3

“FBI, drop your weapon,” I ordered, glaring at the massive man looming over me with his Glock, held in latex gloved hands, pointed at the kitchen chair uselessly shielding my chest. Then recognition dawned. “Isaak?”

The agent’s eyes narrowed.

I laid my gun on the floor and, straightening, raised my hands in surrender. “Serena Jones. With the FBI Art Crime Team, St. Louis. We met at the conference in New York. Remember?” As the youngest agent on the twelve-member team, I should be pretty memorable.

But a couple more heartbeats passed before he said “right” and holstered his gun. “What are you doing here?”

“Jack Hill is an old family friend.” I lowered my hands and returned my gun to its holster too. “What are you doing here?”

“Hill’s niece gave me permission to search the place,” he said quickly.

Ohh-kay. So, no search warrant. Tension tightened my chest. Was he trying to save time? Or looking for something without cause? “What are you searching for?”

“Anything that may tell me what Jack knew about an antiquities smuggling ring.”

“A smuggling ring? What are you talking about?”

“He called headquarters on Monday. Said that his nephew had information. Asked about making a deal.”

No. No. This couldn’t be good. “Is Ben in jail?”

“Who’s Ben?”

“Jack’s nephew.” I willed my hammering heart to slow. “His ferry was supposed to arrive this morning.”

“Supposed to?”

“Ben hasn’t shown up.”

Isaak rammed the butt of his hand into the doorjamb and let out an expletive.

“What did Jack tell you about this smuggling ring? Do you think they killed him?” My throat tightened. “Got to Ben?”

Isaak shook his head. “No clue. I never talked to Jack. He left a message with headquarters, because I’m supposed to be on vacation with my family. But when I picked up my messages and found out he lives here, I decided to take a couple of hours to meet with him. Only . . .” Isaak waved his hand about the empty room.

I swallowed hard, a chill skittering down my spine. With the rise in global terrorism and reports purporting that antiquities smuggling had become the second-largest source of income for at least one major terrorist group, the government paid close attention to the slightest whiff of antiquities smuggling these days. And not just the FBI. Homeland Security, Customs, the coast guard, and no doubt the CIA were on high alert.

“Whatever Jack uncovered must’ve got him killed.” Maybe Ben too. The pressure in my chest intensified. Antiquities smuggling was an appealing way to make cash. Artifacts didn’t set off metal detectors or attract gun- or drug-sniffing dogs. And with the ever-growing thirst of collectors, terrorists had little trouble finding eager buyers. Not that we should be surprised by their initiative. The Nazis and Khmer Rouge had financed their endeavors the same way.

“The police say Hill’s death was an accident,” Isaak said. “He fell down the stairs to the rocky beach and hit his head.”

Swallowing hard, I blocked out the image. “But”—I glanced out the window at Officer Phelps still talking to Carly—“you told them what was going on, didn’t you? That maybe he didn’t just fall.”

Isaak blew out a huff of frustration and stalked back to the living room. “Yeah, but the police didn’t find evidence of anyone else being there.”

I hurried after him. “But someone’s been here. A page was torn from his message book. We need to get an evidence team in here.”

“State police already has one on the way.”

Of course, they would. Probably weren’t happy about Isaak getting here first.

A massive drafting table dominated Jack’s living room, flanked by a second smaller table covered with photographs. Jack was an architect, the “Hill” in Hill and Dale Architects Ltd., and still very much old school. Not only didn’t he use a computer to do his drafting, he still used 35mm film to take photographs. My gaze skittered to a photograph on the wall of Ashley and me digging a moat around our sand castle.

I could still remember the day he took it. I blinked back tears.

Isaak flicked through a stack of photos of the interior of an uber-luxurious home Jack was probably redesigning or perhaps had designed. “He’s got dozens of photos of homes whose owners could easily afford to collect antiquities, but I’m not seeing anything suspicious in any of these.” He tossed the photos back on the table.

I scanned the photos. “Whoever ripped the page from the message book could’ve already scoured the house for anything else incriminating.” I scanned the bookshelves filled with books and magazines on architecture, art, and archeology. I ran my finger along the spines of the archeology magazines. “Last December’s issue is missing.”

