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In the research she’d conducted on the Forsythes, Beverly had come across one name, a man identified only as “Mr. X.” The shadowy figure sounded even more intriguing when she read between the lines and figured out he’d parted ways with the Forsythe clan after a falling out.
Another former disgruntled Forsythe associate had confirmed to her that Mr. X was someone she needed to talk to if she wanted salacious details about the Forsythes. The contact didn’t have a number or address, and it had taken some sweet-talking on a false pretense to the telephone office for her to get Mr. X’s phone number.
Now, she only hoped the thirty-minute ride to meet the enigmatic Mr. X would be worth it. She drove most of the way without seeing another car, one of the things she loved about Vermont. It was just her, some yogurt bars, Led Zeppelin tunes, and the open road.
She followed the instructions she’d jotted down over the phone. Mr. X said the GPS would be next to useless, and he was right. She counted eight different turns, four without road signs, until she reached the end of the road. As she pulled into a long, winding driveway, the scene before her was wholly unexpected.
What could best be described as a mini-castle rose out of the rolling green landscape, complete with a small drawbridge across a moat filled with water, more decoration than barrier. She walked up to the front door, looking around for a button or knocker, when a disembodied voice said, “Beverly Laborde?”
She replied, “That would be me,” and waited. Nothing happened. She scanned the pasture to the right, noting a pair of large, shaggy creatures. Bison? No, too small. A special breed of cow? Then she heard a click, and the castle door swung open.
Two things she noticed right away—the first was that the entry resembled the yawning opening of a cave, complete with a slick, rock-like surface when she touched it. The second was the curious man standing in the middle of the opening. Not troll-like, not dressed in armor, nor wearing a crown. He looked to be around fifty, wore black slacks, a plain black shirt, and a black scarf around his neck. The black made his pale skin and platinum-colored hair stand out like a neon sign. “Do come in,” he waved toward the hallway behind them.
The interior hardly matched the castle theme, either, with beige walls and furniture that could have hopped out of a Boca Do Lobo catalog. They passed by an iridescent green, blue, and red vase with a pedestal base in the shape of a female figure.
She stopped to take a closer look. “That’s Hungarian Zsolnay, with eocin glaze, isn’t it? Early twentieth century? These are hard to find. Where did you get this?”
“I travel all over the world looking for interesting things. Believe it or not, I found this in a Budapest flea market. But I see you know your antiques.” As if to punctuate his statement, he perched on the edge of a green leather British Chesterfield armchair. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you. But I have to ask, what does Mr. X stand for?”
“Xenakis. But everyone calls me Mr. X.”
The man hadn’t smiled once since she arrived, and his gaze was unsettling. She didn’t know much about Mr. X, and yet here she was, with this odd stranger in his bizarre house in the middle of a lonely countryside. What would Adam Dutton think of that?
She asked, “What were those two shaggy creatures outside?”
“Yaks. I call them Yin and Yang. Yaks have lean meat. One-sixth the fat of grain-fed beef and forty percent more protein.”
“You eat them?”
“They’re popular in the Himalayas. I bought them thinking I’d farm them to sell their meat to Tibetan restaurants, like the one in New York. But I couldn’t bear to slaughter them. I drink their milk.”
“Their milk? Isn’t Yang supposed to be the symbol for male?”
“They’re both female. But don’t tell them that. Yin is a bit on the butch side.” He hopped up from his perch. “Want to try some yak hot chocolate?”
Hoping she wasn’t making a huge mistake either from the taste or potential poisoning—accidental or otherwise—she agreed. She heard him banging around in the kitchen, and then he reappeared within a couple of minutes. “Specialty of the house. I hope you don’t mind if I included a few shots of chocolate liqueur.”
She accepted the drink with a smile and took a tentative sip. “Yum. This is good.”
Still no smile, but Mr. X tented his hands together. “Glad you like it.” He kept staring at her intently. “You said you wanted to discuss Reginald Forsythe. Would that be Forsythe the Third or Fourth?”
“Both, although I have a particular interest in the Fourth.”
“Not that it matters since they’re cut from the same cheesecloth. Soiled cheesecloth at that.”
“First, is it true you worked for the elder Forsythe?”
He parted his lips, and for the first time, she saw that he had a row of silver bottom teeth. “For ten years. Ten lucrative, heady, but ultimately unsatisfying years.”
