"Then, last week, Tommy comes to me and says Buck's holding out on us. Says he has proof that Buck has found the clue and that he's working with someone else. I told him no way Buck would do that to me but Tommy's like all agitated and says he can prove it. So I say, how, and he says he followed Buck and got a picture of his truck and also another car which proved that Buck was working with someone else. He said he followed Buck up the trail and found his backpack and climbing gear and decided to look through the pack. Inside was the clue we'd been looking for. Tommy says he took the note and hid it because for one, he wanted to prove to me that my brother was cheating us and two, he figured the note was ours as much as Buck's." He paused, looking around for the waitress.
"Did he show you the note?"
"He was going to, but then he got mad and accused me of being in on it with Buck. See, I didn't want to believe Tommy. I mean, Buck's different, you know, but he's still my brother. People think he's just a dumb jock, but actually he's pretty smart. But it's like he doesn't want people to know he's smart, so he acts dumb, gets into fights a lot and can be mean, especially to my friends. That's why I figured he was pulling a prank on Tommy." Bart's green eyes were watching me closely.
"I don't get it," I said.
He sighed. "Every friendship I ever had, I mean with a good friend, Buck figured out a way to screw it up. I figured this was just another example of Buck trying to get between me and a friend." Bart smiled at the waitress, who brought him another Coke without asking, then returned his gaze to me.
"So you thought he was playing a prank?"
"Exactly. I figured Tommy wouldn't lie to me, so the only explanation had to be that Buck knew Tommy was checking up on him and decided to plant a phony note, just to freak Tommy out. I guess you'd have to know Buck to understand this, but trust me, it's something he would do. Anyway, I confronted Buck myself, told him that Tommy had followed him to the ridge, taken pictures of his truck and another car and had found the phony note in his backpack. I told him to admit that he'd tried to fool Tommy with a phony note. I said I knew for a fact that it was phony, 'cause I had found the real one myself."
"Whoa. Back up a second. You found a note, too?"
Bart smiled sheepishly, toying with his glass. "I told you this was complicated. See, after Tommy told me that Buck was up there working on his own, I followed him myself, just to see."
"When was this?" I interrupted.
"Friday. I took the afternoon off and went looking for Buck. He was parked at the bottom of the ridge all right, so I started up after him, then decided it would be interesting just to watch him through the binoculars from this granite ledge I'd seen. Easier than tracking him, too. Anyway, I got up there and started searching the trees and ground and all of the sudden I saw the red bandana myself about two thirds the way up this humongous fir tree! I couldn't believe it! First of all, I was relieved that Tommy was wrong about Buck. Then I started getting all sweaty and my heart started pounding hard because I realized I'd found the real clue!"
"And?" I hated to say so, but the chance of even one bandana staying tied to a tree for a hundred years and somehow maintaining its red color seemed pretty remote. I bit my tongue and let him continue.
"I picked out a landmark, counted trees and tried to memorize where it was. Seeing it from the ledge was one thing. Finding it from the bottom would be something else. Anyway, I figured it was going to take at least two of us to get to it, maybe using walkie-talkies with the person on the ledge giving directions. I was so excited, I couldn't think straight. Now that I'd found the real clue, I didn't even care about Buckie's little game. But when I got back to town and told Tommy, he started accusing me of being part of Buck's plan, trying to throw him off-track. As soon as he got the film developed he was gonna prove that Buck was cheating us. I told him that maybe Buck was up there looking, but that the note was a phony, just to fool Tommy. But Tommy wasn't buying it. He said he'd checked and the note he had taken from Buck's backpack was real. Then he started looking at me like I was in on it with Buck and he just stormed away."
Bart leaned back and blew red wisps off his forehead, clearly upset by what had happened. But at the same time, he seemed relieved to be sharing it with someone.
