Again I remembered that moment in the gallery: I asked Father why, but he didn't understand the question. His lack of comprehension was incomprehensible to me. He'd stranded me in Boston as an Ellandun family exile and there was nothing confusing about it.
And then there was William. Since his arrival, he'd shown me no friendliness, made no advances, and even attempted to convince Father not to approach me the night of the gallery party. Granted, he'd been right and the evening had been an unmitigated disaster because Father and Uncle Preston hadn't listened. But if that was his attitude, why had he come at all and why had he brought his family?
But what really kept me awake were my memories, all too vivid, of the expressions on Trés' and Lindsay's faces as they looked at me. It was the same expression I'd worn, I'm certain, as I looked at Aunt Edith all those years ago. It was the awe and hero worship of a young person watching someone new and different from the humdrum of everyday, someone dangerous without being scary. Someone who could, all too easily, become a role model.
If I wanted revenge on William for his bullying and contempt, it was the perfect opportunity. I could steal his children away from him, the same way Aunt Edith had seduced me away from Father.
And then I'd never feel alone again. Even if Caren turned me down.
Chapter Eighteen
current time
Theresa was true to her word. She arrived early, just after my telephone conversation with Detective Wingate.
At first I thought we were under attack and yanked the Colt .45 from my hidden holster. Then I realized it was only someone pounding on the front door.
"That's gotta be Theresa," Sherlock said. "Anyone sane would just use the doorbell." He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. We hadn't drunk much of the hooch but it didn't take much of that recipe to get serious results; if he'd had a headache last night from driving, it was nothing compared to what he had to have on this lovely morning after.
I put the Colt away and hurried to save the door. I'd just gotten the house; I didn't want it destroyed yet.
When I yanked the door open, she had drawn back her fist for another go and was just starting her forward swing. I ducked. She froze, blue eyes wide, looking wholesome and innocent as the fruits and nuts and flakes in granola.
"Coffee?" she whimpered.
I pointed and got out of her way.
She went. Her nose was in the air, surely a better guide than my vague arm.
I grabbed her backpack and, gingerly, a large brown salesman's sample case, set them inside, closed and locked the door, and followed.
Bonnie had poured the last mugful, set it before Theresa, and was making a fresh pot. I hurried to move the cream and sugar closer. We knew from bitter experience that Theresa in this condition was best kept sweet. Okay, all of us were a little off home base in one manner or another. She was way off, and without sleep or patience she might blow the ball park.
"You did leave that plane in one piece?" Sherlock alone was immune to her implicit background threat. Granted, he was immune to everyone's.
She surfaced from a first swallow that left the mug half drained and surely scalded her mouth. "Was I supposed to?"
I went for ice cubes and ignored Caren's and Patty's stares. When they knew her better, they'd understand.
Theresa didn't look dangerous. Tight short curls framed her narrow face, her skin was pale and her complexion good, her cheekbones wide and her nose aquiline. A perky little Clara Bow mouth balanced out strong and mischievous blue eyes, all roughened a bit at the edges, and her natural grace spoke to the male animal in me. The overall effect was delicate, rather like porcelain china that's been buffed by the wind, and I used to fight to sit beside her.
That day she wore a fitted one-piece flight suit with pockets at every available spot, some complete with lumps, and the grungiest jump boots I'd ever seen. If anyone else had worn them, I wouldn't have allowed them in the house. Theresa grew up in the Nevada silver mines, where she'd been introduced to explosives. Now she lived in a double-wide in the high plains of West Texas, where she worked maintaining oil pumping platforms, pretended to be an artist, manufactured jewelry that actually made great Christmas gifts — the sterling silver in particular looked lovely on Patricia — and adopted every stray cat, dog, cow, and scorpion in the county. Her house and workshop were spotless — I've seen them and can vouch for it — mainly because she never wore her shoes indoors. General Chules had once come down on her about the lack of shine on her shoes; she hadn't polished any of them since.
