Mr. Clarinet

"A new album?" Max said, too excitedly for his liking. He hadn't thought to check any record stores before he'd left. Before he'd gone to prison, he'd habitually shopped for new music on Tuesdays and Fridays.

"You can have it if you want," Carver said, with a smile. "I haven't even opened it."

"I couldn't."

"You can," Carver said, patting him affectionately on the shoulder and then looking up at the portrait.

Max studied it and recognized an older version of Judith Carver from the mantelpiece photographs. From her near lipless face, he could see she was the mother of Allain Carver. She was seated, legs crossed, hands folded one over the other and placed on her knee. In the background, on a stand behind her, were the same vase and lilies found on the coffee table. It was then that Max realized what had been bothering him about the flowers—they were fake.

"My wife, Judith," Carver said, nodding up at the portrait.

"When did you lose her?"

"Five years ago. Car accident. On her way back from the beach. Our driver was run off the road," he said, and then he turned to Max. "Husbands shouldn't bury their wives."

Max nodded. From the side, he saw Gustav's eyes welling up, his bottom lip trembling until he bit it still. Max wanted to do or say something comforting or distracting, but words failed him and he didn't trust his own motives.

He noticed for the first time that he and the old man were dressed the same: Gustav was wearing a beige linen suit, white shirt, and well-polished black leather shoes.

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur Gustav?" the servant said behind them. He'd brought Max's water—a tall glass with ice and a slice of lemon, sitting alone in the middle of a wide, round silver tray.

Max took the glass and thanked its bearer with a nod and a smile.

Carver had picked out a family photograph from the pile. Max could see it had been taken in the living room. Carver was seated in an armchair, cradling a baby in his arms, beaming. Max vaguely recognized the baby's face as Charlie's.

"This was after the little man's baptism," Carver said. "He farted all through the ceremony."

Carver laughed to himself. Max saw he loved his grandson. He saw it in the way he held the boy in the photograph, and in the way he looked back at the two of them together.

He handed Max the photograph and walked along the mantelpiece, stopping almost at the very end and retrieving a smaller picture from a back row. He stood where he was and studied it.

Max looked at the photograph—the Carver family gathered around the patriarch and his grandson. There were four daughters—three took after their mother and were beauties based on the same template as Francesca's, while the last one was short and fat and looked like a younger version of her father in drag. Francesca stood next to her, and Allain ended the row on the right. Another man was in the picture—about Allain's age but much taller and with short, dark hair. Max guessed he was an in-law.

Carver came back to where he'd been standing. Max noticed he walked with a slight limp on his left side.

He took the baptism photo back and leaned in close to Max.

"I'm very glad you're working on this," he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I'm honored to have a man like you here. A man who understands values and principles."

"As I told your son, this may not have a happy ending," Max said, also whispering. He usually kept his feelings in check with clients, but he had to admit he liked the old man, despite everything he'd read about him.

"Mr. Mingus—"

"Call me Max, Mr. Carver."

"Max, then—I'm old. I've had a stroke. I don't have much time left. A year, maybe a little more, but not much. I want our boy back. He's my only grandson. I want to see him again."

Gustav's eyes were watering again.

"I'll do my best, Mr. Carver," Max said and he meant it, even though he was almost a hundred percent sure Charlie Carver was dead, and was already dreading having to tell the old man.

"I believe you will," Carver said, looking at Max admiringly.

Max felt ten feet tall, ready to get to work. He'd find Charlie Carver—if not his body, then his ghost and the place he haunted. He'd find out what happened to him and who was responsible. Then he'd find out why. But he'd stop there. He wouldn't dispense justice. The Carvers would want that satisfaction for themselves.

His eyes fell on something he hadn't seen until then, something not immediately apparent unless the viewer was up close—words, stamped into the mantelpiece pillars and filled in with gold paint. They were from Psalm 23, the best-known one, which starts, "The Lord is my shepherd…"—only these quoted the fifth verse:

"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over."

A maid walked up to them.

"Le dîner est servi," she said.

"Merci, Mathilde," Carver said. "Dinner. I hope you've come with an empty stomach."