by Joyce Lavene
“Well, you know many people get upset when they see that symbol, some enough not to buy it.”
“I know,” he agreed. “Believe me, my buyer isn’t one of those people.”
The Flobert was like a toy, but I knew it was real. It had belonged to a Nazi officer who’d managed to escape Germany at the end of World War II. It was considered a parlor pistol, pretty and useful, easily tucked into a pocket or a drawer.
“Would you like to hold it?” I asked, stretching it out to him.
Fortunately, this was an occasion when slipping on a pair of gloves didn’t look odd. I wanted to hold the weapon but wouldn’t dare without the gloves to protect me from the memories trapped inside of it. Even so, I shuddered as I picked it up again. Just imagining who it had belonged to was scary enough.
The pistol was very delicate, almost a work of art. It meant a nice sale for me too, and I was excited to work with Port. He could help me broker other sales in the future with his wide range of contacts. Altogether, a very good deal.
He gave back the pistol after examining it for only a minute or two. “It’s in wonderful condition.”
“The daughter of the SS officer who’d owned it took very good care of it for the brief time it was in her possession,” I explained as I put the pistol back in the case. “When the daughter found the pistol and some other Nazi effects in her mother’s attic after her death, she was horrified to learn she had a relative involved in all of that. She got rid of everything at a wholesale price. I scarfed it up.”
“I’m glad you did. It would be a shame for it to be lost, despite the background.”
“I understand her feelings.” I told him about a carved wood mirror I’d had—until I’d learned it had belonged to a slave. “I didn’t feel the same way about it after that, and I let it go for a lot less than it was probably worth.”
He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “It’s one thing to give things away that belonged to your family, Dae. But this is business. You won’t stay around long if you sell things for less than their value. How did you find out about its history anyway? There’s not much left in that category.”
He wasn’t from Duck, and I didn’t feel obliged to make him understand about my gifts. “I don’t remember, but it was a good source. I know the history was accurate.”
“Well, give me a call next time you have something worth that much money that you want to get rid of cheap.” He scanned the shop. “Mind if I take a look around?”
“Please do. I can’t promise a cheap sale, but I’m sure we can work something out.”
“Is this what I think it is?” he asked a few minutes later in an excited tone. “Tell me you don’t have one of the three silver church bells that were buried at St. Augustine to keep them from being taken by the English soldiers.”
“Yes. That’s what it is.” I wondered how he knew. I knew what it was when it came to me via another seller because I’d touched it and was immediately transported to that time. The monks had worked frantically to hide the three silver church bells. They had planned to come back and dig them up, but the English soldiers had killed all of them.
“What do you want for it? And do you have the other two?”
“I only have the one. I’m not going to sell it. At least not until I get the other two,” I told him.
His sharp, thin face, so much like the image Ann had drawn, registered his disbelief. “Are you serious? Do you know what this is worth? You might have to wait a lifetime for the other two bells, if you’re ever lucky enough to see them. I’ll write you a check for this one right now.”
“No thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I know the other two are coming this way. I don’t mind waiting to see all of them together.”
He looked at the bell in his hand and shook his head. “You’re never going to stay in business, Dae. You’re too romantic. I’ve sold off dozens of single treasure parts. Keeping this bell for the reason you describe would be like expecting to gather together all of Blackbeard’s treasure here and intact. Not a good business decision. You can take that from someone who’s been in the business for a lot longer than you.”
“You may be right.” I shrugged. “But I am who I am. I have a lifetime to wait for the two other bells. I’m very patient when it comes to things like that.”
Of course, he didn’t know what I knew from holding the bell. I knew the other two had a resonance with this one. They wouldn’t be separated for long. I didn’t know how they’d come here or who would bring them, but I knew they were on their way.
“I hope you’re well insured.” He put the bell down reluctantly. “I can’t believe you have something this valuable sitting out here like this. I guess I’m going to be here for a while looking at everything else. Who knows what else you have?”
“How did you know about the bell?”
“I research missing treasure like the bells. I study them so I’ll know if I come across one.” He smiled. “It’s intuition too, I have to admit. You develop a sense for these things after a while. Don’t worry. It will be like that for you one day too.”
I returned his smile. “Like I said, I’m patient. I can wait.”
While Port rummaged carefully through Missing Pieces for another treasure he might persuade me to sell, I unfolded the picture of him that Ann had drawn. Either she could see into the future or she had the ability to summon a picture from a name. Port’s name was in my brain. What he looked like had been a mystery to me. But not to her.
Kevin was right—she was very talented. And scary. But maybe between us we would be able to find Betsy.
Yet these moments were leading into hours and days. How much longer would Betsy’s kidnapper keep her alive? He wasn’t asking for a ransom—probably realized that Betsy’s mother didn’t have the resources to provide anything worthwhile. It was surprising that he hadn’t already killed her. Maybe if we understood that part, we might understand it all.
