I awoke a few hours later with that odd sensation from sleeping deeply during the day, where you can’t figure out what time it is, where you are exactly, and if you slept through several days. I felt the soft, cream-colored blanket between my fingertips, nuzzled into the chocolate brown velvet pillow and gazed into the fire. I sleepily looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was about eight o’clock. I felt quite refreshed and I decided to take a hot shower. I washed and dried my hair and put on a sumptuously soft taupe sweater with a very wide neck. It felt lush and comfortable and pretty.
Mrs. Baxter had brought over some more food. I made a plate with stuffed cabbage rolls and some freshly baked bread, then took it to my fire. I ate with the soft strands of Cole Porter floating down the stairs, enjoying the good food as I thought through the remarkable events of the day. Things were not making sense and it was pressing on my mind.
As I ruminated on it all, I drew out my journal from my parents, slowly turning the pages, taking a close look at each photograph by itself, then in comparison to the ones around it. Looking for . . . something. Patterns, things that stuck out, anything that drew my attention in a unique way. I finally got to the page that had first started my mind churning about my parents’ past: the photo of my chic mother, in front of Jimmy Walker’s casino in New York City. With the notorious mobster Louie Venetti directly behind her.
Her hand. Her hand was flung out to her side in a rather glamorous pose. I made a small square with my fingers and placed it onto the photograph, framing her hand. When I looked at the hand alone in the black-and-white picture, it was the ghostly color of white and gray. Her index finger was pointing off to her side, to the right. That was the hand in my dreams. Maybe it was what my father meant in his note, about what they had pointed out to me . . . Her hand was pointing to something.
I looked very closely at the right side of the photograph, and lo and behold, that picture had been perfectly folded. It looked like it was a full-sized square photograph with the corners pinned back with black corner tabs, but in fact the photograph had been bent.
I carefully took the photograph out of the corner holds and pulled it out. I unbent the photograph back into its original rectangular form. There was a man standing there, someone I had never seen before. I knew exactly where to start looking for someone who had. It was too late tonight to check it out, but it would be first on my list for tomorrow.
Later on that night, after I combed through the rest of the album, not finding anything else of interest, I went to the piano. The snow was starting to fall again. The house was silent and I craved some music. Some life.
I thought about the years here in this house. What my life looked like back then. What it looked like now. What it would have been if my parents hadn’t been killed. I loved my life, but I wondered what I’d missed out on. I ached for the things that would never be, the questions that would never be answered. And who. Who was responsible for bringing this upon all of us, upon me?
My thoughts drifted to my friends back home. My real home. And I discovered my fingers hunting and feeling out notes to a song I had heard only once. A song Finn and I had danced to in the foyer of our townhouse in New York. An achingly sweet dance. I couldn’t quite figure out that song, so I played a different tune, and sang a few soft words, trying to convince myself that I didn’t miss him.
I had opened a bottle of wine, pouring a single glass this time, and I sipped a little. I had been arduously avoiding thinking of Finn the past twenty-four hours. That anger that had boiled up and over when I’d discovered my tree was still walking with me, a constant companion, yet something I feared at the same time. But truthfully, I longed for Finn. His friendship, his embrace, and his laugh, which had become so much easier than when we’d first met and he’d been so serious. I wanted the simplicity and sweetness of our friendship. But the anger was powerful, hot, and seductive.
And Finn was not here. He had chosen not to communicate hardly at all. And he did communicate that he’d been with Gwen. It had been a couple of days since I’d sent that telegram to him. I wondered if and when he’d get it.
A memory fluttered into my mind of that summer night that I had been sitting on the loveseat during a thunder storm, listening, absorbing the rumbles and the electric, velvety atmosphere. Enjoying the sounds, but feeling endlessly lonely. And Finn came to me. Once again, I was very alone . . . and lonely.
There was a knock at the door.
I walked cautiously over to the front door and peered out the small side window. It was Tucker.
