“Good to see you, too,” said Don, his tone hushed. His gaze returned to Max, eyeing his expensive suit.

  Ivy could tell he was curious. “This is Max Steinhardt,” she said, deciding it was best not to keep him in suspense. Not that she didn’t enjoy keeping people like Don in suspense. She just didn’t have the energy today. “My doctor.”

  Don grunted. “You not feeling well?”

  “I’ve had a few problems lately.” She hoped he’d leave it at that. The last thing she needed was his interest in her personal life. It was complicated enough without adding Don, his wife, and his three kids.

  “Anything I can do?”

  Ivy knew he thought of himself as irresistible to the opposite sex. He’d even made a pass at her once — in the bathroom of his mobile home in Coon Rapids. She banished the repulsive memory from her overburdened mind. “No. That’s why Max is here.”

  His head snapped back. Good. She’d put him off. Her eyes traveled down the table to an elderly woman. “Mrs. Malmquist!” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “I didn’t expect —”

  “I didn’t, either,” came the gentle reply. “A lawyer called me Monday afternoon and asked me to be present.” Her eyes were puffy and red, a linen handkerchief clasped tightly in one hand.

  Ivy continued to stare.

  “It’s hard for me to get around these days.” She nodded to the walker standing next to her chair. “My grandson brought me. He’s out in the waiting room.” She hesitated. “I’m so sorry about what happened, Ivy. I hope you’ll … be … all right. I wish I could have made it to the funeral yesterday, but … it was a bad day for me.”

  Ivy remembered Betty from years ago when she used to walk her miniature schnauzer in front of their house. She lived in the same neighborhood, though in a much poorer section. She often stopped to talk. Ivy had been fond of the woman. So had Hale. But what the hell was she doing here!

  “And to think I just saw your husband not two weeks ago.”

  Ivy cocked her head. “You did? When was that?”

  Betty patted the back of her white hair and looked down at the table. “Oh, he came by quite often. Last time he stopped, he had an entire sackful of presents with him. He was such a kind man. So generous.”

  Generous? thought Ivy. Had the old woman had a stroke?

  At that moment, Robert Weise entered the room, a portfolio tucked under one arm. “Good morning,” he said, striding to the head of the table and making himself comfortable in one of the chairs. “Everyone is here I see. Good. I think we can begin.”

  Charles Squire folded his hands over the table. He stared straight ahead.

  Betty placed her hands in her lap and leaned forward ever so slightly.

  Don fidgeted with his cap.

  Max gave Ivy a knowing nod. Together they sat quietly, calmly, their eyes locked on the lawyer.

  Robert Weise pulled out the will and adjusted his glasses. “This shouldn’t take long. I would ask that each of you refrain from talking until I’ve finished. There will be plenty of time once we’re done to explain anything you don’t understand. Are we ready?”

  Ivy nodded.

  “All right.” He began to read. “‘Article One. I, Hale R. Micklenberg, a resident of the City of St. Paul, County of Ramsey, State of Minnesota, being of sound mind and memory and not acting under duress, menace, fraud, or influence by any person whomsoever, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, and do hereby revoke all former Wills and Codicils of Wills made by me at any time.’ “

  Robert Weise peered over his glasses to verify everyone was listening. Assuring himself of rapt attention, he went on. “‘Article Two. I nominate and appoint my assistant, Charles Squire, to be my personal representative, and to act without bond. I direct my personal representative to pay from the residue of my probate estate all of my just debts allowed in the course of administration of my estate, the funeral and burial costs, the expenses of administering my estate, and all estate, inheritance, transfer, succession and legacy taxes and duties occasioned by my death. I further direct that Charles Squire be appointed chairman of the board of International Art Investments, and that he manage this corporation for a period of one year, at a salary of four hundred thousand dollars plus benefits and options. At the end of that year, a vote shall be taken by the stockholders. He may continue or not continue as board chairman at their request.’ “

  Ivy gave Max a questioning glance. He shook his head and returned his attention to the lawyer.