"Can you listen and slurp at the same time?" Sherlock asked.
Bonnie and I flinched. But Theresa only nodded.
Sherlock briefed her on our investigation. She listened silently — her ability to master the nuances of a situation was as legendary as her pyromania — and drained half the fresh pot of coffee. I pushed the hat box further into the shadows, out of the way, and refilled her mug whenever she set it down, but otherwise kept well back. It would take a better man than I, Gunga Din, to open my mouth with Theresa in this mood.
Lindsay stared as if fascinated. Silently, I scolded myself for even thinking of stealing her from William in those insane midnight hours. She was a strong young woman, but despite her high opinion of herself, she was only fifteen and she needed her family. I'd keep my influence to a minimum. William and Linda had enough on their plate without any interference from me.
"So what's the plan for the day?" Theresa finally asked.
Sherlock thought before answering, his scarred and delicate hands wrapped around his own mug. "I need Patricia to sort out those financial records, and I want Bonnie to stay here for whatever help she can give and definitely for protection. There's a police scene-of-crime forensics unit on its way out here right now, to take fiber samples from the carpets, collect fingerprints, stuff like that. When they're done here, Caren and Robbie are going over to his condo with them to do the same there. The reading of the lady's will is this afternoon. Robbie and Lindsay and Patricia need to be there for that, and I want to go along just to meet the rest of the family and see them in action. Meanwhile, Lindsay and I are going to the hospital—"
"That's boring," Lindsay said.
"—mainly because if someone comes around to finish the job on her brother, I'd like to be there for the attempt. I mean, we know he doesn't remember who shot him but supposedly the murderer doesn't."
"Do you expect anything?" Patricia asked, her expression wary.
He shrugged. "His memory could come back to him. The security guard was shot in the back while he locked the front door, so he didn't see anything." He cocked his head at Theresa. "So which group do you want to join?"
She slurped, set her mug down, and I refilled it. "You hauled me all the way to Boston for guard duty?"
"You want to go back and call artillery shots?"
"Point made." She added more cream. "What about the possibility of tracking that Suburban? Or the Impala, for that matter?"
"Bonnie was going to hack into the rental companies' databases for us and we did get both license tags," Sherlock said, "when we were acting on the assumption those were rental cars. But I'm beginning to doubt that now. If you're going to use a car as a weapon, wouldn't you feel safer buying one, maybe under an assumed name, one you can just abandon later, rather than having to explain to the agency how it got bloody and dented?"
"But if Mister Suburban is English—" Lindsay said.
"Tourists do it all the time," I assured her. "They purchase a vehicle for the duration of their trip and sell it when they leave. You've got a point, boss."
"And by the same token," he continued, "he likely purchased it from an individual or car lot instead of a dealership. Although it's more likely he'd be remembered, there's a whole lot more individuals out there than dealerships and he'd be harder to trace, right?"
Theresa slugged more coffee. Her eyes had lost that unfocused look and she seemed more rational, if the entire concept of Theresa rational was not an
oxymoron. "So if I went to the library and read the cars-for-sale ads for about three or four days ago, you think we'd find the Suburban?"
"And perhaps the Impala, too." Caren had been awfully quiet since Theresa's arrival. Maybe she recognized the signs of incipient insanity even on such short notice.
"Not a bad idea," Sherlock said, "but concentrate on the Suburban. Take your weapon and keep your eyes open. And leave the explosives here. We don't need them."
Her chin drooped.
"Yet," he added.
That restored her equanimity and she finished her coffee in peace. "Would someone call me a cab?"
The doorbell echoed through the house. "The police are here. Show's on, people."
Detective Wingate led his pair of technicians into the vestibule, looking around openly. "Captain Ellandun, thank you for having us over. I appreciate your cooperation." Like I really had any choice, his expression said.
Someday he and I would have this out. "Not a problem. Um, coffee in the kitchen first?"
