Thorne immediately realized she not only suffered from a crippling condition, she was also blind. He stepped forward and said, “How do you do, I’m David Thorne. I’m a friend of Gil’s.”
The young woman’s smile exuded warmth and sincerity. With her violet eyes and dark, almost black hair, she reminded him of a young Elizabeth Taylor at the age of twenty-one, and the embodiment of female beauty. Her response was warm and simple. In a lilting voice she said, “I’m Gweneth Bada—I’m Gilbert’s sister. It’s so nice to meet you.” She brightened and was direct. “Your hands are rough. You work with your hands don’t you? I don’t meet too many men who work with their hands, anymore.” As she was wheeled into the dining room, she turned back in his direction, smiled, and said goodbye before joining the others.
There were other times when Thorne had met a woman and felt an unfathomable attraction to her. This was one of those times. He was immediately drawn to her. Her infirmities meant nothing to him, he felt a softness toward her, and was thoroughly taken with her—though he realized she was much too young for him.
Bada held back before joining the others. “The group has agreed to the fee, and I will serve as solicitor—what you call an attorney here in the states—for the group’s contractual matters. Can you join Freddie and me for breakfast at the Camelback Inn tomorrow morning around nine? We’ll bring the plans and other documents you’ll need to examine.”
“Yes, and I’ll bring my contract,” said Thorne. He immediately realized he was giving his tacit agreement to take the job. For better or worse, he was in.
Victor Roberts looked at the caller ID on his cell phone before answering. He recognized the number and said, “I saw the target’s pickup leaving Raskin’s house. It looks like he spent at least an hour in there. That would indicate we didn’t scare him off. It looks like he might take the job, Right.”
“That would appear to be the case. We don’t want him going to Stratford.
Were you able to find and old car that can’t be traced?”
“Yeah, I nicked an old junk car in South Phoenix. They won’t miss it for a couple of days.”
“Do what you have to do. Make it look like an accident.”
Chapter 11
As Thorne drove back to his small house in Sunnyslope he was pre-occupied with thoughts of the upcoming job and the lucrative fee he was to receive—and the beautiful Gweneth Bada. He paid little attention to the old tan Chevrolet that followed in a line of cars half a block back.
Victor Roberts, the driver of the Chevrolet, was cautious as he turned off North Central and followed Thorne toward the mountains. They were out in the desert now and Thorne turned off the main road onto a narrow dirt road that circled up the side of a mountain. Roberts followed him and pulled up close to him. Roberts sped up and clipped the right edge of the truck’s tailgate.
Thorne glanced out the side window at the one hundred foot drop off. He regained control and sped up kicking up dirt and gravel in the path of the Chevrolet.
By the time Roberts regained his vision of the truck, it was two hundred yards up the road with dust boiling behind it.
Roberts chuckled to himself. He took a notepad from his pocket with an address and a hand-drawn map showing the location of Thorne’s house. “Don’t be so jolly, Mate. I know where you live.”
Thorne drove around the mountain, found a secluded canyon, and parked. He had a view of the road below and could see his pursuer headed back to the main road. He drove back down and took a circuitous route to his house. He was becoming alarmed at the attacks—this one was not just a warning, they were serious. Maybe he should reconsider taking the job.
Thorne wasn’t rested when he arose at six the next morning.
Standing for a long time in the shower, he felt the relaxing hot needles of the shower on his back as he tried to clarify how he should proceed. This was normal for him now—this analyzing procedure. He blocked everything else from his mind when he was working—or he would be soon.
The image of the beautiful young Gweneth Bada crossed his mind. She was about the age of his wife when they met and married fifteen years ago in Chicago.
Since their divorce, Thorne had no women in his life—and hadn’t had a long-lasting relationship since his divorce twelve years ago. He remembered the wife he had loved, and believed she had loved him in return. The construction accident, lawsuit, and resulting publicity had been too much for her. She had been born into a world where nothing ever went wrong. Things had gone wrong—terribly wrong—wrong enough to where it was a shock to her delicate system and she couldn’t recover—at least with him. He had lost his architectural practice, all of his assets, and his good name. When these things began piling in on him, he also lost her. She fled from him—ignoring the facts that proved he was not responsible for the construction accident where a man had lost his life. All that mattered to her was what her socialite friends would think of her if she stayed with him. He resolved he would never open himself up to a woman again. That was it—no more.
He still didn’t feel comfortable about the job and knew he had to be on guard—but he had to get the assault off his mind. The explanation by his client—or in this case, clients— had taken an inordinate amount of time. He usually insisted a client give him all the information immediately. At that point, he normally prepared a simple one-page agreement letter, the client signed it, gave him a retainer, and he began work on the investigation. It was that simple.
He still didn’t know what else he was to do other than go to England, dress up in English clothes, pose as an architect interested in old castles, and look for old documents.
Here he was with doubts about taking the highest-paying job in his ten years as a private investigator. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. “Get control of yourself, Thorne. You’re in no position to be turning down a job—especially a job like this.”
