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Although the roads Beverly navigated were barely on a map, she could make her way to her target blindfolded. The thirty-minute trip gave her plenty of time to obsess about Harlan and his arrest. So much so, that when she screeched into the parking area, she paid little heed to the two yaks next to the fence nor to the creek circling the mini-castle as she stormed across the bridge.
The door automatically opened for her as she approached. Striding into the castle, she made a beeline for the study, where she flounced onto a sofa without the usual amenities toward her host. For his part, Mr. X seemed totally unconcerned and handed her a mug of a steaming-hot concoction. She took a few sips, but her mood was hotter than the drink, making it feel cool by comparison.
Mr. X relaxed in a chair and tented his fingers together. “I must be slipping. Or Yin and Yang are slipping. Is their yak milk hot chocolate not to your taste? I added a touch of mint.”
She looked up at him for the first time. “What? Oh, yes, it’s quite good, as always. I’m sorry. Here you invited me to drop by, and I’m being a horrible guest.”
“‘Horrible’ and ‘guest’ aren’t two words I’d put together when thinking of you, Beverly.”
“At least someone is glad I’m back. Here I am, taking a chance to return to the Junction, and this is what greets me? Betrayal by Adam?”
“Oh, that word, betrayal. But remind me again why you came back?”
She sighed. “The whole NAL thing and the antiquities crime syndicate.”
“You don’t feel you’ve avenged your grandmother yet? Bringing Reggie Forsythe down was a pretty big coup.”
“As long as there’s one of those scumbags still out there, I can’t give up. And Adam said he’d help.”
Mr. X sprawled back in his chair and smiled at her. “So tell me, love. Did you kill our poor handsome detective? Or is he alive to sleuth another day?”
“He’s very much alive. Although I’m not sure I like him very much right now.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t help to say he’s only doing his job. And that’s he’s quite good at it?”
Beverly wrapped her hands around the mug. She was suddenly cold, and the warm drink was welcome. “If he’s that wonderful, then I can only hope he finds out who’s really responsible for killing that man.”
“Wallace Ryall, you mean.”
“Is that the name of the victim? I didn’t stop to ask.”
“Have you ever heard of him?”
She shook her head. She’s the one who must be slipping—she hadn’t thought to ask Adam about any details of the crime.
“Not terribly surprising. He’s hardly memorable, a little rat of a man, although that may be too unkind to rats.”
“A criminal?”
“Not in the traditional sense. He seemed to make his living from suing other people. Many of those lawsuits were baseless. But the hard fact is, businesses often settle claims out of court to make the bad publicity go away. Even if they’re not in the wrong.”
“Makes what I do for a living seem very respectable by comparison.”
“But you’re a female Robin Hood. I guess female is redundant since ‘Robin’ is an androgynous name. But you are a heroine in your own way.”
“I’m not sure Adam and his kind would think so.”
“His kind, love? Makes him sound like a caveman throwback.”
She took another sip of the chocolate. The mint did add a nice touch. After sipping in silence for a moment, she spoke up, “I asked Adam if he thinks the person framing Harlan could be connected to the Forsythes. Or the Northeast Antiquities League crooks.”
“It’s not impossible. Although I’m not sure any Reggie Forsythe ‘associates’ liked him well enough to consider avenging his defeat.”
“One of those associates did try to kill Adam two months ago. And then me, too.”
Mr. X pointed out, “But that man is currently awaiting trial. And as Adam found out, that lowlife is not a criminal genius.”
“What about others? Someone who might have it in for Adam and is getting back at him through Harlan?”
“Forsythe himself would have gladly done something like that for spite. And he’s quite capable of murder, killing his own father as he did. But he’s lying in a nursing home bed with tubes in every orifice.”
“It’s a pity his cowardly suicide attempt that put him there didn’t work.”
Mr. X put his feet up on an ottoman, and Beverly was glad to see his foot had healed since their last encounter when it was in a cast. He must have noticed her gaze and said, “Good as new. And no new murderous tree roots have reached up to grab me since.”
