This Little Piggy Went to Murder (10 page)

“Was he … ?”

“Yes. He was already dead by the time I got there.”

“You didn’t see anyone, did you?”

“No. Whoever did it had already gone. The night nurse arrived while I was going through the files. I had to climb out a back window.”

Chelsea moved away from him. He could tell she wasn’t sure she believed him. “But Olson said the information was still in grandfather’s files!”

“I know.” Ryan followed her with his eyes as she moved into the living room and sat down catlike on the sofa.

“What do we do now?”

“Either Olson was lying, or someone got there first.”

Chelsea leaned back into the soft couch cushions and lit a cigarette.

“I thought you were going to give those up.”

She ignored the annoyed tone and stared at him, blowing smoke high into the air.

“You still have the copy he sent you?”

Chelsea nodded.

“Somewhere, someone out there has the original.” Ryan could tell she wasn’t buying his act. And why should she? She was smart. Intuitively, she knew he
was
lying.

“Even without the original, if word got out that Grendel Shipping had engaged in the illegal dumping of industrial waste in Lake Superior during the years Uncle Jack was executive vice president, the rumor alone could kill his senatorial campaign. You and I both know that.” She was smoking now in quick puffs.

“And we both know it would break Grendel Shipping financially if the company had to single-handedly clean up the potential disaster it created out there in that lake. I don’t think anyone wants that information to go public.”

Chelsea picked up her wineglass, holding it to her lips. “For now. I’m not so sure how long I can count on your discretion.”

“It’s not my discretion you need to worry about. If Olson told other people about it before he came to you, we may be in big trouble.”

“Why do you suppose he tried to blackmail me instead of Jack?”

“I think you were only the first target. He knew you had a special interest in the future of the company since you were going to inherit. But believe me, he would have gotten around to Jack in short order. Who knows? Maybe he already had.”

Chelsea tappedher cigarette against the side of the ashtray. “I never liked him.”

“No. He was an opportunist. He got what he deserved.”

Chelsea looked up. “Did he?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m not so sure I do.”

“Look. I had nothing to do with Lars Olson’s death, if that’s what you’re implying. All I’m saying is that I never trusted the man. He found some information he thought he could use for financial gain, and he didn’t care who he hurt. Speaking of Jack, you’re positive he had no knowledge of the dumping?”

“Grandfather was the only one who ever worked with Weissman Industries. It was very lucrative territory. No one had a clue what he was really up to.”

Ryan sat down. “You and I both know the stakes here.”

“Why don’t I trust you?”

He smiled. “The same reason I don’t trust you.”

“I doubt that.”

“You think that for me everything is expendable.”

“Exactly. In the name of your holy cause.”

“It’s not.”

“No?” She got up and climbed the stairs to her bedroom loft.

Ryan followed.

“Where’s little Jenny this evening?” She picked up a brush and began brushing her hair.

“At home. And give me a break. You know my relationship with her isn’t serious.”

“That’s what you say. Does she share the same opinion? After all, you’re still living together.” He pulled off his jacket and tossed it over a Bauhaus-inspired chair only Walter Gropius himself would have been comfortable sitting in. “She’s in good company tonight. I picked up your father at the police station earlier this afternoon, just after they released him. He’s home this evening with family and friends — and Jenny. I begged off, saying I had some research to do at the library. By the way, the police are pretty sure it was your dad’s gun that killed your grandfather. Did you know that?”

Chelsea turned her face away. “I was questioned by the police several hours ago. No one mentioned it.”

“Well, whatever. It doesn’t mean he did it. And anyway, he’s all preoccupied with some new houseguest. An old war buddy of his and Jack’s — from Vietnam.”

Chelsea’s head turned very slowly until she was looking directly at him. “Do you recall a name?”

“Sydney. Sydney Sherman — something like that.”

“Sydney Sherwin,” she repeated, her voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah, that’s it. Do you know him?”

Chelsea dropped the brush on the dresser. “Yes. I know him. The vermin are crawling out of the closets.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She unhooked her robe and let it fall to the floor. Underneath, she was completely naked. “Make love to me, Ryan.” There was a strange hardness in her voice.

Unbuttoning his shirt, he walked across the thick wool carpet and pulled her thin body toward him. “Chelsea, you’re shivering.”

“Don’t talk.”

After the memorial service on Sunday morning, Sophie drove with Amanda to her father’s home. It was something that had to be done, and Amanda needed the emotional support Sophie was only too glad to offer.

“Thanks for coming with me.” With a shaky hand, Amanda unlocked the front door. “l just couldn’t do this alone. I suppose this house has some memories for you, too.”

Sophie paused directly behind her friend and gazed up at the long, carved flower box bursting with red and white petunias. It ran under the second floor windows and looked like it could use a fresh coat of paint. As a young girl, Sophie had spent many nights in this house. It had always reminded her of a Swiss chalet. The architecture was sturdy and yet, somehow, slightly whimsical. “I’m happy to come along, you know that. I wish there was more I could do to help.”

The door creaked open. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been here myself,” said Amanda. “I imagine Chelsea will put it up for sale right away.” She brushed a tear away from her cheek.

“You’re sure of that?”

“She hates it. She always refers to it as
the antique
”

“Is that bad?”

“I’m afraid so. She hates antiques on general principles.” Reverently they stepped into the front hall.

