“Perhaps, in a roundabout way.”
“You’ll have to be a bit less cryptic and a bit more forthcoming if you want me to remove jewelry from a murder scene.”
“That’s fair, I suppose. You’re aware that the Rutherford Trust documents specify that only female descendants of Louisa Anne Rutherford can serve as trustees and take as beneficiaries?”
“How could I not be? You’ve been harping on about it for years.”
He bristled. “Right. Well, one way to establish lineage is through ownership of one of three pieces of jewelry. This brooch is one, and the necklace that Davina Jones somehow had in her possession when she died may be another one.”
“What’s the third?”
Sully pretended not to hear the question. “It’s imperative that I have the opportunity to examine that necklace to determine its provenance. Your consultants and officers can’t know. And Grandmother certainly can’t know.”
Dexter hid a grin. “Sully, you sly dog. What are you up to? Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
They shook hands and were about to go their separate directions when a town car ferrying Eliza Rollins, Bodhi King, and another man and woman bumped past on the gravel road.
“Wonder where they’re off to?” Sully mused.
The police chief narrowed his eyes. “So do I.”
27
Micah stared into the depths of his masala chai. “She’s really dead?” His voice was raw, shaky. “I just talked to her a few hours ago.”
Bodhi met Eliza’s eyes over Micah’s bent head. She pursed her lips in thought, and then placed a hand on the grief-dazed man’s arm and spoke to him in a soft voice. Bodhi couldn’t make out her words over the acoustic rock music piped through the restaurant’s sound system.
Whatever she said must have been a balm to the librarian, though. He raised his head and cupped his hands around his oversized mug. He looked at the far wall for a long moment, seemingly focused on an abstract piece of art titled “Tempest.”
Bodhi followed his gaze. The paint-drizzled canvas evoked Jackson Pollock. Bodhi looked more closely and amended his opinion: the technique was actually closer to the work of Janet Sobel—the lesser-known, self-taught Ukrainian-American artist who influenced Pollock’s style.
Focus.
He returned his attention to Micah, who filled his lungs with air, straightened his spine, and turned to look first at Eliza and then at Bodhi. “I’ll tell you everything I know. There’s no chance the police will investigate thoroughly, not after what Davina told me.”
They both leaned across the table toward him. From the next table over, Bette and Fred both leaned forward, too. They would not be dissuaded from chaperoning, but after intense negotiating, they’d agreed to give Eliza and Bodhi some space to talk to the last person who spoke to Davina.
“What did she say?”
“She told me about the find first—the coffin and, uh, Cassie. Then she said she overhead the Sullivans plotting to smear her reputation so nobody would believe her if she went public about Cassie.”
“When?” Bodhi asked.
“When what?”
“When did she hear this conversation?”
“Today. I think after she left the two of you in the lab, she might have . . . well . . . eavesdropped on Mrs. Sullivan and Sully.”
“Why didn’t she tell us? She could have texted or called you.” Eliza spoke out of the side of her mouth and directed her comment to Bodhi.
But Micah answered. “I’m sure she would’ve. But she asked me to look into some things for her first. Knowing Davina, she would have wanted to come to you with an answer, or at least an idea, and not just a problem.”
“What things?”
“She wanted to know if there were any reports of white women—possibly teachers from up north—being threatened or harassed.”
“Or lynched?”
“That too,” Micah conceded.
“And?”
“I haven’t found anything yet, but I’ll need more time. Like I told her, the archives aren’t fully indexed.”
“Anything else?”
“She texted me a picture of a pin—technically, I think it’s a brooch.”
The brooch again.
“Did she say why the piece was important?” Bodhi would’ve leaned further across the table, but he would’ve been in Micah’s lap if he’d done so.
“Well, no. But she didn’t need to. It was.”
Micah looked at them as if this riddle explained everything.
Eliza turned to Bodhi. “Is this some kind of a thingy …?”
