Ahead was a stone bench. Pettigrew was seated there, head stooped, still, unmoving. He looked as if he’d always been there, carved statuary from ages past, captured by the eerie song of the waves.
Jeff debated how to approach the old man. He didn’t want to startle him, and he wasn’t sure how to go about getting his attention.
He waited. The lyric lapping of waves against shoreline lulled him, mesmerized him, toyed with his body’s lack of sleep. He drifted, swayed.
“What the hell do you want?” The old man shouted over the pounding of the waves against the shore.
Jeff jerked. “Mr. Pettigrew. You looked upset. I saw you at breakfast. But I can leave if you wish to be alone.”
“Isn’t that what a labyrinth is for?” He pulled his heavy sweater closer about him and looked away.
“Yes, it is. And I’m sorry I intruded. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” Jeff turned to go. “Josephine is dead.”
Jeff turned back. Not only was the old man distraught, but he was also senile. He’d said the same thing when Jeff first met him in the Pavilion where the auction items were displayed. Jeff walked toward him. “Yes, sir. We talked about that yesterday, remember?”
“No, my Josephine. My wife, Josie.” The old man bowed his head. “I got the call a few minutes ago.”
Jeff thought of Sheila, of how it would feel to learn she had died when he was across the country. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Pettigrew.”
“Do I know you?” He peered at Jeff. Slowly, the veil of confusion lifted, then the gray eyes cleared as if recognition had sharpened their tint. “You’re the young man with Josephine’s letter. Jeff, isn’t it?”
“Right on both counts.”
“Then we should talk.” The man scooted to one end of the bench.
Jeff noticed that the man wasn’t wearing his ill-fitting dentures. Meals must have been easier to manage without them.
“Are you married, Jeff?”
Although Jeff made it a point never to talk about Sheila, he couldn’t bring himself to lie to this old gentleman. “Yes. Very happily, as a matter of fact.”
“Happily? Well, you’re both young. You have your health.”
Jeff wasn’t sure why, but he was overcome with a need to tell this man about Sheila. Perhaps it was because he’d thought so much about her on this trip. Or maybe it was because he rarely talked to anyone about his situation at home. “Physically, yes. Mr. Pettigrew, my wife’s an agoraphobic. She’s—” he thought how best to say it so the old man would have a true picture—”she’s a shut-in. She hasn’t been out of our home in over five years.”
“I see.”
Jeff doubted it.
“Then you will understand what I’m about to tell you. My wife has been fighting cancer for a very long time. Surgeries, chemo, enough prescriptions to start our own pharmacy. It’s been a struggle, living off our savings and the pitiful amount we get from Social Security.” He turned to Jeff with an angry face. “Don’t pay into it, my boy. You’re better off stuffing greenbacks into your mattress.”
His expression softened again. “Anyhow, funds were dwindling fast. The tea set was the only thing we had left to get any money out of. My wife loves that tea set. It’s been hers since I bought it from a fella named Odom back in the forties. Anyhow, the notion of selling it damn near killed her. And it was her that came up with the idea. But, as she got worse, she figured it wouldn’t do her any good if she was dead.
“Never did use the thing. Oh, she would take the pieces out of the case every couple months. ‘Have to let the silk breathe,’ she would say. But she wouldn’t take tea from it. So, finally, she told me to see what we could get for it. Lucky for me, I was acquainted with an honest man who works at the museum where we live. He looked in the case and started suckin’ in air and jitterin’ around till I thought I was gonna have to call nine-one-one.” The old man chuckled and looked at Jeff. “Hell, I didn’t know what the big deal was.”
“You’re kidding.” Jeff couldn’t imagine paying a hefty sum for something without having some idea of its provenance or, at the very least, its value. He assumed, anyway, that the set had cost plenty, even in the forties. “Weren’t you told anything about it when you bought it?”
