At six A.M. Riley finally gave up hitting the snooze button on her bedside clock and dragged herself out of bed. She had to be at Mysterioso Manor in an hour. She had no idea why. What on earth was Emerson going to do so early in the morning?
She took a shower and dressed down in skinny black slacks, a pin-striped fitted shirt, a little black wool jacket, and Jimmy Choo ankle boots she’d found on sale. She chugged a cup of coffee and ate some toast, brushed her teeth, swiped on some lip gloss, and was on her way.
At precisely seven o’clock, Riley parked in the paved area behind Mysterioso Manor and hiked her messenger bag onto her shoulder. The RV was still in the same location, and a big, impressively muscled guy was working on the engine. His dark hair was cut into a mullet, and his T-shirt advertised beer. She guessed him to be around thirty.
He stopped working when she walked by and gave her a big, good-natured grin.
“Howdy,” he said, with the same cheerful mountain accent as Aunt Myra. “You here to see Emerson?”
“Yes,” she said. “Are you Vernon?”
“That’s what they call me. My mom said you were here yesterday, and you were sweet as tea. And she was right. You sure are pretty.”
“Thank you. Do you live here with your mom and Emerson?”
“Sometimes, but mostly I live in Harrisonburg, Virginia. That’s about a hour from Charlottesville. I come up here when Emerson needs something fixed. I keep all his cars running spit spot.” He grinned again. “That’s from Mary Poppins.”
Riley smiled back. “One of my favorite movies.”
“Yeah, me too,” he said. “I like when that guy dances like a penguin. If you’re looking for Emerson, he’s probably out in the conservatory at this hour of the morning. Just go around the house till you see the zebras, then turn right.”
Before yesterday, Riley would have thought she’d misheard him. Now she went looking for zebras.
Riley counted eight zebras behind a fence. The gate to the enclosure was open, and they could have wandered off, so she guessed they were pretty content where they were. She turned right as directed, and the walkway led to a giant greenhouse. It was a glass and iron structure of intricate design with a big Victorian cupola on top. It looked to Riley like a massive crystal wedding cake.
The glass panes were shattered in spots, and vines grew through the gaps and wrapped themselves around the outside of the building as if they wanted to swallow it whole.
Walking through the open door, she heard the booming seventies funk music that she now associated with Emerson. The interior was humid and crammed with ferns, fruit trees, and flowering plants.
“Hello?” she called. “Mr. Knight?”
No answer. She punched his cell number into her phone, waited while it connected, and heard the phone ringing somewhere on the other side of the jungle. She cautiously crept along the stone path, brushing ferns aside, keeping a watchful eye out for spiders and lizards. She reached an open area that had two pretty white wrought iron benches and a small table. Emerson was sitting cross-legged on the table, eyes closed, his mind obviously somewhere far away.
Riley sat down on one of the benches and watched Emerson. He didn’t seem to be breathing, but he was most likely not dead since he hadn’t toppled off the table. She checked her email on her cellphone and organized her messenger bag. She went back to watching Emerson and decided he had a nice mouth. Sensuous. And she’d kill for his thick black lashes. Too bad he was so weird. Not that it mattered to her date-wise because she’d decided to put that part of her life on hold while she got a grip on her career. She checked her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. She could have slept an extra half hour.
She leaned forward. “Excuse me? Mr. Knight?”
He didn’t respond so she picked a couple kumquats off a nearby tree and pitched them at him. The first one sailed past his ear. The second bounced off his forehead. He opened his eyes, stretched, and came off the table.
“The Siddhar sends his salutations.”
“The Siddhar?”
“Yes. Thiru Kuthambai Siddhar, the nineteenth to bear that exalted title. I’ve studied with him from time to time on Nancowry Island, a tiny spot of land in the northeast Indian Ocean between the Bay of Bengal and the Andaman Sea. Now that my responsibilities dictate that I live here, I’ve had to discontinue my studies with the Siddhar, but I still commune with him every morning.”
“Astral projection?”
“Skype.”
Riley wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. “I thought maybe you were talking to him while you were on the table.”
“That was a simple yoga relaxation exercise. I find it helpful to periodically clear my mind.”
“An excellent use of time,” Riley said. “After you get it empty you can pick and choose the information you want to put back in.”
“Precisely.”
“I was kidding,” Riley said.