"I called him Saturday night after he'd calmed down a little, and that's when he said that he'd show me the pictures and note the next day. Then Buck comes in demanding to know what Tommy and I were discussing and I just flat out told him everything — how Tommy had seen his truck and followed him, how he'd found the phony note in Buck's pack, how I'd known all along that it was just a prank, and how I had seen the real bandana from up on the ledge. Well, instead of being excited about what I'd found, Buck went ballistic. Said he was gonna kill that sorry little punk, and that if I knew what was good for me I'd steer clear. I know that sounds pretty incriminating but, the thing is, you have to know Buck. He says stuff like that all the time, doesn't mean anything. But the way he reacted, I started thinking that maybe he wasn't just playing a prank. Maybe Tommy was right about him cheating us. But then, what about the bandana I saw in the tree?"
"And this was Saturday night?"
"Yeah. I know what you're thinking. That Buck's the one who jumped Tommy in the park the next day, but he's not. He was mad and he wanted his note back, but I know he wouldn't have actually hurt Tommy. I think he did go to the park to confront him but by then it was too late. Someone else had gotten to him."
"How about this other car? Buck say who was with him?"
Bart shook his head, his green eyes puzzled. "He had no idea what Tommy was talking about, and I believe him on that. What's the point in lying? Yesterday he admitted to me that he'd kept the note to himself because he didn't trust Tommy. He swears he was going to tell me once the time was right. Now all he wants is to find the note again. I told him to leave Tommy's place alone, but I just knew he wouldn't listen."
"You really think your brother found a note that no one else has been able to find all these years?"
"Well, he and Tommy both think so. But what about the bandana I saw?"
"Anyone else know about all this?"
"Not as far as I know. Except maybe whoever was in the other car Tommy saw. Maybe if you find him, you'll know what happened to Tommy."
Which was exactly what I'd been thinking.
"So you don't know if Buck found what he was looking for at Tommy's last night or not?"
"I kind of doubt it."
"Why's that?"
"When I got home this morning, he was passed out on the sofa, and from the look of things, I could tell he'd really tied one on. Buck only does that when he's really, really ticked off. He wasn't celebrating, Cass. He was working himself into a rage."
Chapter Seven
After talking to Bart, I headed straight for the little clapboard duplex he shared with his brother, but Buck was already gone. According to Bart, Buck only worked odd jobs and wasn't currently employed. Chances were, he was up on Rainbow Ridge in search of the lost treasure. If I wanted to talk to him, I'd probably have to find him there, but I wasn't exactly prepared for a hike in the wilderness just then. On the other hand, there was nothing that said I couldn't poke around a little, just to get a feel for the guy.
Well, there was the law against breaking and entering, of course, but I try not to dwell on the little stuff.
Their unit was in back, off the street and away from prying eyes. As I passed the front unit, a small dog barked but nobody peered out the window, so I was fairly certain no one was home. I knocked on their door again, making sure they didn't have a dog, then took out my picks. It only took me a minute to spring the cheap lock and I was inside.
Where Tommy's place had been relatively neat and homey, Buck and Bart lived in disarray. Right away I could tell that one of them was a slob, and it didn't take long to figure out which one. While the kitchen was neat enough, the living room was strewn with both under- and outer-garments in serious need of laundering. A note on the refrig
erator door reminded Buck it was his turn to take out the trash, but when I checked under the sink, it was obvious he'd ignored the reminder. The bathroom sink had been recently cleaned, but the toilet was unflushed. One bedroom showed a neatly made bed and organized closet; the other was a disaster area. Buck's room smelled of bourbon and cigarettes, and a few of the beer cans he used for ashtrays had toppled over, spilling a sooty fluid onto the cheap laminate desktop.
How in the world did twins end up like Oscar Madison and Felix Unger? I wondered. Was Bart driven to clean up Buck's messes because of some innate sense of order? Or was Buck reckless and disorderly out of rebellion against Bart's orderly nature? The poor mother, I thought. On the other hand, it could've been worse. She could've had two like Buck.
Gingerly, without wanting to breathe in the rancid odors of Buck's closet, I went through his pants' pockets, finding matches, a stick of gum, a crumpled dollar bill, but nothing of importance. If he'd found what he was looking for at Tommy's, he'd probably taken it with him. Still, I crawled under the bed, searching for any clue that might shed some light on whether Buck had been the one to attack Tommy. Unless soiled socks and a moldy potato chip were evidence, it was a wasted effort.