Chapter 12
The dining room of the Camelback Inn was bright and cheerful, and the ambience of the room was made even more pleasant by live piano music emanating from the lobby. Bada and Freddie exchanged light talk with Thorne as they ate their breakfast of ham, eggs and hash brown potatoes. Freddie bubbled, “I say, you Yanks do know how to put on a proper breakfast. On the whole, quite good.”
Thorne smiled at the young man. Freddie Hollister was upbeat, always positive, and exuded good will, quite different from the older members of the group. Thorne decided Freddie was a man with whom he might be friends.
He hadn’t made a decision about Gilbert Bada. He was about the same age as Freddie, yet more reserved and mature, and appeared to be a pleasant and cultured young man.
After breakfast, Bada examined Thorne’s one-page letter of agreement before him. He looked up. “This is excellent. I must say you’ve been thorough and succinct, Mr. Thorne.” He caught himself and said, “I’m sorry, I’ll have to get used to calling you David.
“We have no problem with your contract. Three months at ten thousand a month.” He signed both copies and placed one in a large brief case, and returned the other to Thorne. He thumbed through a sheaf of documents before handing the files to Freddie. “As Chester—Mr. Raskin—said last evening, you’ll be our eyes and ears in helping us find the documents in the castle. Our files will give you additional information we believe will substantiate our theory about de Vere.”
Thorne asked, “Will I have problems with the town officials?”
Bada said, “Probably not, but you might with Neville Forestal, the town’s Architect. He’s a good friend of Gweneth and the Bada family, and Freddie and I have known him since we were children. As we have said previously, he’s not opposed to renovating the castle, but he’s opposed to Freddie relocating a new bookstore in the castle. He has always been opposed to Freddie carrying such a large amount of pro-de Vere publications in his bookstore in Henley Street.”
Freddie said, “I think your presence will be helpful. As I’ve said, Neville and I have had our differe
nces on other matters in the past.”
Bada said, “We’ll be leaving for London next week and I suggest you cram on the things you’ll find in the file. This will include Stratford, Shakespeare, de Vere, castles—especially English—Queen Elizabeth I, the Tudors, and that era in general. I realize you do not want to be involved in the controversy, but the overall information may be helpful when you make it known you’re conducting research for a book on castles.”
Bada took a check from the folder and pushed it across the table to Thorne. “This is the first month’s payment on your services. It’s a bit unusual—a retainer of this size—but I think your reputation allows it.”
Thorne looked at the check. Ten thousand dollars. He couldn’t believe it. He slipped the check in his shirt pocket and said, “Thanks.”
Freddie had been preoccupied with the files before handing them to Thorne. “I’m so pleased you’re with us, and please call me Freddie.” He blushed and upon recovery said, “I’m afraid I’m not very good at these clandestine activities.”
Thorne smiled in an attempt to relieve Freddie’s embarrassment. “It appears it’s going to be interesting. You can call me David, Freddie.” He liked Freddie. He realized he would probably get more inside information about the job—and England in general—from Freddie than from the others.
Bada said, “Inside the file folder, you’ll also find a photocopy of the single page letter we’ve been referring to in our conversations.
Freddie returned to the subject of the file. “I acquired the original letter in that file from a source in London a year or so ago. I’ve had portions of the paper and ink authenticated by experts. These experts confirm it is late sixteenth century. I’ve cross-checked the information in the letter against other documents of the same time period and I strongly believe—”
He paused before continuing and shook his head. “No. I’m sure it’s an authentic letter from Richard Moldar, the builder of the castle, to his son, Bascomb. It describes events that took place around 1582 when Edward de Vere was present at the Moldar manor.” He removed a manila folder from a briefcase at his feet and flipped through it. “Here we also have a clarified transcript of the original letter Moldar wrote to his son in 1594. Your copy is in your file folder. The letter, among other things, describes various activities Moldar was involved in—bribes to Lord Burghley, the queen’s advisor—that sort of thing.
Thorne glanced briefly at the transcript. “Do you think this letter describes all the documents that may be hidden in the castle?
Freddie fidgeted before answering. “Possibly. We can’t be absolutely certain. Edward de Vere was an exceptionally accomplished man. We do know he was a man of letters, well-traveled, sophisticated in matters of royal protocol—things the Stratford man was lacking in—and we do know de Vere had valuable connections in the queen’s court. Lord Cecil Burghley, Secretary of State, High Treasurer, and chief advisor to Queen Elizabeth, was de Vere’s father-in-law and it appears Moldar had concerns about de Vere retaining the connection with Burghley, as well as his own.”
With finality he said, “Other available de Vere letters and writings are so in concert with Shakespeare’s style. I would stake everything that de Vere is the true author.”
Bada touched a napkin to his lips and stood. He shook Thorne’s hand and said, “I suppose we need to let you go now. I look forward to seeing you in Stratford.”
Freddie smiled warmly and shook Thorne’s hand. “I have your e-mail address. I’ll be in touch. Maybe we can have lunch before we leave.”
After Thorne deposited the check in the bank, the stress of going month-to-month on his meager income disappeared. Now he could relax. He used the ten-thousand dollar retainer to catch up on the loan on his pickup truck, pay off his delinquent credit card accounts, and deposit the remaining four thousand. He assumed he would need only a nominal amount for personal expenses once in England. However, the ridiculous matter of his clients buying him clothes still annoyed him.
