Von flashed her remarkable brown eyes at me. I didn’t know if she was annoyed that I asked the question or that I had interrupted her story again.
“High school freshman,” she said. “It was backseat-of-a-parked-car stuff. The freshman’s parents found out and went ballistic. They called the police, called the prosecutor. They weren’t satisfied with a charge of statutory rape. They bullied the prosecutor into also charging Patrick as a child molester. Eventually all the charges were dropped. The sex was consensual, after all. Both parties were kids. Word got out just the same. It always does, doesn’t it? Patrick was ostracized in school. His parents pretty much disowned him. This happened thirty-five years ago. The charges followed him, still. Every job application has the same line—‘Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’ Patrick was never convicted, but investigators looking into his background could see what he was accused of. Some labels you can’t shake off.”
“Did the City of Lakes Art Museum know this when they hired him?” I asked.
“I think so. That woman, Perrin something, I think she knew but didn’t care. If word got out, though, got out to the public, she’d care one heckuva lot.”
“So Patrick allowed Noehring to blackmail him.”
“I’m not sure if ‘allowed’ is the right word, but yes. At least until he decided he had had enough. Or maybe it was I who made that decision.”
“You?”
“I told Patrick I was leaving him.”
“Because of the blackmail?”
“I didn’t want to live like that anymore. A woman wants a man who—ahh, let’s just say I made a mistake when I married Patrick.”
She didn’t strike me as a woman who made wrong decisions about men, and I told her so.
Von laughed at that. “Well, I made a doozy, only I didn’t know it until Noehring came around,” she said. “That freshman I told you about wasn’t a girl. Was a boy. One of the reasons the parents went crazy. Either Patrick was a pedophile or their son was gay, and they couldn’t have that. You need to remember—this was thirty-five years ago. A different age. No homosexuals on TV back then. The news, though, it changed everything between us. Patrick was the best friend I ever had. If he had told me he was gay he’d still be my best friend. He held it back, probably because of what happened when he was a kid. My point is—boys who love boys should marry boys. They shouldn’t marry girls and pretend to be something they’re not. Sucks for everybody. So we decided to go our separate ways, Patrick and I.”
“What does this have to do with the Jade Lily?”
“When I told Patrick I wanted a divorce, I also told him that I didn’t want a settlement; I didn’t need alimony. It was going to be amicable, you know? He said that I should have something for my trouble, and him, too. I asked what he meant, and he said he was nursing an idea and would get back to me. He didn’t, though. I didn’t know what happened until the insurance man came to question me about the theft.”
“Are you saying that you didn’t know your husband was going to steal the Lily?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Did you tell this to the police?”
“When they came around after they found Patrick, yes, I did. Every word. This cop, his name was Lieutenant Rask; he didn’t want to hear it. Told me not to repeat it. Especially the part about Lieutenant Noehring being a blackmailer.”
“I understand his point of view,” I said.
“Do you?”
“I understand yours, too.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Von, you are the most beautiful liar I have ever met. No, wait”—I gave it a second’s thought—“that honor actually belongs to someone else. You are a strong second place, though. In any case, you’re lying. You lied to the cops; you’re lying to me. I can’t blame you for that.”
“I am not lying.”
“Sure you are. You were in on the theft. You were involved from the very beginning.”
Von smirked. “Prove it,” she said.
“I’m not interested in proving anything. Like I said, I don’t care if anyone goes to jail. If push comes to shove, though, I’d tell the cops to talk to Jenny Thomas.”
Now it was Von’s turn to act surprised. She moved to a chair and picked up the box that had been resting on the cushion.
“Are you tired?” she asked. “Do you want to sit down?”
“No, I’m good,” I said.
Von returned the box to its original position. Her demeanor had shifted in those few seconds. She was still trying to play me, but it was like a tennis player who suddenly discovered that her opponent had a better backhand than she anticipated. She had become less sure of herself.
“So you talked to Jenny,” she said. “What a busy little bee you are.”
“Should we quit screwing around, then?” I asked.
“What do you want?”
“A hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars.”
“Excuse me?”