Indelible Beats: An Abishag's Second Mystery (Abishag Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  Dog looked up from a thick medical book. “Fine for now. What’s happening downstairs?”

  I told him what I’d learned from Royce about Aaron and what Sebastian had disclosed about Kassem. I told him about Kat packing crates with Royce in the studio and Sebastian fixing dinner for us and our landlord.

  I looked expectantly at Dog, who shrugged. “I don’t know how long Stegner can stay.”

  I hoped he’d stay long enough to tell us something of his wicked life. I pictured him as an Indiana Jones but blonder, maybe taller, with a mess of pottery shards boosted from some Aztec ruin stashed in his backpack. Like Donovan, he’d have perfect hair, but he’d be older and more romantic in the “sweep you off your feet” sort of way.

  I hoped he’d have an Indiana Jones hat too.

  Dog left to get coffee. While I rubbed bergamot lotion into my hands, I stared out the window at the studio, wondering how long it would take for the paintings to be crated. A truck would arrive later to take the crates to the airport. I hoped Indiana Jones wouldn’t be late.

  Dragging the chair to Jordan’s bed, I set the Dickens’ book on the bedspread near his long fingers. Opening the book to the Ghost of Christmas Present, I smiled over the picture, thinking that if Aaron Cochrane ever wore mistletoe in his hair and a long green cloak edged in fur, he’d be a dead ringer for the ghost.

  When I read to Jordan about the Christmas cheer on Victorian streets of yore with their housetop snow shovellers, baskets of chestnuts, and steeple bells calling people to church and chapel, I could almost hear a foghorn from the bay echo in response and smell the fruitcake from downstairs. From the large porthole, I could see only the lavender-tipped jacaranda tree and houses trimmed with Christmas lights, but that didn’t matter. Years of reading Dickens with my grandparents made the heart of Christmas all about streets of snow and gaslight, carolers on every corner, bells jingling on the horse carriages, the smell of roasted goose wafting in the cold air, and shoppers hurrying home to their families.

  I knew nothing of art, and I suspected only art-people like Sebastian and Kat could see Jordan’s heart in his paintings. I could see his humor in his sculpted bushes. The squares of rocks in the front showed his quirkiness. What could I read into the blank walls in his house, hiring a counterfeiter for a housekeeper, or retaining a failure for a lawyer? Humility? Kindness? Foolishness? Maybe something sinister like criminal intent?

  Had Jordan created his own forgery? What an odd thought, but he was capable of it. Perhaps he needed the money. Staring thoughtfully at his long, bleak face, I smoothed the dark hair, so like crow feathers and lightly touched his hand. Victim or co-conspirator? If only I could stop the cyclone of doubts and concentrate on being Jordan’s Abishag wife.

  Hearing footsteps in the hall, I shelved A Christmas Carol and gently straightened my husband’s blanket across his chest. Jordan’s door didn’t open, but the one across the hall did. Maybe Kat was taking a break from crating. Maybe Dog was looking for a fatter medical book.

  Securing the blanket edges under the mattress, I tried picturing my parents in Sacramento, making their own preparations. I could see Dad working on his speech for the opening, Mom fussing with his suit, wondering if she should wear Grandma’s pearls or a simple gold chain to the reception. I wondered if they’d have room service for their Christmas Eve dinner or eat downtown, hoping they’d see someone important.

  The house beyond the studio twinkled with Christmas lights, and I suddenly missed my grandparents. We hadn’t spent Christmas together since Grandpa died three years ago last summer. Grandma sold the house, moved into a small, senior apartment and died in her sleep a few months later. The doctor said it was not unexpected at her age, but I believed she’d died of loneliness.

  I knew how she felt. I expected as a romantic rationalist and retired Abishag that I’d never have a Mister Fezziwig of my own.

  I looked at Jordan, lying still as a sepulcher, dying alone. He did have Dog and me, even if all of his old friends had either fled or counted him already dead. I gently squeezed his hand. Although I’d grown to feel that Thomas belonged to me, I didn’t feel that about Jordan yet. Since he had little time left, maybe I never would.

