by Kathy Reichs
I’d thought of that. “Hollis is rumored to be cheap. Jason once said there’s very little staff present on the weekends. The place should be almost empty.”
“Almost doesn’t mean completely,” Ben said.
“I know, but I have to chance it. We’re out of options.”
I shouldered my backpack. Inside were Katherine’s notebook and Karsten’s deposit slip. If I got arrested, I wanted the evidence with me. I had no illusions about winning a credibility battle with Hollis Claybourne. I’d need all the proof I could muster.
“Be careful,” Shelton warned. “If someone stops you, pretend you thought it was a museum.”
“If Chance catches you, act love-struck.” Hi winked. “That’ll work.”
“Love-struck?” Ben’s brow furrowed. “What’s he talking about?”
“Nothing. Wish me luck.” Stupid Hi.
I took Broad Street and turned right on Meeting, toward the Battery. South of Broad. Enormous mansions lined both sides of the street. The air stank of old money and blue blood. Privilege. I felt like a trespasser.
I reviewed my game plan as I walked. Sneak inside, poke around, get the hell out. Easy, right? This time, if I found something incriminating I’d go straight to the police. No more games. The stakes were too high.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Katherine’s journal entries. Imagine, finding bald eagles right there on the South Carolina coast. Remarkable.
But Katherine never had a chance to share her discovery. Someone silenced her. Permanently. Soon afterward, Cole Island was sold and the trees were destroyed. Bye-bye eagles.
Someone must’ve known about those birds. But there were no news reports. No articles. No photo spreads. Katherine’s journal was the only record of their existence.
If Hollis Claybourne knew about the eagles before he sold the island, he was a prime suspect in Katherine’s death. I needed something to prove he had that knowledge.
The thought of what I was about to do made me cold all over. Whoever murdered Heaton probably killed Karsten, and was trying to kill me. It could be Hollis.
And I was about to break into his home.
Something else worried me. The million-dollar question. Did Chance know about any of this?
I drew level with chez Claybourne.
Showtime.
Claybourne Manor is a registered historic landmark, even has its own website. Before departing Morris, I’d combed through online slideshows, trying to get a feel for the layout.
Built just after the Civil War, the house is styled after a nineteenth century Italian manor. Every inch is handcrafted. Crystal chandeliers. Carved wooden mantles. Elaborate moldings. A home fit for royalty. And a Claybourne has always sat on its throne.
I reviewed the stats I’d found on line. Three stories high, the house contains forty rooms, two dozen fireplaces, sixty baths, and a fifty-foot-long entrance hall.
And I planned to pop in and search the place by myself. Tremendous.
A ten-foot wall surrounds the two-acre property. Spikes top it, and ornate iron gates block access to the driveway.
I studied the gates as I walked by. A tourist, intrigued.
Centered in the scrolly wrought iron was the Claybourne family crest, a gray shield with three black foxes surrounded by black and red vines. The family motto arced above the crest: Virtus vincit invidiam. Virtue overcometh envy.
Please.
I peered through the bars.
A guard hunched inside a booth beside the drive, attention focused on a small black-and-white TV. Without breaking stride, I continued down the block.
Twenty yards past the gate, the wall turned a corner and shot back the length of the lot. The next-door neighbors had planted sumac to block their view of the brick. A narrow trail ran between the Claybourne’s wall and the shrubs.
I took a deep breath, looked both ways, then scurried down the trail. Fifteen yards from the sidewalk I reached a small service gate.
Right where it’s supposed to be.
I dropped to my knees and wiggled the bricks underlying the gate. One felt loose. A sharp tug and it lifted. A key lay in the dirt.
I smiled ear to ear. Cheshire cat style.
The things you can learn in class, if you listen. Thanks, Jason.
As quietly as possible, I swung open the gate. Ahead lay the manor’s formal gardens. Replacing the key, I stepped inside.
No turning back now. I was trespassing on private property. Again.
