Death & the Redheaded Woman

by Loretta Ross

  He stopped talking long enough to come over and stand in front of Death, stare him in the face. Death swallowed and tried not to look like he was up to something.

  “I know who did, though,” Fairchild exclaimed. “I’ve figured it out and I know exactly what happened.”

  “Okay … well … you want to enlighten us?”

  “Certainly.” Fairchild strode to the center of the room and turned with a flourish to face them. He reminded Death of the detective in an old, black-and-white whodunnit. You’re probably wondering why I called you all together, Death thought. “It was …,” he paused for effect, “the Historical Society!”

  “The Historical Society?” Death asked in disbelief.

  “The Historical Society?” Wren echoed.

  “Obviously the Historical Society. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

  “And your definition of ‘sense’ would be … ?”

  “They must have gotten her to let them in the house somehow. Asked for a tour or told her they were writing a treatise on blah-blah-blah architecture or something. Oh! Or slavery! She was a sucker for anything to do with slavery. Always going on about ‘righting old wrongs’ and so forth. Anyway, how isn’t important. The important thing is, they got in the house, and while they were poking around in here, they found my jewels.”

  “But if the Historical Society stole the jewels,” Death objected, “how did your aunt come to be wearing that necklace to the Christmas party?”

  “They gave it to her. They probably showed her some of the jewels and let her think they were from the Civil War. They knew she’d have Josiah Halftree look at them and he’d tell her they weren’t old enough. It was all a part of their dastardly plot to convince her that I was a thief and a murderer!”

  Death decided to overlook the ‘dastardly’. “You are a thief and a murderer.”

  Fairchild glared at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing. Sorry! Forget I mentioned it.”

  “Right, so they convinced her I was a thief and a murderer so that she’d write me out of her will and leave my house to them instead! And then, when she’d done it,” he paused to give them each a brooding, baleful stare, “they killed her!”

  For a long minute no one spoke. Then Death shook his head as if shaking water from his hair, or trying to rattle his brain into place. “I’m sorry? You think the Historical Society murdered Ava Fairchild?”

  “They had to have. The timing is too coincidental otherwise.”

  Something prickled in the back of Death’s mind, because there was something about timing that had been bothering him too. Something about the events surrounding Ava Fairchild’s death. Nothing that screamed ‘murderous Historical Society’, but something nonetheless.

  “What do you mean by that? Explain to me, please?”

  Fairchild shrugged. “She was wearing the necklace at Christmas. She re-wrote her will in January and in March, she died.”

  “She died in March,” Death echoed.

  “That’s what I just said.”

  “She died in March!” A sudden rush of adrenaline ran through Death, a thrill of discovery and understanding so powerful that for a moment he forgot that he was sore and aching. That he was bound and that he and Wren were in imminent peril. He looked up and locked eyes with her.

  “Remember I said before that something about the timing was bothering me?”

  She nodded.

  “That was it. Ava Fairchild died in March!” He grinned and looked around the room, from face to face. “I know where she hid the jewels.”

  twenty-one

  “You figured out where the jewels are just because I reminded you that Aunt Ava died in March?” Declan Fairchild’s voice dripped skepticism.

  “Yes! I should have seen it before. I had all the information I needed, but I didn’t put it together. Now I have.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me where they are. And if you’re wrong …” He exchanged a meaningful glance with Ten Oeck. “Don’t be wrong.”

  “In the pantry there’s a shelf filled with jars of strawberry jam.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “The jewels are in the jam.”

  Fairchild snorted. “Now that’s just stupid. Why would Aunt Ava have put my jewels in jars of strawberry jam? And even if she did, what would that have to do with her dying in March?”

  “She was big on justice, you know that. Hell, she spent half her life trying to make up for the fact that her ancestors owned slaves. There was no way she was going to give you a pass on murder. But she’d already lost her husband and her daughter and she couldn’t bear to see you go down too, so she hid the jewels where she thought they’d be found when she died. According to her will, those jars of jam were supposed to be donated to the food bank. The only reason they weren’t was because you contested the will and by the time the court case was settled, everybody figured they were too old to eat.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. Aunt Ava always made jam and canned things. She liked to garden. And she always gave stuff away, a lot of it to the food bank.”

  “Right. Every year at Christmas, in fact. That’s what you told me, right?” He looked at Wren and she nodded.

  “Oh, my God! Death! That totally makes sense.”

  “In December, she gave away all the preserves and canned goods she’d made that year. When she died in March, her pantry should have still been empty.”

  “Big deal,” Fairchild said. “So she made some more.”

  “But strawberries don’t ripen until late May or June. She’d have to have bought them. And out-of-season fruit is expensive. She put the jewels in the strawberry jam.”

  Fairchild still looked skeptical. Ten Oeck looked bored and he was fiddling with his knife and staring longingly at Death.

  “There’s one way to find out,” Wren said.

  Fairchild hesitated, then motioned with his head to Ten Oeck and the two men stepped from the room. An argument broke out between them in low tones. Death couldn’t hear every word, but he could hear enough to get the gist of it. He went back to work with his can opener, driven by a sense of urgency in the pit of his gut.

