“My old college buddy, David Kingston, is a pilot for Northwest Airlines. He’s got this great condo in downtown St. Paul, just a couple blocks from the Maxfield. Since he’s winging his way to Japan as we speak, and I happen to have a key, I can prepare the meal there.” He took out a pen and a piece of paper and wrote down the address. “Say, seven o’clock?”

  “What are you making?”

  His grin was pregnant with meaning. “That’s a surprise. Except — I suppose I should ask. Are there foods you don’t particularly like?”

  “Okra.”

  “Spoken like a true northerner. Okay, I’ll nix the okra bruschetta, the okra coi gamberetti, and the zuppa di okra.”

  “Yuck.”

  He smiled. “And I’ll see you at seven.”

  Journal Note

  Wednesday, 6:20 P.M.

  Just finished dinner. Before I resume my pacing, I thought I’d write a few lines.

  I messengered copies of the transcripted interviews to Bram Baldric at WTWN radio this afternoon. I didn’t include my journal notes — they ‘re nobody’s business but my own. He called me a little while ago and said he’d just gotten back from dinner and was going to sit down and read through the information now. It shouldn’t take him more than an hour or two. He’s supposed to go have a drink with some buddy of his around eight, but I still hope he’ll stop by my suite later. I’ve been cooped up in here all afternoon and I’m going a little stir-crazy. Rafferty seems to find endless enjoyment in TV wrestling and various shopping channels, but I’m too preoccupied by my own thoughts and worries to do anything other than wear a groove in my bedroom rug.

  Oh, I received a fax about an hour ago. I’ll copy it here so that it will go into my personal record.

  FAX TRANSMISSION

  DATE: May 12

  FROM: Timothy Suskind, Appleton, Wisconsin

  TO: Lela Dexter, Maxfield Plaza, St. Paul, Minnesota

  SUBJECT: research

  Page 1 of 1

  Lela: I confirmed today that Constance and Arthur Jadek were indeed born in Goshen, Wisconsin, Constance in 1936, Arthur in 1932. Their parents are now deceased. The father, Leo, was the town librarian. The mother, Harriet, was a housewife. Leo apparently had a reputation for being a helpful, exceptionally kind, well-loved man. That conflicts with Constance’s comments about her family life, I believe, but then families can look very different from the outside. The Jadeks moved when Constance was five. It may be just a coincidence, but it was the same year the U.S. entered WWII. I haven’t determined yet if that was the reason for the move or where the move took them. I’ll keep working on it.

  Best wishes,

  Tim

  I haven’t heard anything more from Kenneth Merlin, although I ‘m sure he’ll be dropping by again soon to find out whether or not I’ve decided to accept his bribe. Also, I haven’t received any more anonymous written threats. If this wasn’t such a serious and potentially dangerous situation, a girl could get to feel unloved.

  Ingrid Nelson, the field researcher I assigned to dig up the medical files on Pepper Buckridge s death, called me today and said that the file we need can only be accessed by a relative. Pepper died at Hennepin County General, now Hennepin County Medical Center. Those records have been transferred to microfilm. If Pluto is a relative, as I suspect he may be, he’s our only hope of getting them released. When IE-mailed him this afternoon with the interview of Phillip Rapson, I also let him know the situation. The ball is in his court. Time will tell whether or not I get a chance to look at the records. It still may not prove conclusively that Pepper was poisoned by ingesting antifreeze, as I now suspect, but it should point us in that direction.

  More later.

  19

  Bram leaned against the doorjamb, smiling at Rafferty. “Evening.”

  “Evening,” he grunted. “I’d like to see Marie.”

  “Who is it?” a voice called from inside. “Baldric,” replied Bram, still smiling at the bodyguard. “Eventful day?”

  “Boring,” he muttered, chewing on a toothpick. “Just the way I like it.”

  Marie bustled into the living room, tugging on a sweater. “God, I was hoping you’d stop by.”

  As Rafferty moved out of the way, Bram stepped inside. “We need to talk.” He’d read through all the interviews she’d sent him, and he had to agree with her assessment. Something did smell rotten in the Buckridge family history.

