Beguiled

by Deeanne Gist

  He left a voice mail with an informant at the top of his speed dial. Marcel Gibbon, nicknamed the Cherub. But when the Cherub called back, he was anything but angelic. “What’s this about?”

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  “What do you think this is, Logan, the help line?”

  “When can we meet?”

  Gibbon took a long while before answering. “My schedule’s full.”

  “What about tonight? Washington Park?”

  “No can do.”

  “I’ll be there around midnight. Maybe I’ll run into you on the street.”

  No response.

  With the Cherub, there was no such thing as a simple meeting. In spite of the bald head and chubby cheeks, and the belly swelling behind his buttoned jackets, Gibbon had a cloak-and-dagger streak.

  He dressed impeccably, moved with an improbable feline grace, and had an aversion to talking on the phone, which is why he arranged every rendezvous as if an fbi surveillance team might be listening in. Logan hoped a midnight appointment would appeal to him.

  Lacey Lamar had made the introduction, warning Logan to be careful.

  “Half of everything he says is a lie, and the other half is all too true,” she’d said, fingering the signature string of pearls at her throat. “But he knows where the bodies are buried in this town.

  He put some of them there himself.”

  “Literally?” he asked.

  “You mean, am I positive he actually killed anybody?” She shook her head. “His official list of crimes includes plenty of b&e, larceny, and an infamous swindle or two. One of his best friends is a prominent defense attorney, otherwise Marcel wouldn’t be walking the streets. But I’ve never asked him to his face whether he killed anybody—and I don’t recommend that you do, either.”

  “I won’t.”

  She nodded. “Get him on your side, Logan, and you’ll be surprised the things he will talk about.”

  After thirty minutes on the sidewalk outside city hall, Logan glanced down Broad Street and finally saw Marcel Gibbon strolling toward him, a cigar jutting from the side of his puckered mouth. The man looked as if he’d reached the end of a long night. His jacket hung open, his loosened tie pulled to one side, hands plunged into his pants pockets. No one who happened to observe him would conclude this was a man on his way to a clandestine rendezvous, and that was the whole point.

  He crossed Broad, glancing both ways, then ambled through the park entrance like he was taking a short cut to Chalmers Street on the opposite side. Logan followed without any pretense to stealth, skirting the obelisk at the center of the park and joining Gibbon on the bench near the Beauregard plaque.

  The trees overhead rustled slightly in the night breeze, the scene only half illuminated by cast-off light from city hall and the Fireproof Building, where the state flag hung from a pole, its white palmetto mostly concealed in the fabric’s folds.

  “I know what this is about,” Gibbon said.

  Even in the shadows, Logan could make out the habitual De Niro squint and the wide grin that in daylight would reveal incongruous dimples beneath the perpetual layer of stubble along his jawline.

  “You sure about that?”

  “I read the paper. Not that there’s much worth reading in there.”

  “So you’ve been following my stories. That’s good.”

  The tip of the Cherub’s cigar flared with a hot orange glow, and then he cocked his head sideways to expel the smoke. “If you have a question to ask, get on with it—”

  Logan’s hand went to his pocket.

  “—but if you reach for that little recorder, I swear I’m gonna put out my cigar on your hand.”

  “Fine.” Logan pulled back. “Here’s the thing. My career is riding on this story. I need to find the Robin Hood burglar, and I need to find him before the cops do.”

  A pause. Gibbon leaned forward so he could study Logan’s face. His breath was charred. “You think you’re going to jump ahead of the police on this? You’re gunning to solve it?” He gave a bark of laughter. “You’re gonna splash this guy’s face on the front page—the Robin Hood Burglar of Charleston, courtesy of Logan Woods, ace reporter.”

  He should have let Gibbon laugh. He wanted to. But Logan felt his mouth opening anyway. “It’s not for the paper.”

  The Cherub’s grin flattened. “No? Then what’s it for? If I’m helping, I have a right to know.”

