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  For Lee Lynch and Elaine Mulligan Lynch, with much love.

  Cast of Characters

  Jane Lawless:

  Owner of the Lyme House restaurant in Minneapolis. Part-time private investigator.

  Cordelia Thorn:

  Owner of the Thorn Lester Playhouse in downtown Minneapolis. Creative director. Jane’s best friend.

  Britt Ickles:

  Professor of Evolutionary Genomics at Penn State. Daughter of Pauline. Lena and Eleanor’s niece.

  Pauline Ickles:

  Britt’s deceased mother. Stewart Ickles wife. Sister of Eleanor and Lena.

  Stewart Ickles:

  Trucker. Pauline’s deceased husband. Britt’s father.

  Eleanor Skarsvold Devine:

  Retired nurse. Frank’s mother. Lena’s older sister. Britt’s aunt.

  Lena Skarsvold:

  Retired waitress. Eleanor’s sister. Britt’s aunt.

  Frank Devine:

  Tax preparer. Eleanor’s son. Wendy’s husband.

  Wendy Devine:

  Grade-school teacher. Frank’s wife.

  Butch Averil:

  Lena and Eleanor’s next-door neighbor.

  Rich Novak:

  Block captain along Cumberland Avenue in Saint Paul.

  Iver Dare:

  Pastor at Cumberland Park Lutheran. Eleanor’s old friend.

  Quentin Henneberry:

  Renter.

  Berengaria Reynolds:

  California vintner.

  Dr. Julia Martinsen:

  Doctor of Oncology. Philanthropist.

  “But surely for everything you love you have to pay some price.”

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

  PROLOGUE

  August 1978

  The headlights of Eleanor’s rusted blue station wagon cut through the heavy country darkness. Inside the car, with the windows rolled up, a Bee Gees song blared from the radio. “Stayin’ alive,” the guys sang. Ironic, thought Eleanor, since that was exactly why she was fleeing the city at such an early hour.

  Clutching the steering wheel to keep her hands from shaking, she kept glancing up at the rearview mirror. She had to make sure that her sister didn’t fall too far behind. Lena was driving the Ford Pinto. Eleanor had no faith whatsoever that the Ford wouldn’t die in the middle of the highway, never to move again. There weren’t many cops around to worry about and yet Eleanor felt like there was a spotlight trained on her. It was only a matter of time before the sound of a siren would end the world as she knew it. She tried to summon up a plausible story to tell the officer—why she and her sister were speeding through farm country at three in the morning. She could hardly tell the truth.

  Slowing the station wagon and then pulling off onto a deserted dirt path, Eleanor cut the lights and then the engine. She loathed the heat, the sweltering summer nights, alive, as they always were, with creepy crawling things. A quarter moon cast its dim light over the cornfields on either side of the road. Might as well be a Hitchcock movie, she muttered, slapping mosquitoes off her arms. She ducked down next to the rear bumper, motioning for Lena to pull the Pinto into a low, flat area directly next to the road.

  “Why the hell didn’t you drive faster?” called Lena, bursting out of the front seat. She raked her dark blond hair away from her eyes as she rushed up the incline.

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Why? If you were trying to find the dark side of the moon, you succeeded.”

  As far as Eleanor was concerned, it was her sister’s monstrous stupidity that had landed them in this mess. A decent, honest, caring person would’ve had sympathy for the dead body on the floor of her garage back in Saint Paul, but at the moment, all Eleanor felt was a cold, heavy knot in the center of her stomach. “We have to get the license plates off.” She handed Lena a screwdriver and then crouched down behind the Pinto.

  “You blame me, don’t you.”

  This was hardly time for a debate. With a small flashlight clenched between her teeth, Eleanor set to work on the first screw.

  “Judas H. freakin’ Priest. You think I wanted this? That I’m somehow … responsible?” When Eleanor didn’t reply, Lena said more forcefully, “Well?”

  Rising from her crouch, Eleanor couldn’t believe that her sister had picked this moment to start an argument. “I’m not discussing it. Get to work.”

  “I cried all the way here.”

  “Boohoo.”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  As far as Eleanor could see, her sister didn’t look the least bit teary eyed, though Eleanor made no pretense of understanding her. “Look. You live on the edge and dare the cosmos to push you over. Well, now it has and you’ve dragged the entire family along with you.”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “Is anything ever your fault?”

  “Oh, piss off.”

  “And watch your language.”

  Lena threw her arms in the air and stomped around to the front of the car. She was back a few minutes later, plate in hand. “It’s off. What do I do with it?”

  Eleanor was still working; sweat trickling down inside her blouse. The final screw was rusted and didn’t want to move. She’d almost given up when it finally came loose. It was times like this when she hated Steve. They’d only been married a few years when he’d been sent to Vietnam. He’d died there, his body never recovered. It wasn’t his fault, and yet, awful as it sounded, Eleanor did blame him for leaving her all alone. He wasn’t around to be a father to their child. He wasn’t around to earn a living, cut the grass, fix the toilet, lift whatever was too heavy, all the millions of things that now fell to her.