  “Fine. But let’s go out. Anywhere other than the hotel. I’ve been trapped in here too long.”

  Bram glanced at Rafferty. “Will you be joining us?”

  The bodyguard picked up his suit coat and grabbed his keys. “I’ll go get the car. I’m parked on the street a couple blocks away, so it may take a few minutes.”

  “We’ll meet you at the front entrance,” said Marie.

  “Not a good idea. There’s an alley behind the building. It’s right next to —”

  “I know where it is,” said Bram, saving Rafferty the explanation. “We’ll meet you there. Ten minutes.”

  “Take the service elevator down and leave by the rear door.”

  “Is all this absolutely necessary?” asked Marie, apparently irritated by Rafferty’s rules.

  “Yes.” He said the word forcefully, then slipped on his coat, buttoning it so that the shoulder holster was no longer visible. “Ten minutes,” he repeated as he left.

  Once they were alone, Bram watched Marie light a cigarette. She seemed unusually tense as she walked over to the wet bar to find an ashtray. At least tonight he had no trouble understanding why. “Let’s head over to the St. Paul Hotel. It’s not far and they’ve got a decent bar. I think we could all use a drink.”

  A faint smile crossed her lips. “Rafferty orders root beer when he’s on duty. It’s his favorite nonalcoholic beverage.”

  Bram could have lived the rest of his life a happy man without knowing that fascinating tidbit. He assumed she was trying to dissipate her uneasiness with a stab, albeit lame, at normal conversation.

  “Before we go,” said Marie, finding her purse and making sure her billfold and key were inside, “just tell me what you think, in a nutshell. Am I crazy? Am I seeing a potential scandal where none exists? You read the interviews. You saw what Pluto said about Constance. He thinks she’s a vile woman. He couldn’t cite chapter and verse, but he promised me a story, a powerful one. He’s got to be a member of Constance’s inner circle. Possibly even a family member.”

  Bram nodded. “Judas, perhaps? Selling his master for thirty pieces of silver?”

  “Or for something less tangible but far more compelling.”

  “Such as?”

  “Maybe he wants to know the exact sort of monster his mother really is.” She was smoking in quick jabs now, moving about the room restlessly.

  “So you think Pluto is one of Constance’s children?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Who?”

  “Emily or Paul.”

  “Not Nathan? From what I read, I think he may prove to be every bit as dangerous as Constance.”

  She stopped for a moment, then turned and studied his face through the smoke from her cigarette. “Tell me the truth. Do you think your judgment is affected because you know he’s your wife’s old boyfriend and he’s still interested in her?”

  He was indignant. “Who told you that?”

  She grimaced. “Nobody needed to tell me. I’ve got eyes, Baldric. And I know how to use them. If it comes as a news flash to you, I’m sorry.”

  Feeling uncomfortable with the sudden turn in the conversation, Bram checked his watch. “Come on. We’d better get downstairs.”

  Marie crushed out her cigarette, then followed him to the door. They rode down to the main floor in silence, mainly due to the presence of a waiter returning dirty trays to the kitchen. Once they were finally out on St. Peter, Bram looked around but couldn’t see anyone waiting for them. “What kind of car does Rafferty drive?”

  “A Buick Park Avenue. Green.”

  “Do you know where he parked it?”

  “It’s just up the street a little ways. He said it wasn’t smart to use the hotel lot.”

  Bram didn’t feel like waiting. Ever since she’d made the comment about Sophie and Nathan, he’d felt itchy — like he needed to run, lift weights, jump rope, put on a pair of boxing gloves and slam his fists into a heavy bag, anything to drive the unwanted feelings out of his chest. Sitting in a bar sipping a pleasant martini with the lovely and intriguing Marie Damontraville might have appealed to him a few minutes ago, but it didn’t now. He was angry and he wasn’t sure he could keep from taking his anger out on her. “Do you feel like walking?”

  “I thought we were supposed to wait.”

  “Let’s live dangerously.” He grabbed her hand and they started off.

  “I suppose Rafferty could have stopped to buy himself some candy. He eats more garbage than any man I’ve ever known.”

  “Probably gives him energy.”

  She struggled to keep up. “Do you always walk like such a maniac?”

