Wells: That’s correct.

  M: Can you tell me what you know about it?

  Wells: Well, the night it happened, Connie was in her study preparing the menu for the following week’s show. Arthur wasn’t home. He was at the library. Wayne never got home before seven, so Connie wasn’t expecting him. I guess she had some music on, so she didn’t hear him come in. She found him shortly after seven in the upstairs bathroom. He’d been trying to get to his medication but died before he could reach it.

  M: It was a heart attack?

  Wells: Yes, a massive one. Everybody saw it coming. It wasn’t a surprise.

  M: The police didn’t find anything suspicious about his death?

  Wells: Heavens, no. What are you suggesting?

  M: Just asking.

  Wells: No, there was never a question that his death wasn’t entirely natural. I may not think very highly of Connie, but I don’t for a minute believe she’s capable of murder.

  M: You mentioned a falling-out. When did that happen? And why?

  Wells: (Takes a moment, seems to relish this part of her story) It all started when Connie got her PBS show. I was once again asked to do the setups and I said I would on the condition that she’d have me on her show at least once a month. The first month came and went. I wasn’t included. The second month came. Nothing again. This went on for a good four months before I exploded. I told Connie that she was afraid to share the limelight with me, afraid that I might steal her show. She responded that I was just being a prima donna. She intended to include me in her broadcasts, but she had to get her feet on the ground first. I said fine. Give me a date. She thought about it for a moment and then said in two weeks I could prepare something, a ten-minute segment. The date came and went and I still wasn’t allowed in front of the cameras. So I quit. I told her she was selfish and a liar, and I’d had enough. She was furious, of course, mainly because I hadn’t started my prep work yet for the next day’s taping. I told her I couldn’t believe she’d treat a friend with so little respect, especially since I’d been with her from the very beginning. She said I was ungrateful. She was the star and I was just a helper. I tossed my apron on her desk and walked out. I hoped I’d never see her again. That night she came over to my house. My husband was out of town and she knew it. To this day I don’t know if she came to apologize or to tell me where I could pick up my final check. I guess it’s moot because when she knocked and didn’t get an answer, she let herself in with her key. She found me in the living room, naked on the sofa. I wasn’t alone.

  M: (Wants to be prodded) Who were you with?

  Wells: (Smiles) Her son Nathan. (Another smile, this one of triumph) You can imagine how upset she was. Nathan grabbed his clothes and ran home. He was twenty years old at the time, and a beautiful young man. Between you and me, I taught him everything he knows about the female body. He was an eager student and I was a willing teacher. Nathan had a natural sensuality I’ve rarely seen in a man. He was very tender but also very strong. It’s an explosive mixture. We didn’t love each other, of course. There was never any talk of that. But we were bound together by our desire for each other’s bodies.

  M: Did you ever sleep with Paul?

  Wells: (Shudders) Never. He wasn’t my type. Too arrogant. And too dirty.

  M: How long had you been sleeping with Nathan?

  Wells: Since he was fifteen. Connie knew nothing about it. Neither did my husband, although at the time, I didn’t think it would have mattered much. Over the period of our marriage, he’d had dozens of affairs. I just had one. At the beginning, Nathan was simply a sweet boy, a diversion. He was willing and full of youthful lust, but untrained. By the time he met his special young woman, he really knew how to make love to a woman.

  M: Special young woman?

  Wells: Her name was Sophie, I believe. Poor Nathan. The night Connie caught us together, he finally told me about his trip to California in September. He’d followed Sophie there hoping to change her mind about marrying him. Three months later he was still depressed. I’d never seen him so down. He needed me that night. I was glad he’d come. And when Connie charged into the room like an angry bull, shouting and breaking things, I thought she finally got a little of what she had coming. I was sorry for the embarrassment it caused Nathan but glad that Connie had to face the truth. She couldn’t control the whole world, even though, by that time in her life, she thought she was entitled to try. I doubt she learned her lesson that night, but it was a start in the right direction.

  M: What did she do?

  Wells: Oh, she blustered and fussed for a couple of days. She forbade Nathan to ever see me again. And then when my husband returned from his business trip, she told him what I’d been up to. Needless to say, I could have killed her with my bare hands. It never occurred to me that she’d have so little class. I didn’t think it was any of her business in the first place, but to go behind my back and inform my husband, well, that was the very last straw. Connie was too embarrassed to tell him how long her son and I had been sleeping together, but Gary got horribly huffy about it, anyway. He filed for divorce the next week. I had so many of his mistresses’ names and addresses that it was a standoff. I got the house and a nice monthly allowance, and he got his freedom. I guess, in the end, we both got what we wanted. In a way, Connie did me a favor, but I never spoke to her again. And I never will.

  M: And did Nathan stay away from you?

  Wells: (A smile pregnant with meaning) Why, Ms. Damontraville. A woman never answers a question like that.

  15

  “Make it something really memorable,” said Yale McGraw, clasping his hands behind his neck. He leaned back in his leather chair and gazed at Sophie with an expression of wistful sadness. “That’s the least we can do. Gildemeister was an institution around here for two decades.”

