Unable to think of anything to add that would neither encourage further attempts nor instigate possible repercussions, Inez said, “Thank you for a beautiful evening. The concert, everything. And it was such an honor to play with you.”
He bowed, a little less stiffly. “I look forward to doing so again very soon.” Before she could respond he grabbed her hand, kissed her fingers, and then let her go, and walked away, back toward Market.
Shuddering, Inez unlocked the door to the apartment, a sanctuary from the mess she’d just sidestepped. The bottle of high-end whiskey she kept in the bottom drawer of her nightstand was the only company she craved in her bed that night. She hurried up the stairs and went to check on Antonia, expecting to find her nestled under her blankets with her nightcap pulled down over her eyes.
Antonia was not asleep.
She sat in bed facing the door, her dark hair tousled, her countenance stormy, chin resting on her pulled-up knees, nightgown clamped tight around her feet. The flannel nightcap lay crumpled on the pillow as if she’d yanked it off and thrown it there.
Inez stepped inside the room, questions dying on her lips. Antonia glared at her, almost vibrating with anger. “You played our song with him. Yours and mine! Why?” She threw herself down on the bed, still curled in a ball, and jammed the nightcap back on, pulling it down over her eyes and nose and nearly to her mouth.
Inez couldn’t come up with any explanation or response besides “I’m sorry,” which seemed ridiculous given the crime she was being accused of. Finally she said, “I thought you would like it, Antonia. I did it for you.”
The nightcap material covering Antonia’s nose whuffled in and out with her sniff.
Inez tried to hold onto her temper. She was tired. The girl was tired. Inez just wanted quiet to think, space to drink, and time to sleep. “Get some rest,” she said. “Tomorrow is Saturday. No need to rise early.” She closed the door.
Pondering her next day’s tasks, Inez paused in their little kitchen on her way to her room. The roller shade was up, and the yellow light from the streetlamp outside made the two chairs, the small table, and the simple stove look very stark.
A single cup sat on the table from the morning’s breakfast, unwashed, alone.
She crossed her arms, staring at the cup and thinking. De Bruijn was recovering. Flo was off on her own mission to protect herself from any repercussions from the failed investigations.
If any progress was to be made in finding out who killed Jamie, Inez realized, she would have to make it.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Inez awoke with a dull headache. She couldn’t accuse the champagne since she had only had a sip at the recital, so the whiskey would have to stand alone, guilty as charged. It had only been two fingers’ worth three times over, but she felt as if she had guzzled the entire bottle and had gone down to the store’s office for more.
Thinking of the office and the store brought the previous evening back full force. Inez set the heels of her palms against her eye sockets and groaned. Things were getting entirely too complicated. Nico now probably had certain expectations as to how their interactions would “evolve.” And heaven knows, when Nico had expectations, it took a lot of fancy footwork and careful maneuvering to nudge him off target. She would have to be on guard and distant, but not too distant, whenever he was around. She thought of all the flowers and the bouquets he had showered on her in the past, culminating in yesterday’s sudden, almost desperate avalanche of blooms.
Of course, that was all before he found out she was no widow, but a divorcée.
Why now? Of all times? While she was still trying to figure out the union list, trying to see if what had happened in the past had anything to do with what was going on in the present.
It should have been enough to make her bolt out of bed. Instead, she lay for a while longer, nursing her aching head. She would have to dress for a long day of trudging about the city. First, to the Musical Protective Association’s secretary. There she hoped to obtain Stephen Abbott’s address, and perhaps ask a question or two about Eli Greer. Next, she would go to Abbott, find out whether Jamie had visited him, and, if so, what they had discussed. She only hoped Abbott lived in the city, not across the bay or at some even more remote location, or, as Haskell had surmised, was dead and buried.
And, at some point during the day, she supposed she should talk to de Bruijn.
Uneasy on several fronts, Inez toyed with the idea of bringing her pocket revolver with her. Who knew where Abbott lived and where their conversation might lead her from there? Or perhaps de Bruijn would have insights and that would require her to traipse about in unsavory areas of the city.
Two days until Harry’s return.
Was he already on his way? Had he, perhaps, banked the flames of his anger and desire for revenge with sorrow and acceptance? He might then be more likely to listen to reason, if
