The Cruel Ever After (27 page)

“Is he doing okay?”

“He sneezed last night. I think he may have sneezed again this morning when I was getting out of the shower. I’m worried about the mold on the boat.”

A sneeze. Right. Potentially deadly in anybody’s book. “Is Steve taking care of him today?” He didn’t really care; he was just making conversation.

“Absolutely not.”

“If Misty’s with you—”

“I left him back at the houseboat.”

“With a friend?”

“I don’t know anybody out there. No, he’ll be fine. I’m only going to be gone for a couple hours.”

“You left him
alone
? Irina, he’s only a few months old.”

“I spent half the night cleaning the master cabin. It’s the safest place for him right now. I couldn’t exactly leave him in the car. It’s going up to ninety today. And I refuse to bring him into this huge office building.”

Had he heard her right? Sure, he’d joked about her mental health when it came to her son, but now he was beginning to think she actually had gone over the edge.

“Misty’s calling me,” said Irina. “Time to meet with Zeller.”

“Come see me as soon as you can.”

“Maybe I’ll swing by after the meeting.”

“But what about Dusty?”

“It means a lot to me that you’re so concerned about him. If I’m gone an extra hour, it’s not a problem. He’s all strapped into his car seat. He’ll be fine.”

“Really, though—”

“I’ll see you soon.”

*   *   *

Inside Leonard Zeller’s office, Irina sat next to Misty, hands in her lap, acting patient even though she felt as if she had an engine revving inside her chest. Zeller was a fussy old man, which was why they were here. He insisted on meeting with them in person, probably intended to do a formal reading. It was the kind of folderol she didn’t need in her life, especially with everything else on her plate.

Misty tugged on her too-tight Diesel jeans. Since last night, she’d cut her hair even shorter, dyed it black, and painted her fingernails and toenails a matching black, no doubt in preparation for the big day. If she was trying to impress Zeller with her sense of style, she couldn’t have made worse choices. Zeller was old-school. A gentleman. White-haired, with round Harry Potter glasses, three-piece tweed suits, French cuffs peeking just the right amount from the sleeves of his jacket. Next to him, Misty looked crude, the Rolls-Royce of tacky.

Zeller studied the papers in front of him. When his intercom buzzed, he picked up the phone. “Thank you, Janet. Yes, please send him in.”

Irina turned to find Majid coming through the door. “What’s he doing here?”

“Since he’s mentioned in the trust, I asked him to come by,” said Zeller. He motioned Majid to a chair.

Looking uncharacteristically subdued, Majid sat down and crossed his legs without so much as a nod to either Irina or Misty.

Leaning toward them, Zeller passed out copies of the trust agreement. “Morgana made several changes a few weeks ago.”

This was the first Irina had heard about changes. “Such as?”

“The disposition of some of her assets.”

Misty stopped chewing her gum. “Huh?”

“Just cut to the chase,” said Irina. If Majid was going to ignore her, she could play the same game.

“All right,” said Zeller, leaning back against his buttery brown leather chair. “You can all take your copies home and read them at your leisure. If you have questions, you can, of course, call for clarification. Cutting to the chase, as you put it, here are the changes: The gallery—the building, the name, the stock, all debt and all bank accounts associated with it—has been given to Majid Farrow.”

Irina’s eyes opened wide. “That gallery is
mine
.”

“You are to receive your mother’s condo in Woodbury, the houseboat, and financial assets in the amount of approximately nine hundred thousand dollars.”

“What about me?” said Misty indignantly.

Zeller checked his copy of the trust. “You are to receive your mother’s car—an Audi Roadster—the house in Merriam Park, and approximately four hundred thousand dollars in various securities.”

“What’s all this ‘approximately’ stuff?” demanded Misty.

While Zeller explained that stocks and bonds fluctuated in value, Irina seethed. She couldn’t believe her mother had taken away her inheritance and given it to her boy toy. The gallery had
always
been the major part of her inheritance. She glared at Majid, but he refused to meet her eyes.

“I think I deserve some sort of explanation,” said Irina, giving Zeller a fierce look. “Did my mother state a reason why she made the decision to leave the gallery to Majid instead of me?”

