“Yuck, but I hate spiderwebs,” said Cordelia, pushing the poster only a few feet before she shuddered and backed away.

  “What’s that?” asked Jane. She’d expected the wall—and the bullet holes—to continue. Instead, the lath and plaster stopped, replaced by a bricked-up section that looked far newer.

  “Strange,” said Cordelia, hands rising to her hips. “Why would someone cut a hole in the wall and then brick it up?”

  From behind them, a soft voice asked, “Can I help you, ladies?”

  Jane turned to find a red-haired man in a dapper Harris tweed suit, white shirt, and yellow silk tie standing in the doorway. The look on his face was friendly, open, even curious.

  “Oh, Ms. Thorn,” he said, breaking into a grin, revealing a gap in his front teeth. “Didn’t recognize you.”

  Cordelia’s hand shot to her chest. “Heavens. You scared me. What are you doing here?” she asked, wiping the sticky cobwebs off the front of her navy-blue wool blazer. “I thought you weren’t coming in until next week.”

  Moving farther into the room, the man stuck out his hand to Jane. “Phil Clemens,” he said. “My friends call me Red.” He pointed to his hair.

  “Jane Lawless.”

  “Red’s signed on to be our senior maintenance manager,” said Cordelia.

  “Janitor,” he said with a wink. “I’ve worked in this building, at one job or another, since I was a teenager. When I saw that the place had been bought and was being rehabbed, I came in and offered my services. Nobody knows this place better than I do. I was telling Ms. Thorn here that I’m the unauthorized great-great-grandson of Samuel Clemens.” He grinned again, looking from face to face to catch their reactions.

  “Unauthorized?” repeated Jane.

  “So what do we have here?” he asked, nodding toward the bricked-up wall. “That’s an odd one. Don’t remember seeing it before. Guess maybe that poster was hiding it.”

  “Why don’t we take a closer look?” said Jane.

  “You want me to break through the wall?” asked Red.

  “Why not?”

  “Give me a sec.”

  After he’d left the room, Jane crooked her finger at Cordelia, drawing her in. “You think that guy’s got, you know, all his oars in the water?”

  “Oh, for sure. I had him checked out. He’s worked as a janitor for every theater group that’s been in this building since the beginning of recorded time. Received high marks from everyone.”

  “What about the unauthorized grandson thing?”

  Cordelia waved it away. “Everyone’s allowed a few eccentricities.” She returned her attention to the brick wall. “What do you think’s behind there?”

  “A dead body,” Jane deadpanned, folding her arms and wondering when she could— politely—take off.

  Red returned carrying a sledgehammer. “The right tool for the right job,” he announced, moving back behind the bar and motioning for Cordelia to step away. After taking off his suit coat and removing his wire-rimmed glasses, he took a couple steps back, planted his feet and then whacked at the bricks until the middle section crumbled inward. Peeking inside, waving the brick dust away from his face, he said, “Anybody got a flashlight?”

  Jane continued to sit at the bar as Cordelia edged in front of him, shining a beam into the darkness. “I’m not sure what I’m seeing. Looks like a heap of crumbled bricks and mortar on top of a ripped black plastic bag.”

  Red took a couple more whacks, filling the air with even more dust.

  Cordelia squinted back into the hole. “Is that—” She worked the light until her entire body froze. “Someone better call 911.”

  “Why?” asked Jane.

  “The police will want to see this.”

  “See what?”

  “A skull.”

  “A what?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, there’s a nice round hole smack in the center of the forehead. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the body count around this place appears to be rising.”

  * * *

  Up on the third floor, in the lobby outside the theater, Booker stood in front of the great arched window and looked down at the street, watching two uniformed police officers emerge from a squad car and enter the building under the marquee. His natural instinct when seeing a cop was to walk—swiftly—in the opposite direction. It was a habit from his youth, one that didn’t serve him particularly well as an adult.

  Because he’d stayed up most of the night reading his father’s so-called novel, he was tired. Thus the idea of doing anything quickly didn’t appeal. The book was so poorly written, so amateurish and overwrought, that if it hadn’t been for the periodic revelations, he would have tossed it in the wastebasket.

  Booker was aware that his sister wanted to discuss the book with him, though what he wanted, from the moment he’d stepped out of the shower until he’d jumped in his rental car, was to get away from Frenchman’s Bay. He needed a beer, or maybe a joint—something to undo himself a little. Without any real plan, he’d simply driven into town and ended up here. He’d been thinking that he should take a look at the theater before he met with her highness, the Empress Cordelia. Her shiplike physical size and persona had a way of dominating conversations. He wanted to form his own conclusions about the place before she could tell him what he was supposed to think.

  Booker had known Cordelia since he was a kid. As a teenager, he had thought she was weird, though in a generally good way, always flouncing around in outrageous costumes, the center of every summer party his parents had ever given. In his late teens, he’d come to respect her achievements, even found that he liked her. She was the one who’d suggested he check into Boston University. He’d been thinking about pursuing a degree in stage design and dithering about which college would best suit his needs. Cordelia explained that BU was where she’d worked on her graduate degree, that it had one of the best theater programs in the country, and that, as a bonus, he’d be living in one of the most culturally progressive cities in the nation. She knew how sick to death he was of Nashville.

