None of them seemed to be frightened by the note that had been found with Thorne’s body.
Thorne Bigelow had been a very wealthy man. A well-known man. And though murder happened all too often, it was the sad truth that a murder with a hook—like a victim who was regularly in the headlines and a mysterious note making reference to a long-dead storyteller and poet—intrigued the media more than most deaths did.
It was only happenstance that Thorne Bigelow had been a very rich Raven. The Ravens didn’t demand that a member be wealthy, published on the topic of Poe’s life and works or world-renowned, though sometimes they were. Thorne Bigelow had written a book on Poe that was considered to be the definitive work on the man. Bigelow was honored far and wide for his knowledge.
And he had been poisoned. Poisoned with a bottle of thousand-dollar wine.
He loved wine, perhaps even to excess. And he had died of it.
à la Poe.
“The Black Cat.”
Or perhaps “The Cask of Amontillado.”
The killer didn’t seem to have been too precise about which story he meant Bigelow’s death to parallel. He had made his intentions clear in the note he’d left at the scene, though.
Quoth the raven: die.
The police were pretty much at a standstill, though why the media were harassing them so strongly about the case, Genevieve wasn’t certain. Thorne Bigelow had only been dead a week. She knew from personal experience that bad things could go on for a very long time before a situation was resolved. If it hadn’t been for her family’s wealth and her own disappearance, the sad deaths of many of the city’s less fortunate might have gone unsolved for a very long time.
But Bigelow was big news.
“My darling, there you are!”
Genevieve looked up. Her mother—it was still strange to call Eileen Mother, when she had grown up believing that she was her aunt—was standing before her. Eileen, only in her early forties now, was stunning. Her love for Genevieve was so strong—not to mention that without her persistence, Genevieve would surely be dead now—that it was easy to forgive the lies of the past. Especially since Genevieve knew what family pressure was like, and that her mother had been far too young to speak up for herself when Gen had been born.
But Eileen Brideswell had finally decided that a New York that embraced reruns of Sex and the City would surely forgive her a teenage, unwed birth. What she might once have been damned for now passed without notice by most in the city.
And after all, Genevieve had loved Eileen all her life.
“Here I am,” Genevieve said cheerfully.
“He didn’t show,” Eileen said.
“No.”
Eileen hesitated. She was very slim, and had classic features, the kind that would make her just as beautiful when she turned eighty as she was now. But at the moment, her expression was strained.
“What?” Genevieve asked, suddenly worried by what she saw in her mother’s eyes.
“There was a terrible accident on the FDR.”
Genevieve leapt up. “When? Joe uses—”
“About an hour ago. The reports are just coming out now. One man was killed—don’t panic, it wasn’t Joe—and a number of other people were injured.”
Genevieve sat back down and fumbled in the pocket of her black silk skirt for her cell phone. “That bastard better answer me,” she muttered.
“Joe Connolly,” came his voice, after three rings.
She could hear music in the background. An Irish melody. He was at O’Malley’s, she thought.
“Joe, it’s Genevieve.”
“Hey. You still at your big soiree?” he asked.
“Yes. I thought you were coming.”
“I couldn’t make it past the traffic.”
She let out a sigh. All right. That might be a legitimate excuse.
“Ah.”
“I’m at O’Malley’s.”
“Yes, it sounded like O’Malley’s.”
He was silent. It felt like an awkward silence. Was she being too clingy? Good God, did she sound disapproving, as if she were his wife or something?
Stop, she warned herself. She had to be careful of expecting too much from him. It had seemed, after she was rescued, after Leslie had…died, that they were destined to be close. The best of friends, needing one another.
But then it was as if he had put up a wall.
She gritted her teeth. She needed him now. Cut and dried. Needed his professional help. He was a private investigator. Finding people, finding facts, finding the truth. That was what he did. And she needed to hire him. She wasn’t asking any favors.
“Well, have fun,” she said.
She clicked the phone closed before he could reply.
Eileen looked at her. “Don’t worry, dear.” Her mother sat down beside her and patted her knee. “It’s all going to come out fine.”
“Mom…” The word seemed a bit strange, but Genevieve loved to use it. “Mom, I’m worried about you now. You’re a Raven, and…”
Eileen sighed. “Oh, darling, don’t worry. I’m a fringe member, at best. Poor Thorne. I like being a member, I love all the reading and discussing we do, but…honestly, I’m just not worried.”