by Leslie Kelly
He shook his head, taking the stone from her hand and holding it up for them both to see. Blowing off the dust, he turned it to catch the light again. “I don’t know jewels, but this thing looks absolutely flawless. More than a carat, I’d think.”
“Two at least. What I don’t get is how it got there. No woman would drop something like this and not tear the place apart trying to find it.”
“Plus no woman has lived in this house for the past couple of decades.”
“It’s oddly shaped for a ring,” she murmured. “Not as pointy as you’d think. It’s probably from a drop pendant or something.”
“It sure felt pointy.”
Laughing, she explained, “It’s sharp, but I mean, the surface is more flat and the point less deep than you’d expect for a solitaire setting. How weird that it was sitting there—almost winking at me like an eye when I fell.”
Feeling Max stiffen in the bed beside her, she dropped her hand onto his bare chest, stroking those thick, rippled muscles. “What?”
“Like an eye…” Grabbing her hand, he kissed it, then slid out of the bed. “I need to check something.”
Curious, Sabrina watched as he walked to the corner of the turret room and opened a small door, probably used to access attic space. He disappeared through it but came back a moment later holding, of all things, a cuckoo clock.
“Ugh. Take it back. It belongs there where no one can hear it.”
“I know. That’s why I tore it down the day I moved in. Dropped it, then tossed it among the eaves.” Crossing back to the bed, his big, naked body moving so gracefully it was like watching art in motion, he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Oh, my God,” he muttered as he tugged open the small doors through which the cuckoo bird emerged every hour.
“What?” Dropping her hands on his shoulders, she rose to her knees and peeked over. And immediately saw what he’d seen. “Max, there’s only one eye. The other one…is that…?”
“Yeah. I think it is. Another diamond.” Turning his head to meet her stare, he looked stunned. “Sabrina, I think we might have just discovered what old Wilhelm Stuttgardt meant about the stolen money being found in time.”
TOM KING REALIZED someone was still in the house only after he’d already begun searching the clocks on the second floor. “No,” he’d muttered when he’d heard a loud thump from overhead in the turret bedroom. Sounded as though someone had taken a hard spill to the floor.
No one was supposed to be here. They were all to have gone to the festival, leaving him with a full day to continue his search. “Why?” he whispered, the dejection weighing on his whole body. “Why does nothing go right?”
It never did. Hadn’t for a long time.
He’d known Thursday night had been a gamble. The family would be on alert when they were home, so his nighttime hunts would have to be few and far between. But it had been worth it. Tipping off the police that a dark-haired stranger was trying to break into the old Stuttgardt place had done two things—eliminated his competition, and, hopefully, relieved Taylor’s suspicions about who had been lurking around the house.
Being more careful and not searching much at night had been the tradeoff. Which was why today had seemed like such a godsend. The house would be empty, everyone gone for hours. Perfect.
Someone, however, had stayed behind.
He remained still, behind the door in one of the large, empty bedrooms, obviously not occupied judging by the sheets covering the unused furniture. It looked ghostly, and made him jumpy. The thud from upstairs had nearly had him running for the door.
Standing there for several minutes, he craned his ears. The house was old and sound carried. So soon he was able to make out bits of conversation. There were two voices—a man’s and a woman’s. Then some more pounding and wild cries that could only be the kind that came from good, solid boinking.
He could barely remember bad boinking, so he had to smile at whatever wild things were going on right above his head. Damn, he missed being young. Having no cares. Being able to laze around on a Saturday morning bouncing the bed springs.
His missus had liked that—before she’d up and left him three years ago. He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t exactly the laughing, jovial man she’d married. Once Stuttgardt had ruined him—and the town—the guilt had weighed on Tom until he found it nearly impossible even to get up every day, much less manage a smile or a laugh.
Tears welled up in his eyes. Unmanly. But he couldn’t help it. Jerking the sleeve of his shirt across them and cursing his own weakness, he thought about what to do. He should leave—call it a day. Or even just give up on the whole thing and pretend he could forget the hell he’d helped create in his own hometown.