  After removing the gas can from the back of the station wagon, Eleanor handed Lena the car keys and the license plates. “Drive the wagon back out on the road and wait for me.”

  “I should do it.” She grabbed for the can.

  “Just this once, Lena. Do what I ask.”

  Eleanor waited until the wagon had backed up and was idling along the side of the road, then began to toss gasoline all over the interior of the Pinto. Taking one last look at the quiet cornfields, the immense, uncaring blanket of stars above her, she struck a match and tossed it to the floor under the steering wheel. It caught instantly, flames crawling across to the passenger’s side, then up and over to the backseat. She watched for a few seconds, mesmerized by the sight, then shook herself out of her reverie and ran for the wagon.

  “Drive,” she said, fixing her eyes on the windshield and the darkness beyond, terrified that, like Lot’s wife, she’d turn to a pillar of salt if she dared look back.

  1

  Present Day

  Just before 1:30 A.M. on a windy early December night, as the man behind the polished mahogany bar in the Lyme House pub issued his usual last call for drinks, part of a massive oak split from its trunk and crashed into the roof of the restaurant. Jane Lawles
s, the owner, was home in bed when a buzzing cell phone awakened her.

  “You better get over here,” came her assistant manager’s voice.

  “Why? What’s going on?” She swung her legs out of bed and ran a hand through her hair. Glancing back at the woman lying next to her, still fast asleep, she got up and walked into the hall.

  “I was in the bar when I heard a loud noise. I mean, the entire building shook.” He explained about the tree.

  That was why, at eight the following morning, Jane found herself standing in the parking lot behind the restaurant—a two-story log structure on Lake Harriet in south Minneapolis—watching a man in a boom lift chainsaw his way through the front branches, working back toward the heavy limb that was resting on the roof. Even though Jane’s insurance would pay for the damage, which looked worse this morning than it had in the darkness last night, it was a headache she didn’t need.

  “What time do you open today?” asked the foreman, a heavy-set older guy who held a hand over his eyes, shading them from the sun.

  “Eleven.”

  “We’ll have this all removed and cleared out of here by then. You’ll probably need a structural engineer to climb up and look around.”

  “Already called someone,” said Jane. She didn’t think a structural engineer would be necessary. She had a roofing company coming by later in the day to assess the damage and give her a bid on what the repair would cost.

  “Windy night last night,” said the foreman. “Thing is, that oak was decaying from the inside. You can’t just look at a tree and determine something like that. The whole thing should probably come down.”

  “Up to the park board,” said Jane. The wooded land that surrounded her restaurant wasn’t her responsibility.

  “People are like that, too,” said the foreman, gazing up at the boom lift. “They might seem fine, but inside, there’s nothing but rot.”

  Jane turned to look at him.

  “I know. A bit early for philosophy.”

  She smiled and he smiled back.

  “No, I hear you,” she said. “And I agree. People aren’t always what they seem.” She figured he was thinking of someone specific, which was none of her business.

  “Look out below,” yelled the guy in the lift. He waited until the two men on the ground moved back, then carved off a bunch of larger branches, lowering them to the asphalt with ropes. The workers stepped in and began to cut them into smaller sections, which they dragged over to the woman handling the wood chipper.

  Watching the tree removal was far more entertaining than the weekly spreadsheet waiting for Jane in her office.

  From around the side of the building, a dark-haired woman in a camel wool coat came into view, heading straight for them.

  Jane stepped away from the din of the wood chipper. “Can I help you?”

  “Are you Jane Lawless?”

  “I am.”

  The woman was middle-aged, attractive, with a pronounced cleft in her chin. “My name’s Britt Ickles.” She handed Jane a card.

  Gazing down at it, Jane realized it was one of her own. As weird as it might sound to people who didn’t know her, she had two careers going—one as a restaurateur, the other as a part-time PI. This particular card advertised, “Lawless Investigations,” and listed a phone number and an email address. On the flip side, someone had written the name of her restaurant.

  “Do you have a few minutes?” asked Britt.

  “Sure,” said Jane. She turned and thanked the job foreman, asking him to come to her office when he was done, and then led the way up the rear loading dock, through the kitchen, and down the back steps. Instead of stopping at her office, she continued down the hall to a large foyer. Passing through the double doors into the pub, she saw that the coffeepot was on behind the bar. “Care to join me?” she asked, nodding to the pot.

  “Perfect,” said Britt.

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black.”

  Jane poured them each a mug and then nodded for Britt to take a seat in one of the raised booths. Finally settled with their coffees in front of them, Jane asked how she could help.

  Britt turned the mug around in her hands. “This is sort of bizarre, sitting here talking to a private detective.”

