Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  Father glanced at me as I sat down and he seemed to come to a decision. He accepted the first cup from her, in a rosy delicate china cup and saucer with gold rims, and leaned his forearms onto his knees to shield it between his hands.

  "Edith," he said, and his voice was surprisingly humble, "why does Charles steal?"

  I felt myself redden. There it went, right out the open windows, any chance of friendship with her, too.

  But Aunt Edith didn't appear surprised at the question. She poured the second cup for me, and I scooted over on the sofa to accept it. She also took a moment to give me sugar and some biscuits before turning back to my father. By the time she did so, I was comfortable and he was flushed.

  "Why don't you ask him?" She lifted her eyebrows and her own cup in the same motion. "Don't you believe he's capable of answering for himself?"

  Father shifted. He stared at the Persian carpet beneath his feet and I saw the toe of one soft black loafer start to trace the brilliant patterns of blue and white before he stilled it. "Of course. But he claims he can't explain it to me."

  I hadn't tried. I hadn't wanted to.

  Aunt Edith paused in her turn. To my surprise, she stared at Father rather than at me. "Charles steals as revenge. He feels other people have stolen from him all his life, so he's getting even."

  Her simple words hung in the air above the cut roses rather like a second scent. At the same time, they reached into my soul and shifted some fundamental magnetic pole deep within. North became south, black became white, and bad became good.

  In that moment, although I remained probably more than half an ass, I no longer identified with the mundane Bottom. I closed my eyes and gulped in the roses' heady aroma. It was pure magic.

  Father shifted yet again, set down his cup and saucer, and glanced desperately about the room as if seeking some weapon that could avert a tragedy. "No one has ever stolen anything from Charles." His voice sounded breathless. He turned to me. "Has anyone?"

  She had phrased it so perfectly, it was a shame he just couldn't see it. I nodded.

  "When? Who? What did they take?"

  I glanced at Aunt Edith, instinctively asking permission from the person I now knew understood me to my bones, better than I understood myself. She nodded and sipped her tea, not even raising her eyebrows. Just as instinctively, I knew which example to throw in his face.

  "You."

  His jaw dropped and his eyes glazed. It was priceless.

  "I — I don't—"

  "How much time have you spent with him, William?" Aunt Edith paused and sipped her tea. "You and I both know how dangerous a father's lack of attention can be."

  I followed her example. For the first time, I understood the mechanics of true power.

  "I'm right here. No one has stolen me." His flush had gone deeper and stubborn anger was replacing the desperation in his expression.

  An icicle stabbed me in the heart. Despite my new understanding, I remained beneath my father's thumb. If he wished to ruin this, too, for me — if he insisted I return to Wiltshire with him rather than remain here in exile — then I could not fight him.

  Aunt Edith set her cup down. She tugged a tiny lace handkerchief from her pocket and used it to dab her lips, rather than the napkin on her lap. Then she slid it out of sight, poured herself a fresh cup, and turned back to face Father.

  I followed her gaze and stifled a gasp. Father's face had been wiped of color more thoroughly than her lips had been of crumbs. Something, it seemed, had shifted within him, as well, and he looked sick and betrayed.

  "You see, that's why Charles never bothered to attempt an explanation." Her voice was very gentle. "It's no use, William. You're from two different worlds, and you may as well attempt taking the mountains to the moon. Now, I suggest you retire before dinner. I know how traveling disagrees with you."

  It was a dismissal and there was no way he could evade it, only fight it if he chose. He stared at her, his face frozen as if lifeless. A breeze sighed through the windows, wafting that incredible scent about the room. Without another word, he rose and left. We sat in silence, and I listened to his footsteps stomp up the stairs. Aunt Edith took up her cup and sipped, her face impassive and wilder than ever, as the door upstairs closed.

  I was no longer certain what I felt for my father. But my feelings for Aunt Edith had crystallized. I'd found my role model. "Why did you try to explain?"

  She considered me from beneath level brows.

