Wendy was still working when I got to The River. I nodded to her as I took a stool at the bar.
“More questions?” She grimaced. “I’m sorry I ever swiped right on that guy.”
“Not right now.” I glanced around. No sign of Angela. “You may have a chance to meet your best friend, though.”
She stiffened. “He’s coming here?”
“Not him. Her.”
“Her who—oh.” She cocked her head. “Really?”
“If she lives up to her text. I’m a little early.”
“Okay, well—want a drink? On me this time.”
I ordered a beer. It was late enough.
People were starting to come in from work for one, or two, before heading home. The TV showed the baseball game, and the jukebox played the latest hip-hop hits. I sipped my beer, watching the door.
At 4:15 the door opened and Angela Greenwood came inside.
Chapman had sent me some photos, and I’d looked over her selfies on social media. She was short, with a round face and short brown hair. She stood at the door, looking around until I waved, then made her way to my barstool. “Are you Tom Jurgen?”
“That’s me.” I looked over at Wendy. “And that’s your friend Wendy.”
“Huh?” She gazed at the bartender, confused.
“Hi.” Wendy came over. “I don’t know what he said, but I’m sorry about everything. Buy you a drink? On me.”
“Okay, what’s going on?” Angela took a step back.
“I’ll explain. Let’s find a table.”
“Right. Uh, vodka tonic?” She looked Wendy over, as if trying to remember her, then followed me to a table in the back.
I explained about Wendy. Angela finally relaxed a little, but kept her eyes on the nearest exit. She thanked Wendy when she brought over her drink. “I’ve been here before,” Angela said, sipping cautiously. “It’s close to the museum. She does look kind of familiar.”
“How did you get my number?” I asked.
“Bob. Bob Chen, he said you were asking questions, you gave him your card.”
That was lucky. Good or bad remained to be seen. “That’s right. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She drank again. “It’s just—you’re working for Justin, aren’t you?”
“Justin Chapman, yes. You were supposed to go to New York. He called me because you never showed up. What happened?”
“What happened is—” She shook her head. “He used me. He was just using me. Asshole.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s only interested in that candle. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. He wanted me to steal this candle from the museum, not the candle, really, but the holder—”
“The Braustein Candle, yeah. Part of Gavin Kantner’s special collection.”
She looked up, surprised. “Yeah. He promised me $500 and a trip to New York. So I took it, and then he said to just send it to him. FedEx or whatever.” She curled a hand into a fist and rapped it on the table, shaking my beer. “What about my trip to New York? I know, I know, but I was really looking forward to it, more than the money, I’ve never been to New York. He said he’d send me more money, but by then I was really pissed and I hung up on him.”
She sat back and rubbed her face. “He calls me back and he’s yelling, and it gets—scary. I’m scared and I’m mad, so I hang up again and leave. That was Friday. I was supposed to fly to New York on Saturday.”
Today was Tuesday. “Where have you been?”
“With a girlfriend. I didn’t even look at my phone until yesterday. I was mostly drunk all weekend, and then hungover. Bob called and said someone trashed my apartment, and then I knew. And then after what happened to Mr. Kantner—well, I’m just scared now.”
“Scared of who?”
“Justin. After he trashed my apartment.” She stared at me.
“Wait—Chapman’s here in Chicago? Have you seen him?”
“No. But it must be him. All he cares about is that stupid candle.” She scowled. “Tell him—tell him I don’t have the candle. I hid it. Tell him he can have it for $5,000.” She picked up her glass. “I should ask for more, but he’s still a friend of my father.” She stood up. “I’ll text you when I’m ready to hand it over and get the money.”
“Hang on.” I said more questions. A lot more. But Angela was on her way to the door and I couldn’t stop her without a flying tackle. I watched her leave, then carried my beer and her glass up to the bar.
Wendy took the empty glass. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure.” I finished my beer and dropped a few dollars on the table. “Just more questions.”
Back home I sat in front of my computer, arms crossed tightly, trying to calm myself down. Had I been fooled by a New York City area code” Was Chapman here in Chicago, looking for his precious candle. Did he kill Kantner? I didn’t want to think I’d taken money from a murderer.
I’m pretty even-tempered, I think. Rachel might have her own opinion on that. As a reporter and a P.I., I’m used to people lying to me. I just never like it, especially from a client. I needed to take a few minutes to make sure I could stay focused before I made my next phone call.
I took a sip of water and called Chapman’s number. Again he didn’t pick up, but when I left my message, he called back within 15 seconds. “You talked to her? Where is she?”
“She’s fine. The question is, where are you?”
“I’m—” My question made him uneasy. “What do you mean?”
“Where are you exactly? Are you really in New York?”
He groaned softly. “All right. Yes, I’m here in Chicago. At a hotel off Michigan Avenue. When Angela didn’t show up, I—I flew out here, but after I checked her apartment, I didn’t know what to do. That’s when I hired you.”
