by Ginny Aiken
“I told you I’m human.” He turns off the car. “How boring of me.”
“Ya think?”
“I think you really get something out of arguing with me, but I don’t really know what. Or why.” At my sputter, he puts a hand on my arm. “Wait! I’m not done. I just want to put you on notice, Teach. I intend to find out why you’re so prickly around me. And you also need to know I’m a pretty determined guy.”
I read between his words, and come up with—I think, I hope—the right conclusion. He wants his job, and he’s going to fight to keep it, even though what he really wants is a sports spot. He’s also going to knock down the wall I’ve built up between us.
I hope there’s not another murder in his plans.
Blinded by tears, I stumble into Aunt Weeby’s room. Under the covers, she looks tiny, worn out, and for the first time ever, her age is a sobering reality. I can’t stop the sob that slips through my lips, but for her sake, I get a grip right away. “It’s so good to see you!”
“Aw, sugarplum. I’m so sorry to worry you like this. It’s not what we were wanting, you know.”
“Of course I know. Nobody wants to crash their car.”
“It was really strange.” Her voice can’t hide her exhaustion, or maybe it’s pain I hear. “We were riding along just fine, but then when Mona tried to slow down to make a turn, nothing happened. She couldn’t get that crazy car a’ hers to slow or stop. We were going down this small hill, a bitty thing, you know. It shouldn’t’ve done much to speed us up, but the problem was them brakes. They just wouldn’t grab, so Mona couldn’t get the car to stop.”
I reach for her hand. “I can imagine how scared you must have been.”
“And Mona.” A tear rolls down her pale cheek. “I feel right awful about all this. I’m the one who came up with the idea for that safari today. We should’ve just stayed put. She wouldn’t be so bad off if she’d gone ahead to the studio like she planned to do.”
“How is she?”
“They told me she’s in critical condition.”
“That’s what they told me too.”
“But, Andie? I didn’t need any one a’ them to tell me anything. I couldn’t wake her after we hit that light post. She . . . she hadn’t come to, even when we got here.”
“Hey! You’re the one who always tells me to hang on to my faith. Where’s yours hiding out today?”
She draws a shuddery breath. “You didn’t see her yet, did you?”
“What’s that got to do with God?”
“She looked . . . she looked dead.”
“Don’t think about that, Miss Weeby,” Max says from the doorway. All of a sudden I realize how quietly he walks. Hmm . . .
Oblivious to my suspicions, he goes on. “I just checked with the nurses, and they say she’s in critical but stable condition. She hit her head, so they have her sedated. They want to make sure there’s no hemorrhage around the brain.”
“Oh, that sounds awful. Poor Miss Mona.” I reach a hand out to my aunt. “Let’s pray.”
We bow our heads, and, as we’ve done so many times, we turn to our Lord, lift Miss Mona’s condition to him, pray for his blessing upon her, for guidance and wisdom for her doctors. As always, Aunt Weeby ends by saying, “Your will, Father, yours and not ours. Amen.”
The deep, masculine “amen” catches me by surprise. “You were praying too?”
“What?” He looks uncomfortable and defensive. “Are you the resident expert on that too? Or can mere mortals reach out to God for the sake of a nice lady who’s badly hurt?”
That really zings me. “Sorry, Max. I keep forgetting how stupid it is to assume stuff about people.”
“I have gone to church since I was a kid.”
“That’s not the same thing—”
“Miz Weeby!” Chief Clark tumbles through the door and comes to the side of the bed, leans over, and my aunt wraps her arms around his neck. “How’re you doing? You did give us one awful big scare.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice cracks just a bit. “But Mona’s not. They still have her out . . . and she’s still in critical condition.”
I glance at the doorway, and sure enough, his shadow’s hanging there. Who is that guy?
But before I get a chance to ask, the chief says, “Now, you know these doctor types really know a lot. I’m sure they won’t let anything go wrong with her.”
“It’s in God’s hands,” she murmurs with more resignation than hope.
Not good.
