He had come to her in search of information on the theft, or so he said. Why did she feel there was more to it than that? She sighed. Her father’s concern over her safety was beginning to take its toll. All these unanswered questions didn’t help matters. She had brushed off the break-in to everyone but now she could admit to herself a little niggle of fear. After the break-in, Peter Ryder had disappeared, a U. S. Deputy Marshal had arrived on the scene, tight lipped and watchful. What was really going on?
She placed the card on her desk and started to tidy up the files on the table in the corner of her office. Trouble dropped to the floor from the sofa and padded across to her desk. He jumped to the chair then the desktop.
“What have I told you about my desk, Trouble?” Julia stopped what she was doing, a stack of files in her hand.
“Yeow.” Trouble batted at the card with his paw, moving it around on the desktop. Then he sat on his haunches and blinked slowly three times. “Yeow.”
Julia placed the files on the table and crossed the room to stand looking down at Trouble. She picked up the card. “Okay. So, what’s the message? Friend or foe?”
Trouble began to purr, his eyelids drooping to half mast.
Julia started scratching him under his chin. His eyes closed and the purring grew to the sound of a small cement mixer. “I think you like him.”
Trouble’s eyes opened to green slits, then closed again. A final judgment, Julia thought, on the merits of one Mitchell Lawson, U. S. Deputy Marshal.
Chapter Three
Julia tapped Mitch’s card against her chin. The key, she thought, was Peter Ryder. As soon as the claim was assigned to her, he disappeared. True, it had been only a little over forty-eight hours since anyone had last seen him, but the timing was suspicious.
She picked up the desk phone and dialed his home. The burring ring of the phone went on for a long time and she sighed. Peter was old fashioned in that he refused to have an answering machine. The only people who needed to reach him, he had once told her, were calling him on business and they could darn well contact him on the company issued cell phone or his pager. It was a sad comment on Peter’s life, but there it was.
The problem was he wasn’t answering either of those devices. How did you go about tracking someone down who had no life outside the job?
What was it Sandra had said? He had missed his last appointment on Tuesday. Julia reached for the phone again but this time she called the receptionist.
Peter’s last appointment, according to Sandra, concerned a claim about stolen assets from an estate just prior to the auction date. There hadn’t been any art involved but a Bentley was on the auction block as well as quite a bit of jewelry. The deceased was from Savannah and his home in the historic district would be part of the auction.
Julia picked up the file she had found with the two art cases. When she first discovered it earlier in the day she had assumed Ryder had given it to her by mistake. She knew the family and was aware of the upcoming auction but the stolen jewelry wasn’t part of her contract with the Weatherby Insurance Agency. It had to be a mistake. Her field of expertise was art, more particularly, Russian art. She read the form and scanned the list of stolen items and put the file aside.
The second case assigned to her could possibly have a tie in to the Fechin theft, she thought. Apparel once worn in 1868 by King Christian IX of Denmark to the christening of Nicholas II, future Czar of Russia, had gone missing in transit from a private owner in New York. It disappeared enroute to the Telfair Museums as part of a display on Russian art.
Julia had given the file a quick read when it landed in her in-box. Because it was the lesser of the two claims she had contracted to review with the Weatherly Insurance Agency, she had looked more in depth at the Fechin theft. She had spoken with the owners on Monday but they were unable to meet with her. Joseph and Alice Peltier were on their way to Cozumel for a granddaughter’s wedding. The Fechin was to be a wedding gift for the newly weds.
She took the two files and her laptop to the table in the corner of the office and began a systematic review of the cases.
Forty-five minutes later she knew two disturbing facts. The first thing that caught her attention was the method of delivery. Usually such rare and valuable items were handled by a select few and well insured companies, companies who were experts in the field of crating, temperature control, and proper handling of delicate items. Even more telling, a piece as valuable as the Fechin portrait would be escorted by a representative of the company from the moment it left the gallery to its final delivery point.
The second thing was the mode of transport. Both pieces had come by way of a tanker ship. Normally they would be delivered by a temperature controlled van or truck, depending on their size, or they would be sent by air freight.
Climate control was a crucial aspect of transporting and storing both the clothing items and the painting. Perhaps the individual owner of the apparel might not have been aware of the significance of these precautions but the auction house in Palm Beach should certainly have known better as should the transport company out of Miami. It was possible that a temperature controlled shipping container was used but there was no indication of that fact in the documents on file.
She would need to speak with each party responsible for such an important task. The clock in the foyer chimed six o’clock. It was too late an hour to contact the representative of the shipping company, one Renee Slavoska. Julia made a notation of the office number on the inside cover of the file jacket and placed it on her desk for attention first thing in the morning. She took a light sweater from an armoire in the corner of the office and turned out the lights. A nice walk down to the river was what she needed.
Something isn’t quite right with the shadow two doors down and across the street. The security lights on the first house deepen the shadows of its neighbor but something is there, I sense it.
“Well, come on.” Julia is standing at the open door of the office. She has donned a light sweater.
