twenty-one

“You figured out where the jewels are just because I reminded you that Aunt Ava died in March?” Declan Fairchild’s voice dripped skepticism.

“Yes! I should have seen it before. I had all the information I needed, but I didn’t put it together. Now I have.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me where they are. And if you’re wrong …” He exchanged a meaningful glance with Ten Oeck. “Don’t be wrong.”

“In the pantry there’s a shelf filled with jars of strawberry jam.”

“Yeah, and?”

“The jewels are in the jam.”

Fairchild snorted. “Now that’s just stupid. Why would Aunt Ava have put my jewels in jars of strawberry jam? And even if she did, what would that have to do with her dying in March?”

“She was big on justice, you know that. Hell, she spent half her life trying to make up for the fact that her ancestors owned slaves. There was no way she was going to give you a pass on murder. But she’d already lost her husband and her daughter and she couldn’t bear to see you go down too, so she hid the jewels where she thought they’d be found when she died. According to her will, those jars of jam were supposed to be donated to the food bank. The only reason they weren’t was because you contested the will and by the time the court case was settled, everybody figured they were too old to eat.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Aunt Ava always made jam and canned things. She liked to garden. And she always gave stuff away, a lot of it to the food bank.”

“Right. Every year at Christmas, in fact. That’s what you told me, right?” He looked at Wren and she nodded.

“Oh, my God! Death! That totally makes sense.”

“In December, she gave away all the preserves and canned goods she’d made that year. When she died in March, her pantry should have still been empty.”

“Big deal,” Fairchild said. “So she made some more.”

“But strawberries don’t ripen until late May or June. She’d have to have bought them. And out-of-season fruit is expensive. She put the jewels in the strawberry jam.”

Fairchild still looked skeptical. Ten Oeck looked bored and he was fiddling with his knife and staring longingly at Death.

“There’s one way to find out,” Wren said.

Fairchild hesitated, then motioned with his head to Ten Oeck and the two men stepped from the room. An argument broke out between them in low tones. Death couldn’t hear every word, but he could hear enough to get the gist of it. He went back to work with his can opener, driven by a sense of urgency in the pit of his gut.

“Death?” Wren asked, “what are they doing?”

“Arguing.” He wanted to spare her the fear that was lancing through him now, the knowledge that they might be almost out of time.

“Sweetheart,” she said, very gently, “I’m not a child. They’re arguing about what to do with us, aren’t they?”

The zip tie was beginning to give. He would soon be free, but that wasn’t enough. He’d have to get Wren free, too, and he could feel time slipping away from them. It pained him to admit it, but he’d learned from bitter experience that he was no longer physically able to take out one man, let alone two of them, and both armed. He needed a plan, and a distraction, and he needed help.

“Fairchild told Ten Oeck that, whether or not the jewels are there, we’re no further use to him. He wants him to come back in and—” he broke off, couldn’t finish.

“Kill us?”

“Yeah.” Death swallowed. “But, for once, Ten Oeck is thinking with his brain instead of his knife hand. Fairchild thinks I’m right about the jewels. Ten Oeck knows that, and he knows that Fairchild is trying to distract him so he can take the loot and run. Or, more likely, get the drop on him and shoot him in the back.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. We’ll think of something.”

The argument outside the door ended and Death could hear two sets of footfalls going down the hall to the pantry. He sawed harder, gaining a little more movement with each passing second as he looked frantically around the parlor, seeking something he could use as a weapon. There was nothing. He could probably bar the door, but it wouldn’t hold for more than a few seconds. Even if it was long enough to get Wren free from the chair, and she was much more securely fastened than he, all Fairchild had to do was go outside and shoot them through the window. He considered that briefly, as a less-painful alternative to dying at Ten Oeck’s hands, but if he understood Fairchild, he suspected the bastard wouldn’t shoot to kill.

Death’s zip tie fell away as he heard Fairchild and Ten Oeck returning. He caught it and closed it in his fist so it wouldn’t fall on the floor and betray that he was free. Then he stood back up, trying to stretch his cramping arm muscles without being obvious about it.

Calculating odds and not liking the answers he was getting.

Their captors came into the room, each carrying three jars of strawberry jam. Fairchild leered at Wren.

“I figured we might as well bring it in here. Even if there aren’t any jewels, jam can be used for lots of things.”

