The Pearl Dagger

by L. A. Chandlar

  John asked, “May I see it?”

  “Sure.” I flicked it up and over, and handed it to him as Warren gave a chortle of appreciation for my circus trick.

  “Your father was very enamored with this dagger,” said John with a wistful shake of his head. “He used to practice that very trick, Lane. He loved the story of the dagger that Alistair had relayed.”

  “There’s a story to the dagger? Of course there’s a story to the dagger,” I uttered, rolling my eyes.

  “Well, it’s not that incredible. But there had been a tree on the family property, as the story goes, that had been hit by lightning. It burned quite a bit of it, but the wood itself was pretty valuable. They were able to make a few things from it including a long bit that became a mantel. But their favorite was this dagger. A local smith created the blade and the handle with the mother of pearl inlays. Matthew loved the interplay of art combined with danger, black and white, something useful created out of what would have been firewood, beauty that came from literal ashes.”

  “Pulchritudo ex cinere,” I said.

  “He told you?” asked John. I nodded as he said, “I told him the Latin for ‘beauty out of ashes’ and we had a jolly good chat about it.”

  Jack spoke up. “Well, Matthew and Charlotte’s entire story revolved around a journey, of friendships, of mistakes and redemption. Even with that painting of yours, John. The one they wanted to return to your family. The lotus itself stands for rebirth, renewal, a new beginning.”

  John said, “I do love a good journey.”

  “Ah,” I said, nodding. “No wonder it captivated my parents’ imagination. This journey was their new beginning.” I looked at Finn and said, “That’s why they had the lotus flower interlaced through the paneling in his study and around that painting of me. As a reminder.”

  John contemplated saying something, then firmly set his glass down as he came to his decision. “You know, Lane, my mother died from diabetes when I was about the same age as you were when Matthew and Charlotte were killed.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “I only tell you that because I admire people who don’t give up. Or turn bitter.”

  Owen was studying me. I could feel it. I turned to look at him, his piercing, thoughtful eyes. “What’s wrong, Lane? You thought of something, I’d say.”

  “Well . . . let me try to explain. When we first met Alistair, his eyes looked like he was torn. Like he knew something both wonderful and terrible,” I said.

  “Your parents’ story is both wonderful and terrible,” said Warren.

  “True, Warnie,” I said.

  “You’re right, though, Lane. I saw it, too,” said Finn. “Maybe it was because of his part of the story. That he felt ashamed for how your parents found him.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “What do you mean?” asked John.

  “Even after he told us all about that, we offered him nothing but gratitude and he did look relieved,” I said.

  “Well, that’s good then, right?” asked Owen.

  “But it was still in his eyes even then. He was still carrying something terrible.”

  * * *

  We made our way to the quaint little village with a solitary pub. This time, there weren’t any musicians setting up. It was quiet except for the popping and crackling of the fire in the fireplace and Alistair systematically wiping down the glasses and setting them on the shelf with a muffled thunk. I longed for a cheery pipe and fiddle to ease the atmosphere. It was charming, but there was a tightness in the air. Like something held back, taut and ready to release. Maybe it was just me.

  “Well, hello there, Finn and Lane! Welcome back, I wasn’t expecting ya, was going to call after my shift. Come, have a pint on the house,” said Alistair, full of cheer in complete dissonance to my own emotions and expectations. Finn must have been feeling the same way, because he requested a bourbon instead of the pint.

  Alistair eyed us with squinted apprehension. “Well, now. Why do you two look all stormy and dark?” I squinted back, hoping to not see anything. But I did.

  “Alistair. What haven’t you told us?” I asked, cutting to the chase. “And I’ll have what he’s having.”

  Alistair’s face drained of all color as he plunked down a glass for me and poured in a generous hand of bourbon.

  “Oh Gawd,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve worried all these years that maybe something I’d said or done was the thing that got your parents killed. Do you think that’s true, Lane?” he asked, desperation bringing out a sheen of sweat to his brow.