“Oh, sure. But I thought the guy was playing it up, you know? He tried to tell me how famous it was. His wife had just died, so I just figured he needed the money.” Pettigrew was thoughtful for a moment. “Well, now, ain’t that some-thin’? I guess he needed the money then like I need it now. Or, like I needed it.
“I remember now, feelin’ sorry for him. Those girls sure got a kick out of the tea set, and I hated to see him sell it. But it was his decision to make, and after his missus passed, he said he didn’t like old things anyway. I thought he was just trying to cover up the fact that he needed money to raise his family. Josie and I had just got married, so I reckoned it would be a right nice present. And with the story and all fittin’ her name. Well, you can see why I went ahead and bought it.
“The night before I left to come up here, I served her tea in it. She was so weak, she was afraid to try and hold the cup. So I held it for her. She was only able to take a couple sips, but you should of seen her face. Her cheeks got pink and her eyes twinkled ... looked like she did the night I brought it home.”
Both men sat quietly, each lost in his own thoughts. Jeff sensed that Pettigrew was in a place and time half a century ago. He was in his own place, a more recent place than Pettigrew’s, when he and Sheila walked on the beach and watched the fishing boats glide in from the outer reaches of Puget Sound.
“Well.” The old man’s voice broke the spell, carrying with it a tone of finality. “I didn’t want to leave Josie to come here, but she insisted. Said we’d already agreed to put the tea set in the auction. I didn’t realize it till just now, but I suppose we said our good-byes before I left.”
“Maybe that’s the way she wanted it.”
Pettigrew nodded, but he didn’t appear to have heard what Jeff said.
“I’ve been thinking about that story you told me, and about that letter.” His expression brightened into something Jeff recognized. Our strongest emotion as humans, Jeff believed, if for no other reason than its eternal link to the future. It was hope, and the old man’s face was filled with it. “You really think that letter was written by the empress herself?”
Jeff smiled genuinely. “Yes, sir. Without a doubt. It’s been analyzed by experts, both here and in Europe.”
Pettigrew shook his head. “Hard for me to grasp. Course I’ve spent years telling myself that Odom’s story was made up.”
Jeff didn’t look forward to the job he would have of filling in the blanks of the tea set’s provenance. He wondered absently how many names had followed Blanche Appleby’s family. To Pettigrew, he said, “Apparently, the man didn’t know about the letter—or, more likely, how important it is.
“Once,” Jeff continued, “I paid over two thousand dollars for a piece of a bit that had been used on one of Napoleon’s horses. Napoleon probably had never touched the thing. He would’ve had a livery staff seeing to the livestock. Yet, he’d ridden the horse, and the papers proved it. The client I was representing thought he’d made a steal.”
“When I hooked up with Davenport,” Pettigrew said, “he told me there would be a lot of interest in the set, said I’d make more money than I’d ever dreamed of.” Pettigrew clasped his hands. “Well, I hear a replacement auctioneer made it in last night, so it’ll all be over soon enough. By rights, though, you’re the one should have it.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Pettigrew. I’ll be high bidder.” As Jeff spoke, a piece of something Pettigrew had said earlier shifted in his thoughts. He nudged it across the puzzle-board surface of his mind, pushing it this way and that, trying it first in one hole and then another until it dropped into place. It bottomed out in the pit of his stomach.
If he wasn’t mistaken, Frank Hamilton did have a partner. And that pa
rtner had killed him.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sometimes, by the sheer grace of God, a murder was solved without a grain of concrete evidence falling into the hands of the authorities. It might be in the form of a confession. Even that had its own set of headaches. The crazies, who confessed simply for the thrill of confessing or for some warped attempt at attention and notoriety, had to be weeded out from the innocents who confessed, with the motive of protecting a loved one.
Without those, you tried to solve it with the push. Turn up the heat. Trick the guilty. Let him think he was getting away with it, then with one well-placed kick, knock the props out from under him. Sneaky? Sure. But it could be done.
