“Look,” she whispered, poking her husband’s leg. “What’s he doing here? I thought you said your dad was going to disfellowship him.”

  “He was. I mean, he is.” Hugh removed his glasses and stared as the two men walked briskly toward die front. Once Howell had taken a seat on the other side of Adelle, Hugh glanced furtively at his wife, unable to hide his shock and confusion, and even, it seemed to her, a brief moment of panic.

  This was not the way it was supposed to work. Normally, when a member of God’s church was disfellowshipped, he was never again allowed to attend Sabbath services or mingle with the faithful. Yet here was Isaac, carrying his Bible, looking for all the world as if he was about to call for the opening prayer. This made no sense. Unless …

  She snuck a quick look at her father-in-law, noticing that his hard, unblinking eyes were fixed straight ahead. Was it possible? Had Isaac changed his mind? Silently, Adelle began to weigh the possibilities.

  From the very beginning of her marriage to Hugh, she had steadfastly refused to be drawn into church politics — all the changing alliances, who was in favor one minute, and who was the next. She simply couldn’t be bothered. Over the past year, however, she’d begun to listen a bit more closely.

  Adelle had slowly come to the realization that the church was fast becoming a hotbed of doctrinal dissension. There was no precedent for something as radical as disagreement in the Church of the Firstborn. From the very beginning, whatever Howell Purdis wrote in his pamphlets or preached from the pulpit was considered God-inspired truth. Recent, she’d begun to catch whiffs of this dissent in the most unlikely places. The president of the college women’s club had wondered out loud about the necessity for third tithe. A local elder just in from the field expressed concern over the church’s stand on certain child-rearing practices. The buildings-and-grounds manager suggested that Christ died on an almond tree instead of an alder. Everyone, it seemed, was challenging one or more of the church’s long-standing beliefs.

  Hugh had turned a blind eye to most of it, choosing instead to be a force for unity. For good or ill, he’d spent the last year flying from city to city, attempting to put a lid on potential defections. He and Adelle didn’t always see eye to eye, but on this one point, they were united. It was their son’s legacy that Hugh was protecting — a legacy Joshua wanted almost as much as they wanted it for him. Hugh had never been particularly interested in assuming the top leadership role himself, though of course he would do so after his father’s death. Yet Hugh was sure he’d never be anything more than an interim leader. Eventually, he would become an adviser to his son. Whatever problems and questions that might arise in the church right now needed to be handled by the newly established doctrinal committee. Hugh promised the field ministry that he would back this committee with the full weight of his power and position. He’d see to it that it continued to be a viable forum for doctrinal discussion, and thereby an alternative to defection.

  To be honest, no one knew how much Howell Purdis was aware of what was happening in the church. Lately, however, Adelle had begun to notice even more arrogance in the way he behaved around the ministry. The question was, was this change in behavior just an escalation of his normal arrogance, or was it in response to the problems? The answer to this conundrum might well have direct bearing on what had just happened this morning. That, thought Adelle, was the best-case scenario. The worst case was too horrible even to contemplate.

  “It’s time to begin,” said Isaac, waiting a moment as everyone found a seat. His voice projected just the right mixture of authority and friendliness.

  Adelle had to give him credit. Off the playing field, Isaac Knox might seem like an ordinary enough guy, yet once he took his position behind the podium, he became a player, exactly the kind of quarterback Howell Purdis and those under him had trained him to be. Perhaps that was why he was still here, thought Adelle, her mood brightening considerably. Maybe Howell had come to the same conclusion.

  Isaac’s loss would be far too big a blow for the church to bear. Except, as she thought about it, she knew it made no sense. The only person Howell Purdis saw as indispensable was Howell himself.

  Isaac adjusted the microphone and then smiled his easy, confident smile. He was putting on a good performance. Adelle knew he couldn’t really feel all that relaxed after the run-in he’d just had with God’s apostle. Yet this outward show of confidence worried her. And it should be worrying Hugh, if he was paying attention. Isaac hadn’t bothered to glance in their direction yet. She wondered if that omission was significant in some way.

