Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  "Besides, he colored within the lines, according to the only law I know." William raised a hand for a third cab and it pulled over immediately. He turned to face me. "But if you go back in there, you will need a criminal attorney at your side. A proper one."

  Great. I stared into his still wary expression. This experienced barrister thought I needed a good lawyer, too. I sighed. "William, look—"

  "Don't bother." He opened the door of the cab.

  And again I could cheerfully hit him. "You could make this easy, you know."

  "The same way you do?"

  To hell with him. I started to walk away.

  "No, one more moment, Charles. I do have something to say. Wait a bit," he said to the cabbie. "Go ahead and start the meter." He pushed the cab door to and turned back to me. "Colonel Holmes tells me there's a chance Lindsay might also be in danger."

  Of course, Sherlock as a father himself would feel the need to mention that. "A very small chance, I hope."

  "He wants to keep her close so he can protect her. I admit, with guns that's probably going to be easier for the two of you than for me. But, Charles—"

  Here it came. I fought to keep from rolling my eyes. For some reason, I didn't want him to know my opinion of his message.

  "—if anything happens to my daughter while she's in your care, I'll kill you."

  Right on cue. "Nothing's going to happen to Lindsay, William. Believe it or not, I like her. She's something I never was."

  His eyebrows raised. "A girl?"

  Okay, I left myself wide open for that one. I allowed myself the eye roll. "A good kid, I meant."

  For some reason, my simple words had an unexpected effect. William froze, one hand on the cab door, staring at me with his eyebrows almost in his hairline, as if he wondered whether I was hallucinating just then. But as his gaze lingered on my face — and I'm certain it reflected the confusion I felt at his reaction — his eyebrows slowly returned to normal altitude. The sound of gears meshing inside his brain was almost audible even over the growling of the cab's engine. Finally he shook his head, somewhere between disbelief and wonder, stepped into the cab, and it drove off.

  I had my hand in the air for another when I noticed a shapely figure, undisguised by dowdy blue jeans and tee-shirt, leaning against the side of a light green Volvo station wagon in the parking lot. I lowered my hand. She spoke on her cell phone but those intimate brown eyes were on me. Instead of their usual serenity, their expression was deep, like an undertow in spring tide, and she didn't blink. Ignoring the cell phone, I pulled her close. She snuggled into my arms. I rubbed her back and wished this was all over, that I had nothing better to do than go home, hold her close, and convince this deeply moral woman to forget her standards for a few hours and then for the rest of her life.

  "He's here, Sherlock." She handed me the cell phone and rested her head on my shoulder.

  I couldn't help but notice how well the brown of her hair blended with the olive drab of my fatigues. "I'm fine, boss." I let my hand drop down her back until I felt denim and trusted myself to go no further. In public, at least.

  "Good," he said. "You sound okay. No problems?"

  "Wingate's trying to pin the murder on me. We've got to solve this soon or he'll find a way to lock me up for something and there goes my license to carry."

  One of her arms slipped around and pressed against the small of my back. The other slid between us, below the waistband of my trousers, and touched the hidden holster. That rested near a rather personal section of my anatomy, and when the leather rubbed against my skin my arm contracted, tightening her against me.

  "We won't take that lying down," Sherlock said.

  I admit it took me a moment to understand his intended meaning; I was confusing it with hers. "Wingate let slip that he has the ballistics results."

  "Then we'll go in tonight. We're meeting back at the house now for lunch. See you there." He rang off.

  I dropped the cell phone into the purse dangling off her shoulder and added my other arm to the fence enclosing her. She let me hold her for a few swift heartbeats more, then squeezed my biceps and pulled back.

  "It's a long way for me."

  And I knew she didn't mean the drive to Cambridge.

  I had Caren swing by my condo so I could collect additional clothing. While she drove, I watched the mirrors, even borrowing her compact so I could examine the cars behind us without advertising the fact. But I detected no tail, Impala, Suburban, or otherwise.

