The Oldest Sin (17 page)

“No,” she said, shaking her head. Not upset, exactly. Relieved was more like it. Yet she couldn’t help but worry whether Lavinia would make it back to the hotel safely.

“She’s a big girl,” offered Bram. “She wouldn’t take a ride from someone she didn’t know.”

‘True…”

“So. There you have it,” he said with finality, stretching his arms over his head. “Case closed.”

He was probably right. She could stop worrying.

“And now, where were we?” He brought her hand up to his lips and nibbled her thumb.

“Well…”

They both looked at each other and then grinned. Almost in unison, they said the words, “The cake.”

“Are we getting old?” asked Bram, following Sophie down the stairs.

“Probably.”

“I love you.” He smiled, stopping her for a moment to give her a kiss.

“And I love you, too.”

“Good. You know,” he said as they continued on into the kitchen, “maybe we should consider chocolate cake a new kind of foreplay.”

Sophie sipped from her morning mimosa and scanned the crowded restaurant, her eyes returning again and again to the front entrance. Lavinia was late, though if there was a better place to while away a few extra minutes on a pleasant autumn morning, Sophie couldn’t think of one. The Fountain Grill was a popular spot for Sunday brunch not only because of its famous buffet, but also for its sleek, silvery Art Deco interior. Oversized windows threw bold geometric frames around the most picturesque part of downtown St. Paul. Soft Thirties and Forties era jazz played from hidden speakers. And, of course, the fresh-brewed French roast, and the bottomless orange-juice-and-champagne cocktail didn’t hurt.

Sophie remembered the first time she’d brunched at the Fountain Grill, the Maxfield Plaza’s famous second-floor eatery. It was 1963, the same year her father decided to purchase the hotel. At the time the entire building was pretty run-down, a pale image of its former glory. The Zephyr Club, the posh restaurant near the top of the south tower, and Scotties, the first floor bar, had both been named in honor of F. Scott Fitzgerald, one of St. Paul’s most famous onetime residents. Indeed, Jerrod Beck, for years the driving force behind the Maxfield’s culinary wizardry, was a lifelong friend of Scott and Zelda’s. Sophie met Chef Beck that day, but by then he was an old man, no longer at the top of his game. Years later she discovered that he’d actually designed the Fountain Grill’s interior. He was a man of many talents.

Thankfully, Sophie’s father didn’t believe in the worst forms of visual modernization, though some renovation, of course, was necessary. After purchasing the Maxfield, he’d set out not only to restore it to its former greatness, but to steadfastly preserve its architectural integrity. In that sense, Henry Tahtinen had been a visionary. He’d been adamantly opposed to the razing of the magnificent Metropolitan Building in downtown Minneapolis in 1961. It was torn down at the height of urban renewal fever in the Twin Cities. Henry often said that he’d be damned if another famous Minnesota landmark would be put on the block. As a matter of fact, the preservation of history was the main reason he bought the Maxfield. The desire to become an innkeeper was only secondary. Yet Henry had made a go of it The irony was, the Maxfield’s current success had come as a direct result of its historical significance. While other, newer hotels struggled through the Seventies and Eighties, Henry was building on the image of 1930s elegance. Add to that impeccable service and clean, beautiful accommodations, and you had a winning combination.

And now it all belonged to Sophie. She still couldn’t believe it. She was just beginning to feel the weight of the responsibility that had landed squarely on her shoulders. This landmark, this charming piece of history, had to be cared for. Nurtured. No wonder her father had wanted to pass it on to someone in the family — someone he knew would love it the same way he had. It was a sobering thought, yet it did nothing to dampen Sophie’s enthusiasm. First thing tomorrow morning, she planned to march into the office of Hilyard Squire, the publisher of
Squires Magazine
— and her friend and boss — and tender her resignation. Two weeks from now, if all went as planned, she would start learning the hotel business full-time.

As she sat fingering the stem of her wineglass, gazing somewhat aimlessly out the window, she heard a throat being cleared behind her. Sensing it was meant to catch her attention, she turned and saw a tall, bearded, distinguished-looking gentleman staring at her with a look of mild confusion. At first she didn’t recognize him. Then it hit her. “Isaac Knox?” she said, her voice tentative.

“That’s right,” he replied, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. “And you’re Sophie — ■” He paused, searching his memory for the correct last name.

“Greenway,” she prompted him.

“Yes, I thought it was you.” His expression brightened. “I’m usually good with faces, not so good with names.”

“My maiden name was Tahtinen. I married Norm Greenway right after graduation. We were divorced many years ago.”

The divorce-and-remarriage doctrine was the only one on which Howell Purdis had ever changed his mind. In the early years of the church, he taught that an individual was married for life. If you separated from your husband or wife, you had to remain both celibate and single. After his own wife left him in the late Seventies, Howell began to allow the faithful to divorce, but only if the mate in question had been unfaithful. Even though there was no proof Howell’s wife had engaged in any sort of extramarital affair, Howell quietly let it be known that she was an unregenerate slut, worthy of eternal damnation. After less than a year he proposed to his twenty-six-year-old secretary, but in a moment of rare insight, withdrew the proposal. As far as Sophie knew, he’d lived alone in his mansion ever since.

Isaac Knox stared at her, trying to put it all together in his mind. “I seem to recall something about — you and Norm had a child, didn’t you?”

“A son.”

“Yes, that’s right. I met him once. At a ministerial conference. It was shortly after Norm remarried. The boy was pretty small. Reddish-gold hair — a lot like yours.”

She smiled. “He’s twenty now.”

“Really.” He glanced toward the door, then at his watch.

She assumed that, like her, he was waiting for someone. “Would you like to sit down for a minute? I’m waiting for a friend, but she’s late.”

