Twisted at the Root--A Jane Lawless Mystery Read online

  “And yours,” he said in mock astonishment. “You cut it so short. Is that what they call a pixie?”

  “Not in this century,” said Cordelia, carefully removing her hunting cap to reveal one of her favorite wigs.

  “And your hair,” said Peter, turning to her. “It’s pink.”

  “With oodles of Roaring Twenties finger waves and an occasional bobby pin for decoration. I predict a resurgence of the style.”

  “Are we done talking about hair?” asked Jane. “Because if we are, and I mean, I hate to be a downer, but Sigrid called me yesterday.”

  Peter winced.

  “She was worried about you.”

  Cordelia sniffed the air. “Did I miss something?”

  “I called her last night when I got in,” said Peter. “All marriages have rough patches. We’ll work it out.”

  “Rough patches,” repeated Cordelia, eyebrows raised.

  “Promise you won’t tell Dad,” said Peter. “There’s no use worrying him.”

  “Come on, you two,” demanded Cordelia. “I need facts. Graphs. Position papers.”

  Peter scanned the menu. “It’s nothing.”

  Jane didn’t believe him, and by the look on Cordelia’s face, neither did she.

  “Let’s order,” said Peter. “I had something on the plane, and then I did a little grazing when I got to Cordelia’s.…”

  “You stayed with Cordelia last night?”

  “In the Harlow bedroom, lots of pink and fluffy-white fur fabric,” said Cordelia. Glancing over at him, she said, “I trust your masculinity is still intact?”

  “What time did your plane get in?” asked Jane.

  “Must have been around midnight. I took a cab straight to Cordelia’s. She was the only one I was sure would be around on New Year’s Eve.”

  Cordelia continued to mutter about being kept in the dark as a waiter appeared to take their order.

  “I’d like a Coke,” said Peter.

  “Hi, David,” said Jane, smiling up at him. “Just water for me.”

  “A White Russian,” snapped Cordelia. “Make it a double. Oh, and bring us one of those monster pretzels.”

  “Would you like to order dinner now?” asked the waiter.

  “I need more time,” said Peter. “You’ve added a bunch of new things since I was here last.”

  “You’ll love the pretzel,” said Cordelia, flapping her napkin and tucking it into the neck of her fringed flapper dress. The mention of food had deflected her anger and improved her mood. “It’s this big, soft, buttery rope of bread, perfectly browned and salted, served with mustard and an onion-bacon marmalade. To die for,” she added, kissing her fingers.

  Holding the menu to his chest, Peter continued, “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “How long will you be in town?” asked Jane.

  “I’m pretty easy about that. The piece I was shooting in Eastern Europe is done. I don’t have anything new lined up.”

  “You’ll stay at my place,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Nope,” said Cordelia. “He’s bunking with me.”

  Jane couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Why?”

  “I like pink bedrooms?” he offered.

  “I’m giving him Octavia’s car for the duration.” Octavia Thorn-Lester was a stage and screen actor, Hattie’s generally missing-in-action mother, and Cordelia’s sister. They’d come together to create a playhouse in downtown Minneapolis, for which Octavia had purchased a home to live in when she was in town, which she rarely was. Cordelia had commandeered it and now considered it her own.

  “The Maybach?” said Jane. “You think Octavia would want that ungodly expensive thing driven around in the winter with all the salt on the roads?”

  Cordelia shrugged. “What’s a little salt among friends?”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “She’s at some ashram with her newest husband. No cell phones allowed.”

  “There’s a nuclear war in your future,” said Jane.

  “Tut,” she replied. Fluttering her eyelashes at Peter, she added, “I have a new girlfriend.”

  “You do?”

  Her smile was pregnant with meaning. “She owns an award-winning winery in California. But enough about my sizzling love life. Let’s talk some more about what you two have been keeping from me?” She glared.

  Peter returned his attention to the menu as their drinks arrived.

