night, about five-thirty, no more than a few minutes after that. It all seemed so normal. He even kept his phone out, as he’d started to do the last several months. He said he was expecting an important e-mail from work, and might have to grab his overnight bag and head out. But it wouldn’t be for a couple hours anyway, if that.”
Eden shook her head. “I realized later, of course, he was waiting for a message from Lindsay, that they’d made plans to go away for a day or two. But that night, I thought it was just the usual. The kids were both at school—a rehearsal for a play they were both in, and pizza after. It was nice, just the two of us, and the rain. I made dinner—chicken fajitas, and he made margaritas. We just had an easy evening, nothing special. Just enjoying ourselves as a couple before the kids came home, and the noise came back.
“We were doing just that when the phone rang. It was Carlie from the gallery. She’d seen a bulletin on TV. She told me Lindsay was dead, that they said it might be foul play.”
A calico cat padded up the steps, leaped into her lap. Eden stroked it as she finished. “I should’ve known then, right then. He was so shaken. He went white. But I was so shocked, too. And I was thinking about Lindsay, so I never thought . . . I never would have believed they’d been involved. When the police came, when they told me, I didn’t believe it. Then . . . I couldn’t not believe it. I’m sorry, Eli, I’m so very sorry I can’t help you.”
“I appreciate you talking to me. It can’t be easy.”
“I’m putting it behind me. All of it, though it takes some doing. You should do the same.”
When they were back in the car, Abra rubbed a hand over his. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Now we know.” And still something troubled him.
Twenty-six
KIRBY DUNCAN’S OFFICE TOOK UP A SQUARE OF MISERLY space in a scarred brick building that had bypassed any attempt at urban revitalization. It bumped against the cracked sidewalk with its first-floor display windows touting psychic readings on one side, an adult toy shop on the other.
“Almost one-stop shopping,” Abra considered. “You can go to Madam Carlotta and find out if you’re going to get lucky enough to consider dropping a few bucks in The Red Room.”
“If you have to ask a psychic, you’re probably not going to get lucky.”
“I read tarot,” she reminded him. “It’s an ancient and interesting form of seeking knowledge and self-awareness.”
“It’s cards.” He opened the center door and stepped into a skinny lobby and steps leading up.
“I’m definitely doing a reading for you. Your mind’s too closed off to possibilities, especially for a writer.”
“As a lawyer, I defended an alleged psychic a few years back for bilking clients out of a considerable amount of money.”
“People who bilk other people don’t have a real gift or calling. Did you win?”
“Yeah, only because her clients were wide open to possibilities, and deeply stupid.”
She gave him a light elbow jab, but she laughed.
On the second level, frosted glass doors advertised BAXTER TREMAINE, ATTORNEY AT LAW, something called QUIKEE LOANS, another outfit called ALLIED ANSWERING SERVICE, and KIRBY DUNCAN, PRIVATE INVESTIGATION.
Police tape crossed over Duncan’s frosted glass.
“I’d hoped we could go in, look around.”
“Open murder case.” Eli shrugged. “They want to keep the scene of the break-in secure. Wolfe would be part of this. He doesn’t let go easily.”
“We can go down and talk to the psychic, see if Madam Carlotta has any insight.”
He spared her a glance then walked to the lawyer’s door.
In the broom-closet space of reception a woman on the slippery end of forty pecked industriously at a keyboard.
She paused, pulled the gold cheaters from her face so they dangled by the braided chain around her neck.
“Good morning. Can I help you?”
“We’re looking for information on Kirby Duncan.”
Though her law office smile stayed in place, she eyed both of them through cynical eyes. “You’re not cops.”
“No, ma’am. We’d hoped to consult with Mr. Duncan on a . . . personal matter while we’re in Boston. We just came by hoping he could squeeze us in, then saw the police tape over his door. Was there a break-in?”
Her eyes remained cynical, but she swiveled her chair around to face them more directly. “Yes. The police haven’t cleared the scene yet.”