Next, I went through Buck's drawers and was rewarded with equally worthless findings. But in the top drawer, beneath the wadded-up boxer shorts and white T-shirts, I unearthed a framed photograph of the Bailey brothers, around age seven, with their parents and little sister. The mother, a redhead like the boys, had a sweet smile, reminding me of Bart. She had her hands on both boys' shoulders and was gazing fondly at Bart, who was grinning gap-toothed at his brother. The father was a burly man with a Marine-style crew cut and smile that leaned toward a smirk. His arms were crossed, showing bulging biceps and what looked like well-practiced impatience. But what I found most interesting was Buck. The meanness hadn't crept into his eyes yet and his smile seemed genuine. He held his little redheaded sister in his arms with obvious adoration. She looked like a miniature Shirley Temple, all dimples and curls. It was a revealing snapshot, I thought. The mother adored Bart. Bart adored Buck, Buck adored the sister, and the father adored no one except maybe himself. But how had that angelic boy turned into such a hardened bully? When had his sweet nature turned into anger? And anger at whom? What had happened to Buck Bailey that made him so unlikable?
I stuffed the photo back down into the drawer and moved to the desk, avoiding the gunk that had seeped out of the spilled beer cans. A desk lamp had been left on and beneath it was a phone book opened to the T's. Idly, I scanned the page, wondering who Buck had wanted to call. I pushed redial on the phone and listened with disappointment to the spiel from Dominick's Pizza Pub. Obviously, that wasn't the number Buck had sought. Or maybe it wasn't a phone number he wanted at all, but rather an address. I continued down the page and was almost to the bottom when the name jumped out at me, making my pulse quicken. E. Trinidad on Willow Cove in Cedar Hills. Erica's address. Why would Buck Bailey be interested in where Erica Trinidad lived? Did he suspect that she knew more than she'd said?
I finished my search hastily, knowing I'd already stayed inside longer than I should have. It was mid-afternoon and I still needed to check on Tommy. Maybe he'd come to and could clear everything up, I thought optimistically. I kept that hope alive on the drive to the hospital, but only made it as far as the nurse's station before being stopped by a white-garbed gendarme in a sour mood. I explained who I was, but her lips were pursed and she was shaking her head and there was no way I was going to get past her. She assured me that his condition was unchanged, that my number was on the list to call if something did change, and that meanwhile his mother, sister and aunt were visiting as often as allowed.
"Do you know where I might find them?" I tried, knowing Tommy didn't have a sister. Maybe a girlfriend was posing as a sister, so she could get in to see him, I thought.
"I believe the sheriff took them to lunch. They seem to be holding up just fine." In other words, I should butt out.
I stopped at MacGregors on the way back and shopped for groceries. Whenever I'm upset, I cook, and with everything that had happened the past two days, I was in need of some serious culinary therapy. I picked up some chanterelles, a pint of half-and-half, a pound of butter, some Parmisiano Reggiano, an artichoke, some chicken breasts and a few other odds and ends I didn't have on hand. Then I sped back to my place, letting the summer sunshine soothe my soul and the cool breeze lift my spirits.
To my surprise, when I rounded the island, I could see someone standing on my dock, waving something in the air. Was someone in trouble? My pulse quickened and my mind raced with possibilities. As I drew closer, however, I saw it was a white flag being waved and the person doing the waving was Erica Trinidad. She wasn't in trouble. She was calling for a truce.
"Cute," I said, suppressing a smile as I pulled up to the dock. Erica bent over and secured the lines to metal cleats. She was wearing white cotton shorts that showed off long brown legs and a tank top that showed off the rest of her. Her dark hair was damp and unbrushed, as if she'd just been for a swim and hadn't completely dried off. I handed her a bag of groceries and climbed out with the other two. "Where's your boat?"
"I hid it around the cove in that willow brush. It took me fifteen minutes to walk a few hundred yards of shoreline, can you believe it? I had to jump in the lake to cool off."
"Why'd you hide your boat, Erica?"
