by Dani Pettrey
She chuckled. “Very tempting, but I’ve got—”
He held up a hand. “Let me guess—a lot of work?”
She nodded and they continued their stroll, an unbearable silence enveloping them. Why couldn’t she stop pushing so hard to leave? Why couldn’t she let her guard down just a little? Why couldn’t she enjoy what time they had together?
“I made it over to the historical society this morning,” she said, finally breaking the silence.
“Oh?” He’d forgotten all about that. “Anything helpful in the letters?”
“Actually, it turns out it was a diary, not letters.”
“Huh. I guess Agnes made a mistake in her notation.”
“Actually she didn’t.”
“But you just said . . .”
“Mrs. Anderson said the princess used the diary as a sort of first draft for all her correspondence. As a way to get her thoughts down and also to keep track of who she told what.”
Cole misstepped. “Princess?”
“The diary belonged to Princess Ma—”
“Maksutov,” he finished.
She halted, her brow furrowed. “How did you know that?”
“Piper told me about her.”
“Piper?” Bailey squinted as the sun lit her eyes the deep blue of Tariuk Island’s waters. “Did she also tell you the diary was stolen?”
“The night of Agnes’s crash.”
“What?”
He raked a hand through his hair, his mind scrambling to put all the pieces together into something that made sense. “I’d forgotten all about it until you mentioned the princess’s name. Who would have thought a hundred-year-old diary would cause such commotion? What do you think it contains that’s of so much interest?”
“Perhaps information on which artifacts were kept in the church. The icon may be just the tip of the iceberg.”
“I guess we’ll never know.”
“That might not be entirely true.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Anderson gave me the name of the diary’s owner. Usually when an item of that worth is donated, the benefactor has copies made. That way if the item is ever damaged or destroyed, the historical information still remains.”
“Great thinking. So who donated it?”
“Agnes.”
“How’d the diary come to be in her possession?”
“Mrs. Anderson said Agnes told her that it had been passed down for generations in her family. She’d inherited it from her great-aunt, and since it represented such an integral part of Yancey history, Agnes wanted it to be available for all to see. So she donated it to the historical society, at least for the time being. One day, she said she’d pass it on to her niece.”
Cole smiled as he held the station door open for her. “You.”
Bailey nodded as she stepped inside. “I’ve been racking my brain, trying to go back through all the conversations we had, all the history and stories she overloaded me with, to see if anything could be of help.”
“And?” Cole waved to Earl as the deputy juggled phone calls.
“And . . .” Bailey sighed. “I just get more frustrated. Maybe if I’d paid better attention.”
“You were a teenager.”
“I know. I just keep thinking there’s something in the Post she wanted me to find. Something for me to discover.”
“Go on back,” Earl said, his hand clapped over the receiver. “Slidell’s expecting you.”
“Maybe if you find the copy of the diary, you’ll find some answers.”
“That’s what I keep hoping.”
Slidell stood as they entered his office. “Thanks for coming down.”
“You said it was important.”
“It’s quickly becoming so.” Slidell lifted the receiver and pressed the intercom exchange. “Grainger, get in here.”
“Be right there, Chief.”
He rested the phone back in the cradle and indicated for them to sit.
Slidell’s office was his home away from home. Still single and with no family in the area, he apparently didn’t have much to go home for.
Cole glanced at the tweed sofa that looked like it would be more at home in a hunting cabin than an office. The coatrack held a variety of shirts and a worn pair of jeans, and a handful of empty Ramen containers littered the trash can beside it.
Landon skidded into the office. “I got our mystery man.”
Slidell arched two bushy brows.
“When I didn’t get a hit on the US database, I sent the info to a friend at Interpol.” Landon dropped the booking photo on Slidell’s desk. “Nikolai Sokolov. Previously from St. Petersburg, Russia, but it looks like he’s been in the States for at least a year. Primarily in California.”
“Where Liz is from,” Bailey said.
“Exactly. Nikolai Sokolov is Liz’s boyfriend, Nick.”
Slidell scanned the printout. “He’s got quite the rap sheet. Petty theft, grand larceny, aggravated assault. Good work, Landon.”
“There’s more. I did a little searching on the man who tried to hire Cole.”
“Greg Stevens?”
Landon perched on the edge of Slidell’s desk, his arms crossed. “He doesn’t exist. Neither does Pentrinium Oil. And here comes the strange part, the 1-800 number he left Cole . . . I can’t find any records on it. No one seems to know where the number originated or who carries the service. But I do know it’s the last number Nikolai texted.”
“What?”
“Nikolai texted the icon image and the let’s talk message to Pentrinium Oil’s 1-800 number.”
“We can assume the talk did not go well.” Slidell slid a folder to Landon. “Booth’s report is in. The remains Piper found on the beach belong to whoever’s blood was on that boat—with one exception.”
“Exception?” Cole’s heart lurched.
“There was an extra ear. By the cartilage structure and piercing . . . Booth says it’s female.”
“But Liz Johnson’s ears were both intact.”
“Right. Which means we have another victim. If not dead, wounded.”
“What now?”
