Indelible Beats: An Abishag's Second Mystery (Abishag Mysteries Book 2) Page 5

  Instead he seemed most astonished about Sebastian showing up on Christmas Eve.

  Really? Murder, forgery, no lunch, and he chose Sebastian?

  Dog pelted down the stairs to talk to him. I gave Jordan an earful about the vagaries of men, and when I ran out of steam, pulled a book from the small case near the bed. I’d seen Dickens’ A Christmas Carol earlier, and I needed it now.

  I read aloud. Not because Jordan resembled the towering, silent specter of The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come as I distinctly informed him. During my formative years, my parents left me with my grandparents over the holidays. I reveled in the season as my grandparents had.

  We always read A Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve, each taking our favorite parts. I played Belle of course, but I did a credible Tiny Tim and always made Grandma shiver with my rendition of Jacob Marley dragging chains. Till he fell too ill, Grandpa read Fezziwig. For years I thought Charles Dickens had modeled Fezziwig after my grandfather. Fezziwig was so like him that I still sobbed when I read: “It's old Fezziwig. It's old Fezziwig alive again.”

  Despite the presence of the book on his shelf, I didn’t know if Jordan knew the story, so I periodically interrupted the reading with commentary or a memory about my grandparents or to show him an illustration, admonishing him that, though it was no Glottal Stop, it was still a fine picture.

  I so lost myself in reading to Jordan that when something scraped at the bedroom door, exactly when I read of the clock striking midnight while Scrooge waited in dread for the next ghost, that I shrieked and threw the book across the room.

  It fell far short of where Sebastian stood.

  Grinning, he retrieved it and handed it to me. “Don’t stop on my account. I’m enjoying it.”

  Ungraciously I set the book aside. “Why are you still here?” Automatically I scanned Jordan’s monitors, checked my watch, wondered where Dog was, and brooded again over Harvey’s absence.

  Sebastian dragged a chair closer to Jordan’s bed. He stared pensively at Jordan, and I was reminded of him sitting with his Granddad in the days before he died. “Kat and Dog are eating lunch,” he said. “We came up with a plan, and I volunteered to update you.”

  I brightened. “There’s lunch? Harvey came back?”

  “He’s still missing. I made lunch.”

  “Why?”

  His lips twitched. “We got hungry, and apparently I’m the only one who knows how to turn on a stove.”

  I slipped my hand into Jordan’s, rubbing his thumb gently. Touch was important therapy for the comatose. “I meant why—”

  When Sebastian didn’t let me finish my thought, I looked up and saw his gaze on our hands.

  “Listen, Dog’ll be here in a minute, and I still need to tell you what’s going on. Kat thinks that Harvey’s the one who forged the painting. She even thinks that he killed Jordan. Nonsense, of course. Harv’s kind of wimpy and more scared of needles than Jordan. But something is going on. I saw a lot of Jordan after Granddad died, and it didn’t make sense when Harv told me about the drug overdose. Now something’s spooked him. And Kat seems to think Jordan’s most famous painting is a forgery.”

  “Sebastian, is it because—”

  He held up his hand. In a stern voice, although his eyes twinkled, he said, “Please hold all questions to the end. Where was I? Right, the forgery. Kat’s called your landlord. Apparently he’s some sort of art expert?”

  “He fences stolen paintings,” I said.

  I had to give Sebastian credit—he never blinked. “I guess that would make him an expert. He’s flying a private plane to Mexico tonight and agreed to stop at the local airport here on the way down. He should arrive before dinner.”

  “Dinner! Who’s making that?”

  Sebastian continued. “I am. This is the deal. Joss Royce will be here in an hour, and we’ve decided not to tell him about the painting.”

  “We decided—”

  He raised his hand again, his gaze straying to my fingers patting Jordan’s chest. “We don’t want to alarm Joss unnecessarily. Kat could be wrong.” He smiled ruefully. “Don’t tell her I said that. I’m scared of her.”

  His smile faded. “Aaron Cochrane’s downstairs now. He asked to see you.”

  I stood, my hand squeezing Jordan’s shoulder. Sebastian, his gaze brooding on Jordan’s face, didn’t move.