That was the part he couldn’t live with.
Because he was to blame, at least partly. He’d helped old Willie with some of his financial shenanigans, his job as bookkeeper at the clock factory allowing him to play fast and loose with the numbers when his boss had asked it of him. Only, he hadn’t realized Willie was playing fast and loose with other people’s money—not until it was too late. He’d thought the wily old bastard was just trying to keep some of his own money out of the tax man’s hands.
By the time he’d learned the truth, it’d been too late. Willie had hidden the money but good. Probably would have tried to make a getaway once he found out Tom was on to him—but, of course, a clock to the face had put paid to that idea.
The loss of his job and pension might well have been bad, the shame of what it had cost everyone else worse. But worst of all was when that old witch Ida Mae had started putting the screws to him. Stuttgardt had shared some pillow talk with her—and likely her sister, too, knowing them—and they’d realized Tom had something he wanted to keep hidden.
If Trouble had found out he’d been party to what Wilhelm had done, he’d have been ridden out of town on a rail. It would have cost him the last things he had left—his friends and neighbors. His home. So he’d paid…until his money had dried up. And still Ida Mae wouldn’t pull her claws out of him.
“Gotta find that money,” he muttered, wishing he could let it go but knowing he could not.
Hoping that whoever was upstairs had just decided to have a little hanky-panky before going off to the festival, he remained where he was—waiting. After a while, he began to suspect his good luck had returned, because he heard them coming down the attic stairs, talking fast and excitedly. Something about the festival—finding Mortimer. Talking to the mayor…
Why they’d want to talk to her, Tom had no idea. Nor did he care. Long’s they got out of the house, they could go down to hell and talk to old Willie if they wanted to.
Smiling, he nodded and put some stiff in his spine, determined to find something in this house before he left it. He oughta have lots of time—and to make certain of that, he reached for his cell phone and had a whispered conversation.
Once it was done, he continued waiting—a long while—until there were no more voices, no sounds at all. Then he carefully opened the door, patted the gun resting comfortably against the small of his back and crept out into the hall to resume his search.
CRUISING DOWN the driveway of his grandfather’s place, Max shook his head and marveled again over what he and Sabrina had discovered. The awful clocks he’d been cursing since the day he’d arrived were worth a fortune. Not because of their craftsmanship, but because of their eyes.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered as he turned and headed toward town. But he had to believe it, he’d seen the proof. A cursory inspection of a few of the cuckoos in the living room had revealed the truth he’d never even noticed. Some of the birds had emerald green eyes and some ruby red ones. Some glittered like diamonds or shone a pretty sapphire blue.
He’d never suspected. Not once. After all, he’d done everything he could to avoid the damn clocks, so he sure hadn’t been looking at them closely when the squawking little birdies had popped out to do their hourly song.
&nb
sp; How incredible that murder victim Wilhelm Stuttgardt had transformed his stolen money into jewels and hidden them right in plain sight. In time. “Pretty smart,” he admitted, ruefully shaking his head. Not smart enough, though, considering the man had paid to keep that secret with his life.
Needing to talk to his grandfather about the discovery—and unable to call since the old man loathed cellular phones—he was on his way down to the festival. He felt sure Mortimer would agree to his plan to ask the mayor and the chief to return to the house with them for a thorough search. There was no question of keeping the ill-gotten gains. Those stones represented not only the bankruptcy of this town, but also the lost pension of a lot of its residents.
“Hallelujah, maybe they’ll buy it all back,” he whispered, seeing another silver lining. Hopefully his grandfather would be out of this quagmire before too much longer.
Sabrina had offered to come with him, but they’d both realized it would be better if one of them stayed and started gathering all the clocks together in one room. It would make examining them easier. She’d just finished taking a quick shower when he left. By the time he got back, he expected her to be smelling sweet and fresh, her golden hair bouncing, busily digging the eyes out of cuckoo birds.