  “I’ll make it as painless as possible.”

  She offered a hesitant smile. “I realize what I’m about to say will sound totally off the wall. You may even think I’m crazy.”

  Jane had heard a similar refrain many times before.

  “I’m in town for a conference at the University of Minnesota. My mother was originally from Saint Paul. Yesterday, after I checked into my hotel, I had a few hours to kill, so I decided to drive over to the family home. My mother’s two sisters still live there. Mom died a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. Anyway, I’ve only visited the house once before, when I was six years old. We came because my grandfather had died and my mom wanted to attend the funeral. We stayed at the house. I’d never met any of them before. I suppose we don’t sound like a close family. We’re not. The fact is, I haven’t seen or heard from my aunts since that visit. Apparently, there was a big fight after the funeral. I have no idea what the issues were because Mom refused to talk about it.”

  “Did you see your aunts yesterday?”

  She nodded. “They were kind of shocked to find me at their front door. They’re old women now. One is in a wheelchair. But they were gracious. Well, one of them was. Eleanor, the oldest, invited me in.”

  “Did they know your mother was gone?”

  “I wrote them a note last year after her death. That’s why I thought I could brave seeing them again.” She took a sip of coffee. “We sat in the living room and talked. Eleanor had an appointment, so she didn’t have a lot of time. Lena, the middle sister, the one in the wheelchair, didn’t seem very friendly, so I left when Eleanor did. The thing is, as we were talking—it was when Eleanor had gone upstairs to get her purse—I asked Lena how her son was. Timmy and I were the same age. He and Lena were staying at the house that summer before the funeral, too. But when I mentioned him, Lena just stared at me. She said, ‘Where did you get the idea I had a son?’”

  “You’re saying you remember this boy?” asked Jane.

  “Vividly. At the viewing the night before our grandfather’s funeral, Timmy and I stuck together. I remember this old guy whispering to us that he had lemon candies in his pocket. He gave each of us one. Timmy hated the taste of lemon, so he offered me his. And then there was a woman who urged us to go up to the coffin and kiss our grandfather. She said it would help us remember him. I was appalled. It sounded ghoulish. But Timmy said he’d do it. We walked up together. Timmy reached over the edge of the casket and touched one of our grandfather’s hands. He told me later that it felt like plastic.”

  “You have very clear memories.”

  “I’m not making this up. Lena said I must be thinking of someone else. ‘Wasn’t there a boy down the block named Tim or Tom or Tad?’ By that time, Eleanor had come back downstairs. She agreed with Lena, suggesting that I was simply confused. After all, it was forty years ago. What’s strange is that, as I sat there, I began to actually think they were right, that I’d made Timmy up. I didn’t press the point because, clearly, they were the ones who should know.”

  Jane raised her eyebrows. “But?”

  “But I thought about it after I left. I’ve thought about little else. I’m not wrong, Jane. He was there. And that, of course, leads to the inevitable question, why did they lie? Why did they erase him? There has to be a reason.”

  Jane agreed that the story did sound far-fetched. “Any thoughts about that?”

  “Honestly? None.”

  “And you’re sure your memory is accurate?”

  “Yes,” she said fiercely. Then, frowning, she added, “At least, I think so.”

  “And you want me to find evidence that Timmy existed.”

  “Is that somethi
ng you can do?”

  “Possibly. Can you give me his full name?” She pulled out a pen and a small notepad from her back pocket.

  “You know, I’m sorry to say, I don’t know what it is. Just Timmy.” Taking another sip of coffee, Britt continued, “Eleanor invited me over for dinner tonight. I was kind of surprised because Lena seemed so happy to see me leave. The thing is, if my memory is accurate, why did they lie?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “What if something bad happened to him?” She eased back from the table so she could cross her legs. “What if he died and they didn’t tell anyone?”

  “Why do you think they’d do that?”

  She seemed frustrated. “I don’t know. I realize I’m not making any sense. Maybe my memory is playing tricks on me.”

  Jane felt sorry for her. She was obviously deeply troubled by the situation. “Why don’t you give it some time. Have dinner with them tonight. See what comes of it. How long will you be in town?”

  “The conference goes through next weekend. I’ll be flying back to Philadelphia late Sunday.” She massaged her temples, took a few seconds. “Even after all these years, I can still see him so clearly. Curly blond hair. A ton of freckles. Smelled like bubble gum. He was a real ball of energy, loved to draw and sing and bang on the piano. Honestly, he was the only member of that family that I ever wanted to see again. And now I’m told he never existed.”

  “It is odd,” said Jane. It was certainly possible that something bad had gone down that Britt’s aunts didn’t want to share with their niece. “I’m curious. Where did you hear about me?”

  “I was at a party last night—a preconference event. I was asking around and a woman gave me your card.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Sorry. Is this”—she glanced over at the long mahogany bar—“where you work?”