  “Death?” Wren asked, “what are they doing?”

  “Arguing.” He wanted to spare her the fear that was lancing through him now, the knowledge that they might be almost out of time.

  “Sweetheart,” she said, very gently, “I’m not a child. They’re arguing about what to do with us, aren’t they?”

  The zip tie was beginning to give. He would soon be free, but that wasn’t enough. He’d have to get Wren free, too, and he could feel time slipping away from them. It pained him to admit it, but he’d learned from bitter experience that he was no longer physically able to take out one man, let alone two of them, and both armed. He needed a plan, and a distraction, and he needed help.

  “Fairchild told Ten Oeck that, whether or not the jewels are there, we’re no further use to him. He wants him to come back in and—” he broke off, couldn’t finish.

  “Kill us?”

  “Yeah.” Death swallowed. “But, for once, Ten Oeck is thinking with his brain instead of his knife hand. Fairchild thinks I’m right about the jewels. Ten Oeck knows that, and he knows that Fairchild is trying to distract him so he can take the loot and run. Or, more likely, get the drop on him and shoot him in the back.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll think of something.”

  The argument outside the door ended and Death could hear two sets of footfalls going down the hall to the pantry. He sawed harder, gaining a little more movement with each passing second as he looked frantically around the parlor, seeking something he could use as a weapon. There was nothing. He could probably bar the door, but it wouldn’t hold for more than a few seconds. Even if it was long enough to get Wren free from the chair, and she was much more securely fastened than he, all Fairchild had to do was go outside and shoot t
hem through the window. He considered that briefly, as a less-painful alternative to dying at Ten Oeck’s hands, but if he understood Fairchild, he suspected the bastard wouldn’t shoot to kill.

  Death’s zip tie fell away as he heard Fairchild and Ten Oeck returning. He caught it and closed it in his fist so it wouldn’t fall on the floor and betray that he was free. Then he stood back up, trying to stretch his cramping arm muscles without being obvious about it.

  Calculating odds and not liking the answers he was getting.

  Their captors came into the room, each carrying three jars of strawberry jam. Fairchild leered at Wren.

  “I figured we might as well bring it in here. Even if there aren’t any jewels, jam can be used for lots of things.”

  He set two of the jars he was carrying down on a side table, tucked the third under his left arm and used his right hand to twist at the cap. It took a few seconds, but then it broke loose and turned with a coarse rasp. He unscrewed it. It was just a ring around the outside. When it was free and he had set it aside, the jar was still covered by a brass-colored lid. The thin orange line of a rubber seal separated the metal from the glass jar. Fairchild tried prising it up with his fingernails, turning the jar this way and that so that it caught the late sun coming in the window, making the jam shine with a ruby light, like fresh blood.

  He gave up, sighed and glanced briefly at Ten Oeck and his butcher knife before digging a small penknife out of his own pocket to break the seal with.

  They don’t trust each other, Death thought. Okay, they never did. But the closer they are to finding the jewels, the less trust there is. He wondered how he could use that against them.

  The lid separated with a soft pop. Fairchild glanced around, shrugged, and tipped the jam up. It stayed stubbornly in the jar. He sighed and set it down again. “Don’t anybody go anywhere.”

  He left the room quickly, rapid footfalls charting his progress down the hall and back. In just a few seconds he had returned with a rubber spatula. He slipped it into the jam, just skimming the top of the confection, scooped a little out and, with a leer, spread it across Wren’s bared chest, just above the top of her bra.

  She leaned away from him, looking ill, and Death schooled his temper. There would be time for payback later.

  “Is there anything in there or not?” Ten Oeck demanded.

  “Sure. Jam.” Fairchild dug the spatula into the jar, scooped out a great blob and let it fall to the floor. He stuck the spatula back in and it came up with a great wad of jam-covered plastic. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Setting the jar down, he brushed the jam away, absently licking it off his fingers, and revealed a zip-lock bag. He opened the bag and poured the contents out into his palm. A pile of gemstones shone in the muted sunlight. A square of white paper fluttered out beside them. Fairchild dropped the bag, closed his fist around the jewels and pulled the paper out to read it.

  “These jewels are evidence in a murder investigation,” he read. “There is a reward for finding them. Take them to the police and tell them they came from the Fairchild house. Ava Fairchild.”

  Fairchild looked up, shock and disbelief reflected in his face. “That bitch!” he exploded. “She was going to send me away for murder! God, I wish she was still alive so I could kill her!” He shredded the paper and went to drop the jewels in his pocket.

  “Hey! Wait a minute! Half of those are mine. We had a deal!” Ten Oeck was in his face, hand outstretched, clutching his butcher knife menacingly.

  Death weighed his chances of jumping them now, causing Ten Oeck to stab Fairchild and getting the gun before Ten Oeck stabbed him.

  Too much of a long shot, he decided. And they were standing too close to Wren.

  “I’m not taking them,” Fairchild said. “I’m just putting them in my pocket until we get them all out of the jars. Then we can take them out and divvy them up.”

  “Yeah,” Death cut in. “You can trust your old buddy Declan, Ten Oeck. Not like he’s gonna put thirty jewels in his pocket and only bring out twenty when it’s time to share them out. He wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “You shut up!” Fairchild bellowed.