  It was just before noon when we arrived back at the house. Sherlock already had sandwiches, Mooseheads, and his glass of water on the table. I ran upstairs for a shower and changed into my walking-out greens. For a trip to an attorney's office in July to face my entire family, I'd have preferred the whites — they always felt more formal and summery — but there wasn't going to be any salvaging them; Mister Suburban's first attack had ensured that.

  While dressing, I realized I was getting used to the idea that Aunt Edith wouldn't return. Never again would I read Shakespeare aloud for her in the parlor, the tea set and a heady bouquet of cut roses between us on the coffee table. And while the thought brought a heavy ache to my heart and cold rage to my mind, it no longer caused me to freeze in place and glance over my shoulder, waiting for her to walk into a room. It was progress of a sort.

  When I dug my wallet and change from the fatigue trousers' pocket, I also found that old ring of Uncle Hubert's, still in there from where I'd pulled it off the previous evening. On impulse, I put it back on. All right, it was truly hideous, but it was comfortable to wear and it was growing on me, like a new image of myself.

  I also took the time to re-rake that damned lock on the garret door, in tune to Sherlock's caustic comments and with Lindsay poring over my shoulder as if I practiced some wonderful form of magic. I blocked the door open again with the stack of books, nodded to Lindsay with as much dignity as I could muster amidst Sherlock's carping — by then it felt like a rather ragged banner, like something Prissy might wear — and escaped back downstairs. In future, Wingate could come calling as many times as he liked; that door would not be shut ever again.

  Sherlock drove Patricia, Lindsay, and me to the office of Wynne Cameron Gamble et al., attorneys at law specializing in family and estate management, and rode up in the elevator with us.

  White paint, blond wood, and blue sofas abounded in the law office's reception area; I couldn't imagine a greater contrast to the police interrogation room. Sherlock hung back while Patty and I introduced ourselves to the receptionist, who pressed a button and murmured into her telephone headpiece. Just as discreetly, two crisp secretaries appeared. The blonde escorted Patty and Lindsay to the conference room, veiled with blinds, that bordered the reception area. The brunette said Mister Langstrom wanted to meet me.

  Immediately I thought of that old photo I'd stolen years ago in boarding school, the fiasco that started me on my life of quasi-crime and alienated me from my family in the first place. The bottom dropped out of my stomach, leaving that sandwich dangling in thin air. "Excuse me, what was that name again?"

  She smiled. "Langstrom, Albert Langstrom. It's a bit odd, isn't it? Don't worry, everyone needs to hear it twice. Now, if you'll step this way?"

  He met me just outside his office door, and there on a plaque was the name Albert Langstrom. His face was the same, too, only older, with the broad forehead and cheekbones and the narrow chin so that he looked like an egghead except eggs don't have perfectly groomed blond hair and little goatees. Experience had replaced the perpetually anxious expression I remembered with a gentle confidence, the sort that kept its chin low but met your eyes, and the relaxed tilt to his face spoke of a kind nature. Right now, a good joke glimmered deep within him. And of course, his handshake was firm.

  "Ellandun."

  "Langstrom." I took another good look. "Aunt Edith tried to get me down here to meet her estate attorney several times. But since she always camouflaged it by saying I needed t
o prepare a will, I always found a way out. I never considered I was old enough to need one, you know?"

  "I understand. We're all invincible, until we're not." He must have hopped the pond not long after completing school; his accent was as uncertain which side of the Atlantic Ocean to call home as mine.

  "Yes, well, I'm just glad she had more sense." I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Look, Langstrom—"

  But he shook his head. "Please don't be embarrassed and don't try to apologize. A few years have passed, we've both matured a bit, and that's all water under the bridge. Now, I recall your aunt telling me you helped her write this will; is that correct?"

  I nodded, still not comfortable. Those reassurances could be merely polite words.

  "So unless she added something without telling you, none of this should be a surprise, correct?"

  "Correct."

  "Excellent. Sherry's over there nodding at me, so everyone's ready. Shall we go?"