He set two of the jars he was carrying down on a side table, tucked the third under his left arm and used his right hand to twist at the cap. It took a few seconds, but then it broke loose and turned with a coarse rasp. He unscrewed it. It was just a ring around the outside. When it was free and he had set it aside, the jar was still covered by a brass-colored lid. The thin orange line of a rubber seal separated the metal from the glass jar. Fairchild tried prising it up with his fingernails, turning the jar this way and that so that it caught the late sun coming in the window, making the jam shine with a ruby light, like fresh blood.

He gave up, sighed and glanced briefly at Ten Oeck and his butcher knife before digging a small penknife out of his own pocket to break the seal with.

They don’t trust each other, Death thought. Okay, they never did. But the closer they are to finding the jewels, the less trust there is. He wondered how he could use that against them.

The lid separated with a soft pop. Fairchild glanced around, shrugged, and tipped the jam up. It stayed stubbornly in the jar. He sighed and set it down again. “Don’t anybody go anywhere.”

He left the room quickly, rapid footfalls charting his progress down the hall and back. In just a few seconds he had returned with a rubber spatula. He slipped it into the jam, just skimming the top of the confection, scooped a little out and, with a leer, spread it across Wren’s bared chest, just above the top of her bra.

She leaned away from him, looking ill, and Death schooled his temper. There would be time for payback later.

“Is there anything in there or not?” Ten Oeck demanded.

“Sure. Jam.” Fairchild dug the spatula into the jar, scooped out a great blob and let it fall to the floor. He stuck the spatula back in and it came up with a great wad of jam-covered plastic. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Setting the jar down, he brushed the jam away, absently licking it off his fingers, and revealed a zip-lock bag. He opened the bag and poured the contents out into his palm. A pile of gemstones shone in the muted sunlight. A square of white paper fluttered out beside them. Fairchild dropped the bag, closed his fist around the jewels and pulled the paper out to read it.

“These jewels are evidence in a murder investigation,” he read. “There is a reward for finding them. Take them to the police and tell them they came from the Fairchild house. Ava Fairchild.”

Fairchild looked up, shock and disbelief reflected in his face. “That bitch!” he exploded. “She was going to send me away for murder! God, I wish she was still alive so I could kill her!” He shredded the paper and went to drop the jewels in his pocket.

“Hey! Wait a minute! Half of those are mine. We had a deal!” Ten Oeck was in his face, hand outstretched, clutching his butcher knife menacingly.

Death weighed his chances of jumping them now, causing Ten Oeck to stab Fairchild and getting the gun before Ten Oeck stabbed him.

Too much of a long shot, he decided. And they were standing too close to Wren.

“I’m not taking them,” Fairchild said. “I’m just putting them in my pocket until we get them all out of the jars. Then we can take them out and divvy them up.”

“Yeah,” Death cut in. “You can trust your old buddy Declan, Ten Oeck. Not like he’s gonna put thirty jewels in his pocket and only bring out twenty when it’s time to share them out. He wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“You shut up!” Fairchild bellowed.

“I’m not stupid,” Ten Oeck said. “You don’t put them in your pocket. They stay out where we both can see them.”

“I can’t hold them and open all the other jars too!”

“Then I’ll hold them.”

“I’m not gonna let you hold them.”

They glared at each other and Death hoped they’d come to blows. If it got down to one-on-one, with the element of surprise on his side, he’d take the chance.

Fairchild backed down. “Okay, fine. Go out to the kitchen and find something to put them in.”

“You go out to the kitchen. I’m not leaving you here alone with them.”

They both looked around the room and their eyes settled on Wren.

“We’ll have the girl hold them,” Fairchild decided. “She’s not going anywhere and she couldn’t hide them anyplace we couldn’t find them.”

“She could drop them down her shirt,” Ten Oeck objected.

“Like I said, she couldn’t hide them anyplace we couldn’t find them. Okay?”

“Okay.”

They descended on Wren and Death held his breath as Ten Oeck used the big butcher knife to slice the zip ties holding her arms down.

“Cup your hands,” Fairchild told her.

She did and he dumped the jewels into them. He walked around behind her and whispered in her ear. Death couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he could see his face so he could read his lips.

“Don’t drop them. If you drop one, I’ll cut off one of your boyfriend’s fingers.”

Wren blanched and nodded and held the gems tight in trembling hands. Fairchild and Ten Oeck turned to opening the rest of the jars and Death watched and waited and bided his time.

