Dear Irene ik-3 Read online

  “With the Karmann Ghia?” she asked. “You’ve driven it since college.” She was watching me carefully now, giving me the same look she might have given a strange dog that came trotting toward her, wagging its tail and growling at the same time.

  By then we had reached the car. There was no one lurking in the small interior. The doors were locked. The windows were up. No visible damage to the ragtop. I tried not to shake as I opened the door and got inside.

  The car started right up.

  Lydia smiled.

  “I guess I won’t be needing those jumper cables,” I said. “Thanks for waiting.”

  “Any time.” She started to walk off, then turned back. “Are you all right?”

  I don’t know, I wanted to answer. But I nodded and waved, then drove off.

  As I drove, I tried to tell myself that maybe I did accidentally turn them on. I looked at the switch for the lights. No. Not something anyone would do “accidentally.” And not something I did and then forgot. It had been a sunny morning. If it had been foggy or dark, I would have turned the headlights on, not the parking lights — in California, it’s illegal to drive around with only your parking lights on. And I would have noticed that the parking lights were on when I pulled the top back up.

  At home, I debated with myself about telling Frank about the lights. He had so much on his mind — did he need this? But what if Thanatos had been near my car?

  The issue was decided for me when Frank came in the front door.

  “What a day,” he said. “Okay if I go for a run before dinner? I need to do something to get my mind off lunatics and assholes.”

  Not wanting to fall into either category, I told him dinner could wait and stayed silent on the subject of parking lights.

  On Tuesday, Kevin called to say he had searched his files but hadn’t found anyone that he could connect to the Thanatos letter. The people I had worked for had no strong ties to the college or the zoo, even if some of them belonged in the latter.

  I pestered Mark Baker into giving me the phone numbers for the professor’s old boyfriends. The one I most wanted to talk to was a man by the name of Steven Kincaid, who appeared to be Dr. Blaylock’s most recent conquest. But Kincaid was either out or didn’t answer his phone. That was further than I got with four of the remaining five, who had disconnected the numbers Mark had for them. Fleeing media attention, I thought, until I reached a fellow by the name of Henry Taylor.

  “A few more minutes and you would have missed me,” he said in a pleasant voice. “Does the paper want to interview me again?”

  “I just had a few more questions,” I said. “Could we meet somewhere?”

  “Gee, no, I’m sorry, that’s what I was trying to say. The semester’s over. My girlfriend will be here any minute now. We’re going to be flying back to Michigan, to her parents’ house. I’m going to pop the question at Christmas.”

  “Pop the question?”

  “You know, ask her to marry me.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Taylor, if I sound a little confused. It’s just that your name has been associated with—”

  “Edna, yeah, I know. Really sad. Oh, you mean, is Connie upset about that? No, hell, she knows it was years ago.”

  “Years ago?”

  “Yeah. Edna and I had a brief little fling about two years ago. My senior year, before I started the MBA program.”

  “You’re not a history major?”

  “Hell no. History major? No money in it. All undergraduates have to take a semester of U.S. history. I took a history class from Edna to satisfy the bachelor’s degree requirements. I was expecting to be totally bored, but she made it interesting. And something about the lady attracted me, I guess, but nothing came of it then. I was seeing somebody else. But then I broke up with that girl, and the next semester, I saw Edna in a local club one night… and I don’t know, I guess we just decided to go for it.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Twenty-six.” He paused then added, “I work and go to school, so it’s taking me a little longer.”

  He sounded embarrassed about it, so I told him I had taken more than four years, and not just because I worked. “But listen — about Dr. Blaylock — can you tell me if she ever mentioned anything about Greek mythology, or the zoo?”

  He laughed. “We didn’t really do a whole lot of talking when we got together, if you know what I mean. It was just a brief affair. Nothing very involved. I think we both realized that it wasn’t for the best — not for either of us.”

  “Did she ever mention anyone who might be angry with her, or seeking revenge?”