  “It’s for a book. A book about the city—all of its eccentrics and stories. There’s a publisher interested, but to close the deal, I need to see this Robin Hood thing through.”

  But Gibbon wasn’t listening. “A book? You’re writing a book?”

  “Yeah,” Logan said. “Why is that so—”

  The Cherub moved closer, squeezing Logan between himself and the bench’s arm. “Am I in this book of yours?”

  Logan sprang up, eluding the other man’s outstretched hand, then moved into the light around the obelisk.

  Gibbon stood, keeping to the shadows, eyes narrowed at Logan.

  He wasn’t grinning anymore. “Am I in this book?”

  Logan shrugged. “Kind of.”

  The Cherub’s grin returned with no hint of mirth behind it.

  “Well, I better be. I hate this town the way a man hates the dog that turns around and bites him. There are more names on my revenge list than you’ve got girls in your little black book. But you wouldn’t be telling the truth about this place without me at the center.”

  “So it’s okay?” It didn’t look okay, not with the cold light burning in those slit-eyes.

  Gibbon drew on the cigar thoughtfully and then flicked the butt out into the darkness, where it smoldered in the nearby grass.

  Logan was tempted to walk over and stomp on it, but he didn’t move.

  “It looks like a prank, doesn’t it?” Gibbon said. “You break into one of these multi-million-dollar homes, you pass up all kinds of treasure. You take something pretty much worthless compared to everything you leave behind—and then, to top it all off, you donate your ill-gotten gain to charity. At the end of the day, the injured party’s goods are restored. No harm done.”

  “More or less.” Logan pictured the Petries’ ransacked bedroom. “From a technical point of view, nothing I’ve seen suggests you’re dealing with a pro. We’ve had a few in our fair city—don’t get me wrong. But they don’t work like this. One thing they’ve never done is made a statement, and that’s what your guy is all about.”

  “You think it’s a man, then?” Logan asked, regretting the question immediately. But he wanted Gibbon to assure him this had to be the work of a man, that it was inconceivable a woman—one woman in particular—could be responsible.

  The Cherub eyed him curiously, but misunderstood. “I’m not ruling out the possibility of a juvenile offender, but a teenager wouldn’t be satisfied with just boosting a statue. He’d want to trash the place, too, just for kicks. It’s about the thrill.”

  “Then the latest one fits the bill.” Logan told Gibbon about the Petrie break-in, the way the violence still clung to the room like a bad smell. Describing the scene, he felt his muscles tensing up. “Ripping a place apart like that. You couldn’t do it without some fury inside you.”

  “Maybe not,” Gibbon conceded. “That’s what I was getting at before when I said he was making a statement. The stuff this guy steals, it’s worthless. But that doesn’t make it meaningless.”

  “Then what does it mean?”

  Gibbon shrugged. “How should I know? But I guarantee it means something to him. Find the connection between the objects . . . and maybe you’ll find your man.”

  Turning, he walked along the perimeter, keeping out of the light, edging toward the Chalmers Street exit. His steps had a deliberate quality, like he was squashing dark thoughts into the pavers as he walked. All of Lacey’s warnings about Gibbon started chiming in Logan’s head. He had to learn to keep his mouth shut about the book.

  “Gibbon
?”

  The Cherub paused at the exit, silhouetted by the streetlights farther out.

  “Do you know anything about Rylee Monroe?”

  He lifted his brows. “The dogwalker? The girl’s a fixture south of Broad.”

  “But what can you tell me about her?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Gibbon said. “You’re the detective now.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Hey there, George.”

  The Davidsons’ gardener crouched near the bushes with a pair of shears. He didn’t stir at the sound of Rylee’s voice. She passed through the gate, hitching it behind her, then unhooked Toro and let him run free.

  “It’s shaping up to be a hot one, isn’t it?” She made her way toward the gardener, determined to draw him out.