_____

Jar after jar yielded up treasure and the pile in Wren’s hands grew and grew. She fought the shaking wracking her body and concentrated on holding them. She didn’t doubt for a minute that Fairchild had meant his threat, and the consequences of dropping anything were unthinkable.

When they found the necklace Ava had worn in her obituary photo they fastened it mockingly around Wren’s neck. They slid rings onto her fingers and pulled out her own cheap earrings to replace them with priceless gems. She had never been so surrounded by so many pretty things, and she had never been more miserable. She wondered, if they survived this, if she’d ever be able to look at another piece of jewelry.

“That’s all of them.”

The floor was a slippery mess of strawberry jam. Fairchild and Ten Oeck had scraped out all the jars, then spread the jam thin across the floor to be sure they hadn’t missed any jewels. Wren’s hands were full to overflowing.

“Do we divide them up now?” Ten Oeck asked.

Fairchild shook his head. “First, let’s find something to put them in.” He looked around the room, crossed to a corner curio cabinet and came back with a large crystal vase. He knelt in front of Wren and helped her pour the shimmering, multicolored pile into it. “Don’t drop any,” he reminded her playfully and she shivered with the laughter in his voice and the cold light in his eyes.

Ten Oeck leaned over his shoulder, watching like a hawk and reaching in to help from time to time. They pulled the rings from her fingers, dropping them in the vase one by one, but when Ten Oeck reached for the necklace and earrings Fairchild stopped him.

“Let’s leave those where they are,” he said. “Just for now. I think it’s time we stop for a little celebration.”

“Now do I get to kill somebody?” Ten Oeck demanded.

“Patience. Patience.” Fairchild stood up, carefully circled the mess on the floor and went to stand in front of Death. “You know, we would never have found these if it weren’t for Mr. Bogart here. I think we should give him some kind of reward.”

“You’re not giving him any of my jewels,” Ten Oeck warned.

“No, no. I wasn’t thinking that kind of reward.”

“You could let us go,” Death suggested.

Fairchild made a show of considering it, then shook his head. “No, that’s not what I was thinking either. Actually, what I had in mind was,” he gave Wren a heated, lusty stare, “I’m going to let you watch me play with your girlfriend.” He turned and addressed Ten Oeck. “Then you can kill him. As slowly as you like.”

“No! Wait! Stop! Don’t hurt her!”

Fairchild, approaching Wren purposefully, ignored Death’s pleas. He went around behind Wren’s chair and leaned down. She could feel his breath against the nape of her neck and then he was nuzzling her throat, tugging at the priceless necklace with his teeth and licking her skin. His arms circled the chair, hands roaming over her stomach, slipping under her blouse and caressing her breasts. His voice in her ear was low and throaty.

“I’m going to enjoy this a lot more when we’re both naked and there’s no chair between us.”

“Fairchild, listen!” Death’s voice was desperate. “I want to make a deal!”

“A deal?” Fairchild’s hands stilled and he snorted against her neck in disbelief. “What do you imagine you have to bargain with?”

“You can’t hurt her,” Death said. “Do anything you want to me, but you can’t hurt her.”

Fairchild looked at Wren, sitting rigid with tears on her cheeks. “He keeps saying that. I suppose you think it’s endearing, but honestly, he’s just getting on my nerves.”

“If she cooperates with you, will you let her go afterward?”

“Cooperates how?” Fairchild asked, voice thoughtful.

“Cooperates,” Death repeated. “Participates. Is willing.”

Wren stared at Death, horrified by the suggestion, but he was locked in a staring contest with Fairchild and didn’t look at her.

“Why should I care if she’s willing or not? I have a gun and Ten Oeck has a knife and I’m stronger than she is. I can do anything to her I want.”

“You can do anything to her,” Death said. “But if she cooperates, she can do things to you.”

Fairchild thought about it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Death looked the other man in the eye. “I’m telling you, my girl has talent. She can make you feel things you never even dreamed about.”

There was a short silence and then Fairchild looked at her. “She can show me what she’s got and I’ll think about it,” he conceded. “That’s the best you’re going to get.”

He walked away long enough to set his gun on a side table, then came back to her. He pulled out his pocket knife and cut the rope around her waist and the zip ties holding her ankles to the chair. He pulled her up, slid one hand inside her blouse and bent to continue sucking at her neck.

She looked over at Death again and this time he met her eyes, giving her an intense stare.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, “but you know how it is. He’s got the dick. He calls the shots.”

