weak, even headstrong human beings. And in the end, somehow, the job got done.

  Adelle rose, careful not to jar her aching head, and walked into die bathroom, where she spent a moment splashing cold water into her face. Then, grabbing a hand towel, she returned to the bedroom. “What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing die anger return to her husband’s face. “What happened at your meeting this morning?”

  Hugh sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s Isaac.”

  “Of course it’s Isaac. It’s always been Isaac. Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “He’s going to be the death of me.”

  “You’ve got to stop protecting him, Hugh. Why you feel a sense of loyalty to someone who’s done nothing but betray you, I’ll never know.”

  His eyes rose to hers, and then looked away.

  “So what did he say?” she asked, stepping over to the mirror above the dresser and examining her face for signs of damage.

  “He finally dropped the bomb.”

  She stopped and turned around. “What?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  She stared at him. “But he promised —”

  “All bets are off. He wants something now. He’s like a dog with a bone. No one’s going to take it away from him.”

  She ordered herself to breathe. After giving herself a moment to regroup, she said, “You’re a fool, Hugh. You always have been. God knows why you ever befriended that man. He’s done nothing but use you and abuse you from the time you were boys.”

  “That’s not the way he sees it.”

  “Of course not. Isaac is a selfless man,” she said sarcastically. “A loving man. What he does, he does for the good of others.”

  “That’s what he thinks he’s doing now.”

  “By breaking up die church? Destroying what we’ve worked so hard to build?”

  “He wants me to join the new group he’s putting together.”

  “Your father will destroy him! And he’ll destroy you, too.”

  He got up and began to pace. “We’ve got to put a stop to all this wrangling once and for all. It’s tearing the church apart.”

  “Isaac’s tearing the church apart!”

  “He doesn’t see it that way. He thinks Father is being completely unreasonable because he won’t even discuss matters of doctrine. What he’s taught for years is God’s truth and that’s it. Period, the end.”

  “This is news?”

  “No, but the ministry is sick of it. They refuse to believe everything is set in stone. Do you know what happened yesterday when the great Howell Purdis tried to disfellowship Isaac? Isaac threatened to take seventy percent of the ministers with him if he left. And that means most of the membership. He must have scared my dad pretty good, because he backed off.”

  “I wondered what he’d done. But, you mean your dad believed this insanity?”

  Hugh shook his head. “It’s not insanity. That’s what the meeting was about this morning. Isaac really does have the backing of most of the top ministers.”

  Feeling dazed, Adelle sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Don’t you get it?” said Hugh, sitting down next to her and dropping his head in his hands. “If I stay with Father, our son will be presiding over an empty church. But if I throw in with Isaac, there’s still a chance Joshua will one day assume the leadership role.”

  She turned her head and glared at him, amazed by his ignorance. “You’re living in a dreamworld if you believe that. You’re a weak man, Hugh. You’ve only survived this far because you were Howell Purdis’s son. Without him, you’re lost.”

  “I’ve never cared about power.”

  “That was your first mistake.”

  “Maybe. But what about all the good people out there who support our ministry? I care about them. And I care about our son. Think about it. If I stay with my father now, Joshua is lost. Do you want that? Do you!”

  “No!”

  “Then you tell me what I should do.”

  As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, he had a point. “Just give it more time, okay. Don’t give Isaac your answer right away.”

  “He’s allowing me two days.”

  She stared back at him, her mind racing. “All right. Then take it. Who knows? Your father’s still a player in this game. He won’t go down without a fight.”

  Hugh rose and looked down at her with a coldness she found chilling. “This may surprise you, Adelle, but I’m not going down without a fight either. Don’t count me out just yet.”

  He slammed the door on his way out.

  23

  Sophie spent all day Monday waiting for an official police report on Lavinia’s death. She tried to stay busy, calling real estate agents and setting up a couple of appointments. The house needed to be appraised, and since she had some free time, she decided she might as well get the ball rolling. Yet her concentration was constancy broken by the image of her friend lying silently amid the rubble of her closet.

  By lunchtime, the day was really beginning to drag. Finally, around four, a Lieutenant Riley from the homicide division of the St. Paul Police Department called with an initial report. As the man spoke in his calm, almost matter-of-fact voice, Sophie sat down at the kitchen table and took notes, asking him about certain points, not wanting to forget any of the information.

  “I really appreciate the call,” she said, hurrying to squeeze in one last question. She could tell he was busy and wanted to get off. “Did you find a diary when you searched through Lavinia’s belongings?”

  He paused for a moment, rattling some papers. “We found a daily appointment calendar.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m talking about. This would have been an actual diary — lots of personal writing. That sort of thing.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “Sorry. I’ve never seen it.”

  “Well, there’s no mention of a diary in this report, Ms. Greenway. Why do you ask?”

  Sophie saw no point in keeping the information from him. She quickly relayed the story of Ginger’s death, and of Lavinia’s contention that the diary, one she brought with her on her trip to Minnesota, contained information that pointed to a murderer. She also mentioned that many of the people who knew Ginger back in the early Seventies were in town right now — most of them staying at the Maxfield Plaza.