"I think someone's been following me. I think there were two people in the boat, but I can't be positive. I noticed them just outside the marina. They stayed back, but kept making the same turns I was. When I pulled into my place, they went on past, but I'd swear they were tailing me. I waited until I couldn't see them anymore, then came over here and hid the boat. I saw them go by real slowly a little while ago but they never turned into this cove."
Buck Bailey had looked up Erica's address. Was he following her? If so, why? And who was with him? I wondered if he owned a boat. Maybe he'd had to borrow a friend's.
"What kind of boat?"
"A little bigger than yours, but flatter, like a ski boat. Dark-colored, I think. They never got close enough for me to see more." She paused and waited for me to look at her. "Cass, about last night. I'm sorry. I was out of line and acted like a jerk."
"Right on both counts. Come on. You can help me put these away, then put something warmer on. You look cold."
Erica looked down at her chest and I could've sworn she blushed. "I was going to call you later, let you know how Tommy was..." she said.
"You got in to see Tommy?" I wheeled around, staring incredulously.
She grinned. "I said I was his sister. I met his mom and aunt and they vouched for me. They're really nice. Tommy probably didn't know we were there, of course. You should see him, Cass. He looks smaller. All these tubes and monitors. It's scary. Anyway, Booker took us to lunch and I got to know them pretty well. You can see why Tommy's such a nice guy."
"How did Booker seem?" I asked.
"Charming as usual, in front of the others. He sure let me have an earful though, when he walked me to my car."
"I had to tell him, Erica. It was wrong not to tell him sooner."
She nodded and followed me up the walkway to the house. Panic and Gammon greeted us vociferously, rubbing our ankles and making our path to the kitchen more difficult.
"What are you going to make?" Erica asked, unpacking groceries. She threw an empty sack on the floor and Panic dove into it, her long twitching tail the only part sticking out. Gammon, all twenty pounds of her, pounced on the sack and a hilarious battle ensued.
"I was in the mood for pasta. Thought I'd sauté the chanterelles, then make a Parmesan cream sauce, grill the chicken, steam the artichoke, like that."
"If I promise to do all the dishes, feed the cats and never argue with you again, will you invite me to stay for dinner?"
"Only if you help with the pasta. You can start by getting the machine down."
"Deal." S
he was leaning against the kitchen table, watching me sort through the refrigerator. "God, I've missed you, Cass."
I turned around, dumbstruck.
"I'm not going to come on to you, I promise. I just wanted you to know. I won't say it again."
I turned back to the refrigerator, unsure what I'd been looking for. My face felt flushed. Damn her, anyway. I finally pulled out some olive oil to make a marinade for the chicken, then went out to the greenhouse to pick some fresh basil. By the time I came back in, I was more composed.
Erica minced garlic while I set up the pasta machine. While we worked, I told her about Tommy's place being trashed and my talks with the librarian and Bart Bailey. She was a good listener and didn't miss much.
"Kind of funny how no one finds this clue for more than a hundred years, then the Bailey brothers suddenly find two of them."
"I know. Maybe Buck did make a phony clue to throw Tommy and Bart off-track, only it wasn't the one Tommy got, but the one Bart saw in the tree. I don't know. The whole thing seems silly. I mean, let's say for a second that there is a bandana. After a hundred years in the elements, there wouldn't be anything left! It certainly wouldn't still be red. Would it?"
"I don't know. How about the old man that told them about the gold in the first place? Doesn't that seem a little weird?"
"To say the least. Maybe Mrs. Peters was right about there having been some kind of documentary on the lost gold. Maybe the old guy in the bar had seen it too and was just pulling the guys' legs. You want a glass of wine?"
"You sure you trust me with it?"
Actually, I wasn't. But Erica had never needed alcohol to speak her mind. She did it stone cold sober, too. I rolled my eyes at her and pointed toward the wine cellar. "And put on something warmer. Grab a sweatshirt or something!" Erica giggled, but marched obediently into my bedroom, emerging in an old flannel shirt and a pair of thin cotton sweatpants. It felt odd, seeing her in my clothes. She ducked into the wine room, where she spent a long time going through the racks. When she came out, she held a Pinot Gris aloft as if she'd found hidden treasure herself. She uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses, breathing in the heady aromas before tasting.
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