by Jenn Bennett
“Another servant bites the dust,” she said to Number Four. “Good riddance, you say? Why, Number Four, that’s not very nice. Then again, neither was Mrs. Durer, and she did call you demonic. We’ll contact the agency tomorrow and find someone less evangelical.”
He purred in agreement.
She wasn’t sad to see the woman go, exactly. But as she stared out the window past the city lights, she couldn’t help but think of Lowe and his boisterous family. From the train’s window, she’d watched the warm greeting they gave him, all hugs and smiles and laughter.
No one had bothered to welcome her home. Her father probably hadn’t even remembered she’d left town. A shame that the only person who knew her comings and goings was the elevator operator.
No, she wasn’t sad that another maid had quit. But she was sad that the old woman’s quick departure left Hadley alone in the middle of a busy city. And she was sad that it made her feel so needy. Not for the first time, she wished that she could come home and count on someone being there. A warm body. Another voice.
Another soul.
She thought of last night, and how she’d spent much of it listening to the even rhythm of Lowe’s breath as he slept peacefully on the berth across from her. How comforting it was to fall asleep to that sound.
She clung to the memory of that feeling while she curled up in an empty room, in an empty apartment, with nothing but herself and a cat for company.
FOUR
AFTER SLEEPING IN TENTS and dirty hotels for the better part of the year, Lowe found his beloved feather bed on the second floor of the Magnussons’ sprawling Queen Anne to be everything he’d remembered: luxurious, comforting, and safe. Moreover, his en suite bathroom was blessedly clean, the polished floors of his room smelled like orange oil, and all of his things were just as he’d left them. But after catching up with his family and staff—and after their housekeeper, Greta, bemoaning the loss of his pinky finger, stuffed him with a homecoming feast of Swedish gravlax and dilled potatoes—he woke up the next morning feeling restless.
Maybe it was Winter’s warnings about Monk Morales that did it. Or maybe it was the cursed djed amulet burning a proverbial hole in his soul. He needed to get that thing to a safe place, and fast. But before he could, he supposed he’d better let Archibald Bacall have a look. Maybe the man would like the damned thing so much, he’d triple his offer. Or quadruple it.
And perhaps while visiting Dr. Bacall, Lowe might see Hadley again. After the way she’d left him at the train station, it might be in his best interest to avoid the woman. Why he was still thinking about her, he didn’t understand.
The train company delivered his luggage early that morning. He looted it for gifts he’d brought back from Egypt before dressing in a freshly pressed suit and tie—possibly the cleanest clothes he’d worn in months. But old habits die hard, so he tucked his pants into knee-high brown leather boots and skipped the suspenders, opting for a belt. More comfortable, and it gave him something on which to anchor his curved dagger. He’d never admit it to Winter, but after the thugs with the guns in Salt Lake City, he wasn’t exactly champing at the bit to march around the city unprotected. So he checked that his short coat covered the weapon and headed out.
“Oh, Lulu baby,” he cooed to the poppy red Indian motorcycle gleaming in the late morning sunlight. God, he’d missed her. Conspicuous, yes, but also small and nimble; she could fit into places a big car couldn’t.
He adjusted the fuel petcock and chock, and with one good kick-start, the engine rumbled to life. Beautiful. After tugging down the brim of his favorite brown herringbone flatcap, he maneuvered around Winter’s limo and sped out of the gate. Sweet freedom! Everything disappeared but Lulu’s weight beneath him and the road ahead.
The ride reacquainted him with the city’s steep hills and the sweeping views of the sparkling Bay, an oasis after the prison sentence he’d served digging under Egypt’s blistering sun. He was home, and he wasn’t going to leave. Ever. He repeated this promise to familiar buildings as he passed until he’d crisscrossed his way through downtown.
No one seemed to be dogging his path, so he stopped at his favorite barbershop to rid himself of the itchy whiskers and have his mop of sun-bleached blond curls trimmed and pomaded back into manageable waves. Astrid would stop complaining now.
Feeling lighter, he zigzagged up through southwestern Pacific Heights past the old Laurel Hill Cemetery grounds to Golden Gate Park. The de Young Museum sat on green lawns and a palm-lined concourse. Throngs of people soaked up sunshine in front of the building’s Spanish Plateresque facade. He zipped around the side road to the administrative offices.
Austere wood paneling and a pretty strawberry-haired receptionist greeted him.
“Why, hello,” she said, flashing a dazzling smile as she chewed a piece of gum. “How may I help you, sir?”
“Mr. Magnusson to see Dr. Bacall.” He handed her a business card and waited while she excused herself to announce his arrival. A few minutes later, she returned to lead him down a narrow hall past several closed doors to one of the bigger offices in the back.
Book-heavy shelves and numbered boxes lined the walls of the musty room, and paperwork collected on a corner conference table. Dust motes hung suspended in a slice of sunlight framing a thin, elderly man slumped behind a desk. More than elderly—on death’s door. The man looked as if he were minutes away from drying up and blowing out the window.
“Dr. Bacall . . .” the redhead prompted.
