twenty

“We never had your jewels!” Death answered. Wren was sobbing too hard to talk, half from the fear and the grief for Death’s injuries and half from a blinding, blood-red rage.

“I’m not stupid,” Fairchild snarled. “I know where I hid them. I came back to get them and they were gone, and your girlfriend here was the only one who’d been in the house.”

“Okay, first of all, we never even knew that compartment existed until we found it after you left it open. Second, Wren wasn’t even remotely the only person who’d been in the house. Look around you. You see all those dust covers we pulled off the furniture? Someone came in and put them on everything after your aunt died. Someone came in and cleaned out the refrigerator and got clothes for her to be buried in. More recently, there’ve been members of the Historical Society, representatives of a dozen different auction companies that posted bids for the sale contract, and a small army of law enforcement officials, after your buddy Flow went and broke his neck here.”

“So you’re saying that one of them took my jewels instead of you?”

“No, because if you look in that empty compartment, you’ll see that there’s a thick layer of dust with nothing disturbing it except for your hand print.”

Fairchild scoffed. “There’s ways to fake a thick layer of dust.”

Death frowned, disbelieving. “Like what?”

“Like, dust it around with a powder puff. Or fill a baster with dust and blow it into the compartment. Or run a vacuum cleaner with no filter and angle it so the exhaust goes in there.”

“And you really think that someone who’s found a cache of priceless jewels is going to bother with something like that instead of just taking them and getting the hell out of Dodge?”

Ten Oeck, leaning casually against Wren’s chair and cleaning his fingernails with the butcher knife, glanced over at her and spoke conversationally.

“And he thinks I’m the unstable one.”

She stared at him.

“You cut people with knives for fun.”

“Well, yeah. There is that.”

“You do realize,” Fairchild said, “that if you don’t have my jewels, I really don’t have any reason to keep you alive.”

“You don’t have any reason to kill us, either.”

“I don’t really need a reason. You’re annoying and I don’t like you. That’s reason enough for me. Anyway, I think you’re lying.” He walked over and looked Death straight in the eye. “I think you know exactly where my jewels are.”

Death returned his gaze. “Listen to me. In the last three years, I’ve lost my whole family. My career, my health, my wife, my home. All my plans, all my goals. Everything I had. Everything I was. All my hopes and all my dreams. The only good thing I have left in the whole world is that woman sitting there, and I would do anything—give anything—to protect her.”

Fairchild just stared for a long minute. “Oh, stop,” he said finally. “You’re breaking my heart.” He paced around in a small circle, then shook his head. “Nope. Nope. I don’t buy it. Those jewels are worth millions. You could buy all the girlfriends you want.”

“You can’t buy girlfriends!”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? I’ve always bought mine.”

“Look,” Death tried again, “we don’t have your jewels. But we know who took them and we think they’re still here, and if you give us a chance, maybe we can help you find them.”

_____

When they’d backed Death up to the banister, they’d pulled his arms down on the staircase side and fastened them together, tied to one of the balusters with a zip tie. He could feel the open edge of the leather tag on the back of his jeans, but he didn’t dare work at getting the P38 free while he was the focus of their attention. On the other hand, he didn’t want them focusing on Wren either. He needed them distracted and he needed time.

“What do you mean, you know who took them? And if someone took them, why would they still be here?”

“Because it was your aunt who found them, and she hid them again.”

“That dotty old woman? She couldn’t find her own ass with both hands.”

Death wanted to slap himself in the forehead or thunk his head against the nearest wall. “Tell me something. How long have the two of you been working together?”

Fairchild and Ten Oeck glanced at one another and shrugged.

“Since this afternoon,” Ten Oeck said.

“Aunt Ava and Uncle Fred had a cabin at the lake,” Fairchild said. “We used to go there for Fourth of July when we were kids. I was out there using it as a hideout when Martin showed up wanting to use it as a hideout.”

“I see. And have you talked at all?”

“Well,” this time it was Ten Oeck who answered. “We considered killing each other, but then we thought we’d have a better chance of finding the jewels if we work together.”

“And then you can always kill each other later?”

“Probably,” Fairchild agreed easily. “But if you’re trying to play us against each other, you’re wasting your time. You want us to think we can’t trust one another. Well, we don’t trust one another now. We’re good with that.”

“You have a really charming family dynamic,” Death said, “but that wasn’t my point. Ten Oeck—Martin—why did you kill Josiah Halftree?”

“I didn’t mean to!” he replied at once. “That was an accident! You can’t hold me responsible for that. It was totally not my fault.”

“You stabbed him seventeen times.”

“I got a little … carried away.”

“Okay, but why did you grab him in the first place?”

