Blood, Ash, and Bone

by Tina Whittle

  He maintained the full wattage grin. “Miss Harrington told me we’d be having a visitor. She said you’d found something extraordinary.”

  “All I have so far is a tantalizing story.”

  “Then let’s hear it.”

  As I repeated the tale, Audrina kept her mouth compressed in a severe line, her thin arms crossed. But her eyes flashed with avid curiosity.

  When I was finished, Fitzhugh clucked his tongue. “I’m sorry, Ms. Randolph, but I’ll tell you what I told Miss Harrington—that sounds like a fantasy to me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because history is silent on this Bible, and history is never silent.”

  “Ah, but you’re wrong. History often keeps her mouth shut, and for good reason.”

  He looked at me with the patience that experts reserved for impertinent amateurs. “Trust me, I’ve been doing this for thirty years. A Bible like that doesn’t suddenly appear. The rumors come first, then the false leads, then the fakes.”

  “What if we’re at the ‘rumor’ stage?”

  He gestured at the manuscripts before him. Flesh-colored cotton gloves gave his hands an odd mannequin-like appearance. He pointed to an old book, its pages yellowed, crisp with age.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  “It looks like a diary.”

  “It is. It belonged to Confederate Lieutenant James H. Polk. That’s him, here.”

  He pointed to a tintype photograph. A fresh-faced young man stared at me from one hundred and fifty years in the past.

  “He signed the diary, dated it too. It’s filled with the usual stuff of the soldiering life—politics, complaints about the food, letters from other soldiers.”

  “In other words, you have supporting provenance.”

  He smiled. “And that’s why Miss Harrington authorized me to pay almost four thousand dollars for this grouping. So please understand, we’re not interested in funding a wild goose chase.”

  I blinked at him. “Funding?”

  Fitzhugh’s smile thinned. “I’ve done my research too, Ms. Randolph. You inherited a ramshackle gun shop with an equally ramshackle clientele. You are in no position to run across a historical artifact worth a few hundred thousand dollars. And you have no money to go chasing one.”

  I kept my voice steady. “I came here for information, not money.”

  “Then I’m sorry if I offended you. But Miss Harrington is approached relentlessly with relics for sale. Ninety-five percent are either deliberately forged or misidentified by overenthusiastic amateurs. The other five percent are sentimental slop with no historic value whatsoever.” His tone was magnanimous. “But go ahead. Chase your Bible. And should you actually find it, here’s my card. I’ll offer you my ten dollar special.”

  I took his card. “Which is?”

  “I look at your item for two minutes and tell you it’s worthless.”

  I was surrounded by the authentic and documented and preserved in that library. The cataloged and categorized and recorded. There was no room to be surprised, no room for a single story to breathe its way to life. I suddenly developed an irresistible craving to prove this smug gentleman wrong.

  “What if my Bible turns out to be real?”

  He smiled again, showing his big teeth. “You show me that Bible, and I will eat one of your Confederate hats.”

  I smiled back. “If I were you, I’d keep some ketchup handy.”

  ***

  A third version of Trey escorted me back to my car, this time a lithe Asian with a dancer’s carriage and eyes like Swarovski sapphires.

  I shook my head. “This gig must pay ridiculously well.”

  “You wouldn’t believe.” He grinned. “Of course you have to put up with a little ass-grabbing every now and then, but the dental is amazing.”

  Chapter Six

  When I got back to the shop, I was surprised to see the Ferrari parked out front, Trey standing next to it. He was in full Armani mode—black suit, white shirt, black tie—and he had that squinched annoyed expression on his face.

  “Oh god,” I said, hurrying to unlock the door. “I’m sorry I’m late. But apparently Dexter wasn’t much on the record keeping, so now I’m being audited by Agent Cranky Pants.”

  “He’s not an agent. He’s an ATF-compliant industry operations officer.”

  “Oh. Does that mean I can stop worrying?”

  “No. An unfavorable audit could result in fines, imprisonment—”

  “I know, I know. Don’t remind me.” I bumped the door open with my hip. “Wait a second, I thought we were meeting at your place.”

  “We were.”

  “Were?”

  He folded his arms. “I have to work tonight.”

  “What? Why?”

  “An important client asked for me specifically. Marisa said that my participation is nonnegotiable.”

  He hated it when his boss offered him up on a silver platter, like a haute couture hors d’oeuvre. Trey was a premises liability genius, but some clients wanted him more for his intriguing presence than his skills. He knew this. It bothered him.

  I went inside, and he followed. He picked up a handful of loose coins from the counter and poured them into my spare change cup.

  “How was your meeting with Audrina Harrington?” he said.

  “It was going great, until her lackey accused me of money-grubbing.” I threw my jacket on the counter. “By the way, you’re not allowed to go over there by yourself anymore. I’m afraid you won’t make it back out one day.”

  He ignored the comment, preferring to sift through the jumbled pens lying around the cash register. “Did she have any information about the Bible?”

  “No. She seemed interested, but her authenticator convinced her it was a wild goose chase. So I’m back where I started.”