“We’ve been together for years,” said Majid, keeping his voice low. “It was a show of her love for me, and her trust in my ability and dedication.”

“Bullshit,” said Irina. “You played her.”

Through clenched teeth, Majid said, “I know this is hard for you, but for once in your life, just shut the fuck up.”

Fussing with his French cuffs, Zeller rolled his chair closer to his desk. “There is another provision I need to explain to you, Irina. I won’t mince words. Your mother was deeply concerned about the state of your mental health. Rest assured, your inheritance is secure. I have been named the executor of that inheritance. According to the terms of the trust, nothing will transfer to you until you’ve been diagnosed by a licensed psychologist, and are in some sort of treatment—either in-patient within a mental health care facility, or in outpatient care. I have been given full discretion on this. I will release funds to you so that you can get the help you need. However, until I receive a report that you have made sufficient strides toward recovery, I cannot release the balance of the estate to you. Do you understand?”

Irina sat in her chair, her face flushed a deep red. Her body felt suddenly swollen, decaying, like a forgotten tomato that had been left out in the garden to rot. “I don’t believe this.”

“I know it’s a blow,” said Zeller, his voice kindly, “but there was no way to sugarcoat the terms of the trust. You must face facts.”

“It’s what I’ve been saying for months,” said Misty. “You think we all hate you, that we’re trying to make your life miserable, but it’s not true. You’ve gone off the tracks. Every day you get a little bit worse.”

“This is all about Dustin,” whispered Irina.

“Of course it’s about Dustin,” said her sister.

“I have to go,” said Irina, rising abruptly. “I can’t stay.”

“Irina, please,” said Zeller, holding out his hand to her. “I thought perhaps you could stay after everyone else had left. We could talk this over. I have some suggestions for you.”

“I don’t need any suggestions.” What she needed was to tell Chess that he had a son. Once he knew, once he understood the kind of care Dusty needed, he’d back her up. They would sell the bull, bank the money, and go off somewhere to live happily ever after.

31

Standing just inside the swinging kitchen doors, Jane looked out one of the round windows into the main dining room. She spotted Lee sitting at a table near the windows, eating breakfast and reading the morning paper. She waited for one of the waiters to come through the door, then walked out, crossed through the room, and pulled out the chair opposite him. It was centering to feel the familiar hum of the restaurant breathing around her.

“Morning,” she said, sitting down. “Another wonderful day in paradise.”

Setting the paper down next to a book titled
Early Christian Scriptures,
Lee replied, “Ain’t that the Bible truth.”

If she told Nolan about the ransom note, he’d tell her to ignore the part about not calling the police. She figured Lee would be of the same opinion, so instead of telling him about it and getting a lecture, she asked, “You or Nolan learn anything new?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” He fiddled with his cell phone for a few seconds and then handed it to her. “You recognize that guy?”

She stared at the image. “I can’t really see his face.” It was a picture of a man on a motorcycle riding past her house.

“Here,” said Lee, reaching over to flip to the next picture. “Keep pressing the right arrow. This guy drove past your place at least three times yesterday afternoon.”

Jane studied the images. “He looks Middle Eastern.” Then it struck her. “I met this guy over at the Morgana Beck Gallery in St. Paul. He’s the manager. Here, I’ve got his card.” She pulled it out of the pocket of her jeans and handed it to him, recalling that Chess had just told her that Majid might have taken the bull from the basement of the gallery. “What do you think he was doing?”

“Casing your place.”

If the statue was in his possession, why would he care? “Was he one of the men staking out my restaurant?”

“Never seen him before.”

“Did you show this picture to Nolan?”

“He agrees with me. This bozo on the motorcycle is connected in some way. We’ll follow up on it.”

She would, too, privately. “You like working with Nolan?”

“Yeah, I do. He showed me some of his old cases last night. He’s a smart guy.”

“Think you’ll stick around, work with him a while longer?”

“I just might. He’s looking for a partner.”

“I’d heard that.” She glanced around the room. “Well, I have a meeting I need to get to.”

“You go,” he said, picking up his coffee cup and taking a swallow.

As she stood, she said, “You doing any preaching today?”

“That’s on hold now that I’ve got something more interesting to do with my time.”