Laughing at the mental image, he was distracted by the ringing of his cell phone. “Max Taylor.”
“Mr. Taylor, this is Chief Bennigan. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Sure, Chief.”
“Maybe you could come by the station?”
“Actually, I’m on my way to the Founders’ Day Festival. And I have something I want to talk to you about, too.”
“Perfect, I’ll meet you there.”
Smiling, Max added, “I think you’re going to like what I have to tell you.”
Bennigan sighed. “Wish I could say the same.”
Immediately imagining the worse, he asked, “Is it my grandfather? Is he all right?”
“Oh, he’s fine, Mr. Taylor. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that. It’s nothing all that bad—and not unexpected. But I know you’re not going to be too happy about it.”
Well, his curiosity certainly wouldn’t let him wait until he found Bennigan to hear the details. “Why don’t you just tell me and get it over with?”
The man cleared his throat, then sneezed and blew his nose. Finally he admitted, “Well, that fella we caught trying to break in Thursday night got bailed out of jail early this morning.”
Damn. He certainly hadn’t expected Prescott to remain locked up for long, but he’d hoped to have a few more days. At least until the restraining order came through. “What time, Chief?”
“About eight o’clock. It was the damndest thing—those Feeney sisters came in with some attorney from the next county, demanding to see the judge. Had cash money for Prescott’s bail and everything.”
The Feeney sisters…He shook his head in disbelief. He never had found out what Sabrina’s ex had been doing with the women the other day when Allie had seen him. But suddenly he really wanted to know. “Why would they help him?”
“No idea. When we told him it’d be Monday before we could get the public defender down here from Weldon, he asked for his one phone call—and then he asked for Ida Mae’s phone number.” The chief grunted. “Danged if I can figure it out.”
“Thanks, Chief. I appreciate the heads-up,” he said. “Will you do me a favor and make sure somebody swings by the house to keep an eye out?”
“Already arranged it,” Bennigan said.
“Good. Then I’ll see you shortly.” Smiling as he pictured the man reacting to his news, he disconnected the call.
Max thought for a second about turning the car around and going back to make sure Sabrina was all right. He didn’t though, doubting Peter would dare go there again after what had happened Thursday night. Knowing what he did about what a cowardly prick the guy was, he imagined he was already halfway back to Philadelphia by now.
Plus, the house was locked up tight, with brand-new stick-on alarm devices on every door and window. They were a makeshift measure until a new system could be put in next week. He’d reminded Sabrina to set them when he left, sighing as he’d realized that Mortimer and Allie had not.
Still, to be on the safe side, he dialed her cell number. Getting no answer, he left her a message to be extra alert, told her why, and that he’d be back soon.
As he hung up, he realized he had just passed the twin falling-down ruins where the Feeney sisters lived. Though he frankly would have liked nothing better than to never see them again, especially after some of Mortimer’s stories, he couldn’t help doing a fast U-turn and pulling up outside Ida Mae’s house.
He wanted to know why they’d helped Prescott, if they had some kind of connection to the man…and where he might be now.
Parking out front, he walked up the steps on to the porch and lifted his hand to knock on the screen door. Before he could, the inner door opened with a long, slow creak, and Ida Mae peered at him through the screen. “What do you want?”
Not tea, that was for sure. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“Got nothing to say. And if I did, I sure wouldn’t say it to you after you skulked out of here the other day without so much as a good day. That was rude, young man.”
Uh, rude. Rescuing his naked, kidnapped grandfather from the clutches of two horny old women—rude. There was a new one for Miss Manners.
Ida Mae started to close the door.
“It’s about Peter Prescott.”
She paused. “Don’t know him.”
Max tsked. “You bailed him out of jail this morning.”
“Oh. That Peter Prescott.”
“Yes. Can I come in?”
She shook her head, but did open the screen door a little so he could see a few inches of her face. “No.”
“Why did you bail him out?”