Chapter 13
The business license mounted on the wall behind the cash register identified the establishment as the Davis Bar and Grille, but it was commonly known by the regulars as Georgie’s Bar.
Georgette Flynn—or Georgie—as she had been affectionately known, had been a larger than life character and was primarily responsible for the bars success. Her husband Eddie Davis had started the bar and café twenty years earlier and she had been his first waitress. Eddie was in his sixties when he married Georgie and she died at a young age ten years later. After she died, he didn’t know what else to do, so he kept the bar and it became his life.
Thorne entered and sat at the counter. A perky uniformed young waitress with a flamboyant starched pink handkerchief flowing out of the pocket of her blouse appeared.
“What’ll it be, Hon.”
“Two eggs, over easy, dry toast, oatmeal, orange juice.
“You got it, Darlin’” she chirped as she spun around, and wheeled off in the direction of the kitchen.
Eddie approached and said, “Hey, Dave, how’s tricks? We haven’t seen you around for a while. I’m glad you came in. I’ve been wanting to tell you, a fellow came in last week and asked if I knew an architect named David Thorne. “Since your name’s Dave I thought it might be you.”
Thorne kept the smile frozen on his face. “Friends call me Dave, but my last name is Carson. I’m a finish carpenter and bricklayer.” He shrugged and said, “Never heard of any architect named David Thorne.” Thinking it might be the large man who had assaulted him at the hotel or the man who had tried to kill him on the mountain road, he asked, “What did he look like?”
Eddie sucked on a tooth. “Scrawny little fellow with a long face and a sharp nose. Didn’t get his name. Had an accent, but I couldn’t place it.”
The young waitress brought Thorne his breakfast, and Thorne took a bite out of a corner of the toast. “What kind of accent? Was it Southern—Brooklyn—maybe English—you know, from Great Britain?”
Eddie squinted and looked off in the distance. “No . . . more like a foreign accent, but not exactly. Could have been English—yeah, it could have been.”
“Well, the next time I’m in, maybe you could quietly point him out to me—if he’s here. Might be a process server. I don’t want him serving me a subpoena by mistake.” He chuckled and took a sip of orange juice.
As he drove back to his house in Sunnyslope, Thorne realized he’d have to stop having breakfast or lunch at Georgie’s Bar. He suspected the assault outside the Biltmore and the attempt on his life on the mountain road, could be connected with this new man with the British accent—or maybe his clients were keeping tabs on him? His concern prompted him to go to the Home Depot and buy electrical wire and lighting supplies.
Back at the Sunnyslope house, he placed pillows under a blanket on his bed, made a makeshift bed on the floor in his large walk-in closet, and slept with his .38 service revolver under his pillow. Interior floodlights were controlled by a switch in the closet, and pointed in the direction of the door coming into the bedroom, blinding anyone in their beam. An outside motion sensor was wired to an alarm buzzer in the closet.
The first few nights were uneventful, and Thorne began to think he may have over-reacted to the possible danger. The third night, around two o’clock, he was awakened by the buzzer he kept in his hand. He reached under his pillow for his .38 service revolver, turned over on his stomach, and cocked the hammer on the gun. He peered through the louvers of the closet door and listened.
Soft footsteps made a barely audible sound in the kitchen area where he had sprinkled cornflakes on the floor. The door to the bedroom opened slowly. He pressed a switch and a bright spotlight threw a concentrated beam of light directly on the doorway.
The intruder’s gun had a suppressor on it, and it made three, quick, soft whooshing sounds as it punched into the pillows under the blanket on the bed.
Thorne pushed open the closet doors, and pointing the revolve
r up in the direction of the door, squeezed off two quick shots. He missed his target as the intruder wheeled and disappeared through the bedroom door, slamming it behind him.
As Thorne jumped up and opened the door, another shot went into the doorframe above his head. He ducked behind a kitchen counter and waited. The door to the carport opened, a small slender figure ran swiftly through it, and out toward the front of the property.
Thorne had made the mistake of being barefoot and couldn’t follow through the rocks and cactus. He half-knelt and steadied his elbow on his knee. He was able to get off two quick shots before the figure rushed through the front gate and jumped in the driver’s side of the small car. The car sped off in a boiling cloud of dust and was out of sight in a matter of seconds.
Back inside, Thorne’s adrenaline was pumping and his nerves twitched like electric wires as he walked back and forth through the darkened house. He didn’t go back to sleep and spent the rest of the night huddled in a dark corner, clutching the pistol and rolling over in his mind the meaning of the attack. He scolded himself for not making preparations and having shoes on when he ran outside.
Was this a return visit from the foul-breathed young man who assaulted him at the Biltmore. No, the figure was too small. It was probable the man Eddie had told him about at Georgie’s Bar?
Whoever the intruder was, he definitely did not want Thorne to go to Stratford. It appeared the attacks and attempts on his life were by two people charged with seeing he didn’t. He was becoming annoyed by the attention they were paying him. Annoyed enough to where he resolved he was not going to be deterred from a very lucrative fee.
The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1) Page 5