Admit One (Sweetwater Book 2)

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  Just then, David came into the cabin wearing a bright yellow rain slicker. “We’ll be docking soon,” he said, dripping water on the floor. “But the Captain wanted me to tell you that the storm they were predicting blew in a lot sooner than expected, so be prepared to get wet.”

  WILL trudged through the rain which had just begun to come down along River Street, turning the otherwise pleasant early evening into the kind of swampy heat that presaged the coming of summer. People huddled under canopies or darted across the cobblestones – a treacherous proposition when wet. The forecast hadn’t called for rain until the overnight hours, so it had caught folks unaware.

  He glanced up at the sign on the storefront just to make sure he had the right spot, since it was a while since he’d been to Savannah and he hadn’t exactly been interested in hunting antiques the last time he’d been here. More like whisky and women. Pinch of the Past was spelled out in gold letters, with Tobias Abernathy, Proprietor printed underneath. The most knowledgeable Civil War era antiques and antiquities dealer in the Coastal Empire, or so he’d been informed by Victoria’s assistant.

  Will, having lived most of his life with more antiques than he could shake a stick at, had never had cause to pay a visit.

  Until now.

  Shaking off his umbrella – Will liked to be prepared for every contingency, and therefore kept two of them in his car – he leaned it near one of the Chippendale benches positioned on either side of the heavy mahogany doors. Gaslight flickered from a lantern over the entrance, warding off the premature gloom. Wiping his shoes on the mat, he carefully stepped inside.

  And was thrown back into childhood.

  More so than Victoria’s store, this place immediately made him uneasy. The somehow intimidating pieces of ornate furniture, the fragile fabrics not designed for kids. The small, delicate goo-gas that sat around collecting dust and cost more than most people made in a month. The air of timelessness, the weight of formality. The chill of parental disapproval.

  His palms started sweating before he caught himself. This was not his mother’s parlor, and he was a fully grown man. He’d overcome this… aversion in his own home, so it was silly for him to feel out of place here.

  Still, he kept a safe distance from anything breakable as he made his way toward the desk in the back.

  Grayish light trickled through a bank of high windows off to the left – the building had once been a brick plant, he believed – showing the steam rising from a coffee cup that read “Chocolate Makes Your Clothes Shrink.”

  The desk was otherwise deserted.

  “But I want to,” came a small, petulant voice from a door behind the desk.

  “Toby, I’m sorry honey, but Mommy already told you, not today.”

  “But I want to.”

  “Not today.”

  “But I want to, I want to, I need to!”

  Uh-oh. Will automatically felt kinship with the kid, whoever he was. Poor little sucker probably wanted to build a fort or play in the rain or anything other than sit in this monument to old stuff and old money all day, but his mom expected him to behave like a Stepford child.

  “Tobias, we have to watch the store while Daddy’s away. His afternoon clerk called in sick. You do not need to paint Mommy’s face blue. It would scare away Daddy’s customers. And I already told you I’d let you help me with the mural in your room tomorrow. If you want to make me look pretty with your finger paints at that time, that would be fine with me. Now, I know it’s getting late, and I’m sure you’re getting tired, but try to bear with me, okay? Finish your picture.”

  Before Will could fully process that, a cloud of honey-colored curls emerged from the door, with a woman underneath.

  “Oh!” she said, startled. Then her equally honey-colored eyes widened further behind a pair of emerald green cat’s eyes glasses. “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “No problem.” Will took her in, from the top of her curl-covered head to the sensible black ballet flats on her feet. Sensible, except for the drops of blue paint currently spattered on them. Her dress was one of those gauzy numbers that both clung and obscured at the same time, brightly patterned beneath the little black sweater she’d pulled over her shoulders. Her face was open and friendly despite her surprise. She looked… warm.

  And nothing like his mother.

  “Can I help you?” she finally said.

