amp; Olufsen speakers; it was like living inside an orchestra, and by adjusting the speakers according to the Bang amp; Olufsen instructions, she could vary her position from, say, the violas, back through the woodwinds, and all the way around the violins. It was lovely. She never referred to the speakers as speakers; she always referred to them as the Bang amp; Olufsens.
Jane Widdler, nee Little. At Carleton College, where she and Leslie had met and become a couple, Leslie had been known to his roommates as Big Widdler, which the roommates had found hilarious for some obscure reason that Leslie had never discovered.
And when he courted and then, halfway through his senior year, married a woman named Little, of course, they'd become Big and Little Widdler. For some reason, the same ex-roommates thought that was even more hilarious, and could be heard laughing at the back of the wedding chapel.
Jane Little Widdler disapproved of the nicknames; but she rarely thought of it, since nobody used them but long-ago acquaintances from Carleton, most of whom had sunk out of sight in the muck of company relations, widget sales, and circus management.
Jane was putting together her breakfast smoothie. A cup of pineapple juice, a cup of strawberries, a half cup of bananas, a little of this, a little of that, and some yogurt and ice, blended for one annoying minute, the whining of the blender drowning out the Mozart. When it stopped, she heard Leslie's voice, through the sliding screen door: “Oh, my God!”
She could tell from his tone that it was serious. She couldn't frown, exactly, because of the Botox injections, but she made a frowning look and stepped to the door: “What? Is it the brook?”
The Widdlers were leading a petition drive to have the name officially changed from Minnehaha Creek to Minnehaha Brook, a combination they felt was more euphonic. They'd had some trashy kayakers on the brook lately-including one who was, of course, a left-wing lawyer, who had engaged in a shouting match with Leslie. Paddling for the People. Well, fuck that. The brook didn't belong to the people.
But it wasn't the creek, or the brook, that put the tone in Big Widdler's voice.
Leslie was on his feet. He was wearing a white pullover Egyptian long-staple cotton shirt with loose sleeves, buttoned at the wrists with black mother-of-pearl buttons, madras plaid shorts, and Salvatore Ferragamo sandals, and looked quite good in the morning sunlight, she thought. “Check this out,” he said.
He passed her the Star Tribune.
The big headline said: Did Murders Conceal Invisible Heist? Under that, in smaller type, Millions in Antiques May Be Missing.
“Oh, my gosh,” Jane said. Her frowning look grew deeper as she read. “I wonder who Ruffe Ignace is?”
“Just a reporter. That's not the problem,” said Big Widdler, flapping his hands like a butterfly. “If they do an inventory, there may be items…” The Bang amp; Olufsen slimline phone started to ring from its spot next to the built-in china cabinet, and he reached toward it. “… on the list that can be identified, and we won't know which ones they are. If there are photos…”
He picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” and a second later, “Uh, Detective? Well, sure…”
Jane was shaken, placed one hand on her breast, the other on the countertop. This could be it: everything they'd worked for, gone in the blink of an eye.
Leslie said, “Hello, yes, it is… uh huh, uh huh…” Then he smiled, but kept his voice languid, professional. “We'd be delighted to help, as long as it wouldn't prejudice our position in bidding, if there should be an estate auction. I can't see why it would, if all you want is an opinion… Mmm, this afternoon would be fine. I'll bring my wife. Our assistant can watch the shop. One o'clock, then. See you after lunch.”
He put down the phone and chuckled: “We've been asked to advise the St. Paul police on the Bucher investigation.”
Jane made a smiling look. “Leslie, that's too rich. And you know what? It's really going to piss off Carmody amp; Loan.”
Carmody amp; Loan were their only possible competition, in terms of quality, in the Cities. If C amp;L had been asked to do the valuations, Jane would have been royally pissed. She couldn't wait to hear what Melody Loan had to say about this.
She'd be furious. She said, “Maybe we could find a way to get the news of the appointment to this Ruffe Ignace person.”
Leslie's eyebrows went up: “You mean to rub it in? Mmmm. You are such a bitch sometimes. I like it.” He moved up to her, slipped his hand inside her morning slacks, which were actually the bottoms of a well-washed Shotokan karate gi, down through her pubic hair.
She widened her stance a bit, put her butt back against the counter, bit her lip, made a look, the best she could, considering the Botox, of semi-ecstasy. “Rub it in, big guy,” she whispered, the smoothie almost forgotten.
But as Leslie was inclined to say, the Lord giveth, and the Lord is damn well likely to taketh it away in the next breath. They spent the morning at the shop, calling customers and other dealers, dealing with bills, arguing with the State Farm agent about their umbrella policy. At noon, they stopped at a sandwich shop for Asiago roast-beef sandwiches on sourdough bread, then headed for St. Paul.
They were driving east on I-494 in Jane's Audi A4, which she now referred to as “that piece of junk,” when another unwelcome call came in. Jane fumbled her cell phone out and looked at the screen. The caller ID said Marilyn Coombs.
“Marilyn Coombs,” she said to Leslie.
“It's that damned story,” Leslie said.
Jane punched the answer button, said, “Hello?”
Marilyn Coombs was an old lady, who, in Jane's opinion, should have been dead a long time ago. Her voice was weak and thready: she said, “Jane? Have you heard about Connie Bucher?”
“Just read it in the paper this morning,” Jane said. “We were shocked.”
“It's the same thing that happened to Claire Donaldson,” Coombs whimpered. “Don't you think we should call the police?”
“Well, gosh, I'd hate to get involved with the police,” Jane said. “We'd probably have to wind up hiring lawyers, and we wouldn't want… you know.”
“Well, we wouldn't say anything about that,” Coombs said. “But I got my clipping of when Claire was killed, and Jane, they're just alike.”
“I thought Claire was shot,” Jane said. “That's what I heard.”
“Well, except for that, they're the same,” Coombs said. Jane rolled her eyes.
“You know, I didn't know Claire that well,” Jane said.
“I thought you were friends…”
“No, no, we knew who she was, through the quilt-study group, but we didn't really know her. Anyway, I'd like to see the clipping. I could probably tell you better about the police, if I could see the clipping.”
“I've got it right here,” Coombs said.
“Well. Why don't we stop by this evening,” Jane suggested. “It'll probably be late, we're out on an appointment right now. Let me take a look at it.”
“If you think that'd be right,” Coombs said.
“Well, we don't want to make a mistake.”
“Okay, then,” Coombs said. “After dinner.”
“It'll be later than that, I'm afraid. We're on our way to Eau Claire. What time do you go to bed?”
“Not until after the TV news.”
“Okay. We'll be back before then. Probably… about dark.”
That gave them something to talk about. “Is it all falling apart, Leslie? Is it all falling apart?” Jane asked. She'd been in drama club, and was a former vice president of the Edina Little Theater.
“Of course not,” Leslie said. “We just need to do some cleanup.”
Jane sighed. Then she said, “Do you think the Hermes is too much?” She was wearing an Hermes scarf with ducks on it, and the ducks had little red collars and were squawking at each other.
“No, no. I think it looks quite good on you.”
“I hope it's not falling apart on us,” Jane said.
“Most cops are dumber than a bowl of spaghetti,” Leslie said. “Not to worry, sweet.”
