Under the Rose

by Nolan, Kathryn

  I dropped my palm. Forced that yearning back to the darkest recesses of my brain.

  “I’m sorry,” I mouthed, aware of the footsteps moving along the tiles.

  She tapped her ear. The faucet flipped on again—I leaned down, mouth against her skin. “I’m sorry for what I said about Quantico,” I whispered.

  She pointed to my chest. “You are a dick,” she mouthed.

  My lips twitched. I shrugged. “I know,” I mouthed back. The door swung open, and the man left. Freya and I let out twin sighs of relief.

  “You never apologized for being a dick at the academy. Or Princeton. You must be evolving as a person.”

  “When was I ever a dick at the academy?”

  “Literally every second.”

  “You have an awfully subjective memory.”

  “All human beings do. Oh, wait, you’re a robot, I forgot—” She was swinging the door open, smirking at me, when she walked right into a man with a top hat and a purple cravat.

  “Oof.” She bounced off him, and I reached forward, steadying her while pulling her against my side. The man was clearly startled to see the two of us coming out of the men’s bathroom.

  “He’s terrified of toilets,” she explained. “Strange phobia, I know.”

  Jesus Christ.

  I smiled weakly at the man before yanking Freya by the elbow toward the metal detector. “Was that necessary?” I growled.

  “Toilet phobia is very real.”

  We re-approached the beeping machine, and even though I’d hidden my contraband, I bristled with nerves. We couldn’t be discovered so soon into our undercover roles—it’d be the worst kind of failure. I certainly couldn’t look the Deputy Director—my father— in the eye and tell him I’d failed again.

  “Step through, miss,” the security guard said. He waved his wand over Freya then beckoned to me. I stepped through.

  Silence.

  “You’re clear to go,” the guard said. I nodded, joined Freya at the end of the hallway. Two large white doors swung open into an exhibit hall filled with hundreds of people; booths with black tablecloths, stacks and stacks of books, and a lit stage. I searched for our suspect who, at this point, could have been anywhere.

  “Julian. Birdie. You made it through.” Thomas and Cora Alexander stood in front of us, arms linked. I assessed them as glamorous high society—the kind with waitstaff and a service elevator and vacation homes in luxury destinations. And for reasons I didn’t yet know, we were part of a shared world that was a complete and utter mystery to me.

  “We did,” I said. “We’re looking forward to the festivities.”

  Thomas nodded his head at us. “Let’s get you two settled in, shall we? And welcome to the 60th Annual Antiquarian Book Festival, my dear friends.”

  12

  Freya

  It was barely past breakfast on the first day of an antiquarian book festival. And Thomas and Cora Alexander were dressed like they were about to board the Titanic.

  Cora’s red hair was immaculately coiffed, her eyes sharp, missing nothing. This woman knew me as Birdie Barnes. But I knew her as one of the members of this empty house club that I’d been spying on through the Under the Rose website. From my basic sleuthing, Cora and Thomas Alexander had married young and consolidated their money and empires. Thomas made his money in big oil; Cora was an heiress and low-level British aristocracy by blood. The Manhattanites had made a name for themselves by being sophisticated antiques-lovers. Even the New York Times had many flattering articles about their collection of art and rare manuscripts.

  “You’ve made it just in time,” Cora mused. “The booths are opening now. But, of course, the two of you will have access to whatever your heart’s desire.”

  Like stolen love letters?

  “Our hearts desire quite a bit,” Sam replied. He slipped his hands into his pockets, looking like the dashing book thief he was pretending to be. The soft light from the chandeliers bounced off his blond hair. Cora reached for his chest, pinched something between her fingers.

  “Lint on this beautiful suit,” she murmured. But her fingers lingered.

  “Cora’s heart desires quite a bit as well,” Thomas said. Cora’s lips pursed in response, but she didn’t back away from Sam.

  Sam kept his face impassive. Merely nodded and said, “We’re just feeling grateful that our flu passed. Although the airline did lose our luggage and merchandise.”

