“Thanks.” Hale returned the wallet to his back pocket with a small feeling of triumph. Money could buy almost anything. Even answers from Ezmer Hawks.

  Fifteen minutes later, he spotted a mailbox along the side of the road. He pulled his Mercedes over and got out. The name on the box was Westman, but it had been scratched out. What was most important were the numbers 4712. This had to be the place. He grabbed his gun, stuck it in his belt, and headed down the snowy path to the house. From a distance, it didn’t look particularly inviting. It was hand-built and tiny, with shingles instead of wood siding. Huge icicles hung from the roof. As he got closer, he realized some of the windows were broken. And no one had shoveled any of the walks. The latch on the front door was rusted, coming off in his hand as he opened the door. Stepping into the dank front room, he saw the place was deserted. “Damn!” he exploded, realizing he’d been sent on a wild-goose chase. He kicked an old pot across the floor.

  If this was the address in the post office log and no other address existed, he was at a dead end. He felt in his pocket for the letter Kate had given him. Sure enough, it was a Soldiers Grove postmark. Hawks had to be here somewhere. Perhaps if he went back to town and spent a few minutes asking around, he might put an end to this little game of hide-and-seek. It was worth a try.

  Francie’s Cafe was located on Soldiers Grove’s main drag. On one side was a hardware store and on the other, the Soldiers Grove Washateria. Directly across the road was Dave’s Feed and Seed. As he entered the building, he noticed a familiar form sitting at the counter. The man’s face was partially obscured by a newspaper, but Hale recognized him at once. It was John Jacobi. The sight of the young man startled him into paralysis.

  After considering the situation a few moments, Hale decided to sit down next to him. Play it cool. He grabbed a menu and began looking it over.

  John read for a few more minutes and then lowered the paper, his hand finding his coffee cup. As he did so, he noticed Hale sitting right next to him. “Mr. Micklenberg!”

  “Small world, isn’t it?” Perhaps young Mr. Jacobi was the answer he’d been looking for. If he was, it explained a lot. “What are you doing here?”

  John seemed momentarily at a loss. “My … aunt lives in town. I come up fairly often.”

  “Quite the family man.”

  John seemed confused. “She collects bones and feathers for me — objects she finds in the woods. They’re my models. I need them for my work. I come up here every now and then to collect them — and to have a piece of her pie.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s your only reason for coming to this thriving metropolis?” Hale noticed the waitress give him a nasty look. He glared at her until she turned away.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I think you know.”

  John put the paper down. “Look, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No?”

  “No. And what I do with my time is my business.” He held Hale’s eyes.

  Hale could sense the threat. He knew he’d hit pay dirt. “I got your message this morning.”

  “What message?”

  “The one about childhood memories.” He watched him for a reaction, daring him to come clean. After a few silent seconds, he decided that the young man was a pretty fair actor. But not good enough. “Now I’ve got a message for you.” He leaned very close. “I want you to back off. I don’t know what your game is, but I’m onto you. Stay away from me. No more phone calls. No more cute little camp drawings. You got that?”

  John leaned away. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Maybe.” He glanced briefly at a man eating a bowl of soup at the far end of the counter. “You’d be about the right age.”

  “For what?”

  “But you’re not him. I know that much. I’d recognize him anywhere — even twenty years later.”

  “Mr. Micklenberg, don’t take this wrong, but you’re … babbling.”

  Hale gave an angry snort. “What were you? Friends?”

  John blinked.

  “You can’t know anything. I don’t even know why I’m bothering to talk to you.”

  “That’s a good point. Maybe you should just order some chili and mind your own business.”

  “You must be independently wealthy to be able to take time off anytime you please and drive up here.”

  “I have a job.”

  “Really? Doing what?”

  “I work for the Bergdorf Brewery in St. Paul.”

  Hale stifled a laugh. “The working man’s artist. God, it takes me back to the Sixties. And you know what, kid? It still nauseates me.”

  “It’s an honest day’s work. You’d be surprised. There’s an art to making a good beer. Like other things.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Whatever you want it to mean.”

  “Don’t toy with me.”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” A small grin appeared.

  “I can play rough. I’ve got enough money and power to destroy you a hundred times over, so don’t push me. Right now I’ve had about all I can take.”

  “Is there something wrong?” asked a tall, heavy-set woman who’d just stepped out of the back. An immaculately white apron covered a floral print dress.

  Hale raised an eyebrow, wondering if this was Francie, the owner of the restaurant. “No, nothing’s wrong.”

  “Johnny, what’s going on? Who is this guy?”

  John pushed his coffee away. “Aunt Francie, I’d like you to meet Hale Micklenberg. He was just leaving.” Another grin.

  Francie took the menu from Hale’s hand and slipped it under her arm. “Good. I think we just ran out of everything.”

  Hale stiffened. “Well, so much for small town hospitality.”

  “Yeah, you can’t count on anything these days.” She leaned a heavy arm on the counter and waited.

