he’s so far resisted my blandishments. Ring-knockers.”
“So what do I do?”
“Find her lair,” the monk said. “Find her place of worship. Then call us. We will be close.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Where the hell have you been?” Kurt asked when Barb sat down across from him.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Barb said, sliding the file across to him. “And I can’t tell you anyway. But based on that, we’d better figure out a way to get a good look inside those buildings up at the Art District. This looks to be a worse problem than we’d thought.”
“I got the same thing,” Kurt said, giving it a cursory glance. “And something else,” he added, sliding an envelope across to her.
“What’s this?” she asked, pulling a card out of the envelope.
“An invitation,” Kurt said. “To a charity function being held in the Art District. Not in the Bluff View buildings. Nearby, though. And check out the name of the hostess.”
“Vartouhi Cass,” Barb said. “Same lady?”
“Same lady,” Kurt said.
“Who is Thomas Reamer?” Barb asked.
“Old Chattanooga family money,” Kurt replied. “One of the architects involved with the newer additions to the Art District, like the Hunter Museum. I checked up on the place where they’re holding it. He built a house on top of an office building he owns. It’s about three blocks from Rembrandt’s. Vartouhi is his…friend. The housing issue is now explained.”
“Girlfriend?” Barb asked. “Lover?”
“Why don’t you ask them in person? It’s black tie. I hope you have a nice dress.”
“Mrs. Barbara Everette,” Kurt said, handing over the invitation to an unsmiling man in a black suit with an ear bud. There were two more flanking the elevator lobby, and all three had bulges at their waist on the right side. “Special Agent Kurt Spornberger.”
“Yes, sir,” the security officer said, glancing at the card. He pressed the button on the elevator, leaned in as the doors opened, swiped a black card over a blank spot on the indicators and hit the button for the top floor. “Have a good evening, sir, ma’am,” he said, handing the invitation back.
“Nice,” Kurt said, looking around the elevator.
The elevator was paneled in what Barbara sort of recalled was called “fumed oak.” And unless she was mistaken, the accents were in actual gold. She suspected it wasn’t gold leaf. And in the corner, oh-so-discreet, was a tiny surveillance camera.
“He didn’t wand you,” Barb said.
“What am I going to do, start shooting the muckety-mucks of Chattanooga?” Kurt asked as the elevator opened.
The elevator opened onto a foyer, even more sumptuously decorated, with six or seven people standing around holding drinks. There was more security there, dressed to fit in in tuxedoes but wearing full headsets.
“Special Agent Spornberger,” Kurt said, holding out the invitation. “Mrs. Barbara Everette.”
“Yes, sir,” the lead officer said, nodding. “Welcome to Reamer House. Feel free to make yourself at home.”
“Shall we, Mrs. Everette?” Kurt asked, holding out his arm.
“Lead on, Special Agent Spornberger,” Barb replied, hooking hers through.
The exit to the foyer was a set of stairs, arched above and flanked on either side by winged stone lions. Both walls of the short stairway consisted of friezes depicting men in conical helmets and scale armor riding horses. They appeared to be hunting something but their prey was out of sight.
The main room of the home was quite large, easily able to hold the forty or fifty people gathered there. And it was laid out in a strange fashion, almost triangular, with doors leading out at six points to other rooms.
Barbara had brought one of her nicer dresses. However, she immediately realized that her conception of “nice” was somewhat below the majority of the party-goers. She also realized she hadn’t known how much money there was in Chattanooga. She stopped trying to price the gowns she saw on the women at the party. Most of them looked like Paris originals.
However, there was a very definite feel to the crowd that they did not normally dress that way. A tugging of waists and bustlines was noticeable. As was the fact that most of the women didn’t normally wear heels. And despite the early hour, most of them were buzzed if not drunk. Most of the women were hanging onto the arms of their dates less because they were besotted with love than because they’d topple over if they didn’t.
There was nothing so declasse as a buffet line. Instead, waiters in white tuxedoes circulated with trays of tiny hors d’oeuvres and drinks.
“Do you need anything, sir, ma’am?” one of them asked.
“Pepsi if you’ve got it,” Kurt said.
“Coke, sir?” the waiter said with a pained expression.
“I guess,” Kurt replied.
“Same for me,” Barbara said. “What was that about?”
“I sort of did it on purpose,” Kurt whispered. “The Reamers are Coke-bottling money. Saying the P word in this room is on the order of pounding a copy of the doctrines of Martin Luther onto the door of the Vatican.”
“Be nice,” Barb said. “Is it just me, or do most of these people look…?”
“It has a definite prom feeling, doesn’t it?” Kurt said. “Just older. Heads up. Incoming.”
“Mrs. Everette,” Vartouhi said, extending a languid hand. “I am so glad you could attend.”
“My pleasure,” Barb replied. “You have a wonderful home.”
“I merely have the joy of residing here,” Vartouhi said, gesturing to the man at her side. “It is Thomas’s home. Thomas Reamer, Mrs. Barbara Everette and Special Agent Kurt Spornberger of the FBI.”
“A pleasure,” Reamer said. He was small and slight with pale hair and eyes. His hand, when Barbara shook it, felt as thin and light as a bird’s.
“Barbara is a missionary from Mississippi,” Vartouhi said. “Agent Spornberger is originally from Chicago, if I’m recalling that correctly.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kurt said. “Finest city on the face of the earth. No offense to Chattanooga, of course.”
“Chattanooga was once a terrible place to live,” Reamer said, his eyes lighting. “The factories poisoned the air and water. The buildings were black from the soot. It’s taken many years to repair the damage and bring it into the light. You’re based in the Pioneer Building. Beautiful architecture-my great-grandfather built it and did a fine job. But when I was young, you could barely see it for all the soot.”
“Thomas has made it his goal in life to beautify Chattanooga,” Vartouhi said. “He is a major contributor to the Aquarium and the Hunter Museum.”
“Was that your design?” Barbara asked. “It’s beautiful.”
“No, not mine,” Reamer said. “But I was involved in the construction from day one. A good design is only the start of a building. You have to stay on top of every aspect of the construction. You wouldn’t believe how people try to cut corners. You’re a missionary, Mrs. Everette? To Chattanooga?”
“I’m actually a consultant to the FBI,” Barbara said. “My missionary work is separate.”
“They are working on the Madness cases,” Vartouhi said.
“Oh, are there any leads?” Reamer asked. “I don’t know why I bother to ask. The problem is the poisoning of the land, foul emanations of the bygone days surfacing to rot the heart and mind. There are still many who cannot understand the importance of clean air and clean water. The Goldheims-”
“Darling,” Vartouhi said, putting her hand on his arm.
“I can’t talk about an ongoing case, sir,” Kurt said, shrugging.
“You’re Kurdish, Ms. Cass?” Barbara asked. “Vartouhi is a Kurdish name.”
“Actually, I’m from Summerville,” Vartouhi said with a laugh. “A small town just south of here. My parents