“A missing magazine doesn’t mean anything. He probably lent it to someone.”

“Did you check the darkroom?”

“Yeah, just a few photos of another mansion hanging from a clothesline.”

I opened the door off the end of the hall and looked for myself. “Did you take down some of these?” I pointed to the couple of empty spaces on the line.

“No, it was like that when I came in.”

“Did you see the negatives?”

“Never thought to look.”

I pulled down the binder in which Jack had always neatly filed them away in plastic sleeves. The negatives for the photos on the line weren’t in it. I checked the enlarger and in and around the table and nearby drawers. Nothing. “Did you ask the police to check Jack’s wallet or pockets for photos, notes, anything?”

“They said his wallet and camera were on him. That’s why they ruled out a robbery.” Isaak’s cell phone twerped and he glanced at the screen.

“I’ll check his personal effects when they’re returned to Ashley,” I said. “In the meantime—”

“There’s no meantime.” Isaak thumbed something into his phone and stalked to the kitchen. “I’m sorry about your friend, but my family is waiting for me. And you’re way out of your jurisdiction.”

“But—”

He yanked open the side door. “When Hill’s nephew shows up, I’ll talk to him. Until then, this is the state police’s case.” He strode down the driveway, where a car had just pulled up with a female driver and two girls in the backseat.

“Wait. You’re leaving?”

“Yes.” He got into the car, and all I could do was gape as it pulled away.

The state police showed up a few minutes later while I was going through Jack’s desk, still trying to hunt down Ben’s flight information. And let’s just say finding me there didn’t endear me to them. After I finally convinced them I was on their side, they thanked me for my input and then asked me to leave.

By that time, Officer Phelps, Carly, and Marianne were gone, but our luggage was still sitting where we’d dropped it. I trudged over to drag it to the cottage and put a call in to Tanner in St. Louis.

“Let me guess,” Tanner teased. “You saw Bruce Willis jogging on the beach and thought of me.”

“Ha. You’re not that old,” I shot back.

“Glad to hear you recognize I’m a couple of characteristics up on Willis,” Tanner retorted.

“A couple? What’s the second?”

“I have hair.”

I rolled my eyes and refrained from fibbing that I kind of preferred bald men. Bantering about actors with Tanner after what happened to Uncle Jack today just didn’t feel right. “Hey, can you do me a favor,” I said instead.

“Another one? Your aunt’s Charles Anderson was clean, by the way. Did you get my text?”

“No, I missed that. Uh, could you check with Customs to see if Ben Hill of Martha’s Vineyard has returned to the country yet?”

Tanner’s voice instantly sobered. “What’s going on? You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“There’s been a suspicious death.”

“Someone you know?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked. I pressed my lips together and breathed in hard through my nose.

“Serena? You okay?”

“Uncle Jack is dead.”

Tanner uttered a sympathetic moan. “What do you need me to do?”

“Find Ben. He’s Jack’s nephew and was supposed to come in on this morning’s ferry.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can find out. How . . . how did Jack die?”

“The police say it was a hiking accident.” I couldn’t help it. I burst into tears.

“Shh,” Tanner said gently. “Take a deep breath.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” He fell silent as I pulled myself together.

“I’m okay now.” To help me hold my emotions in check, I piled Aunt Martha’s bag on top of mine and wheeled them toward the cottage.

“You sound as if you don’t believe it was an accident.”

I told Tanner about my encounter with Special Agent Jackson.

“And you think this Ben Hill might be involved?”

“No. No! Not in Jack’s death.” I set the bags next to the porch and confided my fear that Ben was also a victim.

“Okay, I’ll see what I can find out.”

A smidgen of peace eased the tension gripping my shoulders. I could always count on Tanner.

Dad came out and helped me retrieve the last of the luggage. “You were gone a long time. Did you find the flight information?”

“No, but Tanner’s going to track it down for me.”

Dad nodded. He had a deep respect for Tanner. Besides sharing meals with my family, Tanner had been one of Dad’s favorite economics students back in his university days. “I’m sure Ben will call as soon as he’s able. Ashley wants you to stay with her as planned.” Dad’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Preston said the rest of us could stay at his house up the road until after the funeral.”