  “Does he want to see Jordan?” I asked.

  Sebastian shrugged. “He asked for you.”

  I hesitated at the door. “Sebastian, why—”

  “I never met Jordan’s lawyer before,” Sebastian said, not hearing me. “Dog said he was here last night when you arrived. But I never saw him any time that I stopped by. We decided not to tell him about the forgery as he might be a suspect.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “They were best friends,” I protested. “For like thirty years.”

  Sebastian shook his head, finally looking at me. “If he’s Jordan’s best friend, then that’s sad. Really sad.”

  “Sebastian,” I said, frowning at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I told you, checking on Granddad’s house—”

  “No, I mean why are you still here? In Jordan’s house? Why get involved with Kat’s crazy theories? It’s Christmas Eve. You weren’t that close to Jordan, were you?”

  He smiled crookedly. “He taught me art using potatoes,” he said, numbering reasons on his fingers. “Granddad and he were friends. Something fishy is going on. I don’t like vultures who prey on the weak, especially not Jordan and his life’s work.” His chocolate brown eyes melted into a smile. “Besides it’s Christmas, and I should be with family. You are my step-grandmother.”

  “Fine,” I said, crossly. “Don’t tell me. Would you stay with Jordan till Dog gets back? I shouldn’t make Aaron wait.”

  I barely noted Sebastian’s nod or his hand on Jordan’s. Negotiating the stairs as quickly as I could, I found Aaron pacing shakily in the living room. Someone (Dog?) had laid a fire that crackled merrily in the fireplace. Another room with nothing on the walls, but someone (Harvey?) had hung a garland of evergreen that filled the room with the smell of Christmas.

  “Aaron, it’s good to see you. Jordan’s still with us, but I suppose Dog—Douglas—” I remembered belatedly I wasn’t supposed to be so familiar with the hospice aide. “Douglas should be the one to brief you on his medical status.”

  When Aaron leaned down to peck me absentmindedly on the cheek, I smelled alcohol. “You are a good Abishag, my dear. I’m sure Ip’s only lasted this long because of you.”

  I felt my cheeks warm. “Doctor Millerand said he might last till Christmas. It’s not uncommon—”

  “The good doctor Millerand.” Aaron’s face hardened. “He won’t be shedding any tears when Ip passes.”

  I stared at Aaron, alarmed. His slurring voice simmered with rage. I remembered that bears are the most dangerous animal in the forest. Goldilocks had almost been eaten by three of them.

  I stepped back. “Would you like some coffee, Mister Cochrane? Maybe some fruitcake?” I tried to remember if they made fruitcake with brandy. Why hadn’t Sebastian mentioned that Jordan’s lawyer was drunk?

  “It’s Aaron,” he said reproachfully. “Please. And my good friend Jordan Ippel, maybe the finest artist living today, maybe of all time, is dying by degrees upstairs. Stupid, stupid waste.”

  He exhaled, and I took another step back when the high-octane gale swept over me. “So, no, dear, no coffee for me. I had some Christmas eggnog for breakfast and will probably have some more for lunch.” A large tear trickled down his cratered face. “It’s the only way I can cope. Don’t think less of me, dear.”

  I struggled to keep my temper. What an ugly way to support a dying friend. Sebastian was right—if Aaron was Jordan’s closest friend, then Jordan had been royally cheated.

  “I think you’d better go, Aaron.” I tried to be polite. An Abishag was unfailingly polite. “We appreciate you stopping by.” I g
ingerly took him by an elbow and tried to lead him to the front door.

  “Doctor Millerand…” Aaron’s face darkened again. “He never forgave Ip for stealing his wife.”

  I dropped his elbow. “What?”

  He nodded with satisfaction. “That’s right. Doctor Millerand’s first wife left him for Jordan. Bless him but Jordan was good to her, took her in, married her when the divorce was final, held no grudge when she left him for that art critic five months later. Settled a nice amount of money on her. I handled their divorce. Handled all his affairs.”

  He started to sob again.

  This time when I took his arm, I towed him determinedly to the door. “Stay here for a minute, Aaron. I’ll have Kat drive you home.”