  “But are you sure I’m the best person to write the feature?” Sophie had found a memo on George’s desk, her desk now, summoning her to Yale’s office as soon as she got in. She’d arrived at the paper shortly after three, hoping to complete some organizational chores before Rudy arrived home.

  “You’ll do a fine job,” said Yale. “Doesn’t have to be too long. Just hit the highlights of his career. Assign a researcher to help if you need it. Don’t forget to include some photos. The researcher can check the photo archives, come up with something suitable. I want the full piece on the feature editor’s desk by Friday afternoon.”

  “The paper’s still working four days out, right?”

  He nodded. “I plan to run it next Wednesday. Oh, and don’t include anything on the murder investigation. I’ve got the crime beat covering that.”

  With all the other work facing her, writing a glorified obit for George was hardly a welcome task, but she could hardly say no to her new boss. It was a onetime job, and if she could just find some quiet time after someone else gathered the significant details, she could hammer out the story in a few hours. “Okay, I’ll get right on it.”

  “Good. And, Soph, there’s a staff meeting tomorrow afternoon that I’d like you to attend. Three o’clock in the sixth-floor conference room. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

  Her mind raced. She was pretty sure there was nothing on her schedule at the hotel tomorrow afternoon. She might as well face it. From now on, she couldn’t go anywhere without her daily appointment calendar. “Sure. I’ll be there.”

  As she left the office, hurrying through the newsroom, she prayed that nothing would prevent Rudy’s plane from landing at Twin Cities International on Sunday morning. This was her first real day at the paper and already she felt the need for an assistant. She could hear Bram’s voice inside her head. I’d never see you if you took on a second job. I already have to make a date weeks in advance if I want to have a five-minute conversation with you. Well, it wasn’t true. Her life simply took a little juggling right now.

  Once back upstairs in George’s office, she punched in Bram’s private extension at the radio station. He should be done with his afternoon show, which meant he was sitting behind his desk, eating some sweet but empty calories and reading the New York Times, his daily reward for a job well done.

  He picked up the phone after die second ring. “Bram Baldric.”

  “Put that chocolate doughnut down!”

  “What… who… Sophie?”

  “Does someone else know about your current chocolate doughnut addiction?”

  He laughed. “Only you, babe. When I have guests, I always bring out those horrible gourmet biscotti, the kind of cookie that seems refined, European, and maybe even satisfying — if you’ve been living on lettuce leaves and Evian water for a few months. I have to maintain my image, you know. I am a man of the finest tastes.”

  “Admit it. A1 Lundquist got you hooked on those grease bombs.”

  “Are you suggesting that police officers spend their days eating doughnuts? That’s a professional slur. It might even be a felony.”

  “A1 looks like he’s eaten a few in his day.”

  “He’s thin as a rail.”

  “With a potbelly.”

  “It’s a vitamin deficiency.”

  She snorted. “A bad case of bachelor malnutrition. But don’t worry, sweetheart. The secret of your true culinary leanings is safe with me.” She hoped the fact that he was being playful meant he’d forgiven her for yesterday. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

  “Let’s see.” He rustled some papers. “I have to check my engagement calendar. My dance card is usually filled.” He paused. “Say! You’re in luck. The governor canceled on me, so I’m free. Shall I pencil you in?”

  “Do that.”

  “The name again?”

  “Finchley. Martha Finchley.”

  “Ah, yes, Ms. Finchley. I believe your address and phone number are already recorded in my little black book.”

  “You burned your little black book on our wedding night.”

  “No, I think that was my Franklin Planner.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be back from the paper by seven or so. I need about half an hour to take care of a few matters at the hotel and then I’ll meet you at the Zephyr Club for a night of dinner and dancing.” The Zephyr Club was the hotel’s fine dining restaurant on the top floor of the south wing. As the place where Bram had proposed, it always had a special meaning for both of them.

  “I’ll polish my tennis shoes, scrub the ketchup stains off my T-shirt, and meet you at eight. Oh, should I call for reservations?”

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  “Good Then I can go back to eating my snack without further interruption. Ciao bella, baby. God, I’m so sophisticated. How can you resist me?”

  “I can’t. See you tonight.”

  Sophie spent the next few hours working in George’s office. She watered all his plants, thinking that perhaps his wife or one of his kids would want to come and clean out his personal belongings. It wouldn’t really feel like her space until all of the tomato seedlings were gone.

  After arranging with a staff researcher to pull together die information she needed for the feature on George’s life, she spent a few minutes just sitting and looking out the window. As soon as her mind wasn’t occupied by the growing list of restaurants she wanted to review, or the local industry news she had to catch up on, her thoughts turned to Nathan. How was she going to tell him that she couldn’t see him again — ever? In many ways, it wasn’t even something she wanted. She wished they could be friends, but the chemistry between them was too volatile. It wasn’t just hard; it was deeply embarrassing to admit that she couldn’t trust herself around him, but the fact was, she couldn’t.

  As she was switching off the computer, getting ready to leave, her thoughts returned to the moonlight walks she and Nathan used to take around Lake Harriet. Winter or summer, it didn’t matter, it was their special place.