Jeff was running out of time. He needed to push the killer, get him to prove it. To do that, he needed a plan that would turn up the heat that had fed the fire that had fueled the killer. He needed to put the water back on to boil. He needed to make the kettle whistle till it screamed.
Working on a hunch, Jeff asked Curtis Pettigrew a few more questions. Then he told the old man his suspicions.
They worked out a strategy. After agreeing to meet in the Brighton Pavilion at nine o’clock, Jeff left Pettigrew in the Labyrinth and hurried back to the hotel.
He had a tea party to plan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Talbot!”
Jeff wheeled.
Cal Brookner started toward him from the east end of the porch. He shifted a manila folder to his left hand, then plucked the cigarette from beneath his mustache with his right. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where the hell have you been?”
The detective started to flick the half-smoked weed over the edge, then apparently thought better of it and sought out a stone urn. He vaulted the stick into the white sand.
Jeff wasn’t comfortable talking in the openness of the porch. You never knew who might be on a balcony above you or at one of the windows that opened directly onto the porch from parlor level. He waited until the detective was next to him. “You’ve finished with Ingrid Schreiber. What do you think?”
“I think it looks like we’ve got a whole new case on our hands, and not just because of what she said.” Brookner shuffled through papers in the folder, listing slightly to keep from spilling the flimsy manila’s contents. He pulled a sheet out like he was performing a tablecloth magic act and presented it to Jeff.
“It’s a fax,” he went on. “Just came in from the lab up in Marquette.”
Jeff studied it. “Says here there was no way the murder weapon was a lug wrench.”
“Yeah. I should have known better, trying to wrap this up on account of political pressure. State tourism is one of the governor’s pet projects.”
Jeff continued reading. The report was typed professionally and used the typical terminology: Blunt-instrument blow to base of skull, severe but not isolated as probable cause of death. Massive contusion, right temple. Brain hemorrhage.
At the bottom, someone had scrawled Cal, look in your crystal ball.
“Crystal ball?”
Brookner shrugged. “Damned if I know what it means. I tried to call Nic, but she’s out on another case. Assistant said she’d found something, though. It’s being delivered from Marquette now. I sent Mel over to the mainland to intercept it.”
Jeff pondered that a moment. “You asked where I’d been.”
“Yeah. Is it worth repeating?”
Jeff told the detective about his conversation with Curtis Pettigrew. Some of it, anyway. He leaned in. “I’d like to follow a hunch. Are you willing to help me?”
“I’m willing to listen. Anything beats the hell out of what I’ve got. There are too many connections to Hamilton, and in about three hours every damned one of ‘em is going to scatter across that lake like ducks on opening day.”
The two men went to the interrogation room and Jeff laid out his plan.
After he and Brookner met with hotel personnel, Jeff went to his room, made a phone call, then packed for the return trip home. He wouldn’t have another chance after his plan was set into motion. If things went according to his calculations, he would draw out the murderer, attend the auction, and have just enough time to catch his ferry and make it to the Pellston airport.
He wanted to sleep. His body begged for it. But he knew if he gave in now, he’d be drained of the only thing that was keeping him on his feet. He couldn’t afford to stop. He poured coffee on top of his adrenaline and went downstairs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Brighton Pavilion, one of the larger rooms in the Woodfill Conference Center, gave one the feeling of being outdoors. The walls were light green—bright and fresh—with gleaming white trim. Suspended in a long row overhead were Venetian chandeliers in faceted glass of crystal and emerald, the glass pendants sparkling like dew-covered leaves in sunshine. Jeff had been in here once before, but he hadn’t been aware of its color or design. He’d been too absorbed with the prospect of seeing the cabaret set for the very first time.
Even now, he saw the room as simply a flamboyant backdrop to a looming, dark scene.
Jeff walked in forty-five minutes before his guests were told to arrive. Several security guards were posted around the room.