  Jane figured she’d better ’fess up about Rashad May’s brother before Cordelia heard it on the radio or TV. Peter had been tangentially related to the case and had testified at the trial, so he might have an interest in it, too. She briefly explained that Sherwin May believed he’d uncovered new information that would exonerate his brother. She was a little surprised when Peter’s posture stiffened.

  Hearing the news, Cordelia erupted with joy, nearly leaping out of her chair. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. Rashad is innocent. I’ve said it all along. I still talk to him a few times a month, you know. I thought he’d win the last appeal, but—”

  “Remind me how you met him,” said Jane.

  “Community theater. The NordEast Players. I was asked to direct one of their plays just after the turn of the century, and being the generous person that I am with no free time at all, I said yes. I cast him in the lead. He was a natural. I told him he should quit his day job and come join the repertory troupe at the Allen Grimby. In a moment of sanity, he declined.”

  “And you?” said Jane, turning to her brother.

  “Met him at one of Cordelia’s poker nights.”

  “Ah, I remember those,” said Cordelia, her voice growing wistful. She brightened when the pretzel arrived. “Once I left my loft and moved into Thornfield Hall, they became a thing of the past.” She pulled off a hunk of bread, slathered it with mustard, and popped it into her mouth. Holding up the White Russian, she said, “My three favorite food groups: Salt, sugar, and alcohol.”

  “And Dad’s taken the case again?” asked Peter.

  “If we can verify what Rashad’s brother uncovered, then yes, he’s on board.”

  “You had dinner with Rashad that long ago, fateful night,” continued Cordelia, pushing the pretzel plate toward him. “I mean, what a freakin’ coincidence, right?”

  “Yeah. Bizarre.”

  “Do you remember the dinner?” asked Jane. “What you talked about? What kind of mood he was in?”

  Peter shrugged. “He seemed normal. He didn’t indicate that he was about to go home and bludgeon his husband to death, if that’s what you’re asking. The whole thing never made any sense to me.”

  “Well,” said Cordelia, ripping off another hunk of pretzel, “Never fear. I will help you get to the bottom of it, Janey. You tell your dad that the legendary Cordelia M. Thorn is on the case.”

  Jane and her brother exchanged glances.

  “He’ll be so glad to hear it,” said Jane.

  “I know,” said Cordelia matter-of-factly, closing her eyes and chewing.

  11

  Peter was glad he’d decided to stay with Cordelia. After his conversation last night with his sister, he realized he had things he needed to do and didn’t want Jane pressing him for explanations about how he spent his time. He also didn’t want her tagging along.

  Rising late on Monday morning, he dressed and found his way downstairs. The house was a hive of activity, with members of the catering crew cleaning up the mess from the New Year’s Eve party.

  Once in the kitchen, he poured himself a bowl of cereal and milk, grabbed a blueberry yoghurt from the refrigerator, and entered the breakfast room, where he found Hattie halfway through a slice of apple pie as she read from a magazine.

  “What’s the magazine?” he asked.

  “World Archeology. It’s super interesting.”

  With her springy blond curls, dimples, and serious brain power, she was a fascinating kid. “Looks like you’re having dessert for breakfast,” he added, grinning as he s
at down across from her.

  “Want to compare the amount of sugar in that cereal and yoghurt with my pie? Bet there’s not much difference. Most people eat the equivalent of dessert for breakfast. I’m just more honest about it.”

  “Okay.” So, she’d developed a bit of an edge since the last time he’d talked to her. “But … I mean … they put extra vitamins in the cereal.”

  “Uh huh.” She didn’t seem impressed.

  “Where’s your aunt?”

  “Asleep. She’s not an early riser.”

  “No school today?”

  “It’s Christmas break. I’m off for the rest of the week.”

  Peter asked what her plans were for the day. She responded that it would probably be a “home day,” unless she could convince her aunt to take her somewhere—like the science museum. She said she adored spending time there and asked if he’d like to go. He could see the eagerness in her eyes and felt bad that he couldn’t say yes.