Emerson snatched a gray sweatshirt off the floor, shook it, and a lizard fell out. “I wasn’t. That’s why you’re here. To collect and preserve all the worthless bits and pieces of information deemed too insignificant to be returned to my brain.”
“Now you’re kidding,” Riley said.
“Yes, now I’m kidding, although there is an element of truth to it.” He slipped the sweatshirt on over his navy T-shirt and grabbed his rucksack. “Come along, Miss Moon. We’ll take the Mustang this time. Larry used to like to drive the Mustang on weekends.”
“I’m not Larry and this isn’t the weekend.”
“More’s the pity,” he said, and he disappeared behind the ferns.
Emerson’s Mustang was a green ’68 GT Fastback, just like the one Steve McQueen drove in Bullitt. For all Riley knew, it was the one McQueen drove. Talk at her parents’ dinner table was that McQueen always regretted not driving the Mustang off the set and keeping it for himself. He’d searched for years and never found it, so who was to say where the car resided.
Riley drove the car off the property and headed south through Rock Creek. This was a muscle car, like her father’s GTO, and it felt good to be behind the wheel.
“Where are we going?” she asked Emerson.
“To Günter Grunwald’s house. I want to ask his wife a few questions. Take the George Washington Parkway. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“Did you call and tell her we were coming?”
“And lose the element of surprise?”
Riley looked at her watch. “It’s eight-thirty. Irene Grunwald doesn’t impress me as an early riser.”
“Do you know her?” Emerson asked.
“I met her once. At the office. Let’s just say I’d call first.”
“I met her, too. At my father’s funeral. She seemed rather distant. You may be right. I’ll consider calling.”
Riley drove past the golden statues of the improbably muscular horses and riders that guarded the entrance to the Arlington Memorial Bridge. She crossed the Potomac and turned onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Riley looked out at the quaint redbrick townhouses of Alexandria, and eventually they gave way to a densely wooded parkway with the broad Potomac River sparkling on her left.
Günter’s house was on the riverside, off Southdown Road. It was a large Colonial with black shutters and professional landscaping. Riley parked in the curved driveway and turned to Emerson for further instructions.
“Now what?” Riley said. “Do we get out and ring her doorbell?”
“You suggested we call first,” Emerson said. “So you should call.”
“But we’re already here.”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes. We can’t call from the driveway. We should have called a half hour ago. It’ll be like we’re stalking her if we call now.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You wouldn’t call a girl and tell her you’re waiting outside her apartment, would you? She’d think you were deranged.”
“That explains a lot,” Emerson said, getting out of the car.
He walked to the front door and swung the little pineapple-shaped door knocker. No one answered. He tried the door knocker again, waited two beats, and took off around the side of the house.
“Hey!” Riley whispered, tiptoeing after him. “Psssst! What are you doing? You can’t just go wandering around somebody’s yard!”
“Of course I can,” Emerson said. “Look at me. I’m doing it.”
“But what if she sees you?”
“Then my goal will have been achieved.”
Emerson reached the back of the house and stopped short, hands on hips, taking it all in. It was a large yard, landscaped into a formal garden that sloped down to the river. There was a dock at the river’s edge and a large sailboat tied up to the dock.
Irene Grunwald stood in the middle of the yard with her back to Emerson and Riley. She had a spade in her hand, and she was looking into a freshly dug hole.
“Stupid saint,” she said to herself. “I hate these stupid saints.”
Irene was silver blond, in her midforties, and professionally toned. She was dressed in creased tan chinos, a pastel-collared shirt, and fashionable work gloves, presumably to preserve her manicure. Martha Stewart would have approved.
Riley elbowed Emerson and made a gesture to indicate that he should alert Irene of their presence. Emerson cleared his throat. Irene gave a yelp, dropped her spade, and whirled around with her hand over her heart.
“Emerson Knight?” Irene said, squinting at Emerson. “Good Lord, you scared the bejeepers out of me. I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“Are you digging for buried treasure?” Emerson asked.
“Hardly. My gardener was preparing a flower bed for mums when he dug up a plaster statue of a saint and freaked out. He said it was a bad omen, crossed himself a dozen times, and took off. And it’s not the first time this has happened.”
Emerson looked into the hole. “Saint Nicholas,” he said. “I’d know him anywhere.”
“Are you planting the mums yourself?” Riley asked Irene.
