ten

Holding her breath, Wren reached into the secret compartment and was mildly disappointed when her hand only encountered a stack of brittle paper. She pulled it out and felt around carefully to make sure there was nothing else in the hole, then she closed the little door and backed awkwardly out of the knee-hole.

Sitting back down at the desk, she returned all the drawers to their rightful places and dumped their contents back in haphazardly. Then she lay her find on the polished surface. It was a stack of paper, good quality but yellowed and obviously very old, tied with a faded silk ribbon that had probably once been pink or red. With exaggerated care, she eased the knot loose and spread the stack in front of her. The stack was made up of smaller bundles, each five or six sheets thick and folded once in the center. Letters, she realized, smoothing the top one carefully.

My darling Eustacia,

Wren frowned, trying to match the name to a member of the Campbell family. When she came up blank she carefully lifted the top sheets to peer at the bottom of the last page:

Thy doting husband, Obadiah

Obadiah. Obadiah Healy, of course. Wren shifted in her seat and tried to swallow her rising excitement. They might not be jewels, but two-hundred-year-old love letters from the famous artist could have real historical value. Turning back to the top sheet, she began to read.

My darling Eustacia,

I am sitting alone here in my room at the inn, watching a pink dogwood bloom outside the window and missing thee, as I ever do when sorry circumstances force us apart.

(“Aw,” Wren murmured.)

I have been touring the site of our new capitol and visiting with some of the statesmen who will be living and working here. It is an exciting time to be an American, watching the architects of buildings and the architects of nations as they labor together to take us forward into this new century.

(“Oh, wow!,” she whispered.)

Everyone is very optimistic for the future, in spite of the continuing difficulties with England. There is to be a national gallery, eventually, and I have been commissioned to provide several portraits for it, and also a number of landscapes showing Washington, D.C. before and after construction. I have also been invited to contribute my little pen-and-ink drawings to the newspaper that is to be established. I spoke with Mr. Monroe this morning and he was, in particular, very complimentary about Gentlemen Dancing.

(“Eh?”)

So, Dear Eustacia, all in all it has been a very profitable trip. I am increasingly anxious for it to be over, though, so that I might return to thine arms and to thy bed. For every night, and every spare moment during my waking hour, my thoughts return to the sweet, sweet vision of thee, lying naked before me, and my loins burn with the desire to feel thee once more writhing in ecstasy beneath me.

(“Oh, my!”)

Three days! Three days hence, my love, and I will be once more by thy side. If thou hast guests, pray send them away. Banish the servants and draw the drapes and wait for me on the stairs in thy best red gown. For I would sweep thee up and carry thee at once to our bedchamber. Or draw thee into the parlor and lay thee down before the fire. Or strip the silk from thy quivering flesh and take thee right there in the doorway, ripping the buttons loose with my teeth, letting my tongue taste the sweet honey of thy skin as thou archest against me in thine own desperate need.

Death stuck his head in the door. “What’s going on?”

Wren jumped. “Nothing!” It came out an octave too high. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Nothing.” Too low. “Nothing at all.”

“Huh. Three nothings. That’s gotta be something.” He wandered over behind her to look over her shoulder. “What are you reading?”

She slapped her hand flat over the old paper. “Nothing. Nothing. Letters. Old letters. Really old letters. They were in a drawer”

“Really?” He considered her, amused. “Really old letters about what?”

“Oh, you know.” She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop. “Dogwood, Washington, paintings, Britain. Things.”

“Uh huh.” He leaned in close, oh so close over her left shoulder, reached both arms around her, took her hands and pulled them back against her body, holding her close as he read aloud.

“And I would bind thine eyes, that thee may not see from whence comest thy next pleasure. Mayhap, my teeth will nip and tease the hard buds of thy full nipples, mine hands caress the peak of thy desire or mine eager mouth descend into the hot, moist valley of thy womanhood.

“Whoa! You’re reading porn?”

“It’s not porn!” Wren protested.

“What do you call it then?”

“It’s erotica.”

“And what, exactly, is erotica?”

She sighed. “Classy porn.”

“Mmm. Who wrote this?”

“Obadiah Healey.”

“Should I know who that is?”

“I mentioned him, I think. Famous artist? He was Andrew Campbell’s maternal grandfather. There’s a lot of his work hanging on the walls around here.”

