By a Spider's Thread: A Tess Monaghan Novel (7 page)

Tess paid for information all the time, so she was hardly surprised to be asked for money. She just hadn’t expected a man’s mother-in-law to pad his per diem costs.

“How much?”

“One hundred dollars.”

Tess counted five twenties out of her wallet.

“Per piece.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s one hundred dollars for every name or fact I give you. Cash.”

“I only have two hundred dollars on me.”

“Then you only get two things.”

“How much do you have to sell?”

“Ve’ll see. Vat vould you like first?”

“I’d like to know if Natalie has contacted you in any way since she left.”

“No.” The woman took a hundred dollars from Tess’s hand.

“Wait a minute. You didn’t tell me anything.”

“You asked a question, I answered. That’s one hundred. There’s an ATM on Reisterstown Road if you need more.”

A serious case of caveat emptor, Tess decided. She wasn’t going to pay for any more of these so-called leads until she had road-tested at least one of them.

“No, that’s okay. I’ll ask you just one more question. If it’s a bum tip, I won’t be back, and you’ll never get another hundred dollars from me, all right? And by the way, that doesn’t count as my question.”

The woman nodded. “You may ask one more thing.”

“Did Natalie have a friend, someone in whom she confided? If so, I’d like a name and number — a simple yes doesn’t count as the full answer.” She held her money above her head, well out of Mrs. Peters’s stubby reach.

“Natalie didn’t care for friends, especially girlfriends.”

Tess continued to hold the money above her head, and Vera Peters studied it the way Esskay the greyhound stared down an out-of-reach dog treat.

“But she had one, a girl from this neighborhood. They went to school together, vorked together before Natalie got married.”

“Worked together? Mark told me his wife never had a job.”

The woman smiled. She had gorgeous teeth for a smoker, big and white and probably fake. “
Him.
Between vat he doesn’t know and vat he won’t tell, you have your vork cut out for you.”

T
he numbers Vera Peters had for Lana Wishnia proved to be a cell phone and a work phone. Unfortunately, there was no landline listed with directory assistance. Tess was running into this new world order more and more, and it was frustrating, because crisscross directories were rendered virtually useless. Of course, Tess used two cell phones, one for outgoing, the other for incoming. This meant that others’ caller ID functions wouldn’t get her real number, just the outgoing phone. And she never answered that phone when it rang, simply took note of the number that showed up on
her
caller ID. It was all part of the communications arms race, an ongoing battle to safeguard her privacy while raiding others’.

She tried Lana’s cell but got voice mail, an electronic voice curtly instructing the caller to leave a message. Tess disconnected, then punched in the work number.

“Adrian’s,” trilled a woman’s velvety voice, with just a hint of supercilious challenge.

“Is Lana Wishnia there today?”

“She’s with a client. Are you a client?” The voice indicated Tess should be. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No — yes — I mean — does she have anything open today?”

“I’ll see if she has had a cancellation, although I doubt it.” The voice was cool with disapproval. The Velvet Frost, Tess thought. “Perhaps if you could come in at four.”

The voice made it clear that coming in at four was terribly gauche.

“Sure, I’ll take that.”

“And this would be for…”

“For, you know, that thing Lana does.” Tess assumed that a place called Adrian’s had to be a beauty salon or spa, although there was an outside risk that she was signing up for an MRI or a high colonic.

“We offer a full range of services at Adrian’s. But, given Lana’s schedule, you must choose.”

“Choose…” Tess had found that repeating a word when lost in a conversation sometimes prompted the other person to provide enough information for her to continue whatever deception she was working.

“Feet or hands, pedicure or manicure. But there won’t be time for any special treatments — massage or a wrap for your hands, reflexology. We cannot offer such accommodations at the last minute.”

“Hands. A simple manicure.”

“Very well. We will see you at four, Miss…”

“Theresa Weinstein,” Tess said, not sure why she was lying, even less sure why she had chosen her mother’s maiden name. But Adrian’s was probably somewhere in Pikesville, so the Weinstein name might thaw the frost.