  “Always.”

  She puffed along beside him. “You know, Baldric, your mood could use a little readjustment. I didn’t say your wife was having an affair with Nathan Buckridge, just that —”

  “Let’s table that topic, okay?”

  Coming to the intersection of Fifth and Sibley, Marie looked to her left:There’s the car. It’s about halfway up the block.”

  They turned the corner.

  Before Bram knew what hit him, an explosion slammed him hard into a brick wall. He struck the back of his head and was momentarily disoriented, but the sounds of screaming and breaking glass quickly revived him. Pushing away from the wall, he saw that Rafferty’s car was on fire. Flames shot high into the air. People were running away from it, some calling for help, some just yelling. When he looked down, he saw that Marie had crumpled to the ground. She was clutching her arm, a look of horror on her face. “Are you okay?” he asked, dropping to his knees. Only then did he notice the blood oozing from between her fingers.

  An instant later the night sky began pelting them with chunks of debris. Bram ripped open his coat and dove down over her. He could feel her shaking beneath him. Or maybe he was doing the shaking. He couldn’t tell anymore.

  When the raining debris stopped, he shook his coat and sat up. In that short period, the quiet side street had turned into a madhouse. Cars were zooming by, leaving the scene as fast as they could. Curious onlookers were rushing in to view the carnage firsthand. People were leaning out of windows. Traffic on Sibley had ground to a halt.

  “How deep is the cut?”

  “It’s not too bad,” said Marie. “But it’s still bleeding.”

  “Hold your hand over it hard. Will you be all right here for a minute?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Up there.” He nodded to the burning car. Everything had happened so fast, the enormity of the situation was just starting to sink in. “I promise I’ll be right back.”

  She looked up at him with frightened eyes. “It was Rafferty. I know it was.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.” Scrambling to his feet, Bram took off through the crowd. Just before he reached a solid wall of gawkers, he slowed his pace. The burning car was throwing off so much heat that nobody could get very close. Not that it mattered. No one could have survived such an inferno.

  Bram dashed back to Marie. “Can you walk?” he asked, helping her up. “We have to get out of here.” He was afraid that whoever had planted the bomb might still be around.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not back to the Maxfield, that’s for damn sure.” He put his arm around her waist and led her across to Wacouta. They passed quickly through Mears Park. “How’s the bleeding now?”

  “Better, I think. I hit my head when I fell. I guess I’m kind of dizzy.”

  “Can you make it a couple more blocks?”

  “Of course I can. I’m not an invalid. I’m just a little shook up.”

  He had to give her credit. She had a lot of spunk.

  “Was it Rafferty’s car?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Spunk or not, he felt her sag against him.

  “It was meant for me. I’m die one they’re after. I should have been with him. I would have been, except for you.”

  “Don’t think about that now.”

  “How can I not think about it? I should be dead!” Her voice trembled and she began to shake. “What am I going to do?”

  Bram could sense the hysteria building inside her. She was stumbling, losing her balance. He had to do something.

  Stopping dead in his tracks, he turned and grabbed her by the shoulders. “You’re fine, Marie.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Yes, you are! Look at me!” He waited until her eyes finally settled on his. “Rafferty’s dead. We can’t change that. But we’re alive.”

  “What if someone’s following us?”

  He looked around. “Nobody’s following us.”

  “How do you know?”

  He looked her straight in the eyes. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” she replied tentatively.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you. We’re going to be fine. But you have to get a grip, help me out. I can’t carry you. You’ve got to walk. Can you do that?”

  Her eyes flew wildly in every direction.

  “Marie!” He squeezed her shoulders.

  “Yes,” she whispered finally. “I can walk.”

  “Good.” He held her tight as they moved slowly down the sidewalk, heading for the Ardmore Suites. In the distance, he could hear sirens blasting their way toward the river. The paramedics would find out soon enough that they weren’t needed, at least by the owner of the car. The police had a tough job ahead of them trying to figure out why a man in a Park Avenue had been the target of such a vicious attack. Bram might be able to point his old buddy, Al Lundquist, in the right direction, but for now his first priority had to be Marie. Once the fire burned itself out, only one body would be found. The bomb job had been botched. It seemed pretty obvious that Marie wasn’t safe as long as her whereabouts were known.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. She seemed more dazed than terrified now.

