The Complete Novels of the Lear Sister Trilogy

by Julia London

  P.S. Did Grandpa make his fried turkey again? That always makes me sick.

  P.S.S. I don’t think I’ll be really busy anymore, so write me! Love you guys, Rachel.

  Subject: RE: Un. Bee. Leevable.

  From: Rebecca Parrish

  To: Rach

  Hi Rach. We knew Dad was there—Mom had said he was really starting to come around after weeks and weeks of therapy and that he was going to Providence whether you liked it or not. So we were wondering how it went.

  Dad’s going to have to go in for surgery whenever they can schedule this one surgeon, and I can tell Mom’s really worried about it. Did he say anything? Anyway, Rachel, you ARE pretty and smart and have the world at your fingertips and you are a colossal moron because you don’t see that. So I am sure Dad was relieved when you told him that Myron is just a friend. Did you mention anyone else to him? Rebecca.

  Hey, Robin here on Bec’s mail. Can you believe she still uses AOL? Anyhoo . . . first of all, yes, Grandpa made his fried turkey again and almost sent all of us to the hospital. I think he must use all the oil in Texas to fry that damn thing. And he made his world-famous fried okra, too, only the okra were the size of baseball bats. Jake says I am paranoid, but I will not let my baby anywhere near his garden, because I am certain there is something very illegal going on out there. How can okra possibly get that big? Okay, so, about you not being busy anymore—what happened? I thought things were going pretty well with you and mystery guy 1 and 2, or however many there are, seeing as how you never write and you STILL haven’t sent the book. Tell Dad we said hi and we love him, too, especially the new and improved him, although I will have to see it to believe it. And then write back and tell us what happened with the guy(s). Bec and I are sneaking out to get some vodka and a pack of smokes. She’s all nervous about the kids seeing us and thinks we’re going to hell for it, like that’s news or something. Happy Thanksgiving, kiddo. We miss you!! TTFN

  Robbie.

  Rachel made Dad a gourmet breakfast the next morning, thanks to the last of Dagne’s eBay money. They talked about the house—he said he intended to sell it as soon as she finished her dissertation and surprisingly, Rachel was okay with that.

  She finally found the nerve to ask about his surgery. “What sort of surgery is it?”

  “They need to remove part of my colon. And maybe some other stuff, who knows. But I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ve come to terms with it, I think.”

  “Don’t say that, Dad,” she pleaded. “That sounds like you’ve given up!”

  “I haven’t given up,” he said with a reassuring pat. “But it’s strange . . . somehow, eventually, you do come to terms with it.” He smiled, picked up his fork. “This is damn good bacon,” he said, changing the subject.

  A half hour later, Rachel watched Dad get into the back-seat of the car he’d ordered up. He rolled down the window and waved. “I love you, baby girl. You remember what I told you now,” he said to her.

  Like she could possibly forget this extraordinary Thanksgiving Day. “I love you, too, Dad,” she said, and waited until his car had turned onto Laurel before she wiped the tears from her eyes.

  Subject: Thanksgiving

  From: Aaron Lear

  To: BonBon <10sNE1@nyc.rr.com>

  Hi honey. When are you coming back to New York? I’ve been doing some thinking, and I think you should sell the place in L.A. I know you probably won’t like that idea, but the truth is, I just ache when you are away because I love you so much, BonBon. I know you’re busy with the girls and the folks (glad to hear El hasn’t killed anyone in the RV yet), but I wanted to let you know that the trip to Providence went really well. Our Rachel is a good girl—no, she’s better than that. She’s excellent. I am so proud, and honestly, I don’t know why I’ve been such a dick to her. But seeing her there in Providence and the way all those people love her, well, I haven’t been fair to her. I think everything is fine now, Bonnie. I think I have mended that fence. And I think I’m finally ready for the surgery. Love you. Call me. Better yet, just come home. Aaron.

  Chapter Thirty

  When Myron showed up for work at the RIHPS curator offices Friday morning, the head curator, Darwin Richter, poked his head out of his office and cheerfully called out to him, asking him to step inside his office.

  Myron walked into the office with a smile, which quickly faded when he saw the man sitting in the chair across from Darwin. “Ah, hey. . . what’s up?” he asked Darwin as he eyed Detective Keating, the senior investigator he’d met with the Rhode Island State Police a few weeks ago.

  “Myron, you remember Detective Keating, don’t you?” Darwin asked as he eased his two-hundred-fifty-pound frame into his executive chair.

  Myron cocked his head to one side, nodded thoughtfully. “Sure, sure . . . the thefts down at Newport. Did you ever find anything out?” he asked, looking very concerned.

  “Not a lot,” the detective said, coming halfway out of his seat to extend a hand to Myron. “We’re still nosing around, trying to get a handle on the catalog listing,” he said, waving his hand at some imaginary catalog. “This preservation business is a lot of work! But of course you know that, right?” he asked with a chuckle. “I mean, you’re the one who gave us the catalog listing, remember?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Myron said, nodding eagerly as he came deeper into the room and took the seat that Darwin gestured to. “That was a lot of work going through that list, huh? So do you have any clues?”

