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Beverly waited until Adam drove off as she watched from the resort lobby. Then she returned to her car to fetch the envelope from Strudwick, which she locked into her room safe. Nausea kept her from wanting supper, so she grabbed a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. After kicking off her heels so hard they flew across the room, she sat in one of the seating area chairs with her feet propped up on the table.
The nausea was soon followed by a headache, and she rubbed her temples. She didn’t want to scarf down more ibuprofen. As if that would help with nausea. Not that anything would.
“Oh, Adam,” she said aloud.
She’d tried so hard not to fall for him, fall for anybody. Certainly not a cop. Part of her couldn’t blame him for not trusting her. She’d lied to him, hadn’t she? But why could he not see that Reggie Forsythe was at the center of all of this, that Forsythe should be his main concern? Surely the powerful reach of that man couldn’t have trickled down to Adam, too?
With that disturbing notion, she gulped down some of the wine too fast and coughed as the burning hit her throat. She relished the sensation, matching her mood. But no, she couldn’t, wouldn’t believe Adam was bought off. Not a man who’d suffered what he had at the hands of some crazed psychopath and come back to his job as dedicated as ever. And Harlan wouldn’t think so highly of him if Adam was that easily bribed, would he?
Harlan. Maybe she should take him into her confidence. Tempting, but she didn’t want to get him involved. He might feel obligated to tell Adam, too, and he was too honorable a man to put on the spot like that. Better to go it alone.
She let the wine trickle down her throat as she toyed with ideas of what to do next. As she fingered the glass, she knew there was no way she’d just sit around and wait for that knock on the door and the offer of a shiny new set of handcuff bracelets.
The big question was to flee or stay and fight? She could disappear right now if she wanted to. But images of Grammie and all the other antiques store owner-victims paraded across her brain like ghostly visions in a cloud. Making up her mind, she drained the rest of the glass, rescued her shoes, and grabbed the keys to the SUV.
Hoping she didn’t miss a turn in the creeping twilight, she followed the instructions as she had last time and pulled in front of the castle. Yin and Yang were nowhere to be seen today. Perhaps there was a barn?
Mr. X opened the door right away. “What a pleasant surprise, Miss Beverly Laborde. You must be missing the yak hot chocolate. Shall I make another?”
She took the same chair as on her last visit, and he made the drink in short order. It was even more comforting than wine. “I guess I should get right to the point. How did you know about the Lady of Chartres statue? And how did Reggie Forsythe learn about it?”
“As I said, it’s my business to know. But I originally ran across that Rogers Rangers tale years ago when doing some research for a Sotheby’s auction. As to Reggie . . . “ He rubbed his hand on the armrest. “I’m afraid he learned that from me.”
Beverly held her cup frozen in mid-lift. Was Mr. X’s story of being on the outs with Forsythe all a lie? Had she just made another tremendous blunder? She felt dizzy and hugged the cup to her chest.
“Beverly,” he said gently. “It’s also my business to recognize fear. I spent years trying to create it in other people. You have nothing to fear from me. Frankly, had I known Forsythe would believe in that legend, I’d never have mentioned it.”
“You don’t believe in it, yourself?”
He smiled. “It’s more likely than many other legends I’ve encountered.”
They sat in a more comfortable silence for a few moments until Mr. X said, “I heard that Reginald Forsythe-the-elder was murdered two days ago. It seems a woman was caught on camera entering the home around that exact time. Funny, that.”
“You do keep tabs on the Forsythes, don’t you?”
“It was on the news, but I heard it via other channels. According to those channels, the description of this woman didn’t match you. But disguises aren’t all that difficult. Perhaps you learned such techniques when were you acting in those plays at Dartmouth?”
He’d investigated her background. Out of habit, or was it something far more worrying? She put one foot sliding forward as if to head toward the door but stopped. “You did a background check on me?”
“I find you fascinating.” When her eyes grew wide, he added, “Not in that way, my dear. Perhaps if you were taller and had a Y chromosome instead of two XX’s.” He smiled at her and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, Beverly, how long have you been scamming?”
“Scamming? What makes you think I’m a scammer?”
“Beverly, please. It takes a con artist to know one. When you arrived with your questions, it was easy to guess you were the woman in the red wig who switched Reggie’s Revere bowl.”
Whether it was despair she’d felt after Adam’s refusal to go after Forsythe, the resort wine, or a drug in the hot chocolate, she didn’t know—but she found herself being honest with Mr. X. “When my grandmother died, and I learned Forsythe and the Northeastern Antiquities League were behind it, I had to do something. So I pretended to be a seller, showed the buyers whatever object I had they wanted. Even let them have it appraised.”
Her mouth was dry, and she took another sip of the drink. “Then I’d take it back, saying I was rethinking selling. This made them more desperate to have it, so they invariably upped the price. Then, I gave them a replica instead. I don’t regret it for one minute. They are all scoundrels and deserve far worse. I’ve never scammed innocent people.”
“They never noticed?”
She gave a half-smile. “The only one who did was Reggie Forsythe.”
“Even for an actress, that’s a dangerous modus operandi.”
“I didn’t care. I still don’t.” She furrowed her brow. “Why haven’t you asked me if I murdered Forsythe?”
“Because you didn’t. Reggie did.”
“He told you?”
“Never. But his father taught him well. Taught him how to bulldoze anyone and anything in his path. And that being sentimental was a sign of weakness.”
Beverly nodded, and he continued. “The relationship between the Forsythes was strained for a while. F3, as I called him, was far more cautious, felt they should take things slower.”