  “Alistair, no,” I said. “Just tell us what you’re not telling us. It will be all right.” I shot a wary look at Finn. “Does it have something to do with my father’s sister?”

  Alistair nodded solemnly. “I’m worried that it does.” He pulled himself a pint and sat down on his own stool, across the bar from us.

  “Why didn’t you tell us anything about her before?” Finn asked.

  “Quite honestly, I didn’t think it was important.”

  “But even then you seemed like you were holding something back,” I said.

  “Well, I have always been plagued by the guilt of it all. To know that your parents’ last act had to do with me. But until recently, I hadn’t thought anything of the fact of Matthew’s sister contacting me all those years ago.

  “You see, she found me and told me she’d known that Matthew had been working with me and with John’s family. She knew that I’d helped them return the painting. She gave me plenty of information so I didn’t have any reason to suspect that she wasn’t his sister.”

  “Of course,” I whispered. Finn and I exchanged a look.

  “She wasn’t hunting for information, just had been traveling and dropped in. Wanted to meet me and hear about their story from me. So we chitchatted for a long time. I told her that I thought it was just lovely that Matthew had been looking into a town just outside Detroit, that he’d enjoyed the thought of its woolen mill and a nice little opera house. She said that yes, he was very much looking forward to settling down. And that she’d be sure to get with her husband—Reuben, was it?”

  “Rutherford,” said Finn.

  “Yeah, that’s it, Rutherford, to get with Matthew. To suggest that they work together to find a good place where they could all settle down in the same town.”

  I suddenly had a splitting headache.

  “It wasn’t until recently that I realized she might not have been who she said she was. Hang on, I have one more thing to give you,” said Alistair, heading to the back room.

  Finn rubbed the back of his neck and said, “I don’t think I can handle one more thing.”

  “I know,” I groaned, slamming back my bourbon.

  Alistair came trotting back, a bag in his enormous hands. “Just yesterday, Matthew’s sister stopped in again. I was about to call you, but then you called me. She said she had lost track of you, that you had moved out of town with your aunt on your mother’s side. She just came in for a pint, but as we talked, she decided that it might be likely that you’d come here sometime.”

  “I bet she did,” I said grimly.

  “So she wanted you to have something of hers. I knew at that point that her story was rubbish. It didn’t add up. Here you go.” He handed me a black velvet bag.

  “What on earth?” asked Finn.

  “Oh boy,” I said.

  “Yeah . . . there was something odd in her excitement for you to have this. It was off-putting.” He was shaking his head in disgust. “She said it was your favorite.”

  I felt in the bag and pulled out a diminutive emerald green pillbox hat with little feathers and a small black veil on the side. The one that had haunted me for years. The one Daphne was wearing the day she loomed over me, helpless and vulnerable in the hospital. Right before she tried to kill me.

  CHAPTER 35

  That night we went dancing.

  Both of us needed to get out of our
heads, to stop thinking about the case and the Red Scroll Network. We needed to get Finn’s family out of our minds, too, and let loose a little.

  The hotel concierge told us about a couple of good dance places nearby. We met a few couples who didn’t know some of our dance steps, so we taught them a couple of our finer moves of the Lindy hop and they taught us a special little twirl move that we practiced until I was dizzy.

  They asked us how the end of Prohibition was going in the States and what it was like living in New York. And they filled us in on how their country was rebuilding, it had been hard, but feeling more normal these days after the war and the economic depression that they termed the Great Slump. But no one dared to speak of the elephant in the room. The one wearing a swastika. We all knew Hitler’s Germany was on our minds, but it was a silent, unanimous pact to leave his name unspoken, to not sully the glittering, jolly, companionable night.

  On the eighteenth try of the twirl move, I rocked a bit unsteadily in my shoes. “Okay. That’s enough Fred Astaire,” I said. “I need a drink and to not spin for a moment.”

  Finn chuckled and placed his hand on the small of my back as he led us to the bar.

