Blood, Ash, and Bone

by Tina Whittle

  “Good to hear.”

  “On one condition.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You are hiring me to locate a particular artifact, nothing more. My job is to find your Bible and present whoever has it with your terms for its return.”

  “That sounds fair.”

  “And if said person refuses, the ball’s in your court. Call the police, come get it, whatever. Plus you’ll owe me any expenses.”

  “Also fair.” He stuck his hand out. “Shake on it.”

  I shook. “So we start with backstory. Tell me about the box of stuff Hope took.”

  “What’s to tell? It was mostly junk—old books, pens, pencils. Scraps of paper. Dusty, like the guy hadn’t cleaned out his desk since the fifties.”

  “What guy?”

  “The uncle.”

  “What uncle?”

  “The one who died.”

  I stared at him, a chill creeping down my spine. “What do you mean, died?”

  John chuckled and sipped his coffee. “Damn, Tai, why else do you think his niece was having an estate sale?”

  I smelled bourbon in his coffee. The tattoo artist eyed me, the sunlight setting her piercings aflame.

  I stood up. “Sorry. I don’t do dead people.”

  John’s jaw dropped. “But this isn’t about the dead guy!”

  I shook my head more firmly.

  “Come on, Tai! It’s not like he was murdered. He had a heart attack or something.”

  “Or something.”

  He glared at me. “So you’re going back on the deal, that it?”

  “It wasn’t a fair deal. You didn’t mention the corpse.”

  “Corpse!”

  “That’s what you call a dead person!”

  He took a drag on his cigarette. I massaged my bicep, willing the nicotine patch to kick in before I snatched the butt out of his hand and sucked it dry.

  “Fine,” he said. “I knew it was too much to ask. Considering.”

  “Don’t try that. This has nothing to do with me and you.”

  “Of course not. There is no me and you.” He blew out a thin line of smoke. “Unless you want there to be.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You sure?”

  “Dead sure.”

  He grinned. I glared. The needles whined. And I was two seconds from turning my back on him when I remembered the upcoming audit and all the expensive upgrades I’d need to implement. But I also I remembered my promise to Trey, to drop it if it got complicated. And then I remembered Garrity, who was two blocks down in his office at Atlanta PD headquarters. With any luck, he was at his desk and looking for lunch.

  I did a quick calculation. “Here’s the deal. I’ve got a source at the police station. I’m gonna ask him to make some calls. And if I learn there was the slightest hint of suspicion about that old man’s death, I’m done. No deal. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Now here.” I shoved a yellow pad at him. “Write down everything you know about the old man, his relatives, what was in that desk. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

  He took the notepad. “You want to take the chair? Stevie here would be glad to let me borrow her equipment, touch up that critter of yours, isn’t that right, Stevie?”

  Stevie grinned. She had red lips and a single gold incisor with a rhinestone.

  “My critter is fine.” I handed him a pen. “Now write.”

  ***

  Inside the APD headquarters, chaos reigned—phones ringing, uniforms huddling, the smell of burnt coffee. I saw Garrity at his desk, phone to his ear. He was a kinetic knot of energy, red-headed and sharp-featured. The laugh lines at his eyes and the corners of his mouth told me he used to smile a lot, once upon a time.

  “No comment,” he said into the phone.

  He spotted me and waved me over. I dropped into the chair in front of his desk, the only horizontal space not sporting a skyscraper of paperwork. He kept the phone to his ear. Reporter, he mouthed.

  I placed the take-out bag on his desk. Thai-German fusion—pad thai schnitzel for him, bratwurst curry for me—and two sweet teas. Garrity responded well to bribes, and I needed all the leverage I could muster.

  He slammed the receiver down. “Would you believe we’re having a rash of hair weave thefts? Seriously.” He scrunched his eyes at me. “What’s with the purple?”

  “Long story involving the ATF and Dexter’s lack of organizational skills.”

  “You’re not getting audited, are you?”

  I nodded.

  Garrity winced. “Crap. You got a lawyer?”

  I felt that rippled of apprehension again. “I need a lawyer?”

