“All Randy did was confirm he was Kevin’s uncle,” said Petra. “We’d have found out, anyway.”
“Why?” said Terry. “Why are you harassing my boy? He’s good, he’s kind, he’s smart, he’s gentle, he’d never hurt anyone.”
The woman’s entire body had gone rigid, and Petra shifted gears.
“Did Kevin have a friend named Erna Murphy?”
“Who?”
Petra repeated the name.
“Never heard of her. Kevin never had any- I don’t know his friends.”
Asocial Kevin. The admission made Terry blanch, and she tried to cover: “They move out, go their own way. Creative people especially need their space.” That sounded like a well-practiced rationalization for Kevin’s oddness.
“Yes, they do,” said Petra.
“I paint,” said Terry Drummond. “I started taking art lessons, and now
Petra nodded.
“Please,” said Terry. “Let me be.”
“Here’s my card, ma’am. Think about what I said. For Kevin’s sake.”
Terry faltered, then took it.
“One more thing,” said Petra. “Could you just tell me why Kevin called himself Yuri?”
Terry’s smile was abrupt, blinding, and it made her gorgeous. She touched her breast, as if remembering what it had nourished. “He’s so cute. So clever. I’ll tell you, and then you’ll see how off base you are. Years ago, when Kevin was little- just a little guy, but he was always bright- Frank was telling him about the space race. About Sputnik, which was a big thing when
“Cosmonauts.”
“Cosmonauts beating out the astronauts, the first one was a guy named Yuri something. And Kevin, little as he was, was just listening to Frank, and then when Frank finished, Kevin piped up, ‘Daddy,
Terry’s tears flowed anew. One long-nailed hand plucked at a rhinestone terrier. “After that, whenever he did something good, got a good grade on a test, anything, I called him Yuri. He liked that. It meant he’d done a good job.”
30
Two messages on my machine.
Allison, two hours ago. Robin, a few minutes later. Both asking me to call back when I had a chance. I phoned Allison’s hotel. She picked up on the fourth ring, sounded out of breath. “It’s you, great. You caught me out the door.”
“Bad time?”
“No, no, excellent time. On my way to another seminar.”
“How’s the conference?”
“Boulder’s pretty,” she said. “Thin air.”
“Thin, hot air?”
She laughed. “Actually, there’ve been some good papers, stuff you might enjoy. PTSD in victims of terrorism, a good survey of depression in kids… how’s the case coming along?”
“Not much progress,” I said.
“Sorry… wish you were here. We could’ve had some fun on the slopes.”
“There’s still snow?”
“Not a lick. I canceled Philadelphia, will be coming home tomorrow. Want to get together tomorrow night?”
“You bet.”
“I didn’t offend Grant’s folks,” she said. “To tell the truth, they seemed relieved. Everyone knows it’s time to cut the ties. Shall I take a cab directly from the airport?”
“I can pick you up.”
“No, work on the case. I should make it by eight.”
“Should I cook?”
“If you want, but it’s not vital. One way or another we’ll obtain nourishment.”
I put off phoning Robin. When I finally did and heard the tension in her voice, I regretted the delay.
“Thanks for calling back.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t want to bother you, but I thought you should know- you’d have found out eventually. Someone broke into my place, vandalized the shop, made off with some instruments.”
“God, I’m sorry. When?”
“Last night. We were out, got back around midnight, found the lights on and the door to the studio ajar. The police took three hours to arrive, wrote a report, called in detectives who wrote another report. Technicians came and dusted for fingerprints. Strangers in my house- all those procedures you and Milo always talk about.”
“Was it a forced entry?”
“The back door’s bolted and grated but they just shoved it off the hinges. Looks like they were rusted. The alarm was set, but the detectives said the lead must have worn down, wasn’t making proper contact. It’s an old house… I should’ve checked but the landlord lives in Lake Havasu, everything’s a drawn-out process.”
“How much damage?”
“They took a bunch of stuff, but what’s worse is they smashed whatever was on the bench. Beautiful old things, an ivory-bridge Martin, Clyde Buffum’s Lyon & Healy mandolin, a Stella twelve-string. My insurance will cover it, but my poor clients, those instruments mean more than money… you don’t need to hear this, I don’t know why I called. Tim installed a new door, then he had to fly up to San Francisco.”
“You’re alone?”
“Just for a few days.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Don’t, Alex… yes, do.”
She was waiting for me, sitting in a white plastic chair on her tiny front lawn, wearing a green sweater and jeans.
Her arms were around me before I made contact.
She said, “They took Baby Boy’s guitars.” Her body trembled. “I’d been talking to Jackie True about buying them so I could give them to you, Alex. He checked with Christie’s and they told him neither would fetch a premium. He was about to agree.”
She looked up at me. “I knew you’d enjoy them. It was going to be my birthday present to you.”
Her birthday was coming up in a month. I hadn’t thought about it.
I stroked her curls. “It was a sweet thought.”
