by Loretta Ross
The radio was tuned to the local station and the announcer was giving the noon news.
“In East Bledsoe Ferry this morning, police say there has been a second breakin at the old Campbell house, just two days after an intruder died in a fall down the house’s spiral staircase. Police Chief Duncan Reynolds said that two employees of Keystone and Sons Auctioneers, who were working in the house, discovered a secret compartment, open and empty.”
The police chief’s voice came over the radio. “We don’t believe anything was actually taken. It’s obvious from the amount of dust in the compartment that if anything was hidden there, it was removed years ago.”
The announcer resumed. “That was East Bledsoe Ferry Police Chief Duncan Reynolds. The old Campbell house, now the property of the Rives County Historical Society, is the site of a famous local story concerning jewels that disappeared during the Civil War. Historical Society President Millie Weeks discounts the possibility that the jewels are still hidden somewhere in or around the old house.”
Millie Weeks’s voice was cultured and smooth, with a light Southern accent. “The rumors that there is a hidden treasure there hinge on the fevered ravings of a dying woman. The house and grounds have been searched repeatedly over the past century and a half with no result. We believe that it’s most likely the jewels were stolen back in 1863 by the very marauders they were supposedly hidden from.”
“Ms. Weeks intimidates me,” Wren said. “She reminds me of my grade-school principal.”
Death, seated across from her, made a rude noise and shook his head. “You can’t be intimidated. You throw atlatls at people.”
“Technically, I throw atlatl darts at people. You don’t want to throw the actual atlatl. You can always threaten to hit people with it, though.”
“There, you see?”
“Wren?”
Wren looked up at the man who’d approached their table. “Cam?”
Any passion she’d ever felt for him was gone now, but the love was still there, tempered to something more sisterly. He was tall and slender, perfectly dressed and groomed, as always, gentle and sensitive and impossibly sweet. Seeing him next to Death, who was undeniably masculine, it was harder than ever to understand how she hadn’t guessed earlier that she really wasn’t his type.
Oh, God, she hoped Death didn’t launch into any of his jokes!
“Cam?” Death said. “As in Cameron Michaels?” He stood and offered Cam his hand. “Wren’s told me about you. Like to join us?”
Cam agreed and Wren slid over to make room for him on her side of the table. The idea of him sitting next to Death was just too weird for her to contemplate.
“I heard there was another break in at the Campbell house,” he said. “This is just unbelievable! Do you know we got another dead body this morning? We go years without any dead bodies at all and now we get two in just three days!” He grinned self-consciously. “It’s probably not seemly for me to be so excited, is it?”
“Reporters,” Death grinned. “So what happened? Accident? Suicide?”
“No, he was murdered! Somebody stabbed him, like seventeen times!”
“Declan Fairchild?” Wren asked, unhappy at the thought.
“Oh, no, sweetie,” Cam assured her. “Fairchild just broke out of jail yesterday morning. This guy had been dead awhile. He was pretty ripe, I’m sorry to say.”
“What about Whitaker? Would he have killed someone?”
“Not that way,” Death answered. “He was a pansy.”
Wren felt Cam stiffen beside her. “You mean he was gay,” he said, voice level.
“No, I mean he was a pansy.” Death smiled a crooked grin that made Wren’s heart beat a little faster. “When I was in the Corps there was a gay Marine in my squad. Let me tell you, he was nobody’s pansy. I don’t know what Whitaker’s sexual orientation was, but I do know he was conceited and prissy. You stab someone, there’s gonna be a lotta blood. You’re gonna get it all over you, and you’re gonna have to get close enough to them that they might be able to claw you up in self-defense. If Whitaker had decided to kill somebody he’d have shot them or poisoned them. Nothing hands-on.”
“That makes sense,” Cam admitted.
“Death’s a pretty smart guy,” Wren said, half-teasing.
“Yeah,” Cam agreed. “Pretty and smart. I think you should keep him.”