  I followed Langstrom into the conference room. The blinds were drawn back now, and the eclectic buildings of the Financial District were arrayed about us like a garden of glass and iron and concrete. The opposite wall, into the reception area, was glass bricks to the hip, panes in white wooden frameworking above, and beyond their sparkle sat Sherlock in his walking-out greens. He rested on one of the blue sofas, facing the receptionist behind her polished desk with the elevators to his right and the glass wall of the conference room to his left. A tattered issue of National Geographic covered his lap; I caught a glimpse of an exploding volcano spewing lava across the pages, and wondered if he was actually reading or just using the magazine as camouflage while watching and waiting in his strategic position.

  The wall between my professional and personal worlds had thinned to a few panes of glass. With the Ellandun family on one side and Sherlock on the other, was there any chance of keeping them separate for long?

  The rest of the family had arrived while I'd spoken with Langstrom. They sat about the maple-wood table, various colored liquids in heavy tumblers before them, and stared as Langstrom and I took our seats, his at the head of the table and mine to his right. My back was to the view; I faced William, and Father was on my other side. I felt surrounded, as Daniel might have felt about ten steps into that lion's den. I shook my head slightly at Sherry's offer of a drink — unless it was whiskey; had this seating arrangement been her idea? — and promptly quit paying attention as Langstrom launched into his introductory remarks.

  The tension in the room was so palpable it was almost a living presence amongst us. Aunt Edith had been the only member of her generation not to attend university, something I knew she held against her father to the day she died. Ironically, despite her lack of higher education, she had done better financially than either of her brothers, better than the two of them combined. And yet none of us needed her money. Suddenly I hoped she'd thrown out the carefully detailed will we'd prepared, hoped she'd left everything to some Home for Demented Cats or something similarly wanton, and even as I hoped I knew she'd never have done it.

  "Rather than reading the will," Langstrom said, "allow me to summarize it for you without all the legalese thrown in. Does anyone object?"

  No one leapt up and shouted, not even me, and in that moment I felt as greedy as the rest of them. I didn't need her money either and I certainly didn't deserve it, but I found that I wanted it. For the first time I felt myself a true member of this family and the humiliation was almost unbearable.

  "Edith left mementos for her brothers," Langstrom continued into the false calm. "She felt those would be more meaningful than monetary presents, but that doesn't mean the gifts are trivial. There's a marked Paul Revere sterling silver vase for William Ellandun, Senior. For Preston Ellandun, she left the best of her collection of hippopotamus gem carvings, with an option on the rest should you wish them."

  After that, the bequests turned green. The others of my generation — William, Ralph, Miriam, and Patricia — all received disbursements in the low six-figure range which, as Langstrom explained, would necessitate cashing in some of Aunt Edith's stock holdings. The announcement caused a minor sensation about the table; it seemed no one expected the figures to reach quite that latitude. William's two children, Trés and Lindsay, the only members so far of the third generation, both received funds, too, tied up in trusts until they graduated university or died trying; Aunt Edith left them no other option if they wanted the money.

  Then there were the odds and ends. The wedding dress went to Patricia, "in eternal hope," as Aunt Edith had phrased it, and Patty nearly broke down then and there with Aunt Viola's maternal arm around her. There was an embroidered lace handkerchief for Father, "who has always admired it," and for some reason this simple statement turned him pink and elicited an unclergymanlike snigger from Uncle Preston. The two Danny Vasquez oils that graced Aunt Edith's bedroom, featuring roses and butterflies in a kaleidoscopic riot of colors, were left to Aunt Viola, and she clapped her hands in delight and murmured, "Thank you." I was glad she wanted them; as much as I liked Vasquez, those were two paintings I'd long wanted to see the last of; and I found that thought didn't bother me any longer, either.

  Several of Uncle Hubert's books were left to William; the armoire in the garret to Ralph and Miriam for their interior design office; another painting to Trés; and then Langstrom shuffled his papers together and placed the last one on top.

  "Finally, everything to which Edith Hunter held title, not otherwise specifically mentioned, is left to Charles Ellandun."