One of the technicians, a trim middle-aged black woman with strawberry blond hair done in cornrows and waist-length dreadlocks, eased past us, eyeing that Persian carpet as she walked. "Are all of the carpets like this one?" Her voice was deep, mellow, and dripping with Southern magnolias.
"Well—"
"I mean, foreign and expensive."
I hoped she wasn't a member of the textiles workers' union or something. "Well, yes."
She looked at Wingate. "Then there's no sense even taking samples. What we're trying to match is good old-fashioned DuPont acrylic."
He turned to me. "How about the bedrooms?"
Footsteps pattered behind us and I turned. Lindsay ran up the stairs.
"Having a party, Captain?"
No way would I rise to his bait. "My family is in town, you know, and a few members of my unit."
He glanced at Theresa's backpack and sample case, which I knew contained high explosives, still sitting where I'd left them by the front door. "Of course."
Those would have to move, and fast. "Well, make yourselves at home. The party, as you call it, is in the kitchen, back through there, and so is the coffee."
"Mind if I set up in there?" The other technician, a young man with the clean-cut look and small oval glasses of a true nerd, carried a computer case. "I'll need to fingerprint everyone in the house, by the way."
"Go ahead," I said. "I hope everyone will cooperate, but please pardon me if I don't offer to wrestle anyone down and hold them for you. Some of these people are a lot meaner than I've ever thought of being."
"Right." He didn't look at all worried, but then, he hadn't met any of them yet, particularly not Theresa. He vanished through the kitchen doorway.
"Bedrooms are upstairs," I said to the redhead. "As I said, make yourself at home. Just please, respect everyone's privacy. They are my guests."
"Gotcha." She passed Lindsay on the stairs, one going up, the other coming down.
Lindsay smiled at me. Her hair had been brushed and her delicate coral lipstick was fresh. She walked right up to me and snuggled beneath my arm. I had no choice but to hug her, and I wondered what brought on this sudden burst of affection. Lindsay didn't seem the snuggly sort — more a minotaur than a teddy bear — although with her already beautiful face and body she could certainly play the role.
"Uncle Charles."
I introduced her to Wingate before I remembered he'd earlier taken her statement for the record. They both glossed over my slip.
"Captain, which was the murdered woman's bedroom? I'd like to look around there, if I may."
I pointed up. "The double doors on the upper level. It's the big suite at the rear. We've mostly kept out of it."
As Wingate trotted up the stairs, a block of ice invaded my stomach as I remembered the times we hadn't kept out of Aunt Edith's bedroom, including raking that bloody lock and blocking the garret door open with some of Uncle Hubert's old books. All the incriminating stuff — the death clothes and the Browning and such — were safely out of there and in von Bisnon's custody, but the steamer trunk yawned empty against the wall, its lock snapped open, and demanded an explanation.
I muttered something rude and unfit for immature ears, and started for the stairs myself. There had to be a way to stop him without arousing suspicion.
But Lindsay held on. "I shut it," she said in a whisper.
I looked down into her face, speechless.
"That door. Caren and Colonel Sherlock asked me to. I pushed the books inside and made certain it locked."
I hugged her again, for real this time, and sagged against her with relief. She'd probably heard, and said, worse than my comment, in any case.
The nerdy technician, who introduced himself as Michael, opened his computer case atop the butcher block table, but he paused to squint at me. "This table's a bit high. Got a dining room?"
"Through there." I pointed. Michael closed his case and again vanished.
I washed Theresa's abandoned coffee mug, sitting in the middle of the table, and put away the cream and sugar. Caren was making another pot.
"How's the arm?" Caren asked.
"Almost forgot about it." I took a fresh mug into the dining room.
Not only had Michael set his temporary office up on that big cherry table, beside the resurrected laptop, so had Patricia. As I entered, she was spreading those copies of deposit slips and itemized bank statements across the far end, analyzing what we assumed were blackmail payments right in front of the police.