  “Look,” he said, removing the top of the yoghurt carton, “I promise I’ll take you before I go back home. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she said. She chewed her pie and studied him. “You know, what I’d really like is to visit the science museum in Chicago. Don’t suppose you’re interested in a road trip.”

  In so many ways, Hattie was nothing like her aunt, and yet she had a similar kind of determination. “Let me give it some thought.”

  “I also want to join the Planetary Society.” She flicked her eyes to him and then back to the pie. “They have this really cool magazine called The Planetary Report.”

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Fifty bucks. That’s the beginning level.”

  Fifty dollars was a lot less than it would cost him to take her to Chicago. “I might be able to swing that.”

  “Really?” Her face brightened. “I’ll find the information.”

  Peter figured he’d better finish his breakfast before she convinced him to buy her a spaceship. Cordelia had left the keys to Octavia’s car on the kitchen counter. He ate quickly, kissed Hattie on top of her head, and was out the door.

  The three-stall garage was at the rear of the mansion. Seeing the Maybach sitting there, cold and sleek in the dim light, he was of two minds. He was terrified that he was about to scratch the leather interior or put a ding in the perfect white paint. Cordelia’s sister wouldn’t be happy to learn that her monument to extravagance had been offered up as temporary wheels. If he, or the winter weather, did anything to alter its perfection, he was certain Octavia would chase him across the universe seeking revenge. On the other hand, the idea of driving a Mercedes-Maybach S600 and pretending, at least for a few days, that it was his, was too much to resist.

  Driving north on Lyndale Avenue toward downtown Minneapolis, Peter was glad for the sunny morning and the dry streets. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve had little reason to visit the J.H. Chenoweth Gallery. His problems in London continued to dominate his thoughts. Still, now that he’d learned from his sister that the conviction of Rashad May was in doubt, he had something else to worry about. The names Eli Chenoweth and Kit Lipton conjured up chaotic memories of the months before Peter had packed up his family and fled to South America. That time was all so mixed up, a blur that needed to be brought into focus.

  As he turned onto Hennepin Avenue, heading for the North Loop, a new problem presented itself: where to park the Maybach. Leaving it on the street wasn’t an option. The gallery was located on the first two floors of an early twentieth-century brownstone warehouse. The first time Peter had visited the place with Eli, the warehouse district had already begun to make a name for itself as Minneapolis’s answer to New York’s Soho. But at the time, the building had been pretty run down.

  An ornate arcade with five deep, rounded bays fronted the street. Somewhere along the line, Eli’s dad had added five dome awnings, one over each bay window. Industrial-looking galvanized metal letters above the front door advertised the business name: J.H. Chenoweth. An ancient wooden loading dock ran along the side street. Inside, one larger and two smaller gallery spaces took up the first floor, with the second floor used for office space and framing.

  Recalling a private parking area in the back, Peter slowed until he spied a narrow alley, still paved with hundred-year-old bricks, that ran between two buildings. Halfway to the back, the entrance was blocked by a metal barrier arm. Peter used to park in the lot occasionally when he couldn’t find a spot on the street. In all those years, the code had never changed: 1977 was the year Eli’s father had opened the gallery. Easing the car next to the electronic keypad, Peter punched in the number. Sure enough, the barrier arm rose.

  The double-wide doors along the loading dock were locked, so Peter made his way around to the front. Once inside, he was met by a serious-looking middle-aged man in a business suit.

  “If you need any assistance, just let me know,” said the man quietly. He handed Peter his card. “I’m Mason Arsenault.”

  “I’m here to see Eli,” said Peter.

  “Oh, of course. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. Is that a problem?”

  “I’m not sure he’s here. Let me check.”

  As Peter waited, staring up at a painting of a beautiful blond girl who reminded him of his daughter, Mia, he heard a familiar voice.

  “Peter Lawless? Is that you?”

  When he turned, a woman with insanely curly reddish-brown hair walked straight toward him, her high heels clicking against the floor.

