Sara Paretsky - Blacklist

“It’s a strange life, isn’t it,” he said, “responding to the demands of the very wealthy. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a lawyer joke that covered that aspect of our work.”

While I waited, I made myself another pot of herbal tea. My mother had brought me up to believe one drank coffee as a matter of course, but tea only in illness. I took it into the living room and drank two cups, idling away the early morning by watching Audrey Hepburn stare wistfully at Gregory Peck. All the time I looked at Hepburn’s doelike eyes, I kept wondering whether the New Solway police would catch Catherine Bayard breaking into Larchmont Hall.

After an hour, Larry Yosano called me back. “Ms. Warshawski? I went over with the New Solway police, and we didn’t see anyone. We made a circuit of the house and the outbuildings and didn’t notice any breakage; the security company confirms that no one has tripped an alarm out here.

We double-checked the pond: you’ll be glad to know there aren’t any new bodies there. Maybe Ms. Graham confused lights in the attic with the traffic going by on Coverdale Lane.”

I felt absurd, breathing a sigh of relief. I saw nothing but shoals ahead in talking to young Catherine Bayard, but I was still happy that if she was the person Geraldine Graham had seen at Larchmont Hall, she’d finished whatever she was doing before the cops arrived.

When I woke again the sun was bright in the sky. I, on the other hand, was stiff and congested; when I tried my voice, I sounded more like Sam Ramey than Renee Fleming. I stumbled out of bed and into my clothes, but the late night with Harriet Whitby and Amy Blount-followed by Geraldine Graham’s demands-had knocked out any reserves I had. I was too hoarse even to make phone calls. Finally I gave in to the luxury of a day off. I played tapes of my mother’s old concerts, listened to Leontyne Price sing Mozart, and ate soup that Mr. Contreras brought in from the market.

On Wednesday, I was still snuffling, but finally had enough energy to get back to work. I’d slept too late to catch young Catherine Bayard at home. So I could find out whether to waylay her at home or at school, I called the Vina Fields Academy, pretending I was part of the Bayard mansion’s staff. The director’s secretary answered.

“Did Catherine Bayard get to class on time this morning? We had to drop her at the train, and I don’t think she caught the early one,” I said in my basso profundo. “I promised her I would explain to the school if she was late.”

They put me through a few hoops-protection for their students, since a school full of wealthy kids is a target for kidnappers. The sketchy data about the Bayard household I’d garnered from Nexis was enough to

convince them to tell me she’d arrived late for algebra. I didn’t push my luck by asking what time Catherine’s school day ended: at least she was in Chicago, within relatively easy striking distance.

My day off left me fit enough to do a complete set of exercises, stretching my tight muscles, working up a modest sweat with my weights, and finishing by taking the dogs on a short jog around the neighborhood. (“You be sure you’re bundled up, cookie, you get a chill on top of that cold, it could turn real serious,” Mr. Contreras once again adjured me.)

When we got back, I did feel better. It’s sometimes hard to believe that motion does you more good than bed; I hoped my looser muscles would get me through the day.

Lotty Herschel called to remind me we were having dinner together tonight: we have a standing date once a month to make sure we don’t lose track of each other. “Yes, I can hear you’re under the weather, my dear, but I see more germs in an hour than you could possibly shed on me, so unless you’re too unwell to go out come and have some company to cheer you.”

Her dry, wry concern was a good tonic. I dressed quickly, in a greenand-black-striped trouser suit that I liked: it was professional but had a bit of style in the jacket waist.

Down at my office, I started my calls with one to Darraugh, so I could report on his mother’s early morning alarm. Darraugh was in New York, but his assistant said she would make sure he knew the sheriff’s deputies hadn’t found any signs of a breakin. She added that they’d already heard twice from Ms. Graham (“She wasn’t sure you understood the urgency of the assignment, but I assured her that Mr. Graham has full confidence in your abilities.”)

“I can’t get a handle on what Marcus Whitby was doing out there,” I told Caroline. “Jerry Hastings, the DuPage County ME, only did a superficial autopsy. It would be helpful if we could pin down the cause of death more exactly than drowning-if we could even make sure Marcus Whitby drowned in that water. Do you think Darraugh would be willing to call Dr. Hastings? Hastings won’t respond to a Chicago PI, but-you know how the world goes. Darraugh’s family has been prominent in DuPage for a long time.” “I’ll mention it to him when we next talk,” Caroline promised.

I next phoned Harriet Whitby at the Drake. I explained that besides

trying a strategy to buy time on the release of Marc’s body, I was also trying to get someone to push on the DuPage ME to do a more complete autopsy. “In case neither of these ideas pan out, you should get your mother to agree to a private autopsy”

“I guess I can try,” she said, without a lot of enthusiasm. “What else will you be doing?”

“I’m going over to Llewellyn Publishing, see if they’ll tell me what your brother was working on when he died. They’ve been stonewalling the press, but they might tell me since I’m working for you. I’m going to be in motion all day; take my cell phone number so you can call me if you need to-especially if Amy finds someone to let us into your brother’s house. How long will you be in town?”

“It all depends on Mother,” she said. “If I can persuade her to slow down… but she’d like to hold the funeral on Friday or Saturday.”

I offered to talk to her mother myself, but Harriet still didn’t think that would be a good idea. “It’s not as if there’s any evidence of, well, that there was anything wrong, except for him being out there to begin with. Unless you find something concrete, she’s not going to listen. She’s determined to believe it was a tragic accident.” She let out a harsh squawk of a laugh. “Maybe I’m just doing the opposite, pretending he didn’t die for no reason at all.”

“Let’s not worry about your motives right now,” I said gently. “The questions you’re asking deserve answers.”

Before going to Llewellyn Publishing, I wrapped up the work I needed to do on my three small jobs. I also looked up Marcus Whitby’s previous work. His stories for T-Square had centered on African-American writers and artists: Shirley Graham, Ann Perry, Lois Mailou Jones, the Federal Negro Theater Project of the thirties. He had detailed the rise, fall and current resurgence of Bronzeville-the South Side neighborhood where he’d bought a house-as a way of showcasing Richard Wright’s Chicago years. Whitby had occasionally written for Rolling Stone, and had done a recent piece on a young black writer whose first novel had made a big splash a year or so back. About ten years ago, Whitby wrote a biting essay on his arrest and imprisonment during an antiapartheid demonstration in Massachusetts. So that was how he’d picked up a sheet: he didn’t have any other arrests on his record that I could see.

Before I could get out the door, Murray Ryerson phoned, hoping I knew something about Whitby that hadn’t been in any of the official material.

“He had on an Oxxford suit,” I said helpfully. “I think the shoes were Johnston & Murphy, but I’m not a hundred percent sure.”