  Hale’s frown deepened. He turned one last time to John. “Just remember what I said.” After looking at the long row of homemade pies behind the counter and hearing his stomach growl, he stood and straightened his coat. It was nearly four P.M. Even though he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, he’d be damned if he’d buy a piece of that woman’s pie. It was probably poison.

  “I suggest,” said John, folding the newspaper with great care, “that you go home and call your therapist. You seem pretty uptight. Sometimes it’s best to talk things out — get whatever’s bothering you off your chest.”

  Hale could feel his blood pressure rising. He had to leave before he did something stupid. And anyway, if it became necessary to take care of John Jacobi, he didn’t want any witnesses. “I’m glad we had this conversation. It was clarifying.”

  John nodded, glancing at his aunt out of the corner of his eye. “It was.”

  Was that amusement in the young man’s face?

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Micklenberg .” Francie smiled, nodding to the door. “Have a safe drive home.”

  17

  The following Thursday evening, the phone in the Micklenberg home began to ring. Ivy, who was sitting in the living room watching the snow accumulate on the fir trees in the front yard, jumped at the sound. She wondered, as she dashed into the kitchen to pick it up, just who it might be. “Hello,” she said into die receiver.

  For a moment the line was silent. Then: “Ivy? Is that you?” The voice was hoarse, barely audible.

  “Louie!” She knew instantly something was wrong. “What is it?”

  “It’s Sarah.” His voice broke. “She … died this morning.”

  Ivy could hear him crying. Her own heart sank inside her. Very softly, she said, “I’m so terribly sorry. Louie … are you all right?”

  “Yes.” He sniffed.

  “Where are you?”

  “At home. It happened just before five A.M. I was with her.”

  “That’s good. I know that’s what you both wanted.”

  Another sniff. “I’ve spent most of the day arranging the funeral.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that alone. Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

  “I … couldn’t.”

  “I’m coming over to get you.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t stand the thought of you rattling around that old house, all by yourself. I want you to stay here for a few days. Until you feel stronger.”

  “I couldn’t bother you like that.”

  “Louie, get real! It’s no bother. In case you’ve forgotten, we have six bedrooms. I think we can spare the space.”

  “But your party. It’s tomorrow night. You must be going crazy trying to get everything done.”

  “Have you ever heard of caterers and cleaning services? I hire the very best.”

  “But what about Hale?”

  “What about him? He flew to Chicago yesterday for a meeting. I’m not even sure when he’ll be back.”

  “I … don’t know.”

  She could hear the hesitation. She also knew he wanted to come. “Well, I do. Pack a small case and I’ll be over to pick you up in half an hour.”

  “Ivy … I …” Again, he sniffed. “Thanks.”

  An hour later, Louie was seated behind the Micklenberg kitchen table watching Ivy make an omelette. “I don’t know why I merit this kind of attention.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  He smiled. It was the first time all day he’d allowed himself to relax. “She’s going to be buried at Lakewood. It’s what she wanted. The funeral is next Monday.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help with the arrangements?”

  He shook his head. “Sarah’s sister is inviting everyone over to her house after the service. She’s taking care of all that.”

  “Good.” Ivy placed the omelette on the plate with two pieces of toast. Turning off the gas, she crossed to the table and set the food in front of him. “Now. Eat.”

  “I don’t know if I can.” He put his hand on his stomach.

  She eyed him cautiously. “You know what you need? A stiff shot of brandy.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Well, I think today is an exception.” She left the room and returned a moment later carrying a bottle of Armagnac. “This is Hale’s favorite. I’m sure it’s good.” She got down a glass from the cupboard and poured several inches. “Come on now,” she said, handing it to him, “bottoms up.”

  He stared at it suspiciously. Finally, closing his eyes, he took a gulp. “Agh,” he said, making a sour face. “How do people stand this?”

  “Just wait.” She gave him a patient smile. “One more time.”

  “Really?”

  “Trust me.”

  He lifted the glass and took another sip. “Well, that was a little better — I guess.” He began to feel a pleasant, warm sensation in the pit of his stomach. “I will say, the food does smell awfully good.”

  She sat down across from him, resting her chin on her hands. “You’re going to be all right, you know.”

  He nodded, taking another swallow. “It’s hard to admit this, but —”

  “But what?”

  “Well.” He closed his eyes. “I’m … glad she’s gone.” There. He’d finally said it. “She was suffering so terribly these last few years. And I —”

  “And you’ve been a saint.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “No? You never stopped loving her — or taking care of her. The personal cost to you had to be immense. Of course you’d feel relief. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t.”

  Louie couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She actually understood. He covered his eyes with one hand and started to cry. “I’ve felt so guilty these last few months. I just wanted it to be over.”

  She reached for his hand. “You were a wonderful husband. Don’t ever forget that. Nobody should have to live forever in a situation that makes them miserable.”

  He wiped away the tears. “No?” He took another sip of his drink, realizing he was beginning to feel unnaturally loose, his normal reticence dropping away. “What about you and Hale?”

  She withdrew her hand. “What about us?”

