There was no way to guess that simple moment would lead to Michael going from obscurity to being the darling of the art scene. The woman was Sophia, who had a YouTube channel with hundreds of thousands of followers who would instantly fall in love with The Scotty in the Sleeping Garden and scoop up posters, T-shirts and mugs. The man was Zander Paul, who owned an art gallery. He wanted to see more of the Scotty paintings and bought a number of them. In no time, Michael would get his dream of being featured in a major gallery.

  I was going to suggest that the publisher include color plates of some of the paintings.

  I sat back satisfied that I’d finished something. Then I looked at the time. It was already tomorrow.

  When I left to meet Tizzy, the sky was a thick gray and the only brightness was coming from the bright yellow leaves on a tree I passed. It was a coffee day for sure. Double so for me after my late night.

  I thought over how much I would share with Tizzy. I wasn’t going to tell Tizzy anything about the Ben situation. It was too confusing to describe. It was too confusing for me to figure out. I meant it when I told him I didn’t want to be the other woman, or even an-other woman. Despite what he’d said, there was always the possibility he would decide to give it another try with Ashleigh. For now, I was glad that he was continuing to come to the workshops and that we were talking.

  I also wasn’t going to share that I thought Maeve was dead before she went down the stairs. Telling Tizzy would guarantee that it would spread around the neighborhood, and I didn’t know for sure if it was true, and didn’t want it to get back to Jankowski that it had come from me.

  School was in session at Ray Elementary and the crossing guard was just leaving her post as I passed. For once I didn’t pass any student joggers. I walked through the pedestrian gate to the campus and noted a scattering of students were on the sidewalk. A girl was sitting on the bridge over Botany Pond wistfully looking down at the water.

  Tizzy’s office seemed bright after the gloomy exterior. Her red patterned kimono added to the cheer. She was staring at her computer screen, with her boss looking over her shoulder. He turned his gaze over at me and smiled. ‘Your coffee date is here,’ he said to Tizzy. She was one of the lucky few who loved their boss, but then he was highly indulgent about her taking off for one of her many committee meetings or, like this, a coffee date.

  ‘Can I get you anything, Alex?’ Tizzy asked.

  ‘The usual,’ he said with a nod to her.

  ‘Right, an Americano and all the news I can gather.’

  Alex was a tall, dry-looking man, probably in his late fifties. He seemed a little embarrassed that she had spelled it out as he glanced at me. ‘It’s always good to know what’s going on.’

  She grabbed her purse and jacket and we went out the door.

  She eyed the tables in the small food hall next to what passed as a student center for UChicago. I knew when she picked the one in the center of the others, she had chosen the spot where she could pick up on the most conversations, while at the same time hearing what I had to say. I left her to settle in while I went for our coffees.

  ‘OK, I want to know everything you know about what happened on Harper,’ she said as soon as I handed her the steaming mug.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what you know first,’ I said. I was curious to hear what story was circulating on the street. All she had heard were the bare details that Maeve had fallen down the back stairs and died.

  ‘She was an art teacher at Alex’s daughter’s school. He’s the one who told me. That’s all I know,’ Tizzy said, offering me the floor.

  ‘I was the one who found her,’ I said, and Tizzy’s eyes looked like they would pop out of her head. ‘She was a client and I’d gone there to meet with her.’

  ‘A client? For what? You never mentioned anything to the group about her,’ she said.

  ‘I was hesitant to say anything before I had the gig, afraid it would jinx it, and then when she hired me, she swore me to secrecy.’ I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t seem to matter anymore, though since she seemed mostly worried that her husband would find out. He knows now and has already tried to cancel the project.’

  ‘You didn’t let him, did you? What’s the project?’ She did a scan of the area around us to check for anyone interesting.

  ‘She hired me to help her with a memoir and already had a publishing deal in place. I couldn’t have cancelled it if I wanted to. The publisher is anxious to get it, and the fact she’s dead doesn’t seem to make a difference. I thought she had a rough draft for me to work from. Only there isn’t. I’m going to have to create something around what I have and talk to people who knew her to fill in the gaps.’ I took a moment to take a breath and a sip of my coffee. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to end it. She said the final stuff wasn’t in the notes – that she’d give me the details when we got there.’ I remembered Maeve’s offhand comment. ‘She said that I might figure it out on my own.’

  ‘Wow, a mystery.’ Tizzy’s eyes lit up with interest. ‘Maybe it wasn’t really an accident,’ she added. I thought about what I should say. I didn’t want to lie and insist that Maeve’s death was absolutely an accident, but I didn’t want to start any rumors yet either.

  ‘Who knows?’ I said finally.

  Tizzy’s phone pinged and she checked the screen. ‘I have to go. Alex needs me to take care of something and he’s anxious for his coffee drink.’ She started to gather her things up. ‘Come for sherry tonight. I know Theo would love to hear about everything.’

  As soon as I left Tizzy, I started my walk to the Dupont Academy. I’d called the headmistress before I’d left to meet Tizzy. As soon as the head of the school heard what I was working on, she was open to my visiting, and when I explained the tight schedule I was on, agreed to setting it up that very day.