Dogwoods lined a cobblestone walk directly before me. To both sides of the trees stretched neatly trimmed lawn. Statues dotted the grass, unsmiling witnesses to generations of Claybourne picnics, garden parties, and croquet matches.
Lacking a better plan, I followed a branching path toward a naked cherub rising from a colossal stone fountain. Water arced from its oversized horn. A leaf covered its genitals. Classy.
The fountain was centered in a small courtyard from which paths led toward the four compass points. I’d entered from the east. The path to my left cut south, back toward the front door. I scurried north, toward the rear of the house.
So far, no alarm. I was still operating below the radar.
The path wound deeper into the grounds. Six-foot hedges cropped up, creating a narrow walking lane. Smaller paths intersected mine, giving the garden a mazelike feel. I soon lost my bearings.
My heart kicked up a notch. Yes, I was hidden. But I couldn’t see a thing. I could blunder into someone at any turn.
I reached another fountain. Three dolphins, water shooting from their mouths, koi swimming below. Stone benches faced in from three sides. A towering hedge surrounded the whole deal.
Which way to go?
I turned left, hoping I was still moving toward the back of the manor. The path widened, then ended at small lawn bordering the rear of the house.
Bingo. Door. Dead ahead.
I paused to look around. The coast was clear.
I scampered forward and pressed my back against the warm brick of the main building. I quickly tried the knob, which turned.
Deep breath.
I slipped inside Claybourne Manor.
CHAPTER 62
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust.
I stood at the end of a narrow service hall. Shelves and storage closets lined both sides.
I hurried forward, ears on high alert. No Claybourne would use this corridor, but their servants would. Explaining my presence would be tricky, to say the least.
The passage ran thirty feet, turned right, then ended at a four-foot-high entryway.
Feeling like Alice, I cracked the tiny door and peered out. Before me lay the famous entrance hall.
Sunlight glinted off the white marble floor, and prismed from the crystal chandeliers hanging twenty feet up. Gold gilt tables lined the walls, holding statues, vases, and sculptures, each probably worth more than Kit’s portfolio. The open space was enough to accommodate a family of Wookiees.
To my left loomed the front doors, gigantic oak behemoths that could survive a missile strike. To my right the white marble shot the center of the house like a four-lane highway.
I closed the undersized door behind me. It sealed with a click, blending seamlessly into the wall. I couldn’t tell how it opened.
According to the website, the main staircase stood at the far end of the entrance hall. To reach the second floor, I first had to navigate the marble interstate.
Here goes nothing.
I crept forward, passing a formal dining room, a drawing room, and an observatory containing a Steinway grand piano. The walls were hung with portraits of dead Claybournes, each looking more dour than the next.
My heart hammered and my eyes never stopped moving. This was definitely the danger zone.
The hall ended in a circular foyer topped by a magnificent stained glass dome hanging seventy feet above me. Rainbow colors danced the marble. Murals adorned the walls, bordered by painted frescoes and carved molding. The room looked
like something out of the Vatican. For a moment I gaped like a tourist.
An eight-foot statute stood centered beneath the dome. Milton Claybourne, the manor’s architect. Milton frowned, face bandaged, musket in hand.
“You’re a fun one,” I whispered. “Modest, too.”
At the far end of the hall, a Versailles-sized staircase swept upward between polished wood banisters. I scurried to it.
The second-floor corridor ran parallel to the hall below. Doors lined both sides.
The passage was deep night compared to the bright daytime below. Mahogany-paneled walls. No windows. Dim lights, spaced far apart. Shadows hid the corners and lay thick on the dark red carpet.
My target was specific. Hollis Claybourne’s private study. My instincts told me it was up there somewhere.
A door opened somewhere down the hallway.
I scrambled, heart banging, frantic for cover.
The first place I tried was a linen closet. No room to hide.
The unseen door closed.
I yanked a second knob.
Creak!
The hinges sounded like a scream in the stillness.