  He grinned. “Kit.”

  Her lips parted in a warm, toothy smile as they hugged. “I almost didn’t know you.”

  Peter had always liked her. In fact, once upon a time he’d had a fairly serious crush on her. Kit Lipton was flirty, confident, and a great listener. She had one trait that appealed to him most of all: She didn’t do moral outrage. It didn’t matter how badly you’d screwed up, Kit would still be your friend.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, linking her arm through his and walking him away from the painting into one of the side galleries.

  He liked the feel of her arm. “I came to see Eli. And you, of course.”

  “Of course,” she repeated, stopping and pivoting toward him, picking a piece of lint off his jacket. “He’s upstairs.” Studying him for a moment more, she added, “You’re even more handsome now than you were four years ago.”

  “Right.”

  “Still the same old Peter. You don’t believe me when I compliment you.” She cocked her head. “I like the new look. It suits you.”

  She wore a chic, gauzy red-print jumpsuit. Maybe it wasn’t chic, not by rich people’s standards, but Kit made all her clothes seem sophisticated just by the way she wore them. Her shoulders were bare, the jumpsuit held up by thin straps. He didn’t know all the words for women’s fashion, but figured the outfit had to be more expensive than what she used to wear. Back in the day. Back when she sat behind an elegant antique desk toward the rear of the main gallery in her thrift-store clothing, looking like a bold piece of art herself, the official greeter/receptionist. Kit hadn’t known a lot about the art world when Eli had hired her. After a year of steady employment, John Henry—Eli’s dad—offered to pay for her to audit art history classes at the university, something she agreed to with enthusiasm.

  As they were talking, Peter caught sight of another man coming into the gallery. It took him a moment to realize who it was. Eli had always been thin, but now seemed almost gaunt. Back in college, he’d been a guy who’d managed to look sensitive and bookish even when sweating through a game of pickup football. He wasn’t handsome, and yet his dark hair, which always seemed to part in the middle no matter what he did, made him seem younger than he was. His look also suggested a man out of time, one who belonged to the early years of the last century.

  Before Eli had a chance to greet Peter, his dad came around the corner into the side gallery. Except for the new wrinkles and a bit more gray hair, John Henry hadn
’t changed much. Both father and son had long, narrow faces with high foreheads. While Eli had always been searching for a good look, John Henry had found his long ago. He wore his hair long, sometimes in a ponytail, sometimes hanging loose, and he always sported a perfectly clipped beard. In the last few years he’d developed a minor paunch.

  “Why, Peter Lawless,” said John Henry. “What a surprise.” He walked over to pump Peter’s hand. “How are you?”

  “Still slugging away.”

  “Good to know. Last I heard, you’d moved your family abroad.”

  “We’re in London,” said Peter.

  “Really,” John Henry said, his smile amping to high beam. “So many terrific art venues. Have you visited the Serpentine Galleries?”

  “Once,” said Peter. As they continued to talk, Peter took in John Henry’s signature pastel suit and striped bow tie. The guy was a real character. He was also passionate about art and, unlike many of the businessmen Peter had known, never seemed to be only about money.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your reunion,” said John Henry turning to Kit, “but you need to call Russ Carlson back. He’s one of the head cephalopods over at the college of art and design.”

  Head cephalopods was the way John Henry always referred to people in authority.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” said Kit, glancing at Eli, then Peter.

  John Henry walked her out, a hand pressed to her back.

  “Interesting,” said Peter, watching them walk away. “Kit’s talking to head cephalopods these days?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Eli. “She’s really risen in the ranks.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “So, are you back to stay?”

  “Just visiting family for New Year’s.”

  “Ah. Sigrid and Mia with you?”

  “No, just me.”

  He nodded and smiled. “How long will you be in town?”

  “Not sure. I was hoping we could all get together for coffee or a meal. You know, catch up.”

  Eli glanced at his watch. “I wish I had more time. Look, why don’t you come over to my place tonight for dinner?”