The Key
Jennifer Sturman
A RACHEL BENJAMIN MYSTERY
This book is dedicated to Anne Coolidge Taylor
Thanks to Laura Langlie, Selina McLemore, Margaret Marbury and the team at Red Dress Ink for their help and advice, and to my family and friends for their encouragement and support.
Contents
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
Chapter twenty-four
Chapter twenty-five
Chapter twenty-six
Chapter twenty-seven
Chapter twenty-eight
Chapter twenty-nine
Chapter thirty
Chapter thirty-one
Chapter thirty-two
Chapter thirty-three
Chapter thirty-four
Chapter thirty-five
Chapter thirty-six
Chapter thirty-seven
chapter one
I was having my favorite type of dream, a flying dream, when the phone rang.
I opened one eye, testing to see if this was part of the dream. But in my dream the skies were blue and lit by golden sunlight. In my bedroom, it was dark, and freezing, since my new roommate liked to sleep with the windows wide open, even in March and even in Manhattan. And the phone was still ringing.
Peter mumbled something unintelligible and pulled the duvet over his head. I thought about doing the same, but surely nobody would call in the middle of the night unless it was important. I reached out for the phone.
“’lo?”
“Rachel. Glenn Gallagher here.”
This had to be a joke. “What time is it?”
“Almost six. Listen, I need you in the office. We don’t have much time to get ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“I’ll tell you when you get in. See you in an hour.”
“But it’s Satur—” I began to say before I realized I was talking to a dial tone.
I was still half-asleep, so my reaction was somewhat delayed. It was nearly five seconds before I’d collected myself sufficiently to say the only appropriate thing that could be said in such a situation.
“You asshole!”
Peter gasped and shot into a sitting position. I’d spoken more loudly than I’d intended. “And a good morning to you, too.” Even in the dark, I could make out the silhouette of his sandy hair.
“You look like Alfalfa.”
“Excuse me?”
“From The Little Rascals. You know, the one with the piece of hair that stuck straight up. He sang.”
“‘I’m in the Mood for Love.’”
“Uh-huh. He had a crush on Darla.”
“And that makes me an asshole?”
“No. Who said you were an asshole?”
“You did. Just now.”
“Oh. I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Good to know, I guess.” He settled back into the pillows and reached for me. “So who were you talking to?”
I snuggled into his embrace. Despite the Arctic chill to the room, his body radiated heat. “Glenn Gallagher. But he didn’t hear me call him an asshole. He’d already hung up.”
“Ah.”
“Yes. Ah.”
“Who’s Glenn Gallagher?”
“The new guy Stan Winslow brought in.”
“And why was he calling us in the middle of the night?” Even as I answered Peter’s question I was marveling at the unfamiliar use of “us.” I’d lived alone from the day I graduated college until the previous week, and I still wasn’t accustomed to the first person plural being applied in reference to my household. Our household.
“He said he needs me in the office. In an hour. Actually, more like fifty-five minutes at this point.”
“Do you think he knows it’s Saturday?”
“Probably.”
“And do you think he knows we were going to sleep in? And have a nice leisurely brunch and read The New York Times? And then figure out where I can put all my stuff?” Peter’s worldly belongings had arrived from San Francisco a few days ago, and stacks of unopened cardboard cartons now occupied every available square foot of the apartment.
