Amanda’s eyes opened and they cleared. She then reached for her satchel, retrieved a tablet computer, and began furiously tapping the screen. After only a few moments, she let out a triumphant shout and slid the tablet over to me.
“I knew I had seen it before.”
I was looking at a picture of a yellowing newspaper, brittle with age, that had been preserved in a book. The edges were cracked, and chunks of the paper had evidently crumbled away, but the vast majority of the article was present, only it was too tiny to read. Attempts at zooming in on the picture only resulted in a photograph too pixelated to be able to read. Directly in the center of the photograph was a very familiar symbol. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the same shamrock. It was the same shape, the same orientation, and the same design. The image of the shamrock had been enlarged. To make absolutely certain, I pulled back up the photograph of the chest on my phone and compared the shamrocks.
Identical.
“What book is this?” I wanted to know.
“I’m sorry, it doesn’t say. The one bit I can make out is that it was printed in 1983.”
“That’s not what I was expecting,” I admitted, as I studied the picture.
Amanda leaned around me to zoom out the picture on her tablet. While the picture of the shamrock remained, since the photo only depicted the three-leafed sprig, I was now able to see what was written next to the picture. What I saw had my eyes widening with surprise and me stifling a curse.
IRISH CROWN JEWELS STOLEN! INSIDE JOB SUSPECTED!
Looking back at the professor, I tapped the article.
“Is this for real?”
“It was the unsolved mystery of the century,” Amanda told me. “Still is. Those jewels were never recovered.”
“What happened? How could someone have stolen such famous jewels?”
“You do understand that the security systems back in the turn of the century were nothing compared to what we have today?”
“Yeah, true, but I still find it unlikely. Do they know who took the jewels?”
Amanda was shaking her head. “They suspected it was an inside job.”
“I can’t help but notice you didn’t have to look that fact up,” I pointed out. “How is it you know about this stuff?”
“As if you couldn’t tell from my accent,” Amanda began, with a smile, “I’m British. The theft of those jewels is part of our history. Every school child learns about it at an early age.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Better yet, when did it happen?”
“It was 1907. The security of the jewels had been entrusted to the Ulster King of Arms, Sir Arthur Vicars. Vicars, it was said, was rather lax with his security.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“The jewels were kept in Dublin Castle and were guarded by the Ulster King of Arms and a 24-hour outdoor patrol of soldiers and policemen. A saferoom was built in 1903, but in an ironic twist of fate, it was revealed that the safe that stored the jewels was too big to fit inside the safe room. Therefore, the safe remained outside the strongroom, in the library.
“There were two keys to the safe,” Amanda continued. “Vicars kept one locked away, in his desk at home.”
“And the other was stolen, wasn’t it?” I guessed.
“No. Vicars was a little forgetful. There are stories that he would have a little too much to drink, and those keys ended up with his friends.”
“That probably didn’t go over too well.”
“It didn’t. But, on July 6, 1907, a maid assigned to Belford Tower discovered the door to the safe-room open. The bolt to the inner door was locked, but the key to open the lock was left in the door itself. Vicars didn’t think much of this, and it wasn’t until later in the day that he discovered the safe had been cleaned out, the jewels stolen.”
“Didn’t they look for them?” I asked.
Professor Whyte nodded. “Dublin Metropolitan launched an investigation, but sadly, the jewels were never recovered. As I said, everyone figured it was an inside job.”
“Vicars,” I said, after a few moments.
“He denied it every waking moment. And do you know what? I’m actually inclined to believe him.”
Was that what was waiting for me inside that silver chest? Missing, stolen jewelry of extreme historical importance? If so, why in the world would someone send them to me? What was I supposed to do with them? I mean, if it turned out those jewels were in there, and I could find a way to open the chest, then you had better believe I would be sending those things straight back to Ireland!
My eyes widened as I remembered what I had left sitting on my coffee table back home. Had I really left the Irish Crown Jewels so exposed? It was time to cut this meeting short.