  “I hope so.” Easier now, Will ambled up to the desk and extended his hand across it. “Hi, I’m Will Hawbaker. I’m the Chief of Police over in Sweetwater, South Carolina.”

  “I know.”

  He raised a brow. His job made him a public figure in Sweetwater, of course, but this was Savannah. There was also something… ironic in her tone.

  “We went to high school together,” she said.

  “We did?” Will looked again at the honey-colored hair, the sunny smile. He was drawing a complete blank. Then he got a fuzzy image of a lighter-colored ponytail and braces. “Cammy Campbell.”

  She winced. “That’s what you get for having an English teacher as a parent. Alliteration. It’s actually Camellia, or even just Cam. And it’s Abernathy.” She waggled the fingers on her left hand, the diamond in her ring flashing in the overhead light. “And bonus points for your memory, considering I’m no longer skinny or blonde, and I was three years behind you.”

  He tilted his head as something tickled his memory. Light brown eyes watching him through thick lenses. “You were scorekeeper for the basketball team for a while.” Will had played center through most of high school.

  She actually blushed, and pushed up her glasses, which were considerably funkier and more flattering than the ones he remembered. “Yes, well, my dad didn’t have a son and I was pretty much a washout at any organized physical activity, so... it gave him an excuse to go to all the games.”

  Will wondered exactly which part of that was cause for her embarrassment. But then he remembered that he’d come here with a purpose in mind, so he pulled his mind out of his own past to dig into even more ancient history. “I’m assuming, even though that’s usually a bad idea, that the Tobias Abernathy who’s listed as the proprietor here is not the young man with whom I overheard you speaking.”

  “Oh.” Her laugh was fantastic, rich and throaty and warm. “No, that’s my son. He’s four. Though he may well disagree about that proprietorship, considering the bossy mood he’s in today.” She looked back toward the door with such amused affection that Will actually felt his lungs constrict.

  She turned and regarded him with another smile. “And now I am going to assume – even though that’s bad – that you’re looking for my husband?”

  When Will made a noise of assent Cammy – Camellia – shook her head. “I’m afraid he’s left to go to an auction. Is there something I might be able to help you with?”

  “You know anything about Civil War relics?”

  “Well, I know that Tobias has had a number of weapons – muskets, rifles, sabers, knives, etcetera – through here from time to time. And some really wonderful old photos, heirloom jewelry, that sort of thing. He also always seems to have a collection of uniform buttons and… well, rather than me rattling off the entire inventory, was there something specific you were looking for?”

  Will consulted the little book in which he’d jotted down notes. “I did a little research online before I came over here, but I just wanted to see what something like a complete uniform might go for.”

  “Well,” she bit her plump lower lip. “A lot of that depends on the condition.”

  “Ballpark,” he said.

  “I’m not the expert, of course, but… here.” She motioned with her hand. “Come on back into the office and I’ll see what I can find in Tobias’s records.”

  Will followed her behind the desk, through the door, and found himself confronted with a very blond, very messy small person. “Toby, this is Chief Hawbaker. He’s a policeman.”

  “Hi Toby.”


  The kid looked up from the small desk tucked opposite the adult-sized one, a smear of green paint on his left cheekbone. “Where’s your uniform?” he said, taking in Will’s jeans and casual shirt.

  “I’m off duty right now, so I don’t have to wear my uniform.”

  “Me either,” the kid said.

  “He goes to the Montessori School,” Camellia explained “and they have uniforms, too. The color of their shirt matches their room color.”

  “I’m in the Pink Room,” Toby told him.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and the kid nodded in commiseration.

  “Mommy’s is rainbow.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I teach art,” Cam said. “My uniform shirt is actually white, but... I teach art. To preschoolers.”

  “Ah.” Will found himself grinning, and the kid said “Where’s your gun?”

  “I keep it locked up when I’m not wearing my uniform.”

  When the kid asked “Did you ever shoot anybody?” his mom intervened, redirecting his attention back to his painting.

