“As a matter of fact, no. I’ve never been unfaithful to any of my wives.”

  “They were unfaithful to you?”

  “I’m not answering that. Could we, perhaps, get back to my reason for coming here tonight?”

  “To turn yourself in, to admit to murdering Jordan Deere.”

  “Correct.”

  Folding his arms, DePetro, who looked seriously unimpressed, said, “You see, I have some problems with that. First, I think you’re here to give yourself up in place of the actual guilty party.”

  “No. Absolutely not so.”

  “I think your story has so many holes in it that there’s no chance in hell it would hold up in court.”

  “You’re calling me a liar?”

  “And here’s another problem. We’ve come into possession of evidence connecting Mr. Deere’s murder with three others. We believe the same person committed them all. Would you like to confess to four homicides, Mr. Van Arnam? You’ll need to do that, and give me details, in order for me to believe you.”

  Archibald stared back at him.

  “You said in an earlier interview that you were working with Cordelia Thorn at her theater, doing research on the history of the building.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then you must have heard about the bodies found buried in the walls. Can you tell me about those victims? How you did it?”

  “Obviously, with a gun.”

  “And why?”

  “That’s my business. No comment.”

  “If you recently bought a gun to use on Jordan Deere, it couldn’t be the murder weapon.”

  “I’m the one who should know. I shot him with it.”

  “The same gun was used in all four murders.”

  “How could you possibly know something like that?”

  “It’s called ballistics.”

  “Whatever. You have to take this seriously. I did it. I confess to everything.”

  “Okay, Mr. Van Arnam. You did your bit. But I’ve got better things to do with my evening than indulge your personal superhero fantasy. I suggest you leave now, before I arrest you for misdemeanor theft—of my time.”

  32

  Booker turned over in bed the following morning and, for a moment, thought Erin had gone AWOL. Stuffing a pillow behind his back, he sat up and looked around. When he heard the water on in the shower, he smiled.

  He had to give it to his old man. He’d spared no expense, paying for a full suite on the top floor for as long as Erin cared to stay. The night they’d spent together was everything Booker had hoped it would be and so much more. In his youthful dreams, of necessity, Erin had been a cipher. Now she was flesh and blood, and the difference was astonishing.

  Relaxing under the blankets, he flipped on the TV to see what was happening out in the world. His intent was to remain apart from that world for as long as he could convince Erin to stay in bed. After finding a local news station, he picked up the room service menu and began flipping through the breakfast options. He’d pretty much decided on eggs benedict when he heard the news anchor say, “Breaking news on the Jordan Deere murder investigation. Let’s listen in.”

  Turning up the sound, Booker watched a distinguished looking older man in a beautifully tailored suit step up to a podium. He’d been introduced as Dr. Daniel Woodson.

  While dozens of cameras flashed, Dr. Woodson gazed out from the podium, giving the reporters time to take their shots.

  “What’s going on?” said Erin, coming out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a bath towel.

  “I don’t know,” said Booker, patting the bed next to him. “Some doctor’s about to reveal breaking news about my father’s murder investigation.”

  “Good morning,” said Woodson. He glanced around without smiling.

  “He’s nervous,” said Booker.

  “He’s very good-looking,” said Erin.

  “But too old for you. I’m exactly the right age.”

  Woodson gazed down at a page of notes. “This past Tuesday, I contacted the police in Minnetonka. Not only did I give them a personal statement, but I offered significant evidence I felt would be important in bringing Jordan Deere’s murderer to justice. I assumed this information would be released to the public right away. Since nothing seems to have come of my communication with Sergeant Neil DePetro, I decided to call a press conference to release the information myself.

  “What I’m about to say may cause bewilderment, heartache, and even anger for some. I want you all to know that I’m aware of the possible repercussions, as was Jordan. It was his wish, as well as my own, for this information to be made public.”

  “Oh, God,” said Booker, reaching for Erin’s hand. “Here it comes. The bomb is about to be dropped.”

  * * *

  Kit and Tommy sat in the family room, ignoring their coffee, riveted by the man on the TV screen. A friend of Kit’s, a woman who worked for KTWN-TV in the Twin Cities, had called her shortly after eight to give her a heads-up about the news conference. Kit had immediately called Tommy. Because there was no cable in the beach house, she’d invited him to the main house so they could watch together. Beverly refused to leave the basement, where she was riding the stationary bicycle and reading a novel. She said she intended to stay in, stay warm, and keep her head down. Booker was gone, nobody knew where. That left only Chloe, and when Kit had approached her door she found it closed, with a taped note that said DO NOT DISTURB.

  “Who is this Woodson guy?” asked Tommy. He looked a little more put together this morning. His clothes were clean and pressed, and he’d recently showered and shaved. She couldn’t be positive, but she suspected that being arrested for murder had a way of focusing the mind.

  “No idea,” said Kit.

  They fell silent as the man began his statement.

  “Jordan Deere was a gay man,” said Woodson, his voice firm and unapologetic. “He was my life partner. We’d been together for the past two years.”

  The press room erupted. More photos were snapped. People started yelling questions.

  “Please,” said Woodson, holding up his hands. “Let me finish.”