“Well, I do thank you for your time,” I said.
“Mr. Anderson,” Professor Whyte formally began, “do you have the Irish Crown Jewels in your possession?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. I sincerely doubt it. But, I will make you this promise. If those jewels happen to be in my possession, then I will do everything in my power to get them returned to their rightful owners. Fair enough?”
Amanda slipped me a business card. “Fair enough. Do keep me apprised, would you? I’m sure Her Majesty, the Queen of England, would love to have that particular mystery solved.”
Thanking the professor for her time, I hurried the dogs out of the college and back to the Jeep.
“They couldn’t possibly be in there,” I mumbled, as I sped home. “And if they are? Who in their right flippin’ mind would send them to me? I had nothing to do with the theft. Talk about it being waaayyy before my time.”
The dogs watched me in the rearview mirror. Sherlock was staring at me as though he couldn’t believe he was now associated with a thief.
“I didn’t do it,” I told the corgi. “Stop looking at me as though I did, okay?”
Pulling up to the winery, I threw the Jeep in park, helped each of the dogs to the ground, and hurried inside. I was honestly expecting to find a ransacked house, with cabinets open, junk strewn about, and furniture upended, or destroyed. But no, everything was just as I left it. And there, sitting out on the coffee table for everyone to see, including having a great line of sight to the window overlooking the porch, was the silver chest. I noticed the shamrock glinting in the sunlight as I approached.
“What am I going to do with this thing?” I asked no one in particular. “Where should I stash it?”
My first instinct was to call up some of my friends. Perhaps one of them could suggest something that no one else would think of? However, even before I could pull my phone from my pocket, I hesitated. If I did involve Harry or Vance, then that could theoretically put them in danger. And Jillian? Forget about it. There was no way I was going to place her in harm’s way.
I snapped my fingers as an idea formed. “A bank safety deposit box. It’d be safe there.”
Just as quickly, I dismissed the notion. It would take too long to set up. I needed to get rid of this thing, like yesterday.
I looked at the chest and sighed. Someone had given it to me, so I could only assume someone wanted me to do the right thing. That had to be returning it to its rightful owners, didn’t it? I had to find a way to open this chest. Somewhere, somehow, there was a solution. I just needed more time to figure it out, and that meant I had to hide the box, but where?
“Come on, guys. Help me out, would you? You find all kinds of things. Fine. Where would be a great place to stash this thing?”
The dogs were up to the task. Just like that, Sherlock and Watson ran to the door, wanting to be let outside. Unfortunately for me, in the frame of mind I was in, I thought someone was approaching the house.
“What? What do you hear? Help me hide this thing! Hurry!”
Both dogs turned to look at me as though I, once more, bore the moniker of stupidest human on two legs.
“What? Stop looking at me like that. I don’t want to get caught with the box. We need to secure it som
ewhere, but where?”
“Awwooooo woooooooooowooo!” Sherlock howled.
Watson yipped twice, the high-pitched kind which makes you think someone had stepped on her. Familiar with my two dogs, I could tell they wanted to show me something. Flashing my dogs the time-out gesture, as though they knew what it meant, I took the stairs two at a time as I hurried to the master bedroom. Rushing into the closet, I grabbed the closest bag I could find and sprinted back down the stairs.
Unzipping the small, black duffel bag, and grunting with satisfaction after I saw that it was a perfect fit for the silver chest, I followed the dogs outside, curious as to what they were going to do. I could only hope some intruder wasn’t hiding out there, ready to conk me over the head and steal the chest at the first opportunity.
