For every evil, p.1
For Every Evil, page 1
part #2 of Sophie Greenway Series
FOR
EVERY
EVIL
Ellen Hart
Copyright © 1995 by Ellen Hart
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Edition: November 2010
Praise for Ellen Hart and her Jane Lawless series
Hallowed Murder: “Hart’s crisp, elegant writing and atmosphere [are] reminiscent of the British detective style, but she has a nicer sense of character, confrontation, and sparsely utilized violence… . Hallowed Murder is as valuable for its mainstream influences as for its sexual politics.”
— Mystery Scene
Vital Lies: “This compelling whodunit has the psychological maze of a Barbara Vine mystery and the feel of Agatha Christie… . Hart keeps even the most seasoned mystery buff baffled until the end.”
— Publishers Weekly
Stage Fright: “Hart deftly turns the spotlight on the dusty secrets and shadowy souls of a prominent theatre family. The resulting mystery is worthy of a standing ovation.”
— Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
For my mother, with much love.
Contents
Cast of Characters
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
About the Author
Also by Ellen Hart
Cast of Characters
Sophie Greenway: Managing editor of Squires Magazine; part-time food critic for the Minneapolis Times Register, wife of Bram Baldric; mother of Rudy.
Bram Baldric: Radio talk show host at WMST in Minneapolis; husband of Sophie Greenway.
Rudy Greenway: Freshman at the University of Minnesota; employed part-time at the Chappeldine Art Gallery; son of Sophie.
Hale Micklenberg: Art critic for the Minneapolis Times Register; owner of International Art Investments (IAI); husband of Ivy.
Ivy Micklenberg: Professor of art history at Morton College in St. Paul; wife of Hale.
John Jacobi: Artist.
Katherine (Kate) Chappeldine: Owner of the Chappeldine Art Gallery in Minneapolis.
Louie Sigerson: Lawyer; longtime personal friend of Ivy Micklenberg’s.
Max Steinhardt: Doctor of internal medicine; Ivy Micklenberg’s personal physician.
Rhea Kiran: Professional dancer; director of the Rhea Kiran Dance Ensemble.
Ben Kiran: Free-lance photographer; Rhea’s ex-husband.
Charles Squire: Assistant to Hale Micklenberg at IAI.
Betty Malmquist: Old friend of Hale Micklenberg’s.
For every evil under the sun, There is a remedy or there is none. If there be one, seek till you find it. If there be none, never mind it.
Mother Goose
Prologue
The drawing was good. It would work. A steady hand reached out to touch the edge — to center it against the easel. Everything was ready. Nothing stood in the way any longer. In the darkened room, the light shining down on the matted pastel lent an almost holy aura to the frozen moment. But this was no icon. This sweet, childish image was born in rage. And if all went as planned, it would send the one responsible for it straight to hell!
1
Ivy knew if she could make it through the next few hours, she could make it through anything. She sat in front of her mirror, in the bedroom she had shared with her husband, Hale, for almost two decades, and brushed through her thick, shoulder-length blonde hair. She’d always felt the years had treated her face kindly. Yet, in the past few months, she’d begun to notice worry lines around her mouth and eyes. Even in the rose satin evening dress she’d chosen for the gallery opening tonight, her shoulders looked hunched, her expression pinched and dispirited. It was inevitable, she imagined, this disintegration in her appearance. Her unhappiness, once so carefully concealed, was beginning to show. Not that her husband had noticed. He noticed almost nothing about her these days.
“Where are my onyx cuff links?” demanded Hale as he swung his overweight frame into the bedroom. He’d already showered and carefully groomed his gray mane. The scent of Royal Copenhagen cologne clung to him like a poisonous mist as he strutted about the room. Hale Micklenberg was an unabashedly vain man. Ivy knew most women found him attractive.
“Well?” he insisted, stopping in back of her chair and placing his hands on his hips.
She didn’t turn, but stared instead at his reflection in the mirror, trying to remember when everything had changed. In the early days, they had been drawn together by the intensity of their love, as well as a tragic secret. But now, the connections between them had withered. “They’re in the dresser, top drawer, left-hand side.”
He bent down and brought his face very close to hers, straightening his red bow tie as he gazed into the mirror. “What time is Sigerson getting here?”
She waited for him to move away before answering. “Seven. He wanted to make sure Sarah was comfortable before he left her for the night.”
“Comfortable?” Hale snorted. “The woman has a round-the-clock nursing staff.”
Ivy’s mouth tightened.