  “That looks lovely, Toby. Maybe you could paint another picture for Mommy.”

  “I want to paint one for the policeman,” he said and Cam said “You do that.”

  When the kid was distracted, Will smiled at Cam as she sat down behind the desk. “Cute,” he told her and she said “Thank you, I like him.” Then she started pulling up some documents on the computer. She leaned forward in the way some people do when they’re studying something intently, and through no fault of his own he found himself looking down her dress.

  Jesus.

  He jerked his gaze away and studied a bright green paper bag on the desk, like the kind of shopping bag that came from some of the nicer little boutiques in town. Thick, pink polka-dot ribbons formed the handles, and he could just make out the words Gourmet Chocolatier beneath one of the loops.

  He was starting to sense a theme here.

  “A uniform, you say?” Cam said, pulling his attention back to her, and thankfully this time her dress wasn’t gaping. When he agreed, she punched some keys and then squinted, pushing up her glasses. “It looks like Tobias sold an artillery shell jacket – and you’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t really know what that means – about five months ago, fair condition, for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-five dollars.”

  Will nodded. It wasn’t a fortune, but it wasn’t chump change, either. “How about a full uniform. Say, from an officer.”

  Camellia tapped a few more keys. “There’s a broad range here, from several thousand all the way to the tens of thousands, again, depending on condition. It looks like one uniform, excellent condition – complete with the original crimson wool sash – went for just a little under fifty-two thousand dollars.”

  And that was a good deal more than chump change.

  “Were you interested in purchasing or selling?”

  “What?”

  “The uniform,” she clarified. “Did you have one you’d like to sell, or should I leave Tobias a note to be on the lookout for something specific for you?”

  “You get that very often? People looking for specific things?”

  “Certainly. Tobias has a pretty extensive network of sources, then of course there are the estate sales and auctions, and he really knows what he’s looking at, so he’s developed a reputation. People often come to him when they’ve struck out everywhere else. But sometimes he can’t find something, because there simply aren’t any left to be found.”

  Will considered to what lengths a dealer might go, in order to satisfy a client. “I guess scarcity – and someone making a specific request – can really drive up the price.”

  “Basic market economics,” Camellia agreed. “I’ve heard of collectors paying hundreds of thousands of dollars for items just because they wanted to own something that no one else had, but…” She shrugged. “Most people these days don’t have that kind of money to waste.”

  “Would you happen to have a list of your husband’s sources?” he said, to bring the conversation back on track.

  For the first time, the look she gave him was guarded. “Are you… interested in selling some family heirlooms or…”

  “It’s more background for an investigation.”

  “Of Tobias?” she squeaked.

  “Not at this time, no. And I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to alarm you.” He tried out his best aw shucks smile. “But I’d really like to have a look at the names of the people he gets his relics from.”

  Camellia blinked. Then she glanced at her son, who was busy painting his picture for Will. “I’ll have him get in touch with you when he gets back.”

  “That would be great.” Will pulled one of his cards out of his pocket and handed it across the desk.

  Their eyes met as her fingers brushed his, and Will ignored the little frisson of awareness that tingled along his skin. “Thanks for your help.”

  She blinked at him again from behind her glasses. “Any time.” And then she smiled, a touch ruefully. “It was nice to see you again.”

  Will strolled back toward his car, nodding at people he passed along the way, but his mind was otherwise occupied. Camellia Campbell – Abernathy – had certainly grown up nice.

  Not like that, he assured himself, pushing the image of her generous breasts out of his head. The woman was married, and a mother, for chrissakes. But nice. The kind of person who made you feel sort of warm all over. And everything he’d heard about her husband suggested he was well-respected, and very successful, in his field.

  Which was why Will had come to him.

  He hadn’t quite put the puzzle together, but he was starting to feel like he might have the frame.

  The meeting with Victoria had been more informative than he’d hoped for. The smug smile on her face had been wiped clean, like words from a chalkboard, when that key landed on her desk.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Is it yours?”