“Thanks,” he said, easing into the other side of the booth.

He’d accepted her invitation so quickly, Sophie figured he wanted to talk. Her curiosity piqued, she waited for him to get comfortable and then said, “You know, I almost didn’t recognize you.” Her eyes rose to his bald head.

“Yeah” — he smiled — “I guess age eventually gets to us all.”

“Did your wife come with you? I roomed with her my freshman year.” Funny how easily it all came back to her.

He shook his head. “Not this trip.”

“I was more than surprised to see Howell Purdis the other day. That part of my life seems so long ago.” And so far away, she thought to herself, gratefully.

“You’re no longer a member of the church, then?”

She shook her head. “Although, to be honest, I’ve been thinking about the time I spent at Purdis Bible College quite a lot the last few days.”

“Really?” He pulled a saltshaker in front of him and began to examine-the top. Not looking at her, he asked, “May I ask why?”

“Four of the women I roomed with my sophomore year are in town right now. Three of them are part of a group called the Daughters of Sisyphus. The other —”

“— is Adelle Purdis,” he said, finishing her sentence.

“That’s right. We had a reunion on Friday evening.”

“Yes … I knew about it.”

Interesting. Adelle must have told him. “Actually, I’m waiting for Lavinia Fiore. We were supposed to have brunch together this morning, but she’s” — she looked at her watch — “almost half an hour late.”

His eyes darted away. “She was late to our meeting, too.”

“You met with her?”

“On Friday morning.”

Strange that Lavinia hadn’t mentioned it. “Something to do with the church?” she asked conversationally. She knew it was none of her business, but didn’t care.

“Actually —” He seemed to grow ill at ease. “Lavinia made some rather startling accusations.”

“About what?”

“Another old friend of yours. Ginger Pomejay.”

Of course. Why hadn’t she put it together before this? Deciding to go on a little fishing expedition, she continued, “Well, you
were
the dean of students the year Ginger died.”

He eyed her cautiously. “Then she’s talked to you about it, too? This ridiculous idea of hers that Ginger was murdered?”

Sophie nodded.

“But… she’s just making noise, right? It’s not true.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I have no reason not to.” He seemed unusually interested in a wild opinion he’d just said was ridiculous.

Leaning into the table, he lowered his voice. “Is that all she told you about the matter? She didn’t elaborate any further?”

“No, not really.”

“You have to understand, an accusation of murder, even if it happened many years ago, is a very serious charge. And you’re right. I was the dean of students that year. It was my watch. If there was a problem, I should have known about it.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I knew of Ginger’s family history of cancer. We’d talked about that several times. But the idea that someone would intentionally try to hurt her, well, it’s preposterous. Absolutely impossible.”

By the intensity in his voice, Sophie was pretty sure he was telling the truth, at least the truth as he knew it. That didn’t necessarily mean that Lavinia hadn’t come across some information he didn’t know anything about. As a matter of fact, it was one of the matters Sophie intended to bring up at this morning’s brunch. That is, if Lavinia ever got here. She looked at her watch again. It was now nearly a quarter to eleven.

“Here comes my party,” said Isaac, pushing quickly out of the booth.

As Sophie looked up she recognized three portly evangelist-rank ministers striding purposefully into the restaurant. This must be some big-time powwow. Usually, only two or three top ministers were at any given holy-day site. Isaac Knox, Howell, and Hugh Purdis filled that bill, so what were these guys doing here?

“It was good talking to you,” said Isaac, pointing the men quickly to a booth near the bar.

“I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again before you leave,” said Sophie to his retreating back. Charming fellow. Impeccable manners.

A few feet from the table he stopped abruptly and turned around. “I thought that fat women’s convention was over today. Aren’t you leaving?”

Sophie winced at his choice of words. And she couldn’t let it pass. “I’d say the fat men’s convention is about to begin.” She nodded to the evangelists.

He stiffened.

“Besides, you misunderstand. I’m not a guest here. I own the hotel.” That felt good. The poor and the meek might be praised from the pulpit, but it was power and money the Church of the Firstborn truly valued. She could see his eyes light up.

‘This hotel? You own the Maxfield Plaza?’

She nodded.

He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “How … wonderful for you.”

“Yeah, it’s a great place.”

“Well,” he said with a slight bow, “perhaps we will talk again.”

Not if I can help it, asshole. She nodded a less than sincere goodbye.

As she watched him walk away she waved at her waiter, attempting to catch his attention. “Would you bring me a phone?’ she mouthed, holding her hand to her ear. She wanted to call up to Lavinia’s room. Perhaps her friend was still in bed. Whatever the case, Sophie wanted to get die show on the road. It wasn’t like Lavinia to miss an appointment The waiter finally arrived with die phone, as well as more fresh-squeezed orange juice and champagne. Sophie turned the latter down. Since food would not be immediately forthcoming, she didn’t want to get any happier than she already was. She dialed the front desk and asked if she’d received any messages. After being informed that there were none, she asked to be connected to Lavinia’s suite.

Seven rings later the hotel’s voice mail picked up. Leaving Lavinia a message seemed pointless.

Well, she thought to herself, tossing a tip on the table and easing out of the booth, there was only one way to find out what was going on. She’d have to go up to the room herself. If Lavinia wasn’t there, then Sophie would have to admit the obvious. She’d been stood up.

Sophie rode the service elevator up to Lavinia’s floor and headed quickly into the north tower. As she rounded the corner near the stairway she saw Bunny step onto the main elevator at the other end of the hall. So that was it, thought Sophie. Bunny had waylaid Lavinia, most likely demanding to talk to her about that exercise video. Lavinia should have called down to the restaurant to let her know she was going to be late.