  “You mean to tell me Lavinia Fiore had proof of a murder?”

  “No,” said Sophie. “She was careful never to say she had the actual proof — just suspicions.”

  “So why would this diary — assuming there is one — be important?”

  “Because it pointed to a specific person,” said Sophie, exasperated by his inability to grasp the obvious. “I may be wrong, but I think that’s why her room was ransacked. Someone was looking for it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this yesterday?”

  “I didn’t know about the diary until after Bram and I gave our statement. If you want to follow it up, you’ll need to talk to Bunny Huffington, Adelle Purdis, and Cindy Shipman.”

  Again, he rattled his notes. “You mean the same women who had a drink with the deceased on Saturday night?”

  “Exactly. All five of us were old friends of Ginger’s. We lived in the same dorm the year she died.”

  There was silence on the other end. She assumed he was writing it all down. “This may have nothing to do with Ms. Fiore’s murder, but we’ll check on it In the meantime, if you come up with anything else that might have a bearing on this investigation, please give me a call.” He repeated his phone number.

  She copied it down, assuring him she would.

  After she said goodbye, she immediately called Bram. They had to talk right away. Since it was a beautiful autumn afternoon, temperatures in the mid-seventies, they agreed to meet at a favorite restaurant on Lake Harriet in south Minneapolis.

  Half an hour later Sophie was ushered to one of the Lyme House’s nicest outdoor tables. She sat down next to the wood railing, delighted by her view of the bandstand on the far shore. She’d been a restaurant reviewer for so many years, everyone knew her face and tended to pander to her well-known likes and dislikes. At least in the culinary biz, she was a local celebrity, a status she heartily enjoyed. She was also a friend of the restaurant’s owner, Jane Lawless.

  Bram arrived a few minutes later, eager to talk. Over a bottle of California Merlot, Sophie recounted what the lieutenant had explained to her. Lavinia’s death had been ruled a murder. The cause of death, poisoning.

  “What kind of poison?’ asked Bram, leaning into the table.

  “They haven’t done an autopsy yet, but they’ve analyzed that small cheese ball nugget we found on the floor.”

  “And?’

  “The cream cheese had small bits of oleander flower in it.”

  “So?”

  “It’s highly toxic,” said Sophie, staring down into her glass. “Death was immediate.”

  They both sat silently for a few minutes, digesting the information.

  Finally, Bram asked, “Where would the murderer get oleander flowers?’

  She shrugged. “Any garden store. Or —” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “Or what?”

  “Well, the Maxfield’s garden — the one between the two towers — has several pots.”

  “You think the murderer used some of that?”

  “I hope not. I’d hate to think the Maxfield provided the murderer with the murder weapon. You know,” she said, swirling the wine around in her glass, “it’s surprising how many ordinary plants are poisonous. Lily of the valley. Rhododendrons. Even azaleas.”

  “When did you become such a font of gardening trivia?”

  “Right after Rudy was born. I never wanted any of them in the house.”

  “You amaze me sometimes, Sophie. You really do.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “But let’s get back to the police report. Do they know when she died?”

  Sophie checked her notes. “The medical examiner estimated the time of death at somewhere between eleven P.M. Saturday evening and four in the morning on Sunday.”

  “She died in her hotel room?”

  “That’s what they think.”

  “And do they have a suspect?”

  “Well, not exactly. They’ve talked to Peter twice. Once yesterday afternoon, and once again this morning.”

  “That sounds kind of ominous. What’s his story?”

  She squeezed her husband’s hand and then pulled away. “According to what the detective told me, he wasn’t at his parents’ house last night, but maintains he has an airtight alibi.”

  “From eleven until four in the morning? What the hell was he doing?”

  “That’s just it. He won’t say. If push comes to shove, he told the police he could produce a witness who would place him well away from the scene of the crime during those five hours. But for now, that’s all he’ll say.”

  “You know,” said Bram, his gaze wandering to a distant dock where a lone woman stood feeding the ducks, “in a case like this, the police usually look at the husband pretty hard.”

  “But why would he want to hurt Lavinia? He loved her, or at least he said he did. They both seemed genuinely happy.”

  “Don’t be so naive, Soph. It could always be an act. Lavinia was a rich woman. He no doubt stands to inherit a sizable estate.”

  Sophie didn’t believe it was an act, not that she was a perfect judge of character. Nevertheless, she prided herself on having a pretty good sense of people. “You really think he could do something that hideous just for money?”

  “Don’t give me that scrutinizing stare,” said Bram, straightening his tie. “I didn’t say he was guilty, I’m just examining potential motivations.”

  Sophie sat back as the waiter arrived with a basket of freshly baked bread. After handing each of them a menu, he moved on to the next table. Lowering her voice, she continued, “All right. I admit I could be wrong. But I think we should consider other motivations as well.”

  “For instance?” he said, placing the menu squarely in front of him.

  “The room was searched, right? Someone was looking for something?”

  “A fair assumption.”

  “Remember the diary I told you about last night?”