She felt her eyes widen in sudden understanding and suddenly all the fear and apprehension melted away, dissolved on a rising, boiling lava pool of rage. Fury ran through her like white-hot plasma and she channeled it into action.

Fairchild tipped back his head and sighed in anticipation as she unzipped his fly and reached for his family jewels.

_____

When Fairchild started groping Wren, Ten Oeck turned his back to them and came over to stand close to Death. Death ignored him, trying desperately to bargain with Fairchild. He hated the look on Wren’s face, hated every second that the bastard was touching her. His hands were free and he wanted more than anything to storm across the room and take Fairchild down, but he knew if he tried it his body would betray him.

Just the rage he felt was weakening him, messing with his breathing, making him light-headed.

“He has the dick, he calls the shots,” he told Wren, and saw in her eyes the instant she understood. He couldn’t take them out alone. He needed her help.

Ten Oeck was feeling Death’s bicep. He ran his hand over the Marine’s stomach, then up across his chest. He pulled out the neckline of Death’s tee shirt and looked down it.

“You have marvelous musculature,” he breathed. He sounded turned on and Death so did not want to go there. “Abs, delts, pecs, glutes.” He squeezed Death’s ass and ran a hand down the inside of his thigh. “God, you’re like a smorgasbord. I don’t even know where to start.”

He was in front of Death now, blocking his sight, but Death heard the sound of a zipper and Fairchild’s sighed, “oh, baby!” Then the screaming started.

He had expected Ten Oeck to go to his cohort’s aid, but instead the other man just pointed and laughed. It wasn’t the distraction he was planning on, but it was distraction enough.

Death reached back and closed his fingers around the loose riser that covered the secret compartment under the stair. He swung it around in an arc and smashed it into Ten Oeck’s head. It was a glancing blow and didn’t completely disable him, but it stunned him and it knocked him into the middle of the oil-slick of strawberry jam. Careful to avoid the jam himself, Death ran for the door into the hall. Fairchild’s screaming had subsided into a high-pitched, desperate squeal, but he could hear Ten Oeck stumbling along and cursing behind him.

He was halfway across the hall when he felt Ten Oeck’s hand on his arm, dragging at him. Just the effort of swinging the stair riser and the short run had him seeing spots. He didn’t have stamina to spare for a real fight. He spun, lashing out with his right hand. He was still holding onto the P38 and the sharp edge gouged into Ten Oeck’s arm, drawing blood.

Ten Oeck released him and stared down in disbelief.

“You hurt me! You absolute bastard! You hurt me!”

By the time he’d finished shouting, Death was at the door to the morning room. He crossed to the window seat with Ten Oeck closing the distance between them rapidly. He flipped up the seat, pulled out his gun and turned to draw a bead on the other man.

“Stop or I’ll shoot! I mean it! Stop now!”

Ten Oeck blind with rage just rushed at him. He was holding his butcher knife underhand, with his thumb closest to the blade, and away from his body. It was a position used by someone who knew what they were doing in a knife fight and Death knew he’d be deadly if he got close enough to strike.

He centered the gun on Ten Oeck’s chest, took a steadying breath and squeezed the trigger on the exhale. He felt the jolt of the recoil run up along his arm at the same time Ten Oeck’s heart pumped out a stream of blood that shot across the room and covered him in gore.

With a deep sigh born of a mixture of relief and regret, he lowered the gun and looked up as Wren’s footsteps crossed the hall and she appeared in the doorway.

Her clothes were askew, her suddenly short hair wild around her head, her face red and her eyes glittering. She held her arms carefully to the side, like a surgeon who has scrubbed and doesn’t want to contaminate herself.

“Are you okay?” she saw the blood. “Oh, God!”

“It’s all right, baby. It isn’t mine.”

She crossed the room, stepped around the body and came over to lean against him—a hug without hands.

“Where’s Fairchild?”

“Still in the Naked Dead Guy room. I think he says he wants his mommy. He sounds like he’s been breathing helium, so it’s kind of hard to tell.” She looked down at Ten Oeck. “We need to call 911.”

Death picked up his cell. “I got that.”

“Good. I want to go wash my hands. With bleach.” She started for the doorway, then stopped, turned back and read his face. “You didn’t have any choice, Death.”

“Yeah, I know. And it’s not like I’ve never killed a man before. But I don’t like it. I’ve never liked it.”

“That’s the difference between you and him.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He gave her a sad smile. “One more ghost for the Campbell house.”