“None of your business. Now, shoo, young man, I’ve got things to do.”
Before she could disappear back inside, slamming the door behind her, a ghostly figure appeared, emerging from the shadowy interior of the house. It was her sister, Ivy. She was wearing a long, feathered negligee—once white, now yellowed with age. And more appropriate for a woman fifty years her junior.
“Well, hello there, handsome. Won’t you come in?” Pursing her lips and shaking her index finger, she added, “You were naughty to sneak your granddaddy away from us—you aiming to take his place?”
He gulped, taking the tiniest step back on the porch. Pushing the door wider, the younger Feeney sister gave him a welcoming smile. He imagined it was how a she-wolf would smile at a baby deer.
“No, he will not. He’s asking about Mr. Prescott.”
Ivy, much less adept at hiding her feelings than her sister, frowned darkly. “That’s a bad one.”
“Ivy, hush.”
Max forced a friendly expression onto his face and leaned in closer to the younger sister, noting the bright red lipstick and makeup-caked face. “Why did you help him, then?”
Ivy shook her head, her false eyelashes fluttering, one of them getting caught briefly in the puffy gray bangs teased down over her forehead. “Do you know that man tried to extort us? He had the most foolish idea that he knew information about us that could be damaging.”
Max wouldn’t be surprised if these two had a body stashed in every room of their house. But he thought it best merely to shake his head, feigning disgust, rather than to try to form any words.
“We bailed him out of jail merely so we could sit him down and straighten that boy out, proving to him just how wrong his suppositions were,” Ida Mae finally said, crossing her arms and sticking out her chin. “I don’t much like being accused of things I didn’t do.”
As opposed to the many more she probably had done?
“And was he convinced?”
Ivy smiled. “Oh, yes. Very. We worked everything out, then we had a nice chat along with our tea and cakes.”
Tea. He tensed. And when he heard a loud thump coming from upstairs, his body went rigid.
“We thought about brewing up Mama’s favorite kind—spiked with a lovely almond liqueur—but that’s just for special occasions.”
“Yes, indeed it is,” Ida Mae said.
As if speaking to herself, Ivy mumbled, “Almond for abusers.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She cleared her throat, offering him a vacant smile. “We gave him some nice orange blossom tea.” Her heavily made-up eyes sparkled. “Since your grandfather liked it so well, we thought a younger man might enjoy it, too.”
Another muffled thud came from the second floor.
“Radiator problem?” he asked Ivy.
She shook her head, a coy smile playing about her lips. Batting her lashes again and smoothing her negligee, she said, “Rats.”
“Big rats,” Ida Mae added.
Rats. Yes. Of course.
Max thought it over, then nodded. “You don’t plan on doing any—exterminating yourself, do you?” He stared hard at Ida Mae, who stared right back, her gaze steely. “Because I don’t think taking such drastic measures to get rid of rodents is a good idea and I might have to prevent you from doing that.”
Ivy giggled. “Of course we’re not. We’ll just…wait a while. I’m sure the creature’ll walk out of here on his own sooner or later.”
Another thump. Max stared at Miss Ivy’s feathered negligee and Miss Ida Mae’s more modest housecoat. “A few days, then. That should suffice, I’m sure.”
Ida Mae nodded once, silently agreeing to his terms.
“You’re sure the problem won’t return?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. Not unless he wants the other rats to see pictures of how thoroughly he enjoyed his time here.”
“Oh, they do enjoy their time here,” Ivy said, her voice almost a purr. “Ida Mae and I must have the most alluring entertainment to offer any kind of creature, because they always end up loving every minute.”
His eyes closing briefly, Max cleared his throat. “Very well. I guess I’ll leave you, then.” But before he went down the porch steps, he added, “If your Mr. Prescott does return here sometime, be sure to tell him an injunction has been filed, ordering him away from my grandfather’s house, as well as the Cavanaugh sisters. He’ll be arrested if he comes anywhere near them.”