  In the end, Booker had taken her advice. After receiving his BFA in theater studies, instead of entering the graduate program as his mother had wanted, he’d moved to New York and worked his way through every grunt position he could find, getting the hands-on theater experience he needed. During that time, he began to grow up.

  Turning at the sound of footsteps, Booker came face to face with a woman he hadn’t seen in fifteen years, not since she’d graduated from the arts high school in Nashville, the same one he’d attended. He’d known he might run into her at some point during his visit because it was her play that the Thorn sisters had chosen to produce for their initial offering. He wished he’d worn something other than a pair of frayed jeans, an untucked cotton shirt, and a navy-blue hoodie.

  Surprisingly, Erin O’Brian hadn’t changed all that much. She still had the same strawberry-blond hair, the same light spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The glasses had been replaced by contacts. Like him, she’d never run with the popular crowd, though she’d been pretty enough to be included. She’d been one of Chloe’s friends, two years older than him. While he rarely paid attention to the people his sister brought home, he had noticed Erin. In fact, even before he bumped into her at the house, he’d begun a quiet campaign of scoping her out at school.

  Booker understood that some might have found this behavior unacceptable, even obsessive, though he didn’t see it that way. Whatever the truth was, he had enough smarts to keep his feelings to himself. He saw no point in expressing himself only to get shot down by Erin—or be shuffled off to a therapist, his parents’ favorite child-rearing practice. Booker had never expected to see Erin again after high school, though memories of her had grooved themselves deeply into his brain.

  When she smiled at him now, approaching him somewhat hesitantly, he felt the same frisson of sexual tension he used to feel when spying her in the school lunchroom or eavesdropping on her and Chloe studying together down in the basement family room. The only time they’d ever had a real conversation was sitting in the bleachers one late spring afternoon, watching the school track team practice. It was a surprisingly intimate conversation right from the start, as if they didn’t need to make the usual smalltalk before they said what was on their minds. He couldn’t remember now what they’d talked about, just that she had a way with words and a way of approaching life that completely fascinated him. And she had dreams. Wild, fierce, risky dreams for her future. He’d been deeply affected by that. He gave himself extra points because he was as taken by her mind as he was by her looks. It made him feel better about himself for about fifteen minutes.

  “Do you remember me?” she asked, stepping up to the window but keeping her distance.

  “Erin O’Brian,” he said, returning her smile. “Of course I remember you.”

  She played with a button at the top of her sweater. “I hear you may help stage my play. Feels like a small world sometimes, doesn’t it?”

  “I haven’t taken the job yet.”

  “No? Because?”

  He shrugged, returned his attention to the park across the street. “I love New York. It’s my home. If I accept the position, I’d have to move here.”

  “The Twin Cities not cosmopolitan enough for you?”

  He didn’t want to tell her the real reason, the fact that moving to Minneapolis would put him closer to his parents for part of each year, something he absolutely did not want. “Just … a lot of things to weigh.” When he looked at her again, he saw that she was preoccupied, only half listening. “I’ve followed your career,” he said, marveling that she wasn’t a girl anymore. “I saw your first play when it was produced in Houston.”

  “Did you?” she said absently. “Did you like it?”

  “Very much. Saw your next play in Chicago. I thought that one was even better.”

  Her hand drifted to her stomach. “I wrote that right before I got married. It was a happy time for me. There’s a lightness in the play. I’ve never been able to capture that again.”

  Booker hadn’t heard she’d gotten married. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  Her mouth twisted. “Turns out, neither one of us was very lucky. We divorced last year.”

  “I’m sorry.” And he was. The thought that she’d been in pain, perhaps still was, upset him.

  “It’s the way the world works. I’ve found some small success as a playwright, while my personal life is pretty much a mess.”

  “Where are you living these days?”

  “Seattle. I like it there. Like the cloudy days. You ever been?”

  “Once. The clouds depressed the hell out of me.”

  She glanced over at him, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  “How long will you be in town?”

  Looking back out at the street, the smile faded. “I’m not sure. A few days. Maybe more.”

  “To meet with Cordelia.”

  “What? Oh, right. Yes, Cordelia.”

  He had the sense that he’d just been lied to. “Chloe’s here. I’m sure she’d love to see you. Why don’t you stop by the house?”

  “I should do that,” she said. “What about you?” Her tone sounded more polite than truly interested.

  “My father called a family powwow. We’re supposed to have dinner together tonight.”

  “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice trailing off. When he came out of his reverie, he saw that she was looking him full in the face. This time, she actually did seem concerned.

  “I always liked your parents,” she said. “Your dad was so sweet and funny. And your mom doted on you and Chloe.”

  Booker supposed it may have looked that way. Maybe it was partly true. Booker felt certain his parents cared about him, but also certain that they had never wanted him to bother them with anything too difficult. They’d already had their hands full with Chloe.

  “Listen,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I need to get out of here, but I was wondering. Would you like to have lunch? Maybe tomorrow? It would be great to catch up. Where are you staying?”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. “It would have to be a late lunch.”