She claps her hands at me as I watch her from the window. My ears flatten. She did not just clap her hands at me as if I were a mere dog!
“Trouble!” She starts across the room toward me. “Upstairs with you.”
I drop from my perch atop the back of the small sofa, slip between her legs before she can capture me, and head out the door and up the stairs. It’s about time she called it a day. I’m famished.
In the apartment she turns on lights, hits the play button on the answering machine, and opens the refrigerator.
A man’s voice almost purrs from the machine. I twitch my tail.
“Sorry about this afternoon, Julia. The damage to my car threw me for a loop. I’m really a nice guy when you get to know me.” A deep chuckle follows this self-aggrandizement. I twitch my tail again. Julia smiles and I flatten my ears.
“So,” The Voice continues, “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Julia smiles broader.
“Yeow!” Enough is enough. Besides, tea is now only a bare memory and the dinner hour is fast approaching.
Julia seems to regain her senses and she turns her smile in my direction. “Hungry?”
Surely that’s a rhetorical question. “Yeow.”
She takes a container from the refrigerator. My ears whip forward at the rasp of a lid being pried from a metal container. My thoughts rush instantly to smoked oysters in mustard sauce, Russian caviar, or, in a pinch, liver pate.
It is none of those things. In fact, it isn’t even the plain but highly edible serving of sardines in hot sauce. The dish she places before me has a harsh odor, a gummy texture, and what looks like a green pea trapped in its gelatinous substance.
There is hunger and there is starvation. Neither would reduce me to eating this unidentifiable concoction. I lift my tail in a rigid declaration of my feelings on the matter and stalk from the room to assume my post at the bedroom window.
Julia appears in the doorway. “What?” She has
the can from which the offensive mush has been provided. “It says gourmet right here on the label.”
I ignore her, not because of the ludicrous defense of her dinner offering, but because the shadow a few doors west and across the street is on the move. I shift my body weight onto my forepaws and press my nose to the glass of the window as the shadow walks toward Abercorn. He is almost directly across the street.
Julia turns from the room and her words are lost to me as I decide on a course of action. I need to know the intent of this silent watcher. I limbo under the edge of the open window and trot along the molding to the canopy over the door of the building. I drop onto the canopy, from there to the top of the brick fence adjacent to the house, and then the ground.
My quarry has turned up Abercorn but there is no fear that I will lose him. I am as a cat in the wild in pursuit of the mysterious figure who keeps watch over Julia’s home and office. I will discover his identity and unravel the reason behind all these nocturnal shenanigans at Number 159, West Taylor Street, or my name isn’t Trouble.
I am upon him in a flash of powerful hind legs and feline stealth. He has stopped, staring down the street at nothing I can discern. I catch his scent and the fur on my neck lies down and I relax. It’s only the Lawman and it is as if he is trying to make a decision. He shakes his head and continues up Abercorn Street then stops again at the sight of me.
"This place is crawling with black cats."
I lift my tail to full mast and stalk ahead of the Lawman. Surely he isn't so dull he can't recognize me. True, we have only just met but he must see the distinguished carriage of my person, the gleam of my sumptuous coat, and the unmistakable green of my eyes.
"Escaped have you?"
I hardly consider my decision to investigate the surveillance of my temporary abode an “escape,” but I do concede Julia will not be pleased about my activity. She has an inordinate fear that I will get lost and what would she tell Tammy Lynn.
The sound of a heavy, well-made, door closing draws my attention and that of the Lawman to Julia's house. We look back and watch as she locks and double checks the door. I sense in the Lawman the same indecision I'm suffering: to follow or not to follow.
As she walks down the three steps to the walkway, he moves in her direction a couple of steps then stops. He takes out his cell phone and places a call.
"Do you have eyes on Pretty Boy?"
Interesting. Who is this Pretty Boy, I wonder.
"Yeah," he continues, then a brief pause followed by a grunt. "Okay. Stick like a tick."
My ears flick forward. A more unpleasant circumstance I can't imagine. Pretty Boy is definitely in disfavor with our Lawman.
The Lawman watches as Julia crosses the street and walks in the direction of the river. She is on the same course as we are but on the opposite side of Abercorn. The Lawman glances left and right then steps into a recessed entry into a garden. His actions pique my curiosity. Why does he not want to encounter Julia? He waits until she is a block ahead then follows after on his original course. I look up and see the beckoning neon of Clary's Cafe. I give Julia one last look. My stomach rumbles. I'm torn but then I reason that Julia is smart, competent, and in no immediate danger. I hasten after the Lawman who has clearly forgotten Julia in favor of nourishment. I sprint to his side before the door of Clary's can close on my tail. I must, after all, keep up my strength if I'm to be on my game.
Julia liked to walk the streets of the city after dark. The softly lit buildings and street corners gave old Savannah an added charm. To her it spoke of a time of elegance, manners, and beauty. She has been in love with the architecture of her hometown all her life. She felt safe and comforted by its familiarity. It was her habit to wander the area when she was dealing with a knotty problem: an interior design dilemma, a hovering father, a missing colleague.