She managed a small smile as his attempt at cheering her up. “Ah, that word. Murderous.”
“I can help with those NAL crooks you mentioned. And it’s good news, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me?”
“Indeed. Your ingenious methods at reverse cons, plus taking Forsythe out of the picture, and the murder of a state Representative, were too much for the spineless ‘kingpins.’ Most of the other NAL bad eggs have left the antiques industry altogether. I think we’re down to two now. One is eighty-one and in poor health, so that pretty much leaves only a man named Ivon Kozak.”
“I’m not sure I can take credit for all that. But I guess Grammie was avenged in the end.”
Beverly got up, mug in hand, to walk to a rosewood marble-top étagère. “You’ve added a new piece.” She ran a finger along the glass bottle. “It’s 1920s René Lalique, isn’t it? A ‘blackberry’ perfume bottle.”
“So it is. Your grandmother taught you well.”
She smiled at the thought of Grammie taking a little eight-year-old girl into an antique glass shop, to the horror of the owner. It wasn’t until the young Beverly started teaching him a thing or two about a Loetz Titania Glass Vase that the owner relaxed. Even told her to come back and work for him when she turned sixteen.
Beverly picked up another piece on the étagère, a bronze statue. “Who is this?”
“Daniel Chester’s bust of Ralph Waldo Emerson. The very same man who said, ‘There is no den in the wide world to hide a rogue. Commit a crime, and the earth is made of glass. Commit a crime, and it seems as if a coat of snow fell on the ground, such as reveals in the woods the track of every partridge, and fox, and squirrel.’”
“Are you an Emerson disciple? I doubt many people could quote him at will.”
Mr. X wagged a finger at her. “You look rather shocked, Beverly. Not all shady characters, even reformed ones, believe the only reading worthwhile is gun catalogs and porn magazines.”
A blush of guilt crept along her cheeks until she saw the laughter in his eyes. He added, “Emerson has always fascinated me. A man who questioned everything and continued his quest for the truth despite losing most of his family and friends to illness. His words influenced almost every great writer and thinker since.”
“If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working very well.”
“Then how about this Emerson quote, ‘Trust your instinct to the end, though you can render no reason.’ You have amazing instincts, Beverly. Trust them.”
She returned to the sofa, but instead of sitting down, perched on the armrest. “I guess the shock of my uncle killing my grandfather and trying to kill Adam and me is clouding those instincts. I wanted the man who framed Harlan to be part of that case, too.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. To make it easier to combine my two quests into one. Nail the killer, nail more of the NAL scoundrels at the same time.”
“But your instincts aren’t cooperating?”
Beverly drained the last drops of the cocoa and put the glass on an end table. “This is too in-your-face.” She slid back down onto the sofa.
Mr. X agreed, in his usual soothing tones. “The Forsythes were more comfortable with manipulation and secret machinations. Not really their style.”
“But who else would want to frame dear, sweet, dotty Harlan?”
“A competitor. An opportunist. A psychopath. Take your pick.”
“In other words, this isn’t going to be easy.”
“Murders rarely are. But I take it this means you’ll be poking your nose into Adam Dutton’s business?”
“I’m not a patient person.”
“He has to be thorough. Judges and jurors like that sort of thing. But as I mentioned before, poking your nose into a hornet’s nest can—”
“Get you stung.”
“Get you killed. You were lucky last time.”
Beverly stared into her empty mug. “What do I do now?”
Mr. X arose to grab a pad of paper and a pen. “The victim belonged to this group. Not my style, but it seems like an appropriate place to start.”
Beverly took the paper from him. “The Society for Creative Anachronism. They use swords and other Medieval weapons, don’t they?”
He blinked at her. “Very realistic swords.”
She reached up to give him a hug and said, “I knew I could count on you. And Adam Dutton better watch out because Beverly Laborde is on the trail.”
“On the killer’s trail or Dutton’s?”
Beverly didn’t dignify his quip with a reply, but she had to admit the thought of working with Adam again gave her an adrenaline rush. She wasn’t about to stop and analyze why.
