Mr. X

extensive art collection, a Frida Kahlo and a Tamara de Lempicka, plus $250,000 and the use of his apartment until she married, when the apartment reverted to his only child, a daughter. The daughter inherited the majority of his estate, including the rest of his collection, at the time appraised at $5 million.

    'Turns out, back in the twenties old Teddy bought two Picassos, a Cezanne, and a Miro, and sometime in the fifties, he squirreled them away in a vault. His collection wound up being worth seventy, eighty million. You can bet Laurie's still kicking herself for not marrying the old guy. She landed a job at KRON, where she wanted to end up doing the local news, but oops, no experience. No journalism background, no degree, nothing. She was a production assistant—a gofer. A year later, when I met her, she was a PR girl. Laurie acted like she fell in love with me, and I do mean acted. It could have worked out, except she was a phony.'

    'How soon after you were married did you hire the private detective?'

    “I hired a detective as soon as I got interested in her. I didn't tell her until we were on our honeymoon. A bungalow at a great resort in theCaribbean. Champagne on the balcony. Moonlight on the water. 'Listen to this,' I said. 'You won't believe it.' She cried real tears. An amazing woman.'

    'And she gave you a son and heir.'

    Hatch smiled. 'Cobbie's going to be a fine young man after I knock that music crap out of him and get him involved in sports.'

    'And your son is the reason you can't divorce Laurie.'

    His smile shrank. “It seems she mentioned my family's financial arrangements after all. What kind of spin did she put on it?'

    I described what I could remember.

    'Not bad, as far as it goes,' Hatch said. 'At thirty-five, Cobbie will come into a great deal of money. I want to make sure he knows how to handle it.' His eyes charged with amusement. 'Do you know why my father wrote in the condition about criminal charges?'

    'Laurie said something about his brother.'

    “It had nothing to do with that.' The amusement came back into his eyes. He was trying to charm me, I realized, and he was doing a good job. 'When were you born?'

    “In 1958.'

    'You were too young for the sixties. I turned eighteen in 1968.' He laughed. 'My senior year atEdgerton Academy, my hair came downto my shoulders. I used to lock my door and crank up the stereo until I couldn't hear the old man bitching at me. The Stones, the Doors, Iron Butterfly. Cream. Paul Butterfield. I played rhythm guitar with this hand, Delta Mud. You can imagine how terrible we were.'

    'White-boy blues,' I said.

    'Whitepreppy blues. WhiteMidwestern preppy blues.' He biffed my upper arm, jock-style. 'God, we were crazy. Toke up on the way to school. Get wasted from Thursday night to Monday morning. We had one honest-to-God musician in our band, the guy played theshit out of the blues. Amazing player,amazing. We'd show up in front of these Albertus frat boys who didn't care about anything except a steady beat, and ... it was like hearing God play guitar. You probably heard of him. Goat Gridwell?'

    Gridwell's power-guitar blues jams had sold millions of records through the seventies and into the next decade. Whenever someone had made me listen to a Goat Gridwell record, what struck me was how much better he was than most guitarists who played that kind of music. I remembered noticing his yellow-gold hair and green eyes on the cover ofRolling Stone and thinking that I had never before seen a face that looked cherubic and dissipated at the same time.

    'Our senior year, he got kicked out of the academy and took off for San Francisco. I asked Laurie if she'd ever heard him play, and she had no idea. To her, all music sounds the same. Anyhow, Goat got too rich and too famous. The old story. Fried his brain, the poor bastard. He's back in Edgerton now. There's nothing left. I slip him a couple of bucks now and then, but the guy stares right through me.'

    If I were Goat Gridwell, I'd ignore you, too,I thought.

    'So one night after dinner, I forgot to lock my door. I'm sitting on the floor with 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' blasting through my speakers and smoking dope. Wham! In comes my father. Cobden goes nuts. He let me stay in school, but I had to cut my hair, and he let me know that if I ever got into trouble with the law, I wouldn't get a penny from the trust.'

    'Are you worried about the case in Kentucky?'

    “It's nothing but dust and hot air. Be gone in a week. But this might interest you. Yesterday afternoon my wife called the attorney for the trust, Parker Gillespie. He's the son of Charles Gillespie, who set it up. Seventy-three years old, loyal as a pit bull. Laurie never showed the slightest interest in him before, and all of a sudden, she's looking for an education. You tell me, what did she ask Gillespie?'

    'No idea,' I said.

    'She's concerned about the clause my lather added to the agreement. If I'm convicted of these crimes I of course did not commit, am I really disinherited? Unfortunately, Gillespie said, that would be the case, Mrs. Hatch. Then she asked, What's my son's position? Well, in the absence of any other male heir the child would inherit the whole of the trust. Who would look after the trust? she asks. That is the role of the administrator, Gillespie said. Laurie asked him, If the worst happens, will you continue to administer the trust, Mr. Gillespie? Gillespie told her he would be pleased to give her all the assistance she desired. Beginning to see the picture? She wants the money.'

    'She wants to protect it for Cobbie.'

    Hatch's sneer was worthy of Uncle Clark. 'Cobbie wouldn't inherit until thirty-five. In the meantime, the administrator has discretion over the money. Laurie would appoint herself administrator and grab whatever she wanted. That's what she is about.'

    'Thanks for the explanation,' I said. 'Take me back to town.'

    “I want you to see something, remember? You'll be astonished. History is going to rise up and speak.' He smiled in spurious camaraderie. “I'd never forgive myself if I didn't show it to you.' He switched on the engine and dropped the car into gear.

 •67

 •Sixty years ago, the overgrown field had been a meadow, the stark remains at the edge of the wood a tall stone house with dormers and a portico. I was trying to control the disquiet brought on by the feeling that if I walked into the woods about thirty feet to the right of the ruined house, I would find a lightning-blasted oak.

    'Has anyone ever told you about the old Dunstan place?'

    'After his brother was killed, Sylvan imported the stones from England and had it rebuilt.'

    Hatch raised his eyebrows.'England? It was Providence, Rhode Island. That's why this street is named New Providence Road. I know more about your family than you do.'

    'That wouldn't be hard to do,' I said, thinking that there were things about the Dunstans Stewart Hatch would never know or guess.

    'Do you know who originally built the place?'

    'Who was Frank Lloyd Wright?' I said. 'Sorry, Alex, I hit the buzzer by accident.' My cars were ringing, and my stomach was queasy.

    'A man named Omar Dunstan. He turned up in Providence in the 1750s with a bunch of West Indian servants and a lot of money. Dunstan called himself an importer and shipowner, but none of his ships ever docked in Providence. He made frequent trips to South Carolina, Virginia, and New Orleans. What do you think he was importing?'

    'What are the blues?'

    'Human beings. His men bought or captured slaves in West Africa and the Caribbean and sold them in the Southern colonies. Dunstan wasn't married, but he produced three or four children who almost never left the house. The neighbors heard strange noises and saw peculiar lights in the windows. There were rumors about witchcraft and black magic. Finally, a party of citizens raided the house with the intention of driving the family out of town. They were too late. The place was empty.'