“And lied to me.”
“Look, I never actually said I was here, or where I was. I’m sorry. It’s just very important that I—that I find out where Angela is.”
“Or that you find the candle holder? Did you break into her apartment to look for it?”
“Damn it.” He sounded annoyed. “I snuck into her building behind someone else, and she told me once that she’d taped a spare key inside the air vent down the hall. I was worried about her—”
“But you were worried about the candle too, right?”
“What do you want from me?” he snapped. “Yes! That candle holder—the three of them—they’re incredibly valuable! You have no idea!”
“Is it worth $5,000 to you?”
“What do you mean? Do you have it? Are you—”
“Angela’s got it. She wants $5,000 for it.”
“Five thousand . . .” He heaved a sigh of relief. “I hope she’s willing to take a check.”
“She didn’t say. She’s pretty mad at you, though. If I were you, I’d find out if your bank has a branch near your hotel that’s still open.”
“When can I get it?”
“I don’t know. She said she’d text me a time and place. You’d better get the money and be ready when I call you.”
“All right, all right. It’s after five, I don’t know—”
“I have another question.” I had to ask it.
“What now?” His impatience was starting to fray.
“Did you use the Braustein candle you already own to kill Gavin Kantner?”
I expected an angry eruption of denial. Instead Chapman got quiet. “No. I’d never—we were friends once. Years ago. Then we were rivals for the same things—antiques, artifacts, things like that. He cheated me, and I cheated him back. So we became enemies. But I never wanted to see him dead. Dead.”
He sounded sincere, but I’ve been fooled plenty of times. This was when I really missed Rachel. She’s not exactly a human lie detector, but she can usually pick up deception.
“Do you have any idea who has the third holder?” I asked. “The one Kantner was going to buy?”
Chapman thought for a moment. “It must be Noland. Glen Noland. He’s on the board there too. He was admiring the Braustein, I heard.”
Noland. I remembered him from the museum website. “Okay. I’ll call you when I hear from Angela.” I hung up.
Now what? I needed Angela to call me back before I could do anything. The waiting, as Tom Petty said, is the hardest part.
For something to do, I started looking deeper into Glen Noland. Just in case he really did have the third candle holder. He had a web page at the U of C site, a LinkedIn profile, and his own personal web page. It mostly displayed his collection of teacups and photos of his journeys around Central and South America, along with links to his articles. Then there was the personal stuff—he owned a big house in Aspen and another one in Napa, in addition to an expensive condo in Hyde Park. Not bad for someone on a professor’s salary. He also had a few photos of his family: wife, two daughters, one son—
I stopped and zoomed in on the photo of his children: Adele, Rose, and Len.
Len. The kid from the museum gift shop. “My father made me take this job part-time.”
Okay. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. But it made me curious.
I looked at his photo more closely. I hadn’t paid his face much attention before, but now it seemed familiar, like an actor on a TV you’ve seen in something else. After a moment, my memory kicked in. When the chandelier had crashed down on Kantner yesterday, I’d seen him talking to Len before he dashed to the restroom. What was he doing there?
I found an email and an office phone number for Noland. I left messages at both. When my phone buzzed 10 minutes later I grabbed it eagerly, but it wasn’t Angela.
“This is, uh, Glen Noland. Returning your call. What’s this about?”
“Thanks for calling me back. I’m interested in the Braustein candle that’s missing from the Candle Museum. I’m a private detective.”
He was cautious. “What about it?”
“Do you own a Braustein candle yourself?”
One second. Two. “Why are you asking? Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Like I said, I’m a private detective. My client has been trying to collect all three of the candles for quite some time.” True enough, just not the reason I was hired. “One has disappeared from the museum, but I’ve been told that you have a second one that you were going to sell to Gavin Kantner. Before his death. Is that true?”
“Who told you that? Was it Chapman? Justin Chapman?”
“How do you know Justin Chapman?”
“We all know each other. It’s a very small circle. Goddamn it, Chapman has been trying to get his hands on all three of the candles for years! I wouldn’t be surprised if he stole Gavin’s from the museum.”
“Do you know about the legends associated with the candles? Their powers?”
Again Noland grew guarded. “I don’t really—those are just fairy tales. I don’t have time for this. Don’t call me again.” He hung up.
Huh. I sat and thought for a few minutes, trying to arrange what I knew into some kind of coherent story, just like I’d done as a reporter. What I came up with was a scenario no editor would have ever printed, and not just because it depended on a burning candle have a supernatural influence over the world around it. It was at least 50% speculation, based on assumptions I couldn’t confirm, and I wouldn’t be able to confirm them until I talked to Angela Greenwood. And a few other people.
I stretched and checked the time. It was 6:15. When was Angela going to call?
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