Wren felt her cheeks flame, and changed the subject. “So, Mr. Smart Guy, if Fairchild and Whitaker are innocent, who do you think killed the new dead guy?”
“How should I know?” Death protested. “I don’t even know who got killed.”
“Oh, didn’t I say? It was an old man named Josiah Halftree. He was a jeweler down at Cold Spring.”
“Really?” Death’s interest was suddenly sharp, catching Wren’s attention and Cameron’s too.
“That means something to you? Why?”
Death thought about it. “Off the record?”
“I hate those words!” Cam complained.
Death just stared at him, patient and stern.
“Okay, fine. Off the record.”
“Okay, well,” Death looked to Wren, “after you went to sleep last night, I sat up for a while, reading through some more of Mrs. Fairchild’s papers. She had several letters from Josiah Halftree. I remember it because of the unusual name.”
“Did she? Really? What were they about?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Pricing information on an engraved, sterling silver christening bowl, a notice that her watch was fixed and ready, something about her engagement ring being cleaned.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Cam said, disappointed.
“No, no it doesn’t. It’s provocative, though, isn’t it?”’
They had finished eating before Cam arrived. Now they sat in companionable silence. Death cracked open his fortune cookie and glanced at the slip of paper inside before balling it up and fiddling with it restlessly.
“Oh, my God!” Cameron exclaimed suddenly. “You guys got shot at last night! I almost forgot. You see? Any other time an armed assault would be the biggest news to hit this town in a month of Sundays. But now, between two dead bodies and another intruder at the Campbell house, I forgot all about it.”
“Yeah, I was a little surprised you didn’t show up last night,” Wren admitted.
“I was covering the high school baseball game over at Thibeaux Crossing and I didn’t hear about it. The game went into overtime and by the time we got back, it was all over.”
“Oh. How’d we do?”
“Well, you must have done okay, you’re both still here.”
“No, I meant in the baseball game.”
“Oh. We lost. Three to one in eleven innings.”
“Dang.”
“Yeah.”
“So, you’re with the paper, right?” Death asked thoughtfully.
“He practically is the paper,” Wren said, while Cam just nodded.
“Right. So, I don’t suppose you guys’d still have a copy of the picture that was used for Ava Fairchild’s obituary, would you?”
“Possibly.” Cam thought about it. “Probably. Normally, we’d return the original to the family, but Mrs. Fairchild didn’t really have any family. You know, it seems to me that we had trouble even getting an obituary picture.”
“You remember an obituary from four years ago?” Death asked.
“Small town. Important lady. She was the last direct descendant of the family that pretty much built this town. If I remember rightly, there was a cousin or something who had a key to the mansion and he let us in to look for a picture, but we couldn’t find anything more recent than when her husband was alive. He died nearly thirty years ago.”
“So what did you do?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What would you do now, if you ran into the same sort of problem?”
“I guess the first thing would be to look in our own files and see if we had ever taken a pictur
e of her that we could use.”
“Could you do that again? Maybe it’s in there?”
“Yeah, ok … Sure. Can I ask why?”
“Just following up a hunch. I’ll tell you if it pans out. I promise.”
He grinned another of his irresistible grins and Wren felt Cam half sigh next to her. “You don’t happen to have a gay brother, by any chance?”
Death’s smile was wry and sad. “No, ’fraid not.”
“Yeah, that figures.” Cam’s smile was wistful. “Anyway, I’m glad that Wren’s going to have you around. Especially if people are going to keep shooting at her.” He switched his attention to Wren. “Are people going to keep shooting at you?”
“Well, I hope not!”
“That was the reason Chief Reynolds released the story about the hidden compartment.” Death explained. “We’re hoping that Fairchild will hear it and realize that Wren can’t be the one who took the jewels. But if he does come back, I’ll be there. Don’t worry.”
“I’m glad you’re taking care of her.” Cam sighed. “I was never very good at that.”