I opened the door and looked at his nice face. The snow was blowing about in gentle gusts, the white making that special bluish glow in the moonlight with countless tiny white crystals reflecting off the smooth surface. Behind him, to the left, my eyes were drawn to my scarred tree. The resentment and bitterness started to painfully rise in my chest; becoming sturdier, more substantial. That tree had been my friend. In a childhood where I had spent so much time alone, it was a constant partner. I felt at home there. Safe. Even in the emptiness that the loss of my parents created, it was one monument that had remained the same. Until now.
And here was this tantalizing new emotion. This anger. This red-hot, seething, pulling, effortless delight. I hated it and I loved it. I craved it. There was a kind of drunken strength that came from it and a tempting wickedness that swirled within. A throbbing desire to give in, to let it seduce me, let it consume me.
I raised my eyes, slowly, with great care. To Tucker. He’d been watching me intently, silently, not moving a muscle. I wondered if he was reading my inner turmoil, not budging, trying not to break the spell. His eyes were dark with desire. Neither of us said a word.
He leaned in and kissed my neck right below my ear and I trembled with the softness and the heady desire. He pulled his head back and looked into my eyes. He gingerly put out his hand and tenderly brushed a lock of hair from my face. I’d seen him do that before. A crack of reality shone a tiny shaft of light into the darkness, and the temptation ebbed the slightest bit. Then, thin tendrils of music once again wafted through the frosty open air. The bagpipes. Like an ethereal, mystical messenger sent specifically to speak to me. To remind me. To wake me.
Tucker said with a husky voice, “Lane, I want to come in.”
“I know,” I said softly, and paused.
“Lane, it’s not safe for you to be alone. We didn’t catch those men who attacked us today, I really think I should come in.”
Another idea took shape in my mind of those men who were chasing us. Something was up with them; I thought I had seen them before. It was a rather frightening thought, which brought even more clarity to me. Like cold water splashed on a hot face.
I had made up my mind.
“No, Tucker. But thanks for coming over to check on me. See you tomorrow . . . For one more day of sledding?”
He took a deep breath. Then he exhaled a soft sigh. “All right, Lane. See you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 31
They met in the same pub. This time snow was falling, making the streets just as dank and chilly as the rain, but with a softening beauty. On the walk over, Finn wondered what Lane was doing, wishing they could share a walk through the snow together. His mind shifted to that summer night he had walked over to her house, incapable of staying away one moment longer. It would have been safer for her if he’d stayed away. He’d tried, but he just couldn’t. He had gone with not a little trepidation to her townhouse. He could hear the low rumble of distant thunder, sending static chills down his spine. There was nothing sweeter than a summer thunderstorm. Until he got to share it with Lane. He marveled at how hard it was being apart from her. He’d never felt that kind of connection or devotion to anyone.
Finn was hoping to finish up his work in London soon and head home to New York. Miles was making headway on some of the questions they had about the Red Scroll Network. He was almost at the end of his mission.
The snowy white flakes frosted the top
of his black hat and shoulders and he hunkered down deeper into the collar of his long wool coat. He pushed open the door to the pub and saw Miles in the same corner, the same table. They greeted each other, ordered some Guinness and fish and chips.
The place was no gourmet restaurant, but had decent, earthy food. He was starving. And he was anxious to hear what Miles had discovered. He hoped that it would be enough to wrap it all up. Maybe he’d fly out to Michigan directly from New York to meet Lane there.
“I found out quite a bit, Finn,” said Miles in his raspy voice. His hands and face were much cleaner now, as well as his clothes. But it was also something within that had changed, as if the soap had washed his exterior and some kind of cleansing agent worked away the paranoia and the anxiety on the inside.
Finn nodded, encouraging him to continue. “Yeah, my contact gave me more than I expected. Okay, this is the deal, Rex definitely had that one son. I knew I could find out his name, but it took some real digging, yeah. But I found it. It was Rutherford.”