  “I believe Pastor Laybourn is going to lead us in our opening prayer,” said Isaac, moving away from the podium.

  Next to her, Adelle could feel her father-in-law stir in his chair. She wondered if he was looking for his songbook. “Did you misplace your hymnal?” she asked, noticing that, as his eyes rose to Isaac he began to clench and unclench his fists.

  “Dad, are you all right?” asked Hugh, leaning in front of her and touching his dad gently on the arm.

  “I’m fine,” said Howell, shoving his son’s hand away. “Mind your own business.”

  “But, Dad,” said Hugh, lowering his voice even further, “what happened with Isaac? I thought you were going to fire him.”

  “I… haven’t decided yet.”

  “But —”

  “Shut up, Hugh.” He spoke out of the side of his mouth. “And be still. If you do, you’ll feel the hand of God.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Adelle, knowing they had barely moments before the prayer began.

  “I’ve cursed him, that’s what I mean.”

  “You’ve what?” said Hugh, swallowing back his surprise.

  Howell fixed his son with a penetrating stare. “May God strike him down.”

  “Father!”

  “And if He doesn’t” — he closed his eyes and bowed his head — “I will.”

  13

  Sophie gazed upon the Maxfield Plaza with new eyes. She’d just put her parents on a plane to Helsinki, and now, finally, it felt real. It was all hers, she thought to herself as she entered through the front glass doors, admiring the bold Deco lines, the decorative bronze grilles, and the dramatic open staircase that led up to the second floor. Walking into the lobby was much like returning to the Thirties, when a sinister presence like John Dillinger or Kid Cann might be sitting right next to you at the bar. They’d all visited the Maxfield. The famous and the infamous.

  As she approached die front desk she noticed Hildegard emerge from her office accompanied by a burly-looking man dressed casually in a red sport shirt, light blue slacks, and white shoes. He looked like he was headed for a round of golf.

  From the serious expression on Hildegard’s face, Sophie could tell something was wrong. She approached them cautiously, wondering what was going on. She’d come back to the Maxfield this afternoon to spend a few hours observing the various operations. From there, she could start learning specifics. She wasn’t the kind of woman to let grass grow under her feet.

  “Sophie, hello,” said Hildegard. She smiled, though somehow, the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. In her right hand, she held a file folder.

  “Problems?” asked Sophie.

  “I’m afraid so.” Hildegard glanced uneasily at the man standing next to her. “This is … Mr. Clausen. The head of hotel security.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Sophie, extending her hand. She was still amused by Hildegard’s somewhat excessive need for formality, though she knew it would get old pretty fast.

  “Ms. Greenway is Mr. Tahtinen’s daughter,” added Hildegard quickly. “And the new owner.”

  “Is that right?” he said, raising a bushy eyebrow. “Well then, the name’s Jack. I’ll look forward to working with you.” He didn’t smile.

  “So, what’s up?” she asked, glancing from face to face.

  Hildegard seemed to be weighing something in her mind. Finally, she said, “This is a rather delicate matter. Am I correct in assuming that you and Lavinia Fiore are quite good friends?”

  “More or less. We went to college together.”

  “She hasn’t mentioned any of this to you?”

  “Any of what?”

  Hildegard opened the folder and handed Sophie a photocopy of a typed note.

  Reading down the page, she found that it was a short letter from a man named Morton. Apparently Lavinia had stood him up last night. Even though it carried no overt threat, the wording suggested a certain menace. “Does this mean what I think it means?” asked Sophie. “The police were waiting for him when he arrived?” Having St. Paul’s finest milling around the lobby must do wonders for business.

  Hildegard nodded. “This Morton fellow saw them, but they never saw him. I can only assume he never got out of his car. We have a sketch,” she said, opening the folder once again and paging through the contents. “Yes. Here it is.” She handed it over.