Death nodded, then let go of one of her hands to reach down and turn to the next sheet. Wren yelped and clapped her free hand over her eyes.

“Oh, good Lord! It’s illustrated!”

Death’s face was brushing against hers and she could feel the muscles twitch in his jaw as he smiled “Go, Grandpa!”

It’s art, she told herself, and allowed herself to peek.

The drawing took up the entire sheet. It was a woman lying on what seemed to be a bed of ripped clothing, naked but for an elaborate serpentine necklace. She was blindfolded, but otherwise unfettered. She lay on her back with her legs spread. Her left hand cupped her left breast and her right was stretched down to toy with her (Wren blushed) her self. Her head was tipped back, her mouth slightly open and the tip of her tongue visible.

“Hell of an artist,” Death said, his voice husky. He reached out and ran one finger lightly over the drawing and Wren felt her own body responding as if he were touching her. She swallowed hard and moaned ever so slightly.

Death turned to the next sheet. There was another drawing, half the page this time, and more description.

Two naked bodies intertwined. “That’s not even possible,” Wren objected.

“Sure it is,” Death countered, his voice low with desire. “It starts with a kiss.”

She looked up to find him looking down at her, his expressive green eyes searching her face. His lips were less than an inch from hers. She had been wanting to kiss those lips since she first laid eyes on him. She rose up to meet him, wrapping one arm around his neck to hold him close as she finally let her mouth explore the contours of his. He kissed her back, greedy. Hungry. She let him draw her up out of the chair and lower them both, so that they wound up kneeling, facing one another.

Keeping one arm locked around his neck, she let the other slip under his tee shirt, exploring his smooth, strong back. She brought her hand around to the front and ran it up his chest, pausing as she encountered scar tissue. He stilled and caught her hand through the soft cotton.

Looking into his eyes, she read embarrassment and humiliation.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then it’s okay. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.” She kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw and his collar bone and then tugged the shirt up so she could lean in and place a kiss above his heart.

“Turnabout is fair play, you know,” he said, and slid both hands inside her own shirt. He let his thumbs ghost over her nipples, brushing the soft fabric of her bra against the tender flesh and making her writhe.

She wrapped both arms around his waist, pulling him as close as she could while his hands found her bra clasp and unfastened it. He reached into her sleeves, one by one, and drew her bra straps down off her shoulders. When they were free, he pushed her away just enough to allow him to reach up between them and pull the garment loose.

At the small of his back she encountered the metal of his gun, warm from being in contact with his skin. I’m making out with an armed man, she thought. She pulled it out and set it on the chair seat, then took advantage of the gap it left to slip her fingers inside his waistband.

In a swift move, and one she wasn’t expecting, Death flipped her tee shirt up and leaned down to suckle her left breast. She gasped, shuddering with desire, and pleasure shot through her like electric shocks. She tipped her head back, half closing her eyes in ecstasy, barely registering anything in the world except for the man in her arms. But then something, some sixth sense, warned her that something wasn’t right.

She blinked the room into focus, stiffened suddenly, pushed Death away and screamed like a banshee. Dark, lustful eyes set in a pallid face watched them from just beyond the desk.

Declan Fairchild was standing in the room with them, watching them make love.

_____

“Tell me what happened.”

Chief Reynolds watched as Death paced the library nervously, peering out the open French window, drumming his fingers against his thigh.

“Wren Morgan and I were at the desk, reading over some papers she found.”

“That shade of pink looks good on you,” the chief interrupted

Death blinked. “What?”

“Pink.” The chief pulled a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped Death’s mouth with it, like the ex-Marine was a school child. He held it up to display a pink smear.

Death blushed. “We were reading some papers she found. And she might have kissed me.”

The Chief refolded the handkerchief to another clean spot and wiped it over Death’s cheek and jaw.

“… a couple of times …”

He re-folded it again, spat on it, then tugged the neck of Death’s tee shirt down and scrubbed at his collar bone.

Death sighed and hung his head.

“We were making out on the floor behind the desk,” he said.

“There, now. Was that so hard? And … ?”

“And all of a sudden Wren starts screaming, and not in a good way, if you know what I mean. I look up, and Fairchild is standing there watching us. Freaking pervert! I grabbed for my gun.”

