The students drifted away. Preston thanked Hilary and followed. He’d already promised to do some research on the Coburgs—”gossip column archaeology” he’d termed it. Mark and Jenny hadn’t told him about the artifact forgeries. Anyone who knew about them was not necessarily in danger, Mark rationalized, but the knowledge simply wasn’t relevant to Preston’s work…. Right.
Hilary turned to Mark with what she obviously intended to be a smile. But her face was drawn too tight; he could almost see the sunlight shining through her, as though she were an image on a stained glass window. Even the waves of her hair seemed tightly clenched. For one dizzying moment he wanted nothing more than to carry her off to his apartment, lay her across his bed, and make love to her until the world and its terrors dissolved away.
He cleared his throat. “Hello, sweetness.”
“Everybody has a nickname for me,” she retorted.
“Hello, Hilary.”
“Sorry,” she said.
“Everyone’s gone,” Jenny called, leaping from the trench. “You can tell me about your tests now.”
“The artifacts don’t weigh the same,” Hilary reported. “Small discrepancies, but important, I think. I wrote it all down.”
“And the ivory bits?”
“They’re old walrus ivory, all right. I don’t know whether to be glad the Cross really is here somewhere or upset that rats have gotten to it.”
Jenny jerked as though slapped across the face, but her expression didn’t change. “I found the end of that old drain beneath the veranda. The crawl space is still the tangle of rats’ nests and cobwebs it was when I searched it two weeks ago. No Cross, not even any more ivory chips. Did you bring the figure out safely?”
“No. Vasarian came to look at it. I didn’t dare take it. Not unless we had a fake of our own, and I wouldn’t begin to know where to get one.”
“Maybe he’s planning to get one from Taiwan or wherever the others were made,” said Mark. “You sure he didn’t have a camera behind his lapel or something?”
Hilary rolled her eyes at him. “God only knows.”
“Did he look at the rest of the artifacts?” Jenny asked.
“Yes, he did. He acted as though they were perfectly genuine.”
“Bastard!” Jenny kicked at a dirt clod.
Hilary’s lips tightened over her teeth, making her look like a snarling kitten. “I made some general statement about fakes to Bradshaw, trying to get him to go look at the artifacts, but he basically told me to mind my own business. And then I saw Sharon and Travis fighting in the parking lot. Not just arguing—physically fighting. Merde de vache!”
Mark had to smile; she’d learned years ago, she’d told him, to swear in French so her mother wouldn’t be shocked.
Jenny emitted a dry laugh. “Yes, I’d say we were hip-deep in merde.”
A TV station van cruised slowly by; Mark hummed a few bars of the Jaws theme. The carpenter hurried across the veranda and down the steps to his truck. It spun out of the driveway like a sled pursued by wolves and vanished up York Boulevard. A cloud drifted across the sun, and the leaves of the oaks exchanged secrets with the breeze.
Mark glanced at his watch. “Yeager said we could meet them at a truck stop out on the Jacksboro Highway—some kind of stake-out, I gather.”
“Kind of them to make time for you,” Jenny said.
“Yeah.” Mark ushered Hilary to his van and headed toward the interstate. Soon the gleaming shopping malls on the west side of town gave way to down-at-the heels mobile home parks and adult video stores. Mark turned into the parking lot of a low building. Its windows were all but obscured by posters advertising tractor pulls, wrestling matches, and rodeos. “Jackelope Cafe” proclaimed a sign picturing a rabbit with antlers.
“A jackelope?” Hilary asked.
“Local Loch Ness monster, sort of. Like a cattywampus.”
“Yes, dear.”
Behind the cafe was a motel apparently made of cardboard shoeboxes. Several cars and a truck loaded with oil field equipment sat on the gravel-pocked blacktop. Mark parked his van between two pickups. “I hope you’re not expecting a salad bar.”
Hilary shook her head. “Don’t worry.”
They stepped into the dim interior of the restaurant and stood blinking. The latest Reba McEntire hit wafted from a speaker. A charred grill was a study in grease stratigraphy. Advertisements for various brands of beer were posted next to cereal promotions. Several male customers leaned over their bellies to reach the counter, gimme caps pushed back on their heads. They looked curiously around, registered first Hilary, then Mark at her side, and turned back to their chicken-fried steaks.