  “Hell yes. Get Trey to recommend somebody from work. Phoenix is lousy with lawyers.”

  “I can’t afford a lawyer.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Get one.”

  I tried to cross my legs and accidentally kicked an empty soda cup under the desk. Across the room, a woman in a nun’s habit lay on the floor, refusing to budge, while two detectives stood at her feet, pleading with her to get up.

  “Is it always this bad?” I said.

  “Full moon coming. Usually starts three days before the peak then tapers. This is worse than usual.” He sat back, tapping his pen on his coffee mug. “So I got your message. Another suspicious dead guy?”

  “Actually, not suspicious at all.”

  “Then why are you asking me to chat up the authorities down in…where was this again?”

  “Jacksonville.”

  “Uh huh.” He reached inside the takeout bag and removed a Styrofoam container. “Explain.”

  I explained. Garrity forked up a mouthful of noodles and shoved them into one cheek, like a chipmunk. “So this guy just dropped dead?”

  “Apparently. I’m trying to decide if there’s a crime involving said dead guy, because if there is, I’m dumping it. I don’t want any part of any adventure that begins with a body. Been there, done that, got the official warning.”

  “So you want me to call some stranger—”

  “Fellow law enforcement officer.”

  “—to ask if there was anything suspicious about this old guy’s death, so that you can then decide whether or not to chase one of his possessions all over Savannah?”

  “That’s about it.”

  A long uncomfortable pause followed. “Let me get back to you on that.”

  “Please do. Trey and I are leaving for the Expo Monday morning, and I’d like to be able to reassure him one more time that I’m being sensible.”

  “Uh huh.” More chewing. “So what’s he have to say about this?”

  The question was casual on the surface, but heavy with subtext. Trey and Garrity had been partners during their uniformed days on the APD, friends afterwards. Trey’s car accident and subsequent brain injury changed all that, fraying and twisting those bonds—Garrity rejected and angry, Trey confused and distant, neither of them knowing what to do about it. I didn’t have a clue either.

  “So far, Trey has no complaints.” I pulled the lid off my tea, fished around for the lemon. “Which is strange. Usually he has very logical points to make about why I’m being an idiot. Usually you do too.”

  “Yeah, but this is the kind of thing you deal with all the time, right? Finding specific antiques for specific people, usually with a dead relative attached?”

  He was right. I was no stranger to runner work. Most of my reenactor clients had wish lists as long as their forearms, plus customers were forever bringing in relics for me to identify or sell, usually from some long-dead ancestor’s attic. Of course none of those people were my ex-boyfriend.

  “Yeah, but I’m feeling extra-cautious on this job. So will you call the nice policeman down in Duval County for me?”

  He went back to his noodles. “Leave me the info.”

  A voice came from across the room. “Hey, Garrity, call coming through.”

  “Send it to Hawkins.”

  “It’
s the FBI.”

  Garrity paled. “Shit. I didn’t expect it to be that fast.”

  He started cleaning up his desk, as if the mysterious caller could see the clutter through the phone line.

  “Expect what?” I said.

  “Nothing. Now go, I have to take this.”

  “Since when does the FBI concern itself with hair thieves?”

  “It doesn’t. Go.”

  He grabbed my elbow and propelled me out of the room, barely giving me enough time to grab my food before he shut the door behind me. I leaned my ear against it and heard him pick up the phone, his voice deliberately casual. “Garrity here.”

  I scooched closer. The officer in an adjoining cubicle cleared his throat. When I looked his way, he pointed toward the exit. Pointedly. I took the hint.

  Back in the car, my phone chirped at me. It was a text from Trey—his connection to Audrina Harrington had paid off, in spades. She was inviting me for tea at her estate. In thirty minutes.

  I pulled down the rearview mirror and checked my reflection. My makeshift hairpin wasn’t working to contain the blond frizzle, but the make-up was acceptable. I removed a splotch of basil from between my front teeth and twisted the key in the ignition.

  My purple pantsuit and I had one more assignment.