  “We’re checking into a hotel.”

  She looked up at him. “We?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Nobody’s going to be looking for a married couple.”

  They entered the lobby a few minutes later. Glancing at his watch, Bram saw that it was just after eleven. He helped Marie find a seat, then approached the front desk. The clerk looked amused when Bram said they had no luggage and he wanted to pay for the night in cash. In a matter of minutes he had two room keys and a promise from the bell captain that he’d bring up a bottle of Courvoisier, some disinfectant, and several gauze bandages on the double.

  Marie’s eyes were closed when he returned, and her face was pale. He’d never seen her look so vulnerable, and it touched something deep inside him. Leaning down, he whispered, “Your suite awaits.”

  She opened her eyes and nodded. “I think you just saved my life.”

  “Damsels in distress are my specialty.”

  She tried to smile, but the tension in her face made it look more like a grimace.

  Half an hour later Marie’s arm was bandaged and she was resting comfortably on the sofa. She’d showered and slipped into one of the white terry-cloth robes the hotel provided for its guests. She sat with her feet up on the coffee table, a glass of cognac — her second double — in her hand. The color had finally returned to her cheeks.

  Bram sat next to her, sipping his own drink. Marie seemed far more relaxed now, though he sensed that it was just a superficial calm, one undoubtedly brought on by the alcohol. He didn’t think she should be alone tonight, but he could hardly stay.

  “What am I going to do?” she asked, tipping her head back against a couch pillow. She rubbed one side of her face. “Do I run back to New York with my tail between my legs? Accept Constance Buckridge’s bribe? Or do I stay and press on?”

  He could tell by the way she’d phrased the questions that her mind was already made up. “Are you asking for my opinion?”

  “You’re the only one who knows the full story. If you were me, what would you do?”

  Bram didn’t hesitate. “A book is hardly worth your life, Marie. I’d cut my losses and leave. Life is far too fragile and too precious.” He didn’t add, but could have, that he’d never come as close to dying as he had tonight.

  “You mean, just admit that Constance whipped me?”

  “No. Admit that the stakes are too high. You want to live to fight another day.”

  “It’s a fight, all right,” she muttered, taking another swallow of cognac. “Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just quit this writing business. I’ve got plenty of money. I could do anything I wanted. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

  “What’s age got to do with it?”

  She darted her eyes toward him, then away. “You don’t really have a concept of what my life is like. It’s not your fault. How could you? You’ve got a wife. A stable job. All your todays are pretty much like your yesterdays.” She paused. “For me, it’s constant change and constant challenge. I’m never home for more than a few weeks at a time. I do a lot of traveling. Most of my writing is done on the road. It can be exciting at times, but it’s a lonely life, Bram. I’ve formed some friendships over the years, but by my old standards they all seem pretty shallow.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m not asking for your pity. But I would like you to understand. Let’s say I meet an attractive man, a man such as yourself. A one-night stand, or a short affair, is about all I’ve got to offer.”

  “I assume you get more than a few takers. With your looks, you probably have to beat guys off with a stick.”

  She finished her second double, then reached for the bottle on the end table and poured herself a third. “Sure, I won’t deny I’ve had my share of affairs. But what’s missing is the relationship part. The conversations, like we’re having now.” She sipped her drink in silence for a few moments. “I’m starting to realize that I envy that old idyllic scene, the vine-covered cottage with the picket fence outside. Ever since I turned my back on my family, left Savannah, and divested myself of all their wretched turmoil, I’ve prided myself on my independence. I left home and never looked back. I didn’t want any personal entanglements. I knew from firsthand experience that the price was too high and that a relationship with a man would only slow me down. I had places to go, a career to build. But something’s missing in my life, Bram. I’m finally willing to admit that it might be love. It’s kind of pathetic, really. I’m thirty-seven years old and I don’t have the faintest clue as to what it would feel like to be loved, truly loved, and to love someone in return. I want…” She looked away, raising a shaky hand to her forehead. “How do I make you understand?”