“I just had to see it one more time,” said Amanda, her voice just above a whisper. “You understand. It’s where I grew up. It’s the place that always comes to mind when I hear the word
home
. Not that all the memories are good, but still. I can’t stand the thought of being here when the lawyers and real estate agents descend. It would feel too much like vultures picking at a rotting carcass.”

They entered a spacious, although somewhat dark, living room. The deep windows, which could have let in the bright morning sun, were completely blocked by trees and shrubs that had been allowed to grow wild. The effect of the light was much like an old photograph. Everything was bathed in sepia. The furniture was old, yet beautifully preserved. The house seemed virtually unchanged from the time Sophie was a child. Apparently, Herman Grendel had never suffered from the need to modernize. She peeked into a dark side room that had once been the playroom. “What’s in here now?”

“Since Dad’s stroke last year, he’s lived almost exclusively on the first floor. He insisted this room be made into an office. Kind of a shame, isn’t it? The walls used to be covered with all our artwork. For some reason he wanted it paneled. All our zebras and elephants …”

“Don’t forget the dragons.”

“Right. And dragons. They’re all gone.” She sighed.

“Just like our innocence.”

Sophie turned. The comment seemed unusually self-pitying. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sadly, her eyes surveyed the orderly yet strangely empty room. “Maybe I’m just feeling old. I simply never thought … I’m not sure you’d understand.”

“Try me,” prompted Sophie. “I
will
say I’ve never been much of a fan of the concept of childhood innocence. Simple sweetness or lack of experience is hardly the same.”

“What do you think innocence means then?”

“Well, without getting too philosophical, I’d say it’s the absence of the
need
for illusion. Or, put another way, truly innocent people never need to create elaborate philosophical or religious structures simply to justify their own ideas or desires.”

“But that’s not simple, Sophie.”

She nodded. “I know.”

Amanda stood motionless in the silent house, listening to the faint hum of traffic from outside. “Who knows? Maybe I am talking about illusions. I’ve always had this romanticized idea of what it was to be a good adult. Except that, when I look at my life now, I’m nothing like my ideal. Not that I’m bad, or wrong, or evil. Just that I’m
less.
I don’t have the kind of certainty I thought all grownups innately possessed.” She forced her eyes away from a framed photograph of herself that her father had kept all these years on his desk. “You always did listen to my rantings with such patience.”

“That’s me. Patient to a fault.”

“And you always beat me at checkers.”

“You always found the best hiding places.”

“I still do,” said Amanda, giving Sophie’s hand a squeeze. “But unlike you, I was never very good at games when I was young.”

“You’ve improved?” Sophie’s thoughts had become distracted by the crush of memories the room was beginning to evoke.

“I believe you’d find me a worthy opponent today. Listen, will you give me a few minutes? I want to go upstairs to my old bedroom. I won’t be long.”

“No problem.” Sophie ran her hand along the edge of one of the dark oak bookcases. Years ago, it had been packed with children’s books, stuffed animals, toys, and her favorite games, the ones her own parents simply could not afford. It now held files, business papers, and stacks of trade magazines. Sad. “I’ll wait as long as you like.”

Silently, Amanda left the room. Sophie could hear her footsteps ascend the uncarpeted stairs. It was a funny feeling, being back in this house after so many years. The last time she’d been here was the day Amanda and Luther were married, twenty-three years ago. Could it really be that long? After that day, Herman had never again invited her back. He’d never approved of Luther. Perhaps he felt Sophie was a traitor to his wishes, just like Amanda.

Noticing several scrapbooks piled in one corner of the room, Sophie sat down on a tired leather chair and pulled out the bottom album. It was stuck to the one above it by a mixture of dust and the gum of age. Making herself a bit more comfortable, she opened the gilded cover. A black and white photograph of Amanda and her father greeted her. Under it someone had written: THANKSGIVING, 1954. Amanda was about eight. Herman was glaring with his usual scowl at the person taking the picture. Such a thoroughly unpleasant man. The past was simply a precursor of the future.

She turned the page. Another picture. This time one of Jack taken shortly after his return from Vietnam. The hair was shorter and the face thinner, but it was still handsome Jack. In the picture he wore his navy uniform. She held the album closer to the window to get a better look. As she did, a yellowed newspaper clipping slipped out from between the picture and the album paper, falling lightly to the floor. Sophie reached for it, carefully unfolding the fragile newsprint. The headline read: DULUTH’S MOST DECORATED SOLDIER DONATES TIME AT DAMASCUS GATE. It was a small article stating that Jack Grendel, son of Herman Grendel, the founder of Grendel Shipping, was going to donate all of next year, 1969, to a halfway house for returning GIs injured in battle. It was located just outside Madison, in Green Dells, Wisconsin.

Sophie checked the date of the paper. December 29, 1968. That was funny. She didn’t remember anything about Jack donating time anywhere. As far as she knew, in 1969 he was attending Stanford.

“What’s got you so engrossed?”

Sophie looked up. “Chelsea! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s quite apparent.” Chelsea Jorensen entered the room, quickly making herself comfortable behind her grandfather’s desk Her beautifully tailored white linen suit fit her slim body like an expensive glove.

Sophie had only seen her briefly at the memorial service. Chelsea had arrived late and left early, thus eliminating the need to speak to anyone.

“What brings you and my mother here this morning?” Chelsea leaned back in the chair as if she owned it. Which, of course, she did. “I saw her Saab in the drive.”

Sophie felt like the proverbial child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She started to get up.

“No, please.” Chelsea motioned for her to remain seated. “I assume Mother is upstairs looting. You might as well keep me company until she comes down.”