Port left Missing Pieces about an hour later, after perusing everything in the shop except for my Duck souvenir collection. And leaving me a nice fat check. He didn’t remark on anything else the way he had the silver bell. He did ask about a brass scale weight used for weighing real silver coins, but didn’t offer to buy it. A scale weight had been a business necessity in the distant past, when silver coins were the common currency—the scale prevented a buyer from filing down the coins and thus cheating the seller.
I shook Port’s hand again when he left. I saw an image of the woman I thought was Chuck’s killer’s girlfriend—the woman who’d cleaned the blood from the killer’s tie. I didn’t understand the connection between Chuck, Betsy and Port.
Was it possible Port was involved with the killer’s girlfriend? Maybe that was the connection Ann had sensed, enabling her to draw his face. But even if there was a connection, I had no way of knowing the nature of the relationship—the girlfriend could be Port’s sister, or maybe they were lovers. I certainly couldn’t ask Port about the woman—I didn’t even know her name.
I was going to have to be that patient person I’d told Port I was. In this case, that was a very difficult thing.
A while later, Ann and Kevin came in, between customers. I thought it was more important for me to stay at Missing Pieces and try to make some money. They could handle the FBI and the search for Chuck’s killer.
I’d managed to sell a nice Spanish porcelain statue of a Madonna and child that had been taken from a shipwreck in the 1800s. The treasure finders who’d located the shipwreck had been interested in the Spanish gold and nothing else. But the Madonna statue was worth a pretty penny too. They’d kept it as a souvenir and passed it down through several generations, until a descendant decided to do some spring cleaning. It was a consignment piece, so I didn’t make as much on the sale as usual, but I was sure the seller would be as happy as I was with the price.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Kevin said.
“Yes. It was a surprise. There’s not much going on
during the week right now.”
Ann had already taken a spot on the burgundy brocade sofa. I decided I’d stay where I was, behind the counter.
“How did it go with the sketch?” I finally asked.
“Fine if you count the fact that the man’s face was recognizable, so we know who he is,” Ann said. “Not so good because Agent Kowalski doesn’t believe he’s involved.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “If you told them everything and the man is a criminal, what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that the man in the sketch is Dillon Guthrie.” Kevin grabbed a Sun Drop from the mini-fridge, as he always did. “He’s a well-known smuggler who has trafficked everything from drugs to cars, art and antiques. He’s been around a long time and has never been arrested for anything. No one has been able to touch him.”
“That makes him the perfect suspect, right?” I didn’t like what I was hearing.
“Too perfect.” Ann took a bottle of water from Kevin, who’d joined her on the sofa. “The FBI doesn’t believe a big player like Guthrie would be out here in Duck killing a nobody like your real estate broker. He’s never been known to have anything to do with kids, so no reason to kidnap the girl. In short, they probably won’t even bother questioning him.”
“What?” I got down from the stool behind the counter and, despite my earlier reluctance, went to sit with them on the sofa. “That’s ridiculous. He’s a bad guy. Wouldn’t he be capable of doing anything bad?”
“I’m afraid the FBI doesn’t work like that,” Kevin explained. “No profiler would believe that Guthrie would suddenly change professions and start kidnapping little girls. Criminals don’t work that way. They follow their own set of rules. That’s what eventually gets them caught. They’re slaves to their own routines.”
“Plus, Agent Kowalski reminded us twice that even if Guthrie killed Chuck, that isn’t their mission. He’s only here to find the little girl. Because Guthrie doesn’t track for this type of crime, he won’t even discuss him.” Ann took a long sip from her water. She looked pale and exhausted.
“So we’re on our own,” I surmised. “What do we do now?”
“I don’t know about the two of you, but I quit.” Ann got up from the sofa. “I don’t know how you people live down here with all the sand and the salt air. It drains me.”
“But I had something happen to me while you were busy.” I pulled out the sketch she’d given me. “This is Port Tymov. I’ve never met him before today. He came to buy a piece I found in Charleston. This is the sketch you did of him, Ann.”
She yawned. “So?”
“When I shook his hand, I saw Guthrie’s girlfriend from the other visions. They’re connected somehow.”
I thought she might be excited about the news, but Ann just stared at me.
“His connection to Guthrie’s girlfriend doesn’t seem to matter much since the FBI won’t go after Guthrie,” she reminded me.
“But don’t you see?” I looked at Kevin. “This means we could get to her if we can find out who she is. She could be a relative of Port’s—”
“Or she could be some hot chick your dealer ran into and her face stuck in his brain,” Ann interrupted impatiently. “You need a lot more training in how to apply your abilities effectively in a criminal investigation.”
“Dae has a natural gift for using her abilities to help other people,” Kevin said. “While you were trained as a child to use your abilities, Ann, Dae has always been motivated solely by a desire to assist those she knows and loves.”
Ann glared at him. “It doesn’t matter. I know the girl is dead. You know I’m not wrong about these things. Why are you fighting me on this, Kevin? You can’t let your feelings for Dae get in the way of making a rational judgment on the case.”
“You could be mistaken,” Kevin reminded her. “You haven’t done this in a long time. Your abilities may be rusty or affected by your breakdown.”
Ann didn’t say another word. She turned and walked out of Missing Pieces, closing the door silently behind her.
