" 'O Holy Night. O night divine.' "She was smiling.
Matt, knee-jerk shrink that he had become, wondered if she realized she had named him for a night, a single night, on which another infant was born, if not conceived. Or was Matt conceived on that night? His birthday was in September . . . ?
"What was his first name?"
"Who?"
"My father."
She hesitated. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not say. I... can't say it. He was from a well-educated, well-to-do family. It's not only the settlement that makes me think that. It's how I met him. In church, lighting two full rows of candles before the Virgin. I guess he came to St. Stan's because it was old-fashioned enough to have the plaster statues with the tiers of candles before them, and the poor box. He was going to war. He didn't have to, he said, but he thought it was the right thing to do, even though he had an easy out. I suppose that was college."
"And that was the night when . . . ?"
She looked down, to the bare, entwined hands on her lap. "I've said enough. I was another person then. You see why that man in Las Vegas doesn't matter at all anymore?"
Matt nodded again. She would never understand that while she could suffer Effinger's abuse for the long-term good, a male child in that household could never be reconciled with it.
The blood feud went on, not over Matt's mother any more, but between Matt and Cliff Effinger. Over what had happened between them. Some wars you can't opt out of, as Matt's real father had apparently known before him. Those are the wars you fight with yourself before and after you fight them with--or for--someone else. Maybe turning Effinger over to the authorities would end this conflict. Matt would see how he felt when he got back.
"What are you going to do when you get back?" his mother asked, eerily echoing his thoughts.
"I don't know. I've got some major decisions to make. About my job. About other things."
"Have you made friends in Las Vegas?"
"Yes. Yes, I have. The volunteers at the hot line are quite interesting, quite admirable. And I have the wildest landlady; she's loaned me her motorcycle to get around on."
"Motorcycle!"
"Don't worry. Electra's in her sixties. Yeah, she rode that motorcycle before she lent it to me. And . . . I'm sort of friends with a police lieutenant."
"Any girlfriends'"
"Well, the police lieutenant's a woman, but I wouldn't exactly call her a girlfriend. My neighbor, Temple, is pretty incredible, though."
His mother nodded, smiling, politely inquiring, trying. "Temple." The name probably struck her as odd, if not blasphemous. "Is she a nice girl?"
Matt doubted that Temple would object to the term "girl" under the circumstances. "A very nice girl."
"Catholic?"
"Not. . . quite."
His mother nodded cautiously, smiling, but said nothing.
Chapter 29
"Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire..."
Temple returned to Colby, Janos and Renaldi Monday morning fully loaded for Louie (CatAboard, Allpetco cat food, cat minilitterbox) wondering what they would do today after the disaster Saturday night. Would it be business as usual?
Not if Kendall Colby Renaldi was involved.
While Temple had spent her time off tracking the sad life and sadder dead body of Rudy Lasko, Kendall had been doing something very different.
She met Temple and Louie as soon as the receptionist announced them. Her face was pale and her eye makeup merged with the dark circles around her eyes, but a bundle of manila folders lay in the crook of one arm, and her voice was brisk.
"Temple. I'm so glad you're early. We need to talk."
Temple trudged after her clicking heels to the tiny office. Kendall didn't even offer to help her unfasten Louie's carrier or take her coat. She shut the door as soon as Temple was inside the cubicle and began speaking.
"It's incredible that I didn't think of you sooner. Daddy has been playing the stoic, trying to dismiss what happened He insists that the victim, whoever he was, was really the intended victim, or else the victim of some outre accident. But who would want to kill some nameless Santa Claus nobody knew was going to be there, except for Daddy and the man himself?"
"Well, the Santa substitute could have mentioned the assignment to a friend. But I happen to know he didn't have many. So, really? Your father believes the actor was the target?"
"He's just trying to reassure me. He knows what a shock this has been. First, my divorce. Now this." Kendall sat at her desk and tapped her pile of folders. "Daddy is simply too confident a man for his own good. If someone tried to kill him once, and missed, that someone will try again. We've got to find the killer."
"We've?"
Temple was feeling overheated and slightly sick in her outdoor clothes, so she unlatched straps and began to struggle out of Louie, Inc.
"It's so obvious!" Kendall was oblivious to surrounding distractions. "Who's right here, with plenty of experience with murder? You!"
"Don't forget Louie."
Kendall glanced at the cat, now struggling out of the unfastened bag. How symbolic, Temple thought.
"I don't know what the cat can do here, or what he did anywhere else. Certainly, he was impressive in alerting us to the . . . hanging. Daddy keeps saying, who would want to kill him, but he isn't looking at things as I am."
"And what are you looking at?" Temple was interested despite herself.
Even Louie leaped atop Kendall's desk and began pawing the file folders in an eerily purposeful manner.
"I'll tell you soon enough." Kendall clapped a hand over the folders and gave Louie a narrow look. Then she leaned closer to Temple and lowered her voice. "Daddy may not know it, but when Carl and I were discussing divorce, it came out that Carl can't count on his daddy to tide him over in the manner to which he has become accustomed, because poor old Tony's private investments have taken a fatal turn for the worse."
"How would that motivate the elder Renaldi to want your father dead?"
"Daddy is the head and heart of this agency. With him gone, the remaining two partners could sell it for a bundle and divide the spoils. Of course I would get Daddy's portion--if they don't kill me too--but each surviving partner's share would be plenty. This is a report on the agency's worth."
"What makes you think that Victor Janos would give up the business without a fight?"
Kendall clenched the fat file she was about to hand to Temple. "Because Victor Janos commissioned this report on the state of the agency on today's market. I got it out of the personal files in his office."
"Why would he want to bow out?"
"I'm not sure, but both these guys are in their fifties. Maybe they crave an early retirement. Daddy will work until he drops. Or is dropped."
"Wouldn't it be simpler for your father to buy out his partners if they wanted to retire early?"
"Both of them? At his age, it'd hardly be feasible for him to continue on solo, and solid new partners are hard to find. Besides, the name means something. Colby, Wilcox and Whatzit would be meaningless. Unfortunately, the partners are like the Three Musketeers. They've always been in lockstep."
"Why would Victor Janos want to sell?"
"I don't know. But I've never trusted the man, not since I was a tiny child. I always wondered why Daddy associated with someone so . . . rough. You can see his edges still need filing down; he's not adapted as Tony Renaldi has."
"What about the grand sixties experiment? Men from different levels of society united by an ugly war into a friendship that overleaped social barriers. You know: the sixties, everybody get together and love one another. Sometimes literally, from what I hear."
"Listen. The partners have been inseparable, but it's always been business underneath the socializing." Kendall's eyes narrowed again. She looked older and harder. "I was awake all Saturday and Sunday nights, thinking. That was a clever, difficult way to murder someone? Whoever did it had to know how traps and snares work. Weren't there tunnels and traps in Vietnam?"