“Human nature,” Tess said, trying to find a comfortable spot in the ultramodern chair opposite Tyner’s desk, two thong-thin strips of leather hung on chromium bars. She had long suspected Tyner of choosing office decor that would make those who dared to visit as uncomfortable as he was. Tyner didn’t want people who could walk to stop being grateful for this fact, so his furniture challenged the spine and left one’s legs with pins and needles that had to be stomped out.
“It’s not just crime,” he continued, on a roll. “An old friend, a state’s attorney, has a little boy diagnosed autistic. So her inconsiderate pregnant friends quiz her about her diet, her lifestyle, her genes, and what form of birth control she used before conceiving. Here she is, on the verge of a nervous breakdown because of the stress level in her life, and all her so-called friends want is the assurance it won’t happen to them.”
“Well… people, Tyner.” Lord, he was chatty today. This was the kind of conversation Tess was used to having with Kitty. She feared some odd mutant was emerging from the relationship, a kinder, gentler Tyner. A Kyner!
“Yes, people. So the residents of Mount Vernon went back to their homes and businesses last night, reassured of nothing, other than Detective Rainer’s general incompetence. Meanwhile, I’m worried Shawn Hayes will stay on life support for more than a year and a day, which means his attacker will never face homicide charges. It’s a hard call for a family to make, but I hope they’re aware of the legal implications of letting him linger.”
“Assuming Rainer ever makes an arrest.”
“Ah, yes, Rainer. He took me aside last night for a private chat.”
Tess might have straightened up at this information, if the chair had allowed such movement.
“What did he want to know?”
“He wanted a reading on Cecilia. She clerked for me summer before last. Remember?”
How could Tess forget? Tyner’s decision to hire a clerk had forced Tess out on her own, long before she wanted to be. Even now, with Tyner’s faith in her proven, she couldn’t help remembering how it felt when she was exiled from this office. It was like riding her bike without training wheels for the first time, Daddy running behind and promising not to let go. And then Daddy did let go-and she had promptly crashed. But she got back up, the way everyone gets back up.
“So, what did you tell him about our old friend, the soapbox queen?”
Tyner was puzzled. “Cecilia drives go-carts?”
“No, as in, She’s always on a soapbox.”
“Oh. He asked if I could ”control‘ her, convince her to settle down and stop making so much noise. I told him Cecilia will keep yapping until someone listens. I then asked him point-blank if she was right, and he was evasive.“
“Evasive? That would represent a whole new level of subtlety for Rainer. He usually just stands there, mouth gaping open, when he doesn’t know how to answer a question.” Tess couldn’t help recalling Fuzzy Iglehart’s stand, the blank-eyed stares of the fish on ice.
“He’s a big fan of yours, too.” Tyner’s voice sharpened to its old acerbic bellow. “Why didn’t you tell me you were there that night? Why did you let me natter on about the murder in Kitty’s that day without sharing with me what you knew? I felt like a fool.”
Tess was so happy to have Tyner yelling at her again that she told the truth. “Because I knew you wouldn’t approve. I’m not sure I approve. At first, all I wanted to do was find the guy who tried to hire me and figure out if I should turn him over to Rainer and all those media jackals. But then it really got weird. It’s as if I have a client, but I don’t know who it is.”
She told him everything, glad to unburden herself, gladder still to have Tyner’s keen mind on her side. Crow was a more intuitive thinker-he picked up emotional currents that Tess missed-while Tyner was incisive and logical, interested primarily in facts. Like Whitney, he was disturbed by the attentions from Tess’s visitor. He also frowned when he heard about the brawl with Gretchen O’Brien.
“Two women, guns drawn, rolling around on the floor together,” he said. “It sounds like a bad porn film.”
“It sounds as if you know something about bad porn films,” Tess countered. “So what’s going on? A homicide, an assault, two burglaries, a sleazy private detective, and two mystery men-my secret friend and ”Mr. Kennedy‘ Assuming they’re not one and the same.“
Tyner was clearly struggling with himself. She knew him so well, she could see that he wanted her to drop the case, but he couldn’t shake his own fascination with it.
“The two burglaries-have you looked into those, tried to figure out what the connection is? You could drop by their homes, pretend to be-oh, a security expert who is making calls on burglary victims in hopes of selling them your burglarproofing service.”
Tess smiled. “I was going to hit them both on my way home tonight, but I hadn’t thought of a cover story yet. Maybe I’ll use yours.”
Silly to think she could ever have the last word with Tyner.
“You might as well,” he said. “Because it’s a sure bet you won’t come up with anything better.”
Chapter 14
Bolton Hill is one of those Baltimore neighborhoods that becomes a religion for its residents. Outsiders had been predicting its fall for as long as Tess could remember. In fact, the rumors of its imminent demise predated her birth, for the riots of ‘68 had led many to despair about the city’s future. But those feverish partisans who chose to put up with Bolton Hill’s inner-city indignities-the car break-ins, the burglaries, the theft of ornamental iron and lawn furniture, the occasional mugging on one’s doorstep-were rewarded with some of the most spectacular real estate in Baltimore, within walking distance of the symphony, the opera, and the upper reaches of downtown. Crow still kept an apartment on Park Avenue, although Tess couldn’t remember the last time he had actually spent a night there.
Jerold Ensor’s house was stunning even by the neighborhood’s high standards, a huge town house on John Street, crammed with antique wonders. Or so it appeared from Tess’s vantage point in the foyer, where she had been asked to wait fifteen minutes ago by the housekeeper who had answered her insistent ring. It wasn’t clear if she was being made to wait or if she had been forgotten completely.
Left with nothing else to do, Tess stared at herself in a huge ornate mirror-a mirror that had hung, according to a three-by-five card pinned next to it, in the room where Francis Scott Key had died. She wondered how such a piece of trivia affected the value of an item. Would a mirror from the room where he had been born be worth more or less? How did one authenticate such claims? She recalled Fuzzy Iglehart dragging out those ersatz stadium seats and smiled. Sometimes, it seemed as if everyone had Antiques Roadshow fever, the conviction that some priceless item was in their possession, if only they knew what it was.
As the minutes passed, she thought less about the mirror and more about her face. She had been harsh and not a little smug in her assessment of Gretchen O’Brien last night. Tess had turned thirty-one last August, which was far more shocking than thirty. Thirty-one cemented the idea that the numbers kept going up. Yet she couldn’t get too panicky about the fine lines around her eyes and the parentheses at her mouth. If the choice was between smiling and having a smooth, lineless mask of a face, she’d choose to smile and laugh, thank you very much. Kitty had gotten to her early about the importance of sunscreen, and her skin was in pretty good shape for someone who rowed and ran. It helped, too, keeping a little flesh on her bones. Most women didn’t understand that.
But the hair-she heard her mother’s voice in her head, for Judith always referred to Tess’s hair as if it were an object apart from herself, a recalcitrant pet that Tess could not tame: The Hair-should she cut it off? Was it unseemly to have long hair after thirty? She sensed there were rules about such things, unwritten ones that other women knew but so far had refused to share with her.