“He called me up, asking about Ava’s jewels. He said he knew she had some really valuable pieces, and if whoever inherited them wanted to sell them, he wanted to help.”

“Did he say anything else?”

Ten Oeck thought about it. “No! No! God, no! Please, don’t! Aaaaahhhhhh!”

Death rolled his eyes. “Anything about why he thought Ava had valuable jewels?”

“Oh, that. He said because she showed them to him. She brought them in thinking they were the lost jewels from the Civil War, but when he told her they were too modern she said she must be getting senile and had forgotten buying them.”

“You see?” Death asked Fairchild. “Your aunt was looking for the Campbell family jewels and she found the ones you hid instead. Did you look at her obituary picture? She was wearing one of the necklaces you stole. When Halftree told her they were modern jewels, she realized they must have been the ones you were suspected of stealing, and she knew that meant you were a jewel thief and a murderer. That’s why she changed her will and left everything to the Historical Society.”

“That’s a lie!” Fairchild shouted. “She changed her will because those women at the Historical Society got to her and turned her against me. She would have never disowned me on her own. She loved me!” He thought about it. “Granted, she didn’t know me very well. But, still …”

“You’re right,” Death said quickly. “She did love you. That’s why she didn’t go to the police. Why she hid the jewels again instead. But she also believed in justice. She wouldn’t have completely gotten rid of evidence of a murder, even one committed by someone she loved. Wherever she put those jewels, she meant them to be found again after her death. Think, Fairchild! You played in this house when you were a kid. You knew about the secret compartment under the stairs and the secret entrance. What other hiding places are there? Somewhere an old lady could get to. Somewhere inside, most likely, because she hid them in the middle of winter.”

“How do you know she hid them in the winter?”

“The picture in her obituary was taken at the Chamber of Commerce Christmas party. That must have been just after she found them. She’d have taken them to Halftree as soon as she could, and she wouldn’t have worn them again once she knew what they really were.”

Fairchild thought about it, eyes narrowed. “You’ve already been searching,” he observed. “Where have you looked?”

“We’ve been looking in all the closets and cupboards and dresser drawers and things,” Wren spoke up for the first time in a long time. “We looked in all the obvious places, but we haven’t really checked for secret compartments or anything. There was a secret compartment in the desk in the library, but it just had a packet of old love letters in it. Look for drawers that aren’t as deep as they should be. False books, maybe? A lot of people in old times had boxes made to look like Bibles or volumes of Shakespeare. There’s a wall safe upstairs in a room furnished like an office, but it’s standing open and there’s nothing in it.”

“Okay,” Fairchild said. “Okay, those are good suggestions. I’ll go look. You,” he turned to Ten Oeck, “stay here and keep an eye on them.”

Ten Oeck held his knife up, balancing it between his hands with one finger on the hilt and one on the tip. He spun it and grinned. “Yeah, I’ll just stay here and keep an eye on them,” he said.

Wren blanched. Death gave Ten Oeck a tight smile as Fairchild left the room.

“Good plan, there, genius. You stay here and play sadist with us while Fairchild goes off and finds the jewels himself. And I’m sure that, once he’s got them, he’ll be perfectly straightforward about coming back here and divvying them up with you.”

Ten Oeck’s face changed and he spun around and charged after Fairchild. “Hey! Wait just a minute! I’m coming with you!”

Death waited until their footfalls died away, then turned his attention to Wren, who was watching him with a fury growing in her eyes. Her gaze moved over his face and down to his torso. Taking stock of his injuries, he realized. If she’d had her atlatl to hand, Fairchild and Ten Oeck would both be shish kebabs.

“Are you okay?” she breathed.

He smiled for her benefit, felt the skin at the corner of his mouth pull against his cut lip. “I’m okay. Fairchild hits like a girl.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m a Marine. I’m fine. Are you okay? Have they hurt you?”

Her eyes filled with tears and Death saw red.

“Those sons-of-bitches cut off my braid, Death!”

He’d feared so much worse that he had to fight not to laugh with relief. “It’s okay, sweetie. I’ve got it at the house. We can probably duct tape it back on or something.”

While he talked, he was trying to slide the P38 out of its secret pocket on his waistband. He could just get the tips of his fingers under the leather, but he was having trouble getting hold of the tiny implement. If he dropped it, he knew, they were screwed.

Wren didn’t answer for a long minute, only watching him with her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. “Death?” she said at last, softly. “Don’t be doing that if they come back in the room. It’s pretty obvious that you’re up to something.”

“Yeah, I figured. We should have practiced this.”

“So does that mean that, after we get out of here, I have an excuse to tie you up?”

“Probably be a good idea. And you should be able to do this too. We’ll get you a couple of P38s and make you hiding places for them. And then I’ll have an excuse to tie you up, too.”