"This table's perfect." Michael glanced at the mug. "That for me?"
"It is if you like a little cream and no sugar." I set it beside him.
He pushed it back. "Drown it in both. So, who's first?"
Theresa was first, and she kept her cab waiting while Michael entered her name and Social Security number into the computer, then rolled her fingers on the pressure pad. Lindsay and Sherlock were next, then they left for the hospital, Lindsay with the scrapbook of newspaper clippings under one arm. I could tell from the way she watched my sort-of-demented commanding officer, she liked her escort. I sighed. William really was going to kill me.
It took the technicians an hour to collect their samples and fingerprints, and pack up. Wingate cornered me much sooner.
"That door at the top of the stairs in the master suite," he asked while Michael rolled my left ring finger. "The locked one. What's up there?"
"Just the attic. We haven't found the key yet," and that was truthful, as far as it went. "Of course, we haven't really looked for it." That was true, also. "I could do so, if you like."
"Please, I would like." He crossed his arms. Today he wore what looked like cream linen, a true summer suit. "Have you come up with any theories as to why your aunt was killed?"
I almost said, We think she was a blackmailer, but came to my senses in time and cast about for something else to say. "I heard something about an argument at the gallery."
"Yes, Ms. Carr called and told me about that." Wingate paused. "Why is it I get the impression you're only mentioning that incident because you don't think it means anything?"
I didn't look at him, just watched Michael's computer screen as the images of my fingerprints appeared in little squares, just as if they had been inked the old-fashioned way onto a card and scanned in. I was grateful they hadn't: no way was I wandering around town today with ink on my fingers. "Detective, when you find the person who murdered my aunt, I'm going to be a happy man."
"Really." He turned his back on me and left me standing. Although I didn't look, from the far end of the table I heard his elegant murmur, then a good-natured response from Patricia. I stifled my jealousy. I wasn't starting that routine again, either.
Caren drove me in her Volvo to my poor vandalized condo. Wingate and his team followed in their unmarked sedan. En route, I fought the impulse to keep an eye out for Mr. Suburban and what was left of his vehicle. It would do no good to tip off the police that I was being tai
led about town. Granted, that was as good a means of catching the sod as any other.
I unlocked the condo door and stepped back.
For a long moment Wingate stood in the doorway and stared inside. "Vanessa," he said finally, and the redhead followed him into the living room. Michael and I trailed after and Caren brought up the rear.
In the living room, Vanessa was already on her knees, donning surgical gloves. "This is bizarre."
"Yes." Wingate's tone was almost cheerful. "If you were going to pretend-search your own apartment, wanted to make it look thorough but didn't want to damage your belongings, this is about what it would look like."
It went down like a body blow. "Detective, do I need a solicitor?"
He chuckled. "In this country, Captain, they're called lawyers. Surely you've caught onto that by now?" He went through the doorway into the kitchen.
My temperature rose. Neither Michael nor Vanessa looked at me, her on the carpet with her tweezers and little plastic jars, him sketching the jumbled turmoil into his computer. I turned to Caren; surely she'd help me.
She did. Wordlessly she reached out, grabbed imaginary bars, and shook them. It took me a moment then I caught on: Wingate was rattling my cage. And I was letting him.
"You're right," I said. "He's just playing with me."
But she shook her head. "No, Charles, there's something here. He's too certain of his ground." She pulled out her cell phone. "I'm calling Sherlock. You do need legal counsel before this goes any further."
"But I haven't done anything."
She smiled and listened to her cell. "Much." She stepped out onto the front landing. "Hello? Is this my favorite walking literary figure?"
Wingate emerged from my study. "That is quite a gun collection you have. Is your case custom?"
I crossed my arms over my fatigues, the same set as yesterday but dusted off a bit. Thankfully nothing had ripped when Sherlock threw me onto the concrete. "I do need an attorney, don't I?"
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