by K. T. Tomb
“Sorry, Mrs. Frome,” Riley said, “Find what, exactly? A person, a car?”
Mrs. Frome stamped her foot.
“No, you young fool, I already told you! The Rock of Rhodesia has been stolen!” She folded her arms in finality, clearly expecting Riley and Roberta to be aware of what the Rock of Rhodesia was. The blank looks the sisters returned eventually filtered through to Mrs. Frome. With exasperated solemnity, she continued.
“The Rock of Rhodesia is a large diamond, set in a diamond accented silver chain necklace. It’s worth millions of dollars. Now it has gone missing from my house! It is, of course, insured, but the sentimental value is priceless. I have been robbed, I’m sure!”
Roberta invited Mrs. Frome to sit down on the cracked brown leather sofa in the office, which she did carefully and with the kind of look that people usually reserved for needles found in the wake of heroin abuse in a toilet.
“I think this is Ricki’s area of expertise, right Roberta?” Riley said, hoping Roberta would take the hint.
“Yes, definitely. I’ve got work to do, I’ll see you later.”
Roberta’s demeanor had stiffened, but at least she took the implication that it might not bear to have a frosty atmosphere with the prospect of a serious fee on the table. Riley knew that the recovery fee for the Rock of Rhodesia would most likely dwarf the meager sums Roberta and she had pulled in for R3; and thus hand Ricki a distinct advantage in the war of words over who was not pulling their weight. Riley also knew that Roberta realized this as well as she, so she gave silent thanks for Roberta’s grace as she left the premises. Riley brought her sister out from the back room to meet Mrs. Frome, made the proper introductions, and then busied herself making a cup of tea for Mrs. Frome while she relayed the details of the case to Ricki, who was at the early point of the conversation almost monosyllabic with rage after her earlier spat.
Riley tuned back into the conversation when it appeared that Mrs. Frome had got to where she had already got to. Riley delivered her tea, and sat with Ricki, opposite Mrs. Frome who accepted her tea without comment, but eyed it suspiciously as if Riley might have spat in it.
“I’m sure that waste of space, Joseph, stole it,” Mrs. Frome said confidently. “He’s been sneaking around my house, sometimes at night, I’m sure, trying to get in. I heard he was a drunk too, you know. Whole family are drunks as far as I know, his son got kicked out of his law firm, or accounting firm or something, and he’s just going to end up like his father. A thief!”
Her voice became steadily more glass shattering as she relayed her story.
“Well, Mrs. Frome, we’ll need to get a valuation on the Rock of Rhodesia to work out a return fee with them, if it is as valuable as you say; which I’m sure it is, diamonds being diamonds, then we should definitely be able to do business with you. I’ll come over to your address and have a look around too, if that’s alright. Have you reported the theft to the police?”
Ricki scratched notes on a pad of legal paper with a cheap ballpoint pen.
“The police? No, I don’t like the police. Too many ni—” Mrs. Frome checked herself at the dropped jaws of Riley and Ricki.
“I mean to say,” Mrs. Frome continued, with barely a flicker of the slur she was about to use, “I’d rather keep the police out of this for personal reasons. I will take my leave, ladies. I’ll see you tomorrow, if you don’t mind, for the home visit. I am quite tired from my journey across town to see you.”
Mrs. Frome rose unsteadily to her feet, and left immediately, leaving her cup of tea entirely untouched. “Can you believe that?” Riley said. “It’s two thousand fourteen, and people still pull that B.S!”
“Different era, that one, “Ricki said. “Think she might have been around to disagree with the emancipation proclamation. Still, we need the money, and it’s not her time. It’s ours, and her attitudes are dying out all the time. Don’t stress it.”
Riley wasn’t so sure. She had seen a lot of barely restrained racism in her own life, the shady glances at the minimart or rednecks shouting what redneck morons shout from their pickups. She didn’t know for sure if Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney really hung out and sang Ebony and Ivory together when they weren’t on MTV. Who knew.
She said none of this, but instead said “So, Cavanaugh’s house first? I’ll drive you, I know where it is already. It’s a bit of a dump, if I’m honest.”