  Sophie looked at it, but didn’t recognize the man. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Count your blessings,” said Jack Clausen. “He trapped Ms. Fiore in the service elevator yesterday. Wouldn’t let her go until she promised to have dinner with him. This note,” he said, tapping it with his finger, “makes me think he’s going to try something else — some sort of payback. We’ve posted men around the building, but so far, no sign of him.”

  “Does this sort of thing happen often?” asked Sophie.

  “With celebrities, occasionally. It certainly wasn’t the first time Ms. Fiore has had an admirer.”

  What a stupid, insensitive way to put it, thought Sophie. “You think stalking is the same as admiration?”

  He ignored the question. “Nothing usually comes of it.”

  If he intended to put her mind at rest, he’d failed. Miserably. “Can I keep this?” she asked, holding up the sketch.

  “Good idea,” said Hildegard. “I’ve handed copies out to everyone on staff. If he shows up again, he’s going to get caught.”

  Sophie couldn’t help but wonder what sort of precautions Lavinia normally took to ensure her safety. As Jack said, this wasn’t the first time.

  “So,” said Jack, hooking a thumb over his belt, “if I could have that copy of Morton’s note?”

  Sophie handed it over.

  “The police have the original,” said Hildegard. “They wanted to check it for fingerprints.”

  Clausen’s eyebrows knit together. “All I can say is, I hope they’ll have something for us by tonight. In the meantime,” he said, giving them each a quick nod, “I’ll be in touch.” In his haste to leave, he nearly knocked down a bearded man who’d just come out of the bar. Instead of excusing himself, ‘ he kept on walking across the lobby and out the front door.

  “Is he … good at what he does?” asked Sophie. She wasn’t impressed.

  “Oh, yes. Your father’s used his company for years.”

  “You mean this hotel doesn’t employ its own security staff?”

  “Oh my, no. You know your dad. He was a maverick when it came to certain standard practices. CSS — Clausen Security Systems — is quite a large concern. Mr. Clausen hires and trains his own people, and they’re paid by him as well. I guess you could say he handles it all. Even as we speak there are no less than two security people in the lobby. Our Mr. Clausen is determined to catch his man.”

  That did make Sophie feel a bit better. Even if “Our Mr. Clausen” was Mr. Insensitivity in his private opinions, he at least had some professional smarts. “Well,” she said, noticing that the man who’d come out of the bar was now reading the paper in the lobby. He was rubbing his right shoulder, the spot where he’d collided with Clausen. She didn’t much care for his looks. The dark beard couldn’t hide his unattractive face any better than the raincoat hid his unkempt appearance. “I hope this Morton fellow gets caught. Although if I were him the Maxfield is the last place you’d find me.”

  Hildegard nodded in silent agreement. “Oh, look who’s here,” she said suddenly, her face brightening.

  Sophie turned as Rudy, dressed in. his white chef’s uniform, emerged from the rear service elevator. He was pushing an empty kitchen cart.

  “Hey,” he said, giving them a wave. He parked the cart next to the wall and then walked over, wiping a hand across his forehead. He looked hot and tired.

  “Hard at it?” asked Sophie, pleased to see him. “Say, weren’t you supposed to have Saturday and Sunday off this week? You’ve got that paper to write for your Cultural Studies class.”

  He gave a weary nod. “Yeah, but my boss asked me to work, and I couldn’t say no. The church is having a banquet here tonight, and I’m the only one in the kitchen who knows anything about their dietary laws.”

  “But… what about your paper?” She didn’t want to sound like a nagging mother, but his schoolwork had to come first.

  “I thought I’d do it tonight. I hope Bram doesn’t mind if I borrow his computer again.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

  “Great.” He turned to Hildegard, flashing her a smile. “And how are you, Ms. O’Malley?”

  Sophie could tell he’d picked up on the older woman’s preference for formality. You had to give the kid credit. He certainly knew how to turn on the charm.

  “Why, I’m just fine, Rudy. It’s kind of you to ask.”

  As they continued to talk about some of the upcoming events at the Maxfield, Sophie’s eyes dropped once again to the sketch in her hand. She scrutinized the face for several long, thoughtful moments. Studying it now, it struck her that something about it seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Hildegard.