“The lucrative and heady I get. Traveling the world buying and selling pricey antiques and artifacts would be stimulating. But why unsatisfying?”
“When I write my tell-all memoir, I’ll send you a copy. But long story short, I got tired of being at the beck and call of a man with less of conscience than my yaks. He didn’t mind how he got his precious trinkets, be it beg, borrow, steal, or kill.”
“Kill? Did it come to that?”
He rubbed his hand along his thigh. “I drew the line there. But I wasn’t his only operative. And his son is as bad, if not worse.”
“You’ve kept tabs on them since you left? The contact I was telling you about on the phone said if I needed to know anything about them, you were the one to ask.”
“I don’t know if you noticed the security features around here, did you? Probably not. Motion detectors, volumetric alarms, night-vision cameras. The control panel for it all looks like it belongs on a starship.”
“That’s the reason for the castle?”
“No, I just like castles.” He peered over at her cup. “Need a refill?”
“I’m still working on this one. But thanks. Does all the security have something to do with the Forsythes?”
“They were none too pleased with my decision to leave the Third’s employ. I assured them of my intention to retire quietly.”
“I heard a rumor. I hoped you could tell me if it’s true.”
He waved his hand in the air for her to continue.
“There’s a legend about Rogers’ Rangers and—”
“The Lady of Chartres silver statue?”
Beverly took a sip of chocolate to cover her surprise but choked on the drink and had a coughing spell. When she could speak again, she asked, “You’ve heard of it?”
“I know about most of the fabled treasure legends hereabouts and around the world. It’s come in handy in the past.”
“Is Reggie Forsythe aware of it?”
“Not only aware, actively seeking it. Has been for years. The man is OCD when it comes to silver.”
Beverly set her mug down on the table next to her chair. She’d lost interest in having any more. She’d only heard hints before that Forsythe was interested in the statue, the main reason she was interested in the piece, but here it was verified in black and white. It underscored the importance and urgency of her treasure hunt and felt like a kick in the gut.
Mr. X tilted his head at her. “This is not happy news?”
“Reggie Forsythe has his talons into everything I care about.”
“He hasn’t located it, you know. If it exists.”
“Do you think the legend is true?”
“I hope it is. And I’d rather that statue fall into your hands than his.”
She smiled at that. Maybe she had one person in her corner. “From what you’re telling me, sounds like the Forsythes have plenty of enemies and few friends.”
“Their type don’t believe in friends, only conquests or allies. The elder Forsythe did have one fellow he seemed fond of. Lowell Steen. Long retired, now.”
Mr. X rubbed his chin. “It did my heart good to hear that Reggie was bested recently. By a woman, no less. Wearing red hair and dark glasses. I’d love to meet her in person.”
“You would?”
“Indeed.” And Mr. X’s lips formed into something that might be close to a smile. “I’d tell her I’d like to give her a medal. But to be careful. And that if she ever needed anything, day or night to give me a call.”
Beverly thanked him for the information and the hot chocolate as he walked her back to the front of the “castle.” Before climbing into her car, she headed over to take a closer look at the yaks. One of them strolled over to the fence right in front of her, and Beverly gingerly reached out to pet the shaggy head.
“Thanks for the milk,” she said with a smile.
She didn’t know whether to be encouraged or discouraged by her little chat with Mr. X. She’d known the Forsythe duo to be formidable, but she hadn’t realized how dangerous they really were. Crime, yes, but also maybe murder? Was Mr. X even telling the truth? Perhaps he was still in their employ, and she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life by trusting this man—who’d likely go running back to the Forsythes and tell them all about her.
But no, she had to trust those gut instincts of hers. They were all she had. And as with Harlan, she had a good feeling about Mr. X. He’d seen right through her, she knew that. And he certainly had good taste in antiques.
The main takeaway from her meeting was that Reggie Forsythe was pursuing the Lady Chartres statue for real and had been seeking it for a long while. She’d counted on having some time for her search and that she was the only one seriously interested in the missing artifact.
As Grammie used to say, “The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can’t find them, make them.” It wasn’t until years later she found out those words came originally from George Bernard Shaw.
But she didn’t care, they were good words, survival-words. If there was one thing she’d gotten pretty good at it, it was surviving despite long odds. And she wasn’t about to let a pampered, soulless scoundrel stand in her way of success—and revenge.