  “How ghastly,” Thomas said.

  “We’re flying our assistant out to Phoenix as we speak. They’ll retrieve the books and return them to the store immediately.”

  Thomas and Cora exchanged a look. “You won’t be providing any of your orders?” Thomas asked.

  “Sadly, no.” Sam looked apologetic. “We’ll have to make other arrangements.” I wondered if Julian and Birdie were bringing stolen goods to the convention. Would we have angry customers this weekend?

  The ballroom ceiling curved overhead, and gold curtains draped down nine-foot-tall windows. The booths stretched around us in organized rows, like a planned village of book dealers. Or thieves. Most were draped with white cloths, heightening the mystery. The mood was jovial—people were meeting, shaking hands, speaking in low tones. It was reminiscent of many of the events Delilah and I had crashed as private detectives—the antiquities community was one of highly educated, elegant wealth. Champagne and caviar and manuscripts that went for millions of dollars at auction.

  It was a world of extravagant money and secret handshakes.

  “Who are these people?”

  A tall man stood in front of us with a barely disguised sneer. He was thin as a reed, wearing a navy blue suit and a flashy gold ring.

  “Roy,” Thomas said, “this is Julian King and Birdie Barnes.”

  “I thought you had the flu?” Roy said to me.

  I gave another tiny cough. “Last minute decision to tough it out. And some miraculous medicine from our doctor.”

  Roy looked young—and wealthy, of course. But he had none of the Alexanders’ moneyed confidence. He was fidgety, like the suit he wore was uncomfortably tight. His skin could only be described as pasty.

  “I went to visit your bookstore last month when I was in San Francisco,” Roy said.

  Sam placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Our undercover training had focused extensively on the art of staying quiet. Human beings despise an awkward silence. The more space you leave for them to talk, the more they’ll fill it with incriminating information.

  “And you weren’t there?” Roy prodded, exasperated.

  “Ah, yes,” Sam replied. “We weren’t there.”

  “I wasn’t happy about it, as you remember,” he said.

  “For Christ’s sake, Roy, when was the last time you were ever happy?” Thomas sighed.

  Roy scowled in his direction. “I’ll be happy when I get what I came here for,” he said.

  “That’s not up for him to decide this morning, now is it?” Cora asked, voice hushed. “And can’t you tell that he’s preoccupied?”

  The audience hushed, turning as one toward a man on the stage.

  “There he is,” Cora said next to me. “He was nervous, what with all the recent news, but I doubt anyone will suspect a thing.”

  The chandeliers dimmed. The hotel staff tugged those golden curtains closed. A candle-lit darkness draped the exhibition room. We were in the middle of a bustling city, on a Friday morning, and yet the still, dramatic atmosphere said otherwise.

  Sam’s heavy hand squeezed my shoulder. He appeared calm, confident. My archnemesis had been an FBI agent for seven years. The arrogant young man I’d fought with was now a broad-shouldered, square-jawed, highly competent special agent.

  It was both comforting and irritating.

  I rolled my shoulder, dislodging his hand.

  Sam looked away, sliding his hands back into his pockets.

  The man on stage stepped into a golden spotlight. Like every other man here, he was dre
ssed in a suit. He was taller, burly, with a trimmed red beard. Unlike every other man here, he wore an Indiana Jones-style fedora. When he unleashed a crooked smile on the crowd, I heard a few sighs of adoration.

  “Good morning, ladies and gents,” he said, with a slightly Southern drawl. “My name is Dr. Bradley Ward, and I am honored to be the keynote speaker and president of the East Coast’s chapter of the Antiquarian Book Festival.”

  Recognition shivered through me. Roy Edwards. Dr. Bradley Ward. I knew those names. They were the other names from the empty house group.