Sherlock and Watson ran up the hill, behind the main house. They were headed to the winery? Could I find a decent spot to hide the chest there? I suppose there was enough machinery to …
Sherlock deftly navigated around the winery and headed toward the newest building on the property, which was the fairly recently completed warehouse. Thanks to Caden and his future plans for the winery, we had planted an orchard, including apple, pear, cherry, and several other types of trees. There were also several varieties of berry bushes. Wine can be made from fruit other than grapes, my winemaster had informed me, but, if we wanted to try it, then we were going to need a place to age the wine, since fruit-based wine took longer to prepare. Hence, the new warehouse.
The dogs ran to the front door and waited for the person who sounded—and probably looked —like a lumbering hippo to catch up. Fumbling for my keys, we entered the vast warehouse and navigated our way through the two sets of double doors until we entered the main storage facility. Aside from the seriousness of the situation, I couldn’t help but nod and give Caden a silent high-five. The efficient vintner was already making use of the space. At first glance, I could see five or six rows of ten barrels each on either side of the long hallway. Granted, in the overall scheme of things, this was less than a tenth of the overall space. However, an idea had dawned. My question was, how the hell had the dogs thought of it first?
I pulled my bag over to a stack of empty barrels. Looking at the black duffel, and the silver chest it contained, I nodded at the dogs and started the work necessary to secure the chest. In this case, I pulled on a set of work gloves and rolled an empty barrel off the nearest rack and maneuvered it in place, next to a whole slew of full barrels. Carefully placing the disguised chest inside, I sealed the barrel with its lid and carefully stepped back to study my work.
It was perfect.
I allowed myself a brief moment to appreciate the situation. Have you ever seen Raiders of the Lost Ark? And—spoiler alert—after they recover the missing ark, do you remember the government officials stashing the prize in a crate? That crate was then placed in an enormous warehouse with similar crates, effectively hiding the ark in plain sight. That was, in effect, what was happening here. Granted, there were significantly fewer barrels than there were crates in the movie, but unless you knew that one of those barrels contained the shamrock chest, you’d never know it was there.
That, to me, was the perfect hiding place. Patting each dog on the head, we made our way out of the warehouse, stopping only long enough to lock the door.
FIVE
“Are you really not going to try it? I’m telling you, buddy, it’s still the same. All they’ve done is add a few drops of food coloring.”
“No offense, pal,” I hotly began, as I held up my mug and stared at the frothy contents it contained, “but there’s no way I can drink this. I don’t know how many times I have to say it, but if the beer looks like what the Joker took a bath in, then it is not goin’ anywhere near my mouth.”
In response, Vance took his own mug and drank nearly half of his holiday-themed beverage. He smacked his lips and held his tankard aloft. “Ahh. That’s what a body needs after a long day. You’re seriously not going to drink that? What, don’t you trust this place? Isn’t Casa de Joe’s your favorite restaurant?”
I slid my own beer over to him and ordered my usual. In a bottle, thank you very much. The waitress smiled, nodded, and headed back inside the restaurant. Yes, we were out on the pet-friendly terrace, and yes, I had Sherlock and Watson with me. I’m not sure what sort of frolicking the two of them did last night after I turned off the lights, but today? They’ve been napping pretty much the entire day.
“What have you been working on?” I asked. I heard Sherlock snoring from below the table and reached down to give each dog a pat. “Do you need help with anything?”
“Just a rash of car thefts,” Vance reported. He sighed and stared into the depths of his drink. “It’s odd, though. People don’t generally steal sports cars and then stick around the area.”
Surprised, I looked at my friend. “You know these stolen cars are still in the area, but we haven’t been able to catch the guy responsible?”
“No. Just earlier today, a 2011 Dodge Challenger was reported missing from its owner’s garage. Toxic orange.”
“Those cars are so cool,” I sighed. “I love the retro muscle car feel to them. Reminds me of the Challenger we had when we were in Phoenix. Did you say toxic orange? Is that the color? Cool name for a paint color, amigo. Hey, does this orange one have the extra power?”
“If you’re asking whether or not it’s a Challenger Hellcat, then no, it is not. This one only had 350 horsepower under the hood.”