  “The cops and the other reporters asked me about this kind of stuff,” he said easily. “I’ve got nothing to say, really.”

  “I won’t quote you. I just need to get a lead on this.”

  “You’re a little late on the story, aren’t you?”

  “I’m the one he mailed the letter to.”

  “Oh.” The chipper attitude seemed to drop away.

  I waited.

  “I guess I can understand why you’re still looking into it, then.”

  “Can you help me out?”

  “Look, Miss…”

  “Kelly. Irene Kelly.”

  “Okay, Irene Kelly. I don’t like to be so blunt about it, especially talking to a woman, but I can’t see any other way to get this across before Connie comes walking in here — at which point I will definitely not discuss it any further. Edna Blaylock and I got together for sex. That’s all. Just sex. That’s all either of us wanted at the time.”

  “But if she talked to you…”

  “I don’t think you could type up more than ten sentences if you quoted every word we said to each other that wasn’t just small talk. We’d go out to a bar, drink, dance and then go home and have terrific sex. At least, it was terrific at first. I guess I felt sort of turned on by the idea of having sex with this sophisticated older woman. A professor, for godsakes. But the thrill wore off pretty quickly, for her as well as for me. I didn’t learn her secrets, and she didn’t learn mine. I was sort of on the rebound, I guess you’d say. Some clown from school remembered seeing Edna and me together once, and told the cops I was her boyfriend.”

  I heard noise in the background, and he excused himself then covered the phone. I could hear him say, “In here. I’m on the phone. No, some reporter. Aw, Connie, for godsakes, she’s dead. Give it a rest, would you?” He came back to me. “That’s Connie. I’ve got to go.”

  “Look, Mr. Taylor, I need to talk to you a little more. Is there a number where I can reach you?”

  “I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

  “How about when you get back?”

  “Maybe. But I’m pretty busy. Gotta go.”

  He hung up. Connie didn’t sound so forgiving. But there was no chance of talking to Henry Taylor or Connie until they came back from Michigan. I wondered if she would say yes to his proposal.

  I tried Steven Kincaid again. No luck.

  John came by my desk and talked me into going down to City Hall to cover the first reading of a zoning proposal. So much for Thanatos. But I agreed with John that the proposal might turn out to be more than the routine issue it appeared to be. I learned long ago that sometimes the most important issues in the city were decided in the most boring meetings.

  Sure enough, by Wednesday morning there was a story on the front page of the Express that would guarantee a handsome turnout for the second reading of the proposal. It was my first story on page A-1 since the Thanatos letter, and I was working very hard at not showing how pleased I was by it.

  The proposal would have changed the extent and type of building that could take place on the site of a Las Piernas landmark that had been destroyed by a fire. The council was already reneging on promises made in the last election. My phone was ringing off the hook. I felt like a kid who had just aimed a water hose at a hornet’s nest. Better yet, I felt like I was back to being a reporter. At times,
the two sensations are not unalike.

  In between calls, I cheerfully went through my mail sorting routine, opening Christmas cards and humming “Jingle Bells” to myself. All the same, when I was down to the final group, I opened them carefully, using the letter opener to pull them out, so that I didn’t touch the contents with my hands. Four flyers for meetings I would not attend. One more to open. Did it really matter that I was careful? I stopped humming when I unfolded it on my desk.

  Dear Cassandra,

  Have you missed me? You must be patient.

  Thalia is next. It has already begun.

  You tell me you need time to prepare. I will give you the time you need. Wait for Janus.

  Enjoy the Saturnalia, Cassandra.

  Thalia will learn the agony of Tantalus and more. Who helped Psyche to sort the seeds that

  Venus placed before her?

  Your beloved,

  Thanatos

  My phone was ringing again, but I didn’t answer it. As soon as it stopped, I called Doris, and in as calm a voice as I could manage, asked her to hold all my calls.

  “I don’t think John will like it,” she began. “We’re getting a big reaction to your story.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll talk to John.”