  Dr. Ward gripped the podium and let his gaze roam across the large, silent room. “I’ve never been a man to beat around the bush. As many of you know.” There were a few chuckles. “So I’m going to come right out and say it. The coyotes are at the door. Our community is being threatened at every level. Rare book theft is occurring at a rate never seen before. Forgeries, counterfeits, whole collections slipping through our fingers. Thieves are everywhere.”

  Thomas and Cora wore matching martyred expressions. Roy appeared disinterested, scrolling through his phone.

  “We have built this community of history buffs from the ground up. But that means we must be vigilant with who we trust. Vigilant with who we let into our stores and into our booths. Second-guess everything and trust nothing that you can’t personally verify. The great masterpieces of our time are being traded on the black market like playing cards. That’s on us. Which means it’s all on us to stop it. My hope this weekend is that coming together will be a rallying cry against the liars and the cheats in our midst.”

  Maybe this would be easier than we thought. Maybe all we needed to do was tell this Bradley guy that we were hunting the George Sand letters, and he’d haul the perpetrator out of hiding for us.

  “Y’all know I’m a cowboy. I might live in a penthouse instead of a ranch, but I’m of rancher’s blood. Growing up, my father used to drag me out of bed before dawn and tell me to load my shotgun.”

  Sam’s hand landed back on my shoulder again.

  The liars and the cheats in our midst. This time I didn’t move it.

  “Because we had coyotes too. Sneaky, deceptive things. They attacked us every night, stealing our chickens. Our cows. Ruining the land we grew our crops on. They were a threat to our livelihood—just like these thieves are a threat to our way of life. And I think y’all know what my father and I did to our coyotes.” Bradley let a long, dramatic pause linger before leaning into the microphone. “We shot ’em.”

  “Jesus,” Sam muttered beneath his breath. The audience reacted with stilted applause. I caught a few nervous glances. The Alexanders looked even more smug as they clapped enthusiastically. Maybe these ‘empty house’ people weren’t thieves at all? Maybe they were gun-toting book vigilantes?

  Thomas turned around and winked at me.

  Was Birdie a gun-toting book vigilante?

  “We must redefine our values as antiquarian experts; redefine our boundaries and expectations of our relationships with each other. I hate having to work with the authorities as much as any other book dealer. Having police meddling in our personal business feels invasive, I know. But they’ll continue to be sniffing in our business if we don’t crack down on black market theft. This weekend should be a celebration of all that is antique and beautiful in this world. Let’s keep it that way. I refuse to lead a community that is more well-known for its shady underbelly than its pure and golden heart. Because that’s not what we’re about, now is it?”

  A chorus of no’s throughout the room, plus stomping and clapping.

  “Let’s make the next three days an antiquarian celebration, filled with hope for our future.” Bradley lowered his voice, cultivating the drama of this hushed, candle-lit room. “And I meant what I said about those damn coyotes.”

  13

  Sam

  An awkward, heavy silence followed in the wake of Dr. Ward’s speech. People whispered to each other, shifting back and forth on their feet. A polite murmur became a soft clap, punctuated with cheers that grew louder. Dr. Ward seemed unfazed by the confusing reaction to his veiled threats of violence in the middle of a goddamn book festival. I watched the Alexanders with a careful eye—they clapped for the man with a dignified air.

  Roy, however, glared like he held a personal vendetta against Ward.

  Dr. Ward bowed and exited the stage—immediately, the booths surrounding us sprang to life. The curtains were pulled back, light streaming in. A visible wave of relief moved through me, dislodging the tension I hadn’t realized I’d been holding during the speech.

  “The three of us need to talk to Bradley for a moment,” Cora said to Freya and me. “But we’d be honored to host the two of you for brunch on The Grand Dame balcony. Say twenty minutes?”

  “We can continue our conversation from the other day,” Thomas chimed in.

  “We’d be the honored ones.” Freya’s hand landed on her chest. “Come find us when you’re ready. Julian and I will browse the goods.”

  The Alexanders bid their farewells, dragging Roy behind them like a toddler.