  I shut my eyes and tried to think calming thoughts, serene thoughts of water rippling on a pond, caterpillars inching along a leaf, a balmy breeze brushing against my face. When I opened my eyes, Jordan hadn’t changed, still drawn with an aching silence.

  “He’s yet with us.”

  I started. Somehow I hadn’t heard the doctor enter the house or climb the stairs. My cheeks flamed, embarrassed to be wallowing in loneliness while Jordan lay dying next to me.

  “Doctor Millerand.” I jumped from the chair. “I forgot you were dropping by.”

  Dressed in a Christmas sweater and smelling of peppermint, he looked less intimidating than the previous night. He moved to the monitors, checked Dog’s clipboard, and scribbled a few notes.

  Looking up, he asked, “You’ve done this before, correct?”

  “Been an Abishag wife before? Yes, once.”

  “Then you know what to expect.”

  What to expect? He probably meant what happened when someone died. What I hadn’t expected was forgeries, fleeing housekeepers, drunken lawyers, and a doctor treating the man who’d taken his wife.

  Brazenly, I said, “Aaron told me about your first wife, Doctor. Thank you for caring for Jordan in spite of it.”

  Doctor Millerand sighed and tapped the clipboard absently with his pen. “That was long ago. I’m happily married now. I wish Jordan had found someone too.”

  An extraordinarily compassionate thing to say about the man who’d betrayed him. He must have seen my incredulity as he smiled wryly.

  “I’m no saint, Miss Greene, but I suspect Jordan was.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He regarded me for a moment and then motioned to my chair, carrying the other chair to the foot of Jordan’s bed. “If I tell you the truth about Jordan, will you keep it confidential?”

  So the doctor would reveal another “truth” about Jordan Ippel? Maybe Jordan’s real artistry was in being a chameleon.

  “An Abishag is always discreet,” I said primly.

  He started talking so quickly that I think his long hidden truth had festered too long. “I had a brutal first marriage. My wife was eager to wed a doctor but hated my long working hours and having no social life. She began a vicious campaign at home to ensure that I’d never know a moment of peace. She had no interest in a divorce, although I offered her one many times. I suspect she cheated on me but couldn’t prove it.

  “I finally went to Jordan, who was between wives at the time. I told him the whole sordid mess of my marriage and asked him to seduce my wife. Yes, you may look at me like that, but I was desperate.”

  A sudden smile lit his face. “Jordan never blinked. He had a suave air about him, you know.”

  Suave? No one had described Jordan as suave.

  “He waved his hand, winked, and said, ‘Of course, my dear man. It’d be my pleasure to seduce your wife.’”

  Doctor Millerand roared with laughter that quickly changed to tears, and he mopped his eyes with a handkerchief. “It worked like a charm. Talia moved in here and announced she wanted a divorce so she could marry Jordan. I never thought it’d go that far, but I shed her as fast as I could with Aaron handling the divorce. She didn’t ask for a dime from me. Jordan said he’d take care of her.”

  His face turned wistful, and he patted Jordan’s foot through the covers. “Like I said, I never wanted Jordan to marry her, such an awful woman, but he did. He even put up with her dissatisfaction, which she first voiced weeks after their wedding. She didn’t like being an artist’s wife.”

  The doctor heaved a sigh. “Jordan even settled a generous amount on her when she divorced him to marry that critic. He didn’t have to do that—in fact, I told him he shouldn’t do it, but he was a man of his word. He said Talia was a bird of p
aradise among a flock of crows, and he regretted her unhappiness.”

  “But it was her own fault,” I said, forgetting the rule about Abishags not being critical. “She made her own unhappiness.”

  He shook his head. “We all do, my dear—with the exception of men like Jordan Ippel, who saw people with eyes of compassion.”

  “He was a happy man?” I couldn’t help the skepticism in my voice, seeing the melancholy etched in Jordan’s face.

  The doctor’s lips twisted wryly. “I think he had a life like we all do—success and failure, tragedies and celebrations, love and forgiveness. Jordan simply had more life than most.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. Jordan transformed into a different person every time someone walked through his door. Who was this man I married?

  “May I—?” My words trailed off, but the doctor smiled encouragingly. I mustered a smile, an Abishag’s smile of serenity. “Thank you for telling me, Doctor. It stays with me.”

