by Dani Pettrey
“We plan to.”
“Be careful. I don’t know what Watts is like now, but back in the day he was plain nasty.”
Great. Another nasty man to deal with. As if the man chasing after them and William Daniels weren’t enough.
“Thanks for the heads up,” Reef said. “We were told there was something about a reporter who’d done a piece on the breaking and entering, that he claimed there was a second break-in that night, but the men were never charged for it.”
“Let me guess. The reporter was Simon Baker?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
Rydell shook his head with an exasperated smile. “When it comes to conspiracy theories, Simon Baker’s always involved. Twenty years later, nothing’s changed.”
“He’s still reporting?”
“Yep. Actually, he runs the Kodiak Eagle now. Office is over on Main Street.”
“Thanks,” Kirra said, standing. Simon Baker had just bumped to the top of their interview list.
“What conspiracy theory?” Reef asked as Rydell shook his hand.
Rydell smiled. “I’m going to let Simon answer that one. It’s his theory. Well, his and Karen Madero’s.”
The Kodiak Eagle offices were housed in a two-story converted home along Main Street. A handful of desks occupied the busy space—phones ringing, people hollering to each other across workstations, as a series of news station broadcasts were displayed on the flat screen TVs mounted on the far wall.
A man stood in front of them, his back to Reef and Kirra. Based on his gray receding hairline, she was betting the gentleman was older. His tan Dockers were rumpled, and his striped long-sleeved shirt rolled up above his elbows.
Kirra approached him, following a hunch. “Mr. Baker?” she asked.
He turned, half glancing at Kirra and half still watching the newscast vying for his attention. “Yeah? What do you want?”
He looked to be in his sixties. Tall, not exactly lean, but well built. “To speak with you about an article you wrote.”
“Yeah?” He shrugged, determination fixed hard in his eyes. “Get in line.” He gestured to a row of people waiting behind a half wall, most fuming. He called over his shoulder at them. “Haven’t you people ever heard of freedom of speech?” He looked back at Kirra. “You don’t have to like what I say, but that doesn’t make it illegal to say it.”
“I think there’s been some confusion.”
He popped the top of his soda. “That’s one way to approach it.”
“Approach what?”
“Whatever’s got your knickers in a bunch.”
“My knickers aren’t in . . .” She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Look. We’re just here to get your help on the Webster break-in—from twenty years ago.”
The man’s brows furrowed. “What about it?” He took a swig of soda.
“You wrote an article about the second break-in. Well, I suppose it was actually the first break-in, but you get my point. . . .”
He eyed them skeptically. “And?”
“And we’re trying to learn all we can about the initial break-in.”
“You mean you believe it happened?”
“That’s what your article says, isn’t it?”
He gazed around and then wrapped his arm around Kirra’s shoulder, steering her to the open office in the rear. “Let’s talk in my office.”
They followed him in and waited while he closed the door. “Take a seat.” He gestured to the two brown metal folding chairs placed on either side of a brown card table. He pulled his swivel chair over from his desk. “That break-in was years ago. Why the sudden interest?” He stiffened. “Watts didn’t send you, did he? I heard he was out, but I—”
“We’re not here on behalf of Watts,” she assured him.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because of my uncle, Frank Web—” She caught herself. “Frank Jacobs.”
“Frank’s niece, huh?”
“Yes. I—”
“I get it. You’re after the egg.”
Kirra glanced at Reef, confused, and then back to Simon Baker. “Egg? What egg?” What did any of this have to do with an egg of all things?
“Look, kitten, that innocent look may work with the young fellows like this guy.” He jabbed his thumb in Reef’s direction. “But I’ve seen it all. If you’re just in it for the treasure, I’m not interested.” He pushed back from the table.
“Wait. Please. My cousin Meg, Frank’s daughter, is in serious trouble, and we think it may be related to that night.”
He arched a brow. “Because Watts is out of jail?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know Watts is out of jail?” Reef asked.
“Because when a murderer is released back into our small community, we at the Eagle keep our citizens informed.” He cleared his throat. “That and Karen called all freaked out, frantic he may come after her.”
“Karen Madero?” Kirra asked.
“That’s right.”
Reef stretched his legs out, crossing one booted foot over the other. “Why was she worried Watts would come after her?”
“Because he might be under the assumption that she knows where Frank hid it.”
“It being some egg?” Kirra asked.
Baker gave a curt nod, igniting her curiosity even more.
“What can you tell us about this egg?”
“Other than the fact it’s a priceless Russian Imperial Fabergé egg, nothing.” He stiffened. “You want more, you’ll need to talk to Karen.”
She tried to move past that, to focus on what they could get out of him. “What can you tell us about that night? The police don’t believe there was another break-in, or at least not one where anything was stolen. Why do you believe differently?”
“Because the security alarm was triggered at the Bartholomew residence eight minutes before the Webster break-in that night.”
“That didn’t give them much time at the Bartholomew residence. What do the police say about the triggered alarm?”
“They said that malfunctions happen, and even if Watts and his crew were responsible for triggering the Bartholomew residence’s alarm, they didn’t steal anything.”