  “‘Article Three. To Don Micklenberg I leave the sum of twenty thousand dollars. If he precedes me in death, the money shall be distributed equally among his heirs.’ “

  Don bristled, hitting the table with his fist. ‘Twenty thousand fucking dollars. Is that all I was worth to the old fart?”

  “Shh,” said Charles, giving him a withering stare. “I’d say you did rather well,” adding somewhat snidely, “under the circumstances.” He glanced at the man’s uniform, his eyes lingering on the soiled red, white, and blue shirt.

  Betty peered at the interaction from her perch near the front of the room.

  “Please,” said Robert Weise, laying his hand flat on the table. “May we continue?” He waited until the room was silent and then went on.

  “‘Article Four. To Ivy Micklenberg I leave the sum of one dollar.’ “

  Ivy gasped!

  “‘If she precedes me in death, the money shall be divided equally among her heirs.’ “

  The edges of Charles’s lips curled into a smile.

  Ivy grabbed for Max’s hand. “He can’t do that! I’m his wife!”

  “Please,” said Robert Weise, looking to Max to quiet her down. “May I continue?”

  Max put his arm around Ivy. Since she could feel his body shaking with rage, he was little comfort. She turned and looked him square in the face. His color was ashen.

  “‘Article Five. I give and devise all the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, whether real or personal, of whatever nature and wherever situated, to Betty Malmquist. If she does not survive me, I leave such interest to her surviving grandchildren in equal shares.’“

  Betty blinked, glancing at Ivy, and then at each succeeding face.

  “‘This instrument, consisting of three typewritten pages, each of which has been signed by Hale R. Micklenberg, was on the date thereof signed, published, and declared by said person to be his Last Will and Testament, in our presence, who at his request have subscribed our names as witnesses, in this presence and in the presence of each other.’ Signed, ‘Robert L. Weise and John B. Crawford, attorneys-at-law.’ “

  The room was deathly still.

  “What does it mean?” asked Betty, her voice like the tinkling of a tiny bell.

  “It means, my dear woman,” said Robert Weise, taking off his glasses and laying them on top of the portfolio, “that you have just inherited International Art Investments. In other words, you are now a multimillionaire. Congratulations.”

  Betty continued to blink.

  26

  “So what do you think?” asked Bram, setting a plate of hummus on the kitchen table. It was Wednesday evening, and he’d promised to prepare dinner. He beamed proudly, pushing a basket of warm pita toward Rudy.

  “You made it yourself?” asked Sophie, eyeing it a bit uncertainly.

  “Absolutely! I had a woman on my program this morning who had just written a vegetarian cookbook. She gave me the recipe before she left the station.”

  “May I see it?”

  Bram waved the question away. “It’s all right here,” he said, tapping his forehead.

  “You memorized it?”

  “Well,” he muttered a bit belligerently, “what’s so hard about hummus? It’s garbanzo beans, tahini, garlic, salt, and olive oil.”

  Rudy selected a pita wedge and poked at the edge of the mass with the tip of the bread. “It looks kind of… thick.”

  Bram glowered.

  “What about the lemon juice?” asked Sophie. She tried to keep her voice neutral.

  “What about it? I added several tablespoons, just like the woman said.”

  “And how did you thin the mixture down?”

  “Thin it? Well, I just kept adding olive oil.” A hand rose to his hip. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Didn’t you use any water?”

  “No one said anything about water.”

  “Mmm,” said Sophie, giving him a cheerful smile.

  “That mmm is pregnant with meaning.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Rudy, backing away from the table.

  “You stay here,” ordered Bram, turning to glare at him. “I want your honest opinion before you leave.”

  Rudy glanced at the oily heap. “Well, it’s … ah … good. Very … unusual. I’m sorry I can’t stay and have dinner with you, but I’ve got some studying to do. Besides, I stopped at Wasserman’s Deli on the way home from school for a cornbeef sandwich.”

  “Heavy on the mustard,” added Sophie.

  “That’s right.”