“Lowe Magnusson?” the man answered. His head turned in Lowe’s direction, but his eyes didn’t see him. They were eerily blank. Albino white—no iris and barely a trace of pupil.
He was blind.
Good lord. What the hell had happened to Archibald Bacall?
Lowe cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, sir. It’s good to meet you.”
“Come in, come in. I have trouble moving around these days, so you’ll have to forgive me.” He lifted his head and spoke to the receptionist. “Miss Tilly, can you show him a chair, then close the door, please? This is a private meeting. No interruptions.”
As the door snicked shut behind him, Lowe removed his cap and studied the old man. Sagging, mottled skin. Frail bones. Balding. Liver spots. He’d seen fairly recent photographs of the man in archaeology publications—he’d had a head full of hair and didn’t look a day over fifty.
“It’s good to finally meet you after all our correspondence,” Bacall said in a half-British, half-American transatlantic accent. The one Hadley shared. If Lowe remembered correctly, Bacall was from some titled English family or another—he’d married the gold rush heiress after moving here from across the pond.
“You, as well.”
Could the man see him at all? Anything? Lowe waved his hand in the air. Bacall stared vacantly toward the back of the room.
“Quite a nest you stumbled upon outside the Philae temple,” the old man said. “Hard to believe it’s attracted so many scholars and tourists over the last couple of decades and no one noticed the sunken entrance.”
Lowe peeled off his driving gloves and stuffed them in his coat pockets. “Just happened to decipher a code on the temple walls that led me to the secret room. Stroke of luck, really.”
“I don’t believe in luck. I think you’re damn good at solving puzzles and finding things. Good scholars are a dime a dozen. In fact, we’ve got a dozen of them in these offices this afternoon. They can argue a theory and uncover new things sitting behind their desks, but they won’t get their hands dirty. An educated treasure hunter like you with sharp field skills and the brains to decode riddles? You’re a different breed altogether. An undervalued one.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Society snobs like Bacall didn’t have respect for men like Lowe. Maybe the old man was trying to butter him up to get a better price, hard to tell. His daughter had been much easier
to read.
The telephone rang.
“I thought I told her no interruptions,” Bacall murmured. “Excuse me one moment.”
Lowe sat back and waited for the man to finish his call. A few seconds into it, a brief knock sounded from an inner door in the corner of the room, and the door swung open. A familiar willowy figure marched in lugging a stack of file folders up to her nose.
Dressed in a black pencil skirt and gray sweater, with a string of faceted black beads swinging down to her waist, Hadley looked more Casket Saleswoman than Wealthy Funeral Attendee today.
With a grunt, she lowered the files onto her father’s conference table and attempted to straighten the teetering stack. She stilled and lifted her chin as if she were scenting the air. Then both her head and the string of black beads swung in his direction.
He grinned. Hard to tell if she was surprised or disgusted by his presence, but whatever it was, her hand slipped on the stack of folders. Half the files slid sideways and toppled onto the floor, paper scattering like autumn leaves.
He jumped to his feet to help her. “Funny seeing you here,” he said in a low voice as he steadied the remaining folders threatening to fall. “Jumped any trains today?”
“Please don’t mention that in front of Father,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder to check that the man was still talking on the telephone.
“The jumping part, or the torn dress part, or the spending the night together part?”
“The part where we did anything other than meet briefly in the first-class dining car.”
“Oh, ho-ho! Someone lied to dear old Daddy, did she?”
She glared at him like she was seconds away from scratching out his eyeballs.
“You have my word,” he said, etching an invisible “X” over his heart.
“Which is worth less than a trapdoor on a lifeboat.”
“Ooaf!” He bent with her to scoop up paperwork. “I get the distinct impression you aren’t glad to see me again, Hadley.”
“You aren’t wrong, Lowe.”
Despite her dour attitude, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she was flirting with him. A strange little spark warmed his chest. “And to think, just yesterday morning I was waking up to the sight of your bed-mussed hair.”
“Keep your voice down!” she said, glancing back at her father once more.
“If you lied to your old man, what did you tell your boyfriend?” No ring, and she hadn’t mentioned anyone last night, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming about anything more than mummy dust. Maybe she kept time with some fancy-pants society doctor.
The barest of flushes colored her cheeks, but she didn’t look up from her task. “Are you here to make my life miserable?”
“I’m here to empty your father’s bank account. Making you miserable is a bonus.”
“I do believe that’s the first honest thing you’ve ever told me.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“The only thing in my head right now is that cock,” she said, nodding toward the wall.
Lowe paused. “Pardon?”
“I’m in a hurry.”
Another pause. Lowe looked where she’d gestured. “You mean . . . the clock?”
“That’s what I said.” But it wasn’t, and her gaze flicked to his crotch—so fast he almost wasn’t sure he saw it until a furious strawberry blush spilled over her cheeks and neck. “Th-that’s what I meant,” she stuttered, then whispered to herself, “Oh, God.”
Well, well, well. When was the last time he’d heard that from a woman’s mouth? Had he ever? Hadley Bacall, overflowing with desire for . . . clock.