  I waited, wondering who would have the gall to ask the obvious question. Predictably enough it was William and the pause before he asked was short.

  "What is the total value of the estate?" He even sounded stunned.

  I looked straight into his eyes and waited, tingling, for Langstrom to answer. I wanted William to know what the family's remaining black sheep was now worth. And in that moment I wasn't embarrassed by my greed at all.

  But Langstrom straightened his papers and didn't raise his eyes. "Well, you know, there are lots of investments and such. Everything hasn't been calculated yet." He pushed on before anyone else could interrupt. "There are four codicils to the will."

  This was news to me. I swiveled to face Langstrom. "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "She had to get the last word in, didn't she?"

  Uncle Preston sniggered again, as if appreciating either the pitiful pun or my assessment of Aunt Edith. William glared at me and tapped his fingernails on the polished tabletop.

  Langstrom coughed once into his hand and sipped from his soda. "The first codicil leaves Edith Hunter's house jointly to both Charles and Patricia Ellandun."

  I hadn't known that was coming. But as I started to grin, I realized it was perfect. Aunt Edith's final word, ensuring me a companion, was worth more to me than half a house, no matter what neighborhood it graced. Patty clutched the arms of her chair and looked as if she was about to leap through the ceiling if Aunt Viola's arm over her shoulders didn't anchor her down. Heads turned back and forth between us and the wondering expression on William's face was almost impressed.

  "Don't be a twit." I grinned again when her shock was wiped out by delighted accusation.

  "You knew and you didn't tell me?"

  Actually, I'd meant the money Aunt Edith had bequeathed her. But I wasn't about to admit that.

  "That's all right, then?" Langstrom's voice sounded wary, as if he'd feared a different reaction.

  I leaned back. "Absolutely peachy."

  Patty let go the chair and grabbed her mother. But her laughing eyes never left me and I couldn't quit grinning.

  "The second codicil identifies an emerald ring in a hidden safe. Are you familiar with that?"

  If he'd asked me three days ago I would have said no. "Yes, I've seen it."

  "That ring is left to Lindsay."

  Her eyes, so like Aunt Edith's but in a face like her mother's, widened.

  I nodded. "Next?"r />
  He shuffled his papers again, exactly the way I shuffle my feet when confronted or uneasy. "The third bars Jacob Ellandun from any inheritance of Edith Hunter's property."

  Only then did I realize which name I hadn't heard throughout the entire summarization. Patricia's brother Jacob, the family changeling, sat frozen in his seat, scarlet to the roots of his pale hair. He stared at the polished wood of the table as though mesmerized while all color drained from his face. Then he eased his chair back, rose, and left the conference room. Heads swiveled as he passed. I stared along with everyone else until he vanished into an elevator.

  I felt horrible and cast about for something to say, just to shatter the shivery silence. "I had no idea she'd done that."

  Langstrom looked at me oddly for a moment, rather as William had before climbing into the cab at the police station. "The last codicil instructs you to clean out Edith Hunter's garret and finish what she started."

  I'm afraid I stared at him. I'm certain I looked the complete idiot. "I beg your pardon?"

  "She said you would understand or would figure it out."

  It was Patricia who laughed and in her voice was the shrill edge of hysteria. Every head in the room turned, first to stare at Patty, then at me, and I felt the hot blood drain from my face much as Jacob's had done. I considered the items we'd found in the garret and wondered who Aunt Edith wanted me to blackmail.

  Or kill.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  current time

  As the conference room emptied I hung back, edging nearer Langstrom in a silent request. He raised his eyebrows but stayed as well. Father glanced at me as he rose and I realized he wished to speak, but my inclusion of Langstrom seemed to put him off. After hesitating he left the conference room, behind Aunt Viola and Patty, with William at his side.

  "Was there something else?" Langstrom asked as the door closed behind them.

  "I can't believe you don't know what Aunt Edith meant by that cryptic remark. I mean, I'm not trying to suggest you're a liar, but—" Words failed me. I shrugged.