By a Spider's Thread: A Tess Monaghan Novel Read Free

attractive way, and he wore a beautifully tailored suit that emphasized his broad chest and shoulders. He had glossy dark hair, black-brown eyes, a trim black beard, and the kind of blue-black hair that teenage girls tried to emulate when they went through a Goth phase, only with a shine that marked it as natural. The overall effect reminded Tess of a stuffed-sealskin otter she had been given as a child, back when such a gift would not have been regarded as a gauche act of political incorrectness.
    Or perhaps she had that old toy on her brain because she knew this man sold furs for a living, and the otter had been fashioned from the leftovers of an aunt’s jacket. She wondered if Rubin wore a fur coat himself, when winter came. This September day was almost too warm for his lightweight wool suit.
    “Your uncle,” he said, his voice stiff as his collar, “is quite active in Jewish causes. That’s how we met and how he came to recommend you when he found out I needed the services of someone in your line of work.”
    “My Uncle Donald is active in Jewish causes? Was it court-ordered?”
    Rubin frowned, although this wasn’t an attempt at humor on Tess’s part. Her Uncle Donald had had a short-lived association with a sleazy state senator that haunted him to this day.
    “I’m not sure when he started volunteering, but I met him over ten years ago, so it’s been quite some time. He’s a very good man, your uncle.”
    “Oh,” she said, annoyed and flustered by the hint of reproof in his voice, the implication that her uncle had not prepared her well for this meeting. Uncle Donald had, in fact, briefed her thoroughly. He had told her he had an acquaintance, that the acquaintance was a wealthy furrier, an Orthodox Jew in need of a discreet private detective. Modern Orthodox, Uncle Donald had clarified, not Hasidic, which was why Tess had thought herself on safe ground offering Rubin her hand.
    Really, the only thing that Uncle Donald had neglected to mention was the large pole permanently inserted in Mark Rubin’s sphincter.
    “Would you like a seat? Something to drink? I keep Coca-Cola and bottled water in my fridge, and…well, that’s kosher, right? If it’s done under supervision. We could check the label for…what? A little
k
in a circle…?”
    “I’m fine,” Mark Rubin said, taking the wooden chair opposite her desk. His dark eyes scanned the room, absorbing his surroundings without comment. Tess had decorated the one-room office with whimsical artifacts to provide conversational fodder for the ill at ease, but these photographs and strange objets d’art didn’t seem to be having much effect on Rubin. He didn’t even raise his eyes to the “Time for a Haircut” clock, a barbershop find of which Tess was particularly proud.
    Although it smarted a little now, sitting beneath that glowing clock, given the untimely circumstances of Tess’s most recent haircut. Self-consciously, she reached for her hair, a stubby ponytail where a long braid had once hung. Her friend Whitney said the style made Tess look like one of the original signers of the Declaration of Independence. It was, like most of Whitney’s tactless assessments, all too true, but Tess didn’t care. She wanted her braid back, and she was prepared to live through all the growing-out stages.
    The furrier did take notice of the greyhound and the Doberman vying for control of the sofa. The greyhound, Esskay, was winning, but only because she fought dirty, rabbiting her legs so her untrimmed toenails scraped the tender-skinned Miata, who whimpered piteously. Esskay always triumphed over Miata, the world’s most docile Doberman.
    “Are the dogs for protection?”
    “More for companionship. The neighborhood’s not that bad.”
    “Times change. My grandfather couldn’t wait to get out of East Baltimore. Of course, we lived closer to Lombard Street, just off Central.”
    “Near the old synagogue.”
    “There were several synagogues in the