  “Did his wife know?” called one of the reporters.

  “What about his kids?” called another.

  Again, Woodson held up his hands for quiet. “Please,” he said, flashes continuing to burst. Only when the room had finally quieted down did he continue. “For the last year and a half, Jordan has been working on a piece of writing, part novel, part memoir.”

  “Oh no,” said Kit, feeling her heart begin to race. “That guy’s read it. What if he has a copy?”

  “I know that Jordan hoped it would be good enough to one day be published. I’m not a book critic, but I doubt that would have happened—unless he’d published it under his own name, which he refused to even consider. Still, I think the book should be read. I want to make it clear from the outset that the stories in this rather rough manuscript are fictional. Let me underscore that last word. They don’t represent the specifics of Jordan’s own life, and yet, in an important way, they do represent the emotional truth of what it was like to live as a gay man in the last half of the twentieth century while working in an industry that would never have let him get so much as the tip of his boot in the door if he’d been honest about his sexuality.”

  Again, the room exploded.

  “Please,” said Woodson. “I’m almost done. Just let me finish.”

  This time, the news room quieted more quickly.

  “I have nothing but respect for the people in Jordan’s life who have supported him and loved him. However,” he said, pausing to search the faces staring back at him, “I also believe that one of those intimates murdered him last Sunday morning. It wasn’t an accident, nor was it random. Someone who knew Jordan’s routines was waiting for him in the park and took his life. I want that person found and dropped into the deepest, darkest, lowest reaches of hell. Jordan was the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. He was good and honest and true. And yes, he also lived a complicated life. I believe, fundamentally, what gave him the most joy was singing for all of you. When he was onstage, Jordan Deere was most himself. Onstage, Jordan never had any doubts about what was right and who he was.”

  Taking a moment to regain his composure, Woodson began again. “I’ve brought along with me today twenty copies of Jordan’s manuscript. No one owns the rights except Jordan himself.”

  “We’ll see about that,” whispered Kit, outraged at the man’s audacity.

  “You’ll find the copies on a table at the back of the room. If you want to make more copies, feel free. Jordan wasn’t a trained writer, and yet, I think you’ll find that his words touch you deeply. He was about to come out to the world, tell everyone the truth about who he really was. Before he could do that, he was cut down. I believe that his desire to finally tell the truth about himself was the reason for his murder. Unfortunately, his words died with him. All we have left is his music, the memory of his beauty, and that manuscript. I, for one, want to see it read. Thank you. I won’t be taking any questions at this time.”

  “How noble,” said Tommy under his breath.

  Kit saw movement out of the corner of her eye. When she looked over at the door, she saw Chloe standing still as a rock, staring wide eyed at the TV.

  “Oh, honey,” said Kit, standing up to face her.

  “It will all come out now, won’t it,” she said, her voice oddly flat. “The girl in the book, me, everyone will know how utterly dysfunctional I am.”

  “Chloe, that was years ago. You’re not the same person.”

  “The shoplifting. The suicide attempts. The diagnosis. The mental hospital. Anorexia. Relapses. I don’t know what that man on TV thought he was saying, but Dad didn’t novelize me.” Turning her eyes on Kit, she screamed, “Did he.”

  “Honey—”

  “Stop calling me that. You’re useless, you know that. Totally and utterly useless.” She turned and bolted toward her bedroom.

  “Let me go after her,” said Tommy, pushing out of his chair. “Maybe she’ll listen to me.”

  “But what will you say?” asked Kit.

  “I have no freakin’ idea.”

  Kit let him go. There was a chance Chloe would talk to him, and no chance at all Chloe would talk to her. The same deep sense of guilt that would occasionally sneak up on her throughout her married life, the one that could easily overwhelm her with the feeling that she was a terrible mother, was about to swallow her once again. She could never seem to forget what her own mother had told her: “Children come first. Then comes Daddy. Mom comes last. That’s the way it should be, the way you will raise your own kids, not just because I’m telling you to, but because it’s the way you’ll want it to be. It’s a natural impulse. You’ll see, when you’re a mommy yourself.”

  But that hadn’t been the way Kit had lived her life. She often put herself, the needs of her career, her desire for romance and adventure, before the needs of her children and husband. Feminists would support her decisions, she used to tell herself. Her actions were grounded in the need for women to take some of their own power back. She saw friends, other women, allowing themselves a little selfishness. Men were given a pass when it came to work. Why shouldn’t she be given the same break? It wasn’t fair. And yet, no matter how hard she tried to turn off the tape inside her head, she couldn’t.

  If Kit had put her kids first, if she’d spent more time with Chloe and Booker, maybe they would have been happier children, become more balanced, more content with their lives. Jordan never seemed to second-guess himself. If he had things to do, places to go, he went. She never saw him agonizing over his role as a father. So why did she feel such guilt? Was she, in fact, a heartless monster, an utter failure as a mother, the reason her children were so screwed up? She fought against that conclusion, refused to believe it, and yet that little voice inside her head wouldn’t go away. Surely she had the right to take some time for herself. Surely Chloe’s problems weren’t all her fault. Surely, if a woman married and acquired a husband and children, she didn’t automatically, by her very nature, become an indentured servant. She had a solid political and philosophical basis for her decisions, and still … she feared those questions as much as she did the answers.