  He nodded. “Jordan’s last wife should know who he really was. Someone who will keep the truth in her heart.”

  Frowning, I looked at Jordan Ippel with new eyes and tried to stuff all that I’d learned about him into the figure of the dying man. These other people’s memories of him wouldn’t fit—they weren’t mine.

  I gently took Jordan’s right hand and felt the sinews still strong, maybe with muscle memories of a paintbrush. With such things, I would bank my own memories of my husband.

  Changing the subject, I asked, “Did you need to see Dog, I mean Douglas, before you go?”

  He looked ruefully at his Christmas sweater. “I should. My daughter’s fixing dinner tonight, and I’ll get an earful if I’m late. I need to do a quick examination before I leave. Would you ask Kovic to see me here?”

  I nodded and slipped my hand from Jordan’s. As I left, I saw Doctor Millerand leaning over Jordan, his face alive with memories.

  Nose buried in a cookbook, Sebastian never saw me pass through the kitchen and out the slider to the back yard. He looked cute with a streak of flour on his cheek.

  I found Dog in the studio, staying clear of the crates and packing material, politely listening to Royce. Kat was doing all the work, but no surprise. My opinion of Royce couldn’t sink lower.

  As soon as Dog saw me, he unceremoniously separated himself from Royce.

  I told him, “Doctor Millerand wants to see you.” As Dog passed, I gripped his arm. “Dog, whatever he tells you, you tell me, okay? I can take it.”

  I’d been speaking in a whisper, and Dog leaned close to me, chucking me under the chin. “I know you can, Les.”

  Royce watched us narrowly. While Dog moved swiftly back to the house, he asked, “Is Jordan okay? I mean, is he still—”

  “He’s still with us, Mister Royce.” I flashed that serene Abishag smile again. “How goes the packing?”

  In the dim recesses, Kat wiped a grimy hand across her sweaty face. Before she could say anything, Royce said, “Oh, we’ve made fine progress. So good, I’m thinking of going home and finishing my own packing. You okay to finish here, Miss—?”

  He’d either forgotten Kat’s name or couldn’t manage Kathmandu. I hazarded it was the latter as Kat only allowed her closest friends to use the diminutive, and Joss Royce would never be one of those.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ve just Indelible Beats to crate.”

  “Fine.” He dropped a manila envelope onto Jordan’s drafting table. “If I don’t make it back to supervise the loading, you can manage it, eh? Here’s the paperwork. Remember to keep the canary-colored copies.”

  “Canary,” Kat repeated expressionlessly. “Got it.”

  Royce scuttled down the driveway. We watched him depart, me leaning on the door frame wondering how Jordan had ever chosen him as a business partner, Kat in the shadows, watching his retreat with disgust.

  Royce paused near the sidewalk, wheeled and slapped a hand to his chest. Thinking he was having a heart attack, I felt awash with shame for thinking ill of him.

  He threw back his head and with a carrying voice intoned, “We are doing this for our good friend and imminent artist Jordan Ippel. In this exhibit of his Glottal Stops, the public will remember his genius for the ages.” He saluted and marched happily off to his car.

  “What an idiot.” Kat joined me at the door, pulling off her gloves. “Glottal Stops is a method of painting, not the paintings themselves. Where did Jordan find this guy?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question.” I watched his car speed away with narrowed eyes.

  Kat’s glared at the counterfeit painting. “We need to find Harvey.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Kat tossed the gloves onto the manila envelope. “Want to help me search Kassem’s room? Where’d he live anyway?”

  “Royce said he had a room in the garage.”

  “So medieval, treating him like a stable boy.” She shook her head. “Jordan Ippel could have done better by him.”

  I bridled before remembering that my own views of the artist were changing hourly.

  “Until we find Kassem, we don’t know how Jordan treated him. The garage could have been Kassem’s choice.”

  My words sounded too heated. At Kat’s concerned look, I shook my head sheepishly. “Sorry, it’s been a long day, and I need a nap before my duties tonight. I mean if Jordan needs me tonight.”

  At Kat’s arrested look, I said hastily. “He looks the same to me, but Doctor Millerand wanted to talk to Dog and that couldn’t be good, right? Thomas’s doctor told the hospice aides when his time had come before he told me.”