  Before I’d called the school, I’d done some research on it. It was a small, exclusive private school, housed in a Kenwood mansion. I was fascinated by the pictures I’d seen of the building online and couldn’t wait to see it in person.

  I technically left Hyde Park when I crossed 51st Street, also known as Hyde Park Boulevard, and entered Kenwood. It was an elegant old neighborhood, with houses that were mostly mansions featuring grounds and old carriage houses.

  When I reached the school, I took a moment to admire the exterior. The rectangular gray stone building had a massive feel. I’d checked and the style was called Italianate Revival. I walked through what seemed like a mini park with lots of mature trees on the way to the entrance. The front was flat with no porch, just a few stairs leading to the wooden double door with an appealing half-moon window above.

  As soon as people knew that I’d be writing about our encounter, they tended to give me special consideration. It was definitely true here. The headmistress welcomed me like an honored guest and, to use a cliché, rolled out the red carpet for me. I could have said that another way as in ‘she was accommodating’, but that didn’t say it as well. Her name was Renee Faulkenberg and she looked like what I’d expect of a headmistress of a private academy. She wore a suit and shoes with low heels.

  Before I’d cleared the foyer, she had already told me that the school curriculum was based on a combination of philosophies, mixing some Waldorf with Montessori added to the traditional learning style. I saw that the kids were wearing uniforms, and she explained that they had a lot of scholarship students, and they didn’t want them to feel different than the students who came from wealthy backgrounds. I was instantly in love with the place, and so grateful that she gave me a tour, even though I wasn’t sure how much of it would really be about Maeve. Nothing about the place felt remotely institutional. We stood at the back of several of the common rooms where lessons were being taught. The students’ desks were in the former bedrooms and arranged so they each had their own space around them. There was a library with comfortable chairs, and a science room with a metal table and Bunsen burner.

  ‘We let the students use this as a lounge and a place to do homework,’ she said, taking me into another room. I had to keep my mouth from falling open at what I saw. It looked like the inside of a log cabin and had a stone fireplace. A Native American print rug covered a part of the pine floor. It seemed like a room meant for dreaming.

  The top floor was taken up by a ballroom with a dark blue domed ceiling. The recessed lights looked like stars. She smiled as I oohed and aahed over it. ‘We use this for dance classes and events.

  ‘The students prepare the meals,’ she said when we reached the kitchen. ‘And as much as possible we use produce from the garden. We even have an indoor garden for the winter.’ We hadn’t even gotten to the art room, and I wanted to go back in time and go to this school.

  ‘And this was Maeve’s classroom,’ Ms Faulkenberg said, opening a door and inviting me in. The walls were painted a soft brick red and the French doors opened onto a large terrace that looked out over a beautiful flower garden. It was filled with blooms even now. ‘The students are all very upset,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Everyone loved her. Her smile with those dimples lit up the room.’ She invited me to have a look around and to feel free to open any cabinets or drawers I wanted.

  ‘Did you know her husband?’ I asked.

  The woman nodded. ‘Maeve was so excited when they got together. Before he became so important in the art world, she was always trying to promote his work. Some of the parents are art collectors and, whenever there was a fundraiser for the school, one of his paintings was always included in the auction.’ I looked at the easels around the room as she continued. ‘Unfortunately, the attendees’ sense of value was less about how they felt about what they saw and more about whether it was done by an “important” artist. Of course, all that changed after he was discovered. His recent donations of his artwork have made it so we could offer more scholarships.’

  The headmistress pointed at a traditional-style teacher’s desk. ‘Maeve used that as home base. You can look through it if you like.’

  It felt strange pulling open the drawers and seeing her personal items, including a pad with her notes and doodles. Flipping through it, I saw that she had made notes with nicely done rough drawings of projects for her classes. The drawer held some of Michael’s sketches as well. She had written comments about composition on them that seemed meant for the students.

  ‘Maeve was first and foremost a teacher. She loved helping the students find means of expression. She never used the words “good” or “bad”. She was the perfect helper to her husband. She was so happy to let him shine.’

  ‘How did you feel about him?’ I asked.

  Her expression faded. ‘You know the saying that “love is blind”? Well, I didn’t have the same view of him she did.’ I wanted her to elaborate, but she seemed ready to end our visit and took me back to the foyer. She looked down at the notebook in my hand. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

  I had written down a few notes and felt confident I’d be able to flesh it out into something that gave an impression of Maeve. I would have to figure out how I was going to present it because the information had come from an outside source, but I’d figure that out later. ‘I think I have what I need.’ I dropped the notebook in my purse and thanked her for her time and the tour. ‘This is a wonderful school,’ I said, taking a last glance around.

  She seemed very pleased with my comment. ‘You might be just what we’re looking for. We want someone to teach writing and we like to bring in people working in the field.’