That name rang a bell with Finn, but he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it, it was on the tip of his tongue. They kept eating their fish and chips, both enjoying the crispy crust on the tender cod and large chips that Finn had come to call fries. They both shook malt vinegar over the fish. Finn licked the salt from his lips.
“Oh, and I found out that, for sure, Rex had two grandchildren from Rutherford. One boy, one girl.”
“Great, that will help. The more details the better in figuring out this tangled mess,” said Finn. Miles gave his craggy smile, clearly gratified to hear the praise.
They slowly finished their simple dinner, the flames from the fireplace creating flickering shadows on the walls, the wood floor crunching as people walked back and forth over the peanut shells and hay. It was pleasant, but there was something nagging insistently at Finn’s mind, leaving a mark of uncertainty over their companionable time.
Just then the barkeep, who was also the landlord of the building, came over to Finn. “Mr. Brodie, this came for you today.” He set down a telegram. Finn looked at it with great expectation as he hoped it would be from Lane. He had given her the address of this out-of-the-way place so he could be as sure as possible no one would intercept any messages.
But before he could read it Miles said, “Oh, I almost forgot. It was by great luck that I actually got a photograph of Rex’s grandkids! My contact used to be friends with the family and he was an amateur photographer, so he was always taking photos, practicing, you know. Here ya go.”
He handed Finn the photograph, grinning in satisfaction at the look of astonishment on Finn’s face. There were two children playing outside, possibly in Central Park, the son quite a few years older than the girl. He focused first on the girl in the rather fuzzy, old photograph.
Finn’s stomach dropped and all at once he remembered where he had heard the name Rutherford. Rutherford Franco.
“Wait,” said Finn. “So you’re telling me Rutherford Franco was Rex Ruby’s son?”
“Yes. Exactly,” said Miles, a bit mystified at Finn’s strong reaction.
“Well, this is the thing, Miles. We had a whole different case a few months ago, and Eliza, Rutherford’s daughter, was up to her eyeballs in it. So that means Eliza is Rex’s granddaughter, right?”
“Yes.”
Finn thoughtfully pulled his hand through his hair and murmured, “I guess that solves how Eliza got her hands on the silver gun. . . .”
Miles piped in, “And Rutherford had a son, too, don’t forget.”
Finn turned his focus to the young teenage boy in the photograph.
In that picture was, beyond all doubt, a young Eliza and . . . Tucker.
“Oh, my God,” he said in a horrified, hushed voice. Miles’s eyes looked up from his pint with urgency, very aware that their conversation just turned grave and of paramount importance.
Finn grabbed the telegram and opened it with a violent slash. Inside it read:
IN MI STOP FINDING CLUES STOP ITS HARD
STOP SAY HI TO GWEN STOP TUCKER HERE
WITH ME STOP
LANE
It didn’t seem possible, but his stomach plummeted even further. His heart almost broke at the despairing sound of those two words from Lane, It’s hard. And Gwen, why the hell had he mentioned her in a telegram, without context or grace? Tucker here with me. My God.
“Holy shit,” he muttered in mounting fear and agitation as he fingered the photograph of this cunning enemy that now had a name and a face. And he was within reach of the woman he loved more than he thought possible. His voice turned almost savage. “Miles, I need to get to the States. I have to get to Michigan. Now.”
CHAPTER 32
“I loaded an old revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self-defense.”
I awoke the next morning still on my davenport, contemplating, calculating, pondering. It was like my mind had never stopped working even while I slept. I closed my eyes last night thinking through everything and woke up without missing a beat. I was refreshed. I was ready.
After a hot shower and putting on my favorite black skirt, dark red blouse, and tall black boots, I felt like my New York self again. I brushed my hair, letting it cascade over my shoulders. I put on some eyeliner and mascara, and finally my red lipstick. I was ready for the battle that I knew would come today.