The odd couple of detectives sat in a booth in a corner, where two windows afforded a view of the motel. Zapata moved to Yeager’s side of the table, carefully draping her pin-striped jacket over the back of the seat. Mark wondered what she was concealing beneath it.
He and Hilary slipped into the booth. A waitress with teased hair and a mouth full of gum lounged toward them. They ordered soft drinks and barbecue sandwiches. She lounged away.
Zapata rammed a straw into her glass of shaved ice and tea. “What’s up?”
Hilary pulled out a printout and spread it on the table. In a few terse words she explained about the artifacts. Her forefinger, every bit as ramrod straight as Jenny’s, emphasized the incriminating numbers.
The detectives stared. “Do you realize what you’re saying?” Yeager exclaimed. “You might have uncovered the motive for the murder!”
“One of the motives,” Zapata pointed out. “The business with the artifacts doesn’t explain everything. Especially not Felicia’s murder, not that we’re likely to solve that after all this time. You’re sure you weighed the artifacts right to begin with?”
“Yes,” Hilary replied rather stiffly.
“Who else have you told about—ah—your suspicions?”
“Mark. Jenny. I tried to hint to Dr. Bradshaw, but he didn’t react.”
Zapata’s narrow glance at Mark expressed reservations about sharing important information with suspects. Come off it, he said mutely, and glared back at her. Shrugging, she turned to look out at the motel.
The waitress plunked bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches down in front of the detectives and bulbous glasses of Coke and Dr. Pepper before Hilary and Mark. Yeager took a sizable bite of his sandwich. Zapata inspected hers first, removing a shred of brown lettuce. “You haven’t consulted with Mr. Vasarian?”
“When he looked at the artifacts this morning he didn’t express so much as one doubt about them.”
“You think he made the switch?” asked Yeager around his sandwich.
Zapata answered, “He said he was in the museum Friday night to pick up a copy of your catalogue, that Nathan had left one for him.”
“There was one on Nathan’s desk Wednesday,” Hilary confirmed.
“A catalogue of the genuine artifacts,” added Mark. He took a drink of Dr. Pepper. He’d never seen any of the artifacts, genuine or otherwise. Except the Jesus figurine, and that was just a glimpse. Neither had Jenny, that he knew of. But when it came to her work, Hilary exuded self-confidence. He’d never doubted her suspicions for a moment.
An air-conditioning vent oozed a dank draft. Reba gave way to a voice that could have been George Strait’s—country music wasn’t Mark’s strong point. The waitress brought two more sandwiches, chopped mystery meat in a viscous brown sauce on hamburger buns, ringed by potato chips and pickles. Hilary forked up a bite and made a face.
Yeager finished his sandwich and swiveled to scan the parking lot and the facade of the motel. Zapata gnawed off a bite of mayonnaise-sodden toast and chewed, delicately, as though even her teeth were alert. “How could Vasarian get away with such a scam?”
“Once he and the Lloyd certified the artifacts as genuine,” Hilary explained, “no one in Regensfeld would ever question the replacements. They’re beautifully made, works of art in themselves. The
re was a case in Holland back in the forties where a man forged eight Vermeers and fabricated a history for them. Despite the difference between his style and that of the real painter, museums and collectors paid exorbitant amounts for his work without doing one scientific test. Even when he confessed to the forgery, some experts still claimed the paintings were genuine.”
“Vasarian mentioned Van Meegeren the other day,” Mark said, “which may have been more challenge than coincidence. The first time we met him he was talking about the intrinsic value of the artifacts.”
Yeager looked back into the room. “We did check him out, by the way. He’s who he says he is, a consultant for most of the major European art collections.”
“I could’ve told you that,” said Hilary.
“Can’t you just see Vasarian,” Zapata said, “aiming a dueling pistol right between your eyes and then pulling his shot, just to humiliate you?”
“He reminds me of my grandfather, the one we used to call ‘the Prussian’. Smoother, though.” Yeager drained his glass of tea.