“That’s nice of him.”

Dad glanced back at the cottage and lowered his voice. “Did the officer say anything to you about the investigation that might give credence to what Carly said?”

“Of course not.” I mentally debated telling Dad about my encounter with Special Agent Jackson. But Dad looked so emotionally wrung out, I decided against burdening him with a believable reason Jack might’ve been murdered. “Don’t pay any attention to that woman. You know Ashley and Ben would never hurt Uncle Jack.”

“You’re right. I can’t believe anyone would. He’s the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet.”

I pulled Dad into a hug. “I’m so sorry.” Dad hadn’t missed a summer visit with Jack in all the years I could remember. Jack’s passing would leave a man-sized hole in his life.

Preston chose that moment to step out onto the porch. Our gazes touched, and he ducked his head apologetically.

I stepped out of my dad’s arms and reached for a bag handle.

“I’m going to walk back to my house and bring the car down for the luggage,” Preston said. “It’s only half a mile, but I don’t think we’ll want to lug the bags that far.”

“I’ll join you,” I said. “My legs could use a stretch.”

Dad didn’t look as if he thought my heading off with Preston was a good idea, but Preston was Jack’s longtime neighbor and an art history professor, not to mention Ashley’s fiancé. If Jack had confided in anyone about an antiquity ring operating on the island, it would’ve been Preston.

We fell into step beside each other on the dirt road, the distant sound of crashing waves and the occasional cry of a seagull filling the silence. I inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of sea air, as childhood memories of skipping along to keep up with Uncle Jack’s long strides washed over me.

“What are you doing with yourself these days?” Preston asked.

“I’m a special agent with the FBI,” I said, surprised he hadn’t heard that much from Jack. Seizing the opportunity to segue into asking about the antiquity ring, I added, “I’m also a member of the FBI’s Art Crime Team. Have you heard of it?”

“Of course. It was formed after all those antiquities were pillaged from Iraq. I even consulted with an agent on a case one time.”

“Really?”

“No, wait. I believe it was with the Homeland Security Agency. They found several looted Iraqi artifacts in someone’s luggage at the airport and asked for my assistance with authentication.”

“Wow, so you’ve clearly established a solid reputation in your field. I’m impressed. Do you enjoy being a professor?”

“Love it. Nothing better than being paid to study and teach about your passion.”

The fervor in his voice reminded me of how Uncle Jack used to talk about architecture. I choked down the swelling lump in my throat and grasped for a nonchalant tone. “Have you encountered any antiquities on the island? Of questionable provenance, I mean.”

He laughed. “Are you asking me out of curiosity or as an FBI agent?”

I stopped and looked up at him. “That sounds like a yes.”

His eyes twinkled. “You know as well as I do how many super-rich summer residents the island boasts.” He resumed walking. “I’m sure several are in possession of stolen antiquities, although I doubt they’re aware of it.”

“Seriously?” I lengthened my stride to keep up with him. “Even with all the news coverage over the last few years?” The antiquities trade was considered a gray market since it was nearly impossible to distinguish legitimate antiquities from looted and trafficked ones.

“Yeah, I’m always stunned by how little my first-year students know about the problem or the laws forbidding the removal of artifacts from numerous countries. And they’re into art history.”

“Did you and Uncle Jack discuss antiquities?” My heart hammered my ribs. I sucked in a deep breath and willed it to slow. “I mean, archeology was always a fascination of his, right?”

“Was it ever! He wove ancient elements into several of his architectural designs.”

“Did he ever mention seeing an antiquity he thought may’ve been looted?”

Preston tilted his head, snagging my gaze. “Why would you ask that?”

My heart beat louder than the pounding surf as I debated how much to say. Preston’s knowledge of both the island’s avid collectors and of antiquities in general would prove invaluable to the investigation. But . . . could I trust him?

The image of Ashley clinging to him, her engagement ring glistening on her finger, rose in my mind. If Uncle Jack had given his blessing on their engagement, he couldn’t have had any qualms about Preston’s scruples. Right?