I barreled inside and shut the door. Froze. Shaking hands covered my mouth.
I heard movement in the hall. The clank of china. Then, far off, another door opening, closing.
Air exploded from my chest. Close. Too close.
I turned to examine my sanctuary. Relief turned to alarm. Then excitement.
I was standing in Chance’s bedroom.
No doubt about it. The walls were covered with pictures. Chance in London, Paris, Venice. Chance suited up for baseball, tennis, golf. Hannah and Chance on a blanket at the beach.
A massive bookcase held trophies and memorabilia. A framed picture enjoyed pride-of-place on the dresser. Hannah, in a white dress, holding a single rose. It looked like a gift. She looked stunning.
Blech.
I peeked in the closet. Bolton Prep uniforms hung from a jumble of mismatched hangers. Italian leather shoes lay heaped on the floor. Expensive silk ties sat balled on a built-in shelf.
“Chance,” I whispered. “Quite the slob. Surprise, surprise.”
Next, I poked through the books. Mostly nonfiction.
I stayed out of the dresser. Even I have limits. And if the door swung open, the last thing I wanted to be caught holding was Chance Claybourne’s underpants.
Finally, I arrived at the desk. Disconnected cords awaited the return of a laptop. Papers and books lay haphazardly tossed. A printer sat next to a scanner, neither plugged in. A Citadel mug held pens and highlighters.
A manila envelope caught my eye. Originally sealed with red tape, one end was sliced open. I noted a logo with the acronym SLED.
South Carolina Law Enforcement Division.
The fingerprint report.
I pulled a single sheet from the envelope. A handwritten note was clipped to the front. It read: “Here’s the info. You owe me! See you on the links, Chip.”
I frowned. Why hadn’t Chance given me the actual report? Was he holding back?
Relax. He’d probably promised not to let it out of his possession. And he didn’t want me chasing a dangerous crook like Newman. It’s not surprising he didn’t share the hard copy.
Curious, I scanned. Saw a photocopy of the fingerprint I’d lifted from the microfilm reader. Next to it was a mug shot.
I almost dropped the paper in shock.
That face! I knew it. The buzz-cut hair. The scarred jawline.
I read every word twice.
The report didn’t identify any James Newman. He wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the document. The print belonged to someone else.
Someone I’d met once before.
Tony Baravetto. Personal chauffeur to Chance Claybourne. The man who drove me home the night of the disastrous cotillion.
My mind raced. What did this mean?
But I knew.
Chance lied to me.
One by one, links connected.
Baravetto followed us to the library.
Baravetto learned that we knew about Katherine Heaton.
Baravetto worked for Chance Claybourne, son of Hollis Claybourne, our prime suspect in Katherine Heaton’s murder.
Then, one awful, inescapable connection.
Chance Claybourne might be trying to kill me.
CHAPTER 63
Chance had played me like a xylophone.
And I’d fallen for it. Hook, line, and one-ton sinker.
Like a love-struck moron.
Chance was only interested in protecting his father’s secret. He’d toyed with me, distracted me from the truth. And I’d been suckered.
Shame burned my face. How could I have been so stupid? Chance probably thinks I’m wrapped around his little finger.
We’ll see about that. You messed with the wrong girl, Claybourne.
I knew what I had to do. Find the evidence. Bring the Claybournes down.
I shoved the print report into my bag.
Livid. Furious at Chance. At myself.
I let the anger build. Multiply. Reminding myself again and again how dense I’d been. How gullible. How juvenile. The rage blossomed in an instant.
Something flashed in my brain.
My lips curled.
A low growl rose from my throat.
SNAP.
The flare rushed through my veins. Energizing me. Filling me with deadly purpose. My senses sparked. Soared.
Golden light shone from my eyes.
I eased the door open and sniffed the hallway. Burnt tobacco, one thread among many. I honed in, tracked the scent back toward the main staircase.
Hollis Claybourne smoked cigars—the odor would lead me to his study. I slunk down the corridor, eyes boring through the gloom.