  In his late fifties, George Pendergrass was a little old-fashioned. He did his gardening in a button-up short-sleeved shirt, always tucked in. His mahogany skin was toughened by the sun and perhaps hard living.

  Every five minutes or so, he consulted his gold Seiko, like he was expected somewhere else. And he probably was. He did gardening for many homes in the neighborhood.

  Out on the street, a Charleston police cruiser rolled by slowly. George followed it with his gaze.

  “They’re keeping a close eye on things, aren’t they?” she said.

  He grunted. “With the po-lice, there’s always a lotta looking, but not a lotta seeing.”

  His mumbled words were so quiet, she’d barely caught them.

  But at least she’d elicited a response.

  Reaching for the yard bag beside him, she held it open while he dropped his trimmings into it. “Do you like what you do, George?”

  No answer.

  “I love what I do.” She waved her arm to encompass the neatly-trimmed garden, the verdant lawn, and the mastiff circling a tree.

  “When you find the kind of work that satisfies you, and you do it the rest of your life, well, that’s a gift from God.”

  He retrieved his shears and garbage bag, then set off for his truck, mumbling under his breath. This time, she wasn’t able to catch the words.

  Taking Toro inside, she fed him, rolled around on the floor with him and played tug-of-war as she waited for Logan to come by. He’d called earlier, asking if they could brainstorm, compare notes.

  Her phone beeped. I’m here. Where R U?

  She quickly texted, Coming.

  As she locked the back door, George was dragging a grass-stained trimmer through the gate.

  “You gonna be at the Sebastians’ later on today?”

  He shook his head. “Monday.”

  “I’ll see you then.” She waved, but he’d already turned away.

  Logan met her at the gate. This time his oxford shirt was yellow. My favorite color.

  Unbuttoning his cuffs, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing tanned arms sprinkled with brown hair. “Who’s that?”

  “George Pendergrass.” She pointed to his white truck with its silhouette of a wheelbarrow, a shovel, and a potted plant on its door. PENDERGRASS GARDENING arched over it like a rainbow. “I’m sure he’s a sweet man deep down, but he keeps pretty much to himself.

  I’m working on him, though.”

  Logan opened the door of a black BMW.

  “This is yours?” she asked.

  “A graduation gift from my parents.” He patted the hood. “Still runs like a dream, even with a hundred thousand miles on the clock.”

  He closed the passenger door behind her and hopped behind the wheel.

  “What’s her name?” Rylee asked.

  “Whose name?”

  “Your car’s. What’s your car’s name?”

  “It’s a BMW 3-Series coupe.”

  “No. Her name. You know. Like my Civic. I call her Daisy.”

  He shot her an amused glance. “You don’t.”

  “I do.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, he pulled onto the street. “I don’t name my cars, Rylee.”

  She ran her gaze over the well-kept leather seats, the gps unit and high-end stereo, with an mp3 player screen, and the gleaming dashboard. He may not name his car, but he certainly took good care of it.

  Logan drove Rylee past each of Robin Hood’s crime scenes, asking questions as they went. Did she know whether Karl’s jewelry casket had ever been appraised? Had she ever noticed anyone who didn’t belong in the neighborhood checking out the Petrie place? Were any of her clients friends with Mr. Shelby—the widower whose ormolu clock had been stolen? Besides her, who else did work for the Bosticks?

  “George does.”

  “That gardener we just saw?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many other clients of yours does he work for?”

  “Three others. The Sebastians, the Petries, and the David–sons.” “Anybody else work for your clients? You know, housekeepers, pool guys, something like that?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know them all.”

  He’d fished his digital recorder out and balanced it as best he could on the console between them. With the road noise, he wasn’t sure how good of a recording he’d get, but it was better than trying to take notes as he drove.

  “Have the cops told you anything?” she asked.

  Helping or fishing for information?

  “Nate’s been pretty tight-lipped lately. Gave me next to nothing on the Sebastian and Petrie breakins.”