  He grimaced. “Probably for the best, dear.”

  Before heading for the kitchen, I stalled and shot Aaron a puzzled look. “How could Doctor Millerand remain Jordan’s doctor after…after what Jordan did?”

  Aaron leaned against the front door. “I never understood it myself, but Millerand remarried and seemed happier for it. After Talia left Jordan, Ip and he reconciled. Doesn’t make sense to me, but people puzzle me no end.”

  I could agree with that.

  Kat rolled her eyes when I told her the situation. Dog passed her his keys, and she shrugged into her serape. “I’ll hurry, but Royce will probably arrive before I get back.”

  “I’ll ply him with coffee and fruitcake till you do,” I said. “Now go.”

  I grazed at the lunch spread: pea soup and rye bread sandwiches from thick slices of ham, swiss cheese and hothouse tomatoes. Sebastian would make some girl a terrific boyfriend.

  When the doorbell rang, I wiped sweet, hot mustard off my chin and showed Royce to the living room. I poured us both coffee spiced with nutmeg, vanilla and cinnamon. Maybe we housemates knew nothing about cooking, but we did know how to make coffee.

  A little man of middle years with a bald dome and a brow like Abraham Lincoln’s, Royce moved so quickly and deftly that I furtively checked his shoes, half-expecting to see what elves wore at the North Pole. He didn’t have pointy slippers, and his jolly face and sideways glances got on my nerves. He had scheming eyes.

  “Kathmandu shouldn’t be long. Would you like to see Jordan while you wait?”

  He shuddered delicately. “I think not. That husk of a man isn’t the Jordan I knew, and I’d like not to taint my memories of him.”

  I hunted for another topic and found a dangerous one. “So you’re an expert of his art, yes?”

  He laughed, a tinkling, artificial laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, dear me, no. I haven’t the faintest notion of such things. Over the years, I’ve learned the language of the business, but I think Jordan preferred me to remain ignorant of art itself, don’t you see?”

  I didn’t, which Royce recognized in one of his darting glances. “I could absolutely drench him with flattery over some work of his, which both of us knew was total flummery, and he’d accept it. You see, he had no love of his art, always doubted his genius. The teeniest compliment would throw him into a tizzy of self-loathing. Last year, a salon magazine published a tepid review of a new piece—so he burned the painting.” He studied his loafers and stifled a yawn. “Bad luck that. It would have fetched a nice sum now that he’s dead.”

  I gasped. “Mister Royce, Jordan is not dead.”

  “Near enough,” he said, checking his watch. “Off life support, isn’t he? Has an Abishag, and you all don’t show up till there’s no hope, right? Pardon my directness, young lady, but we businessmen speak plainly.”

  My sympathy for Jordan deepened. He’d definitely not been lucky in his friends, though I had a suspicion he’d never called Joss Royce “friend.”

  “Where is this young lady who Aaron says will help me crate the paintings for the museum?”

  “Driving Aaron home.” I tried to come up with a subtle way to ask about forgeries.

  “Drinking again? Well, one could scarce blame him, eh?”

  I frowned. “I personally found it extremely unprofessional,” I said icily before I remembered that Abishags don’t comment on the behavior of family or close friends. Rule 39.

  Royce only laughed. “Dear Aaron doesn’t know professional. How could he? Jordan Ippel is his only client of note. Once Jordan dies, Aaron’s other clients will abandon him in droves. He’s something of a bumbler and been riding Jordan’s coattails for ages.”

  Feeling ire rise even further, I silently wished Kat home. When I just then heard the familiar slam of the Saab door, I breathed a sigh of relief. “She’s back, Mister Royce.”

  He rose with alacrity while I collected our cups. “I don’t suppose you know how to contact Harvey Kassem?” I asked.

  Bouncing impatiently on his toes, he sniggered. “Has our dear houseboy disappeared? Small loss, yes? Not even sure what the lad did around here. Then again, not surprising, considering his youth, that he’s turned irresponsible, don’t you think? Present company being the exception, of course. I hear Abishags are rigorously trained and that only the most loyal are accepted.”