“Zen koan?” Bette chimed in from her table. “Sure sounds like one.”
Eliza chortled.
Bodhi waited until their laughter died down, then he said, “Please, go on.”
He couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t encouraged by their shared moment. He was.
Micah explained, “All her life, Davina’s granny had told her that she was related to a civil rights leader who’d lived during Reconstruction. She was convinced it was Isaiah Matthew Bell. That’s how we met—she used to spend hours in the archives looking for a connection to Isaiah. But she never found one. Anyway, when her grandmother died, Davina’s mom inherited the necklace. It was supposed to prove her ancestry or something. Davina’s mom was diagnosed with stage four brain cancer last year. She went fast.”
“How sad,” Eliza murmured.
It was sad, but Bodhi didn’t yet see how this was tied to the brooch.
Breathing in, I am patient. Breathing out, I listen.
Micah went on, “The necklace went to Davina after her mom passed. After that, she was obsessed with tracing it back to Isaiah Bell. I tried to help her, but I couldn’t find a thing about that necklace. Honestly? I think part of the reason she submitted the grant application to excavate the Jonah Bell Farm was because she hoped she’d find a connection there.”
“Did she?” Eliza asked.
“A day ago, I would have told you no. But, now … The brooch is an important piece of the puzzle. I can’t say for sure what significance it has. Not yet. But, yeah, I can say it’s important.”
“Why do you say that?” Eliza wanted to know.
“Because Davina has a necklace just like that brooch. I mean, it’s identical.”
“You’re sure? Same filigree, same stone, same everything?” Bodhi pressed.
“Positive. I mean, I only saw a cell phone picture of the pin. But it was clear and a closeup. And I must’ve seen Davina’s necklace a thousand times. They were identical. One was turned into a pendant. And one was turned into a brooch or pin. But the stones are the same. And the scrollwork pattern is the same. They were obviously made by the same craftsperson.”
Micah nodded. He was sure.
“Where did she get that brooch?” Fred asked, forgetting the no-talking zone in his eagerness to hear the answer.
“I’m pretty sure she removed it from Cassie’s body. When we went back to the museum to talk to the Sullivans, Marvin Washington mentioned that Margot had been in the lab this morning, staring through the coffin’s glass window at a brooch fastened to the neck of Cassie’s blouse.”
“Hang on. This jewelry belonged to the dead woman? And Davina took it?” Bette asked.
“I think so.” Bodhi turned to Eliza. “Did you happen to notice it when we were looking at her through the window?”
She shook her head. “No. And we should have seen it when we were trying to unbutton Cassie’s collar without destroying the fabric. There was no brooch. I’m sure.”
Micah chuckled. “Did Davina have access to the garment? Even for a few seconds?”
“Sure, probably. When we were easing the coffin lid off, she could have reached in—or right after. But we would’ve seen her,” Bodhi said.
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
All four of them stared at Micah, waiting.
“She put herself through college by performing as a magician. Sleight of ha
nd was her specialty.”
“Sonofa …”
Eliza shot Fred a look, and he trailed off.
“So, the brooch and the necklace are a matched set?” Bodhi mused.
“They must be.”
“How do they prove Davina’s a descendant of Matthew Bell if half the set was buried with an unidentified white woman?” Bodhi shook his head.
“I can’t see a link,” Micah agreed. “Unless ….”
“Unless?”
“This is just a wild-eyed guess, okay? It’s not even a theory.” He looked around to make sure everyone understood before continuing. “The Rutherford Family Foundation was established by a trust agreement. I know, because the land that the Bell farm sits on was included in the original grant.”
“Okay.”
“The foundation is a private charitable trust. Some, but not all, of its organizational documents were filed publicly. And it was established in 1874, so some of them have probably been lost or destroyed.”
“Got it, go on,” Bodhi prompted.