Then she adds, “What brings you here, Donald? I already told that other officer all he wanted to know about the crash. There’s not a whole lot I remember. It all happened too fast.”
He drags off his hat. “I saw all that in the witness report, so you don’t need to go over it again and again. You’re pretty clear on what happened, and there’s no need to doubt you.”
Wish he’d go that easy on me.
“Then what’d you come over here for? It isn’t the most cheery place to spend a day, you know.”
“I do know, and that’s what makes coming here worse. I . . . I have something to show you.”
He reaches into his uniform pocket and pulls out a ziplock baggie with a folded piece of paper inside. “The investigating guys gave me this. I thought you should see it, and maybe you might could give me an idea who’s done this.”
“I’ll give it a try.” She lifts her head just a little bit. “Let me tell you, Donald, I can’t wait until you get your hands on the little creep what did this to us.”
The chief pulls out a pair of latex gloves from his other pocket, slips them on, and then opens the bag. He unfolds the paper so he can hold it out for Aunt Weeby to read.
Shadowman steps into the room, silent as always.
Aunt Weeby reads, and then turns, if possible, even paler. “Oh no! This is dreadful. Sick! Sick, sick, sick. Why would someone do such a thing? And who? Who would do it? What are you going to do about it, Donald?”
“I’m trying, Miz Weeby. I’m trying as fast and hard and everything I can.”
I come up to his side. “Could I read it, please?”
“Here. See if you recognize the writing.”
The block printing doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before. But I’m not surprised. It’s clear someone tried to disguise their handwriting. And the words? They’re just disgusting and disturbing.
Hand them over, or this is only a taste of what’s coming your way.
“Well?” the chief says.
Max comes closer. “Could I take a look?”
“Sugarplum?”
“Never seen it before,” I say. “How about you?”
Aunt Weeby shakes her head. “So what do you think?”
“It’s all about the rubies,” Max says.
My aunt gives one of her trademark sniffs. “That’s what I’ve been thinking for a while now.”
Knock me over with a feather. “You have, have you?”
“Why, sure, ever since you and Mona told me about that mine, the market, the shooting, and them missing stones. I reckon your friend knew about the multimillion-dollar stolen rubies. It just works, don’t you think?”
If someone like Aunt Weeby, who has no knowledge of the gem world, never met Mr. Pak, and didn’t get shot at in Myanmar feels this way, then I know my gut’s been right all along.
“What’s this about multimillion dollars?” Chief Clark asks. The shadow comes within inches of where I stand. I glare and he backs off. I definitely feel stalked right now.
I turn back to the chief. “There’s a parcel of multimillion-dollar rubies out there somewhere. That’s what killed Mr. Pak—well, not the rubies themselves, but someone involved with the theft, or someone who knew Mr. Pak. Mr. Pak must have known what happened to the stones. And I’m sure there’s more than one person out there who wants them. The man most desperate to find them is the one you have to find.”
He narrows his eyes. “Or woman, Miss Andie. Women kill too.�
�
Why do I feel he’d like nothing more than to lock me up?
1800
After two days filled with flurries of shows and hospital visits, I bring Aunt Weeby home. Her head’s fine. Well, there’s no concussion, just normal nuttiness. And although Miss Mona shows no sign of intracranial bleeding, the doctors want her to stay a bit longer, since she was out for so long.
Every time I look at her, see her hooked up to machines that blink and beep, I get angrier by the minute. You know about my temper, right?
Why did Mr. Pak come see me? That’s what started it all. After more thinking than my mush-for-brain wants to handle, I’m so confused that I can’t tell what’s what. I decide to revisit all that’s happened and in the order it happened. After helping Aunt Weeby to bed, I sit at the kitchen table. Armed with notebook and pen, I list events, observations, feelings, anything and everything that comes to mind about the last few weeks.
At eight thirty, the doorbell rings. I’m so involved with my lists that I’m tempted to ignore it, but in the end, I can’t let it go. It could be important.
But guess what? It’s Mr. Magnificent. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Wow! Is that a welcome or what?”
Or what. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I’m kind of busy. Is there anything you need?”
