Sara Paretsky - Blacklist

Edwards smacked his chair arm impatiently. “The FBI are confident that Sadawi killed Whitby.”

“I told you in the hospital that their theory overlooks a number of important facts. Some of which you know better than L”

Edwards fell silent at that nasty reminder of his housebreaking.

“If you don’t believe in the police version of this journalist’s death, do you have any information yourself about why he went to Larchmont Hall?” Renee asked me.

“I know he visited Olin Taverner, I guess ten days ago. I know Taverner showed him some secret papers which he claimed would make the Hollywood Ten look like Goldilocks and the Three Bears. But I don’t know what was in the papers, and, now that Mr. Taverner is dead, we may never know-since someone broke in and stole them.”

“And neither the magazine nor his family had any inkling of what took Whitney to New Solway?” Renee persisted.

“Whitby,” I corrected her. “I’m assuming it had to do with the dancer Kylie Ballantine-Whitby was interested in her.”

“Oh, yes, the dancer,” Edwards said, a spiteful undertone to his voice. “One of Father’s special projects, wasn’t she, Mother?”

“As you say, Eds,” Renee spoke quietly, but her brows contracted again. “It was good that he was in a financial position to help her out.”

“I’ve always been happy we could support her,” his mother said with more energy. “Like so many black artists of the thirties and forties, she suffered terribly. And she was a gifted researcher as well as an artist.”

“Yes, by the fifties the press was in good shape financially. Father could give her a legitimate advance on a book instead of a handout. And now Whitby wanted to write a book about her.”

“He did?” I said. “How did you know that?”

He looked uncomfortable for a moment, then said, “I thought that was what you said. I must have jumped to a conclusion.”

Renee changed the subject. “You said you had dredged the pond where this unfortunate Mr. Whitney died. Did you find anything that was helpful?” “Whitby,” I corrected again. “Odds and ends. A lot of broken china-I wondered if Geraldine Graham threw a piece in whenever she was upset with her mother. And I found an old wooden mask, the kind of piece Kylie Ballantine collected when she was in Gabon. Oddly enough, the mask had vanished when I went back to collect my findings.”

Renee looked absently at her empty cup. “Perhaps the sheriff’s men seized it as evidence, or maybe it got kicked into the pond when they were racing around. Why didn’t you take it with you to begin with?”

I smiled. “I was freezing. I caught cold Sunday night getting Mr. Whitby’s body out of that wretched water and I didn’t want to get sick all over again. I went to a motel to change into something warm and dry and then got sidetracked with all the excitement over young Benjamin Sadawi. When I finally remembered to return to the pond, that mask was gone.”

“Was that one of the ones Dad bought from Kylie Ballantine?” Edwards asked.

“More than likely,” his mother said. “It was part of how he helped Kylie. He insisted that everyone in New Solway have one. It was the year we were married; I remember the party where he brought the masks out of his study and persuaded even the Fellittis and Olin to buy one.”

“So was that when Ms. Graham acquired hers?” I asked.

Renee paused. “Probably. It was over forty years ago and I still couldn’t tell most of those people apart. I remember Calvin’s glee at forcing Olin to buy one. Of course I knew Olin, because I had done volunteer work for Calvin’s defense in Washington-that was how we met.”

Her mouth twisted in a sad smile. “Eager young women like me coming down to Washington on the train, typing speeches and press releases for the people under investigation. Congress could draw on an open-ended budget, but Calvin-“

“Only had his private fortune to pay his bills,” Edwards interrupted. “Or was it a fortune at that time? Or was it private? Perhaps he had qualms about that, so he used his charm on eager college girls like you, Mother.”

Renee Bayard gave her son a bone-shattering look but didn’t respond. This was the second time Edwards had implied that his father’s fortune was shaky, perhaps illusory, and the second time that his mother had cut his comments short, but neither of them spoke. I didn’t know how to push the matter further, so I returned to the mask in the pond.

“Even if Ms. Graham only bought African art to please Mr. Bayard, I can’t picture her throwing it into the pond to be rid of it. Would her mother have done that?”

Renee swallowed a smile. “Laura Drummond didn’t like African art, and she was never shy with her opinions: she thought she spoke for Jehovah on everything from marriage to, well, masks. But I can’t imagine her throwing anything, even African art, into her pond: she valued decorum more than anything else. Perhaps Geraldine did it to show Calvin how much she disapproved of his bringing his child bride home to New Solway.”

I remembered Geraldine Graham’s comment, that she had felt sorry for Renee Bayard, until she saw how well Renee could take care of herself. As if echoing that thought, Edwards pushed himself to his feet. “I’m sure whatever happened, she was no match for you, Mother. I’m going back to the hospital. That guard doesn’t seem reliable to me. I don’t know where you found him, but I’m going to get Spadona to set us up with a better service tomorrow. I want to be in the room in case he lets in cops from some jurisdiction. You and Calvin may have persuaded Trina to reject my values, but she’s still my daughter, not yours. And I still love her.” “Darling, we disagree about far too many things, but we agree about cherishing Catherine. I’ll come along later, but you should have time alone with her, and I want a last word with Ms.-I’m sorry, I’m usually better with names.”

I followed Edwards out of the room. When Renee called out sharply that she had more to say to me, I said, “In a minute,” over my shoulder. “You and I need to talk before the day is over.”

Edwards tried to brush me off me off, but I forced him to face me. He scowled, started to protest, then realized he’d better make the best of the situation. He agreed to meet me in my office at four.

When I returned to her room, Renee had moved to the deep leather armchair behind her desk. I helped myself to water from a pitcher on the trolley and looked at the prints on the wall. Most were cover art from notable books published by Bayard Publishing. A Tale of Two Countries held pride of place above Renee’s desk, with an inscription “To the Boy Genius” from “the weary old man, Armand Pelletier” I guess it was supposed to be a joke-Pelletier was only a dozen years older than Calvin Bayard himself when Calvin took on the press’s first nonreligious novel.

“I’d rather speak to your face than your back,” Renee said.

I pulled up a chair to face her. “When we first met last Wednesday, I mentioned to you that I worked for the Bayard Foundation during law school because of my admiration for your husband’s work. When did your son start holding such very different views?”

“It was one of those things,” she said. “It started as an adolescent rebellion that hardened into adult intransigence.”

I made a sour face. “You are at least as agile as I at dancing away from questions you don’t want to answer.”

“I’m not subtle-I’d quell you when you asked intrusive questions, not dance around you, if I didn’t want your cooperation. You wouldn’t have betrayed a confidence with Edwards in the room, since it’s obvious that he supports the attorney general’s efforts to round up every Arab in the country for questioning. But now that we’re alone, you can tell me where this Arab boy is. I feel certain that you know.”