Ricki packed up her bag, and applied her makeup. Always perfect looking in public and private, Riley looked at her own greasy jeans. Maybe a recovered diamond would spring enough cash for a new set of Levi’s, maybe even a new jacket, if they saved the business first, of course.
Chapter Seven
Ricki
If it had not been critical to the survival of R3 Recovery and by extension the financial security of the Vaughans themselves, she had a mind to have told the hateful old Mrs. Frome to find the Rock of Rhodesia herself, and then give her some advice on where she could store it in the future to prevent further misplacement.
As it stood, there was no space for morality in business; she knew that, had learned it the hard way. Her sisters still held on to this belief that commerce itself could be conducted in some morally clean way, despite the nature of the trade they were in. Deception, investigation and finding those who did not want to be found were not in the vocabulary of morality as far as Ricki was concerned. Still, despite her pragmatic views, keeping the anger from her face and ignoring racism in exchange for money burned hotter than coals.
Ricki followed Mrs. Frome out of the office, Riley in tow, and watched the old woman totter up the street and get inside a waiting taxi. Ricki turned away from her and led Riley down the alleyway that separated R3 Recovery from the barbershop next door, to the narrow back parking space where her car was parked. The silver-grey Toyota was immaculately kept, but unobtrusive enough to be nearly invisible to most eyes. Like Roberta’s pickup truck, practicality and anonymity were key factors in the vehicle’s suitability for the work it was used for. Roberta had once almost been bumper to bumper behind a wealthy businessman who was cheating on his wife for miles without him paying a second glance to her. She unlocked the driver’s side door and popped the lock on the passenger side for Riley to get in, who slumped into the beaded seat uncomfortably. “Ugh, why do you have these things? They leave you with all these bead marks on your ass,” she said.
“You’re talking to me about comfort, when you ride a motorcycle and wear leather jackets in the middle of summer? I think I’ll stick with the beads.”
The joke fell flat, thanks to Ricki’s sour delivery.
“You still mad at Mrs. Frome?” Riley said, cautiously.
“No, screw her. She’ll pay us when we get this diamond back—you know, I bet it’s at her house, she seems a bit senile if you ask me. Anyway, she’ll pay us, and then the racist old bitch will eke out another few years grasping onto the thing, and then she’ll die.” Riley gasped at her bluntness. “What? I’m supposed to like her because she’s old and rich? Nah. Anyway, I’m more pissed with Roberta; she’s been up my ass for a week. This will show her what’s what, and with no mistakes too.”
Ricki fired up the engine and reversed down the alley. The Toyota’s engine whined as it often did, disliking going backward.
“Ricki, you know, it’s not been easy for us either; wait, let me finish. Think about it, you’ve always been in charge, always, even when we were kids. I was the baby, I got all the attention; you were the oldest so you were the boss, and that’s the way you liked it. Where was Roberta? In the middle, feeling ignored. Can you imagine what that felt like? In high school you were lettering in track, dating the star wide receiver… what was his name? Never mind. In any case, do you remember where Roberta was? Sophomore year, she had a terrible attack of acne, braces in and growth spurting so hard that she could barely run without falling over. Then you graduated, and she thought maybe she’d get her shot at being the popular one, but then I joined in my freshman year and all the attenti
on was on the new girl who was covered in grease from fixing engines and sneaking into shop class to learn more. Again Roberta was overlooked, as she saw it. She’d never tell you this; hell, she only told me after a couple bottles of wine.”
Riley looked imploring at her elder sister, but Ricki was unmoved as she expertly weaved her tiny car through the morning commuter traffic heading toward the center of town, beyond which lay the run down region where old Joe Cavanaugh lived with his son.
“Well, I couldn’t help how it panned out, could I? The football player was Ortis Sanders, and he tried to force himself on me at senior prom. I only ran because I was terrified of getting fat, and damn it, I’m not responsible for Roberta; or you for that matter. You’re both grown women!” Ricki honked her horn violently at a driver who had the audacity to drive at a speed that was slower than acceptable. “It’s no piece of cake running a business either. I can’t do it as well as Dad would have done, but I’m doing my best here. I need both of you to cut me some slack and do your jobs, and I’ll do mine.”