“Because . . . ?” Why trigger an alarm and not bother taking anything?
“Police say either they broke into the wrong house, realized it, and moved on . . .”
Kirra leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Or?”
“Or the alarm spooked them and they moved on.”
“Not far,” Reef said. “Not if it only took them eight minutes between break-ins.”
“The Bartholomew residence and the Websters’ are only separated by two streets.”
“That’s really risky. Two break-ins so close together.”
“Risky. Stupid.” He shrugged. “Take your pick.”
“But you’re sure an egg was taken from the Bartholomew residence?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“We were told the homeowner claimed otherwise.”
“Yes, but he had his reasons.”
“And what reasons might those be?”
A young man approached the office door. “Simon, it’s the call you’ve been waiting for.” He tapped the doorframe. “Line one.”
Simon stood and stepped to his desk. “Sorry, folks. I’ve got to take this.”
“But we’ve still got questions for you.”
“Talk to Karen Madero. She’ll be able to answer your questions better than I can.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because she was there that night.”
No wonder Karen Madero was worried. If Watts had killed her husband and apparently tried to kill Frank, what said Watts wouldn’t try to kill off the final witness?
19
Karen Madero lived at the water’s edge in a small cabin sided with wood shingles, which Kirra guessed had once been dark and earthy in color but now closely resembled parched driftwood.
Ree
f held out his hand at the base of the steps. “After you.”
“Thanks.” She allowed her fingers to brush his, allowed her mind to drift to the moment he’d said he was falling for her, recalled the soft feel of his lips against hers—the first time in the cave, startled and hesitant, the second on the plane, confident and passionate. She wondered what the next time would be like and how long she’d have to wait.
“Kirra, the door?” Reef gestured with a tilt of his head and a soft smile curling on his lips.
How long had she just been standing in front of it? Embarrassment heated her cheeks as her gloved hand knocked on the plexiglass storm door.
The interior door opened, and an attractive woman in her early-to-mid forties stared out at them, lingering fear edging her beautiful brown eyes.
“Mrs. Madero?”
She clasped her cardigan closed, her fingers tight on the heather-gray material. “Yes?”
“Simon Baker sent us over.” It seemed the less intimidating and still truthful lead-in.
“Oh?” She still hadn’t opened the storm door, and as the frigid March wind blew off the bay, Kirra really wished the woman would.
“We were hoping you might be able to help us.”
Her eyes fluttered. A nervous habit, perhaps? “With what?”
“The Bartholomew and Webster break-ins.”
“I’m afraid that’s ancient history.” She moved to close the door.
“Wait. Please! My cousin’s life may hang in the balance.”
The woman paused, eyeing Kirra curiously. “Who’s your cousin?”
“Frank Jacobs’ daughter, Meg.”
Karen swallowed and then opened the storm door. She looked around before shutting it behind them.
Karen Madero’s home could best be summed up as quaint. A cozy front room greeted them, a navy couch and matching recliner taking up the bulk of the space, a basketful of yarn sitting next to a dark wooden rocker in front of a stone fireplace.
Kirra studied the woman’s stylish wool cardigan more closely and decided by some of the intricate detailing and matching spool of wool in the basket that she’d most likely knit it herself.
“You knit?” She pointed to the basket overflowing with muted grays and bright hues of pink and purple.
Karen nodded, her arms wrapped tightly about her torso. “Can I get either of you a drink? Hot chocolate, coffee, tea?”
“I’d love a hot chocolate,” Kirra said.
“That’d be great.” Reef took a seat beside her on the couch as Karen headed for the kitchen.
Reef shouldered against her, threading his fingers through hers. “How you holding up?”
“Okay.” It wasn’t easy learning your favorite uncle had a sordid past, and she felt as if everything was going in slow motion. “I’m getting anxious. Meg’s still out there, and I have no idea if we’re any closer to finding her.” Not to mention the man following them. Had he known they were headed for Kodiak? If not, how long would it take him to figure it out? He was never far behind, and she wanted to know how he kept managing to do that. Who was feeding him information on their whereabouts?
Karen Madero returned with two mugs in hand, passing one to Kirra and the other to Reef.
Kirra smiled. “Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” Reef said before taking a sip. The hot chocolate was rich and thick and nearly rivaled his sister Piper’s—nearly, but not quite.
Karen settled uneasily in her chair, clearly bracing for the questions to come.
Kirra began. “What can you tell us about that night?”
Karen cleared her throat, staring past them both. “It was twenty years ago, but I still remember it like it was yesterday. Still see it in my nightmares.”
Kirra set her mug on the coaster. “Simon Baker said there were two break-ins that night?”
Karen nodded.
“The police believe there was only one, or at least only one where they actually entered,” Reef said, cupping his mug, letting the warmth ease the chill in his hands.
Karen looked straight at him. “They’re wrong.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because I was there.”
Just as Simon Baker had said. “You were part of the robbery?” Reef wasn’t seeing it. She hardly looked the criminal sort.