  ‘I would love to,’ I said, handing her a card. I hoped I’d hear from her. I already knew the room I wanted to use for a classroom. The one with logs on the wall.

  Sara opened her door when I was on my way up the stairs. I heard Quentin in the background trying to convince Mikey to watch ESPN instead of a kids’ show. Sara pointed upstairs with a question in her eyes and I told her I’d get the cooking wine ready.

  I’d barely gotten inside my place when I heard her knock. She followed me back to the kitchen as I went to get her the drink. I expected her to go right into talking about Ben, but she surprised me.

  ‘Did you hear what happened on Harper?’ she said. There was no space for me to answer before she continued. ‘Some woman fell down the stairs and died.’ I poured the wine and grabbed some sparkling water. We took the glasses and went back to the front. She chose one of the chairs in the bay windows and I sat in the other. ‘I took Mikey to the playground this morning and it seemed all anybody could talk about. I guess her husband is some well-known artist who paints pictures of dogs.’

  ‘Did they say anything about how it happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I gather it was an accident, at least sort of. Someone said they thought she was on pills or drunk, maybe.’ She turned toward me. ‘The women at the playground kept going on about her husband. Apparently, women love artistic types. They find them passionate and intense.’ Sara shrugged. ‘Not me. I’d take a quiet pharmacist like Quentin any day.’ She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I know who that artist is,’ she said, sitting forward. ‘I saw him on that morning talk show, Windy City Live. I think he had one painting of a dog, but the rest of them were all landscapes. The show had to blur out part of them because there were nudes amongst the trees,’ she said with a smile. ‘If I were him, I’d stick with the dogs.’ She fiddled with the wine glass for a moment and then she got to the real reason she’d come up.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do about my brother. If our parents were still living around here, maybe they’d get involved. When I told them Ashleigh was back, they were like whatever,’ she said with a shrug. ‘He’d better not bring her over.’ She turned toward me. ‘I know he’s been up here. What has he told you?’

  No way was I going to mention that Ben had told me they were still married. ‘Not much really,’ I said, trying to be vague.

  ‘I guess he didn’t tell you how hard-looking she is and about the short tight dresses she always wore. I was always afraid what would happen if she bent over to pick something up. You know, offer more than anyone should see. I didn’t really have to worry. She expected someone else to pick up whatever she dropped anyway. She’s a real princess type. She manages a nail salon, or that’s what she was doing. Every time I saw her, she had some elaborate nail decorations.’ Sara set her empty glass on the table between us. ‘She kept offering to do the same for me.’ Sara punctuated her comment with a laugh.

  I looked down at my ‘good’ jeans and then at my plain-looking nails. I’d tried nail polish, but it virtually rolled off my fingers right after I put it on.

  ‘And like I told you, her eyebrows are too sparse and too arched. I think they make her look like a Disney villain.’

  ‘I guess you’re not a fan,’ I said facetiously. Maybe she wasn’t, but Ben must have been if he married her. If she was his type, there wasn’t much chance for us.

  ‘Do you think they’ll get back together?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t even say it.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought my brother was smarter than that.’ She turned to me. ‘Remember how I said the reason I kept trying to push you together with him was because I wanted you as a sister – well, I never said that to her. If you care at all about him, do what you can to make sure he doesn’t take her back.’

  I was really glad I hadn’t mentioned their marital status, but thinking about it brought up my feelings about being the other woman all over again. Then I chuckled at myself. I’d been so worried about seeming dull and spinsterish, living alone with a cat, set in my patterns and fussing about clichés. Other woman sounded at least more interesting. But maybe not when it was really other woman friend.

  FOURTEEN

  As the afternoon was fading into evening, I went over to Tizzy’s. I liked being included in her sherry ritual. Theo answered the door and seemed more enthusiastic than usual. ‘It really seems like synchronicity the way we all went to the event at the art gallery featuring Michael Angel and you were meeting his wife about a writing job.’ His voice dropped as he brought me into the house. ‘It’s really too bad what happened to her. The back stairs at these old houses are really dangerous. I’m always telling Tizzy to be careful. I guess they expected servants to be nimble of foot when they built these places.’

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew everything that I’d told Tizzy. I hadn’t said anything about keeping it to herself. He continued talking as he ushered me into the living room. ‘Tizzy told me about the memoir you’re working on and how you’re going to have to create more copy. I might be able to help with that.’ He offered me a seat and said Tizzy would be down shortly. He left me and went to the kitchen for the drinks and snacks.

  Theo had been mostly a mystery to me. I’d only seen him as an associate of Tizzy’s; since she had such an outgoing personality, he’d seemed to fall into the background. His looks didn’t help. He had sort of an everyman appearance, hidden behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He would have been a great detective – in real life, not fictional. No one would notice him tailing them.

  But as I was getting to know Theo more, I realized he was much more interesting than I’d thought. His curiosity seemed boundless and he was as enthusiastic as his wife. I liked being around them and hoped some of their liveliness would rub off on me. Their relationship was an inspiration. With so many couples falling apart, it was good to see one that worked.