  Detective Keating smiled. “Not yet. But you’ve been such a great help—we’re going to need a little more of your help, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure!” Myron said, leaning forward a little. “Anything. Just tell me what you want me to do and I will make it a top priority. By the way, did we get you the names of the people who work in our properties?”

  “Yeah, I think you got us all their names, thanks,” Detective Keating said, and leaned over, pulled a file out of his briefcase and put it on his lap, then pulled a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket and perched them on the end of his nose. He opened the file, looked at it very carefully. “There were a couple of items on here that we weren’t able to locate,” he said thoughtfully, squinting down at the file. “Probably mislabeled, something like that. But I figured, if anyone knows where to find them, it’s Professor Tidwell.” He looked up, smiled at Myron. “You really seem to know your stuff.”

  Myron shrugged with a lopsided grin. “What can I say? I’m a history professor, so I ought to know my stuff!” He laughed a little, exchanged a proud smile with Darwin.

  “And there are so many properties to keep track of! I could never be that organized,” Detective Keating said with a shake of his head.

  “I guess anyone in the history business will tell you that’s a prerequisite. You have to be able to organize a lot of information to make any sense of it. You learn that right off the bat in my field.”

  “Right,” the detective said, and smiled, Myron thought, a little smugly. “So anyway, so far, we’ve been unable to locate a few of the items you had listed in the catalog as being present and accounted for. So we’re assuming they are around somewhere since they haven’t been reported stolen or damaged.”

  “Probably misplaced,” Myron said.

  The detective looked up at him and laughed. “So much for organization, huh?”

  Myron did not laugh, just stole a glimpse of Darwin from the corner of his eye. “Too bad I can’t be everywhere, or that everyone can’t be as organized as I am.”

  “Riiight,” the detective drawled. “So our first item is a pair of torchères—am I saying that right? Torchères. Anyway, the catalog says these are circa eighteenth century French, bronze and partly gilt, approximately thirty-five inches tall.”

  “Torchères?” Darwin echoed, and turned a puzzled look to Myron. “Would those be the Gilles Joubert pair? From the Hamb
len collection?”

  “The catalog says Potter collection,” the detective clarified.

  Myron rubbed his palms on the knees of his cords as he thought about it. “Must be Joubert,” he said to Darwin, then to the detective, “You should find them at the Lindsey House in Newport. These things get moved around from time to time, depending upon the exhibits.”

  “I’ll make a note of that,” the detective said, and squinted at the paper again and shook his head. “But they weren’t in the Lindsey House, either.”

  “No?” Myron asked, and looked at Darwin, shrugging. “Maybe they were stolen. I’d have to go back and check my records, but you know we’ve had the thefts down on the shore. I suppose I could have overlooked them.”

  “Would you mind checking?” the detective asked, his smile completely gone now.

  “Sure, no problem.” Myron pulled a little notebook from his back pocket, made a quick note, and cleared his throat.

  “The second item,” the detective continued, “is a circa sixteenth century Venetian enameled and gilt-edged hand-painted fruit bowl.”

  “Oh, yes,” Myron said. “From the Botwick House.”

  “Except that it’s not at the Botwick House,” the detective responded, and lifted his gaze to look directly at Myron. “Amazing memory you have.”

  “Not really. I just remember it from the forklift incident,” Myron said, rubbing his palms on his knees again. “It was one of the items we moved after the crash. It’s probably in a cabinet. I’ll have a look tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” Detective Keating said. “Oh yeah, here’s another . . . a Joseph Badger portrait. The catalog says it is a ten-by-ten inch portrait entitled Colonial Woman.”

  “Oh yes,” Darwin said proudly. “That is one of our very best examples of early American art, donated by the Pierpont family. It’s in the Pierpont House, isn’t it, Professor?”

  “The Pierpont House?” Myron asked, shifting his gaze from the detective to Darwin. “I don’t think so,” he said, and winced inwardly at the sight of Darwin’s brows raising nearly to his hair.

  “It’s not?” Darwin echoed incredulously.

  “There was a corner of it,” Myron said, “a smidge of the painting that needed restoration. Just a smidge—nothing to diminish the value. So I sent it out for restoration.”

  “Could you get it back?” Detective Keating asked.

  “Of course. It usually takes about six weeks—”

  “I meant today,” the detective said with a deceptively soft smile.

  Myron laughed as if that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “Today? I . . . I, ah, I don’t think— The thing is, I had another assistant curator handle it. I will have to ask him. And you know it’s really hard to get these things back in the middle of a restoration process.”

  “So . . . how soon could you get it back?” the detective pressed.

  “Well, restoration takes time, Detective,” Myron said, rubbing his palms on his pants again. “I’m not really sure. I’ll have to ask about it.”

  “Could you let me know when you know?” the detective asked, and Myron nodded. Detective Keating smiled and closed his file. “Thanks so much. That would be a great help.” He put the file in his briefcase and came to his feet, then stood up, leaning over the desk to shake Darwin’s hand. “I really appreciate your assistance in this,” he said, and turned to shake Myron’s clammy hand. “And yours, Professor. I don’t think we could do this job without you.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be talking,” he said, and walked to the door, but paused there for a moment and glanced at Myron over his shoulder. “By the way, who did you say the assistant curator was who sent the Badger painting to be restored?”