  She smoothed down the hem of her top. A plain silver band encircled her thumb. “Probably because he doesn’t have any information to pass along.”

  He checked his rearview mirror. “Possibly.”

  “You know what I find myself wondering?” she asked. “The Robin Hood burglar, when he enters somebody’s house, does he already know what he’s going to steal? If these things mean something to him—these particular things—then he has to know in advance, doesn’t he?”

  The same thing Marcel Gibbon had suggested—find the connection between the objects, and you’ll find your man.

  He downshifted as they approached a light. “The statue, clock, and jewelry casket were things you might notice during a visit, right?

  And someone might have seen Latisha Petrie’s brooch while she was wearing it. Makes me wonder if our guy is one of their inner circle.”

  “The jewelry casket wasn’t on display.”

  He glanced at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “It was in Karl’s closet.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I was at his house when the police came by.”

  “You’re kidding. I had no idea.”

  “Yeah. I interrupted him.”

  “Karl?”

  “Robin Hood.”

  He stared at her, stunned. Clearly Nate was holding back.

  “Light’s green.”

  Putting it in first, he eased forward. He’d interviewed hundreds of people in his years on the crime beat. Spotting a liar had become almost second nature to him. Wandering eyes. Fidgeting. Rapid speech. An exaggerated version of the sincere, furrowed-brow look.

  Yet Rylee exhibited none of these. She sat relaxed against the seat cushions, her long legs crossed at the ankles.

  “Tell me exactly what happened. Start at the beginning.”

  She talked him through the robbery, gesturing with her hands in an effort to assist him in seeing what she’d seen.

  He braked, allowing a horse and carriage to pull in front of them.

  The sun coming through the window gave her hair the same red-bathed tint as a glass of iced tea. So short in back it barely reached her raised collar, affording a clear view of her graceful jaw and long neck, but she had to keep flicking the longish strands in front away from her toffee eyes. Her blue checked top had very short sleeves, revealing the burnished tan line of her bare arms.

  She turned suddenly and caught him looking.

  He glanced away, tried to think of something to say. “What if it wasn’t Robin Hood?”

  “Wh
at?” She tilted her head, calling his attention to the creamy length of neck she’d exposed.

  He took a right on Market. “What if we have two cat burglars on our hands instead of one?”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “It’s just a theory,” he said. “And maybe I’m crazy. But the robberies aren’t quite the same, are they? Sometimes there’s a lot of violence and sometimes there isn’t. Sometimes he hits at night and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he donates what he steals, and sometimes he doesn’t.”

  “Maybe he donates everything, but the people don’t all report it.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “The jewelry casket was the third robbery, right?”

  “I can’t keep track anymore.”

  “It was third. The statue was first. Then the clock. Then the jewelry casket. Then the brooch.”

  She turned in her seat, the checked shirt twisting tight across her chest. “So what?”

  “The Petrie break-in is different because of the violence. The Bosticks couldn’t even tell there’d been a break-in, and he didn’t trash the Sebastians’ home either. Something happened between the Sebastian break-in and the Petrie one, something to make him angry. Either that, or it was a different burglar.”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “They all have so much in common. He always takes something of sentimental value. The brooch meant a lot to Latisha, and Karl . . . he seemed just devastated.”

  Devastated? Since the lawyer still hadn’t returned any of his calls, Logan had done a little digging—mainly in the society pages.

  Why would one of the most eligible bachelors in Charleston be devastated over a jewelry box? What kind of man kept a jewelry box in his closet, anyway?

  “What’s so special about this jewelry casket?” he asked.

  “He said it had been in his family for years.”

  “What was inside?”

  “It was empty.”

  “Then why did he keep it hidden in the closet?”

  She scrunched up her nose. “It wasn’t really hidden. It was on a shelf.”

  “And you didn’t know it was there?”

  “Of course not. How would I know something like that?”

  She fell silent, letting him drive aimlessly from street to street. The congenial, charming girl of a few moments before had grown somber during the conversation.