  “I’ll have a White Lady, please,” I told the bartender. He nodded smartly as Finn ordered a Pain Killa. My mouth watered thinking of the gin, lemon, and Cointreau in my frothy drink.

  “Who are you looking for?” asked Finn, noting my eyes roaming the room.

  “It’s funny, but being here makes me miss New York more than anything. I miss Val and Roarke.”

  “We really haven’t been here that long, but it feels like it’s been ages,” he said, sipping his cocktail.

  We’d booked our passage back to New York, having secured two tickets on the Normandie in just two days. We’d have to take a train and then a ferry across the English Channel to LeHavre, France, where we’d board the famous Art Deco marvel. I’d seen photographs in magazines of the interior of the ship; I could barely wait to look at and touch everything. We had two days to wrap up our time here in London.

  “So how are you doing, love? Really,” asked Finn softly.

  I gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Well, after almost fainting from seeing that god-awful green hat in my hands, I’m not doing too badly.”

  “You don’t faint, Lane,” chided Finn.

  “I know. I hate it when women faint at random moments in a movie,” I said with disgust.

  “I know you. You’d only faint to get yourself out of a scrape,” he said with a cheeky grin.

  “That I’d do. Absolutely.”

  “So . . . again, how are you?” I looked at his eyes, he was standing so close. The place was packed and loud, so we had to pretty much speak right into each other’s ear to hear properly. How was I?

  A tiny bit of moisture rimmed my eyes and gave Finn his answer. He said, “Yeah, me too. I’m so sorry.”

  I sniffed. “It’s just . . . so sad. I feel better knowing my parents went to great lengths to get John’s family painting back, to make amends for the darker part of their work. But damn, Finn. The very thing that they did to redeem themselves is the thing that led Rex to killing them. Their act of kindness got them murdered. It’s cruel.”

  “It really is, love.” He dug around his inner jacket pocket. “Cigarette?” he asked, pulling out his Chesterfields and matches.

  “Yes, thanks.” He lit my cigarette and I inhaled, pleased to have something to do with my hands while we talked.

  “You know, Lane, that piece of intelligence was probably one of the things that clinched Daphne being the heir to the legacy. Plus . . .” He gave a sort of grimace.

  “Yeah, got them into bed together. I wonder where Rex and Daphne’s story started, how and when Daphne took control of that situation, betraying her husband for her husband’s father. She did pay quite a price, though; playing up the insanity role. Could’ve definitely had its downsides.”

  Finn raised his eyebrows. “True. You know? I think we should have one more dance, then I want to make another stop before we call it a night. Sound good, Lane?”

  “Sure. Sounds great. But I’m not doing that twirl again. I’m still woozy.”

  * * *

  We arrived at the pub that started it all.

  Miles was still at the corner table, making me wonder if he lived there. He seemed well-established as a permanent fixture. But who I was surprised to see was the bulldog of a man next to him.

  “What do we have here, Mr. Churchill?” I greeted. He quickly ordered another vermouth-less martini.

  We sat down and filled them both in on all the happenings. Mr. Churchill was a careful listener, squinting his eyes in thoughtful consideration.

  Miles said, “Yeah, Finn, yeah. It makes sense that something gave the Lorians’ location away.”

  I said, “It bothers me that their act of kindness led to them being killed.”

  “Well, Lane, they never gave up, now, did they?” said Mr. Churchill. “One should never, never, never give up fighting for good. Here’s the thing. Yes, that act led to someone finding them and their eventual demise.” He took his final swig of his drink, then slammed his martini glass down and growled, “However . . . don’t believe for an instant that the Network wouldn’t have found them regardless. In our day and age, you cannot stay hidden. But, my dear, what they won’t be able to control, what they will not be able to contain . . .” His voice grew in resonance and intensity. I found myself sitting forward, hanging on to his every word. “What they are certain to underestimate are the powerful ripples of goodness that radiate out from enormous and selfless acts such as they achieved. It will be Daphne’s downfall. Mark my words.”