“Hey,” Death said, “you did the right thing. I know it can’t have been easy and I know there are probably times you think you should have just kept on pretending and gone on with a ‘normal’ life. But Wren could never make you happy, no matter how hard she tried. And you could never really make her happy, no matter how badly you wanted to. If you’re going to love someone and spend the rest of your life with them, then it’s important to be true to them, right?”
Cam and Wren both nodded.
“Right. And you can never be true to another person until you first learn to be true to yourself.”
“Gosh,” Cam said. “Wow. Gee, that’s … really, really a cool thing for you to say. I don’t … I don’t know how to respond to that. Thank you. Thanks. I,” he glanced at his watch, “I’ve got to run. I’m on deadline. I’ll look into the picture thing and get back to you. It was really great to meet you.” He offered Death his hand and Death shook it.
“Glad to meet you.”
“Wren, honey, you take care. Call me if you need anything.” Flustered but pleased, Cam slid out of the booth and took his leave.
As Wren and Death got up to leave as well, she touched his arm.
“That was such a cool thing for you to say. Cam has had a really rough time of it since he came out. What you said, it was just so sensitive and so … profound.”
He gave her a cocky grin. “Yeah, baby, that’s me. Sensitive and profound.” He lobbed a tiny wad of paper in her face and she caught it startled. As he pulled out his wallet and headed for the cash register, she smoothed out the little ball and found it to be the fortune out of his fortune cookie.
Before you can be true to another, it said, you must first learn to be true to yourself.
_____
The rain fell harder, soaking Death’s shoulders and running down the back of his neck as he stood at the edge of the Paper Pagoda’s deck, waiting for Wren to come out of the ladies’ room. He’d moved his Jeep around so the passenger door was as close to the restaurant as he could get it. Now he was standing guard, watching the highway and scanning the bushes and the footpath leading to the old swinging bridge.
It would be a shame to survive Afghanistan, he thought, only to get shot in East Bledsoe Ferry.
Wren came out, ducking her head against the rain, and he met her, rushed her to the Jeep and opened the door for her. When she was safely inside, he circled and climbed in beside her, shaking water droplets from his short hair.
“Did you call the Chief and tell him about the letters from Mr. Halftree?” she asked.
“Yeah. You wanna hear something else provocative? One of the last people to talk to Josiah Halftree was Millie Weeks.”
“Ms. Weeks? She wouldn’t stab anyone! Flay them, maybe, but only if they put an extra ‘s’ in business or pronounced ‘library’ without the first ‘r’.”
“Well, maybe she was trying to flay him and she just got careless.”
“Ms. Weeks would never get careless.”
“Why don’t we go ask her about him anyway?” Death caught the uncertain, half-fearful look she shot him and laughed. “You can hide behind me if you really want to.”
“If her mother’s there, you might want to hide behind me. She’ll try to pinch your butt.”
“Her mother? The Ms. Weeks I talked to was, like, seventy!”
“Her mother’s ninety-seven. She’ll try to pinch your butt. Cameron says she’s got a grip like a crawdad. The Keystone twins won’t go within a mile of her.”
“Huh.” Death considered. “You still got your slingshot in your bra?”
“Of course.”
“Well, all right, then. Let’s go.”
The two Ms. Weeks lived in a quaint little stone cottage in the midst of what Wren claimed was a classic English garden. To Death it pretty much looked like flowery weeds, but he was wise enough not to say so. Millie Weeks met them at the door and ushered them into a cozy living room crowded with antique furniture, throw pillows, and knickknacks, many of them of the “hideous big-eyed children” variety. In the dim lighting, Death didn’t realize that the wizened old doll sitting in a corner rocking chair was alive until Mother Weeks had latched onto his backside.
Cameron was right.
“Mother!” Millie Weeks snapped. Her mother let go, but gave Death a toothless and entirely unapologetic grin.