An electronic burp came from beneath Zapata’s jacket—aha, Mark thought, a walkie-talkie. She glanced toward the motel. A maid trundled a cart of linens dejectedly down the sidewalk.
The barbecue sandwich was congealing in Mark’s stomach, making him feel as though he’d swallowed a soccer ball. Hilary had abandoned hers and was munching the stale potato chips.
“What about the real artifacts?” Zapata asked.
“Vasarian could sell them to a private collector,” Hilary answered. “Or he could keep them himself. I’d expect the Coburgs to keep them and the ransom money and gloat all the way to the bank.”
“The Coburgs?” Yeager repeated. “Aren’t they Vasarian’s victims? He already admitted not telling Dolores what he knew about the Cross.”
Hilary wriggled uneasily. Mark snaked his arm along the back of the seat behind her and said, “Yeah, well—who are we going to believe? The Coburgs kept the artifacts more or less illegally for years. Nathan was killed in their house. They could well be working with Vasarian.”
Zapata’s eyes glinted bright and dark, polished onyx turned beneath a light. Her lips curved in a speculative smile. Putting away a pride of social lions would make a detective’s reputation, Mark told himself.
Yeager still looked shocked. Hilary compounded her heresy by detailing Sharon’s and Travis’s fight in the Lloyd parking lot.
“Kenneth said she has quite a temper.” Zapata nodded. “And it was her hair on Nathan’s shirt. Although that’s easily explained.”
“Got a hair sample from her beauty parlor,” added Yeager.
“I wouldn’t believe anything Kenneth says,” Mark stated. “I bet they all have good tempers. Sharon and Travis use bludgeons, Kenneth and Dolores stilettos.”
“Would any of them use a bowie knife?” Zapata managed to drain her tea without dumping the solidified lump of ice onto her blouse.
“A bowie knife,” Hilary said doubtfully.
“An Arkansas toothpick,” explained Mark. “Kind of a pregnant chef’s knife. Over a foot long, including the handle—not something I’d like to meet in a dark parlor. That was the murder weapon, then?”
“The medical examiner thinks it’s likely,” said Zapata.
“Is that something Vasarian would have?” Mark went on. “Sounds more like Travis. Like I was saying yesterday,” he added to Hilary.
Zapata’s eyebrows did a slow wave of skepticism. But she couldn’t stop anyone from thinking about the case.
Hilary scooted closer to Mark, linking personal spaces. The angle of Yeager’s mouth commented on Mark’s and Hilary’s more-than-friends positioning. Mark ignored him. The sun shimmered off the blacktop parking lot. The maid trudged back again and disappeared around the corner.
Hilary gave up on the potato chips and pushed her plate away. “Jenny thinks the Eleanor Cross is somewhere on the Osborne property. The cat dragged in a rat last night with bits of walrus ivory in its fur. That’s what the Christ figure is made of.”
Zapata winced. “The figure hasn’t been substituted, I take it?”
Mark and Hilary shared a quick, surreptitious glance. “Not yet,” Hilary replied. “I thought about sneaking it out and bringing it to you for safekeeping, but I was afraid someone would miss it.”
“Sneak it out?” Yeager queried indignantly.
“No problem,” said Zapata, not quite quelling a laugh. “I’ll have our lab request it for more tests. Who’s the security guard that’s studying for the police exam—Leslie Underwood? She can bring it down to headquarters.”
“Thanks,” Hilary told her.
So much for his moment of larceny, Mark told himself.
“Anything else?” Zapata folded the printout, slipped it into her purse, and craned her neck to look over at the motel. That was probably a dismissal, but Hilary didn’t give up easily.
“Yes,” she said with another sideways glance at Mark. “There are ghosts at Osborne House. Not that that necessarily has anything to do with the murders or the artifact scam, but you yourself said it was hard to tell what was evidence and what wasn’t.”
As one Yeager and Zapata turned back to the room, he rolling his eyes, she tilting her head. “I’ve been hearing ghost stories about the place for years,” she said, “but never put much faith in them.”