“Was buying off Representative Strudwick F4’s idea?”
Mr. X curled his lips in amusement. “If you were the criminal type, Miss Laborde, you’d make a good addition to the Northeastern Antiquities League. You are a dogged researcher. But yes, it was his idea—” he smiled again. “That is, F4’s idea. F3 was content to bring down competitors the old-fashioned way, buying them out with an offer they couldn’t refuse, undercutting their business, or spreading rumors. It appears the father-and-son ‘disagreements’ took a fatal turn today. Not that I didn’t see it coming.”
He rose from his chair. “More hot chocolate? Or something stronger?”
She’d be driving later but decided to risk it. “A gin and tonic, if you have it.”
“Ah, a gin girl, are you?” He disappeared once more in the back, returning with two glasses. “Here you are. You know, I liked F3 at times. Unlike his son, there was a real human being in there. He enjoyed playing marbles, like a little boy. And sometimes, he’d break into song. He was a Harry Belafonte fan.”
“Sounds like the music he listened to when he was married to my grandmother.”
Mr. X studied her face, tilting his head to one side. “You’re Regina’s child. I saw a clipping on F3’s desk once about your parents being killed in that accident. But neither of the Forsythes ever talked of his family. I only found out Reggie had a sister on my own quite by accident.”
He shook his head. “Dear Miss Laborde. How horrible that you had to see your own grandfather like that, even if you were estranged. And to have your uncle be a rotter, too. By the way, you’re lucky Reggie’s security cameras aren’t state-of-the-art. He’s had the same ones for years. A true technophobe. Hates to use the phone. Always afraid someone will be listening in.”
“I’m not sure I’m lucky. The Ironwood Junction police have me as their number one suspect. I made the mistake of keeping my Amtrak ticket stub where Reggie Forsythe could see it. So the police were on the lookout for women arriving from Amherst, the closest station to his Massachusetts store.”
“A car would be more discreet.”
“I don’t own a car. Or a house. It’s rentals, taxis, and hotels all the way.”
“Paying cash, of course?”
“Of course.”
The warmth from the hot chocolate and the gin were beginning to spread through Beverly’s veins, and she settled into the cushions. “I paid a visit to F4’s ex-wife, Imelda.”
Mr. X peered at her over his glass. “In disguise?”
“I pretended to be a reporter for a real estate magazine. She had some nice things to say about F3, too. But I got the impression she and F4 were like oil and water.”
“Think snake oil and radioactive water, and you’ve nailed it.”
“She mentioned Kannan Hendrick. Gave me his current address, which turned out to be a headstone. Did F4 kill him?”
Mr. X swirled the gin around in his glass. “That happened after my retirement. I honestly don’t know.”
“But do you think he could be responsible?”
“I do. Hendrick was one of F4’s hires. Reggie didn’t have the same discerning judgment his father did. F3 was a better judge of character as far as his ‘colleagues’ were concerned. F4 mistakes desperation for competence. Hendrick was a sad case. Lost his wife, kids, house, and most of his money in a bitter divorce when his drug demons got the best of him.”
“And loose lips sink ships, as the World War II posters used to say?”
“Indeed.” Mr. X studied his glass. “This Ironwood police department. Have they called you in for questioning?”
“No, but Adam . . . Detective Adam Dutton told me if he found evidence I was the Revere con woman, he’d have to bring me in.”
“Adam? ‘Have to’ bring you in? Sounds to me like your feelings toward this detective—and his toward you—are complicated.”
“You know what they say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
He took a sip of his drink. “Have you told Detective Dutton about your ties to the Forsythe family?”
“He discovered that himself. He was not pleased. I tried to tell him I had evidence tying Reggie to essentially bribing a congressman—”
“That might not have been wise, Miss Laborde. For you or for your Detective Dutton.”
“What do you mean?”
“If word gets back to Reggie, he might target you or Dutton. In his tiny mind, he is an untouchable god and not afraid of anyone.” Mr. X sighed. “I wish I could help you with your legal dilemma, but I’m afraid I don’t have a close relationship with law enforcement. I tend to stay as far from them as possible.”
“I understand. I really don’t know why I came here, other than to find out more about the silver Lady.”
“Miss Laborde, when con men suffer setbacks and trials, sometimes the only other people who understand are other con men.”
She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. She didn’t know what to do about Adam, Forsythe, or her future, but she did feel more hopeful.
She asked, “Where are Yin and Yang? I didn’t see them when I arrived.”
“They’re in the barn. The yaks’ shaggy coats make them tolerate temps down to minus forty, but they don’t like warm weather like our recent Indian summer. Anything above fifty-five, and they’re miserable. The barn is air-conditioned.”
“An air-conditioned barn. Pampered beasties, those are.”
“Not as much as the Apple Valley Resort customers. I doubt my yaks will be getting a seaweed wrap and pedicure anytime soon.”
The mental image of that made Beverly laugh. “Maybe I’ll just stay here as your assistant and become a yak farmer.”
“You would always be welcome. But wouldn’t you miss your ‘line of work’ and your mission? It might be a little dull for you.”
“Dull sounds pretty good right now. You’re right, however. I’ve come too far to drop my quest. My grandmother deserves revenge for what they did to her.”
He leaned forward. “I have found the revenge-dish everyone says is best served cold is based on a false premise. I subscribe more to the saying that ‘if you desire revenge, you should dig two graves.’ I hope you’ll keep that in mind, Beverly Laborde.”