Ricki felt like that ended the conversation in her victory, and Riley sulked in her seat for the rest of the journey. This pleased Ricki in as much as she would have peace and quiet for a few minutes before applying her mind to gathering clues. It was most likely, of course, that Cavanaugh knew nothing about the jewel at all. But it was, for now, the only card she had in play.
The simple matter of even getting to Cavanaugh’s house proved difficult, however. The entire end of the street where he lived was cordoned off with yellow police tape, and numerous police officers milled around as forensic investigators gleamed in the morning sun, no doubt with rivers of sweat under their bright white disposable paper coveralls. Roberta’s boyfriend, Terry, stood with one hand on his nightstick and the other on the butt of his pistol talking to a disheveled man in a suit.
“Hey Ricki, that’s Cavanaugh’s son!” Riley exclaimed. “I wonder what’s going on.”
It seemed, at least to Ricki, that the drama unfolding before them had buried her sister’s grievance with her for now. Ricki had seen this set up before—and judging from the distraught man Riley had named as the son of her lead, she had the next potential clue in her mind. Joe Cavanaugh was surely dead. She pulled her Toyota up to the curb close to Terry, immaculate as always in his deep blue uniform. Handsome, twenty-five years old and with a short crop of ginger hair, Terry Valance was every inch the fine image of a police officer. His partner, a portly sergeant by the name of Dobbs was everything that was to be despised. Whereas, from Ricki’s experience, Terry had always treated Roberta with respect as her boyfriend and fastidiously ignored the barbs about her mixed heritage, Dobbs was a racist pig who Ricki had heard was surprisingly easy to bribe into busting people on trumped-up charges. Ricki also knew that Terry knew this, but was powerless as Dobbs was his sergeant. Dobbs sat casually on the hood of his police cruiser, paying no attention to the crime scene but eyeing Riley with a leer.
Terry saw the Vaughan sisters pull up, and excused himself from his conversation with Cavanaugh Junior, with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Joseph’s son nodded sadly, and waited, staring into space a few feet behind Terry as he turned to speak to Ricki and Riley as they got out of the Toyota.
“Morning ladies. I’m afraid I can’t let you through here,” he gestured to the yellow tape, “not even for Roberta’s sisters. Nasty business.”
His deep-voiced Georgian accent was warm, yet his tone showed that he would take no argument on the subject.
“What’s going on, Terry? Is Mr. Cavanaugh okay?” Riley said, clearly not having made the same conclusions as her elder sister had.
“Depends which one,” Terry replied casually. “Joe Cavanaugh Junior is, as you see, alive but upset. Joseph Cavanaugh Senior has sadly passed on sometime this morning.”
Junior looked briefly up at Riley and Ricki at the mention of his name, and a flash of recognition came across him as he saw the younger sister he had encountered previously.
“Come on, Terry,” Ricki chided, “there’s no crime scene investigation for an old man who dies in his sleep. What did he die from?”
Terry rolled his eyes.
“Let me guess, you girls were here to speak to him? Okay, keep it to yourself; this isn’t public knowledge as of yet, and it won’t be until the coroner’s report. Seems Mr. Cavanaugh strangled himself with a leather belt. His son says he was heartsick for some old flame of his over on the other side of town. She wanted nothing to do with him and he took his own life. Strange, really, that an old guy like would go out in that way, you know? You’d figure that was more of a young fool’s game. Anyway, I gotta get back to it. Say hi to Roberta for me, would you? I have not seen her in a week. Stay safe, ladies.”
Terry turned, and ducked under the yellow tape, collecting Sergeant Dobbs on the way. The sergeant gave one last lascivious look at Riley, who at twenty was at least half his age, and followed his young partner. Bile rose in Ricki’s stomach, but Riley didn’t seem to notice. Just as well that Ricki was always on the ball to look out for her younger siblings, even if they barely ever appreciated it.
“What do you make of it?” Riley said.
Ricki turned to her sister, now eyeing Cavanaugh Junior over her shoulder. He seemed to be within earshot but was now sitting on the porch of one of the neighboring houses staring at his shoes.
“Awfully coincidental, that’s what I think. I’m not going to say I don’t believe in coincidences; they happen all the time of course. It does strike me as strange however that Mrs. Frome reports the Rock of Rhodesia missing, fingers Mr. Cavanaugh—the dead one, I mean—and then he decides to end it all. Terry was right; strangling himself doesn’t tally with the age of the man. The elderly usually go for the length of hose attached to the car exhaust or pills.”
