Gail Bowen - The Endless Knot

I stepped closer. “What is he doing, Charlie?”

Charlie shrugged his thin shoulders. “Playing the hero. Taking the rap because he thinks I’m involved in what happened to Kathryn Morrissey.”

“Are you?”

“I didn’t kill her, Jo. My father should have more faith in me. Of course, that would involve understanding what I’m capable of, and he barely knows me.”

“So are you going to step forward and tell the truth?”

Charlie’s laugh was bitter. “Who do you suggest I talk to, Jo? The cops? How interested are they going to be in hearing that I didn’t kill Kathryn Morrissey? My father? You tell me I’m not allowed to see him. Not that it would make any difference if I did. As always, my father has made up his mind about what needs to be done and he’s doing it.”

“Why do you hate him so much?” I said.

“I don’t hate him. I came over today because I think this hero act of his is idiotic, and I was hoping somehow to communicate that to him. But since that appears to be impossible, I’ll be off …”

I glanced down at Charlie’s feet. He was wearing hiking boots that looked as if they’d just come out of the box. “Nice shoes,” I said. “Are they new?”

“As a matter of fact they are.”

“Did you get them in town?”

“On the Internet. I’ve got these freakish long, skinny feet. Anyway, I can give you the website if you want.”

“Sure.” I stepped closer to him. “Charlie, I was there when you were born. I hate the way things are with you and your father, but I haven’t stopped caring about you.”

Charlie nodded. “Right,” he said. “I’ll call my father’s lawyer and see if I can get her to deliver my little message.”

“Good.”

He leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Take care of yourself, Jo.”

The morning newspaper was filled with news of Howard’s arrest. For his trip to police headquarters, Howard chose to wear his scarlet toque with its pattern of elves at play. Margot wore leather. In the photo splashed on the front page, they made a striking couple.

Taylor and I had breakfast, then I dropped her off at school and went down to NationTV to see what I could find out. When I arrived, Rapti was across the newsroom chatting with a colleague. I went to her cubicle and, while I waited, looked around for any new photos of Zuben.

“I haven’t got our Halloween photos developed yet,” Rapti said when she returned. “Zuben went as a cat.”

“I wish you’d come to our place.”

“Next year,” Rapti said. She reached back and knotted her shining black hair into a ponytail. “So have you got something for me?”

“No. I was hoping you had something for me. Have the police found out anything more about that footprint they found in the alley?”

“Just that it was no big deal. It came from one of the shoes that poor kid – Ethan – was wearing when he found his mother’s body. Apparently he tried to revive her and he got pretty bloody. He took his clothes out to the Dumpster. I guess he was in shock. Anyway, my source says the footprint is insignificant.”

I stood up to leave. “Thanks,” I said. “Would it be a problem if I pass this along to Howard Dowhanuik’s lawyer?”

Rapti shook her head. “Be my guest. She probably already knows. And, Jo, stay in touch. Jill will want a backgrounder on Howard Dowhanuik.”

“I’m around,” I said.

Margot Wright wasn’t on my speed dial, so I called Zack. “The footprint is a non-starter,” I said. “The police say it belongs to Ethan.”

“I’ll tell Margot,” Zack said.

“And now that it no longer matters,” I said, “tell her that Charlie’s feet are long and freakishly skinny. Also, Charlie’s going to get in touch with her. He wants to send a message to his father.”

“Hmm,” Zack said. “Progress.”

“I hope so.”

“You sound kind of down.”

“Just fresh out of optimism,” I said.

“Then, let’s talk about something nice. What should I get Taylor for her birthday?”

“Well, let’s see, I think I covered the ‘A List’: a box of Kolonok Art Brushes that, Taylor tells me, are the best, a new journal, some frilly underwear, and a book about Diego Rivera. She did mention she’d like a mani-pedi at Head to Toe.”

“What’s a mani-pedi?”

“A manicure and a pedicure. The mani-pedi comes with an assortment of chocolate truffles – very decadent.”

“If that’s what Taylor wants, that’s what she shall have.”

“I hope it’s always like this for her,” I said.

“Me too,” Zack said. “She’s a great kid and I love that we’re going to be a family. Now, gotta go. Got to do something to pay for that mani-pedi.”

I spent the day working on my book. My visit to Beverly Parker’s church had given me fresh insight into the new values war, and raised provocative questions about how politically combative the conservative movement in our country might become. Zack was home at six to have dinner with Taylor and me. He was gone again by eight, and I worked on my book until bedtime. Life had a pattern, and I was grateful.

On the morning of Taylor’s birthday, I went in to give her a nuzzle before Willie and I took off on our run. She rolled over and smiled without opening her eyes. “Happy birthday,” I said. “You smell good. What is that perfume you’re wearing?”

“Gracie made it. It’s a mixture of patchouli oil, lavender, and something else I can’t remember.”

“Gracie makes perfume?”

“There a store on 13th Avenue that has all the stuff. You just give them the person’s perfume profile, and they help you pick out what you need.”

“What’s a perfume profile?”

Taylor propped her chin on her elbow and yawned. “Three words that describe the person. My words were ‘artistic,’ ‘independent,’ and ‘loving.’ Gracie and Isobel chose them.”

“Gracie and Isobel were right on the money,” I said. I started out of the room. Then obeying an impulse, I came back and put my arms around my daughter.

She yawned. “I had an idea for the mural in the new house.”

“Want to tell me?”

“It’s a secret – but I’ve made some little paintings – just trying things out.”

“Good. Willie and I are going for our run – be back in an hour.”

“Mmmm.” Taylor burrowed deeper into her covers and went back to sleep.

I took her gifts downstairs, put them on her breakfast plate, then hooked Willie’s leash to his collar. It was November 11, Remembrance Day, and the morning was cool, misty, and silent. Willie and I circled the lake. By the time we came to the legislature, the army trucks were bringing in the ancient cannons that would be fired at eleven o’clock, shots through history that froze the marrow.

Taylor’s gifts were still wrapped and on the table when I got back. She was sleeping in, and why not when it was her birthday and a holiday to boot? After I’d showered and dressed, I came downstairs, made myself a bowl of yogurt and blueberries, picked up the newspaper, and prepared myself for the rare adventure of breakfasting alone.

It was close to eight o’clock when Zack called, asking if there were last-minute guests to add to the reservation list for dinner. Taylor had decided she wanted to go out for ribs on her birthday, and Zack needed to know if we wanted a bigger table.

I called upstairs to Taylor, and when she didn’t answer, I ran up to her room. She wasn’t there. I checked her bathroom. It was empty.

I picked up the extension by Taylor’s bed. I had left the phone in the kitchen off the hook, and I could hear the chalk-screech dissonance of Hindemith’s Mathis der Maler in the background. “I can’t find her,” I said.