“The original grantor was Louisa Anne Rutherford. Her husband predeceased her and left her a fortune. They had daughters, but no sons, so the family fortune was in the hands of the Rutherford women. Louisa decided it should stay that way.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the foundation is controlled by female descendants of Louisa Rutherford, and female descendants only.”
“What happens when there are none?”
“It dissolves. That’s the rumor, at least. There’s been lots of talk because Sully is the end of the line, and you may have noticed he’s a dude.”
“Huh.”
“There’s another rumor, too. That there’s another Rutherford heir lurking around out there, and she’s going to step forward when Margot passes away.”
The pieces started to click into place. “You think this dead woman was a Rutherford?”
“It’s possible. And DNA analysis would confirm it, right?”
“Yes,” Bodhi told him.
“So that’s why the Sullivans are opposed to it? They don’t want to confirm that another branch of the family died out?” Bette hypothesized.
“It fits.”
“It might. But it doesn’t explain Davina’s necklace.”
“And it doesn’t give Verna a motive to kill her,” Eliza added.
“The police suspect Verna?” Micah’s eyes widened.
“Yes. She was angry with Davina, and she was sent home from work early, so the timing of the murder works. Personally, I think Dexter is trying to frame her to keep the Sullivans happy,” Eliza mused.
Micah interjected, “Maybe, but maybe not. Verna’s a nasty piece of work, and there was bad blood between her and Davina. In fact, I was kind of surprised when Davina said she’d helped her out. I’m guessing Davina had to pay her.”
“Do you know why they didn’t get along?”
“Actually, that necklace of Davina’s was the start of all their trouble. Davina’s grandmother left it to Davina’s mom rather than Verna’s. Now those two, the moms, weren’t sisters. They were some kind of distant cousins themselves. I don’t know how the will worked, but Verna seemed to think she should have gotten the necklace. When she didn’t . . . it got ugly.”
“We need to get our hands on Davina’s necklace if we can,” Bodhi said.
“The crime scene is sealed. And there’s no way that Dexter’s gonna let us go back there,” Eliza countered.
“Not us, but maybe someone else?” He looked at Fred and Bette.
“No,” they said in unison.
28
Sunday morning
Eliza woke before the birds. She’d slept poorly, and continuing to toss and turn would only disturb Fred’s slumber, too. So she slipped from the bed, wrapped herself in the lodge-provided thick terry robe, and padded silently into the bathroom.
She couldn’t get Davina Jones out of her mind. Cassie’s brooch and its possible connection to Davina’s necklace gnawed at her. She was sure if she could get her hands on that necklace, it would answer some of her questions about the two murders. She could feel it.
But Dexter had unequivocally kicked them off the case, Fred was refusing to help, and Bodhi could not or would not tell a lie. So that left only one choice: it was up to her.
She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, and slipped into the most appropriate cat burglar clothing she could unearth from her suitcase in the dark bedroom. Black yoga pants and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a 10K race sponsor. A black fleece jacket over top. She tiptoed out into the hallway in her socks, eased the door shut, and then put on her running shoes and laced them up. Then she raced down the stairs before she could second guess her plan.
As she hurried through the lobby, Jason called to her. “Good morning, Dr. Rollins, do you need a driver?”
She gestured toward her clothes. “Thanks, but I’m good. Just going for a hike.”
She couldn’t risk involving Jason in her planned crime.
“Looks like a nice morning for it!” He gave her a cheerful goodbye wave.
She pushed open the door, filled her lungs with the crisp air, and headed toward the hiking path. As soon as she was out of view of the lodge, she stopped under a gazebo, pulled up a ride-sharing app, and requested a trip to 1400 Pecan Boulevard.
She jogged out to the entrance to wait for Ruthie V., the driver, while the sky gradually lightened, and morning dawned.
A bright yellow VW bug crested the hill, turned on its flashers, and pulled to the side of the road. She hopped in and greeted the driver. She hoped Ruthie wouldn’t be the chatty type because she needed to use the drive to settle her nerves.