Curtis Pettigrew had put in his dentures. The smile they created wasn’t echoed in the old man’s eyes. He was seated near the long display case in order to keep an eye on the cabaret set. Jeff’s mind superimposed a vision over the scene, and he saw how Pettigrew would look in a few days, seated beside a casket that held the other treasure of his life. Jeff’s heart went out to the old man. This must be a tremendous strain, having to wait before returning home to make arrangements for his wife’s funeral. He walked over and stooped beside Pettigrew. “I want you to know, I appreciate your help with this. I couldn’t pull it off without you.”
“The Good Book tells us to let the dead bury the dead. I used to wonder what that meant, but now I know. I can’t do anything to help Josie, but maybe I can do some good here.” He leaned closer and Jeff saw a brief spark in the cloudy eyes. The old man whispered, “Besides, she’d love it that her tea set helped capture a criminal.”
“Let’s hope we make her proud, then.”
Jeff discreetly checked behind a folding screen that concealed a service entrance to the room. He made sure the door was unlocked and was surprised to find that everything was already in order on the other side. After that, he arranged three small rows of chairs so that they faced the display case and podium.
The Pavilion’s double doors opened, and Jeff watched as his guests began arriving.
Ben and Jennifer Hurst walked up and began admiring the set. The couple might not always get into the hunt, but it was rewarding to know they had an eye and a spirit for antiques.
Pettigrew was standing beside them, pointing out details. The couple oohed and ahhed over the set’s unparalleled beauty, and Pettigrew’s face was filled with something Jeff could only describe as a poignant mix of pride and pain.
They looked up and greeted Jeff as he approached.
“We were so excited to learn that the auction was being moved up,” Jennifer said.
Jeff smiled. “I think several people feel the same way. I’m glad you made it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Jennifer turned back toward the display case. “I’ve never seen anything like it, have you? And to think that the Empress Josephine actually sat in her chambers in Paris and sipped tea from it.”
“It’s remarkable, isn’t it? To know without doubt that these pieces were once in the presence of such astounding history.”
“Excuse me.”
Jeff turned toward the soft, tiny voice.
“Trudy! I was afraid you wouldn’t get my message.”
She smiled. “I got it a few minutes ago, Mr. Talbot. But what did you mean, ‘We’re having a tea party?’ I’m sure you know it’s not proper for morning.”
Jeff laughed, then said to the others, “Shall we show her?”
All four
of them pivoted away from the glass and stood two by two, creating a sort of wall on either side of the display.
Trudy’s breath caught as if she’d just seen Moses part the waters.
Ben led her to the case, then said to Jeff, “I think we’ll check out some of the other items.”
Jennifer added a warning. “Don’t start the bidding without us.”
Trudy’s eyes were wide with wonder. “Is it? Is it really Blanche’s long-lost tea set?”
“Yes, it really is.”
Wonder was replaced with urgency. “We have to get it back for her, Mr. Talbot. We just have to. Somehow.”
“I’m going to try, Trudy.”
“Trying isn’t good enough.”
“Trust me, Trudy, all right?”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
“Trying isn’t good enough.”
She only smiled, then took a seat in the back row.
Jeff looked several times for Asia Graham, Lily Chastain, and Ruth Ann Longan. The threesome wasn’t there yet.
He watched Ingrid Schreiber walk in, carrying herself with a surety that didn’t completely register in her vivid blue eyes. She was dressed in a similar ensemble to the one she wore when she’d come to his room earlier, only this one was black instead of navy. She, too, sat in the back row. The Hursts took seats in the center row.
It was almost time to begin. Jeff was beginning to worry about the three older women when at last he saw tiny Ruth Ann walk through the door and then turn to look back like a mother duck checking on her brood. Eventually, Asia and Lily hobbled in on the black walking sticks they’d been carrying the night Jeff met them.
The three made their way slowly toward him. When they arrived, Asia and Lily dropped into two chairs in the front row, leaving a vacant one between them for Ruth Ann.
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