  “He’s leaving now,” Kat said.

  For an absurd moment, I looked at Jordan’s window, expecting to see him metamorphosing into one of his birds, a crow perched on the sill, wings lifting, taking flight.

  A car started, and my gaze dropped to the street. I saw the doctor’s car moving down the street.

  “Can you—”

  “Go,” she said. “I’ll wait till you get back.”

  I raced through the kitchen, startling Sebastian but didn’t stop to explain. I halted inside Jordan’s room, out of breath. “Is he—?”

  Although Jordan still lay on the bed and his monitors still beeped, my gaze strayed to the window where I’d imagined the crow.

  “No change,” Dog said. “The doctor thinks Jordan may even last through the night. He’ll return late tomorrow morning unless we call sooner.”

  I swallowed, relieved.

  Dog shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d get attached so quick.”

  “I’m not,” I said indignantly. “I mean, maybe a little, enough to want him to last a day longer, to have another Christmas before dying.” At Dog’s stern look, I added lamely, “I haven’t finished reading him A Christmas Carol.”

  ‘You should take a nap. Sebastian said dinner’s in an hour. Rest till then.”

  Sleep sounded wonderful. “I can’t. Kat and I are going to check Harvey Kassem’s room to see if we can find anything.”

  “It’s waited this long—it can wait till after dinner.” He reached for his cell phone. “I’ll tell Kat. Take a nap before you collapse.”

  I nodded and slipped into the tiny room across the hall. Instead of flinging myself at the bed, I pulled up the spread, wrapped myself in it and curled up in the rocker, staring at the sliver of sea till I nodded off.

  When I woke, the sun sat near the horizon. I stretched, rubbing my eyes, wondering why I’d waked.

  “That can’t be comfortable.”

  I started. Amused, Sebastian stood in the doorway.

  “It’s cozy,” I said tartly, feeling awkward that he’d watched me sleep. Maybe I’d drooled.

  “Kat set the table, and I brought food up for Dog. You ready to eat?”

  I frowned. “Dog shouldn’t have to eat Christmas Eve dinner alone.”

  “He’s not. Kat’s with him.” His eyes twinkled. �
��Jordan’s there too, for that matter.”

  The back of my neck tingled. That meant Sebastian and I were eating dinner alone. “Maybe I should eat upstairs too,” I said. “I’m Jordan’s wife.”

  “Who’ll be standing guard over him all night. When will you be ready for dinner?”

  No excuses left. I shed the bedspread. “Now, I guess.”

  He smiled mockingly. “I’ve been slaving in the kitchen all afternoon. Could you summon up some enthusiasm, please?”

  Lifting an eyebrow, I stifled a grin. “After I see what you’re serving.”

  As I entered the dining room, I didn’t have to dampen my keenness. The smells drifting up the stairs whetted my appetite.

  Sebastian had marinated salmon steaks in maple syrup and soy sauce and then broiled them. After roasting Brussels sprouts, he dusted them with shaved Parmesan cheese. For a starter (although we ate everything together to save time), he served raw veggies with a bottle of blue cheese dressing he found in the pantry. A basket of biscuits completed the meal.

  I dove into the salmon, smacking my lips at the sweet salty taste. “You are a treasure,” I said and then blushed. The Handbook had a dozen rules about proper Abishag behavior. Although it didn’t cover how a wife was to act with her previous husband’s grandson in her next husband’s house, it was pretty specific about appropriate behavior with any man not her husband.

  Sebastian studied me intently. “Les,” he began. The doorbell rang, startling us.

  “That’s probably Stegner,” I said. “I’ll get it.”

  “I got it,” Kat yelled, and we heard her pounding down the stairs.

  Sebastian leaned toward me. “Before things get more complicated, I wanted to ask you something. You don’t have to answer right away, okay?”

  My mouth went dry, wondering how much more inappropriate this night could get, both afraid and a little thrilled at what he might ask. I heard the rumble of voices at the front door and wondered why Kat hadn’t let Stegner in.

  I bit into a biscuit and looked at Sebastian with what I hoped was calm inquiry and not any of the wild imaginings running through my head.