“Only has 350 horsepower,” I mocked, as I let out another groan. “My Jeep? Nowhere near that. Someday, I’ll get something with a lot of power.”
“You’re getting married,” Vance reminded me. “No, you’re not.”
“Say the word, and I can get the dogs involved. You know how good Sherlock and Watson are at finding things.”
I heard the snoring pause momentarily and I’m assuming that, since neither of us moved from the table, was why the snoring resumed. A quick check confirmed both corgis were still out cold.
“If I need their help, I’ll let you know,” Vance promised. “All right, you wanted to meet for lunch out here. What’s on your mind?”
Grinning at my friend, I reached for the padded envelope sitting on the chair next to me, which was below the level of the table, so Vance couldn’t see it. Placing it directly before me, I then pushed it toward Vance, who frowned when he saw it.
“What’s this?”
“Something I thought you’d like to see.”
“Oh?” Vance pried open the metal fastener and opened the package.
A thick, glossy paperback slid into his hands. I watched as Vance turned the book over in his hands, so he could see the cover. I waited nearly twenty seconds to get some type of reaction out of him, but no, I was denied. Instead, Vance handed it back to me.
“I’m not much of a reader, pal,” my detective friend began, “but thanks anyway.”
I pushed the book back into his hands. “You really ought to give this one a try.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, what do you see on the cover?”
The cover was studied once more.
“Well, it’s green, so wherever this is supposed to depict, it clearly rains there.”
“Spot on so far. What else do you see?”
Vance’s gaze dropped to a lone figure, a red-haired woman, standing before a simple thatched cottage. Pens were nearby, with cattle and horses seen grazing on the lush green grass. A gray tendril escaped from the cottage’s chimney and lazily rose into the sky.
That’s when I saw my friend’s eyes widen. He stared at the female figure, took note of the color of her hair, and then stared at the scenery behind the house, which depicted rolling green hills, complete with stone fences. And, I’m quite thrilled to add, his mouth dropped open.
“Is … is this yours?”
I nodded. Vance then tapped the author’s name. “Jim McGee? Isn’t this supposed to be your name?”
“It’s an experiment,” I admitted. “I don’t have my actual name on anything. Chastity Wadsworth is the only name I’ve used, but that’s for romance novels. This one isn’t a romance, and it’s set in Ireland, so I thought an Irish-sounding name would be better.”
“How would you be able to tell if it’s better?” Vance asked, bewildered. “I trust you, pal. You clearly know what you’re doing, so if you’re happy, I’m happy. Wow. So, this is the book? Feeding the Flames, by Jim McGee. It looks …”
“What?” I inquired. “Do you see something wrong?”
“No, it’s just that … I have no words. Thanks, buddy. Think it’ll sell?”
My smile was back, which didn’t go unnoticed by Vance.
“What’s that look for? Do you think it will?”
“I know it will,” I confirmed. “And if you don’t believe me, that’s fine. You can take the word from my publisher, who has said the preorders alone are breaking records left and right.”
“People are preordering this?” Vance asked, as he waggled the book in front of me.
“By the thousands,” I informed him. “At last count, nearly 30,000 people had ordered the book through one of their favorite retailers.”
“How?” Vance demanded. “You said it was a preorder. And this pseudonym of yours is brand new?”
“It is,” I said, nodding. I already knew where my friend was going with this, and was anxiously awaiting his arrival.
“So, if this is not available yet,” Vance continued, “and you’ve never used this name before, then how are you getting the word out? How do people know it’s any good?”
“Editors and beta readers.”
“Huh?”
“My editors. They’ve already read it, given feedback, and allowed their pool of beta readers access to it. Every single beta reader, and I do mean every one of ’em, absolutely loved the story. Let’s see if I can remember some of the comments. One said she loved the protagonist, and how fiercely independent she was. Another loved the Irish setting. Trust me, the list goes on and on.”
Case of the Shady Shamrock Page 7
