Rough Trade

her hand a quick squeeze. One of the maids apologized for disturbing us. “There are two policemen at the front door who say that they have to see Mrs. Rendell.”
    Chrissy said nothing, but her eyes were as round as saucers.
    “Don’t worry,” I said, suddenly wishing that my breath didn’t smell like beer. “You stay here. I’ll take care of this.”
    I made my way quickly to the front of the house where two uniformed Lake Forest police officers waited respectfully, hat in hand.
    “Mrs. Rendell?” one of them asked.
    “No. I’m Kate Millholland. I’m Mrs. Rendell’s attorney. What can I do for you officers?”
    “We have some news for Mrs. Rendell. Is she here? May we speak to her?”
    “What kind of news?” asked Chrissy softly, appearing at my side.
    “Are you Christine Rendell?” he asked, stepping forward.
    “Yes,” she whispered.
    He consulted the small notebook he carried in his hand. “Are you married to a Jeffrey Rendell of 1783 Lake Drive, Milwaukee, Wisconsin?”
    “Yes,” she whispered, this time so softly you had to strain to hear her.
    “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am, but there’s been an accident.”
    “What kind of accident?” I cut in.
    “Mr. Rendell has been shot.”
    “Shot?” demanded Chrissy, her voice rising in hysteria. “Shot dead?”
    “No, ma’am. He’s not dead as far as we know. But apparently he’s been badly wounded. That’s why the Milwaukee police requested our assistance in contacting you.”
    “Where was he shot?” I demanded.
    “I don’t exactly know. From what they told us he might have been hit in a couple of places. He’s in surgery last we heard.”
    “No,” I protested. “Where did it happen? Was he in his hotel? In the car?”
    The officer consulted his notebook before replying. “They found him at the home of a Mr. Beauregard Rendell in a town called River Hills. The local authorities think that he must have surprised a burglar.”
    “His father’s house?” demanded Chrissy. “That’s not possible. My husband’s in L.A.!”
     

CHAPTER 20
     
     
    Even in the Jaguar the drive was an agony—a kind of interstate Le Mans filled with near misses of triple-trailer semis and close encounters with terrified old people who pulled over onto the shoulder and clutched their steering wheels as we screamed past. I don’t think I dropped below ninety except to pay tolls and even then it was very definitely a drive-by kind of thing.
    Chrissy seemed oblivious to the danger. With the baby safe in Mrs. Mason’s care back in Lake Forest, her mind was free to imagine the very worst. She alternated between crying and calling the hospital every few minutes, but the news was always the same. Jeff was still in surgery. For Chrissy this was reassuring, but I knew better. If Jeff had died on the operating table, it’s the last thing they would have told Chrissy over the phone. Jeff might still be in surgery, but if he’d already stopped breathing, the surgeons who worked on him were probably drawing straws to decide who would get the unpleasant task of breaking the news to the family.
    In between calls to the hospital Chrissy finally managed to get hold of a police spokesman who was willing to take a break from briefing the media and tell the victim’s wife what was going on. What the Lake Forest patrolmen had told us was true as far as it went. Apparently Jeffrey Rendell had surprised a burglar who had broken into Beau’s house assuming that he would find it empty and unattended during the Monarchs-Packers game. Somehow in the confrontation both men had been shot, but so far neither had died. It was not known who had called 9ll or whether there was one gun involved or two.
    No one knew what Jeff was doing in Milwaukee when he was supposed to be in California. All they could tell us was that the officers who arrived at the scene found both men unconscious. I couldn’t help thinking about how long Chrissy and I had waited for the Milwaukee PD to show up and wondered how long Jeff had lain there bleeding before the cops finally decided to make an appearance.
     
    Just as I feared, the press had beaten us to the hospital, taking up their positions outside the entrance to the St. Mary’s trauma center, which was located in a futuristic six-story circular building that didn’t so much resemble a place of healing as a wedding cake on LSD. I stopped the car and circled back, figuring that at the very least the Jaguar entitled me