he lacked imagination, but how could a man not have a certain aching nostalgia for what had once been but would never be again. Was he frightened? Yes, but also excited.

  What he wanted now was to be alone with his thoughts, maybe listen to some music or look through old picture albums. He had tranquilizers in his medicine chest that would help him get to sleep. He simply had to make it through the next few hours.

  Just as he was about to climb out of his car, a head popped up right next to him.

  “Lord,” said Bob, rearing backward, away from the window. “You asshole. You trying to give me a heart attack?”

  “Sorry.” The man backed up and let Bob get out.

  “It’s not a good time for me right now, Sonny.” Bob caught a whiff of Sonny’s breath. “Do us both a favor. Go home and sleep it off.”

  Sonny didn’t catch the edge in Bob’s voice. Either that, or he didn’t care. “This can’t wait.” He looked as if he were about to burst.

  “You win the lottery?”

  “Better than that.” In a whispered voice, he continued, “Let’s go inside. We need some privacy.” He looked over his shoulder, his grin fading to wariness.

  Bob locked the car. On the way across the lawn, he glanced up at the sky as the heavens rumbled with thunder. He felt a droplet hit his forehead. It was starting to rain.

  Sonny followed Bob through the two-story stone entry into the foyer. Without asking, he headed straight for the bar in the living room and poured himself a shot of bourbon.

  Removing his suit coat and tossing it over a dining room chair, Bob switched on a few lights. He hadn’t changed a thing in the house since Valerie died. He glanced out the front window as lightning lit up the night, but didn’t see Sonny’s car. “Where’d you park?”

  “Around the corner. Hey, close the curtains, okay?”

  “Don’t get comfortable. You’re not staying.” This wasn’t the way he intended to spend what was left of the evening. He’d be polite, but not patient if the conversation lasted more than five minutes. “Okay,” he said, sitting down on the couch, spreading his arms across the back of the cushions. “What’s up?”

  Sonny downed the shot in one neat gulp. “I did it!” he said, an odd fire in his eyes. “I took care of him.”

  “Him who?”

  “It was easy. I mean, I knew where he lived. I’ve been watching him for months.”

  “Who?”

  “Loy! Who the hell do you think?” He leaned both arms on the bar. “The bastard was riding that bike of his down Shepard Road, just like he always does. If I believed in fate, it was like . . . like I was supposed to do it tonight, because everything just tumbled into place. He turned off at this construction site. You know the one—those new river condos? And there weren’t any other cars around, so—” He drew his arms wide. “I did it.”

  Bob just stared at him.

  “I shot him.”

  “If this is a joke—”

  “No joke. Ken Loy is history.”

  Bob rose from the couch. He’d always suspected Sonny had a screw loose somewhere. But murder? “Are you telling me—”

  “You think I made it up?”

  “I hope like hell you did.”

  “I put a bullet right between his eyes, Bobby.”

  Now it was time to panic. “Sonny, this is insane!”

  “It’s payback. He murdered Valerie. You said so yourself.”

  “I was upset when I told you that. It was an accident, Sonny. An accident.”

  “Yeah, right. Maybe you never took me seriously before, but you will now.”

  Whether it was the booze, or just Sonny’s addled brain, he wasn’t being rational. “You killed a man in cold blood?”

  “Executed. There’s a difference.”

  “Are you sure he’s—”

  “Dead? Well, maybe he squirmed around a little at first, but he’s dead. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

  Bob had to get to a phone. And he had to do it someplace where Sonny couldn’t hear him. “Give me a minute, okay? I need to use the bathroom.”

  “Can’t take it, huh? No guts.”

  “Yeah. That’s it.” Bob covered his mouth and ran from the room. Rushing into the bedroom, he shut the door carefully behind him, then grabbed the cordless off his nightstand and punched in 911. It seemed to take forever before someone finally picked up.

  “There’s been a murder,” Bob said, keeping his voice low. “Or an attempted murder. You’ve got to get paramedics to him right away. It’s possible he’s still alive.”

  “Are you all right?” asked the 911 operator.

  “Me? No, no. This isn’t about me.”

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “Listen to me.”

  “What’s your location?”

  “Not here,” he whispered. “The shooting happened on Shepard Road—near that new condo construction site. That’s all I can tell you. You’ve got to hurry!”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Fabian. Robert Fabian.”

  “And you live at 9418 East River Road? Robert and Valerie Fabian?”

  “Yes, but you’re not listening to me. You’ve got to get some help to this guy right away! It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “An EMT is on the way, Mr. Fabian. Can you tell me how the shooting occurred?”

  “What?”

  “Do you know who did the shooting?”

  “Well, ah . . . see.” The
words stuck in his throat. “This isn’t easy.”

  “Can you give me a name?”

  “It was . . . he’s, like . . . see”—he took a deep breath—“like . . . my brother—”

  The door to Bob’s room burst open.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Sonny. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Bob’s eyes focused on the gun in Sonny’s hand.

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “Just calm down, okay?”

  “Hang up the phone,” demanded Sonny. His eyes had turned into two hard steel balls. Bob had never seen him look like that before. He tossed the phone on the bed, but he didn’t cut the connection.

  “You made a mistake, Bob. A big one.”

  “Put it down, okay? Come on. Don’t get crazy on me.” His voice was shaking.

  “I thought you cared about Valerie—about me. We’re family, damn it! As soon as I turn my back, you call the cops on me?”

  “I wasn’t doing that. I swear.”

  “This really sucks, Bob. Really freaking sucks.”

  “Just let me explain!”

  Sonny glared at him. Raising the gun and pointing it at Bob’s chest, he said, “You’ve got thirty seconds. Make it good.”

  3

  The Rookery Club was at its peak of popularity in the late 1990s. That’s when Sophie and Bram had joined. Though the price of admission was steep, it seemed the right thing to do—not only because it was one of the most prestigious private clubs in the Twin Cities, boasting a membership that included some of the best-known chefs in the area, dozens of restaurateurs, and hundreds of homegrown foodies, but also because it was the only truly gourmet club in town. At the time they’d first joined, Sophie wrote an occasional restaurant review for the Minneapolis Times Register. Her presence at the club seemed an important professional connection. Now that she was the full-time restaurant critic for the paper, her presence was a necessity.