  Nathan knew a great deal about the natural world. Learning about trees and flowers from him was far more fun than learning about it in school. Sometimes they’d sit on a bench by the lake, holding hands and watching a muskrat play in the water or a bunch of baby ducks trail lazily behind their mama. In the summer there were sailboat regattas and band concerts at the Lake Harriet Bandshell. And in the fall, the coots, one of Sophie’s favorite birds, would return for a few weeks before heading south. She had so many memories of that time, all of them good. If her life had taken a different turn, perhaps she and Nathan would have gotten married. Had children together. Built a good life. She couldn’t help but wonder if his unresolved feelings for her hadn’t played some part in his lifelong inability to find the right person to love. Even though she knew she had no reason to feel guilty, she nevertheless did.

  Outwardly, Nathan appeared to be successful and happy, a man on the go, but yesterday she’d detected in him a sense of resignation. He’d called his life a “frustrated system,” not that she entirely understood. If she cut off all ties with him now, she’d never understand.

  Realizing she wasn’t getting anywhere with this trip down memory lane, she made a quick decision. It was a quarter to six. All day she’d been wanting to drive back to George’s apartment. If the police believed they had their man, it stood to reason that they’d called off any further investigation. And that meant they might have missed something important that could clear Harry. Sophie believed he was innocent. She knew her confidence might be misguided, but she couldn’t let the matter drop until she’d talked to George’s neighbors. One of them might have seen or heard something that didn’t fit the police theory.

  Before leaving the Times Register Tower for the day, Sophie stuffed a copy of the day’s paper into her briefcase. She wanted to take a closer look at the article she’d written on Constance Buckridge’s visit to Kitchen Central last Saturday.

  The rush-hour traffic was typically chaotic, but Sophie made it to the Lakeland Terrace in good time. She got lucky again, finding a parking spot directly across the street Walking up the steps, she realized she faced the same problem she’d had on Sunday night How was die supposed to get into a security building without a key? Thinking she had nothing to lose, she stood in the foyer pawing through die contents of her briefcase. She hoped someone would think she was looking for her key and simply let her in, just like the other night During the next few minutes, several people emerged, but no one held the door open for her. She silently berated herself for lacking the guts to grab the damn door and walk in. The next time someone came out that’s just what she was going to do. But nobody did for another ten minutes. She was getting sick of waiting when a young man suddenly came sailing through the front door juggling two overstuffed sacks of groceries. “You going in?” he asked, puffing to a stop.

  “Yes, but —”

  “Here, use my key. I’ve already got it out” It was dangling from his right hand. Without Sophie’s help, he wouldn’t be able to negotiate the lock unless he set everything down.

  Once die door was open, the young man said, “Thanks. God, my wife’s going to kill me. We’ve got guests coming for dinner and I was supposed to be home with the food two hours ago. Wish me luck,” he shouted over his shoulder as he steamed up the half-flight of stairs to die elevators.

  “Good luck,” said Sophie, giving a small wave.

  She waited until he was gone, then made a mental note to suggest to Yale that he put someone on a story about security buildings — how secure are they really? Checking the time, she realized she had less than an hour before she was due back at the Maxfield, all dolled up and ready to dance the night away.

  The fifth floor of the Lakewood Terrace was filled with the rich aroma of dinners cooking. Sophie thought she could detect a meat loaf, something decidedly Oriental, and a meal that required lots of garlic- — perhaps lasagna. It was a poor time to interrupt George’s neighbors, but at least they were home.

  She approached one of the adjacent apartments and knocked a couple of times. It didn’t take long before a man wearing a bathrobe and slippers drew back the door. He looked as if he’d just gotten out of the shower.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Sophie began, “but I’d like to ask a couple of questions about George Gildemeister, your neighbor.”

  “You with the police?” The guy seemed curious but also a bit suspicious.

  “No, I’m working for Harry Hongisto, the man who’s been accused of his murder.”

  “I see.” He nodded, sizing her up. “You a P.I.?”

  “Men aren’t the only P.I.’s in the world, you know.”

  He held up his hand. “Fine. Whatever.”

  “Have the police talked to you?”

  “Yeah, they came by on Sunday night. Asked a couple of questions. Nothing very extensive. They said they might want to talk to me again, but nobody’s called.” He paused, retying the belt on his robe. “What do you wanna know?”

  He clearly had no intention of inviting her in, and that was fine with her. “On the night George died, last Sunday, were you home?”

  “All evening. My girlfriend came over and we watched a movie, ordered a pizza.”

  “Did you hear any shouting coming from George’s apartment?”

  “Everyone on the floor heard it, lady, unless they were deaf. It got pretty loud a couple of times.”

  “Do you remember any specific words or sentences?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t pay that much attention.”

  “What time did the argument take place?”

  “Oh, about a quarter to seven, I guess. It was before my girlfriend arrived. I was watching a game show, so I just turned the volume up. I think I may have banged on the wall once — no, that was later. During the next round.”

  “There was another round?”

  “Yeah, it was about seven-thirty. I remember because that’s when my girlfriend got here.”

  “Did you notice anyone out in the hallway?”

  “Nope, it was empty.”

  “Did you tell the police about the second argument?”