Lastly, I took my father’s dagger that Mr. Kirkland had given me. I held the small knife in my hand, feeling its pleasing weight, appreciating the bright, razor-sharp silver blade, and the exceptional handle. It had a pearl inlay of swirls and fleur-de-lis with a black background of ebony. A thing of dangerous beauty. My skirt had a wide belt around the waist and I slipped the dagger with its thin scabbard in on my right side so I could quickly grab it with my right hand.
I had practiced that maneuver over and over again with Mr. Kirkland. Most people thought you fought with a knife by holding it point-side up in your fist. But that was for amateurs. The best way to wield a knife in a fight was blade-side down. My deep red sweater overcoat with a matching fur collar could give me issues if I need to get to my knife quickly, but I’d just have to figure that out on the fly. If all went well, I wouldn’t have to.
All right, I was ready. I had some sleuthing to do, but this time I was on my own. I hoped I was early enough to miss Tucker’s sledding visit; I needed to ask my probing questions without an audience. I took my capacious purse, heavy with the present I had placed carefully within along with the photograph of the mystery man from my mother’s picture.
Time was running out yet again. It was still another day or so before Aunt Evelyn and Mr. Kirkland would arrive. The pieces to this particular puzzle were falling into place, but there were a couple of gaping holes I intended to fill in today. I could feel the fog around me forming shapes that were starting to come together into disturbing images. I needed to send two more telegrams. That would be my first errand of the day.
I opened the door and walked out into the crisp, refreshing air. There were a few people around shoveling snow or getting into their cold cars, but it felt so empty. I was used to the energy of the hustle and bustle of the purposeful New York mornings. I missed it. It was lovely here, but drowsy.
I walked over to the apothecary and sent my two telegrams. I was giving them quite a good business my few days here and they seemed to like that a lot. I received nice big smiles in return. But then again, everyone had heard about the ruckus and the odd story yesterday with the two crazy New Yorkers who were visiting. Word spreads quickly in a small town, and I noticed a little hesitation to be too friendly with me.
I headed to my next meeting a couple of blocks farther down Main Street. Just as I was crossing the street, I saw a familiar form and I ducked alongside the building. Tucker was coming out of the diner. I peeked around the corner and there were two men about to enter for a late breakfast. As Tucker passed them, he nodded his head in a good morning gesture. The tallest man nodded bac
k, clearly knowing Tucker, and said something to him that I couldn’t hear. As he turned into the diner door, I saw his profile. Wait, was that one of the guys who attacked us by the funeral home? No, it couldn’t be.
When the coast was clear, I walked the two doors down to my destination, my mind reeling from what I thought I just saw. There were a few men inside the shop, the snow collecting charmingly in the corners of the windows. The blue, red, and white stripes spun around and around on the pole next to the sign. I opened the door with loudly clanging bells that announced a visitor; which was funny to me because everyone who worked at this place of business was just a few feet away and in full view of the door. It was Baldy Benson’s Barber Shop.
There was one man reclining in the chair, getting a close shave. There was another barber sweeping up the hair from an early morning clip. Even though none of them looked up, they must have sensed the out-of-place feminine presence. They all stopped and slowly turned questioning faces to me.
“Hello, gentlemen.”
“Uh, hello,” said the man sweeping up. The two barbers looked like they were in their eighties, but very spritely. They were instantly suspicious of me. So, I reached into my bag, taking the advice that Roarke had given me from his last visit with these gentlemen, and I pulled out a bottle of forty-year-old scotch from my father’s vault.
I suddenly had three very good friends.
It wasn’t quite afternoon, but hey, you don’t pass up scotch like that. I poured generous helpings for the three of them. They just happened to have some glasses available. I abstained. Fire didn’t sound appetizing at the moment.
After they fully appreciated the amber nectar, we got down to business. Benson, who was indeed bald, Fred, and Jasper gave me their full attention, all three sets of eyes twinkling with this new-found and bountiful friendship.
“What’s your name, dollface?” asked Jasper, the man who had been getting a shave. He looked younger than the barbers. A boyish seventy. I smiled at the “dollface,” remembering my dad calling me that once in a while.
The Gold Pawn Page 18