“At four, Miss Weinstein. Have you been here before?”

“No, it was recommended by a friend. I’ll be coming from North Baltimore after a late lunch. What’s the best way to get there?”

“Take the Beltway around to the Reisterstown Road exit. We’re in the old Bibelot, the bookstore that folded.”

Lose a bookstore, gain a spa. No wonder Baltimore was no longer known as “The City That Reads.” But it did have great hair. Baltimore had even taken Broadway by storm with an entire musical devoted to the joys of teased coiffures.

Tess had said at least one true thing in her exchange with the Velvet Frost: She was due in North Baltimore for a late lunch. Such a journey, no more than eight or ten miles, should have been easy enough at midday. But perhaps Vera Peters had placed a gypsy curse on Tess, for she encountered an obstacle in every mile of her trip — a series of inexplicable traffic jams on the expressway, which she abandoned only to find herself caught in a tangle created by a road-construction project. She was blocked on her alternate route by a moving van, which didn’t see why it shouldn’t close two lanes of traffic to unload furniture, and finally by a beer truck, whose need to deliver four cases of Bud and Bud Lite was being treated like a presidential visit at the small corner deli.

And Tess would have been happy to offer these details as apologetic explanation to most dining companions, but the moment she saw Tyner Gray’s scowling face and heard him bark, “You’re late,” she just shrugged.

“Sorry. I was working. Got here as soon as I could.”

The restaurant Tyner had chosen was an oh-so-chic French bistro, Petit Louis, which had hit Baltimore’s foodies like a Gallic love affair. Even the
New York Times
had anointed its kitchen, but Tess liked it anyway, especially during rowing season, when she had the metabolism of a cheetah. Tyner preferred it for a different reason: By one-thirty, when the ladies-who-lunch crowd cleared out, Petit Louis was fairly amenable to a man in a wheelchair. No steps, no carpets, just smooth wood and tile floors.

“So,” Tess said, expecting Tyner to get down to business as he usually did.

“So?” he echoed, fiddling with the menu, picking it up and putting it down, as if he wasn’t sure what to order. Tess selected the smoked duck for an appetizer and the steak frites for lunch, and she put in for the crème caramel at the same time, lest the kitchen run out at this late hour.

“What she’s having,” Tyner told the waitress, as if he couldn’t be bothered to make a decision. The young woman seemed a little disappointed that she didn’t get to perform her full spiel of specials.

“I haven’t seen you at the boathouse much this fall,” Tess said, making conversation as Tyner fumbled with his flatware and napkin. An Olympic rower before the car accident that had left him paralyzed below the waist, Tyner was a harsh but effective coach. It was hard for rowers to complain about sore leg muscles to a man who couldn’t walk.

“I’m out on the water before you get there,” he said. “In fact, it seems to me I’ve seen you going out as late as six-thirty.”

“I’m self-employed. I’m not in college with eight
A.M.
classes. If I want to row at the disgracefully late hour of six-thirty, I’m entitled.”

Funny, Tess’s father seldom riled her this way. Patrick Monaghan was a quiet man, and although he had his frustrations with Tess, his aversion to conflict was stronger than his need to change his only child.

“It’s a matter of safety,” Tyner said. “A single-sculler such as yourself, with no coxswain to see what’s coming, is better off when the traffic is lightest.”

“You know, I don’t think you invited me to one of Baltimore’s nicest restaurants to talk about my rowing habits. You could just hang out at the boathouse and yell at me there. So what do you really want to discuss?”

If it wasn’t a job, maybe it was retirement. She was fuzzy on Tyner’s age, but reasonably sure he qualified for the senior-citizen discount at the dry cleaners. Tess wondered if he was going to ease someone new into his practice, a young lawyer who would take care of Tyner’s regulars while building up a new roster of clients. That would probably mean less work for Tess. More worrisome, it would mean no more cheap legal assistance, which Tyner swapped out hour for hour, despite the stark difference in their billing rates. Maybe she could just get arrested less often in the future.