  Bram looked from face to face. Finally he erupted: “I’m being humored!”

  “No, you’re not, darling,” said Sophie, putting her arm around him and walking him toward the living room. She motioned for Rudy to take off. He gladly obliged, heading for the stairs. “I appreciate it very much when you want to try new recipes, Bram dear.”

  “Don’t call me dear. You’re not the only cook in this family.”

  “You’re absolutely right. You’re a fine cook.”

  Bram grunted, stomping to the sofa and throwing himself down.

  Sophie sat down next to him, returning her arm to his shoulder. “Have I told you lately what a sweet man you are?”

  Bram grimaced.

  “Oh, come on.” She gave him a kiss.

  “Can’t you pick another adjective?”

  She nuzzled his neck. “How about sexy?”

  “You’re getting warmer.” He kissed her cheek. “Oh, well. You can’t hit a home run every time. Maybe we can give the stuff to Ethel.”

  At the sound of her name being called, Ethel poked her head out of Bram’s study and began a slow lurch into the living room. She stopped just short of the sofa and slouched to the floor, heaving a deep sigh.

  “Hard day,” said Bram, watching her lick her paw. “Her tennis ball got stuck under one of the living room chairs. She was standing — or I should say sitting — guard beside it when I got home. Probably never had a moment’s peace all day. I mean, you never know what kind of dastardly trick a tennis ball is going to pull.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “Yeah.”

  The front doorbell sounded.

  “Bram, tell me the truth,” said Sophie. “You didn’t invite anyone over for — ?”

  “Hummus and pita? No. I thought I should try it out once before I went public.”

  “Good thinking. I wonder who it could be.”

  “One way to find out.” Bram stood and walked directly to the front door, peeking through the peephole. “Oh, shit,” he said, clenching his fist. “This is going to be our lucky night. I can just feel it.”

  “What’s wrong?” called Sophie, following him into the hall.

  Bram opened the door, nodding to Detective Cross and a uniformed policeman.

  “Good evening, Mr. Baldric,” said the detective. His eyes traveled over Bram’s shoulder to the interior of the home. “I’d like to talk to you and your wife for a moment if I could.”

  Bram stepped back and allowed them to enter.

  “Detective Cross,” said Sophie, trying to cover the annoyance in her voice. What was he up to now? He had no business bothering them at home. She hadn’t found out anything from Rudy that he didn’t already know. “This is a surprise. Won’t you come into the living room?”

  “No, thanks.” He opened his topcoat and lifted out a piece of paper. “I have a warrant here. We’d like to search your son’s room.”

  Sophie was stunned. She’d never anticipated something like this happening.

  “Is he here?” asked Cross.

  “Yes,” said Bram, moving closer to his wife. “What’s this all about?”

  “May we see the room?” asked the detective. He was polite, but just barely.

  “All right.” Bram led the way to the stairs, with Sophie bringing up the rear.

  Rudy had been given the bedroom at the opposite end of the second-floor hall. It overlooked the backyard, and had a nice view of the Washburn water tower. Up until last fall, it had belonged to Bram’s daughter, Margie. In September, she’d moved to St. Cloud with her boyfriend. It was a relatively small room, with a single bed, a desk, and a highboy dresser. In the months since his arrival, Rudy had added his own touches. Several theatre posters, a small stereo with a growing CD collection, and a brick and cedar bookcase.

  Sophie knocked on die door. An Eric Clapton song was quickly turned down. “Rudy?’ She paused. “There’s someone here who wants to see you.”

  “Just a sec,” he called. A moment later the door opened. Rudy’s smile faded when he saw who it was. “Oh,” he mumbled, squaring his shoulders. “What do you want?”

  Sophie touched his arm. “Detective Cross would like to examine your room. He has a warrant.”

  “No!” Rudy moved to block his entrance. “Don’t I have a right to some privacy?”

  Sophie took the words like a blow. She saw the frightened look in his eyes. But what could she do?

  Detective Cross pushed roughly past them into the room. The uniformed officer followed. “You can all stay if you want, but I must ask you to remain out of the way.”