  Trey kept his eyes on the counter. He’d put the black pens into one pile, the red ones in another. Now he had my receipts and was sorting them into chronological order.

  “Okay, that’s enough.” I gently extracted the papers from his hands. “Spill it.”

  “Spill what?”

  “Why you drove all the way out here to tell me you’re heading into work when you could have called.”

  He looked me in the eye for the first time since he’d come in the shop. “I can’t go to the Expo next week. Marisa cancelled my leave.”

  “What?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Let me guess—it’s because of the same important client that’s ruining our dinner.”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  He delivered the news with stoic grumpiness, shifting his gaze to the wall behind my shoulder. Something deeper was bothering him. I could read it in the wrinkle between his eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  “What?”

  “You seem—” My cell phone interrupted my question. I gave it a quick look. “Hang on, I have to take this. It’s Garrity calling about the dead guy.”

  Trey was suddenly alert. “What dead guy?”

  “I’ll explain in a second.” I put the phone to my ear. “You find anything?”

  “I talked to the coroner in Jacksonville. Your guy died of a massive heart attack. I’m looking at the file now.” I heard the sound of pages turning. “Arteriosclerosis leading to total blockage of the left anterior descending artery. No foul play whatsoever.”

  The tension in my chest eased. “So it happened like John said.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “So this isn’t a murder?”

  “Apparently not. I made you a copy of the police report. I’ll fax it over.”

  “That’s it? No lecture?”

  “I’m not in the mood. Besides, there’s nothing in this file that makes my cop nerve twitch.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Nice mild-mannered retiree, lived alone, heart exploded. His distant relative buried him and cleaned house quick—a niece, it says. No drama, no contested wil
l, no massive inheritance to start a catfight. End of story.”

  “Huh.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Only surprised. Things never turn out this way for me.”

  I looked at Trey. He was scrutinizing me with increasing impatience, arms crossed, on the verge of pacing back and forth across my floor. I held up a finger. One more second.

  “Go chase your antique,” Garrity pronounced. “I gotta run.”

  “More FBI stuff?”

  Trey’s ears pricked up at this. Garrity wasn’t biting, however.

  “Don’t go throwing that around, you hear me?”

  “You know me, soul of discretion.”

  “Seriously, Tai.”

  “I am serious. Thanks for the information.”

  I heard a grunt that could have been “you’re welcome” as I hung up. I slipped the phone in my pocket and folded my arms to match Trey’s.

  He glared. “You have Garrity doing research for you. On a suspicious death.”

  “Not suspicious anymore. And I was going to explain at dinner, except that not only are we not having dinner, we’re not having a vacation either, so don’t give me that look.”

  The look intensified.

  “Don’t even start. I found out about the dead guy this morning because John, being John, neglected to mention that part of the story. But I wasn’t hiding it from you.”

  His eyes dipped briefly to my mouth—reading me again—and I felt the first twinge of annoyance. “Cut it out, Trey. Trust me or don’t trust me, but kill the lie detector routine.”

  I watched the transformation happen right in front of me. He closed his eyes, counted to three, then opened them, and the fired-up was all gone. His expression was flat and iceberg frosty.

  He turned on his heel and headed for the door. “I have to go.”

  I scrambled to stand in front of him. “Oh no, you don’t. We’re in the middle of something, and it’s important. You can’t—”

  “Yes, I can.”

  And he did. He straightened his jacket and left without looking back. I stared at where he’d been standing, at the wreckage of boxes and tape and packing peanuts, the empty shop echoing with the sounds of the slamming door and the obscenely cheerful jingle of the chimes.

  I kicked a piece of cardboard. “Damn it all to hell.” And then I got to work packing.

  ***

  My brother showed up fifteen minutes later. He found me sitting with a lap full of long underwear hand-stitched by a cousin of mine in Alabama. My hard-core clients wouldn’t wear anything else—stitch Nazis, they were called behind their backs—but even my more progressive clientele liked being authentic right down to their skivvies.

  “I passed the Ferrari on the way in,” Eric said.

  “Probably.”

  “Headed back to Buckhead.”

  “That’s what it does. It goes very specifically in one direction, and then it reaches the point beyond which it will go no further, so it stops. It does not veer, it does not backtrack, and it does not listen.”

  Eric had come to get his stack of forms for the ATF audit. Since he was technically co-owner of the shop, he was required to read and sign all the paperwork too. But that wasn’t why he had his psychologist face on.

  “Argument?” he said.

  “No. He didn’t hang around long enough.” I yanked a length of tape from the dispenser and slapped it on a box. “Tell me, how much of that stubbornness is frontal lobe damage and how much is him being a first-class jerk?”

  Eric stayed calm. Even in jeans and a t-shirt, glasses shoved up in his dark blond hair, he exuded professional concern.

  “What happened?”

  I gave him the short version. He listened without interrupting. He seemed older, grayer at the temples, and I realized I hadn’t seen him in almost a month. His industrial psychology practice kept him out of town a lot—expert witness gigs, conference presentations. He thrived on the energy of an ever-revolving life, but now he looked patient and thoughtful.