  “Sure. Fine.”

  “I’m staying at the Heidelberg Country Club on King’s Bay. It’s—”

  “I know where it is. It’s about twenty minutes north of our summerhouse. But it’s a private club. How did you get a room?”

  “A friend booked it. What if we meet at the Rhineland Grill in the main Gasthaus?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Two?”

  “That sounds great.”

  This time her smile encompassed the whole of him. “You’ve changed.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  She laughed at his vehemence. It was a bright, beautiful sound.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, reluctantly backing away.

  8

  Shortly before five, Kit tipped the small bronze statue of a greyhound back and removed the hidden key. From the empty state of the rounded driveway in front of the house, she assumed she and Beverly were the first ones to arrive.

  “I thought Cordelia said there was a butler,” said Beverly, standing under the massive stone portico, banging impatiently on the front door with the brass door knocker.

  Even on her best days, she was a glass-half-empty kind of person. She also had one of the most loving hearts Kit had ever known. They’d been fast friends since second grade. “Cordelia called him her house man,” said Kit. “Here we go.” She unlocked the door.

  Inside, they found themselves in a gothic-inspired manor, complete with a broad open staircase that rose to a second-floor mezzanine and a churchlike series of stained-glass windows in the main hall to their right. They were met almost instantly by a small girl shuffling out of a back hallway. She had on oversized high heels, a white feather boa wound around her neck, and a clipboard propped against her hip.

  “Hi, Hattie,” said Kit, bending down and smiling. “I’m Kit Deere. Remember me? It’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen you. This is my friend, Beverly.”

  Hattie squinted up at them. “Will you take a survey?”

  Kit and Beverly exchanged amused glances.

  “Survey?” said Kit.

  Adjusting her boa, Hattie plunked down on a bench by the door. “Yeah. Just a few questions. Won’t take long.”

  “Well,” said Kit, looking around, feeling like she’d entered a time warp that had deposited her in the Middle Ages. “Sure. Why not?”

  Something about the interior of the mansion recalled scenes from the movie The Magnificent Ambersons for Kit, although this place was on a much grander scale. The house, no doubt an excessively expensive monstrosity, was dramatic, but gloomy.

  “Okay,” said Hattie, pulling a pencil out of her shirt pocket. “This first question is about bedtime. What time do you think an eight-year-old girl should have to go to bed?”

  “Oh, now that’s a hard one,” said Kit.

  Beverly sat down on the bench opposite the little girl, removing her athletic shoe and rubbing her foot. “Seven?”

  “Seven P.M.?” repeated Hattie, her small brow furrowing.

  “No,” said Kit. “I’d say nine. On a school night.”

  “What if it’s not a school night?” asked Hattie.

  “Then, oh, maybe nine fifteen.”

  Glaring up at her, clearly unhappy with the responses, Hattie said, “How much allowance do you think an eight-year-old girl should get per week?”

  “Fifty dollars,” snapped Beverly, looking absolutely serious.

  “Really? Fifty dollars?”

  “Not a penny less.”

  This time, Hattie’s eyes lit up. “Will you tell Auntie Cordelia that?”

  “Be happy to,” said Beverly. “If,” she added with a conspiratorial look, “you let me borrow your boa.”

  “Oh, for sure,” said Hattie, whipping it off her neck. She paused before she got up. “Do you really think seven is the right bedtime?”

  “Nah,” said Beverly. “I was just teasing you.”

  Hattie jumped up, ran across to Beverly and snuggled down next to her. “I like you.”

  “And I like you,” said Beverly. “You know, I used to take care of Kit’s two kids. Booker and Chloe. Have you met them?”

  “Nope.” She shoved the pencil behind her ear. “Do you like chickens?”

  “Chickens?”

  “I like the Orpington Red and the Plymouth Rock chickens best. Have you ever seen a white feathered Frizzle?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Curly feathers,” she said matter-of-factly, as if it was something everyone knew. “I want to raise chickens in our rose garden. Auntie Cordelia said it’s not legal for them to live in the city, but she’s wrong. I have a friend who has three chickens in her backyard. In a coop. Her dad built it. Her mom gathers eggs every morning. Wouldn’t that be the coolest?”

  “Well,” said Kit. “I guess. If you like eggs.”

  “Will you talk to my aunt, tell her she should let me have a chicken? Just one. We could work up to more. I’d take care of it, I promise. Take it for walks. It could even sleep with me when it gets cold out.”

  Beverly looked over at Kit. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’ve got a way big telescope,” Hattie continued, spreading her arms wide. “I’m not just interested in biology, you know. Auntie Cordelia keeps it in her office at the theater. If I’m there at night, we take it up on the roof. I know a whole bunch of the constellations. I’ve also got this great big book on Egypt. The pharaohs.” Squinting up at Kit, she added, “Have you ever seen the pyramids?”

  “I believe I have, but I’d love to look at your book.” She moved Beverly’s backpack off a softly padded small chair in the front hall and sat down.

  “Now?”

  “I’m waiting for someone, but until he gets here, sure.”

  “Hattie?” asked Beverly. “Can you tell me where I could find a bathroom?”