  Rudy squirmed away from Sophie and threw himself onto the bed.

  The detective gave him a hard look. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I’m not in your way. I’m just sitting here. It is my room.”

  The two policemen exchanged glances.

  Sophie wished she knew what to do. She watched helplessly as they began their search. First the closet. Then the bookcase. Minutes passed. Everyone remained silent as the room was pulled apart.

  “What are all those?” asked Cross, pointing to several stacks of books under the bedroom window.

  “They’re plays,” said Rudy.

  “He’s interested in the theatre,” offered Sophie, trying to be helpful. For some reason, even that small explanation made her feel like a traitor.

  Rudy gave her a sullen look.

  Finally, after everything had been thoroughly ransacked, the detective stood in front of Rudy and said, “Get up.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to check under the bed.”

  “There’s nothing under there you’d be interested in.”

  Why was Rudy doing this? thought Sophie. He was only making things worse.

  “If you don’t get up on your own, I’m going to have Patrolman Peters here physically remove you. It’s your call.”

  Rudy eyed the man who outweighed him by a good hundred pounds. Pressing his lips together angrily, he rose and stood next to the dresser. He kept his eyes on the floor.

  Cross got down on his hands and knees and lifted up the bedspread. Carefully he pulled out a suitcase, and then a cardboard box, about a foot long by two feet wide. First he opened the suitcase. It was filled with religious material. A King James Version of the Bible. A Moffat version. The Greek New Testament. A thick concordance. A Harmony of the Gospels. A Bible dictionary. Two Bible commentaries. And several stacks of pamphlets. The one on top said, The Book of Revelation Revealed. Cross paged through a few of them. When he finally glanced up, he gave Rudy a long, measuring stare.

  Rudy said nothing.

  Sophie couldn’t stand the silence — or the misunderstanding that was no doubt forming in the detective’s mind. She knew how Cross must see this. Right now her son was being pegged as a crackpot, a religious nut. “Rudy comes from a very religious family. His father is a minister.”

  “You read the Bible a lot, son?” asked the detective.

  Rudy shrugged.

  The detective lifted up a volume entitled, Bible Archeology. A bookmark stuck out of one end. As he opened it, he nodded, handing it to the patrolman. “Interested in ancient Egypt, are you?”

  “I haven’t looked at that book since I did a paper in ninth grade.”

  “Really?” Cross returned it to the suitcase.

  Sophie wondered if Rudy could hear the condescension in the detective’s voice. For his sake, she hoped he couldn’t.

  As the detective turned his attention to the cardboard box, Rudy made a move to stop him.

  “Hold the kid,” ordered Cross, shooting a nasty look at the patrolman.

  “Let’s just be cool now,” said the patrolman calmly. He gripped Rudy’s shoulder. “This will be over in a minute.”

  Cross held up a series of black-and-white photos. “Did you take these?” he asked.

  Rudy chewed his lower lip. “I did.”

  “Who developed them?”

  “I have a friend taking a photography class at school. He blew them up for me.” The way Rudy was fidgeting, he looked like a caged animal. Sophie felt terrible for him — not that she entirely understood. Why was he so nervous?

  Cross paged through them. “Where were they taken?”

  “At the Chappeldine Gallery.”

  “And the man in the photos?”

  “He’s a friend.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Rudy hesitated, but only for a moment. “John Jacobi.”

  “Why’d you take pictures of this artwork?” He continued to leaf through the stack.

  “I like them. They’re John’s mostly. I got a camera for Christmas. I was just trying it out.” He attempted to give the impression that it was no big deal, but Sophie could tell Cross wasn’t buying.

  The detective stopped when he came to one particular photo. As he held it up, Sophie’s heart leapt inside her chest. It was a picture of one of the pastels by Ezmer Hawks. The sphinx with fire between its paws. “What’s this?” asked Cross.

  Rudy’s eyes bounced off it briefly. “A pastel drawing. The artist is going to have a show at the gallery next month.”