“No. I’m filling the hole and selling the house,” Irene said. “This is like some kind of weird burial ground. The place is lousy with these stupid saints. God knows how long they’ve been here or why they’re here. We didn’t plant them. We aren’t even Catholic.”
“How long have you lived in this house?”
“Five years.”
“Saint Nicholas is in extraordinarily good shape for having been in the ground for at least five years.”
“He’s a saint,” Irene said. “They probably hold up better than the rest of us.” She turned her attention to Riley. “I believe we met once before. It’s Riley, correct?”
“Yes. I was an intern at Blane-Grunwald this past summer.”
“My husband took a special interest in you. He thought you had potential.”
“He was a wonderful mentor. And I’m sure he was instrumental in hiring me.”
Emerson swung his attention to the boat at the end of the dock. “Nice sailboat.”
“I suppose,” Irene said. “Günter loved it. He said it was his escape.”
“What was he escaping from?”
“Me,” Irene said. “He used the boat like a ‘men’s only’ back porch.”
“It wasn’t your back porch as well?”
“I get seasick looking at it. In all the time we’ve owned it I think I’ve set foot on it twice.”
“Pity,” Emerson said.
“Mr. Knight has a few questions,” Riley said to Irene. “He’s been engaged to look into Günter’s disappearance.”
Irene looked shocked. “Who engaged him?”
“Werner,” Emerson said.
“So thoughtful of Werner,” Irene said. “Of course I want to help in any way. What would you like to ask me?”
“Did you kill your husband?” Emerson asked.
Irene’s mouth dropped open, and she blinked three times.
“He didn’t mean ‘kill your husband,’ ” Riley said.
“I did,” Emerson said. “I very distinctly heard myself ask her if she killed her husband.”
“I did not kill my husband,” Irene said.
“Good to know,” Riley said. She gave Emerson a stern look. “Anything else?”
“I understand you filed papers to gain power of attorney for your joint property,” Emerson said to Irene.
“My lawyer thought it was prudent.”
Emerson rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets. “But you didn’t file a missing persons report with the police.”
“I suppose I should do that,” Irene said. “Originally I didn’t see any reason. We didn’t have the perfect marriage, and I thought he was just walking out on me.”
“And now?” Emerson asked.
“That’s what I still think.”
Emerson looked into the hole again. “What will you do with Saint Nicholas?”
“Throw him away. Just like all the others.”
“Were they all Saint Nicholas statues?”
“I’m not really up on my saints, but they all looked similar.”
“I’ve always been fond of Saint Nicholas,” Emerson said. “Do you mind if I take him?”
“Not at all,” Irene said. “Help yourself.”
Emerson retrieved the plaster statue, dusted it off, and tucked it under his arm. “Now I would like to see Günter’s study,” he said to Irene.
For a split second Irene looked like she wanted to get in her car and not stop driving until she reached California and was far away from Emerson.
“I suppose that would be all right,” she said, “but I’m not sure if you’ll find anything helpful. Günter didn’t spend much time there.”
Irene led the way into the house, taking them through a spacious kitchen. The counters were granite, the appliances were stainless and looked professional, the floor was wide-plank hand-hewn oak. The cupboards were faux antique, the breakfast nook was charming, and an empty vodka bottle and the remains of a Lean Cuisine frozen dinner had been stashed in the large sink.
“This is a great kitchen,” Riley said.
“Thank you,” Irene said. “I don’t do much cooking in it, but it’s pleasant in the morning when I eat my yogurt.” She set her gloves and hat on a sideboard and led Riley and Emerson down a short hall and up a flight of stairs. “The previous owner chose to create a home office over the garage. It’s very nicely done, but Günter rarely used it. From time to time I believe he would put documents in the safe.”
“Have you checked the safe since he disappeared?” Emerson asked her.
“No. I’m sure there’s nothing in it of interest to me. I keep my jewelry in the bedroom. Truth is, I don’t even know the combination. I believe our lawyer has the ability to open it should something happen to Günter.”
“It sounds as if you expect Günter to return,” Emerson said. “Have you heard from him?”
“No, I haven’t heard from him. One morning he left for work with his to-go cup of coffee and his briefcase, and he simply never returned.”
“You don’t seem especially worried,” Emerson said.
“I drink a lot,” Irene said. “And I smoke dope. It keeps me more or less happy.”