“Glad I could provide you with a little diversion.”

“Go on, get out of here. I’ll call if I learn anything more.”

On her way back into the kitchen, Jane talked to one of the waiters and told him not to charge Lee for breakfast. She grabbed a bowl of meat scraps for Mouse and then went back down to her office.

After paging though the St. Paul white pages and not finding a listing for Majid Farrow, Jane called the gallery. She figured she’d have to leave a message but was surprised when a male voice answered, “Morgana Beck Gallery of Antiquities.”

“Is this Majid Farrow?” she asked.

“Speaking.”

She would have preferred to talk to him in person, but because she was hoping for something to tell Peter and Sigrid when they arrived, she pressed on. “This is Jane Lawless. We met yesterday morning in front of the gallery.”

“Of course. You showed me that picture of the Nimrud bull.”

As far as she could see, there were three possibilities. He didn’t have the bull. Or he had it, but wasn’t part of the murderous group sent here to find it. Or he was part of the group, and might or might not have it. The only thing that really mattered at the moment was whether or not the bull was in his possession.

“You wanted me to appraise that statue before you bought it.”

“That’s right. I could bring it by this afternoon.”

“Wonderful,” he said eagerly. “I would be delighted to take a look. Let me grab my appointment book.”

He hadn’t hesitated for even a millisecond. That told her everything she needed to know. Someone had the bull, but it wasn’t him.

“I could do three o’clock.”

“I have to be somewhere at three,” said Jane.

“This evening might work. Say around seven.”

“Let me call you back.”

“May I ask you something? How much do you know about the Nimrud gold?”

“Not a lot.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I speak plainly. It’s generally conceded that the Nimrud gold belongs to the Iraqi government. Or perhaps the Iraqi people. Questions about who owns history and how culture is preserved are large and difficult, but it’s my opinion that if your statue is part of the Nimrud gold, you may be buying it illegally. It’s something to consider. I myself wouldn’t want to be any part of that.”

“You’ve been very helpful.” She thanked him and hung up, realizing she’d hit another dead end. Majid might be a good actor, but he didn’t sound like a kidnapper or a killer.

Cordelia arrived early for the meeting, looking subdued in her black capri-length leggings, red satin tunic, and yellow flip-flops. “Show me the note.”

Jane handed it to her and watched as she sank down on the couch, stroking Mouse’s head as she read.

“How can people like this exist?” she asked, leaning back and draping herself over the cushions. “I mean, they abduct a living, breathing child just to get some stupid statue back?”

“That stupid statue is worth a whole hell of a lot to the people involved.”

“Yeah, well.” She muttered a few X-rated words under her breath. “What did that snake in the grass Chester have to say?” She stared straight ahead and listened as Jane filled her in.

With so much hope riding on her talk with Chess, Jane had felt utterly demoralized as she walked out of the jail. He’d given her virtually nothing to go on, although he had verified the seriousness of the situation. The only way out was to find the bull, a task that could take days, weeks—a lifetime. She tried to banish all thoughts of what Mia was going through from her mind, but somehow, the fear found the back of her throat and lodged there, a lump that wouldn’t go away.

The food arrived as they were talking the situation over. Juice, a coffee carafe, a covered chafing dish filled with scrambled eggs, sausage, and bacon, a plate of cut fruit, and a tray of pastries. Jane pushed the cart back against the wall. She couldn’t do much, but at least she could feed her family.

“Where’s Hattie this morning?” she asked after thanking the waiter.

“She’s supposed to be at Y Camp,” said Cordelia, “Except for the duration, until Mia is home safe and sound, Hattie’s staying inside. Mel took some time off to be with her.”

“Not going to hire that ex-nurse?”

Cordelia shivered. “My loft will not be used as a way station for ex–sheep ranchers.”

Peter and Sigrid arrived a few minutes later. They both looked exhausted. Sigrid’s eyes were red and puffy, her expression tight. She demanded to see the note, just as Cordelia had. Peter stood behind her, reading over her shoulder.

“What’s this
bull
stuff about?” asked Peter, sitting down on the couch next to Cordelia. He moved like an arthritic old man, as if his whole body hurt.