  I called John on the intercom, asked for a moment of his time, used a folded strip of paper to cover my fingers when I gingerly picked the letter up by a corner, grabbed a mythology book, and somehow made it to John’s office without dropping anything.

  He looked up from reading copy and raised an eyebrow as I dangled the letter forward and dropped it on his desk.

  “Is it going to bite?” he asked sarcastically. But his face set into a frown and he swore under his breath when he saw what it was. He read it, then said, “Since we hadn’t heard any more from him, I was hoping this creep had been run over by a car or something.”

  “Are you going to turn it over to the police?”

  “You know how I feel about that, Kelly. I’m not going to let the Las Piernas Police Department tell me what we can and cannot publish, but I’m not going to impede a homicide investigation. Have you already called Frank about this?”

  I was dismayed by the question. “Of course not.”

  “Just wondering how far all this nooky-nooky stuff had addled your reporter’s sensibilities. So what does this letter mean?”

  “Thalia is one of the Graces. She represents Good Cheer. Not much of a clue as to the identity of the next victim, I’m afraid.”

  “‘Enjoy the Saturnalia,’” John read. “Does he mean Saturday?”

  “Maybe, but I would guess he means Christmas, because he tells me to wait for Janus. January is named after the god Janus.”

  “That’s Roman, not Greek, right?” he asked.

  “Right. Thanatos mixes in some Roman references in this letter. Saturnalia was a Roman winter festival in honor of the god Saturn. It was held in late December and there was feasting and exchanging of gifts. Someone once told me that’s why Christmas is celebrated in December, because the early Roman Church made use of a pagan holiday for their own — converting it, you might say.”

  “‘Thalia will learn the agony of Tantalus and more,’” John read aloud.

  “Tantalus — his name gave us the word ‘tantalizing.’ He’s in Hades, and stands in a pool of water that shrinks away from him whenever he bends to drink from it. When he stands up, it fills up again. And over his head, there’s a fruit tree with wonderful fruits that are always just beyond his grasp. He’s always hungry and thirsty, with relief within sight, but out of reach.”

  “Not short on cruelty in those stories, were they?”

  “No. But Tantalus had it coming. He killed his own son and boiled him in a cauldron, then invited the gods to a banquet with his son as the soup du jour.”

  “Cripes.” He was looking at me as if I had authored the tale.

  “That’s really the way the story goes,” I protested.

  “Tantalus thought he could show that the gods were fools, but they knew what was on the menu and decided to skip a meal and punish him. They restored his son to life. Cannibalism was frowned upon by the gods. They didn’t like measly little mortals trying to outwit them, either.”

  He shook his head. “What about Psyche and the seeds?”

  “Oh, that’s a great story — Cupid and Psyche.” I started to thumb through the book.

  “Just give me the part about the seeds,” John said, looking like he wasn’t ready to hear too much more about the Greeks and Romans before lunch. “It’s not gory, is it?”

  “No, no, it’s a love story,” I said, reading over it quickly. “It’s told in Latin by Apuleius.”

  “Never mind that. What happens in the story?”

  “Psyche was a beautiful woman. Venus was jealous of her. It was actually being claimed that she was more beautiful than the goddess, which offended Venus to no end. So Venus sent her son, Cupid, on a mission to make Psyche fall in love with the most vile creature on earth. But once he saw Psyche, Cupid ended up falling in love with her instead.”

  “What about the seeds?” John groused.

  “The middle part of the story is really very—”

  “Look, get to the seeds. Someday when I’m in a better mood, you can tell me all of it.”

  “You, in a better mood? I suspect we’ll be sitting by a very, very warm fire. Our host will have horns, but we’ll have lots of time on our hands—”

  “Kelly, I swear to God—”

  “Okay, okay. Condensed version. Psyche and Cupid loved each other, but as things happened, they were separated. Psyche decided to search for him, but Venus put a few obstacles in her way. Venus gathered a huge pile of the tiniest seeds — poppy seeds, millet, things like that — and told Psyche to sort them by nightfall. As Venus knew, it would have been impossible.”