She crossed over Bay Street near the Old Cotton Exchange and was walking across the pedestrian bridge that connects to the buildings above the old cobbled streets leading down to the river when she heard a man's voice raised in anger. He spoke with a heavy accent that made his words unclear and the only phrase she understood was “you'll pay or else.” She looked over the railing and saw two men standing in the edge of the glow of the street light just outside the passage that runs under the shops on Factors Walk to River Street.
Something was familiar about the taller of the two men. Just as she was about to walk on, he turned to scan the immediate area and she realized it was Doug.
Julia quickly stepped back from the railing. She didn't want to appear to be spying on him and yet something about the tone of the exchange between the two men made her linger just out of view.
Doug said something in a low placating tone of voice and the stranger made a gesture of impatience and stalked away through the tunnel arch and out of sight. As Doug moved toward the steep stone stairs leading up to Bay Street where Julia stood, she made a quick decision. For some reason she didn't want to encounter Doug just now. She turned up the collar of her sweater and caught the walk signal at the traffic light. Once across the street she ducked into the lobby of the Holiday Inn. She took the elevator to the rooftop pool and stood looking out across the river.
What was it about Doug's conversation with the stranger that bugged her? It brought to mind that fleeting image of him outside the restaurant earlier in the day. The image of a wolf had lingered in the back of her mind. There had been a hint of something wild, dangerous, in his expression.
Julia shook her head and chuckled at her thoughts. A disagreement between two men didn’t mean anything more than that—a simple disagreement. Besides, the hint of untamed recklessness was probably what had attracted her to Doug in the first place. She sighed and recognized that thought was tantamount to admitting she had a type, just as her father claimed.
She inhaled deeply of the crisp fall air and watched a ship being maneuvered up river by tugboats. Her mind drifted back to Peter's disappearance. Deep in her gut she felt it had something to do with her new cases. He had suspected something or he wouldn't have involved her. And it was after his appointment with the Director of Cultural Events for the Telfair Museums about the missing apparel that he had dropped off the radar. She would take up the trail there.
With another sigh she turned from the view of the river to retrace her steps back to the street below. Tomorrow she would arrange a visit with the director but for now she needed to find something that Tammy Lynn's finicky cat would eat. The fur ball had a more refined palate than Gordon Ramsey. Maybe a little sushi would do the trick.
Mitch looked down at the black cat trying to slip through the door of Clary's. He paused for a split second then decided on a sidewalk table. It was clear the cat planned to be his dinner companion.
The waiter paused when he saw the pair of green eyes peering at him from just above the level of the linen clad tabletop.
"He's with me," Mitch said as he perused the menu without looking up at the waiter. "We'll have the Rocquefort Burger, extra meat patty, extra cheese." He handed the menu to the young man still gaping at Trouble. "Rare on the burger and an extra plate."
As the waiter took the menu with a vague nod, Mitch turned his full attention on the cat.
"Just so you know, I'm a dog man."
Trouble flicked his ears and turned his profile to Mitch with a posture that said the tolerance was mutual. Mitch chuckled deep in his throat as his phone emitted a soft beep. He read the text and frowned as he rose to his feet.
The waiter appeared at his elbow with a glass of water and silverware wrapped in a napkin.
Mitch took out his wallet and dropped a twenty and a five on the table. He turned to the waiter. "Feed the cat."
Both the waiter and Trouble stared at Mitch.
"And you," he said to the cat, "go home."
The cat and boy stared after Mitch as he hurried toward a dark sedan parked at the corner of the block, texting as he went.
By the time Mitch reached Bay St
reet there was no sign of Julia or Doug. Jones texted him the moment Julia arrived on the scene. The idea that she had turned up at a clandestine meeting between Doug and one of his low-life associates pricked at Mitch. What was she doing there and who was the stranger? Jones hadn't recognized him but was running a facial recognition search. They would have an identity soon enough if he was in any law enforcement database.
Mitch strolled along Factors Walk and took the stone steps down to River Street. There was no sign of Doug or Julia in any of the restaurants or shops along the riverfront. He made his way back up to Bay Street and stood on the corner of Bryan and Bay Streets for a brief minute then entered the lobby of the Holiday Inn.
The young woman at the reception desk sat up straighter and smiled broadly as Mitch approached.
"May I help you?"
Though Mitch was oblivious to the full power of his attractiveness to the opposite sex, he was aware of a certain appeal when he put forth the effort. The corner of his mouth lifted in a sheepish grin as he brought his elbow to rest on the countertop.
"It appears I've lost my…" he hesitated for a split second as he assessed the eagerness with which the young woman regarded him. "My sister."
The receptionist touched her hair lightly and her smile widened. "Are the two of you guests here at the hotel?"
"No. No, we're local."
At this admission the receptionist folded her arms, rested them on the countertop and leaned toward Mitch. "So you think she might be here because..." Her voice trailed off in an unspoken question.
Trouble in Dixie (Familiar Legacy Book 2) Page 4