Swish.
I froze. Cocked my head. The sound was faint, but growing in intensity, coming right for me.
To my left stood a towering armoire. I shrunk into its shadow and pressed myself to one side. Waited.
Seconds later, a maid passed, skirt swaying with the movement of her body.
My heart returned to my chest.
Yikes. Without my flare, I would never have heard in time.
I continued toward the staircase, sniffing all the while. The olfactory trail led to the third floor. I followed.
Leaving the last riser, I entered a long passageway set at intervals with small brass sconces. Dark murals covered the walls—men killing game, men in battle, men in wigs signing documents with feather pens.
The smoke smell was coming from the second door on the right. I slipped inside.
The chamber was massive, its opposite side an expanse of floor to ceiling windows framed by red velvet drapery drawn back by gold cords. Bookcases climbed the remaining walls to a wood-beamed ceiling twenty feet up. A wrought-iron catwalk circled the room three yards above the floor, accessed by a spiral staircase tucked into the far left corner.
In the room’s center, four leather-bound chairs formed a semi-circle around a low coffee table. The arrangment faced an enormous stone fireplace. Behind the seats, a desk the size of Kansas sat with its back to the window. On it were pictures of Hollis smiling or shaking hands with famous people. Souvenirs from a life in the upper crust.
Now what?
Hollis Claybourne’s study made the Colosseum look small.
I rummaged the desk, found nothing suspicious.
I tried a wooden bureau standing beneath a tapestry of General Custer at Little Big Horn. The drawers held Civil War era clothing. Reenactment garb.
I circled the room, probing with my laser vision. Under different circumstances, I might’ve enjoyed myself.
Hollis Claybourne was a collector. Along with books and pictures of himself, the shelves were jammed with African tribal masks, Inuit carvings, Indonesian puppets, and sculptures from every corner of the globe. The collection was refined, the work of a man with a discerning eye.
But it held nothing I c
ould use.
My fists clenched in frustration.
What’d you expect? A folder labeled Incriminating Evidence Here?
I closed my eyes, desperate for a plan. I was alone in Hollis’s study. I’d never have this chance again.
My nose picked up a trickle of loam, an earthy smell out of place in the immaculate office. And something else. Non-organic. Chemical.
My lids flew apart. I knew that smell. Dirt. Metal. The sharp bite of cleaning solution. Like Windex.
The dog tags! They were somewhere in this room.
I went still. Sniffed. My nostrils recaptured the scent.
Up.
I hurried for the spiral stairs and climbed to the narrow catwalk. Skirting the shelves, I paced the length of the inside wall, then turned left, toward the windows. The catwalk ended in the corner directly across from the room’s entrance.
Built into the wall, deep in the corner, was a small wooden cabinet. The smell was coming from inside.
I tried the little silver handle.
The cabinet was locked.
No more playing nice.
Cocking one arm, I chopped with the heel of my hand. The front panel cracked, but held. Ignoring the pain, I let fly a second time. The door splintered. Loose fragments fell to the floor.
I inspected my handiwork. The wood was at least an inch thick. Mike Tyson couldn’t have split it. Yet I’d smashed it with two blows.
SNUP.
Dizziness swept over me. I dropped to my knees.
My senses dulled, returned to normal.
“Damn!”
Rising, I checked the cabinet’s interior. Three items.
The first was an old black-and-white snapshot of Hollis Claybourne. Young Hollis was standing by a stand of longleaf pine, pointing to a pair of eagles swooping low in the sky.
Cole Island! The bastard knew about the eagles!
Below the picture was a manila folder. Inside were legal documents. I flipped through. Records of the sale of Cole Island to Candela. A contract of employment. Evidence, but no smoking gun.
The bottom shelf held a small velvet box. I popped it open.
Inside were two weathered dog tags, one grimy, one gleaming like new.
Francis P. Heaton. Catholic. O Positive.
