“Kylie Ballantine’s papers are in the Vivian Harsh Collection at the Chicago Public Library. I went down to read them and there were several references in them to an unnamed committee-and to the committee’s patron. Would that have been your husband?”
She looked at me in hauteur. “Calvin’s support of art and artists is legendary. But I must say I’m surprised you have time to visit libraries. Are you planning to follow in this dead journalist’s steps in writing a book about Ballantine?”
“No, ma’am. Just trying to figure out why he went out to New Solway.” “Yes, well, I can’t see that that concerns me. My only interest in your activities is how they affect my granddaughter’s well-being.” She got up to press a buzzer on her desk phone. After a moment, Elsbetta appeared and was told to show me out.
“When you decide to tell me about the Sadawi boy, call my office and set up an appointment. I’ll make sure my secretary knows to fit you in immediately.” She was right: she didn’t dance, she slam-dunked.
I walked the four miles from Banks Street to my office. I’d heard a great deal today, and I was hoping I could remember enough of the nuances to let me sort lies from truth. I wished I had someone to talk it all over with. My old assistant, Mary Louise, with her astringent approach to the business side of detection, would have given me good feedback.
Or Morrell, whose thoughtful response to my own passionate ideasMorrell-I was getting so I couldn’t express his name without feeling
something in my center disintegrate. I had a moment of despair so overwhelming that I collapsed onto a bench, head on my knees. I flung out a hand, as if I could touch him.
Something cold landed in my outstretched fingers: a passerby had given me a quarter. I looked around, but I was at a crowded intersection on North Avenue. Any of the people leaving Walgreens or heading into Starbucks could have felt sorry for a woman so decrepit she couldn’t hold up her head.
I sighed and stood up. Back to your loom, Penelope.
I continued west on North Avenue, doggedly thinking about the Bayards. Neither Renee nor Edwards would have said as much to me on their own as they had together. Edwards’s anger with his mother over Catherine, and his mother’s anger about his rightwing views, had let me learn that there was something fishy about Bayard Publishing’s finances-either today, or sometime in the past. Edwards had also implied that his father had slept around-he’d called Kylie Ballantine one of his “special projects.”
And Geraldine Graham? I had reached the bridge over the Chicago River, where I came to a halt, staring at a crane moving scrap metal in a plant at the river’s edge. Had she also been one of Calvin Bayard’s special projects? A lover, supplanted by the new young wife from Vassar? If that was the case, it was funny that MacKenzie Graham killed himself after Calvin arrived back in New Solway with Renee, instead of while Geraldine and Calvin were still lovers.
All those New Solway lives, they were like the twisted ribbons of steel dangling from the crane’s magnet. You could turn them and see them in different combinations. I could see a version in which Geraldine Graham threw a mask into the pool so she wouldn’t remember the lover who made her buy it. Or because she had found out that she shared the lover with the mask’s provider. I could see, less clearly, her formidable mother throwing the mask away: No primitive art allowed? No primitive passions allowed? Or Darraugh throwing it in because he resented anything to do with Calvin Bayard-if Calvin had been Geraldine’s lover.
Calvin had also forced Olin Taverner to buy a mask. And Edwards Bayard had grown up to give Olin any revenge against his neighbor and nemesis the old lawyer might crave. But why should Taverner want
revenge-surely it was Calvin Bayard who was the wronged party here. And what did that have to do with Marcus Whitby-aside from his interest in Kylie Ballantine?
The crane dropped its load. The sound didn’t reach me over the traffic noise along the bridge, but the end of the show galvanized me back into motion. At the corner of Damen, a drunk was panhandling. I gave him the quarter I’d gotten on Wells Street. He wasn’t grateful-these days a quarter is a pathetic handout.
Tessa’s truck was in the parking lot. When I passed the door to her studio, I stopped for a moment to watch. She was working weekends to finish a commissioned piece for a Cincinnati park, highly polished chunks of chrome that made you want to touch and slide on them. Despite the cool day, she had the heat turned off and was working in a tank top and shorts under her protective apron, her beaded hair pulled back under a hard hat.
I’ve learned not to interrupt her when she’s got her blowtorch going full blast, but when she saw me in the doorway she turned off the flame and came over to me, removing her hard hat and flipping her protective eye shield up over her head. “Are you still full of germs? How far away do I have to stand from you?”