Grave Designs by Michael A. Kahn Page A

I’m starving. Let’s get out of here. I’m ready to put on the feed bag.”
    I put my notes into my briefcase, turned out the lights, and locked up. We flagged a cab and headed up to the Oxford Pub for a hamburger and beer.
    Once we placed our orders, I went over to the pay phone and called C. Reynolds at Shore Drive Tower. She answered on the third ring, sounding pleasant but a little distracted. I introduced myself, vaguely explained my relationship to Graham Marshall and Abbott & Windsor, and asked if I could have thirty minutes of her time tomorrow morning to ask a few questions.
    She hesitated, I persisted, and finally she agreed. “Suit yourself, lady,” she said. “Drop by around ten tomorrow morning. I can give you fifteen minutes.”

Chapter Six
    On my way down to Shore Drive Tower Tuesday morning I stopped at a bookstore on Michigan Avenue. I found an atlas in the travel section and studied the maps of New England. There were Canaans all over the East—in Connecticut, New Hampshire, Vermont, Maine, and New York. There was even a Canaan in Mississippi. But no Canaan in Massachusetts. I wandered over to the history section and skimmed the indexes of several books on Colonial America. No mention of Canaan, Massachusetts. I checked every dictionary in the bookstore. No reference to Canaan, Massachusetts.
    I walked across Grant Park toward Shore Drive Tower, squinting in the bright morning sun. A couple was playing tennis on the center court. The woman, her back to me, was built like Harmon Killibrew, and she swung her racket, two-fisted, as if it were a Louisville Slugger. Her opponent chased her wild shots with the stiff-legged gait of middle age. Leaning against a lamppost, I watched them play for a few minutes. A pigeon strutted past, its head bobbing.
    About thirty yards away, a fat Park District employee methodically stabbed paper cups and other litter with a steel pole and deposited his catch in a black plastic bag. I watched the tennis couple volley until she hit a shot off the handle into the next court, and then I walked on to Shore Drive Tower.
    The guard inside called C. Reynolds on the house phone, spoke briefly, and then buzzed me in. I took the mirrored elevator to the eighteenth floor and stepped off into the carpeted hallway. The elevator door slid closed behind me with a muffled sigh. I rang the bell to Apartment 18B.
    She opened the door and I introduced myself. We shook hands. She was beautiful—gorgeous—in a Midwest cheerleader sort of way. Pug nose, freckles, pouty lips, perfect white teeth. Her blue eyes were still puffy from sleep, and her blond hair was partially covered by a red and white bandanna. She was in her mid-twenties.
    â€œWell, come on in, Miss Gold,” she said, smiling stiffly. “Make yourself at home.”
    She was wearing an old blue terry-cloth robe that was at least two sizes too big. Her bare feet showed below the bottom of the robe. We walked through the small foyer into her living room.
    â€œI’m gonna get some coffee,” she said. “Want some?”
    â€œSure. Thanks.”
    â€œHow do you take it?”
    â€œBlack. And you can call me Rachel.”
    She stared at me, and her face relaxed just a little. “Okay. And I’m Cindi. With an i at the end.”
    She left me in the living room and walked into the modern white kitchen. A butcher-block countertop bar separated the two rooms. The living room was bright and cheerful. There were two healthy Boston ferns hanging in front of the large picture window and a pair of areca palms flanking a cream-colored couch. The off-white walls were decorated with chrome-framed prints of art exhibits.
    â€œThis is a lovely place,” I said, looking out the window at the scalloped beaches along the Gold Coast.
    I sat down on the love seat opposite the couch and scanned the magazines spread out on the glass and chrome coffee table. She had eclectic tastes.