Sara Paretsky - Blacklist

I fished a card out of my briefcase. “Warshawski. If you know Mr. Llewellyn, do you think he’d be willing to talk to you about what Marcus Whitby was working on?”

She gave a grim smile. “The fact that my husband helped him get financing doesn’t make him an automatic ally of mine, but if I have time I’ll try to call him.”

Elsbetta appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Renee, excuse me, a man is calling from a television station. Are you wanting to talk to him?”

Ms. Bayard cocked her head to one side. “You don’t know what it’s about, Elsbetta? No?” She brushed Catherine’s forehead with her fingertips and steamed out of the room as quickly as she had entered it.

“Your grandmother has a lot of energy,” I remarked. “Running a publishing house and looking after you-I couldn’t do it.”

“No one wants you to,” Catherine said. “You can stop bugging me now and go home.”

“I think I should give you a tip first. For Vineleaves.” I sat down again, facing her. “You told your grandmother a lie about Darraugh Graham and-no, don’t interrupt-it’s one she can easily check. The two of them know each other; when she asks him if he referred you to me, Darraugh will be astonished and he won’t bother to hide it.”

She flushed. “You could ask him to say I had called.”

“Why would I want to do that for a girl who’s been lying to me and stiffing me? I admit I terrified you by tackling you Sunday night, but I still don’t know why you were at Larchmont Hall the same night that Marcus Whitby died there.”

“It was a coincidence,” she muttered. “Can’t you believe that?”

“Not really. You’re a pretty accomplished liar-your grandmother, who’s known you your whole life, believes what you’re saying.” In the background behind us the phone kept ringing, and then the doorbell.

Catherine’s mouth set in a mutinous line. “I did not know this man was out there dead. And I never heard of Marcus Whitby, just because he was on the local news, which I don’t watch. And I am not the person he was meeting out there.”

“So who were you meeting at Larchmont?”

“That isn’t any of your business. Believe what you want, be with the sex police if you want, I’m not going to tell you.” Panic was rising in her voice. “There is someone in the old Graham house. And you know a way in that doesn’t trigger the alarms. What is it, I wonder?”

“You’re wrong, there’s no one in the house. If old Mrs. Graham thinks there is-she’s almost a hundred and she can hardly see.”

“She’s not blind, she’s just nearsighted, and she’s by no means deranged. And after talking to her, and talking to you, well, if she said your hair was green, I’d believe her before I believed you telling me it was brown.”

I paused, hoping she’d blurt out something-her flushed, turbulent face showed she wasn’t used to being called a liar. After a moment, I went on. “You wouldn’t have to meet a boyfriend there. As clever as you are about jumping out of fire escapes, if you wanted to see someone your grandmother didn’t like you’d find an easier way to do it, unless there was a thrill attached… Is that how you get into Larchmont? You shinny up a drainpipe or something to reach a third-floor window that doesn’t have the alarm system wired to it?”

“No. Is that what you would do?” She had her arms crossed, the very portrait of a hostile teenager, but it felt to me more like a pose than a real act. “Whoever you’re meeting, you don’t want your grandmother to know, because you tap-danced your way mighty fast past anyplace where she’d ask a question. She’s obviously proud of you and your strong beliefs. I guess I’d have to find out what would hit her the wrong way. I can’t imagine drugs, since even if you were a user you’d have an easier place to score than that.” I got to my feet. “It’s a puzzle, and puzzles make me curious, even when they aren’t my business. When they may be-and I don’t have any way of knowing this one isn’t-well, then I keep digging.”

Catherine scrunched up her face. “One night last summer when I couldn’t sleep, I saw my grandfather going through the woods. I followed him and he was going over to Larchmont-that was after the nounous moved out. I don’t know why he had a key, I guess from when the Grahams lived there and they were all good friends, but he was letting himself in. And-and I went in after him. So Sunday when I couldn’t sleep I went in to his room to see if he was sleeping-Gran had gone back to Chicago because she had an early meeting Monday, but my first class wasn’t until ten. Anyway, Grample, my grandfather, wasn’t in his room, so I just thought I’d go see if he was over at Larchmont. It’s a private place to talk. Out at our house, you know, someone on the staff is always around and it’s hard to be private.”

“Right.” I smiled affably. “And last night when you couldn’t sleep, you drove out to Larchmont to find your grandfather and talk to him. Privately, I mean.”

Her flush deepened, but before she could say anything, Renee Bayard sailed back into the room. “Trina, something unexpected happened: Olin Taverner has died and the local television stations want to talk to me. I don’t know how long it will take, so we won’t be able to have dinner together. Elsbetta will lay something out for you in the kitchen.”

“No, I want to hear you do your stuff, Gran. I hope he was writhing in agony.”

Oh. Olin Taverner. He’d been senior counsel to Walker Bushnell, the Illinois congressman who’d been HUAC’s point man in going after Calvin Bayard all those years ago. Catherine had presumably grown up on tales of him as the family villain.

Renee put her hands on her granddaughter’s shoulders. “Darling, you absolutely must not say that in public. And in public includes in front of strangers. We rise-“

“Above these things so that no one can tell from our public face that they matter to us,” Catherine finished in chorus with her.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I admired your husband’s work so much that after he spoke to my Constitutional Law class, I got a job as an intern at the Bayard Foundation.”

Renee ignored me, telling her granddaughter that she was going over to

Channel 13 to do a segment for their post-news discussion show, Chicago Talks. “You can sit in, but you cannot butt in. Do you understand, Trina? It’s very important.”

“Don’t worry, Gran. Even if you start saying that Olin Taverner was a well-respected member of the bar, I won’t barf or anything on camera.,, “You need to show your guest out: I have to leave for the studio in ten minutes. I told them it was now or never, because I’m determined to get to the parents’ meeting at Vina Fields.”

“We were done anyway, Grant” Catherine hopped up from her ottoman.

“That’s right,” I smiled again, holding out my card. “You need my address, though, as well as my name and phone number, so that you can follow up on your interview. And send me a copy of the finished piece.”

“Yeah, sure,” Catherine mumbled, shooing me down the hall before I could say anything else in front of her grandmother.

I left the Bayard apartment feeling confused and annoyed. My mood wasn’t improved by the bright orange envelope on my car-another fifty dollars, this time for leaving the front end across a yellow line. A hundred and one dollars so far today in parking fees. I could have screamed in frustration. My eyes and joints ached from my cold, which made it hard for me to think clearly. I pulled the lever to recline the driver’s seat as far as it would go and leaned back with my eyes shut.