  “The one Lavinia thought pointed to Ginger’s murderer? If she was murdered,” he added impatiently, “which is only speculation. Besides, that was a long time ago. What possible bearing could it have on today?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sophie, angry at herself for not having an answer. She took several sips of wine, looking glum.

  “I think we have to stick with motivations in the here and now.”

  “You mean Peter.”

  “Yes, for one.”

  “Who else?”

  “Well, what about Bunny? She was certainly upset with Lavinia for making that videotape. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe I saw steam coming out of her ears on Saturday morning. She could have strangled Lavinia right then and there.”

  “Strangled, maybe. But murdered, I just don’t buy it.”

  “Look,” said Bram, folding his hands calmly over the menu, “from what you’ve told me, Bunny’s never received the attention or acclaim she deserved — the kind Lavinia always drew to herself. And yet wasn’t Bunny the brains behind the Daughters of Sisyphus Society? Maybe her jealousy finally got the better of her. In a moment of rage she —”

  “Whipped up a batch of cheese ball nuggets using just the right amount of poisonous flowers? It wasn’t a moment of passion, Bram, it was premeditated murder. It’s also exactly die kind of weapon someone would use if he or she didn’t have a gun, or wasn’t brutal enough to use a knife or a baseball bat.”

  “You have been thinking about this, haven’t you?” he said, eyeing her uncertainly.

  “Of course I have! Virtually everyone who might be implicated in this mess is someone I know. I may be way off base, but I think if we find that diary, we’ll have a much clearer picture of who murdered both Ginger and Lavinia.”

  “You think it was the same person?”

  “It’s possible. Or at the very least, I think we’ll find a connection.”

  “But,” said Bram, pouring them each more wine, “the diary’s been found. Whoever ransacked Lavinia’s suite took it.”

  “Maybe,” she said, a note of depression creeping into her voice. “On the other hand, maybe Lavinia outsmarted them. She hid it somewhere terribly clever and it’s still around.”

  “Kind of a long shot.”

  She shrugged.

  “And also, you’ve got to consider the fact that the diary might not have been what the murderer was looking for.”

  “I know that,” said Sophie, meeting his eyes. “But if I’m wrong, all I’ll be wasting is my time.”

  “I see. I assume that means you’re planning to look for it.”

  She nodded.

  “Am I going to be conscripted into this special forces team, too?”

  She gazed at him languidly over the rim of her glass. “Kindly refrain from using your tasteless radio sarcasm on me, dear. The answer to your question is yes, I expect some help — if I need it, which I probably won’t.”

  “Famous last words. You know, Soph, you can’t go off half-cocked and get involved in an official murder investigation.”

  “I’m not getting involved,” she said indignantly. “I’m just doing a little quiet checking around. I’ve done it before.”

  He shook his head.

  “Look,” said Sophie. “I told that detective all about Ginger and the diary. I’m sure they’ll haul Bunny, Cindy, and Adelle in and talk to them. Who knows? Maybe it will take some of the heat off Peter. I hope it does.”

  “If he’s innocent.”

  “Exactly. All I’m saying is that I want to look around the hotel for the diary. I’m not going to do anything dangerous.”

  He folded his arms over his chest. “But think about this. If one of your friends is a murderer, you could be in real danger.”

  “I’m aware of that. And I’ll be careful.”

  He didn’t seem convinced, but moved quickly on to his next worry. “What about this Morton character?”

  Sophie’d been thinking about him ever since he’d frightened the wits out of her last night. “I don’t know. I’m sure the police will want to talk to him again. But you know, I can’t help but wonder about the money he had with him. Do you think he might have been in that parking ramp to get paid off? He didn’t win the lottery, that’s for sure.”

  “You mean someone hired him?”

  “Possibly.”

  Bram’s eyebrow arched upward. “To murder Lavinia?”

  She gave a guarded nod.

  “Listen, Sophie,” he said, sitting up straight, “no more walking around in darkened parking ramps, okay? From now on I want you to have one of the bellmen get your car for you.”

  She’d already reached the same conclusion. “I promise. Believe me, I don’t want to run into Morton any more than you want me to.”

  The waiter arrived to take their order.

  “I’ll have the grilled fresh tuna,” said Bram, handing him the menu.

  “And I’d like the black-bean cakes,” said Sophie, handing hers over as well. She didn’t feel much like eating, although sitting here with Bram, sharing a bottle of good wine, she did seem less anxious — even a little hopeful. After dinner they’d walk around the lake, maybe even take a stroll in the rose garden.

  As the waiter returned to the kitchen with their orders, Bram sat back, shook his head, and sighed. “Why do I feel like we’re the condemned couple about to eat a hearty meal?”

  “Don’t worry, darling. The health department consistently gives the Lyme House an A-plus rating.”

  “You’re missing my point, darling.”

  “No I’m not,” she said, patting his hand and smiling. “I’m just choosing to ignore it.”

  24

  On Tuesday morning, after a less than restful night’s sleep, Sophie drove over to the Maxfield Plaza to begin her search. Even though she had no idea where to look for the diary, she started with the assumption that the police had covered the suite with a fine-tooth comb. Consequently, she dispensed with that.