  “So you’re going to the Expo on your own?”

  “Sure. Unless you want to come.”

  He made a pained face. Neither of us had been to Savannah in a long time, Eric not since Mom’s funeral, me not since I’d moved to Atlanta. The Lowcountry lay to our south, deep with our history.

  “I’d rather talk about what happened here,” he said.

  “I thought you couldn’t talk about Trey. Former client confidentiality and all that?”

  “I don’t want to talk about Trey, I want to talk about you and Trey.”

  “Oh Lord, not again.” I brushed my hair from my forehead and picked up another packing box. “I know he’s a walking conundrum, I get that, but sometimes I can’t tell what’s him and what’s the brain rearrangement.”

  “They’re the same.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Eric pulled his glasses from his hair and perched them on his nose. Suddenly, he was one hundred percent PhD again. “It’s a convoluted process coming back from an injury like his. Lots of personality upheaval, lots of breaking down and building up.”

  “But I’m the one doing all the breaking down, and then he refuses to hang around to do any building up!”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  I slammed open another box. “Jeez, people pay you for this kind of talk? Seriously?”

  “You’re a classic catalytic personality, Tai. Situations tend to blow up around you. Trey, however, inclines toward the rigid and controlling. It’s his primary coping strategy, and considering the blow his executive function took, it makes perfect sense.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting Trey is typical?”

  Eric shook his head. “No, no. His methods of compensation have been…unusual. The Armani and Ferrari especially. But they’re all part of a larger recovery context.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! I know he’s not…But I can’t help thinking…” I dumped a stack of long johns into the box, not even bothering to fold them. “What if I’m just another piece of weirdness in his recovery complex? What if he’s only with me because the part of his brain that should know better is broken?”

  Eric didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he crouched in front of me, face to face. “You know you’re impossible. You’re aggressive and stubborn, quick-tempered and impulsive. You take everything personally whether it’s meant that way or not. And you’re convinced you’re right, all the time.”

  “Thanks, bro.”

  “You’re also generous and smart and open-hearted and brave. Trey needs someone like that, like you, and he’s lucky to have you. But you’re angry right now, and that’s making you defensive and selfish.”

  I pointed at the door. “He’s the one—”

  “No, you’re the one jumping headfirst into another problematic situation all by yourself, which, may I add, is a tendency you should start examining with professional help.”

  “You may not add that.”

  He ignored me. “Trey’s got every right to be confused, worried, and angry. He may not have the neuronal connections to articulate it clearly, but his emotional response is—in this case anyway—utterly normal.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You know why he walked out that door. But what you need to ask yourself is why he bothered to drive all the way up here in the first place.”

  My brother stood and offered me a hand. I took it, and he pulled me to standing. I remembered Trey’s words from that night during the summer, both of us sitting on the edge of the bed, the rain driving hard outside. I will always show up, for as long as you want me to. I promise.

  I checked the clock on the wall. If I really dug into the packing, I could be in Buckhead by eight. Trey probably wouldn’t be back by then, but that was okay. I could use some time to prepare.

  I managed a half-smile. “You occasionally make sense, you know that?”

  Eric laughed, the corners of his eyes
crinkling. “Thanks, sis. Good thing to know all those years at Yale weren’t wasted.”

  Chapter Seven

  I sat on the floor of Trey’s apartment and studied the papers I’d spread in a semicircle. They made a nice white arc on the black hardwood, as perfectly bichromatic as the rest of the place. I had a glass of wine in one hand, and my cell phone in the other, but the conversation with the dead man’s niece was not going well.

  “So you didn’t have much to do with your uncle?” I said.

  “I met him twice, twenty years ago. What do you think?”

  I studied the dead man’s photograph. Slight, balding. A round bulb of a nose, twinkly eyes behind old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses. I finally had a name—Vincent DiSilva—and other basic information. I wondered what his niece looked like. All I had of her was her voice, which was paranoid laced with cynical. She’d been listed as his next-of-kin, his sole heir. Not that her inheritance had amounted to much—a tiny cinder-block ranch house from the fifties, like a million others in Florida, and its meager contents.

  “Did he do any collecting? Antiques maybe?”

  “His house was wall-to-wall junk, like on that reality show about hoarders. Paper, furniture, boxes of books. Dusty old shit. Does that count?”

  I rolled wine around in my mouth to keep from saying the first words that rose to my lips. “Did you keep any of his things?”

  “Why would I? What didn’t sell went to Goodwill, and the rest went to the dump.”

  “I thought maybe—”

  “Why are you asking all these questions? You aren’t trying to get your money back, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because I sold everything ‘as is,’ like it or lump it. You aren’t trying to hit me up for any bills, are you?”

  I kept my voice patient. “I’m looking for information, that’s all. His obituary says he was a drafter with Lockheed Martin for thirty years. Do you know—”

  “I told you everything I know. I did my duty. I went down there, I buried him. I didn’t know him, so I don’t miss him, but he seemed to be an all right guy. Not many of them in the world.”