Kevin leaned back against the sofa. “We’ve been arguing about this all the way back from the police station. I don’t know if she’ll go on with the case.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe you should give up on it too. Maybe she just can’t do this work anymore.”
“Or maybe she’s right. I don’t know. But the FBI made it clear we won’t get any more help from them if we’re going to pursue Guthrie.”
“So what do we do now?” I asked him.
“What we’ve done before. Find what’s missing.”
Chapter 17
I felt the first thing we should do was talk to Chief Michaels. I owed him that after my efforts to find Betsy without him. I knew it always upset him when I struck out on my own. Sometimes, I just couldn’t help it. It was going to mean getting another lecture, but I was going to have to suck it up. No matter what, he was a good friend of the family and a good police chief. I couldn’t imagine Duck without him.
I had to remind my fast-beating heart that this was just a working partnership with Kevin. Nothing had changed in that matter. I hated the awkwardness between us as much as the breakup itself. It was difficult to find something to say that didn’t involve Ann’s arrival in Duck and its emotional aftermath. We drove from the shop to the police station in Kevin’s truck, not really having a conversation. Lucky it wasn’t a long drive.
“So where do people in Duck vote?” he asked.
“We’re headed there. Once the new town hall is finished, we might vote there. We’ll have to see.”
“I heard there might be another storm coming our way,” he added.
“It’s possible.” It was the worst conversation in the world. I was glad when we finally reached the police station.
The FBI agents in dark suits were swarming around their computers. One of them stopped us at the door. “Can I help you?”
“I don’t think so. We’re here to see Chief Michaels.” I didn’t like his proprietary tone, as though he belonged here and I didn’t. No matter what, this was my town.
“He’s very busy right now, ma’am.” He didn’t even bother looking back toward the chief’s office, as though trying to tell a convincing lie. “I’ll be glad to take a message for him.”
I threw my shoulders back and faced him down. “First of all, I’m a citizen of this town and I have every right to be here and to talk to the chief. And second of all, I’m the mayor. I’ll wait right over here until the chief can see me.”
He wasn’t impressed. “That’s fine. But I can’t tell you when that will be, Mayor. It could be a long wait.”
“He has to go home sometime.”
Kevin and I went to sit in the row of chairs positioned against the wall. “You can’t expect much more from them,” he said. “When the FBI or any federal agency gets involved in a problem, they take the lead. It’s the way things are done.”
“Well, it’s rude and disrespectful.” But that was all I said on the matter—only because I noticed Melinda Lafferty, Chuck’s ex-wife, sitting by herself in one of the same plastic chairs.
I admit that, at first, I thought of her only as an important person to talk to about Betsy. She was the girl’s mother. She could probably share some insights into Chuck’s life too. I wondered if anyone would notice if I sat beside her and asked her questions.
But the more I observed her, the more I realized that she was in terrible shape. She looked as though she was about to fall on the floor with exhaustion. Her face was pale, and her eyes were glazed over. She probably hadn’t eaten or slept since she got here. That was no way for a visitor in Duck to be treated.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Lafferty.” I approached her with a smile that I hoped was sympathetic. I couldn’t let my annoyance with the FBI affect her. She was the true victim in all of this. “I’m Dae O’Donnell, mayor of Duck. We met yesterday. I’m sorry you’ve been through so much. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know
. Do you have a place to stay? Have you eaten?”
She ran her hand through her bright red hair. “I just don’t know what to do. They brought me down here and said I could help them in some way. I’ve been sitting in this chair, or somewhere in this station, since I got here. They gave me a blanket last night and some crackers this morning. I can hardly think anymore. How can I help Betsy like this?”
Questioning her about her ex-husband and her daughter fled from my mind like clouds dispersing after a storm. “Never mind. You come with us. We’ll find you something to eat and a place to lie down for a while.”
“What about Betsy?” she whispered. “What about Chuck?”
“There’s nothing you can do right now, Ms. Lafferty,” Kevin assured her, following my lead. “Dae is right. You need some food and some rest. If they need you, they’ll call you. We’ll make sure they know where you are.”
She was still unconvinced and scared she might miss something. I knew I’d feel the same if I were in her position.
“You have to stay strong and take care of yourself for your daughter. We don’t know where any of this will lead. She needs you to be in fighting shape for her, Melinda. Come with us. Let us take care of you so you can take care of her when we find her.”
It was a good speech. It worked on Melinda. But she was near collapse with anxiety and fatigue.
It didn’t work as well on Agent Kowalski when we started to help Melinda leave the police station. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, thundering toward us, his face red like he’d been in the sun too long. “I didn’t authorize Ms. Lafferty to leave this building.”
“We’re taking Melinda out of here so she can rest and have something to eat,” I replied, explaining the obvious. “Shame on you! She can barely hold her head up! What are you thinking?”
He looked slightly abashed for a moment—long enough for Chief Michaels to come out of his office.
“Is there a problem out here?” the chief asked Kowalski. The agent reiterated that he didn’t want Melinda to leave.