I squinted up at Preston. “Jack contacted the FBI about an antiquity smuggling ring on the island.”

“Well, he was speculating it was that organized,” Preston said.

“He talked to you about it?”

“Briefly. I got the impression he was hoping I’d refute his concerns.”

I winced. I could only think of one reason Jack would hope that—because Ben was involved.

“Are you here to investigate his allegations?” Preston asked.

I decided against telling him that Jack died before he could communicate them. “Yes, I am.” As soon as I figured out what they were exactly. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to my family. They have enough to deal with . . .”

“Of course. And if I can help in any way, please ask. You can count on me.”

“I appreciate that. Thank you.”

As the rambling raised bungalow Preston had taken over from his parents came into sight, Preston slowed his pace. “You may want to talk to Ashley. She works for a caterer who does parties for all the super-rich. You never know what she may’ve seen. Just the other day she mentioned being creeped out by the African artifacts one host had around.”

“That’s good to know. Thank you.”

After my parents and Aunt Martha headed over to Preston’s for the night, Ashley offered scant insight into antiquities collectors on the island before nodding off on the sofa. I covered her with a blanket and picked up the framed photo that had fallen from her grasp. It was of Uncle Jack with his arms around Ashley and Ben, standing on Jack’s business partner’s boat with the wind whipping their hair and all of them grinning for the camera.

Tears flooded my eyes. Oh, Uncle Jack.

I nearly dropped the box of tissues I’d just picked up when my cell phone rang. With a worried glance at Ashley’s still-sleeping form, I stepped outside to take Tanner’s call and swiped a hand across my wet cheeks.

“Hey, sorry it took so long to get back to you.”

Tanner’s voice encircled me like a comforting hug. “No problem. Your looking into this for me helped more than you know.”

“How’s everyone holding up?”

“As well as can be expected. Ashley texted Ben but still hasn’t heard from him. I hope you have good news for us.”

“Well, I’m not sure if you’ll think this is good news or bad news. The Customs agent I talked to said Ben left Egypt three weeks ago for Belize, then hit Mexico a week later. He cleared Customs in Boston yesterday afternoon.”

“Yesterday?” My thoughts scattered. Sinking to the porch steps, my gaze drifted to Jack’s house and the darkening sky beyond.

“Yeah, his plane landed just after two local time.”

“I guess he could’ve spent the night in Boston and missed his bus to the ferry this morning.” Except . . . he would’ve called.

“Not what you wanted to hear?” Tanner said.

“No,” I admitted. What if whoever got to Jack got to Ben too?

“Serena?” he said softly.

I gulped back a rising sob. Why’d he have to pick tonight to be so nice? I was barely holding it together. I could keep a stiff upper lip when he cajoled me out of fretting with a teasing Serene-uh, but this gentle caring . . . “I should go.”

“Let me know if you need me to look into anything else for you. Okay?”

“I will. Thanks.” I hung up quickly and pressed a tissue to my eyes.

My phone beeped—a text from Tanner. It’s okay to cry, kiddo.

I lost it.

A flash of light from inside Jack’s house caught my eye, and I sprang to my feet. The state police had all cleared out hours ago. Blinking away my tears, I hurried across the yard for a closer look. No car was around. Whoever was snooping in Jack’s house had walked or been dropped off.

I squinted up the road. Aunt Martha could’ve easily walked the half mile from Preston’s house. And snooping around for a lead was exactly the kind of thing she’d do. Reaching the house, I peeked into the window. She was pawing through a drawer in the end table on the far side of the couch, her back to me. She suddenly turned.

My heart ricocheted off my rib cage. That’s no she. I shrank back against the side of the house, praying the guy hadn’t spotted me.

He was average build and height, but with a dark ball cap shielding his face, I couldn’t make out any other features. Clearly he was looking for some sort of paperwork, something small enough to fit in a drawer, anyway. Evidence that might give him away as Jack’s killer?

One thing was for sure. If he’d killed once to cover a crime, he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. I thumbed 9-1-1 into my cell phone and snuck another peek in the window.

The flashlight beam swept past the living room window and disappeared in the direction of the bedrooms.

