Smoke and mirrors, p.1
Smoke and Mirrors, page 1
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
A Greer Hogan Mystery
M. E. HILLIARD
For my family near and far, always my biggest fans and supporters
Chapter One
A walk among the tombstones gives a girl perspective, especially when the tombstones in question tell the tale of the neighborhood you grew up in, the grammar school you attended, and the parish church where you were married. Here lies the first little girl who spoke to me on the playground when I was the new kid in school. She was dropped to the pavement by an aneurysm the day before her twenty-ninth birthday. To my left, the class clown, a bright-eyed boy dead at thirty-seven from a cancer both stunning and horrifying in its lethal efficiency. Just ahead was the ornate headstone of a girl whose fancy house and designer clothes I’d envied all through high school. She’d spent the fifteen years after we graduated drinking herself to death, finally finishing the job a week after our class reunion. Safe to say, none of us had ended up where we’d thought we would.
I moved on. There’d been a funeral that afternoon—no one I knew: I’d checked the online parish bulletin—and I made my way around the freshly dug earth and blanket of flowers. There were a couple of nice arrangements of early spring blooms mixed in with the usual funereal floral offerings. I wrinkled my nose. I hated the smell of lilies. I left the cloying odor behind as I moved into the older part of the cemetery. In use before the parish got larger and wealthier, it was close to the church and the rectory. When the school was added, the trustees had had the foresight to buy up as much of the nearby land as they could, adding a schoolyard on one side and expanding the cemetery on the other. I liked this original graveyard, with its trees and flowering shrubs. Here the air smelled of late winter, cool and damp, with an earthy note from the mud left by the melting snow. It was twilight, and the quickly changing temperatures that accompanied the change in seasons created a light fog. It blurred outlines, making the monuments seem to shift and the paths between them come and go. No matter, I had the place to myself, and I knew where I was going.
And there it was. The grave I’d come to visit, its dark granite marker as solid and unassuming as the man himself. Daniel Fitzpatrick Sullivan. My late husband. Danny had been as straightforward as they come, never one to keep secrets. But something had been bothering him right before he died, something he’d wanted to tell me about one morning. I hadn’t made time to listen, and by that night he was dead. Whatever it was he had known, it was a secret someone wanted to keep, and they’d made sure he took it to his grave. Danny had been murdered in our apartment, and I’d found him there, dead, nearly four years ago. The guilt and shock had worn off. The rage remained.
I sat on a small stone bench a few feet from the grave. Behind and above me was a statue of the angel Gabriel, sans trumpet. He gazed down, lips parted, expression earnest, with one hand outstretched. A hedge had grown up over the decades, creating an alcove that sheltered both bench and statue. It was a private, peaceful place, and the reason I’d chosen the small plot. I could sit, unobserved, yet still hear anyone approaching on the gravel path. I studied the stone in front of me. The fog swirled and drifted, never quite obscuring the inscription, never quite disappearing. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and sighed.
“We need to talk, Dan,” I said. “I know you were trying to tell me something. I think you still are. But you’re going to have to spell it out. The dreams aren’t enough.”
Silence. I tried to clear my mind and let my thoughts drift. I didn’t expect a direct download from Danny, though that would have been nice. I’d have been satisfied if my subconscious burped up some fact I’d missed previously. Instead, I got one of the same scenes that played out while I slept—my husband at the end of a long, dark hallway, holding out an envelope. I shook my head.
“I already know about that,” I said. “The spreadsheets you sent to Ian.” Ian Cameron, my long-ago first love, and longtime friend and mentor to the man I’d eventually married, had received several pages of information from Danny via snail mail. They’d been sent right before he died. Dan had tried to call Ian too, in the days before he was murdered, but the two hadn’t been able to connect. Ian had hung on to the spreadsheets, although, as he’d told me recently, “Without context, I can’t make any sense of them.”