  “You aren’t happy. I know about you and Max. Why don’t you just divorce the bastard and get on with your life?” He couldn’t believe he’d said it, though he knew she’d been unhappy for years.

  She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why not?” He poured himself more brandy.

  “You remember that prenuptial agreement we signed?”

  “The one your father insisted on? Sure, I helped draw it up.”

  “Well, when we were first married, I was the one with the money. I had the trust fund. I own this house. I put him through school. I supported us for years while he looked around for the right job. But now, as they say, the shoe is on the other foot. His art investment company earns millions each year. If I divorce him, we both walk away with only what we brought into the marriage. That means I get the house and the trust fund — which, by the way, is almost gone — and he keeps IAI. Get the point?”

  As a tax attorney, Louie could hardly miss it. “But you’re not happy! Doesn’t that outweigh everything else?”

  “God, you’re more naive than I thought.”

  That stung.

  “I want it all, Louie. Max and the money.”

  “But, how? I don’t see —”

  “Eat your omelette before it gets cold.”

  He looked down at the plate. “Right.” He took a bite, then another sip of brandy. As his eyes strayed to the window, he noticed Hale’s car pull into the drive. “I think we’re about to have company.”

  Ivy stood and walked to the door. “Damn. I was hoping his plane would crash.”

  “Don’t say such things!”

  “Why not? It’s the truth. You know Louie, you suffer acutely from being born a Norwegian Lutheran. It’s Minnesota’s most common birth defect. You’re too nice.”

  For some reason, her comment struck him as hilarious. He burst out laughing.

  Hale puffed into the kitchen carrying a suitcase. “What’s going on? What’s so funny?” His eyes fell to the bottle of Armagnac.

  “My wife just died,” said Louie, wiping a hand across his mouth.

  Hale glared. “Really? And I suppose mass starvation sends you into giggling fits.”

  Louie steadied himself on the table, trying to regain his composure. “No,” he said softly.

  “I’ve invited him to spend a few days with us,” announced Ivy. ‘This is a hard time. He shouldn’t be alone.”

  Hale grunted, dropping the suitcase next to the refrigerator and removing his coat. “Listen, Louie. Be a good boy and disappear for a few minutes. Ivy and I have something we need to talk about.”

  “We do?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Of course,” said Louie. He scrambled to his feet.

  “Why don’t you take the bottle with you. It will help ease your … sadness.”

  Louie squared his shoulders, ignoring the sarcasm. “Don’t mind if I do.” He grabbed the brandy, realizing for the first time how light-headed he’d become. His body felt positively fluid as he glided into the living room. ‘Toot, toot,” he whispered, chugging around the coffee table. He stopped in front of an easy chair and dumped himself into it. Then, leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. So many emotions were pulsing through his brain, he couldn’t focus on just one. But the pain had definitely eased. The relief was so intense, he felt almost giddy. Remarkable that he’d never tried brandy before. Ivy was right. He was too much of a puritan. Well, things were going to change. He wasn’t sure just how, but the life he’d known for the last ten years was over.

  As he surveyed the room, he decided the first order of business was a little eavesdropping. He was curious about what Hale had to say to Ivy. Never before would he have even considered doing something so — so unethical. Well, what the hell! This was the new and improved Louie Sigerson. He crouched down and crept silently back to the kitchen. As he oozed to the carpet and peeked through a crack in the door, he could hear Ivy speaking:

  “They what?”

  “I said, the police picked me up as soon as my plane landed!” Hale cracked a knuckle.

  “They were actually waiting for you at the airport?”

  “You’re damn right they were. And they took me downtown for questioning. Me! Riding in the back of a squad car!”

  “What did they want?” Ivy leaned against the counter.

  “Don’t play dumb with me. You know exactly what they wanted.”

  “Look, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  “No? You don’t remember those shots fired at you the other night — or the Lasix that got into your pillbox? Seems the police think I’m trying to murder you. Your friend Max’s been talking to them. From what I could gather, he’s been pretty convincing.”

  Ivy stared at the half-eaten omelette. “What did you tell them?”

  “That I’m completely innocent! I demanded to have my lawyer present. Except, he was in court and couldn’t be reached.”

  “But they don’t have any proof.”

  He snorted. “Oh, that’s just a minor technicality. This is too delicious a story to simply let drop. Just picture it. ‘Wealthy art critic makes two vicious attempts on loving wife’s life. Details at ten.’ “

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you think? Find the best private detective in the business. Have him prove you’re setting me up.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  He gave her an evil sneer. “You presume I don’t know about you and Max? I’m not blind!”

  “But it’s not true! I had nothing to do with it. I was the victim!”

  “Cut the crap, Ivy. Maybe you’re even behind that Ezmer Hawks shit at Chappeldine.”

  “The what?”

  “Those cute little camp scenes? Reminiscences of Camp Bright Water. And that kid who calls us all the time, reciting his favorite poem? Nice touch, sweetie, but it won’t work.”

  “I had nothing to do with that! I got one of those calls, too, in case you don’t remember. The night of John Jacobi’s opening.”