  "I did it so he'll fuss, and mess his hair, and shuffle his feet, and mutter under his breath the entire time he's here. I did it so, when he goes home, he'll carry on, and forget his court dates, and take the wrong book from the shelf, and drink far too early in the day, and scandalize your mother into asking what will the neighbors think. I want him to consider this, and ponder, and worry, and stew, and think about it even when he thinks he's not." She set down her saucer, took up the teapot, and warmed up my cup, meeting my gaze over the china. "Perhaps next time he comes up against someone he doesn't understand, he'll think first and act later." She returned the now empty teapot to the tray. "I do hope you'll enjoy Boston, Charles."

  I didn't need to think. "Yes, I believe I shall."

  We finished the tea and biscuits in silence. Our pact was formed and there was no more need for serious communication between the Ellandun family black sheep.

  There wouldn't be for another nine years.

  Chapter Ten

  current time

  "It's got to be the garret," I said.

  By the time Sherlock, Patricia, and I returned from our fruitless visit to the police station, Bonnie had arrived. We found her and Caren giggling themselves silly in the parlor, with coffee mugs, an urn, and tea biscuits scattered across the gleaming table. I was glad they at least were using coasters beneath the mugs, but wished someone hadn't pushed that urn and the cordless phone quite so close to the silver vase. Bonnie, it had to be Bonnie, who knew what her housekeeping was like, I'd never visited her home and Sherlock, who had, wasn't saying; but I knew Caren was too civilized to let anything near that marked Paul Revere.

  When we strolled in, Bonnie was speaking. "So there he was, lying on his back in this slimy mud, slim jimmy stuck down the front of his pants—"

  Oh, no, not that story.

  "—hi, Robbie — as the car door opened right over his head—"

  Caren and Bonnie fell into a fresh fit of giggles. I felt resentful heat growing in my face. Again.

  Sherlock sprawled onto the sofa next to Caren. "You gotta admit," he said to me, "you did nearly wet your britches that time."

  In his voice, I could hear that he hadn't forgiven me for my performance at the police station. Not that I expected him to anytime during the next decade, not even after our one-way discussion of the subject which had occupied every available moment since leaving the place.

  To hell with him. "I admit nothing."

  Bonnie gasped for air. "—and Hoffmann looked straight down at him."

  Perhaps I could live without Bonnie in my personal world, too. "Please stop."

  "Not a chance," Caren said. "What happened?"

  "Hoffmann never turned a hair. He stared down at Robbie for a moment, as if he always opened his car door to find someone lying on the ground down there, I mean, cool as he could be. Then he leaned over, pulled an envelope from the glove box, stuck it in his coat pocket, stepped out of the car and over Robbie, locked the car, and walked off."

  "What on earth did you do?" Caren asked.

  I took the blue armchair, the chair of the pariah. It seemed fitting. "Got back over that fence as fast as I could, what else? He had me cold and there was nothing else to be done."

  Sherlock guffawed. "Hoffmann's a pretty smart guy."

  "Smart, nothing." I bounced both fists atop the armrests. "That was plain bad luck. Of all the times for him to double back—"

  "And that envelope was what you were looking for?"

  "Haven't the faintest. It could
have been his shopping list, for all I know. But if there had been anything important in that car before he saw me—"

  "—there sure wasn't afterwards." Bonnie sniggered and slugged down the dregs of her coffee. I hoped it was cold.

  Patricia hadn't met my eyes since we left the station. Her embarrassment was obvious and she deserved it, after playing that game. But she also seemed confused, both by me and by Sherlock's big comforting presence, and she hadn't interrupted his griping all the way back to Cambridge.

  Now she carefully slid the urn away from the silver vase and its wilting red roses. Murmuring something about a fresh pot, she vanished toward the kitchen. Still giggling, Caren trailed after, looking the other way in passing.

  When they were out of earshot, I glared at Bonnie. "Oh, you wait. You just wait."

  Bonnie was a tight, compact, angular woman who covered her end of the short sofa like a blue-eyed, brunette guard dog. With her narrow face, large and usually upturned mouth, and high forehead, she wasn't conventionally beautiful — none of Theresa's wind-blown china-doll stuff — but nor did she have Theresa's neuroses, which was worth a lot.