“I am so sorry!” her daughter apologized. “Why don’t you come sit over here? Would you like me to get you an ice pack or something?”
“No. No, thanks. I’m good.” He glared at Wren and got a small shrug back.
“Sorry. I didn’t see her either.”
“You want my advice, girlie?” Mother Weeks piped up, looking at Wren. “Pinch butts now while you’re young and cute. No one appreciates it when you get to be my age.”
“Thanks, Mother Weeks. I’ll keep that in mind.” Wren grinned at her and gave Death a sideways, speculative look.
“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish,” he growled softly, for her ears only, and was pleased to see her blush a fiery red in response.
Ms. Weeks offered them tea or coffee, which they declined, then sat across from them in a wooden rocker and sighed sadly. “So I suppose this means the jewels are gone? The ones from the robbery in Kansas City?”
“You know about that?” Wren asked. “I understand there was some confusion at first.”
“Yes, there was, but Chief Reynolds explained it to me after Declan Fairchild shot at you last night. He was concerned he might come after some of the Historical Society members and wanted to warn us to be extra careful.”
“Damn,” Death said. “I’m sorry. I should have thought of that.”
“I don’t see why. That’s what we pay him for. Anyway, no one’s seen anything so far, so no harm, no foul. It’s just a shame about the jewels.”
“I’m not so sure they are gone,” Death said. “I’d like to keep looking, in any case, if that’s all right with you.”
“It’s fine with me, but why do you think they might not be gone?”
“Well, they haven’t turned up on the market or I’d have heard about it. Plus, I’ve kind of got a hunch about what happened to them.”
“You do?” Wren exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I wanted to wait and see if it panned out first. You know, the less you say, the smarter you sound.”
“Is that another fortune cookie?” she asked sourly.
He gave her a cheeky grin. “It could be.” He turned back to Ms. Weeks. “What I was hoping to ask you is, what were you talking to Josiah Halftree about? If you don’t mind telling me. The Chief said you were one of the last people to speak to him.”
“So I understand. Poor man. I didn’t see him in person, you know. He phoned me last Wednesday, the day we closed bids for someone to handle the Campbell house auction. He wanted to sug
gest to me that the family jewels should be handled separately by a professional jeweler—himself, of course. Only there were no jewels to speak of among the things we got. Some obvious costume jewelry and a few little pieces that we already had valued and that weren’t worth anything. But Mr. Halftree was just certain that Ava Fairchild had had some very valuable jewelry in her estate.”
“Did he say why he thought that?”
“He said that he’d seen it.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Well, we didn’t get everything from her estate. There were a few isolated bequests to friends and family members. I suggested that maybe one of them had inherited the jewelry.”
“I think you’ll find that they didn’t,” Death said, “but it was a good thought.” He turned to Wren. “It’s really starting to pour out there. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to see you safe at home before the streets flood.”
“Of course.” He and Wren stood to leave.
“But aren’t you going to tell us your theory about the jewels?” Ms. Weeks asked.
“Let me see if it’s right or not, first,” he hedged. “When I know, I’ll tell you, even if it’s to tell you I was wrong.”
They said goodnight to Mother Weeks, Death carefully keeping his distance, then Ms. Weeks showed them to the door. A quick dash through the driving rain, and they were safe in Death’s Jeep once more.
“Will you tell me?” Wren asked.
He started the engine and sat for a moment, letting the heater warm them up and pull steam from their sodden clothes. “When did Mrs. Fairchild disinherit Declan?” he asked. “Was it when he was sent to prison?”
“No, I think she supported him at first. But then, just a few months before she died, she had a change of heart and wrote him out of her will. That was the gist of his lawsuit. He claimed the Historical Society ladies had used undue influence on a senile old woman.”
“She wasn’t senile.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I think Ava Fairchild found the jewels hidden under the stairs. I think she thought at first that they were the Civil War jewels, but when she took them to a jeweler—”