Page 7 of Girl Anonymous

Mrs. Arundel watched as they got the luggage cart packed, and Maarja carefully placed the package containing the small pitcher in another larger padded box at the top.

The library shelves were still full of books, a few lesser paintings still hung on the walls, but regular cross-country movers were scheduled to handle all that.

Mrs. Arundel kissed Maarja and Alex before they left her sitting with her back to the windows, looking wistfully around.

As they moved the cartload into the foyer and toward the elevator, Alex said, “What a sleazeball that man is.”

Maarja didn’t have to ask what man. She knew. His personality left an imprint as clearly as the glass pitcher or the Picasso or any of the other genuine works she’d so carefully packed. “Yes.” She pushed the down button. “Good-looking men often are.”

“You thought he was good-looking? The body, sure, but the face? Talk about a sneering satyr! His mother’s a buttercup, though.” Alex pushed the lit button several times, as if that would hurry the elevator along. “What happened to her? What’s with the wheelchair? Was she in an accident?”

“Years ago. There was a bomb. It exploded. She was too close.”

“A bomb.” Alex meditated on that while they waited for the aging elevator to make its majestic ascent. “Because the Arundels are the sort of shady people who get bombed a lot?”

Maarja glanced around for cameras; although she didn’t see them, she knew they were here, and microphones, too. She lowered her voice. “They were. For years. Noble French immigrants who made their fortune with some disreputable dealing. It was my understanding they’ve gone legitimate. But don’t quote me on any of that.”

“Because of the bomb they’ve gone legitimate?” When it came to this stuff, Alex was a good guesser.

“Brat Benoit Arundel was old country, a golden bully.”

“A godfather?”

Together they’d seen the movie enough times to appreciate its wisdoms. “Collector, scavenger, profiteer, criminal. Yes, a godfather. But he didn’t claw his way to the top. He was privileged right from the get-go. The explosion that killed my mother killed him.” Maarja could see Alex wanting to ask questions, but Maarja shook her head. She’d said more than she’d ever said, and probably unwisely. “Dante was about nine at the time.”

“You know a lot.”

“Front-row seat.” Now Maarja punched the elevator call button as if that would make it arrive in a hurry.

“Oh.” Alex contemplated Maarja as if that explained a lot. “Is that why you flinch at loud sounds?”

“Could be.” The door opened and the women maneuvered the luggage rack inside.

Alex pushed the starred button. “He’s in charge now?”

“Looks like it. I don’t know the details. First I was with my aunt, then…” Maarja shrugged.

Alex shrugged back. She comprehended in a way most people could not.

“Eventually I ended up with Octavia. Best thing that happened to me.” The doors began to slowly close, and Maarja reached up to adjust her glasses. She touched her bare temple. “Damn it. He took my glasses and put them on the table.”

“He? Dante Arundel took your glasses? Off your face? Really, a flaming pustule of a sleazeball. Go get them back!”

“You can handle this?” She indicated the luggage cart.

“Even the Arundel family package full of special meaning.” Alex managed sarcasm well. “I’ll wait for you on the ground floor by the elevators. We’ll go out to the van together.”

Maarja caught the door before it slid closed. She touched her hand to her chest over her heart, and pressed it to Alex’s outstretched palm. They nodded at each other, sisters of experience if not blood, and Maarja ran toward the library.

She caught Mrs. Arundel in her wheelchair in the middle ofthe room, looking sorrowfully about her. In a concerned voice, she asked, “Young lady, what are you doing back?”

“My glasses.” Maarja picked them up, stuck them in her pocket with her carpenter’s pencil…and lingered. “Are you sad at leaving your home?”

“It’s become necessary.” Mrs. Arundel smiled bravely, but glanced around again, avoiding Maarja’s gaze. “Don’t they need you downstairs to help load the van?”

“Only an emergency would make them leave without me.” Maarja took Mrs. Arundel’s frail crumpled hand. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, dear, really. A few moments alone is all I need.”

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