Tyner cleared his throat, a noise as dry and scratchy as two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together, then placed a small velvet box on the table. It was an old one, judging by the greenish cast and worn spots. He popped the box open, displaying a band of silver — well, probably white gold or platinum — with a single diamond at its heart.

“My mother’s,” he said.

“You had a mother?” Inane, but Tess was not prepared for where this was heading.

“Of course I had a mother,” Tyner snapped, sounding like himself for the first time today. “Do you think I was suckled by a wolf? She gave this to me years ago, decades ago. I never thought I would have any use for it, but, well…I’m going to marry your Aunt Kitty.”

Tess was still too overwhelmed to make sense. “Does she know?”

“Of course she knows!” Tyner’s voice was so loud this time that even the blasé waitstaff of Petit Louis twitched in their crisp white shirts. “I asked her last weekend. For God’s sake, we’ve been living together for almost two years now.”

“I guess I thought you were asking my permission or something like that. Although I suppose you should really ask Dad, or one of his brothers, since Pop-Pop Monaghan is no longer around —”

“Your aunt is in her forties — she hardly needs permission from her brothers to marry. I just wanted to show you the ring and see if you think Kitty would ever wear anything like this. It’s awfully old-fashioned.”

“She likes old-fashioned things.” Tess balanced the box warily on her fingertips, as if it held a poisonous insect given to impulsive attacks. “She’d prefer this to a big old solitaire on a gold band or one of those encrusted things you see on some ladies.”

“It’s not…well, insulting, to present her a ring rather than give her the option of picking it out?”

“Not at all. It’s a romantic gesture. Or would have been if you had given it to her during the proposal instead of waiting for a second opinion, you doofus. Hey, how does a guy in a wheelchair propose? You can’t go down on one knee, so you do you go down on one elbow?”

“Don’t be tacky,” Tyner said, hugely pleased. He enjoyed Tess’s company because she was one of the few people who didn’t treat his wheelchair like a bad smell, something to be politely ignored under any and all circumstances. “There is one thing I do want to ask you, however.”

“Yes?”

“Given that Kitty’s and my combined ages top one hundred, we don’t want to get too silly, even though this is a first wedding for both of us.”

“Good plan. Vegas? Elkton?”

“So instead of having bridesmaids and best men and all that folderol, we want only one attendant — you.”

Tess, who had managed at this point in her life to avoid any and all manner of responsibility in the nuptial process, was not thrilled. Tyner, misunderstanding her silence, plowed ahead.

“I know you’re probably wondering why we didn’t ask you and Crow to do it as a couple.”

“No, that’s not it. That’s not it at all —”

“But the fact is, I’m not close to him, and he couldn’t very well be Kitty’s attendant. And you told Kitty the other day you’re not sure when he’s going to be back from Charlottesville, so he can’t really be involved in the planning, right?”

“Right.” Crow had moved home to care for his mother, who was undergoing chemo for breast cancer, and Tess didn’t know when he would be back.

“Besides, you’re the one who brought Kitty and me together.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Anyway, it will be simpler. How carried away can she get if there’s only one attendant?”

Tess began to see some advantages in the situation. “Okay, sure. Crow won’t mind, given that he’s been staying with his parents in Charlottesville. And if I’m standing up for the bride
and
the groom, I could wear, like, a really sharp Armani pantsuit, or at least a skirt-and-jacket thing, instead of some god-awful bridesmaid’s dress.”

“Well, actually, I’m not so sure about that.” Tyner was suddenly manifesting all the nervous confusion of a young groom. “Kitty seems to have…a lot of ideas. I mean, she keeps saying it’s just going to be a party where two people get married, but she’s been making a lot of phone calls and appointments. I think she even has a color scheme.”