  33

  Jane wiped brick dust off her face as she returned to her office at the theater. She’d spent the last hour and a half going over the two crime scenes in the basement. Only one more to go. As she’d expected, the police had done a good job of sifting through what material there was, which meant she’d found nothing.

  Dropping down heavily on her desk chair, she popped the top on a cold Red Bull and took a long sip.

  “What’s that in your hair?” came Cordelia’s voice.

  Jane looked up to find her friend standing in the doorway.

  “Brick dust. I’m covered in it.”

  “Lovely.” Cordelia was wearing what looked like a 1950s prom gown—a frothy, strapless coral concoction with a full skirt and an attached netted wrap. “I spoke to Daniel Woodson. He’ll be here around three.”

  “I can’t believe you actually got hold of him.”

  “It is axiomatic that when people see the name Cordelia Thorn pop up on their cell phones, they take the call.”

  “If I haven’t mentioned this before, I’m glad you know everyone in town.”

  “Not everyone,” she replied, with fake modesty. “But almost.”

  “Lovely dress.”

  “Oh, do you like it?” She twirled into the room. “I was feeling exuberantly femme this morning. I love the fabric. Not so sure about the color. I think it makes my skin look a little green. And,” she added, lowering her voice, “as we all know, it’s not easy being green.”

  “Funny. Not to change the subject, but do you hear water running? It’s like someone turned on a faucet and forgot to turn it off.”

  “Ah, Gilbert and Hilda are playing tricks on you today. I’m usually their target of choice.”

  Jane refused to believe ghosts were the cause of the noise. “I think you may have a plumbing problem.”

  “I do, dearheart. It’s called Gilbert and Hilda King.”

  “Since you’re here, why don’t you sit for a minute. I have a question.”

  “And I likely have the answer.” She sat down on the folding chair facing Jane.

  “It’s about Avi.”

  “Of course it is. What is it this time?”

  “Are you suggesting that Avi constantly presents me with problems?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this one is a whopper.”

  “I shall brace myself.”

  “She wants to have a baby.”

  Cordelia shrieked, then hooted.

  Jane waited for more. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “I thought my response was quite eloquent.”

  “You think it’s a bad idea.”

  “Duh.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? How does she intend to support this child? Oh, I see. That’s your job.”

  “No, she thinks she’ll make good money as a writer. She’ll hire a nanny.”

  Another shriek. “Does that woman live on the same planet that we do? Okay. Let’s take this slowly, one question at a time. Are you on board with this? I mean, are you even considering signing on with Avi and child?”

  Jane shook her head. “But what worries me is that, whether or not I’m part of the equation, she’s still full steam ahead. She believes firmly that a child will fill a void in her life that nothing else can.”

  “I’m not going to argue how much the love of a child can bring to your life, but it’s not for the faint of heart, for heavy drinkers, or for starving artists—not if your primary goal is the happiness and safety of the kid. If you start out thinking that the kid is there to do something for you … you’re already ass backwards. Feel free to quote me.”

  “So give me some advice. If it were you, what would you say to her?”

  “One little phrase: ‘Good-bye and good luck.’” Looking as if she wasn’t completely sure that Jane was convinced, she added, “Listen to Auntie Cordelia. It is not your responsibility in life to make everyone happy.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? Earth to Jane? If you want to be nice, tell her it’s her dream, not yours, and you want no part of it. And then run. Fast. Now.” She rose regally from the chair. “I must attend to other matters. As a parting comment, let me just say this: Refuse to darken the door of any sperm bank and tell Avi to do the same.”

  Jane muttered to herself as she finished her Red Bull, nursing it, not really wanting to brave the third crime scene, but knowing she couldn’t leave loose ends. She also needed to get back to her office in time to clean herself up a little before Woodson arrived. Slinging a messenger bag over her shoulder, she took the elevator up to the third floor. As she came through the theater on her way backstage, she saw that the new curtain was about to be installed.

  Cordelia and Octavia had argued, of course, about the color. Octavia wanted a bright red-orange. Cordelia insisted on a wine red or, failing that, a rich royal blue. Since they were at an impasse, and Jane was the third person on the board—the tiebreaker—she chose the color she liked best, the blue. She was glad to see that it went so beautifully with the gilded ceiling, the chandeliers, and the lovely pastel colors on the plaster carvings around the stage.

  Pushing through a curtain, she ducked backstage and walked briskly to the dressing room along the rear wall. Once inside, she took out a flashlight and slipped sideways through the opening in the bookcase, making her way carefully down the wooden stairs to the murder room. Washing the flashlight beam over the interior, she saw that the trunk had been removed. She set her bag down, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and began her search. The walls came first. She felt ridiculously Sherlock Holmesian when she used a magnifying glass, but it remained a good tool, even if it was low tech.

  Once again, she understood that it was unlikely she’d find anything. After examining all four walls, she was about to get down on her hands and knees to inspect the floor when she heard the sound of footsteps. Backing up, she hit the wall as the beam of a flashlight hit her square in the eyes, blinding her.