  Chapter Five

  Audrina Harrington’s mansion, a three-story Greek Revival on Tuxedo Road, reclined on an eighteen-acre swath of manicured fescue. Neighbored by blocky Tudors and rectangular Georgians, it disguised its years behind wrought iron gates and tangled sweet pea vines, as artfully coy as an aging concubine.

  I parked, aware of the swivel of security cameras as I walked to the front door. Doric columns stood sentinel, six of them, regular and fastidious. No noise from the street intruded in that insulated space, only the whispery rasp of fallen leaves and dry wind. I clutched my tote bag and rang the bell.

  The door opened immediately, revealing a man with a clipboard in hand. He frowned. “Tai Randolph?”

  I nodded, trying not to stare. He was six feet tall, with black hair and blue eyes, and he wore a tailored black suit, white shirt, and tiny discreet earpiece. Beefier than Trey, without the elegant cheekbones and tiny silver scars at the chin and temple, but definitely the same species.

  “Umm,” I stammered.

  The man’s eyes were stern and bored. “Miss Harrington was expecting two.”

  “Mr. Seaver couldn’t make it. Which is a shame, really.”

  I thought for a second he’d turn me away, but he made a note on his clipboard and waved me in. “Miss Harrington will see you in the gazebo. Straight down the hall, then through the doors.”

  I could feel his eyes on my back as I followed his instructions, my footfalls silent on the inch-thick carpeting. The drawing room lay to my left, with pale blue walls and watered silk drapes, the dining room to my right. I caught a glimpse of a mahogany accordion table underneath a Waterford crystal chandelier. The furniture reeked of lacquer—even the air felt heavy and preserved—but I saw no sign of the fabled Harrington collection.

  I saw the woman herself, however, on the patio. She waited in her gazebo underneath the spreading arms of an ancient magnolia, a tiny woman in white palazzo pants and a jeweled navy top. Even from a distance, she displayed the brittle authority of someone so accustomed to command that it came as naturally as breath.

  I approached the linen-covered table. Her eyes were ice gray, her soft thin skin like parchment. She had at least seven decades on her, possibly eight, and she wore them as well as her clothes, definitely a woman who understood the necessity of maintenance.

  Before I could speak, she arched a precisely penciled eyebrow in my direction. “Where’s Trey?”

  I noticed then that the snowy tabletop had been set for three. “He couldn’t make it, unfortunately, but—”

  “Tell me who you are again.”

  “Tai Randolph. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Harrington.”

  “Miss Harrington. Never married, never wanted to be, never cared to leave anybody guessing about that.”

  “Sorry about that. Miss Harrington.”

  She threw a suspicious glare my way, her eyes raking me up and down. There was a bite of winter-sharpened autumn in her garden. I imagined it was so even in the summer, that it was always cool under that gazebo.

  I kept smiling. “Trey sends his regrets. He really wanted to come.”

  That was a flat-out lie, but it pleased her. She waved at one of the empty chairs. “Sit.”

  The delicate rattle of china cups in saucers announced the delivery of our tea. I smelled oolong. Trey’s favorite.

  “Thank you.” I smiled up at the server.

  He placed the teapot in the center of the table and returned the smile. “You’re welcome.”

  I blinked at him. Another six-foot creature with black hair and blue eyes. This specimen was slim and vivacious, with a tanned complexion and a slashing white grin like a Jolly Roger.

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “Three sugars and lots of cream, please.”

  He obliged me. Miss Harrington ignored the tea tray, folding her hands in her lap. “Trey says you’ve found something remarkable, a Bible with connections to both Lincoln and Sherman. Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “Tell me more.”

  I dabbed at my mouth and did just that. She listened. The waiter delivered a three-tiered silver tray to the table, stacked with scones and clotted cream and cheese straws. At the end of my tale, Audrina sniffed loudly.

  “Poppycock. Have you seen this Bible?”

  “No.”

  “Then it doesn’t exist.”

  “What if it does?”

  “Then it’s a forgery. My authenticator tells me there’s not a single clue supporting such a document’s existence.”

  I folded my napkin in my lap. “Sometimes things hide in plain sight. You know this better than anyone.”