  “What? Oh, no,” she said, brushing the question away. She kept her attention focused on the drawing. She’d seen that man recently. Very recently, in fact. But where?

  “What’s up, Mom?” said Rudy, touching her shoulder.

  Suddenly it struck her. “He’s here,” she said, whirling around.

  “Who’s here?”

  “It was the beard that fooled me.”

  “What beard?” asked Rudy. “What are you talking about?”

  “This!” she said, rattling the sketch under his nose.

  The man was still there, sitting in the lobby, reading the paper. Clausen had bumped right into Morton and failed to see the likeness. So much for his professional instincts. And the security guards, wherever they were, were every bit as worthless.

  Rudy leaned close to Sophie and whispered in her ear, “Is that man over there the same guy who’s been hassling Lavinia?”

  She gave a tight nod. “Where are the security men?” she asked, looking pointedly at Hildegard.

  Hildegard gave a perplexed shrug.

  Sophie wasn’t sure what to do next. “If we call the police, he could be gone by the time they get here.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Rudy. “I’ll handle it.”

  Sophie felt a moment of panic as she watched him walk away. “Wait,” she said, but he ignored her plea.

  Straightening his uniform, Rudy approached the man’s chair. They spoke for only a moment and then Morton got up and removed “the wallet from his back pocket. Before he knew what hit him, Rudy had wrestled him to the floor and was straddling his legs, twisting his arm painfully behind his back. “Call the police,” he shouted.

  Two stunned and embarrassed security guards shot out of the bar. While one took over for Rudy, the other pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

  “Whatever we pay these idiots,” said Sophie dryly, watching the first man fumble and then drop the key to his handcuffs, “it’s too much.”

  Hildegard nodded. “Your point is well taken, my dear.”

  As Rudy approached, brushing himself off, Sophie rushed up to him and gave him a hug.

  “Stop it, Mom,” he said, self-consciously, pulling away from her and then smiling sheepishly. He looked around the room to see if anyone was witnessing his embarrassment.

  “Can’t a mother hug her son, especially when he’s a hero?”

  “Oh, Mom, please.”

  “What did you say to him?” asked Hildegard curiously.

  Rudy shrugged. “I just asked him if he wanted something to drink. He saw my chef’s uniform and thought I was a waiter, so he ordered a beer. I told him he’d have to pay me up front. I’ve been in enough student theatre productions now to recognize a fake beard when I see one. So, when he got up, I jumped him.” He allowed himself a small smirk.

  Sophie didn’t care. She hugged him again.

  “Mom!” he said, blushing.

  “You’re just going to have to put up with me.”

  “Jeez,” he said, a slow grin forming. “I can see that.”

  14

  Lavinia pulled her rental car up to the curb and sat for a moment, stuffing the map — the one Peter had given to her right after the breakfast meeting — into the glove compartment. She knew she was a complete airhead when it came to directions, especially in an unfamiliar city. So, sweetheart that he was, Peter had patiently highlighted all the roads she needed to follow in order to get to the bar. As she turned off the motor she could see the lights of die low, rather seedy-looking building nearly a block and a half away. She’d driven past it first, just to make sure it was the right place. Parking spots were at a premium, as Peter warned they would be. He hadn’t been to the bar himself since the last time he visited his parents, two years ago, but he said that on Saturday nights the building was always jammed to die rafters. Much to Lavinia’s occasional embarrassment, it was just the kind of tacky, glitzy environment she loved. And northeast Minneapolis was far enough away from the convention site to allow her complete privacy.

  Once inside McDivot’s Nordeast Lounge, Lavinia grabbed the first available table and ordered a Ramos fizz, her favorite bar drink. Adelle should be along any minute. Lavinia had left a note for her at the front desk earlier in the day. Adelle had responded with her own message shortly after one P.M. saying she wasn’t sure how she could help Lavinia in her effort to find the truth behind Ginger’s death, but she’d be happy to join her for a drink later.