  “I don’t like that guy,” I said, eyes narrowed.

  “Dr. Ward?”

  “No,” I said. “The trust fund dick.”

  “That’s what I thought about him too,” she replied. “But he seems both spineless and harmless to me.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck, unsure.

  “What first, partner?” Freya adjusted her pearls. “And we already have much to discuss.”

  “That we do,” I agreed. This would have been a lot fucking easier with a gun and a warrant and a badge. Being a special agent for the FBI was harder than I’d ever expected it to be. Not that I’d ever share that with my father or even Freya. Being a private detective, in many ways, seemed just as hard—high stakes but diminished resources.

  “We should wander, wait for Thomas and Cora,” I said quietly. She nodded, immediately turning toward the first row of tables, covered in dusty books. Filtering through was the quiet hum of antiques talk and a few sideways glances when people spotted our Julian and Birdie nametags.

  “Tell me more about these letters,” I said to Freya, one eye scanning the room for Dahl or other suspicious activity. “Why would criminals give a shit about George Sand and this poet? Or Hollywood directors?”

  “Spoken like a true romantic,” she said.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever given that false impression.”

  “I’m sure your girlfriends love you.” She stopped to pick up a book by Emily Bronte, admiring the back cover.

  “Birdie Barnes,” she said to the bookseller. “How lovely to meet you.” The man wore a pork-pie hat and suspenders. He beamed at Freya like she’d told him he’d won the lottery. A golden cage held a dignified-looking parrot at the end of the table. When Freya stuck her finger into the cage, the bird squawked at her.

  “I know you,” the man said. Freya and I both went completely still. “I purchased a first edition of Milton’s Paradise Lost from your store a few months ago. See? Surprised you didn’t recognize it.”

  There, in a glass case, was a small book with a maroon cover and a golden crest of two lions protecting a shield.

  “The gilded edges are as divine as the words inscribed on them,” the man continued. “I have no idea how the two of you came into this gem, but I won’t question it.”

  That sentiment was the reason why the Art Theft unit existed.

  “Julian and I love seeing these antiques in person,” Freya beamed. “But I also thought we’d once met each other at Reichenbach Falls?”

  The man looked puzzled—but delighted. But who wouldn’t be delighted by a smiling Freya?

  “I’m sorry, where?” he asked.

  She slid her big glasses up her nose. “Never mind. Just someplace I thought I knew you from. Thank you again for showing us our precious Milton.”

  The bookseller grasped Freya’s hand, holding it between his own. “I cannot thank you en
ough.”

  We moved along slowly, Freya trailing her fingers along books and maps, bending down to peer at a first edition of The Velveteen Rabbit.

  I rapped my knuckles hard on a table as we passed it. “Keep telling me about the letters.”

  “George Sand was a rebellious French novelist in the 1830s and ’40s,” she said. “She didn’t conform to societal pressures. She wore men’s clothes and smoked cigars. She loved who she loved. She was even more popular than her contemporary, Victor Hugo. And she had a reputation for writing especially seductive letters. George was obsessed with Alfred de Musset, who was a poet and playwright. At least until she wasn’t.” Freya glanced over at me, sly. “Have you ever written a love letter before?”

  I thought about the piece of paper I’d scrawled on the night Freya left Quantico. I’d trashed it, too embarrassed to even read the mangled version of it the next day.

  “Never,” I replied.

  “Heart of stone, huh?”

  “Focused on my career,” I corrected. “And what about you? How many hearts have you broken, Birdie? Leave a string of sobbing computer nerds in your wake?”

  She covered her mouth and stifled a snort. “That’s a typical Tuesday for me.”

  She was deflecting with humor—her usual M.O. But at Princeton, she’d certainly had boyfriends. Freya always appeared happy and silly with them. Carefree, even.

  Not like she was with me—angry and stubborn and viciously competitive.

  We stood in front of a table showcasing a first edition of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. She was enchanted. There was no need for her to fake Birdie’s fascination.