by Ritter Ames
Cassie answered on the first ring, “You saw it, right?”
“Right.” I paced the length of the room. “Where did you find it?”
“On the bulletin board. I woke up about five minutes ago and checked. The link was in the coding part this time, but the message was addressed to BraccioDestro. He’s used that when he’s written me notes. I think it’s loosely—”
“Right-hand man in Italian,” I said. “Good, Cass. Did he just put up the link?”
“No, he buried it in the coding part of the message, after he said some cobwebs needed to be swept away.”
“So you figured out the extraneous—”
“It wasn’t hard,” she hurriedly assured me. “But it wasn’t something anyone looking over his shoulder would know. I bug him when I use mnemonics to remember things. He split up the link with a couple of my favorites. I removed them and voila!”
And to anyone else, Cassie’s trick letters just looked like extra coding. I shook my head, amazed at my team. I scraped my bangs back with my free hand, pulling my hair for a second to get the blood flowing to my brain to think. What did this mean for sure? I was back to my original either/or conundrum.
“Anything else in the message?” I asked. “Or do we just go with our gut reaction about the video.”
“What does your infamous gut say?” she asked.
I sighed. I did not want to say it out loud. “Ermo Colle or Moran has him. Or anyway, some part of either of those organizations. I’m thinking this for the reasons I said last night about Simon knowing Nico’s importance and his likely giving that intel to Colle and even Moran. And whichever organization does have him is the same one who planned on swapping out the painting we stole with one of the two copies confiscated by customs in Calais earlier this week. That’s my theory.”
“The security feed must have been accessible from the computer they’re letting Nico use,” Cassie said.
“Everything is accessible to Nico if he has a computer,” I reminded.
“Right. But why would the forgery swappers have the security feed for a stolen painting? They would only be interested in the painting if they could replace it with the copy. Missing does them no good.”
“Yeah, good point.”
Cassie sighed over the phone. “Does the fact he sent this footage mean he’s been taken by the people you stole the painting from? Or if it’s Colle or Moran, are they hanging onto the footage because they want to find the thief and the painting? Or do they already know it was you and want to keep this as leverage?”
“All really scary options.”
“You can’t pin it down to the most likely one?”
“No. But Nico’s clue said he either was in Basel or heading there, so we can probably discount your first option.” I sat on the unmade bed, then fell back to the mattress. Indecision like this always made me feel whipped. “It could be either Moran or Colle. My money is still on the latter. But seeing this surveillance video means you absolutely cannot tell Max about the painting until we resolve this. Or at least until I run it by Jack to see what he thinks. Last night I almost wished I’d sent it with you to Paris so the mugger wouldn’t have—”
“What mugger?”
Oops. I took a minute to tell her what happened outside the hotel and to assure her the painting and the figurine were both in the hotel safe-deposit box. “Which means if we need to swap Nico for the art, we’re good to go.”
“Was Leif beside you when this happened?”
If I didn’t stop talking Cassie would be on the next plane back. “Don’t worry. I’m safe. I’m tucked away in a country estate.”
“Your friend’s party?”
“Exactly. The tea is tomorrow, and then she’ll send me back home in the same car I arrived in. The driver is a big guy. Total bruiser. Don’t worry.”
Okay, another lie added to the rest. I mentally apologized to Dalton, who fit the profile of elegant rather than lethal.
But despite my false words, Cassie sounded relieved when she said, “Good. But text me the address just in case of any emergency.”
“It’s the Robbsham estate in north Yorkshire. Generations’ old home of every Lord and Lady Menton. That should be enough if you need to find me. Out the window it looks like Marci’s family owns half the county.”
“Great. That’s sounding even better,” she said. “Enough land and activity around that anyone trying to sneak in would stand out right away.”
I didn’t have the heart to remind her a large tea party was set for tomorrow, so there would likely be decorators finishing up today and extra unfamiliar wait staff hired on for the event. Instead, I said, “I’m covered. Just make sure you stay safe. Does Monique’s place have security?”
“I’m at the hotel.” Cassie blew out a long breath. “Max wouldn’t budge on me staying somewhere else, so she’s coming here after work. We were going to hit some clubs, but now…I’m not sure.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” I hated hearing the disappointment in her voice. “Is there a club in the hotel? Or a place with dancing close by?”
“Yes, we could do something like that. We’d be safe enough, you think?”
“Make sure to keep your drink in your hand at all times,” I warned. “Do you still have the stuff I gave you to put on your nails to check? The nail-polish-looking stuff Jack gave me?”
“It’s in my purse. I forgot about it. Thanks.”
“Be careful, Cass, just…be careful.”
“Okay,” she said. “I need to go now and get ready. I’m supposed to meet Max downstairs for breakfast.”
“Good luck.”
“You, too,” she said.
She hung up before me, and as the call dropped, I suddenly felt utterly alone.
