by Tina Whittle
I took a cold sharp sip of Pellegrino. “You still haven’t explained why you’re here.”
“You remember Hope?”
I tried to keep my expression neutral. Hope. My former roommate, former co-worker, former friend. Until she and John had run off together, of course, leaving me with a cracked heart and an avalanche of back rent.
“What’s Hope got to do with anything?”
He pulled out a pack of Marlboros and held them my way. I shook my head firmly. He stuck one between his lips, dug a lighter from his jacket. “We got married last month.”
“Congratulations.”
“Not really. She left me a week ago, and she took something with her that’s mine. I want it back.”
“And you’re talking to me because…?”
“Because you seem to know your way around a tricky situation.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I need you to find an artifact for me.”
“You know I charge a finder’s fee.”
“I expected as much.”
“Ten percent of the appraised value upon delivery.” I tipped my Pellegrino at him. “For you, though, let’s call it fifteen percent.”
He laughed. “Fair enough.”
And then he pulled a checkbook from his pocket, snagged a pen from the counter. A few squiggles and flourishes, and he sent the check my way.
“That should cover things.”
I stared at it. John didn’t say anything. He let the numbers speak for themselves.
I dragged my eyes from the check. “Is this for real?”
“Real as rain.”
I examined it closer, then shoved it back. “It’s post-dated.”
He shoved it my way again. “I don’t have the money right this second. But I will soon, if you help me.”
“You’d better start at the beginning.”
And so he did.
“Hope and I run a pawn shop down in Jacksonville. We sell the usual stuff, TVs and guns and video games, but we do some antique trade too. One day we hit this estate sale. The woman running it was an out-of-towner—from Des Moines, I think—and she offered me this roll-top desk filled with papers, pen, books, old stuff. The price was cheap, and it was solid walnut, so I bought it.” He smiled his gotcha smile. “Turns out, she hadn’t even looked through the drawers. Because if she had, she’d have found it.”
“Found what?”
“The Bible.” He leaned forward, eyes blazing. “An 1859 Oxford King James. It was covered in burgundy-colored velvet, crushed and stained, but in good condition overall.”
“And?”
John savored his words. “It belonged to General William Tecumseh Sherman. A gift from President Abraham Lincoln, signed and inscribed.”
“Dated?”
John smiled wider. “December 21st 1864.”
I tried to hide my excitement. I knew this story. I used to tell it every day during my days as a tour guide in Savannah, parking my herd of tourists in front of the Green-Meldrim House and explaining how, on that very soil one hundred and fifty years before, the mayor of Savannah surrendered his city to General Sherman, who had previously burned Atlanta to ash and then marched a swath of destruction to the sea. How Sherman had then offered the city of Savannah, along with some cotton and ammunition, as a Christmas present to the president.
“You found this Bible in the desk?”
“Hope did.”
“And now she’s run off with it?”
“Not just the Bible. Everything from the desk is gone—papers and pens and inks and books. She said she was taking it to an expert up here. But a friend of a friend called me and said they spotted her in Savannah.”
I sat back in my chair, fiddling with the check. “So call the cops.”
“I don’t want the cops on this, I want you.”
“Why me?”
“Because it’s personal.”
“Find her yourself then.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s in Savannah. And I can’t go back there.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
Suddenly things were starting to make a whole lot of sense. “Don’t tell me you still owe Boone money?”
He sucked in a long drag on the cigarette. “Yeah.”
“Then you shouldn’t be in Georgia, much less Savannah, especially now that he’s out of prison. He’ll—”
“I know what he’ll do. But I also know that if you find that Bible for me, I’ll have more than enough money to pay him back, interest and all.”
“How much are you in for?”
“Twenty grand.”
I was stupefied. Beauregard Forrest Boone—gunrunner, moonshiner, smuggler, and former KKK Grand Dragon—was one of the most dangerous men in Chatham County. The second John stepped across the county line, Boone would find him. And John could very likely end up as crab snacks in one of the salt marshes.
I shook my head emphatically. “Forget it. No way I’m pissing off Boone for you.”
“Boone always had a soft spot for you.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t piss him off.”
John spread his hands. “Come on, Tai, there ain’t nobody that can work that territory like you. And now that Hope’s hooked up with Winston again—”
“Winston who runs the tour shop?”
“The same.” John’s mouth pursed. “Goddamn Hawaiian-shirt-wearing, Yankee son of a bitch.”
I turned the bottle up and took a long swallow. What an incestuous little knot Hope was tying. Winston Cargill of the brightly flowered shirts had been my boss, and Hope’s, when the two of us worked as tour guides. A former history professor, he’d ditched that career when he discovered that selling history was more profitable than teaching it.
I started connecting the dots. “You think she’s hitting the Expo?”
“Of course she is! Every Civil War nut south of the Mason-Dixon line will be at the Expo. And I know how Hope thinks. She’s looking to find one of those big-money, under-the-table collectors. And if she makes that sale, she can disappear, and there won’t be any way in hell I can prove a thing against her.”