Louie Sigerson had been her lawyer as well as her friend for more years than she dared count. His wife, Sarah, had been bedridden since the early Eighties. Her struggle with emphysema was almost over. Louie hated to leave his wife in the evenings, yet unless he got out of that old house once in a while and relaxed, he was going to explode. He needed a diversion to take his mind off his problems. Tonight would be a tonic. Ivy knew watching someone you love die was the grimmest of all human events. Her heart went out to them both.
“I’m not expecting much from this opening tonight,” mattered Hale as he slipped on his suit coat. “John Jacobi has all the talent of a university-trained flea.”
“I liked what Kate Chappeldine showed me last week,” replied Ivy, turning and standing. She held her husband’s eyes several seconds too long.
“Well,” said Hale, bristling, “whatever. Just so long as you remember it’s my opinion that will be printed in next Sunday’s paper. I don’t want any more of your little scenes.”
Ivy could feel the acid welling up inside her throat. She grabbed her purse and left the room before she could say any more. Now was not the time for a fight.
The truth of the matter was, Hale, whose name appeared weekly above the local Art News and Reviews section of the Minneapolis Times Register, didn’t actually write his own column. Ivy had written it ever since he’d taken over the position ten years ago. To be precise, Hale would hold forth on whatever topic or artist was to be covered that week, but it was Ivy who shaped the ideas into the now famous Hale Micklenberg style of art criticism. Hale knew he needed Ivy, and that realization must have galled him every day of his life. It thrilled her just to think about it. Lately he’d become even more defensive than usual. Well, let him sweat. It would serve him right if she never wrote another word.
Once downstairs, Ivy headed straight for the small wet bar in the living room. Louie would be arriving any minute. Just as she finished pouring herself a mineral water, the doorbell sounded. She took a sip and then crossed into the front hall.
“Come in,” she said, a welcoming, yet somewhat impatient look on her face.
Louie Sigerson stepped inside. He was a thin stick of a man, with light brown hair and a weak chin. As he removed his coat, he poked his head into the living room. “You took down all the Christmas decorations.”
“It was about time, don’t you think? It’s almost Valentine’s Day.”
“But you love them so. What’s the harm?”
Ivy tossed his coat over a bench in the entryway. “You’re just an old softie. I think that’s why I like you so much. You embody all the qualities I wish I had, but don’t have the energy to cultivate.”
Louie followed her into the living room, folding his tall, bony frame into a wing chair next to the cold fireplace. “Where’s Hale?”
“Upstairs. Primping.” She glided back to the bar. “Can I offer you anything? White wine? Perhaps a shot of prussic acid?”
“You think the evening’s going to be that bad?”
She didn’t answer; she merely saluted him with her glass.
“Are we still on for dinner after the opening?”
“I made reservations at the Lyme House. The Chappeldine Gallery is just up the street. I’m sure we’ll run into lots of people we know. Might as well spread our good cheer around.”
He watched her for a moment. “Ivy, what’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“You tell me.”
She took another sip of mineral water. “Oh … you know. It’s Hale. It’s always Hale. I’m sure you’re sick of hearing it.”
“Try me.”
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I just get tired of being … invisible. I’m not invisible, am I, Louie?”
“Hardly.”
“I’m still attractive.”
“Highly.” He hesitated. “Want me to break his arm for you? He’s had it coming for years.”
She didn’t smile. “Maybe.”
“Just say the word. I’ve loved only two women in my long life. Sarah and you. I’d do anything for either of you.”
“I know,” she said softly, gratefully. Again, she checked her watch. “I wish he would get down here. We’re going to be late.” She stepped over to a series of windows overlooking the front yard. Across the street, she could see snow lying heavily on the rooftops as chimneys puffed smoke into the twilight.
“Perhaps I should run upstairs,” offered Louie. “See if I can hurry him along.”
“No, stay put. If we’re late, his grand entrance will simply have a larger audience.” She could feel Louie’s eyes boring into her back. Such bitterness was hard for him to take. Especially now, with his wife so ill.
Suddenly a small pane of glass next to her left shoulder burst inward. Then another. Before she could react, Louie screamed, “Get down!” She felt him lunge at her from across the room, pulling her to the floor. Another shot came through the glass, hitting the mantel.
“Be quiet!” he ordered, dragging her away from the window. “Someone out there’s got a gun!” He reached up and switched off the overhead light. For a moment they lay motionless in the semidarkness. “Are you all right?” he rasped.
“I think so.”
“Just stay down.”
Carefully he crawled over to the front door. He turned off die hall light and then took a quick look outside. “I can’t see anyone.”
“Maybe they’re gone,” said Ivy. She realized her body was quaking violently. Tiny pinpricks of blood welled up as if by magic on her bare arm.
“Or hiding in one of those fir trees,” he whispered. “I’m going to call 911.”
“What about Hale?”