“Where was it?”

“Right next to us, on the chair seat. Anyway, I grabbed it and tried to jump up, but I was short of breath and when I got up I got light-headed. Gave Fairchild time to get out the French window and across the porch. I went after him, but he had a motorcycle parked in the front yard and he took off. I didn’t shoot at him because I was still dizzy and I wasn’t sure of my aim. There’s a park on the other side of that fence and I didn’t want to risk hitting an innocent bystander.”

“Good call.”

“What I want to know is, how did the nasty little pervert get in here? We searched the whole place and made sure all the doors and windows were secured before we started looking for the jewels. And we were looking for the jewels. Originally. And after I called you, we went through the house again and all the windows and doors are still locked from the inside.”

“It was his aunt’s house. He has a set of keys.”

“The Historical Society had all the locks changed after he got in looking for the jewels last Sunday. Even if he has keys, they shouldn’t open anything now.”

“What about the oriel window with the broken lock? The one Whitaker got in?”

“Yeah, but Whitaker was a really little twerp. Even greased up and naked, Fairchild’s not gonna fit through there.”

“Well, then, he must have been hiding somewhere inside and you just overlooked him, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, maybe. But then where did he get the motorcycle? It sure wasn’t there when we came in the house.” Death gave the chief a sharp look. “I’ve wondered if he might be working with someone. We know someone killed the jeweler before Fairchild broke out of prison, and we know that that someone was probably one of Ava Fairchild’s shirttail relatives.”

“Do we?”

Death frowned. “Don’t we?”

“I expect we’re probably on the same page here, but tell me your reasoning.”

Death took a second to collect his thoughts. “Ms. Weeks said Halftree called her and wanted to talk about handling the sale of jewelry from Mrs. Fairchild’s estate. She told him there wasn’t any and he insisted he’d seen it. She suggested the jewelry was given or bequeathed separately to one of Mrs. Fairchild’s friends or relatives. Friends can be hard to track down, but her obituary listed five surviving cousins and mentioned about a dozen more second-and third-cousins. I figure Halftree started calling them, looking for the jewels, and someone decided he knew too much and had to be silenced.”

Reynolds sighed and shook his head ruefully. “I wish I could put you on my force,” he said.

Death half smiled. “I wish you could too. You know, I come from a family of cops and firefighters. I always figured, if the Marines didn’t pan out, I’d wind up being one or the other. My stupid lungs wiped out all three career choices in a single blow.”

The chief slapped him on the shoulder encouragingly. “Yeah, well, just hang in there. I’ve got a feeling you’ll do just fine as a private eye. Only …”

“Only?”

“Only, next time you start ‘reading papers’ with a pretty girl, pace yourself.”

_____

Wren perched on a stool in the Campbell house kitchen, leaning against the massive stone sink, seething with fury.

“I swear! The next time I see that horrible, nasty, creepy little pervert, so help me, God! I’m going to atlatl him just on principle!”

Officer Grigsby, standing by the back door, shook his head. “Listen, I understand you’re upset, but you just can’t be going out and hurting Eric Farrington. There’s a waiting list for that.”

She frowned at him. “I’m talking about Declan Fairchild.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. It’s just that you described Eric Farrington so well.”

Wren laughed in spite of herself, then turned to the doorway as Death and Chief Reynolds came in. “What now?” she asked.

The chief shrugged. “We’ve updated the BOLO on him. Uh, that’s a ‘be on the look out’.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that on TV.”

“Right. We’re trying to make the public aware that he’s a wanted man. It’s going to get real hot for him, real soon. For the time being, we’ll have a patrol car driving by once or twice an hour. We’re keeping an eye on your house, too, Wren. Just keep your eyes open, stay aware of your surroundings, and call us if you think you spot anything.” He looked between them. “Are you going to stay here, or do you want to leave now?”

Wren and Death glanced at one another. “Do you want to leave?” Death asked. She could tell that he did not.

“You’d like to stay.”

“I’d really like to see if I can figure out how Fairchild got in here. If he was hiding when we searched, then someone had to have brought him that motorcycle. But if you were working with someone and they needed a ride, would you lug a motorcycle around to leave it for them, or would you just wait for them in a car?”