  I saw the spark of pride flare in her watery eyes. My preservation-minded customers spoke of her with bitterness. She didn’t let her things out to play. Once they were in her possession, they rarely saw the light of day, existing under glass in her hermetically-sealed safe room.

  “It could exist,” she admitted. “Flying monkeys could exist. But in the tales associated with Sherman’s March to the Sea and his subsequent takeover of Savannah, in the multiple and long-winded accounts of what transpired, there is no mention of such a Bible. In that hugely self-congratulatory moment, can you think of any reason such a thing would have escaped notice?”

  I took a sip of tea. “There was the tragedy, of course.”

  “What tragedy?”

  “The general’s infant son, Charles Celestine, died during the Savannah Campaign. Sherman had never even seen the child.” I dabbed my lips. “He learned of the death from the newspaper.”

  Miss Harrington stared at me. “Go on.”

  “I’m sure you know that Sherman was plagued with fits of melancholy his whole life—what we’d diagnose as major depressive episodes today—so it’s possible that during this sad time, his affairs weren’t as meticulously arranged as usual.”

  Her manicured nails drummed the tablecloth. My recitation appeared to surprise her, which surprised me. I’d gotten it in my head that she was an expert on such matters. Apparently, however, her fascination lay in the collection, not in the history behind it.

  “And so?” she prompted.

  “And so the Bible could have been stolen, hidden, accidentally left behind. One tiny margin of error, a thousand possibilities.”

  She tossed her napkin on the table. The server pulled her chair back, and she stood. The top of her head barely reached my clavicle.

  “This way,” she said. “And don’t dilly dally. I haven’t got all day.”

  ***

  Her library felt like a set piece for Masterpiece Theatre—walls paneled in polished butternut, nail-backed reading chairs paired next to the fireplace, floor lamps oozing honey-th
ick light. It was mysterious and cloistered, a place where illicit lovers groped and high class matrons hissed threats as deadly and fine as powdered poison. And its bookshelves held the stories of the doomed glorious South—leather-bound editions of Robert E. Lee’s memoirs, Stonewall Jackson’s letters, Matthew Brady’s collected photographs—all of them pristine, as if their pages had yet to be cracked.

  “It’s lovely,” I said.

  She harrumphed. “This isn’t it. Turn around. And close your eyes.”

  I did as she asked. Behind me, I heard the beeping of a keyless entry system, then a click. Cool odorless air flowed from deep within…somewhere.

  “You can turn around now.” She gave me that look again, like a pissed off egret. “Now be quick. Like I said, I don’t have all day.”

  I stepped across the threshold into a low-lit room, rectangular and sterile. I remembered the specs from the AJC article—constant temperature of sixty-five degrees, constant humidity of thirty-five percent. The serviceable wood tables and chairs were plain, every square inch of wall and table space devoted to display cases. I saw swords and scabbards, full Confederate uniforms, derringers and Sharps carbines and bullets, even a saddle, all of them behind glass, protected and preserved.

  The real glory, however, was the papers. The ephemera, as it was called in the trade. Books, certificates, photographs, letters, more pieces than I could count. If some apocalypse ever did strike Atlanta, future generations would find Audrina Harrington in this cloistered space, surrounded by her treasures like an entombed pharaoh.

  A man rose from behind one of the tables as we entered, a grid of beige papers and magnifying glasses before him. I’d been so overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the room, I hadn’t noticed him, but when he stood, I recognized him instantly—six-four, dark shiny hair, every inch the suave professional in his navy suit and blood-red tie.

  He came around the table. “Ms. Randolph, I presume? My name is—”

  “David Fitzhugh. I know. I’ve seen you on Antiques Roadshow.”

  “Really?” He flashed a full white smile. “Which episode?”

  “The one with the McElroy saber.”

  The smile widened. Fitzhugh Appraisals and Authentications was the Southeast’s leading consignment shop for Civil War artifacts. Fitzhugh himself struck me as more used car salesman than scholar, but his record spoke for itself. In a crowded field, his company moved more historical collectibles than his top ten competitors combined. My dinky shop pulled in peanuts compared to his operation.