Sara Paretsky - Sisters on the Case

Why ask her-of all people-to come and speak at Sight and Sound: The Windsor Festival of the Arts, surrounded by poets, artists and scornful intellectuals. At least she wouldn’t run into any old friends, she thought grimly. If she went. No, she couldn’t. Still… She picked up the letter again. How much were they paying?

The hotel lobby was small and gleaming with polish on the brass and dark wood. The plump, pretty woman behind the desk greeted her with the enthusiasm of a long-lost friend and Kate wondered for a moment if she was. She looked at her again. Not a chance. When Kate had moved to Chicago, this bouncing creature hadn’t learned to ride a tricycle yet. She smiled and checked in.

‘‘I almost forgot, Ms. Brady,’’ said the desk clerk. ‘‘There’s a letter for you.’’

She walked into the dimly lit room, swung her suitcase up on the bed, and dropped her shoulder bag on the floor. She peered into the dimness for a light switch. ‘‘My God, Kate, you’re going blind,’’ she muttered and yanked back the heavy curtains covering one wall. Light flooded the room.

The window was the width of the room and overlooked the river. From where she stood, she could see all the way upriver to the bend in the east and down-river to the bridge and islands to the west. It was even better than the view from the tiny room in her grandmother’s attic. At that moment, as if it had timed its arrival for her benefit, a lake boat came into view, on its stately progress down from Lake Superior in the golden sunshine. During how many nights of her stormy childhood had the melancholy, reassuring sound of the lake boats’ foghorns lulled her to sleep? Her face softened. Maybe tonight there would be fog.

She turned and kicked her shoulder bag. ‘‘For chris-sake, Kate,’’ she muttered to herself. ‘‘You’re pathetic. In a minute you’ll be sobbing over this shitty town and all your shitty little friends. Friends. I bet they’re fat as pigs with six kids each, living on welfare.’’

Then she noticed that she was still clutching the letter.

‘‘Dear Estelle,’’ it began. She froze for a second, unable to think, hardly able to breathe. She took a deep breath and started reading again.

Welcome home! I was thrilled to discover that you had agreed to speak at Sight and Sound. I know you’ll be a great addition to the weekend’s entertainment. I’ve been following your career as closely as I could since we were all in school together. In those days, I admit, I worshipped you from afar. Alas, you’ve been even further from my grasp since then.

There is so much that I would like to talk to you about, and even more that I would like to tell the world about your varied talents.

I am writing an article about your life and exploitsfor the Star. If you wish to discuss what ought to go into it, meet me tonight at nine o’clock at the east end of the sculpture garden. There is a bench in between the four pillars standing alone and the plump, self-satisfied gentleman on the horse. A fitting spot, I thought. I will be there.

You still look pretty athletic these days. It’s not far from your hotel, and you’ll find there’s enough light for walking. E.

‘‘Who in hell is E.?’’ she said, crumpling up the paper and then smoothing it out again over her thighs.

The telephone rang and she jumped like a frightened cat. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said in a cracked, uncertain voice.

‘‘Ms. Brady? Kate Brady?’’

She murmured agreement.

‘‘Rob Martin, from the Sight and Sound committee. I hope you had a good trip. Look, most of the others came in yesterday and we laid on a dinner for them. We thought you deserved a good meal as well. How about tonight? Can I pick you up at the hotel at six thirty? Or have you made other plans?’’

It was like talking to a bulldozer. By the time he gave her a chance to answer, it was too late. She had agreed to meet him downstairs, said she would be wearing black with a red leather jacket, and hung up.

Rob Martin appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. He was balding slightly, but that suited his rangy, athletic-looking frame. His smile was friendly, his grey eyes cool and assessing. If he hadn’t been a little young for her, she might have considered him as possible-very possible-light relief during the next four days. She still might, she thought, glad that she had dressed with care.

‘‘Where are we going for dinner?’’ she asked, bracingherself for the worst. She couldn’t remember there being a whole lot of decent restaurants around here.

‘‘To the Art Gallery,’’ he said, with a quirky smile that-annoyingly-reminded her of someone.

‘‘Isn’t that carrying the idea of the weekend a bit far? Do we bring sandwiches and munch as we troop through the exhibits? Or are there benches to sit on?’’

‘‘There’s definitely someplace to sit,’’ he said coolly. ‘‘The gallery has a restaurant with interesting food, artistically presented, of course. I thought you might like it. If you prefer a burger somewhere, we can do that, too. But the Art Gallery is just along the street. We can walk there in two minutes.’’

Kate brooded over the menu, hovering between the venison espiritu and the duck breast vestido de fumar . ‘‘I have to admit that I wasn’t expecting this sort of food,’’ she said. ‘‘It doesn’t fit exactly with my image of the city.’’

‘‘Try the venison. It might change your image,’’ said Rob. ‘‘Ms. Brady will have the venison,’’ he murmured to the waitress. ‘‘And I’ll have the duck.’’ He turned back to Kate. ‘‘But haven’t people around here always appreciated good food?’’

‘‘Do you come from here?’’

‘‘I grew up in a town near London, came here to go to university and never left. What about you? Have you always lived in Chicago?’’

‘‘Winnetka,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s not quite Chicago. But it’s on the lake as well. I like living near water.’’

‘‘So do I,’’ he said. ‘‘Sometimes. It’s fascinating. It has its dark and destructive side, though, don’t you think?’’

The arrival of the wine relieved her from having to respond to that one.

Lunch had been a cup of coffee and the venison was superb. She ate everything on her plate except for a sprig of fresh herbs and the flower, and sat back, turning her wineglass around and around, staring at it. ‘‘Why invite me to speak?’’ she asked abruptly. ‘‘Along with the pretentious arty types. My junk doesn’t exactly fit the image. I write ‘bodice slashers,’ as my editor calls them-pink perfumed scary porn- to make a living.’’

‘‘We all have to make a living,’’ he said smoothly. ‘‘I suppose someone on the committee likes your books and thinks it’ll be fun to have you on the list. I don’t know. I’m a messenger boy, that’s all-not one of the powerhouses. Why did you come?’’

‘‘Curiosity, I suppose,’’ she said.

‘‘Killed the cat,’’ he replied with a lazy grin. ‘‘What are you up to tonight? I could take you around to the nightspots, or if you prefer, there’s a poetry reading at the Capitol Theatre.’’

‘‘I’d love to,’’ she said, injecting all the sincerity at her command into her voice, ‘‘but after driving all day and eating this spectacular dinner-you know, it really was terrific,’’ she added, in normal tones. ‘‘But I’m going for a walk along the river with a friend. Like I said, I have a thing about rivers.’’

‘‘I thought you didn’t know anyone here.’’

‘‘He’s from Detroit. I said I’d meet him at eight thirty.’’

Kate went back to her hotel room and put on the pale yellow outfit she wore for her daily two- to three-mile walks. It showed off her legs-still one of her real assets-making them look even longer than they were. She flicked a comb through her shiny hair, snapped her pouch with cab fare and room key around her waist, and set off.