  “So who helped her?” John said through gritted teeth.

  “Pardon?”

  “The question in the letter! Who the hell helped her?” he shouted.

  “Ants.”

  “Ants.”

  “Yes, the ants took pity on Psyche and an army of them helped her. Venus came back to find the seeds sorted. There’s another story about ants—”

  “Never mind,” John said. “This guy Thanatos doesn’t make a lot of sense. Some Muse of Good Cheer—”

  “Grace of Good Cheer.”

  “Okay. Some Grace of Good Cheer will know the agony of Tantalus, he wishes you a Merry Christmas — or happy Saturnalia — wants you to wait until January, and puts something in here about ants.”

  “I agree it doesn’t make much sense. The last one didn’t make much sense either, until after the professor was murdered. Are we going to run it?” I asked.

  “Of course.” He used the intercom to call Lydia into his office.

  “What about Frank?” I asked.

  He thought for a moment, then said, “He can have the original.” He picked up the letter and walked over to the copier with it before I could protest about fingerprints. I didn’t say anything about it, knowing it was unlikely that the forensics lab could lift a good print from the paper, even if Thanatos had not used gloves.

  Lydia came into the office, and John handed her a copy of the letter. The minute she saw what it was, she looked over to me. I tried for nonchalance. I could see she didn’t buy it.

  “Tell Mark Baker to get on this right away,” John was saying. “Kelly can fill him in on the translation. And tell Design I want to run the letter on A-1 tomorrow — anybody has any objections, see me. I don’t see how they can argue. For all we know, someone out there may be able to foresee that they’re in danger if they read this.”

  A passage in the letter came to mind. “‘It has already begun,’” I quoted, suddenly feeling a little shaky. “I think we may be too late to warn the victim.”

  “You don’t know that!” John said vehemently. Seeing my surprise at it, he added, “Besides, I hate all the dull stuff we’ve been runnin
g lately. I hate the holidays.”

  “Bah, humbug!” I said.

  “Go ahead and laugh. You and your snookums will be having a great time, Kelly, while I slave away.”

  He was trying to make me believe that he hadn’t forgiven me for asking for a few days off around Christmas.

  “What are you doing over Christmas?” Lydia asked.

  I hesitated. I wasn’t completely comfortable with the plans Frank and I had made, but in a moment of testing myself I had agreed to them.

  “We’re going up to his cabin in the mountains.”

  “The mountains! Where—”

  “No. Different place — not where they held me. According to Frank, his place is more like a house than a cabin.”

  “But it will be near there, won’t it?” she asked, then saw I didn’t like the question.

  John, in the meantime, had dialed Frank’s number. He told him about the letter and after a pause said, “She’s fine. You want to talk to her?” and handed the phone to me.

  Frank told me he’d be down to pick up the letter and asked if the three of us wanted to join him for lunch. John begged off but Lydia was agreeable.

  FRANK HAD SPENT the morning down at the county buildings, taking care of some business at the courthouse. He was happy to get a change of pace. We had lunch at a little hamburger joint a few doors down from the paper. It’s had about five different names in about as many years, but the same people seem to own it — or cook in it, anyway. They make good old-fashioned burgers, so risking arteries that will probably look like pinholes, I ordered up a cheeseburger, fries, and a strawberry shake. Frank followed suit but Lydia behaved herself with a chicken sandwich and a salad.

  “So what are your plans for the holidays?” I asked her.

  “Guy is going to spend them with me and my mom. You know that Rachel is coming out to spend Christmas with Pete, right?”

  I nodded. Guy St. Germain had been dating Lydia since the summer, and Frank’s partner had been seeing as much of Rachel Giocopazzi, a Phoenix homicide detective, as he could manage between their work schedules and his fear of flying.