Louie crouched near the phone and glanced up the stairs. “I can’t believe he didn’t hear those shots.”
“We’ve got to warn him not to come downstairs!” Ivy made a move to get up.
At that same moment, Hale came through the swinging kitchen door into the dining room. “Hey … what’s going on? Who turned off all the lights?”
“Get down!” shouted Louie.
Ivy began to crawl toward him. “Someone took a shot at me!”
Hale bumped into the edge of the huge mahogany table, nearly losing his balance.
She pulled him to the carpet.
“What the hell?” He seemed terribly concerned that his suit might get wrinkled. “Stop it!” He squirmed away from her.
“Some idiot out there’s got a gun,” said Louie, picking up the receiver and poking in the numbers. “They took several shots at your wife. Didn’t you hear anything? Look at the front windows!” Clearing his throat, he spoke clearly and calmly into the mouthpiece, giving the address and a short description of what had just happened. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he called to Ivy.
“No. Just some small cuts.”
He repeated her answer and then urged the person on the other end to send a police car immediately.
Hale crawled a bit farther into the living room. In the soft light streaming in through the windows, the glass littering the Oriental carpet glittered like diamonds. He seemed momentarily at a loss for words.
“I thought you were upstairs,” said Ivy, leaning her back against the edge of the dining room arch. She drew her knees up close to her body.
“I … was.” He paused. “I came down the back steps into the kitchen. Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked. He was beginning to sweat.
“I’m fine. Just shaken.” For Ivy, the full magnitude of the situation was just starting to sink in. Those bullets had been close. She could have been killed!
“For God’s sake, man,” said Louie, his disgust all too apparent, “your wife needs you! Put your arm around her.”
Hale’s head shot up, looking as if he’d just been slapped. “Of … course.” The hesitation in his voice spoke louder than any words. He eased himself over to where she was sitting.
In an instant, Ivy felt trapped, pinned to the wall by his heavy body, bruised by the smell of his cologne. She closed her eyes and turned her face away.
“That’s better now, isn’t it, dear?” Hale tightened his grip around her shoulders.
Desperately she fought down a wave of nausea. “Much,” she whispered. In her entire life, she’d never felt so alone.
2
Attempting to rein in her growing impatience, Rhea sipped her red wine and watched the other restaurant patrons talking, laughing, and enjoying their food. Agreeing to meet Ben for dinner had been a mistake. She couldn’t understand why she’d let him talk her into it. To top it off, he was late. She was never going to make it over to the Chappeldine Gallery for that art reception if she didn’t order dinner soon. Taking one last glance at the front entrance, she opened the menu and began studying it. It would serve him right if, by the time he finally arrived, she was halfway through her meal.
The cannelloni stuffed with scallops and fresh asparagus looked promising. During their short marriage, Luciano’s had become their favorite restaurant. Ben loved Italian food. He often said he could eat pasta morning, noon, and night. Since Rhea was too busy with her own career to cook very much, they’d eaten here often. She hadn’t been back since —
“I recommend the tagliatelle in walnut sauce,” said a voice she recognized immediately.
“You’re forty-five minutes late!” Any vestige of politeness Rhea possessed had dissolved into her third glass of merlot.
“Good evening to you, too.” Ben gave her his most irresistible smile and took a seat, extending a single, red rose. “I see I can still count on you for a prompt recap of my sins.” His fair skin looked flushed, his blue eyes a bit more intense than usual.
Rhea took the flower, holding it to her nose as she studied him. “What? That’s it? Don’t I even get an explanation?”
He slipped on his reading glasses and picked up the menu. “I was in St Paul doing … a shoot.” Again, he grinned. “The freeway was a madhouse. I really am sorry. I intended to arrive at the stroke of seven. Ah, here comes my peace offering.”
A waiter approached the table with two tall champagne flutes and a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice.
“I’ll pour,” he said, lifting the bottle from its cradle.
“I hardly think our final divorce papers merit this kind of celebration.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong.” He held his glass high, gazing at her seductively. ‘To us.”
Somewhat reluctantly, she clinked her glass against his and took a sip.
“I’m glad you wore your hair down. You look unbelievably lovely tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“Well?” he asked after a moment.
“Well what?”
“Don’t you want to tell me I look lovely, too?”
Even after all that had happened, she couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe she hadn’t lost her sense of humor after all. The fact of the matter was, he did look pretty good. “What are you up to? You never did tell me why it was so important to get together tonight.”
“I should think the point would be obvious.”
“The divorce?”
“Partly.” He leaned closer, his dark hair glistening in the candlelight. “I’m a free man now. I can date anyone I choose.” He paused for effect. “And I choose … you.”