“Morning, sunshine!” Ruthie trilled. “Do you mind if I listen to the end of this opera on our trip into town?”
“Have at it.”
“Lovely.” She turned up the volume on her car stereo. “It’s Act 3, the assassin is just about to stab Gilda. I’ve got my Kleenex at the ready.” She pointed to a travel pack of tissues on her passenger seat.”
“A Verdi fan, huh?”
“Rigoletto’s my favorite opera,” the driver confirmed. “So tragic.”
Eliza leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes as Ruthie executed a U-turn and began the descent down the mountain. All Verdi operas were tragic, weren’t they? Between the murders and the suicides, a night at the opera was pretty much just like a day in the morgue. She could only hope the soundtrack wasn’t an omen for the day ahead.
Sneaking into Davina’s apartment was easier than it should have been. Later, she’d wonder if that had been by design.
She’d been prepared to talk her way past Officer Rey or his replacement, but when she exited the VW bug, she didn’t see a police cruiser parked in the lot. She checked the fire door. No uniformed officer posted.
The absence of law enforcement outside the apartment actually ratcheted up the difficulty level. Now she needed to find some other way in. She walked around to the front of the building and studied the names affixed alongside the rows of buzzers in an effort to divine which resident might be inclined to buzz in a stranger at six o’clock in the morning on a Sunday.
She was trying to decide between Chang, Stanley, and Maxwell, Ethel, when the elevator bell dinged inside, then the sound of howling and barking filled the lobby. She stood to the side as a harried dog walker wearing a vest emblazoned with the name ‘Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Care’ careened toward the door amid a tangle of leashes. Eliza counted a Pomeranian, a Shepard of some kind, a beagle mix, and at least two retrievers in the dervish of fur and paws that pounded through the door.
“Here, let me hold that for you,” she offered, grabbing the door as the dog walker paused on the threshold to untangle a leash from around his ankle.
“Thanks. Have a good one,” he called as he was yanked toward the park across the road by his cadre of canines.
She edged through the door an
d hurried to the elevator bank. She pressed the up button, then thought better of it and headed for the stairwell instead.
Davina’s apartment door was ajar. The crime scene tape still stretched across the doorway, but it sagged and drooped as if it were tired. She ducked under.
“Clive?”
Her voice echoed in the stillness of the apartment, but no answer sounded. She walked through the kitchen and poked her head into the hall bathroom.
“Hello?”
The room was empty.
If nobody’s here, then why is the front door ajar? Her brain demanded an answer, but she didn’t have one.
She continued toward the rear of the apartment, ill at ease and jumpy. Maybe Clive or some other forensic technician had just left on a coffee run. Or Detective Valtri had needed a hand with something. There were lots of possibilities, but none of them gave her much comfort. The best thing to do was just find the necklace and get out of the apartment. She quickened her pace.
When she reached the door to Davina’s bedroom, she pushed it open with her elbow, then stood in the doorway and surveyed the space. The room was feminine and bright, and–even after having been processed by the forensic team—it retained an organized tidiness.
Good. The orderliness should make it easy to find where Davina kept her jewelry.
She scanned the room, hoping to spot a jewelry box sitting atop the dresser or vanity. No such luck. She pursed her lips and thought. She kept her jewelry, such as it was, in a wall-mounted jewelry armoire hung in her oversized closet.
It seemed unlikely that an apartment this size would feature a walk-in closet, but she stepped into the room and slowly turned in a full circle to check. Nope. But on the east wall, across from the bed, a pair of paneled bifold doors was set into the wall.
She pulled her jacket cuffs down over her hands and pushed the doors open, cursing herself for failing to bring along a package of forensic gloves. The shallow closet was as well organized as the rest of the apartment. Scarves, blouses, and dresses hung on the left side. Slacks, pantsuits, and jackets were on the right. Shoes were lined up on wire racks that sat on the floor. She looked up.
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