“What am I missing?” I pounded my fists on my thighs. “What—” I stopped. I’d heard a faint sound. I leaned forward again, so I could see past the hedge. An indistinct shape, muffled in fog, was moving toward me. A few seconds later, a tall figure, clothed entirely in black, stepped into view and stopped beside me.
“Greer. I thought I’d find you here.”
“Father Liam,” I said. “I thought I had the whole place to myself.”
“Saw you from the rectory window. Figured you’d come to have a chat with our man Daniel.”
Father Liam Sullivan was my late husband’s cousin, and of all his relatives, my favorite. Though he was ten years older than Dan, the two had always been close, more like brothers than cousins. Handsome, charming, and bright, Liam had been a successful stockbroker. At the age of thirty, he had come to Sunday dinner at his parents’ and announced that, after much reflection, he had joined the Society of Jesus and was going to become a priest. The entire family, with two exceptions, was stunned. Liam’s grandmother, in spite of having always considered Jesuits a bit too free-thinking for her taste, was thrilled to have a member of the clergy in the family and said she always knew Liam would find his way someday. Danny hadn’t been surprised either. “It always felt like Liam was looking for something, and then once he went to seminary, it didn’t feel like that anymore,” he’d told me. Father Liam had officiated our wedding and Dan’s funeral. I liked him, and I trusted him.
“I have, though the conversation’s been a bit one-sided,” I said. I slid sideways on the small bench. He perched on the end of it. We both sat and studied the headstone. After a moment, Father Liam sighed, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and lit up.
I raised an eyebrow. “Thought you’d quit,” I said.
“I have, when I’m where anyone can see me,” he said, blowing out a stream of smoke. “Parishioners, at least. You’re family.”
“Hmm,” I said, but before I could make a point about splitting hairs, he started to speak.
“I’ve spoken to the prison chaplain, out there where they’ve put the man the cops said killed Dan.”
“Pete Perry,” I said. “And?”
“This Perry isn’t religious, and Father Andrew isn’t there all the time, but he did make a point of speaking to him.”
I waited. Liam took a long drag on his cigarette.
“Well,” he said, “Andrew said Perry seemed happy to have someone to talk to about the whole thing, someone who would hear him out. He admits he broke in—says he was paid to, and to look for certain things—and that Dan came home unexpectedly, and so he hit him. He swears he left Dan alive but unconscious.”
“That’s what he told me,” I said. “And he was an amateur boxer, so I think he would know if he hit Dan hard enough to kill him.”
“He still boxes,” Liam said. “And according to Andrew, he’s still pretty good. I don’t know, Greer. I admit, I thought you were reaching with this, just not able to let go, but Andrew’s been doing this a long time, ministering to the incarcerated. He thinks the man’s telling the truth.”
“Thank you for telling me—and for asking around, even though you thought I was off my rocker.”
“I never thought that, Greer, but grief is a strange and difficult thing. It hits people differently. I just didn’t want you to get stuck.”
“I’m not stuck. Not anymore. I was stuck for three years. Now I’m looking for answers. You understand if Pete Perry didn’t kill Dan, someone else did? And that someone is still out there?”
“It did occur to me, yes. But what will you do? This isn’t enough to take to the police.”
“I’m not sure what I’ll do next,” I said. “It’s possible I can find something the police would be interested in, enough to take another look.”
“And if they won’t?”
I shrugged.
“The thing is, why would anyone want to kill Dan?” Liam sounded frustrated and angry. Join the club, I thought.
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” I said. “If we knew why, we’d know who. At least I think so.”
He gave me a long look. “What will you do, Greer?” he asked again.
“Find out. Why and who.”
“And then?”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” I said, staring at the headstone.
“Hmm. Well. Stay on the side of the angels, Greer.”
“Only if I can be the one with the flaming sword, Father.”
Liam shook his head. I stood. I was getting cold, and it was getting dark. Liam ground out his cigarette and stood as well.