  “I’m not stupid,” Ten Oeck said. “You don’t put them in your pocket. They stay out where we both can see them.”

  “I can’t hold them and open all the other jars too!”

  “Then I’ll hold them.”

  “I’m not gonna let you hold them.”

  They glared at each other and Death hoped they’d come to blows. If it got down to one-on-one, with the element of surprise on his side, he’d take the chance.

  Fairchild backed down. “Okay, fine. Go out to the kitchen and find something to put them in.”

  “You go out to the kitchen. I’m not leaving you here alone with them.”

  They both looked around the room and their eyes settled on Wren.

  “We’ll have the girl hold them,” Fairchild decided. “She’s not going anywhere and she couldn’t hide them anyplace we couldn’t find them.”

  “She could drop them down her shirt,” Ten Oeck objected.

  “Like I said, she couldn’t hide them anyplace we couldn’t find them. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  They descended on Wren and Death held his breath as Ten Oeck used the big butcher knife to slice the zip ties holding her arms down.

  “Cup your hands,” Fairchild told her.

  She did and he dumped the jewels into them. He walked around behind her and whispered in her ear. Death couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he could see his face so he could read his lips.

  “Don’t drop them. If you drop one, I’ll cut off one of your boyfriend’s fingers.”

  Wren blanched and nodded and held the gems tight in trembling hands. Fairchild and Ten Oeck turned to opening the rest of the jars and Death watched and waited and bided his time.

  _____

  Jar after jar yielded up treasure and the pile in Wren’s hands grew and grew. She fought the shaking wracking her body and concentrated on holding them. She didn’t doubt for a minute that Fairchild had meant his threat, and the consequences of dropping anything were unthinkable.

  When they found the necklace Ava had worn in her obituary photo they fastened it mockingly around Wren’s neck. They slid rings onto her fingers and pulled out her own cheap earrings to replace them with priceless gems. She had never been so surrounded by so many pretty things, and she had never been more miserable. She wondered, if they survived this, if she’d ever be able to look at another piece of jewelry.

  “That’s all of them.”

  The floor was a slippery mess of strawberry jam. Fairchild and Ten Oeck had scraped out all the jars, then spread the jam thin across the floor to be sure they hadn’t missed any jewels. Wren’s hands were full to overflowing.

  “Do we divide them up now?” Ten Oeck asked.

  Fairchild shook his head. “First, let’s find something to put them in.” He looked around the room, crossed to a corner curio cabinet and came back with a large crystal vase. He knelt in front of Wren and helped her pour the shimmering, multicolored pile into it. “Don’t drop any,” he reminded her playfully and she shivered with the laughter in his voice and the cold light in his eyes.

  Ten Oeck leaned over his shoulder, watching like a hawk and reaching in to help from time to time. They pulled the rings from her fingers, dropping them in the vase one by one, but when Ten Oeck reached for the necklace and earrings Fairchild stopped him.

  “Let’s leave those where they are,” he said. “Just for now. I think it’s time we stop for a little celebration.”

  “Now do I get to kill somebody?” Ten Oeck demanded.

  “Patience. Patience.” Fairchild stood up, carefully circled the mess on the floor and went to stand in front of Death. “You know, we would never have found these if it weren’t for Mr. Bogart here. I think we should give him some kind of reward.”

  “You’re not giving him any of my jewels,”
Ten Oeck warned.

  “No, no. I wasn’t thinking that kind of reward.”

  “You could let us go,” Death suggested.

  Fairchild made a show of considering it, then shook his head. “No, that’s not what I was thinking either. Actually, what I had in mind was,” he gave Wren a heated, lusty stare, “I’m going to let you watch me play with your girlfriend.” He turned and addressed Ten Oeck. “Then you can kill him. As slowly as you like.”

  “No! Wait! Stop! Don’t hurt her!”

  Fairchild, approaching Wren purposefully, ignored Death’s pleas. He went around behind Wren’s chair and leaned down. She could feel his breath against the nape of her neck and then he was nuzzling her throat, tugging at the priceless necklace with his teeth and licking her skin. His arms circled the chair, hands roaming over her stomach, slipping under her blouse and caressing her breasts. His voice in her ear was low and throaty.

  “I’m going to enjoy this a lot more when we’re both naked and there’s no chair between us.”

  “Fairchild, listen!” Death’s voice was desperate. “I want to make a deal!”

  “A deal?” Fairchild’s hands stilled and he snorted against her neck in disbelief. “What do you imagine you have to bargain with?”

  “You can’t hurt her,” Death said. “Do anything you want to me, but you can’t hurt her.”

  Fairchild looked at Wren, sitting rigid with tears on her cheeks. “He keeps saying that. I suppose you think it’s endearing, but honestly, he’s just getting on my nerves.”

  “If she cooperates with you, will you let her go afterward?”

  “Cooperates how?” Fairchild asked, voice thoughtful.

  “Cooperates,” Death repeated. “Participates. Is willing.”

  Wren stared at Death, horrified by the suggestion, but he was locked in a staring contest with Fairchild and didn’t look at her.