“Then Monday it is,” I said.
Herman folded his arms. “Why wait ‘til then? Why not now?”
“I want it to happen at the busiest time. It’s dead there on the weekends.”
“Bad choice of words,” Cam said, without mirth.
Herman nodded. “All right, Monday. We got LeVonne’s funeral on Sunday anyways.”
We fell silent a minute. Only Sal hadn’t said anything yet. His forehead had fallen into customary creases of anxiety and he’d shed his Burberry in favor of short sleeves and chalky elbows.
“You in, Mr. Livemore?” I said to him. “You said you wanted to do more lawyer stuff.”
“This ain’t exactly what I meant, Ree.”
“I know. Still, you game?”
“I don’t think this is such a good idea. You could get hurt.”
“That’s what I need you for. You three are my protection. My backup.”
“You don’t want to tell your father?”
“Are you kidding? He hates when I work late, you think he’d want me to do this?”
“How about the police?”
“I don’t think they’d go for it. Besides, we’re all we need, Sal. You know anybody who plays better poker than us?”
Cam smiled, so did Herman. Sal’s eyes lingered on my father, but he didn’t say anything.
I couldn’t wait for an answer. I picked up the hospital phone and dialed what I knew would be the motorcyclist’s answering machine. The tone was short, the kid was still retrieving his messages. I left the message laying out the bluff. This message he wouldn’t ignore, if he were the killer. I hung up the phone and Cam smiled.
“Way to go, kiddo,” he said, and Herman nodded.
Sal folded his knobby arms, still looking at my father.
“Uncle Sal?” I asked.
“I’m in,” he said after a minute. “I’m in.”
“Good.” I got up to go. “Then I’m outta here.”
“Where you goin’?”
“The Hamiltons. Let the game begin.”
25
Kate answered the door, distracted. Her half-glasses perched precariously atop her nose and a Nikon Sure Shot hung around her neck. “Oh, Rita. Come along, dear. Come see what I’m up to.”
Planning another murder? This woman needs a job.
“You’ve never seen this, I believe,” she said. “Not all of it anyway.” She led me into her large country kitchen with custom pine cabinets and sparkling white countertops. Stacked everywhere were decorative plates, vases, and cups in the same colorful pattern as those displayed on the kitchen walls. No bloody knives were in evidence, so I relaxed.
“What are you doing, Kate?”
“How’s this for a project?” Spread out on a rustic pine table was a piece of black velvet, and on top of it sat a plate. “I’ve been wanting to get to this for a long time,” she said, then leaned over the plate and snapped a picture.
“You’re taking a picture of a dish?” Definitely needs a job.
“Not just any dish, it’s Quimper. French faience. Pottery that’s made in Brittany.” She picked up the dish, turned it over, and showed it to me. On the back was a black squiggle. “See this mark? It’s a P, for Charles Porquier. He introduced the first mark of the house. This lone P is an extremely rare signature.”
“Why are you photographing it?”
She set the plate down with care and took a picture of the P. “For insurance purposes. I have a hundred and fifty pieces, if you include the knife rests, the wall pockets, everything.” She waved at a hutch crammed with plates. “The collection is worth, oh, sixty thousand dollars.”
If I had been drinking coffee I would have spit it out, but she hadn’t offered me any.
“You seem tired, dear.” She removed the plate from the velvet and returned it to the hutch. “How is your father? Improving?”
It reminded me of my purpose. “He’s fine, thanks.”
“I’m so glad. This must be quite a stressful time for you.”
“For you, too. The reporters everywhere, Fiske in trouble. Actually, I’ve been working on a way to solve this murder. I came to tell you and Fiske about it. Is he around?”
“Upstairs in his library.” She removed a plate from the wall, dislodging it slowly from its hooks, and set it down on the velvet. “Fiske got himself in trouble, dear. He’ll get himself out of it. He’s formulated a plan of his own, he’ll tell you about it.”
I didn’t know if I’d heard her correctly. “What?”
“Isn’t he the one who started this? With his little affair?”
I didn’t know what to say. “Affair?”
She smiled tightly over her glasses. “He has a midlife crisis, so he trifles with his secretary. It’s not exactly unheard-of.”
So she knew?
“Don’t look so surprised, dear. Of course I knew he was having an affair. I’ve lived with the man for forty years, married him right out of Bryn Mawr. Never even finished my degree.” Her tone sounded bitter, but I couldn’t read her expression because she bent over and stuck a Nikon in front of her face. “This piece is my absolute favorite,” she said from behind the camera.
“You knew, but you never let on?”
“No. In fact, when he told me about it this morning, I acted very surprised. Aren’t men foolish?”
“He told you, this morning?” What was going on?
“Oh yes. It’s all part of his grand design. Endgame, he calls it. Will you look at the work in that plate? It’s all hand-painted, you know.” She picked up the plate and held it up. Orange and blue flowers ringed the border and in the center was a peasant woman in a white cap and full orange skirt. “Isn’t she lovely?”
Frankly, no. The woman’s face was crudely painted, with only one or two lines to represent her features. “She looks kind of blank, don’t you think?”
“Naïf.”
“What, she looks naive?” I was projecting.
“No. It’s the style. Naïf. Primitive.”
Enough with the fucking dishes. “How did you know about Fiske?”
Her face dropped even its tight smile and she set the plate down. “He was like a young man again, happy as a lark. That’s why I think it was the first time he… strayed, because I hadn’t seen him so happy.”
Ironic. I thought of Paul. He’d cheated and he still wasn’t happy. “Did you tell Fiske you knew?”
“No.”
“You weren’t angry?” Angry enough to kill?
“No.” She shrugged in her thin cotton sweater.
“You didn’t think about breaking up?”
She snapped another photo and looked up at me. “Why would I, dear? Fiske and I grew up together. We’ve built a life, a home. Why would I throw that away? Why would he? I knew he’d get over it.” She turned away and flipped the plate over, back to business.
So Fiske didn’t tell her he’d loved Patricia, and she wouldn’t admit it to herself anyway. I eyed the plates hanging on the kitchen walls, seeing them as if for the first time. Each one depicted a man or a woman standing in profile, with the men facing right and the women facing left. Kate had hung the dishes in pairs, so the men and women faced each other. Still, their faces remained unsmiling and expressionless. She could put them together, but she couldn’t make them happy couples.
Nobody could.
“Ah, Rita,” Fiske boomed as I entered his library. “Good to see you.”
I hadn’t seen him this happy since his arrest. What a screwy family. “Fiske, how are you?”
“Fine, just fine, thanks. I’m in control now. I’m not stepping down. I told the chief judge.”
“Good. I stopped by because I have something to discuss with you. Kate said she’d be up in a minute-”