He didn’t think she could redden any more, which made him feel a little pity for her. Best to let it go, as much as he hated to. So he gathered paperwork while she gathered her wits.
“Here, this one’s intact.” The fingers of his disfigured hand brushed hers as he passed a folder. She snatched her hand back like he was carrying the Black Death.
The sting of the rejection took him by surprise. He’d become accustomed to people staring, but did his injury disgust her, too?
She cleared her throat and gestured to his hand. “Believe me, it’s not that—not at all,” she said in a low voice and looked into his eyes with startling sincerity. “Please . . .”
Her candid acknowledgment made him feel exposed, and for some bizarre reason, this also thrilled him. Why? It was as if the moment stretched between them and built a bridge. A rickety bridge, unsafe to cross, but he attempted anyway, irrational excitement urging him to lean closer. “‘Please’ what?” he whispered, his breath fluttering a glossy strand of raven hair near her ear. “What do you want, Hadley?”
“What I want,” she said in a controlled voice, “is for you to please shut up and sit down.”
Well.
Can’t cross a bridge when someone’s shoving you off the side. He left her on the floor with the files and plopped back down in his chair, unsure why he even cared. Bacall was still on the telephone.
While one of his knees bounced out an anxious rhythm, Lowe attempted to divert his attention elsewhere. Lots of books on the shelves, but the titles were drier than the Sahara. He watched a bird alight on a branch outside the window . . . noted a frayed section of telephone cord. But a hushed whisper—one, two, three—brought his attention back to the conference table, where Hadley was counting under her breath while bending to pick up the folders.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
There it was, only a few feet away. How could he have forgotten? When she bent down, it tilted up to greet him. When she stood, it hiked up the hem of her pencil skirt by an inch or two.
If a salacious portrait of Hadley were painted on a carnival sideshow banner, it would read Come See the Woman with the Roundest, Most Voluptuous Ass in the World! Carnies would be able to charge whatever they wanted for a peek inside a dark tent, and Lowe would cash every penny he’d ever earned for five minutes alone with her in that tent.
Bend down. Pick up file. Stand up. Set file down.
All for his amusement, right there in front of him! Like watching a restaurant waiter flambé cherries jubilee at your table. Only, instead of making his mouth water, it was making his pants uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat and darted a glance at her father. Please God, let the man be totally and utterly blind.
Bend down. Stand up.
Oh, what he would give to angle her over that conference table, yank up that skirt, and find out if she was wearing more colorful lingerie today. Instead of peacock feathers, he imagined flaming cherries. And he imagined kneeling behind her and sinking his teeth into one of those oh-so-round cheeks.
Sweat beaded at his hairline. This was wrong, nursing an erection right in front of the woman’s father. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He moved his cap further up his lap to cover himself and focused on book titles again. Dry, boring, academic titles about ancient pottery glazes and fourteenth-century crop rotation. Oh, look—her father’s phone conversation was over.
Thank God.
“My apologies for the interruption,” Dr. Bacall said as he groped the candlestick base of the telephone, seeking the hook for the earpiece by feel. “Is that you, Hadley?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Everything okay?”
“I dropped some of the exhibit files, sorry.”
“No reason to be upset.” Her father said this in an odd manner, as if he were scolding her.
“It wasn’t . . . it was—never mind. I’m fine.”
“Good, good. That’s my good girl,” he said, speaking to her like she was a spooked horse.
Lowe glanced between the two Bacalls, feeling as if he were missing something.
“I have work to do,” she said suddenly, and hurried out the way she came in.
“Nice seeing you again,
Miss Bacall,” Lowe called out. “A pleasure to watch you work. Hope you don’t find yourself watching the clock for the remainder of the day.” Because, really, he should be awarded a medal for his earlier restraint.
A momentary look of horror crossed her face but she didn’t blush or comment. Instead, she addressed her father. “He has the djed amulet base with him.”
“Thank you, dear, I know. And no more interruptions, please.”
Lowe tried to catch her gaze, but she exited with a dramatic slam of the door.
“You already know she can feel power coming from the amulet?” Bacall said when the brisk click-click of her heels faded. “Did she tell you that when you met her in Salt Lake City?”
“Yes,” Lowe answered cautiously. “Would you like to . . .” See the amulet? That didn’t sound right, considering the man’s condition.
“No, no, no. If she’s vouched for it, I trust her.”
“And you still want to buy it?”
“Absolutely. Do you have the paperwork?”
“It’s coming from Egypt,” Lowe lied easily. “Should be ready in a month. I haven’t cashed your check yet, but—”
“Cash it. I have had an agreement drawn up that you can sign. And if you can store the amulet safely for now, that’s even better for me. But you must keep it somewhere safe and well guarded. There are people who will kill to get their hands on it. So I’d advise you not to keep it in your own home. You’ll only invite a robbery. Safety-deposit box is no good, either. It needs to be well hidden.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Yes, I suppose your family knows a thing or two about hiding goods, what with your brother’s line of work.”
“I suppose we do.”
“You were happy with the deposit amount?”
“I’ve had better offers.” Rather, he would have better ones, if he played his cards right.
