Killers of a Certain Age(88)

Naomi outlined the terms, and after a little haggling, we struck a bargain. Nobody put anything in writing. It was a handshake deal, decided over ginger chews and a vodka miniature Natalie had in her pocket.

“We get the termination order lifted and our pensions reinstated, and you get to take over as acting director until another board can be selected,” I summed up.

“We can go back to our lives,” Mary Alice said, reaching for Akiko’s hand. Akiko let her, and I realized then they were going to be just fine.

“Yes, but not immediately,” Naomi cautioned. “I have to make sure everybody gets the word that you’re in the Museum’s good graces again. So, lay low for a while, will you?”

“I’m going to Japan,” Natalie said suddenly. “I’ve always wanted to study ikebana.”

Akiko looked at Mary Alice and smiled. “Norway for us, I think. We could take Kevin to the land of his ancestors.” She raised Kevin’s paw and he gave a sleepy growl.

“What about you?” I asked Helen. She took a deep breath as she looked at the house. The fire hadn’t spread beyond the kitchen wing, and the cleanup team had finished putting out the flames. The pall of smoke still hung over the garden, and I figured our hair would smell like it for days.

“I have a house to fix up. I’m ready to tackle it now,” Helen said firmly. “You?”

I thought of a tiny Greek island where Taverner and I had spent a month a lifetime ago. We had rented a farmhouse perched on top of a cliff, overlooking a sea so blue you couldn’t imagine any other color had ever existed in the world. The wind carried the smell of herbs and salt, and every day the sun had blazed like the chariot wheel of a god.

“Greece,” I said suddenly. “I’ll be in Greece.”

“We will be in Greece,” Minka corrected.

I smiled. I’d let her come and stay a little while. Then I would kick her out, gently, and make her see the world. She needed a gap-year adventure, and when she was gone, there would be time, all the time in the world, I decided, thinking of Taverner. A little sun would do him some good, especially if he were doing naked tai chi in my garden.

Naomi excused herself and went to use the bathroom. When she came back, the others said their good-byes and I walked her out. I took the long way, stopping in the study in front of the painting that still hung on the faded wallpaper. She surveyed it for a long minute. “Astraea,” she said, pointing to the scales and sword.

“You know her?”

Her smile was knowing. “My master’s thesis was the role of allegory and metaphor in the Italian Baroque.”

“Then you understand why this painting was important to Constance Halliday,” I said. “And what she stood for. What the Museum stood for. Once.”

“I do. And believe me, it will again. I promise.”

We shook hands and she left on foot. I don’t know where she left her car and I didn’t ask. She simply faded out into the shadows as silently as she’d come, and I realized her training might have been better than we’d thought.

I walked outside to catch my breath. It was cold, bitterly so, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave just yet.

It was dark in the garden, just before dawn, when the air is grey and the nightbirds are singing. They were tired, those nightbirds, and their song was quieter now. But they were still singing, and they went on singing until dawn broke over the trees.





AUTHOR’S SECOND NOTE


This is where an ordinary author would write the end in big letters and the story would be finished. But I’m not an ordinary author and this story will never be finished. I’ve changed just enough so that you can’t find us, even if you wanted to. And you really shouldn’t try. People have died for less. I know; I was there.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


This book was a trust fall, and there were more people than I can possibly count ready to catch me. But special thanks and a round of cocktails to: Pamela Hopkins, agent, friend, and the first person in this business to wager on me. I hope I have done you proud.

Danielle Perez, gifted editor, who picked up the phone one day and said, “We think you should write a book about older women.” You never let me settle and this book shows it.

Jenn Snyder for generosity and editorial perspectives. Our KILLERS are the richer for it.

Claire Zion for encouragement, enthusiasm, and a pep talk over drinks that set this book on its way.

Craig Burke for giving this book the best possible title it could ever have. You are officially godfather to the KILLERS.

The Berkley art department for creating a graphic cover that is absolutely ICONIC.

Ivan Held and Jeanne-Marie Hudson for giving me the opportunity to live large and kill some folks.

Loren Jaggers and Tara O’Connor for cheerleading. Nobody’s pom-poms are as fluffy as yours.

Jess Mangicaro for endless patience and unflagging good cheer in the face of my tech-challenged ways. You are a rock star.

Candice Coote for keeping things rolling on.

Michelle Vega for taking the baton handoff to bring this home.

Jomie Wilding and the Writerspace team for attention to detail and keeping the digital house clean.

Angèle Masters for her exquisite work as the voice of the Veronica Speedwell books.

Every person at Berkley and Penguin Random House. Literally, all of you. I am so glad to be taking this journey with you.