  He made us sound like the family dog.

  “We are certified and licensed,” I said, wishing that someone from Jordan’s past would exhibit a basic understanding of devotion. “So you don’t know how to contact Harvey?”

  He shrugged. “I have his cell number, of course, but you have that also? I thought so. Most knew no way to contact Jordan other than through Harvey. I never heard the young man mention a life outside this house, even lives in that sordid little hole in the garage since he came here to work. Perhaps just as well that he took off in the eleventh hour, so to speak. He was soon out of a job anyway, right?”

  I ground my teeth but was saved from having to answer when Kat entered the house. “Thank God, you’re here,” I said with a little too much enthusiasm. “You two talked on the phone, yes? So I need not introduce you.” Yikes, I sounded like Royce.

  He wrung Kat’s hand. “Lovely to meet you, dear. I could have handled this myself, but what with all the grief over losing Jordan, I’ll gladly accept your help.”

  The old stinker. He was patently not grieving, but Kat didn’t know that.

  She squeezed his hand sympathetically. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I wanted to remind them that Jordan was still with us, but I needed to flee the scene. “Kat will show you to the studio. A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Of course, of course.” He’d already dismissed me and now scrutinized Kat with sneaky, sidelong looks. “You know much about art?”

  Kat’s response caused me to check my departure. “Not a thing,” she said airily. “But I’m a champion packer. Shall we begin?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “He did it.”

  I stifled a scream. I hadn’t expected to find Sebastian skulking in the dining room. “Did what?” I crossly tried to calm myself.

  “If Indelible Beats was forged, I think Royce made the substitution.” Sebastian followed me into the kitchen.

  “Because he’s a jerk?” I set the coffee cups in the sink.

  “He had access to Jordan’s works, and he works in the art world, so he’d know how to find someone to copy the painting. Him being a jerk makes it easier to turn him over to the police.”

  I slumped onto a kitchen stool. “You know this whole forgery-and-poisoning-Jordan thing is probably a fantasy, right? Kat has a vivid imagination when it comes to crimes.”

  He grinned. “She said the same thing about you, except about people not crimes.”

  I felt my cheeks warm. Why was Kat talking to Sebastian about me? I’d never known her to gossip about her friends’ foibles. “I know people,” I said stiffly. “Or at least enough about ’em to get by.”

  “Hmm.” He started washing the dishes.

  “You don’t need to do that. Kassem’s sure to return.”

  Suddenly grim, Sebastian shook his head. “I called my brother at his in-laws’ asked if h
e’d heard from Harvey. He hadn’t, but he told me something I didn’t know. That Harv had been a chemistry major in college and left after getting caught reproducing the ink they use in Mexican currency.”

  I gulped. “Do you think your grandfather knew? He recommended him to Jordan.”

  He nodded. “He knew. Duarte said Granddad believed a professor coerced Harvey into it and told Jordan so. Harv’s been working here for almost ten years and not a hint of any wrongdoing.”

  Duarte. Why could I never remember Thomas’s older grandson’s name while Sebastian’s I easily remembered?

  He put the last of the washed lunch dishes on the drain board. He’d entirely cleared the table while I entertained Royce. Sebastian pulled his weight and then some.

  “Let’s not worry about Kassem right now,” I said, knowing that wouldn’t stop us from worrying. “Our landlord will tell us if the painting’s a fake. Do you think we’ll have to feed him?”

  “No problem either way. I’ll whip up enough for everyone.”

  I felt a sudden rush of affection for him. “You are a lifesaver.”

  He shrugged modestly. “I’d planned a can of soup for Christmas Eve. This is better for me too.”

  For no reason I shivered, as if a ghost touched my neck. My gaze strayed to the window where I could see a corner of the studio. “Kat’s okay alone with Royce, right?”

  Sebastian chortled. “The better question is whether Royce is safe with Kat. No worries, Les. Kat knows how to take care of herself.”

  Unlike me. Then I smiled. He’d called me Les. Maybe he’d stop thinking of me as his step-grandmother.

  ***

  I left Sebastian poking through the pantry and returned to Jordan’s room. “How’s he doing?”