“No.” Karen looked down at her hands clasped tight in her lap. “I was watching.”
“Watching?” Kirra asked, before taking another sip of her hot chocolate.
Reef clutched Kirra’s hand as she conversed with Karen Madero. After all she’d been through, Kirra deserved to be protected.
Inhaling, anger flared inside. If he’d known when they’d been in that parking lot what William Daniels had done . . .
Exhaling slowly, Reef forced his racing heart to calm.
Kirra wasn’t alone in this, not anymore. He was at her side, and that’s where he’d stay.
“I knew Henry Watts was serious trouble,” Karen said, reining in Reef’s attention. “I begged Tommy not to get involved with him, but he didn’t listen. That night, I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I just knew something bad was going to happen, so I followed Tommy to the Bartholomew house. I saw them go inside, heard the alarm go off, and a few minutes later, they rushed out.”
“Did you see them carrying anything?” he asked.
Karen shook her head. “It was dark, and they moved straight for the car, but they seemed excited—not frustrated—and it wouldn’t be hard to conceal what I believe they took.”
“And what’s that?” They knew what Simon claimed, but he wanted to hear it from her.
“A Russian Imperial Fabergé egg.”
“Why do you believe they took that?”
“Because Watts and Tommy had both heard rumors about Bartholomew.”
“What rumors would those be?” Reef asked, knowing all about rumors and false assumptions, but perhaps in this case the rumors were true.
“That Bartholomew was a collector of black-market antiquities, and that he’d recently acquired a rare Fabergé egg. I heard Watts and Tommy talking about it before they left that night, and I am certain it is the reason they broke into the Bartholomew house.”
“Okay, so why the second break-in?” Reef asked. “Why weren’t they satisfied with the egg?” It had to be worth a fortune. His sister-in-law, Bailey, would know for sure. She continued to run her late aunt’s Russian Alaskan Trading Company, and she specialized in antiques from the Imperial period.
“Watts got greedy. Before they got in the car, I heard him tell Tommy and Frank they had one more job. They argued about it as they got in, but Watts, as always, won out. I think Watts planned to make it look like Tommy and Frank shot each other at the second break-in, and then he’d just slip away with the egg. An egg that would never be reported stolen.”
“But the homeowner returned,” Reef said.
“Exactly. Phillip Webster returned armed and shot at and injured Watts before he could kill Frank. Watts returned fire and Frank fled during the shootout. Tommy died, Watts got arrested, and Phillip Webster spent a night in the hospital.”
“So what happened to the egg?”
“Frank got away with it when he fled.”
“My uncle took it?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. After the police arrived at the Webster home, they didn’t find anything on Tommy or Watts, or in the car.”
“But maybe it wasn’t even taken in the first place. You never saw the egg. No one admits to taking it, and even the homeowner insists nothing was stolen.”
“I’m telling you, they came out of the Bartholomew house with something, and I am sure it was the egg. Besides . . . there was the rumor.”
“What rumor?”
“That Frank took the egg and hid it.”
“Hid it?” Kirra frowned.
“To keep the cops off his trail. To make sure no one could tie him to the break-in.”
“And wher
e, supposedly, did he hide it?”
“Along the Iditarod trail.”
Kirra looked at Reef, a thousand thoughts racing across her face, and through his mind.
With obvious frustration, Karen continued, “When they arrested him at the end of the race, he insisted they didn’t take anything from the Bartholomew house—but I know better. They searched his house and everywhere else they could think of. . . . Where else could it be?”
“Okay . . .” Kirra looked at Reef and then back to Karen. “So you think Watts believes my uncle hid the Fabergé egg and is holding my cousin hostage until he retrieves the egg and brings it to him?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Let’s say the egg was stolen and Frank did hide it along the Iditarod trail. Once he got out of prison, why wouldn’t he have retrieved it for himself?” Kirra asked.
“The egg would be too hot to sell anywhere except on the black market, which would bring Bartholomew back into it. I believe Frank just left it out there to rid himself of it and start a fresh life.”
“So you believe that a Fabergé egg has been hidden somewhere along the Iditarod trail this entire time?” Reef asked, the notion highly intriguing. To think something so valuable could be out there somewhere was crazy.
“Yes,” Karen said with absolute certainty to her tone.
Kirra’s mind was swirling as they said good-bye to Karen Madero and headed down the front porch steps. The temperature had dropped, the sky gray and thick.
She looked up at Reef. “What do you think?”
“It’s an interesting theory, but I don’t know if it’s more than that.”
“If it is, if Karen’s theory is true, then how on earth can we help Frank? Only he knows where the Fabergé egg is hidden, so only he can retrieve it. And why would others be in danger?”
“I don’t know.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I believe we can best help by finding Meg. By focusing on her trail.”
“So we head back to Seward, where she was last seen, or back to the race?”
“Let’s call Jake and get his input, and we should call Bailey about the egg.”
“Great idea. With her expertise in Russian artifacts, she might be able to offer some helpful insight.”
“Before we leave Kodiak, though, there are three more people we need to speak with.”