“Wait a minute.” I ended my call before it rang through. There was something way too familiar about the prowler’s gait. Crouching low, I ran past the living room window and pushed onto my tiptoes to peek into the first bedroom window. Dark. I peeked into the next one, just as the flashlight beam swirled into view.

I jumped back, muffling my gasp. Scrounging up my courage, I peeked again. Sure enough, I’d been right about the gait. It was Dad’s. I tapped on the glass.

He jumped and flicked off his flashlight.

“Dad, it’s me. Serena. I’m coming around,” I said loud enough for him to hear me through the closed window. I ran around to the kitchen door and let myself in. “Do you mind telling me what you’re doing here? I thought you were Jack’s killer!”

He winced, making me regret my description choice. “I’m looking for something.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I didn’t say anything to you earlier.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“About a month, or maybe six weeks ago, Jack called and asked me some financial questions.”

“Okay.” Since Dad was an economics professor, I didn’t see what was so unusual about that.

“His business partner had complained that Jack’s refusal to ‘get with the times’ was hurting their business and made an offer to buy him out.”

My thoughts raced. “Was it a good offer?”

“Fair, but Jack isn’t, uh wasn’t, sixty yet, and with investments as volatile as they are these days, I advised him to hold on to the business for a few more years.”

“So now you’re thinking maybe his partner didn’t take Jack’s decision too well?” I asked softly.

Dad let out a pent-up breath. “Something like that, yeah.”

“His death isn’t your fault, Dad.”

“Can you check it out? You know, quietly. Make sure the police haven’t overlooked something.” Dad’s face twisted with pain. “You’ve met his partner. He’s impossible to reason with. I’m afraid if Jack didn’t buy into his new plan, Frank Dale may’ve made it happen for himself.”

“Okay, Dad, I’ll look into it first thing in the morning. You better head back to Preston’s now, or everyone will be wondering what happened to you.”

“I told them I needed to be alone awhile. That I wanted to walk along the beach.”

“That sounds like a nice idea. Mind if I join you?”

He clasped my hand, and we walked in companionable silence along the trail Jack had blazed through the scrub brush and sea grasses to the water.

“It’s a lot longer walk than I remembered,” Dad said at about the quarter mark. In the distance, the water was eerily still. And dark. Dad suddenly stopped and blurted, “You don’t think Ashley or Ben could’ve killed him, do you?”

“Not Ashley. She’s genuinely heartbroken. And what would be her motive? I’m sure Preston makes more than enough for them to live on. And I doubt Jack intended to cut her and Ben out of the will altogether anyways.”

“But Ben’s not showing up, not answering his phone . . . that looks suspicious.”

My worries about what else his nonappearance could mean escalated once more. Then again, knowing Ben, he could’ve latched on to a pretty girl during the flight home and conveniently forgotten about his commitments. I squeezed Dad’s hand. “Let’s wait to see what Ben says when he shows.” Please, Lord, let him show.

“Will you stay until after the funeral?” Dad sounded beyond tired.

“Yes. I’ll call the office once the details are settled and ask for extra time off if I need to.” Aunt Martha and my parents had booked their return flights for ten days from now, but I’d planned to fly home Monday night. “I better call Nate and make sure he’s okay with watching Harold longer.” I pulled out my cell phone. “No reception. Remind me to call him when we return to the road.”

Dad about-faced. “We can go now. I should get back to the house before it gets any darker and your mother starts worrying about me.” I could tell Dad was trying to make light, but he couldn’t mask the heaviness seeping through his words.

“I’ll walk with you partway,” I said. “Ashley’s already asleep. She wore herself out crying.” Instead of following the trail back to Jack’s, I steered Dad across the field to cut the corner and intercept the road farther up.

My call to Nate connected just before we reached the road.

Nate picked up on the third ring. “Hey, Serena. How’s it going? You missing Harold already?”

“Um.” I fumbled my way through telling Nate about Uncle Jack’s death and swiped at a tear that managed to leak out despite my vigorous blinking. “So I was wondering if you could—”

The roar of an engine jerked my attention to the road. Blinding headlights suddenly burst on. I vaulted backwards. “Dad, watch out!”