He stares at my Pooh slippers. “I see you weren’t ready for a state visit. What’s kept you so busy?”
Wouldn’t you want to know? “Stuff.”
“Hmm . . . conclusive.” He shifts his weight and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Can I come in? I couldn’t stop thinking about the death, the shooting, the gas leak, and the accident. I wondered if you wouldn’t mind doing some brainstorming. Maybe we can make some sense of the situation.”
Something fishy going on? “Ah . . . sure. Go ahead. I was in the kitchen, doing just that.”
“Really? Did you come up with anything interesting?”
Is he here to brainstorm? To check out what I know? Or worse, am I in his crosshairs?
I gesture for him to go ahead. Right on cue, Rio lets out his “Squawk! Shriek, shriek!
”
Max stumbles, trips over his feet. “Whoa!”
I fight the urge to laugh. “Just ignore him. He’s saying hi. It turns out Aunt Weeby’s cage cover really works. He’ll be quiet now after that first blast.”
“Lucky you!”
“I won’t dignify that comment with an answer. Why don’t you sit? Want some coffee? Or maybe iced tea? Water? Soda?”
“Tea sounds great—as long as it’s sweet.”
“Come on, Max. We’re in Kentucky. Tea only comes sweet here!”
He grins. “Then tea it is.”
My heartbeat speeds up, but I don’t know if it’s from his smile or from fear. And while I fill the glass with ice and tea, I ask myself how much I really fear Max.
Did he kill Mr. Pak? Would he hurt—kill—me?
What shocks me most is my lack of instant reaction. I glance over my shoulder and watch him study my lists. His expression is serious, intent. But at the same time, his posture is relaxed. He doesn’t exactly give off murderous vibes.
Besides, he’d have to be Oscar-worthy to pull off the gem-dunce act. To want those legendary rubies, you have to know your gems. And ignorance of gemological data doesn’t necessarily equal murderous tendencies.
I put his glass down on the counter, and to gain some time, I reach for a paper towel to wipe it off. Lord? What do I do? Can I trust him? Or did he kill Mr. Pak? Please guide me—I can’t see my way clear.
“Here you go.” I put the glass within easy reach. “I see you’ve been looking at my lists. What do you think?”
“You’re pretty thorough.”
“So you don’t think I missed anything.”
“Not that I can see. But there’s still nothing here to go on.”
“That’s the problem.” Okay, Lord. I’m going with my gut here. I’m gonna trust him, so keep your eye on me. Aunt Weeby needs me alive and kicking for a while longer. I wouldn’t mind hanging around some more, either. “I’ve been wanting to call Mrs. Pak, but I have no idea how to go about that. All I know is that they live in Bangkok. But millions of people live in Bangkok.”
“And there’s no way to know if Pak is the Thai equivalent of Jones or Brown.”
“Exactly. I’ve thought of calling the Thai embassy, but what do I say? ‘Hi. Your citizen was killed in our vault, and I want to talk to his wife about him.’ I can see them sending out the loony-tunes patrol for me.”
“You’re right. It won’t fly.” He picks up one of my lists, takes a sip of tea. “How about tracking down the bird?”
“I thought about that, Max. Mr. Pak couldn’t have brought the parrot from Thailand. There are strict export rules, and since that whole bird flu scare popped up, you can bet no Asian bird is getting in this country without every health expert checking it out. Besides, I don’t know if they have tropical parrots in Thailand.”
“That means he bought it here. Can you check bird . . . what? Farms? Hatcheries?”
I chuckle. “I think hatcheries are for fish, not necessarily eggs. And I tried to Google parrot breeders. Guess what? I got 35,200 sites! I don’t think either you or I will live long enough to check them all out.”
“True, but where did Mr. Pak go? I mean, how long had he been in the country? And what airport did he go through? Since he must have bought the bird here, I don’t think he would have traveled far from the airport where he arrived.” “Good point, but good luck trying to get any info on incoming passengers. There’s something called Homeland Security, remember?”