He was right. And since he couldn’t work the event, he needed someone who could. Someone already planning to be there for reasons that had nothing to do with Hope. Someone with connections and smarts in the Civil War trade. Someone exactly like me.
“What’d you do to her?”
“Nothing!”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on.”
He picked at the beer label with his thumbnail. “She thinks I’m having an affair.”
“Are you?”
“No. But I bet she is, probably with Winston. She could always wrap him around her little finger.”
“So what if she is? I still haven’t heard a good reason to help you.”
He leaned across the counter. “It’s a lot of money, Tai. My best guess? If that Bible goes to auction, it’ll pull mid-to-high six figures minimum. But if it disappears into the underground…” He spread his hands. “Nothing. For nobody. And the world loses a piece of history to boot.”
History, yes. Irreplaceable. But it was the money I couldn’t stop thinking about. I’d redone the flooring, but my cabinets and display cases were in bad shape. The inventory needed expansion, especially in the long gun department, and Trey was making noises that the security system needed upgrading. My apartment was a bare-bones studio with a sofabed and a decrepit shower stall, and I owed Trey new shoes, Prada apparently.
But it was more complicated than money. This had been explained to me in painstaking detail by the Atlanta Police Department after my last foray into private detecting. The fact that I hadn’t received any monetary compensation had been the only thing keeping me on the good side of the law.
I drummed my fingers on the counter. “This isn’t an ordinary runner’s job. There’s a crime.”
“Not if you find her before she sells
it.”
“John—”
“I’m willing to make a deal. If she’ll give you the Bible to sell, I’ll split the profits with her fifty-fifty. I won’t press charges, and she and Winston can sail over the damn sunset for all I care.”
I thought hard. The Expo was already on my agenda—how hard would a little extra relic hunting be? Plus, if I managed to track down the Bible, the Expo would provide an excellent opportunity to find a buyer, maybe even get some good publicity for the shop. On the other hand, this was John, a complication magnet.
“I need to think about it,” I said.
He waved a hand at me. “Forget it. I should have known you’d still have hurt feelings. After what I did—”
“Oh please, I got over that a long time ago.”
I said it too emphatically, and John caught it. He didn’t challenge me, though, simply stood and sent the check my way one more time. “Whatever. You think about it and let me know tomorrow. I’ll be at Last Chance Tattoo until noon. If I haven’t heard from you by then, I’ll hit the road.”
He got his helmet and walked out, the door bell jangling in his wake. I heard the rumble of the Harley, then silence. I stood at my counter and stared at the check. I didn’t touch it.
But I didn’t shove it away either.
Chapter Three
Trey’s voice held a tone of disbelief. “That’s what he wanted? To hire you?”
I tucked the phone against my shoulder and unfolded the sofa bed. “So he says.”
I climbed into bed. The mattress smelled like stale popcorn and gun oil, but thanks to Trey, it had 400-thread-count Italian sheets.
I curled around a pillow. “I don’t suppose you know anybody with expertise in that area?”
“I do. Audrina Harrington.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. She hired Phoenix to create a safe room for her collection. I designed the security system.”
Audrina Harrington, Atlanta’s most famous doyenne of all things related to the War of Northern Aggression. Her family traced their ancestry back to Mary Rose, one of the Confederacy’s most notorious spies, and she still maintained a certain aristocratic hauteur, like an exiled countess. She was also, as John put it, one of those big-money, under-the-table collectors. Unlike my customers, she didn’t run around in green fields waving her bayonet. Instead, she accumulated Civil War artifacts with a hoarder’s zeal, her specialty being ephemera—books, letters, papers, documents.
I pulled my computer from under the bed and typed her name in the search box. Sure enough, the Journal-Constitution had done a full color spread, featuring the diminutive Harrington surrounded by her faded brittle treasures. She stared straight at the camera, a tiny birdlike creature, her vivid clothes like plumage, her steel gray hair like a cap of feathers.
“Wow. Lots of photographs.”
Trey made a noise of annoyance. “She wasn’t supposed to show anyone that room. That completely defeats its purpose.”
“Y’all should have told her that before she brought in the AJC.”
“I did tell her. It’s an environmentally-regulated storage room now, not a true safe room. But her brother convinced her the publicity would be good for their foundation.”
His voice held disapproval. Trey did not like people hiring him to make rules and then ignoring the rules he made.
“Is that the man standing next to her in the photo?”
“Describe him.”
“Short, stout, silver-haired?”
“Yes. That’s Reynolds Harrington. He’s responsible for bringing in the external funding, mostly corporate, some private donors. Miss Harrington manages the family assets.”
I clicked on a link for the Harrington Foundation. A quick scan of the website revealed two things—a serious commitment to curating the largest museum-caliber collection of Civil War antiquities outside of a museum, and an equally serious bankroll to fund it.
“You think she’d talk to me?”
“I could get in touch, if you’d like.”
“I would. Thank you.” I stretched out under the sheets. “Not that I’ve decided to take the case or anything.”
“Case?”
“Situation. Whatever. I haven’t given John an answer yet.”
A pause. “Has there been foul play?”