I moved back to the window to calm my mind. The grounds were waking up, and gardeners moved out from the house with shovels and other tools in wheelbarrows. They wore blue and brown canvas coats, and I suddenly realized I was cold. It was almost February, after all. No reason for the chill to surprise me.
Another cup of coffee would help, then maybe I could head downstairs.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
A maid poked her head around. “I beg your pardon, miss, but I saw your light was on. Do you need any help with anything?”
“Can you tell me when I should go down for breakfast?” I asked.
“I can take you if you’re ready.” She pushed the door fully open. The girl looked around twenty, and the light blue dress she wore made her appear tiny.
“Should I leave a note for Marci?”
“I’ll tell her when I go in with her tea, miss.”
She led the way back downstairs and minutes later I was in the dining room, alone at the long table. The sideboard was already partially loaded, and as Marci’s maid left to go back upstairs, a short chubby woman came in with eggs under a silver domed serving tray.
“Can I get you anything, miss?” the second woman asked.
“I’ll serve myself. Thank you,” I replied.
The eggs were fluffy, the toast perfectly toasted, and the fruit preserves out of this world. I added a few sausage links and potatoes, and I was good to go. I noticed Sugar had silently entered the room as I’d dished up my breakfast, and I slipped her a couple of sausages while no one was around to catch me. She laid down by my chair, strategically placed to catch any food that might escape my plate.
I was on my third cup of coffee of the morning and Sugar had just finished the last of my cheesy scrambled eggs when Marci fluttered into the room.
“Oh, good, you’re all taken care of.” She turned to the sideboard and placed two triangles of lightly buttered toast on a plate, then poured a glass of juice. “Here, Sugar baby, catch.” Two sausage links flew in the air, gone before they could hit the
floor.
As Marci daintily nibbled her bread, I was glad she hadn’t come down sooner. I would have looked like a pig wallowing through my full plate while she pretended to eat.
“Fancy taking the horses out for a ride?” Marci asked, bringing me out of my reverie.
I contemplated the muscles already not happy with me and my previous day’s adventures. “Normally I’d say yes in a heartbeat, but I’m still achy from yesterday—”
“Oh, how thoughtless of me!” She reached over and covered my left hand with her right. “I forgot all about that. You don’t need a doctor, do you? I can call one.”
I shook my head. “Nothing time and rest won’t cure, but riding a horse today would be too much.”
“Absolutely.” She resumed nibbling her toast. “I was only thinking how best to show you around.”
Just then we heard a loud commotion outside. Sugar started barking and raced out of the dining room, her nails clicking madly on the parquet floor. I looked at Marci. “That sounds like a helicopter.”
She nodded. “We have a helipad on the other side of the house. Likely Daddy’s assistant coming in from London to pick up some papers. Happens all the time.”
“Everything seems so quiet and restful here. The sound of a helicopter doesn’t fit the scene.”
“I don’t even notice it anymore.” She took a sip of juice then said, “You need to choose what you want to wear tomorrow. We’ll go up and try on clothes. That will be fun.”
I looked at her lean arms. Marci had always been slightly smaller than me, but now she was model thin. Probably dieting for the wedding and all the pre-wedding pictures. I began to worry she might not have any clothes to fit me. “I assumed you’d have last-minute tasks before the party. Please don’t worry about me, Mars. I don’t want to be in the way.”
“Nothing of the kind.” Marci smiled. “The event planner and I went over details earlier in the week. She’s handling everything.” She leaned close and whispered, “Including the handling of Mummy.”
“I’ve never met your mother. She’s American, right?”
Marci nodded, continuing to whisper. “And since Daddy’s in Hong Kong right now on business, she spends all her time trying to boss me around instead of him. I told the planner I’d pay double if she’d run interference with Mummy. I can have the party as much my way as possible, but with minimum arguments about the preparations. My morning is free to spend with you.”
I was beginning to imagine Marci’s mother as the Red Queen. Maybe a long nap in my room all afternoon would keep me out of the fray. We talked about her wedding plans and laughed over some of the strange places people suggested for the ceremony.
“When I heard cemetery by candlelight, I decided that friend might need to be accidently dropped from the guest list,” she said about the final story.
“Absolutely agree with those instincts,” I said.
My gaze swept the extra-high ceilings and prismatic window wall. The Jacobean influences ran through every part of the house I’d seen so far, with arched openings, lots of columns, and the walls replicating that columnar choice with pilasters ornamenting the corners of many of the rooms, including this one. I turned back to Marci and said, “I can see the Northern Renaissance influence in the house, especially in the carved work.”
Marci nodded. “The men who did all the work were German and Flemish.”
“Hey, instead of horseback riding, could you show me the house? I’d love a full tour.”
“Are you finished? Let’s go.” Marci dropped the last bit of toast and scooted back her chair.
I pointed to her plate. “Finish eating. I can wait a few minutes.”
“I already had tea in my room,” she said, waving a hand. “That’s usually all I have until noon.”
No wonder she stayed so skinny. But I didn’t say anything, as much as I wanted to. I kept discussing the house.