  She laughed at me. "Just name your place." We all knew I'd conveniently forget; Bonnie had earned her reputation. "Anyway, both of you, thanks for getting me out of camp. Can't speak for you, but they'd have to pay me a lot more than my salary to convince me to stay awake through two weeks of forward artillery observation."

  If I'd been imbibing any fluid, I'd have sprayed it across the room. Forward artillery observation was a blending of big-gun target practice and sneaking close to enemy lines to direct and observe the gunners' marksmanship, best described by the old military maxim of "hours and hours of sheer boredom interspersed with a few random moments of stark terror." We'd done this under fire during the war and survived it, even if I had been injured in the process. Unfortunately, those enlivening moments of terror don't come across well in the mundane backwater of an El Paso Army base, leaving the hours and hours of boredom unleavened, and therefore an entire training camp practicing FAO was likely to discover how well we performed in our sleep.

  "Whose bloody idea was that?" I demanded.

  We weren't even there and we were griping about it. No telling what Wings Cadal was tolerating and Sherlock's avoidance made sudden, perfect sense. Patty's voice drifted down the hall from the kitchen, then the murmur of Caren's answer. It seemed they'd found some time to chat, which should help Patty's disposition.

  "No," Sherlock said. "I ain't discussing that. Robbie, give her a rundown."

  I didn't want to let the subject drop, as it positively bristled with opportunities to score off him. But Sherlock's forehead was tense and the scar on the right side, vanishing into his hairline, glowed red. So I briefed Bonnie on events to date, remembering to mention the silencer, the fibers, the streetlamp, and the lack of fingerprints at the crime scene, the only real information Wingate had let drop. I couldn't help but wonder if that had been accidental. He didn't seem the sort to make such mistakes, but then, that had also been before I asked my stupid question in my stupid manner, the one that earned me so much of Sherlock's attention on the drive back.

  "Jerk," Sherlock said under his breath. "It wouldn't hurt him — much — to let us see those results, but would he play ball? Nooo-oooh, he just has to make life difficult."

  "I see you're taking this in your usual calm, professional manner," Bonnie said. "Like, personally."

  Finally, it was my turn. "Oh, you should have heard him. 'The police are your friends, they have all the information, let's keep them sweet—' "

  "Jerk," Sherlock said, louder this time. "Now we gotta break into the station house."

  That stopped me. I glared at him. "You mean I have to break into the station house."

  "I'll be right on your heels—"

  "As if that will be particularly helpful."

  "—to make sure you don't back out of it."

  The civilians chose that moment to return, with two urns and more mugs. From the shocked, outraged expression on Patricia's face, she overheard that last bit, but of course she wouldn't argue with anyone except me, which didn't bode well for our mutual future.

  Caren kept her reaction to herself. But when she handed the first cup to Sherlock, she stared hard at him as he took a slurp. Give him credit, he made no attempt to duck her stare.

  "Okay," he said to her, not in apology but more as if declaring a temporary truce, "let's recap. There was no sign of a struggle at the crime scene and the lady's purse was still in her car, containing, Robbie tells us, multiple credit cards. She still wore her ring, too. So this was a deliberate murder, not a robbery gone wrong, nothing sexual about it."

  "Maybe the argument began in the car," Bonnie said, "if her purse was found there but she died on the sidewalk. Is it possible she forgot and left it in the car if for some reason she got back out?"

  "That's a thought," I said. "Aunt Edith refused to carry a cell phone. If she did have an argument with someone and needed to call for help, she'd have to return to the gallery to do so."

  Caren handed me a mug. "But to forget her purse, a woman would have to be pretty distracted."

  "Then we know it was a serious argument," Sherlock said. "So it looks as if Edith Hunter was the intended target, no matter how unlikely that seems. She left the gallery before her nephew and the security guard. She went to her car, had an argument with someone there, and returned to the gallery for help, leaving her purse behind. The security guard and your nephew, Robbie, then maybe were shot when they walked out of the gallery and into the argument. They weren't actually targets, but were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  "That was a risk," Bonnie said. "How'd the shooter know someone else wasn't about to walk out of the gallery and catch him in the act? I mean, how big could his magazine possibly be? He'd already used five shots."