“There is that.” He takes another sip of tea, then returns to the lists. “How about your old boss? Wouldn’t he be a good one to talk to? You said he’s the one who introduced you to Mr. Pak. He must know something.”
“That’s where I went after we landed from Myanmar.”
Should I mention the woo-woo feeling I got while I waited for the cab? Nah. He already thinks I’m half-baked. Which I may very well be, after all I’ve done. And said. “Roger hadn’t even heard about the murder.”
“He hadn’t? That’s strange. You told Chief Clark about the connection between the two of them. I was there. Why wouldn’t the cops question him?”
“Hey, I asked the chief that very same thing. It did nothing for him. He said he had plenty to investigate here.”
“That’s crazy. And didn’t he mention the FBI?”
“No, I did. But he brought up Interpol. Where are all those guys?”
He shrugs. “Interagency jealousy?”
“Beats me.”
“Maybe they’ve been staking him out without anyone knowing.”
“Maybe, but that sounds a little too James Bondish to me. All I know is that there’s a dead man in the picture. That should trump all the other garbage.”
“I know the chief’s your father’s friend—”
“So he says, but I’ve never even heard of him.”
“Anyway, your aunt seems to like him, and she’s okay by me. I have to wonder if he’s really that much of a good ol’ boy cartoon character. What if he’s really doing his job, and lets everyone think he’s kind of slow?”
“I don’t think he’s slow, just nasty. He thinks I’m behind all this, and there’s no way! Besides, the FBI hasn’t even talked to me. Doesn’t that smell fishy to you?”
“Maybe they’re staking you out too. And maybe that’s the first thing we should look into. Has it been reported to the right authorities? And if not, then why not?”
We? Is there really going to be a we here? And why? “How do you think we should go about doing that?”
He wiggles two fingers in the air. “Let your fingers do the walking. Check the phone book. I’m sure there are government listings. We’ll start there.”
“No. Better yet. Let me call Roger. If no one’s talked to him yet, then we know something weird’s really going on.
” I flip out my cell phone. “I’ll try his cell. He never goes anywhere without it.”
The phone rings a couple of times, three, then, “Hello?” Dulcet feminine tones do not equal Roger. “Tiffany? Where’s Roger? Or did I dial your number by mistake?”
“Andie?” She sounds as surprised as I am. “Ah . . . I wasn’t expecting the phone to ring. Neither was Rog. He’s, um . . . unavailable. You do realize it’s late, right?”
“It’s not that late. Could I please speak with him? I only have a question or two for him. I won’t keep him for long.” Tiffany sniffs. “I can tell you’ve never been a bride, Andrea. We need our privacy.”
Eeuw! TMI. “All right, all right. I’ll call him in the morning.” Then, to make my discomfort even greater, Max looks at me. “Well?”
I blush hotter than . . . well, than the fire of a Burmese ruby. “Trust me, Max. You don’t want to know. It has to do with the two of them and their privacy.”
To my mischievous delight, Max turns pigeon’s-blood red. “You’re right. I don’t want to know.”
Neither one of us speaks, and the grinding of our mental gears is almost deafening. Then something comes to me. “You know what else I want to know?”
He leans forward, empty glass in hand. “What’s that?”
“Who Chief Clark’s silent shadow is. Aren’t you curious?” Max leaves his glass on the table, sits back in his chair, tents his fingers. He doesn’t answer right away. When he finally speaks, he does so in a quiet and thoughtful voice.
“Maybe he’s one of the Feds on the case. They have to be involved. The chief even brought up Interpol, like you said. That guy with him looks like a Fed. He’s always worn a suit, white shirt, and navy tie. He’s almost a cliché.”
“Well, the chief wears his dress shirt and tie, but I think the missing suit jacket’s his style choice.” Or lack thereof. “But wouldn’t an FBI agent ask his own questions? Wouldn’t he introduce himself? How about homicide detective? Maybe that’s what he is, but in some junior, training job.”
“No way. The detectives came in right after the chief and the responding officers the first night. I think you were just too out of it to notice them collecting evidence.”