“You think there’s a hidden entrance?”

“I think it’s possible.”

“I don’t mind staying,” she said, “except that I’m starving. Do you really think that jam’s no good?”

He gave her a sad grin. “Mrs. Fairchild’s been dead for just over four years so, yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s past its ‘best by’ date.”

“Well, then, let me call and order a pizza and I’m good for the afternoon.”

_____

An hour and a half later, as they sat over the remains of a large, hand-tossed pizza and a collection of empty soda cans, Death gave Wren a sly, speculative look.

“I don’t suppose you want to pick up where we left off when we were so rudely interrupted?”

She blushed furiously and hid her face. “I, um, usually, you know, I, um, I don’t … rushing into things and all, you know. I … I just don’t want you to think I’m a slut.”

He laughed at that. “Do you think I’m a slut?”

“What? No! Of course not!”

“Good, ’cause I don’t usually go rushing into things like that either. So, um, blame it on Grandpa Healey?”

“Blame it on Grandpa Healey,” she agreed.

“Powerful artist,” Death said.

“Powerful artist!”

They laughed together, giggly and relieved. Death wrapped his hand around hers and she squeezed his fingers and leaned against him, her heart light in her chest.

Then Death sighed and shook his head. “Man, I know Fairchild wasn’t in here when we searched the place. I was a Marine, dammit. I know how to clear a house.”

“Right. I agree. But how did he get in, then?”

“We checked all the windows and all the doors.” Death was thinking aloud. “The doors were all locked and bolted with no sign they’d been jimmied. Some of the windows have locks that can be opened from outside with a pocket knife, but that would leave marks in the paint and there are none. The trap door from the cupola was bolted, the attic windows are painted shut. Are you sure there’s no basement?”

“I’ve never seen any sign of a basement. There’s a storm cellar that doubles as a root cellar out back, but it doesn’t connect to the house.”

“What about secret passages? This house dates to before the Civil War. Could it have been part of the Underground Railroad?” Wren was shaking her head before he even finished speaking. “Why not?”

“They came here from the South. They were slaveholders and Confederate sympathizers. Andrew fought for the Confederacy. Modern historians, especially ones with romantic notions about the South, like to claim that there were a myriad of socio-economic causes for the Civil War. And it’s true that there were other contributing factors, but the central issue, the big reason for the whole shebang, was the right to own slaves. Even Jefferson Davis, the president of the CSA, said that at the time.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just …” He sighed.

Wren smiled sympathetically. “It’s just that you’re walking around their house, reading their love letters, hearing their stories, and you want to like them. But you keep getting hung up on the fact that they were involved in something reprehensible. I went to a thing the Historical Society put on once, a panel discussion about the Civil War on the border. Mrs. Fairchild was one of the panel members. She said it was important to never sanitize history, because we can learn much more from what we did wrong than from what we did right.

“She was always troubled that her ancestors had owned slaves. She said she felt she needed to do penance for them, so she always supported Civil Rights legislation, donated to the United Negro College Fund. I remember, just before she died, she organized an email protest when one of the big publishers put out a children’s book about a black heroine with a picture of a white girl on the cover.”

“She sounds cool, anyway.”

“Yeah. And, you know,” Wren’s eyes went distant; she was lost in thought. “I think maybe she was superstitious, too. She said something about how her family had built their fortune on the back of an evil institution, which is why, she thought, that they’d never had any luck with the things that truly matter.”

“What did she mean by that, do you think?”

Wren shrugged. “Carolina died in childbirth. Or shortly after and because of childbirth. Her son had three children, but only one lived to adulthood. His only son died in the trenches in World War One, leaving a young widow and two small children. One of them was crippled with polio. Eva and her husband lost their only child.”

“I didn’t know they’d had a child.”

“A little girl. She drowned at a church picnic when she was ten. And then Eva’s husband died when he was only in his forties.”

“No wonder the poor woman thought they were cursed.”

“Yeah. She said something like ‘justice is implacable and blood will always, always out,’ and she just hoped she wasn’t alive to see the next round of vengeance.” Wren looked up suddenly, meeting Death’s eyes, her own alight with sudden understanding. “She wouldn’t have dropped those jewels down the well, Death. And, wherever she hid them, she meant for them to be found when she was dead.”