“Now, thanks to Landon’s thorough work, we can give Booth a name and hopefully enough information to make a positive ID on the body parts recovered.”
“But we’re no closer to finding the killer,” Bailey said.
“Exactly.” Slidell refilled his mug. “The body count is rising, and other than a fake name and business, we have no leads. I hate to say it, but Mayor Cox is right. Townsfolk are getting worried, and if word of this leaks to the cruise ships . . .” He faced the window, his shoulders rigid. “Shop owners depend on the tourist traffic to keep them going the rest of the year. We need answers and we need them now.”
Landon stood. “We find what Liz Johnson and Nikolai were looking for, what the man who tried to hire Cole is still searching for, and you’ll have your answers.”
“You really think finding some trinket under the sea will actually solve anything?” Tom said from the doorway.
“The icon is the only thing we have tying the murders together,” Landon insisted. “My gut tells me it’s at the heart of this case.”
Tom strutted into the office. “How do we know this isn’t all some wild-goose chase? That they haven’t already found what they are looking for?”
Cole felt Bailey stiffen as Tom approached.
Landon continued, “Because they wouldn’t still be hanging around, trying to hire another diver if they had what they wanted.” He shifted his focus from Tom to Slidell. “Chief, I’m telling you, retrieving that icon is the key. Who knows how many more lives will be in jeopardy until it’s found.”
Slidell set his mug on the desk. “What are we talking?”
“We take the grid you had Cole draw up and we go down. Locate the ruins, the icon, and stop this in its tracks before anyone else gets hurt.”
Slidell inhaled, then released the breath slowly, his stomach rising and low
ering with a motion like that of a slumbering dog. “All right. Cole, you gather a team. Get started as soon as you’re able.” He pinned his gaze on Landon. “I expect to be kept in the loop.”
“Absolutely.”
Slidell picked up his mug. “Well, get going. This case isn’t going to solve itself.”
“I’d like to be part of the team,” Bailey said, her voice so low, Cole doubted he’d heard her right.
She was asking to be part of the team, his team? “Really?”
“Less civilians involved, the better.” Tom cocked his head in Bailey’s direction. “We don’t need anyone clouding the team’s judgment, now do we?”
Cole looked at Bailey, fearing she’d cower.
She took a steadying breath and squared her shoulders. “I’m the only expert on Russian artifacts you’ve got. You need me down there to identify whatever you find.”
Cole’s heart swelled with pride. “She’s right. She’d be an asset to the team. It’s just a matter of safety.” He turned to Bailey. “I know you still dive, but what level of certification do you hold?”
“I’m cave-and-cavern certified.”
“Well, all right.” He prayed Slidell wouldn’t shoot down her offer, not in front of Tom. Not when she’d finally taken a stand.
Tom shifted his weight. “Sheriff?”
Slidell exhaled. “Like Cole said, the lady will make a valuable addition to his team.” He leaned forward, resting his weight on his forearms. “Who else will you be taking?”
“Two teams of two should be good. I’ll partner with Bailey.”
Tom snorted, and Cole flashed him a warning glare.
“Landon can pair with Piper, as long as she’s up to it,” he continued. “Kayden and Gage can run topside.”
“How long until you’re in the water?”
“I just need to ready the equipment and finalize the grid, so a day.”
“Good. I don’t need to remind you the clock is ticking.”
34
Bailey followed Cole outside the station, her heart roaring in her chest. She’d finally held her own with Tom. Now she just needed the queasiness to subside.
“Hey, man,” Landon called, striding out after them. “I wanted you to take another look at this.”
Cole’s brows dipped. “The sketch of Greg Stevens?”
“Now that a day has passed, I thought you could recheck it. Anything you’d add or change?”
He studied it. “Sorry, man. Still looks the same to me.”
“Don’t be sorry. That’s good. I’m going to fax it over to my friend at Interpol, see if it pulls up anything.”
“Mind if I take a look?” Bailey asked. If the man had anything to do with Agnes’s death, she wanted to see his face.
“Sure.” Landon nodded, and Cole handed her the image.
She nearly dropped it.
“You’ve seen him?” Landon said.
She nodded, suddenly feeling very cold despite the sunshine.
“When?”
She held her trembling hand to her mouth. “The day of Agnes’s funeral, but he looked different.”
“Different, how?”
“Older.”
Landon frowned. “How much older?”
“I don’t know. . . . A good fifteen, twenty years.”
“Are you sure it’s the same man?”
“Positive. I remember the eyes.”
“Could you come back inside the station and let Earl do another sketch of how he appeared to you? If he’s wearing disguises, it would be helpful for us to know all his looks.”
Bailey slammed the cupboard door. She’d looked everywhere and still couldn’t find Agnes’s copy of the diary. Had she purposely hidden it, and if so, why? Did she know someone was after it? If so, who?
With a sigh, she stalked over to the steps and sank down. Why was she letting herself get pulled in so deep? When was it going to end? When the murderer was caught? When the icon was found? She was only fooling herself. She didn’t want to leave Yancey, and that scared her more than anything.
This is ridiculous. You are being ridiculous.
She tapped her irritation out on the bottom step, her foot moving in rapid melody.
A hollow echo answered back.