“Would you like to come for a drink? Or stay for supper? The Rangers are playing tonight. We could watch and catch up on the family news,” he said.
“No, thanks. I’ve got some things to take care of. But I’ll take a raincheck.”
“Well, you know you’re always welcome. At Mass, as well. You can come without your mother dragging you, you know.”
“Nice try, Father. I’ll take you up on the drink and the hockey game sometime.” I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks again for listening and helping me out.”
“Anytime, Greer. You know where to find me.” He turned towa rd the rectory, and I followed the path to the front gate, moving faster this time. I’d made the trip out to Riverdale to have lunch with my parents. They were leaving the next day for an extended trip to visit my sister and her family in Florida. I suspected my mother was trying to give my father a taste of retirement. I also suspected this would not be effective.
As far as my parents knew, I had gone straight back to Manhattan after lunch. There were a few things I’d needed to do that I didn’t want to discuss with them, though, this visit to the cemetery being one. I’d have to tell them something about my investigation of Dan’s death eventually, but not yet. I didn’t know how it would end, and I didn’t want them involved.
Some things a girl has to do on her own.
Chapter Two
My subway ride was uneventful. Rush hour hadn’t started, and I was headed into Manhattan rather than leaving it. I’d been back in the city long enough to get my game face on and have my commuter muscle memory kick in, but I still held my tote bag a little tighter than usual. I wanted to keep it close without looking like a nervous out-of-towner waiting to be mugged. I’d made a couple of purchases I couldn’t exactly put on a police report, and was carrying more cash than usual. The trip was quick and not too crowded, but I still breathed a sigh of relief when I locked the door of my apartment behind me.
My temporary gig came with temporary digs. I’d been hired by the Archive of Illusionists and Conjurers as an all-purpose cataloger, abstracter, and indexer. They’d received a bequest that included a large collection of books pertaining to the history and practice of what my new supervisor referred to as “the conjuring arts.” In other words, magic and magicians. While I had no experience with either, the colleague who had recommended me had stated that I had the appropriate “curiosity, initiative, and discretion” for the job. I was also willing to work for a modest salary supplemented by free lodging in an unrenovated, fifth-floor walk-up apartment across the street from my worksite on the Upper West Side. Said worksite was a classic brownstone with a large library and collection of magical ephemera. It was situated near the corner on a quiet cross street. The apartment was in a mid-rise fronting the avenue, but my windows had a direct view of the brownstone.
“I’m afraid the apartment hasn’t been updated in decades,” Ava, the Archive librarian, had told me before I arrived. “And, of course, there’s no elevator. But it’s a co-op and they do provide Wi-Fi. I had enough money in the project budget for a new bed and some kitchen items—microwave, decent coffeemaker, things like that. The brownstone where the collection is housed also has new kitchen appliances and good internet connectivity, but other than regular cleaning and maintenance, nothing has been touched in seven or eight years, maybe more. The former owner was a bit eccentric. The hours are flexible though—you can work anytime between six AM and midnight.”
For thirty flexible hours a week and free lodging, I was in. I needed a paycheck while the Raven Hill Library was being rebuilt, and I needed to be in the city to look into Dan’s murder, whenever and wherever the trail led. The apartment wasn’t bad. It was a small one-bedroom with a living room and separate, if tiny, kitchen. There was an alcove off the bedroom. It was long and narrow, but it had a window and enough room for a reading chair, lamp, and bookcase. There were two oddly shaped closets, and if the bedroom door was closed, the living room got no natural light, but I found it quite acceptable, and it was more than I’d have been able to afford on my own. The furniture had a definite mid-century modern feel and had been scrupulously cleaned. The new coffeepot was so high tech it was clear Ava and I placed a similar value on the importance of a well-brewed cup.