“Too many British estates have become national historic trust sites,” I said. “With the families living out the final generation in one small wing. It’s nice to see a home like this still a living breathing residence.”
“Yes. Thank god Daddy’s good with money and makes a bundle with stocks and his business assets. Otherwise we would already be moved out too,” Marci said. “Mummy came with money, but this place costs a mint for regular upkeep. Luckily, Daddy acquired the Midas touch when he took over the family holdings and moved us into Asian investments that have paid off well. But while I understand business, I don’t have his almost alchemist talents myself, and I dreadfully fear I’ll be the final generational hurrah for the lovely place. A crushing responsibility.”
“What do other estates do to get by?”
She feathered her fingers in the air. “Fortunate ones rent the places out to big BBC blockbuster programs. But that’s of course far from the norm. Most, if they want to stay solvent, become places for events or conferences, or rent summer suites out to tourists like an upscale bed and breakfast.”
“Might be an idea—”
“Are you out of your mind?” Marci planted a hand on her hip and laughed. “Can you really see me as the innkeeper type? Really, Laurel.”
As we moved out of the dining room, Marci said, “You entered through the main formal reception area last night. There are four other formal reception rooms. One can never have too many formal reception rooms, naturally.” She grinned. “My favorite is over at Mummy and Daddy’s wing. That’s also where the master bedroom suite and sitting room is. Then there are six other bedroom suites, the two we were in last night, plus another on our side of the hall, with the rest at the other end.”
We were back in the front gathering area adjacent to the foyer. Marci continued, “There are five other bedrooms scattered around for guests, but they don’t have an en suite. The family wing is where we have the gallery of famous family portraits. I’ll show you all of that after Mummy gets up and is busy with her work.”
She stopped. I didn’t realize and had to double back when I noticed.
“I just had a thought,” she said, grabbing my arm. “You can teach me how to play snooker. We have a marvelous table, but I don’t have a clue how to play. Van and Daddy have tried to teach me, but you’d be so much better at instructing me on the principles of the game.”
Meaning, I was so much better at snooker than her father and her fiancé. “Tell the truth. You really want me to teach you how to beat them.”
She laughed. “I knew you’d be a great teacher for me. You’re so insightful.”
“Okay, which direction?” I asked.
Marci started to speak, then stopped, looked at something over my shoulder, and a huge smile spread across her face. “Oh, good, you can meet my brother,” she said, waving a hand toward the staircase. She called out, “When did you arrive?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. I came to see Father.”
My ears were playing tricks on me. I turned slowly and was surprised to see a tall, heavily tattooed, punk-dressed man with a thick white shock of hair above his black brows. I wanted to tell the guy that Billy Idol wanted his hair back, but no words came out of my mouth. Sarcastic or otherwise. Sugar stood at the bottom of the stairs, tail wagging and grinning up at him.
“I know he doesn’t fit the family image with this hooligan look, but my dear brother usually cleans up much better than this,” Marci said, directing her next comments at her sibling. “Mummy hasn’t come down yet, but when she does I guarantee her first words will be ‘this isn’t Halloween and the new look must go.’ I’ll call my hairdresser to beg for him to get you worked in as quickly as possible.”
I walked toward the strange-looking man, shaking my head at the sight of all the ink on his exposed skin. He remained stock still. I circled around the dog to slowly climb each step, going a couple of risers higher than him so my baby blues could stare right into his
bright teal eyes. I said, “I do hope it’s not too painful when they remove all the art on your skin, Jack. Because it really cannot stay.”
“I’ll grit my teeth and do it for Q and C.” He grinned.
I couldn’t help but return the grin. “So it’s temporary?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I took an earlobe between my finger and thumb. “Looks like you had some piercings, too.”
He caught my wrist and held it. “The holes won’t show in a month.”
“Was all of this necessary?”
“I said I was going to be someone else. Couldn’t get out of the assignment because I needed to play a repeat performance.”
Marci called up, “I take it you two already know one another.”
I pivoted her way. “I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”
Jack laced his fingers with mine and pulled me along with him down the staircase. “Let’s remedy that then, shall we? Marci, we’ll be in the garden getting better acquainted.”
As he hurried me toward the French doors along the east side of the house, I spoke over my shoulder. “Tell your hairdresser there’s a big tip involved if Jack can be worked in soon. I’d hate for his hair to think it needs to stay this way.”
Jack responded by calling out, “Laurel already believes it’s her personal duty to give me white hair before my time. She doesn’t want the competition.”
It was too cold for any blooms, but the chilled landscape gave off the earthy scent of well-tended sod. As we hit the stone pathway, a gardener was at the far end. No one else was close, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I pulled Jack behind some tall evergreen bushes, ready to tell him everything that had happened since he’d gone, grateful to finally share the load.
I looked up at him with the goofy hair and…slammed him against the stone wall and kissed him within an inch of his life.
“Wow,” he said, as we broke free. “Maybe I need to change my hair color more often.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“So it’s the tats that turn you on.”