  “Ah . . .” Myron scratched his head for a moment. “I didn’t. I’ll have to look in the files in my office.”

  “So much for that memory, too, then, huh?” Detective Keating laughed.

  “Right,” Myron said, forcing a laugh. “I’ll look it up and give you a buzz, how’s that?”

  “That would be great,” the detective said, and with a half salute, half wave, he strolled out of Darwin’s office.

  Myron slowly sank into the chair across from Darwin. Then made the mistake of looking at his boss. Darwin’s face was ashen as he suddenly lurched forward, landing on pudgy hands atop his desk, bracing so far over that for a moment Myron feared he would come clear across and grab his throat. “When did that painting go out and why wasn’t I informed?” he demanded.

  “Didn’t we tell you?” Myron asked weakly, and rubbed his hands on his knees again.

  Detective Keating walked out to his car in the parking lot, lost the coat and the briefcase and tossed them in the backseat, then climbed in behind the wheel and grinned at Flynn. “We got him.”

  “Brilliant,” Flynn said, looking up from a file he’d been studying.

  Joe looked at the file on his lap and groaned. “Are you ever going to get over yourself?”

  Flynn closed the file. “Naturally, I am required to report to my superiors about my involvement in other law enforcement matters, particularly when I am abroad,” he said.

  “Oh, naturally,” Joe said, assuming a really bad British accent. “’To the attention of Snuff and Snuff, I should be pleased to report that I’ve solved a homicide for the bloody Americans, in which I proved that the husband could not have possibly done it, and with a bit of tramping about, I coerced a confession from the scoundrel who did.’” He shook his head and laughed. “Your head’s so big it’s a wonder you can fit it into the car at all.”

  “You’re jealous of my keen intuition, admit it.”

  Joe snorted, looked out the window. Then he looked at Flynn again. “So really, how’d you know it wasn’t him? I mean, lookit—an extramarital affair, no forced entry, his dog alive and walking around, her dog dead along with her.”

  “It was the dog, really,” Flynn said with a very self- satisfied smile. “I’ve owned Labrador retrievers. Lovely dogs, but they can be frighteningly useless. Once I noticed that the male dog—his dog—had been neutered, I was quite confident that he could be easily silenced with a generous chew bone. The female, on the other hand, was a little more curious, and, like most bitches, a little more territorial. She was not so easily swayed by a bone.”

  “There was no evidence of any bones!” Joe protested.

  “That’s because a neutered male Labrador retriever is also a rather ubiquitous chow hound of anything edible and many things not so edible. They’re terribly friendly and good companions and all that, but I would imagine he trotted up and helped himself to the female’s chew bone without the slightest twinge of conscience.”

  Joe laughed, peered at the front entry of the RIHPS. “So how’d you figure out Reyes?”

  “Another very simple fact—the gardener told us that his son had brought help. I asked your department to run some files, and there you are, pretty as you please, a connection between Reyes, who happens to be a paroled robber—not the one we originally thought, mind you—but a paroled robber, and the gardener’s son. Granted, the connection was established when the two of them were juveniles, but it was a connection all the same, so it seemed worth a bit of a chat. And then, as you know, his suspicions were raised, and he called his friend, who called his father the gardener, who, fortunately, called you yesterday morning, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  Joe smiled sardonically. “I’ve been a detective fifteen years, and I’m here to tell you, pal, that you are one lucky shit. But if you ever want to come back and work a homicide with me again, that’d be cool—I enjoyed it, you lucky bastard. If you’re interested, I know of an international exchange program. Basically, we send a cop to your side of the pond to learn a few things about insurance fraud, and your folks send you over here for a six-month tour of duty to learn a few things about law enforcement. Might be worth talking to your people about. I’d sort of like it if you stuck around a
while longer.”

  “Careful, mate,” Flynn said with a grin, “or you’ll have me tearing up.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m really quite touched—”

  “I mean it, shut up or I’ll shut you up,” Joe said, but he was grinning. “And before you get too full of yourself, remember, we have a little bet riding on the real reason you’re here. What do those Lloyd’s boys think of you dabbling in homicides when you’re supposed to be doing insurance fraud?”

  “Naturally, they would prefer I stick to fraud. Speak of the devil—here we are,” he said, motioning with his head toward the front of the building.

  It was Professor Tidwell, all right, walking quickly and purposefully out into the fading light of the afternoon, headed for his car. Joe and Flynn watched him start up, then waited for him to pull up to the exit before easing behind him, pulling onto the street and keeping a distance of a car length between them.

  They followed him to a corner market and pulled over on the street as the professor got out of his car and jogged to a pay phone and made a call. Whatever his conversation, it was said with a great deal of animation, his hands punctuating what looked like an angry exchange. After a few minutes of that, he slammed the receiver down, got back into his car, and drove to a bar.

  They waited outside for two hours—Joe walked down the block to get a couple of slices of pizza—until the professor emerged again, this time in the company of a man. The two of them walked around to the tiny little parking lot, and stopped at the passenger side of an old Buick.