I stashed my purchases in various hidey-holes I’d found—another unexpected bonus—and then took a quick shower. While I dried my hair, I contemplated my wardrobe options for the evening. I was meeting someone for drinks. April Benson was the almost ex-wife of the late Frank Benson, who had served as corporate counsel for New Leaf, the company Dan was working for when he died. The divorce was contentious and not yet final when Frank met his untimely end. I’d met her at the wedding of a mutual friend the previous fall. The weekend had involved lots of booze, some great parties, and a murder. Maybe more than one.
Frank Benson had attended the wedding with his fiancée, Shelby. I’d been chatting with them not long before Frank had a heart attack. He’d been whisked away from the festivities to the local hospital. He’d seemed to be on the mend but had suddenly died while briefly alone in his room. Unexpected but not unreasonable given the state of his health. The fact that he had had a visitor no one could identify shortly before he died had my girl detective senses tingling. That’s what I wanted to talk to April about.
I considered my approach to the subject as I pulled things out of my closet. Opening with “So I’m pretty sure the person who killed my husband is still running loose, and I think this same person may have offed your husband too” was a little blunt, even if it did put the whole situation in a nutshell. It would convince most people I was crazy, but I’d floated some suspicions to April at the time, and she’d been willing to consider them. Still, a more indirect approach might be best.
“Tell me, April, are you entirely satisfied with what the hospital and the police told you about Frank’s cause of death?” I said aloud to the empty apartment. Something like that would work, with the right balance of concern and curiosity. No lie—I was both: concerned because I believed Dan’s killer was still out there, and I didn’t know what might happen once I started stirring things up; and curious because I knew the police had done at least a cursory check into Frank’s death, since it had occurred in close proximity to another crime, but I hadn’t heard anything about it. April would have, if there was anything to know, because she was still next of kin at the time he’d died.
Satisfied with my plan, I applied some lipstick, checked the outside temp, and added a scarf and gloves to my ensemble. I’d gone for the all-black, low-key professional look. I’d spent most of my workdays in jeans lately, so it was nice to feel a little more pulled together. Besides, April was an attorney, and she’d be coming from work. We’d look like two women of business having a few glasses of wine, not a couple of amateur detectives nosing into a possible murder.
Not that anyone would notice, I told myself as I fastened all three locks on my apartment door, then double-checked them. It was just that a couple of times since the wedding, and several more since I’d been back in the city, I’d had the feeling of being watched. Nothing concrete I could point to, only a creepy back-of-the-neck feeling. It usually happened when I was out and about, running errands. Once or twice, I’d also thought something was not where I’d left it at work, but I hadn’t been at the job long enough to have a standard place for everything. Logical explanations for all, I was sure. But still.
April was already seated when I arrived at the restaurant, a bistro with an eclectic menu and nice wine list. The clientele were mostly neighborhood residents looking for a good meal at the end of the day. That was one thing I’d really missed about the city—never having to cook for myself. I slid into the chair across from April. She’d snagged a table far enough from the bar to be quiet, but with a good view. We exchanged greetings—thankfully, she was neither a hugger nor an air kisser.
“Nice little place,” she said, once we’d each ordered a glass of wine and an appetizer. “Do they do lunch? I’ve got a new client up this way.”
“Yes, and a really good brunch on the weekends.”
“I’ll have to keep it in mind,” April said. “You’re looking great. I guess being back in the city is agreeing with you.”
“It’s nice to be doing so much walking again, and I move around a lot for my job. And I broke down and joined a gym, just to make sure I got out and talked to people. It offers some fun classes.”
Truth be told, I was in the best shape of my life. Between the walk-up apartment, all the stairs in the brownstone, and moving and shelving the collection I was working on, I got plenty of exercise. The gym did provide a chance to meet people and chat, to the extent you could chat during a mixed martial arts class geared toward self-defense. In the past year, I’d nearly been drowned, I’d been stuck in a burning building, and I’d run into an attempted stabbing, all in the service of justice. At this point, I wasn’t taking any chances. Plus, I now had discernible triceps, which had me pretty impressed with myself.