  “How would I know?”

  Will had glanced significantly at the keys behind her, all of them tied with black ribbon. Victoria cagily pointed out that anyone could tie black ribbon onto a key, and Will had cagily offered to start testing the key out in various locks around her place, just in case she may have misplaced it somewhere.

  She’d threatened to get a lawyer if he did, and he’d threatened to get a warrant.

  With no grace whatsoever, she’d relented, explaining that the keys tied with one ribbon belonged to the homes and rental properties of various clients for whom she was currently working, while the ones tied with double ribbons were spares for her personal property, including the store, her office – which had a separate keyed lock – and a storage facility that she used for extra stock. The spare for the storage facility had gone missing several weeks ago.

  “But you weren’t concerned enough to report it?”

  “Oh yes. Excuse me 911, but I seem to have lost my key. Could you please send someone out here immediately?”

  “Did you check the storage unit to see if anything was missing?”

  “Of course I did. I’m not stupid.”

  “So was anything missing?”

  “Not that I’m under any obligation whatsoever to tell you, but no. There didn’t seem to be.”

  “Seem?”

  “Did I stutter? I didn’t do an itemized inventory, but from all appearances, nothing had been disturbed, and nothing was missing. There was nothing to report. I thought that I’d simply misplaced it. I intended to have another spare made.”

  Which was plausible. Convenient, but plausible.

  Victoria asked again where he’d found it, and he told her that it was police business. She hadn’t liked that one bit. He’d asked if he could take a look at the storage facility, and she’d told him to get that warrant.

  She’d pretty much clammed up after that, so he left.

  But if Jimmy Owen had been in Victoria’s office at any point while he was deliver
ing furniture, he could have noticed – maybe even lifted – the key.

  He could have been planning on burglarizing the storage unit and simply didn’t get around to it before he got whacked.

  Although why would he have been digging up a grave – which involved a lot of effort for a sort of iffy return, considering he had no way of knowing the condition of the coffin’s contents – when he had the key to a storage unit loaded with valuables? Something still didn’t quite jive.

  Of course, that piece of black ribbon was the only evidence he had placing Owen at the gravesite that night, and that was pretty damn circumstantial.

  But the fact that Owen had lived in Burke County – where those graves had been robbed – added a little more gravitas to his suspicions. Add that to what he’d just found out from Victoria, and he felt relatively confident that Owen was their man.

  But that still didn’t answer who’d murdered him – because Will very much believed the man hadn’t simply been the victim of an unfortunate boating mishap – and why. And he couldn’t forget the man in the motorcycle helmet – as witnessed by Ms. Bushnell – who’d cleared out Owen’s apartment.

  Lucky for them he’d missed that key.

  Will paused in front of a florist’s shop, heart aching a little as he thought of Allie. The poor kid had really been through it.

  Her recent troubles all seemed to start after Mason came back into town. Not that he blamed Mason, but at the same time, it was another odd coincidence.

  Could Mason – unknowingly – be the source of what appeared on the surface to be some sort of incredible streak of bad luck? The man was a celebrity – more so overseas than here in the States, though he’d certainly made an impression on the people of Sweetwater. Could it be a crazy fan, a jealous ex-lover – or wannabe lover – wanting Allie out of the way? He’d heard of people doing that sort of thing. Either making the perceived competitor so frightened that they backed off, or making their life seem so complicated and messy that the love interest did the backing.

  But why weren’t the threats more… overt, if that was the case? Not that the mugging hadn’t been overt, but if there had been a message there, it got lost in translation. And the flowers – it would take either someone with personal knowledge, or someone with some hacking skills in order to access Allie’s medical records. Since he didn’t think Sarah was secretly obsessed with Mason, that left hacker. Not impossible. But it still seemed an odd way to go about breaking up his sister’s budding relationship. Unless they thought Mason would be put off by her previous pregnancy, should he find out.