Riley shook her head.
“Well, he couldn’t have done it with the car; we already impounded it. And I don’t think he’s got much money for enough painkillers to off himself that way. A belt might just have been the cheapest and most convenient way to go, really.”
Ricki scanned up and down the street. Apart from the police cruisers and her own Toyota, the only other car on the road was a green Volkswagen Golf, a new model at that and quite an unexpected sight in these impoverished areas of Savannah. Riley’s theory held water. It was logical and seemed like the obvious one, but Occam’s Razor was not infallible in and of itself.
“OK, here’s what we’re going to do. You stick around here, steer clear of that jerk Dobbs and ask around with the neighbors, get some background on these people. See if the cops will let anything else slip, got it?” Ricki opened the door to her Toyota.
“Hey, where are you going? What am I going to do about getting a ride back?”
Riley didn’t seem thrilled at the prospect of hanging around this area all day.
“I’m going to see Mrs. Frome, see if she really has lost this necklace. If she has, and it’s not some kind of scam, then that will give us some kind of lead.”
Ricki started her car.
“A lead to what?” Riley had to shout over the thrum of Ricki’s engine. Ricki had to respond in kind.
“If the jewel is gone, and Cavanaugh is dead, and Cavanaugh had the jewel, I think it’s pretty likely that someone murdered him for it!”
Ricki reversed up the street, leaving Riley, the crime scene, the green Volkswagen, the police and the still living Mr. Cavanaugh behind. She had to see the prejudiced old Mrs. Frome alone, and it was not a meeting that she anticipated would go in the slightest bit smoothly. It just hadn’t been one of those weeks.
Chapter Eight
Riley
Riley watched her sister speed away over near molten roads.
Could she be right? She looked over to where Terry was now standing, twenty meters beyond the yellow taped police cordon. Surely she should tell him right away what Ricki had come up with. No, Ricki was their leader. She knew what she was doing, and if she had reall
y thought that Joseph Cavanaugh had been murdered, then surely she would have been the first to flag it up to the authorities. In any case, it was just a hunch. Most likely there was no connection at all between the missing diamond and this strange death. Riley decided that until Ricki came up with something concrete, it would be best to leave the cops out of it.
Cavanaugh Junior was opening the door of the green Volkswagen. He saw Riley looking at him and he gave her a grim smile and smoothed his thinning hair back into place. He had clearly ruffled it in his grief and upon seeing his own reflection took measures to return the stray strands to a suitable position. Some of the wisps disobeyed. Cavanaugh frowned at them, and then realized Riley was still looking at him, and gave another wan, unconvincing smile that held no warmth. Riley saw the tension in his drawn jowls; clearly the grief of his father’s death was sitting ill with him.
Cavanaugh had the bearing of a man who had lost too much weight too quickly and not through a good diet and hours at the gym. His eyes moved languidly, too slowly. The genial, overly polite man that Riley and Roberta had encountered the week before seemed buried within his pallid flesh, where the cheerful smile once offered her lemonade now was drawn a razor thin line. Misery? Or something else? He drove away, taking the same left turn that Ricki had made not two minutes previously, toward the main roads that led across town.
“I guess the cops are done with him, too,” Riley said to no one in particular.
She frowned at the disappearing Volkswagen. Something was strange about that man, like he didn’t fit with Savannah, that either he was somehow not a citizen here, or that the town was not a part of him. That was not strange in and of itself; there were plenty of oddballs, dunks, soothsayers, weirdoes, hookers and heroes in Georgia. It was probably cognitive bias, Riley told herself. The word murder had been thrown into the ether by her sister, and now it buzzed in Riley’s mind like a hornet, driving her thoughts to suspicion. Damn it, it wasn’t like she didn’t have enough on her plate, just by being here, she was wasting time and money by not hunting down cars. Why did she always end up doing as Ricki said, anyway? Ricki was right; she wasn’t as good at leading as their father had been, and to Riley’s mind she never would be. Riley kicked an empty can listlessly, sending it skittering into the gutter.