She smiled a watery smile at him. Putting on a brave face, he realized, and wondered which of them she was being brave for.

“Do you think there’s a chance they’ll find the jewels?”

“There’s always a chance.”

“And then what?” she asked, and he heard what she wasn’t saying. Will it be okay? Will they let us go? Are they going to kill us anyway?

He knew she already knew the answer to that. She just wanted him to lie to her, to lie to them both, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“And then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He had his fingertips on the P38 now and was edging it out of its pocket. Because of the angle his hands were tied, he couldn’t get a good grip. He barely had hold of it between two fingers. Slowly, ever so slowly, he drew it loose. When it was free of the leather tag, he shifted and tucked it into his right hand, feeling the sharp corners dig into his palm. He turned it, bringing it up to put the edge of the hook against the zip tie around his wrists. The angle was awkward and he sawed at it desperately, unable to get much force behind each stroke. The situation reminded him of Tyrone Blount, trying to cut his way out of the cargo net with a pocket knife. Still, he refused to despair.

It was a can opener, dammit! A Marine can opener. It was designed to chew through metal. It would not be defeated by plastic.

There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs out in the hallway and Death stopped trying to cut the plastic, straightened up and hid the P38 in his palm. Fairchild and Ten Oeck came back into the room, both looking sweaty and disheveled and angry.

“There’s nothing here,” Ten Oeck said. “We’ve looked everywhere. There’s nothing here.” He shot Fairchild a look. “Can’t I dissect one of them now?”

“In a minute,” Fairchild said irritably. He was pacing the room, hand on his chin, thinking furiously. “You were wrong,” he said to Death. “My aunt never found those jewels. She was just a batty old woman. You know what she wanted me to do, the last time she visited me in prison? She wanted me to write emails to a publishing company because some book had a white girl instead of a black girl on the cover. She was totally senile. She never found anything.”

He stopped talking long enough to come over and stand in front of Death, stare him in the face. Death swallowed and tried not to look like he was up to something.

“I know who did, though,” Fairchild exclaimed. “I’ve figured it out and I know exactly what happened.”

“Okay … well … you want to enlighten us?”

“Certainly.” Fairchild strode to the center of the room and turned with a flourish to face them. He reminded Death of the detective in an old, black-and-white whodunnit. You’re probably wondering why I called you all together, Death thought. “It was …,” he paused for effect, “the Historical Society!”

“The Historical Society?” Death asked in disbelief.

“The Historical Society?” Wren echoed.

“Obviously the Historical Society. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

“And your definition of ‘sense’ would be … ?”

“They must have gotten her to let them in the house somehow. Asked for a tour or told her they were writing a treatise on blah-blah-blah architecture or something. Oh! Or slavery! She was a sucker for anything to do with slavery. Always going on about ‘righting old wrongs’ and so forth. Anyway, how isn’t important. The important thing is, they got in the house, and while they were poking around in here, they found my jewels.”

“But if the Historical Society stole the jewels,” Death objected, “how did your aunt come to be wearing that necklace to the Christmas party?”

“They gave it to her. They probably showed her some of the jewels and let her think they were from the Civil War. They knew she’d have Josiah Halftree look at them and he’d tell her they weren’t old enough. It was all a part of their dastardly plot to convince her that I was a thief and a murderer!”

Death decided to overlook the ‘dastardly’. “You are a thief and a murderer.”

Fairchild glared at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Sorry! Forget I mentioned it.”

“Right, so they convinced her I was a thief and a murderer so that she’d write me out of her will and leave my house to them instead! And then, when she’d done it,” he paused to give them each a brooding, baleful stare, “they killed her!”

For a long minute no one spoke. Then Death shook his head as if shaking water from his hair, or trying to rattle his brain into place. “I’m sorry? You think the Historical Society murdered Ava Fairchild?”

“They had to have. The timing is too coincidental otherwise.”

Something prickled in the back of Death’s mind, because there was something about timing that had been bothering him too. Something about the events surrounding Ava Fairchild’s death. Nothing that screamed ‘murderous Historical Society’, but something nonetheless.

“What do you mean by that? Explain to me, please?”

Fairchild shrugged. “She was wearing the necklace at Christmas. She re-wrote her will in January and in March, she died.”

“She died in March,” Death echoed.

“That’s what I just said.”

“She died in March!” A sudden rush of adrenaline ran through Death, a thrill of discovery and understanding so powerful that for a moment he forgot that he was sore and aching. That he was bound and that he and Wren were in imminent peril. He looked up and locked eyes with her.

“Remember I said before that something about the timing was bothering me?”

She nodded.

“That was it. Ava Fairchild died in March!” He grinned and looked around the room, from face to face. “I know where she hid the jewels.”