  "There was no one else in the gallery," I said.

  "Yeah, but how did he know that?"

  "Good point," Sherlock said. "The gallery wasn't open to the public yet — it opens tonight, right? — so he couldn't have gone inside and counted everyone. He must have waited outside somewhere all day, accounting for people as they came and went. That's a cool customer, determined, patient, and able to blend into the scenery."

  "Don't you wish we were like that?" I asked him.

  He rolled his eyes. Beside him, Caren's were dark and deep, their gaze flickering from face to face as we discussed the possibilities but lingering longest on me. My pulse deepened to match her expression. Then she glanced at my left arm; she'd noticed the missing sling. Oh, well. It had been a nice fantasy while it lasted.

  "Whatever it is this guy's trying to get his hands on," Bonnie said, "he must want it really bad. I mean, bad enough to spend a lot of time for it, as well as enough to kill for it."

  "For crazies," Sherlock said, "the time may be more valuable than the lives."

  I cleared my throat. "There is another possibility."

  "Yeah?"

  I hated having to say this in front of Patricia. "It could be one of the family. Aunt Edith has been my forerunner as the Ellandun black sheep as long as I can remember. This could be a long-standing grudge of some sort that finally boiled over."

  The silence was short and stunned. Patty closed her eyes.

  But Sherlock barked with laughter. "It would have to be a true nutcase, then, not to finish off your nephew. If the kid pulls through, he can identify his own family members, right? No, Robbie, I think we need to find out if your aunt had any enemies. And since the murderer tried to search this house, I think we should do the same."

  Patty's momentary relief vanished. She rolled her lips together until they were invisible, her glance darting about the room, dancing over the windows and sideboard, dipping to the roses, before alighting on me in the blue armchair. The sight of me, relaxed and slugging coffee, brought her chin up, and finally she faced Sherlock.

  "You mean you're going to searc
h before Detective Wingate gets the chance."

  He finished his coffee and set the empty mug on a coaster. His return stare was gentle but firm. "Yep."

  "Isn't that an obstruction of justice?"

  "Like you should worry." He leaned forward, hands on knees. "So where should we start looking, Robber mine?"

  Patty's jaw dropped. I wondered if she objected to being brushed off or to my nickname; whichever it proved to be, I'd hear about it.

  "It's got to be the garret."

  "Then we search the garret." He turned to Bonnie. "You didn't bring a laptop, right? Why don't you find a computer, see if you can track down that Suburban, who it's registered or rented to?"

  "No working computer." I knew Patty's old clunker had gone belly-up and hadn't been replaced, for whatever reason. "Not here. There's one at my condo."

  Bonnie hooted. "No computer, no Internet connection, no license plate number, unknown color, unknown year, and he wants me to track it down. Got a game plan, boss?"

  "Sure." Sherlock rose. The rest of us drained mugs and followed suit. "Find the one that was wrecked last night. Oh, and get ahold of Theresa, will you? I mean, where the hell is she? She should have been here twice over before now."

  Bonnie grabbed her cell. I led Sherlock, Caren, and Patricia upstairs.

  I'd propped the garret door open with a stack of Churchill's histories, big leather-bound tomes: anything to prevent having to rake that lock again. Particularly not in front of Sherlock.

  We crowded inside. Three of us hovered near the door and stared about like landed fish. But Sherlock stepped into the garret, tugged a small notepad from the thigh pocket of his fatigues, and sketched: the writing desk and old secretarial chair beneath that bare dangling bulb, the armoire with its doors open and light spilling over the line of retro clothing, the old steamer chest undisturbed beside it.

  "You did say you'd already searched some, right, Robbie? Gimme a rundown on what you did."

  I edged around Sherlock's big frame. His presence steadied me and the guilt of digging through Aunt Edith's secrets eased. But I still wasn't comfortable in her garret. "I glanced through the desktop briefly, but nothing caught my eye and I didn't open the drawers at all. Caren and I sorted through the clothing in the armoire a bit; that's why those shoes are lined up there."