“Beyond Hope running off with his possessions? No. I mean, there’s lots of hypothetical hinkiness, but nothing obvious.”
Trey waited, but I had no further explanation. The memory of the check still loomed crisp in my mind. So did John’s face. And Hope’s. And the humiliation I’d felt at their hands. It had been over a year, and the fire of anger had diminished. Time helped. So had acquiring a top-of-the-line boyfriend. But the scars remained, thick ropy ones.
“I’ll do a little poking about and let you know more at dinner tomorrow night. We’re still on for dinner, right?”
“Right.”
“And you’re helping me pack on Sunday?”
“Yes.”
“And you finalized the paperwork to get the week of the Expo off?”
“Yes.”
Our first getaway. Not exactly a vacation—the Expo and related events would keep me busy for several days—but a first of some kind. Almost portentous.
“Are you ready for the interview tomorrow?” he said.
“I hope so. The ATF guy is showing up at eight sharp, ready to talk federal firearms license renewal.”
“You’re wearing your suit, right?”
I looked over to where my only suit, a purple pants-and-blazer set, hung on the bathroom door. The ATF’s letter called the meeting “informal.” Trey insisted I wear the suit anyway.
“Ready to go. I even ironed the thing.”
“Good. If you need anything—”
“—I’ll holler, I promise.” I reached over and turned out the light. “I miss you.”
“You could have come back with me.”
“I’ve discovered that nights at your place do not make for productive mornings.”
A soft exhale at his end, almost like a laugh. “I’ve discovered the same thing.” A pause. “I miss you too.”
He’d once explained what that felt like to him—a hard knot in the diaphragm, surrounded by an achy spreading warmth. I put my own hand in the same spot on my own body and felt the same tenderness. I wasn’t someone people usually missed, especially not people like Trey. Usually people like Trey sighed with relief and straightened the slipcovers when I left.
“Tai?”
“Yeah?”
“This may sound overprotective, but—”
“It’s a runner’s job, that’s all. No bodies, no fires, no stalkers, no drug cartels. I do this all the time.”
Silence at his end.
“Trey, listen to me. I learn from my mistakes. I know to back off if things get dangerous.”
He listened. His exquisitely fine-tuned ability to detect other people’s deception did not extend to phone conversations, which was a relief. But I was telling him the truth this time. I didn’t need any drama on my plate.
“Okay,” he finally said. “But if the situation changes—”
“Then I drop it.”
He hesitated, then acquiesced. “Okay.”
***
I tried to sleep. Eventually I got up and dug the box out of the closet. I found the photograph quickly—me, reclining on the hood of my cherry-red Camaro Z-28, the late summer sun flaring off the chrome. Tybee Beach glowed in a sandy blur behind me, the sky a milky blue. I wore a halter top and jean shorts, a two-week-old tattoo hidden beneath the denim. My first ink, a gift from John’s talented hands, a red fox with vixen eyes.
Only two men had seen that fox—and they’d been standing face to face in my parking lot one hour ago.
I touched the image, half-expecting it to be warm beneath my fingers. I was alone in the shot, but I could see John in the gleam of my eyes. He was behind the camera, and I stretched in the heat of his gaze, g
rinning, one hand shading my face from the noonday glare.
I tried to inhabit the photograph—the sun-baked metal, the sand gritty between my toes. The girl I was then had been perched on a slice of between-time. Within a month, my mother would be diagnosed with breast cancer. I’d sell my wild red car and drive her more sensible four-door back and forth to chemo. In less than a year, she’d be dead, and I would be the one at her bedside when she took her last breath. And soon after that, John and Hope would sneak off in the night.
I placed the glossy 3X5 back in the box and turned out the light. I’d known my past was waiting for me down in Savannah. I’d been preparing. But I hadn’t been prepared for it to show up on my doorstep in Atlanta, unannounced, with eyes that still looked like a storm about to erupt.
Chapter Four
As it turned out, my interview with the ATF was not a formality. The inspector, a newly-minted devotee of all things bureaucratic, kept using the word “irregularities” to describe Dexter’s previous application. He kept quoting Statute 478.44 at me. It took all my self-control not to bean him with the ledger book, especially when he used the dreaded A-word—audit. In four weeks.
After he’d gone, I looked at the list of upgrades I needed to reach even minimum compliance, and the list of penalties waiting for me if I didn’t. The words “possible jail time” floated amongst the dollar signs. I took a deep breath. Then I poured a quart of dark roast into my travel mug, slapped on a new nicotine patch, and made my way to Last Chance Tattoos and Cigar Emporium. There I found John getting a fill-in on his upper shoulder, sitting shirtless while the artist worked behind him, squinting in concentration, her spiked purple hair luminous in the smoky light. The air buzzed with the sound of needles.
I pulled over a stool and sat in front of him. He eyed my pantsuit.
“What’s with the get-up?”
“Interview with the ATF.”
John put a beat-up coffee mug to his lips. “Bummer. Those guys can ream you from every direction.”
“I know. So don’t start with me this morning.” I pulled a pen from my tote bag and used it to fasten my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck. “I decided to take your job.”