  Indeed I would.

  CHAPTER 36

  Before heading to our ship home, we closed out our time in London with a trip to Scotland Yard to finish up our business between Finn’s brother and the police. We made sure they had everything they needed from us for their case against Sean and Gwen. We then headed to Vivian’s to say good-bye.

  She’d become the talk of the retirement home and had acquired so many fans, she had a full schedule and many dance requests to fulfill for their next little soiree. I felt certain that though we were sad to leave her behind, she would be in good hands and possibly having the time of her life. We promised to come back soon, and that we’d also work to get her to visit us in New York, as well.

  The Normandie was splendid. Its artful opulence toyed with our imagination and created an atmosphere full of elegance but frosted with the spunk of modern art. I especially loved its rakish clipper-style bow. The luxury had no end, with wide grand staircases, indoor and outdoor pools, and the only ship with an outdoor tennis court. Even the children’s dining room had lovely murals of Babar the Elephant and friends. The most stunning room was the first-class dining hall that could seat seven hundred people. Even the bronze medallion doors were breathtaking at twenty feet tall. The room was over three hundred feet long, longer than the Versailles Hall of Mirrors, which was its claim to fame.

  I slept in late every morning, enjoying the slow days, feeling the need to rest and recuperate. Finn and I tried to not look at the clocks, to eat when we were hungry, sleep when we were tired. We were at sea, away from any obligations and intrigue. I read books, drank lots of tea, and let the swell of the deep waters lull me into a deep tranquility.

  We arrived just five days later in New York Harbor. Evening time in New York was always wondrous. With my hands on the cold railing, overlooking our approach past the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, I took in the sight that made my heart race with delight. The air in the harbor was unlike the LeHavre or the English harbors. I think it was the unique blend of both salt and fresh water. It was fresh and uplifting, making you breathe deeper and fostering a sense of eagerness. The thousands of windows in the skyline sparkled like Neverland. My stomach tingled with excitement and I found myself bouncing on my toes like Fio.

  Mr. Kirkland and Aunt Evelyn met us just off the g
angplank. With a whoosh, I was enveloped in Evelyn’s arms.

  “Oh, Lane! It’s so good to see you! I can’t wait to hear all about your adventure.” She put me at arm’s length to take a good look at me with her steely gray eyes.

  “Oh, do we have the stories to tell!” I exclaimed.

  Finn greeted Mr. Kirkland and I bit back a laugh as I heard Finn say dubiously, “You even brought Ripley, huh?”

  Mr. Kirkland gruffly replied, “Well, of course! He missed you, too.” Which was a dear thought, and it was indeed so sweet to see my furry defender and comforter. However, it also meant that Finn and I would have to share the backseat of Mr. Kirkland’s sedan with the giant German shepherd. Who’d been quite excited and was panting. And drooling.

  We made it back to my home and Finn decided to have a late dinner with us and relax before heading to his place. We trooped up the front steps of our brownstone. The warm home, with golden light in the front window to welcome us back, felt just dreamy. It was wonderful traveling, but when you had a safe and sweet home to go back to, it was the best feeling.

  We headed back to the kitchen, where all deep conversations happen. Before we could say just a few words—as predictable as all get-out—Roarke and Fiorello showed up, banging through the door like a jolly maelstrom. As Evelyn opened the wine and Kirkland finished up the dinner preparations, we regaled them all with the events of the last few weeks.

  Then we sat down to dinner and enjoyed the thinly sliced pork chops with a light apricot jam and soy sauce glaze. Our stories must have really been captivating, because they let us finish the entire tale without so much as one exclamation. I had to admit, our new British friends and the tale as a whole were pretty darn exciting. And Finn and I were getting to be fabulous raconteurs. Miles would be proud.

  While we had dessert, my favorite chocolate chip cookies, I asked, “So where’s Valerie? I thought she’d come, too. I really missed her.”