She tapped again and the same echo replied.
The bottom step. It’d always sounded different. Hollow.
She’d written it off as another of the old building’s quirks. Just one of many creaks, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Getting down on her hands and knees she moved in for a closer look.
“Where did you find it?” Cole asked as soon as the door opened.
Bailey tugged him inside and locked the door. “Beneath the bottom step,” she said in a rushed whisper, excitement alight in her eyes.
“What?” Why on earth had she thought to look there?
“I was getting desperate. Never mind, it’s a long story.” She knelt at the base of the stairs. “This is what’s important.” She grabbed hold of the bottom step and slid the top piece toward her, revealing a cubbyhole within.
He chuckled. “Agnes was quite the secret-keeper.”
Bailey pulled out the slim, soft-sided binder. “Makes me wonder what other secrets she and this old building are hiding.”
Cole settled on the couch beside Bailey. She smelled like a meadow after a spring rain. Tendrils of her amber hair slipped from the loose clip she’d bunched it into, grazing her supple neck and collarbone. . . .
“I’d divide up the pages so we could read twice as fast, but I’m afraid we’d lose context.”
“So . . .” He cleared the gravel from his throat, feeling like a sixteen-year-old in the throes of first love. Funny . . . it was with the same girl. Funny and equally sad. Falling in love with someone who didn’t love you back was bad enough the first time around; doing it a second time was downright pathetic. “So”—he tried again, this time finding his voice—“let’s start from the beginning.”
“All right.” Bailey flipped open the binder and began with the first copied page.
June 15, 1864
My dearest Ekaterina,
Life here isn’t so bad. In fact, the village is coming more and more to resemble home. Dimitri says the company is doing well. The local people are kind, and I’m finding my way. I think I have finally located them—well, the few that remain. They ask me much about the homeland, those alive never seeing it firsthand. It appears it has lived on in their hearts through the tales of their elders. I hope my humble words do it justice. Please write again soon. I do look so forward to your letters. Give my love to Auntie.
With love,
Sofia
The air was soothingly warm, the sun shining in a crystal blue sky, and the waters calm. It was a perfect day to be at sea.
A gull circled overhead, and Cole let his hand dangle over the side of the boat, feeling the spray of the sea on his fingertips. “So how late did you read after I left?”
Bailey shrugged. “Not long.”
He wasn’t buying it. He’d barely pulled himself away at midnight. He narrowed his gaze. “How come I don’t believe you?”
Her full lips cracked into a gorgeous smile. “It was addicting. Sofia paints such a vivid account of life in nineteenth-century Russian Alaska and of life on Tariuk, in particular.”
Cole reclined beside her. “So bring me up to speed.”
“She discusses each building erected in town and notes which were present upon her arrival. I think the Post was one of the originals. She refers to it as the caretaker’s house, whatever that means, but its description matches perfectly, right down to the upper dormer windows.”
“Could be, but you’ve got to remember a number of buildings have come and gone since that time.”
“I know, but wouldn’t it be cool if it turned out to be the Post? It was built in that general time period. Agnes even filed paper work to get it put on the historic registry at one time.”
“It
’s cool, but I still don’t see the connection between the diary and the icon.”
“We still have a lot to read. Maybe that comes later.”
“I hope so. It’d be nice if some of the pieces would start falling into place.”
“It’d make my job a whole lot easier,” Landon remarked from the bow.
“Any news on Greg Stevens?” Cole asked.
Landon shook his head. “Not yet.”
“You think he killed Nikolai and Liz to keep the find quiet?” Gage asked while running a final inspection on everyone’s tanks.
“I think he hired them to find the icon, and Nikolai tried to up the price,” Landon said.
“And Liz?” Bailey asked.
“Either Nikolai didn’t want to share the reward, or Greg was tying up loose ends. My gut says the former.”
Kayden slowed the engine. “We’re over grid one,” she called from the wheelhouse, the boat rocking on the waves.
“That’s our cue.” Cole pulled his dry suit up the remainder of the way and zipped it.
“So is there anything Kayden can’t drive?” Bailey asked, yanking her flippers on. “Floatplanes, boats . . .”
“Helicopters, motorcycles,” Gage continued the list.
“Dune buggies,” Kayden poked her head out of the wheelhouse with a grin.
“Dune buggies?” Bailey’s brows rose.
“To let loose we like to race dune buggies on our beach,” Cole explained.
“And who’s the reigning champion?” Kayden strode across deck, her step and tone both light and lyrical for a change.
Piper grunted out a strangled sigh. “It’s not all about winning.”
“That’s what losers always say.”
Piper stuck out her tongue.
“Real mature, Piper.”
“I thought you’d cornered the market on mature.”
“Time’s a-wasting,” Cole cut in before Kayden could counter. “We’ve got a job to do. Besides, we’ve got company. Let’s not show her all our flaws right off the bat.”
“Bailey’s not company.” Piper wrapped an arm around Bailey’s shoulder, giving her a squeeze. “She’s been around long enough. She’s family.”
Family? Bailey fought the scourge of tears pricking her eyes. They viewed her as family? Outside Agnes, family had never really existed for her.