“Jenny’s living there, and she’s seen and felt—well, something.” Mark shifted uncomfortably. “She’s not the type to imagine anything.”
“I’m not saying she’s imagining anything,” Zapata replied, “I simply doubt if what she’s seeing are supernatural apparitions. More likely some human being’s playing games with her. Or with the Coburgs, since the stories go back so far.” She said to Yeager. “Remind me to ask Mrs. Hernandez about this.” Then, turning back to Mark and Hilary, she added, “We have been working on this case, believe it or not.”
Mark replied, “We’re not trying to step on your lines.”
“You do realize you’re in danger,” Yeager said to Hilary. “If the murderer finds out you discovered the forgeries….”
Hilary said bravely, “I know.”
Kicking Yeager beneath the table was hardly appropriate. Mark rested his fingertips on Hilary’s shoulder. Her body hummed like a high-voltage wire.
“The art forgery story is a good one,” Zapata told them, “but technically it isn’t in my jurisdiction. I don’t want the fraud squad to go scaring off any murder suspects, though, so I won’t pass it onto them just yet. I’ve already told Vasarian not to leave town.” She leaned across the table, her voice low, her expression stern. “Y’all don’t start playing TV detective—leave this case to the professionals. If Nathan had come to us with the art fraud to begin with, he might not be dead now.”
“You don’t know that,” Mark told her.
She didn’t bother to slip her iron hand back into its velvet glove. “Don’t split hairs with me. We’ve got a very frustrated psychopath out there. The profiles indicate he won’t hesitate to kill again. Don’t tempt him. Or her, as the case may be.”
Her jacket crackled with electronic voices. Zapata and Yeager spun toward the window. A door in the facade of the motel opened, and a disheveled man stood on the sidewalk looking warily right and left.
“Excuse us.” Zapata leaped up, putting on her jacket and giving Mark a fleeting glimpse of the hardware concealed inside it.
“This is going to wrap up a case,” Yeager explained. He threw some bills down beside the cash register and followed Zapata out the door. Every face along the counter swung toward the back windows. Mark felt as though he and Hilary were caught in a crossfire. He pulled her out of the booth and reached for his wallet.
The parking lot erupted with people, most of them wearing jackets labeled “Police” in garish yellow letters. Zapata and Yeager sped across the blacktop. The suspect dived back inside. Shouts echoed, and something splintered and broke behind the building.
First one, the
n several more sharp reports sounded from the motel room. The official jackets dived for cover. Yeager picked up Zapata like a toy and went to ground behind the oil field equipment. She elbowed him impatiently away and peered around the corner, gun in hand.
An officer appeared in the doorway, shaking his head and waving a rifle. Slowly the other police converged on the now silent room. The denizens of the truck stop shrugged and turned back to their lunches.
Mark and Hilary piled into his van and drove quickly away. After ten minutes or so of oppressive silence, Hilary said under her breath, “‘Love, let us be true to one another’.” Mark was trying to decide whether she was making some snide remark about his moment with Jenny when she went on, “‘For we are here as on a darkling plain, swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night.’ Or by afternoon, I suppose.”
Oh. “Dover Beach,” with apologies for her edited version. Funny, when other women quoted poetry at him, it seemed either goofy or pretentious, but when Hilary did it, she was so wistfully charming he wanted to hug her. “Would you like me to stay with you at night? I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No, Mark, I don’t need to be scared any more than I already am.”
“I’m not trying to scare you….” Ah, hell, he thought. He drove with one hand, enfolding her hand with the other. She hung onto him and at the same time looked out the window, presenting him with the back of her head and the angle of her shoulder. She wanted to forgive him, he guessed, but hadn’t quite worked up to it. Calling him “love” had been simple rhetoric.
He delivered her to Osborne House and her car, and watched her drive away. Jenny, Preston, and the pet students were producing ceramic shards from the garage trench. Mark inspected the scattered pieces baked onto the cement floor of the building. Not pottery, he decided. Porcelain.
“Only the Coburgs would keep porcelain in their garage,” said Jenny, holding one scrap a couple of feet from her face and squinting. “I reckon this is part of a Meissen figurine.”
Garden of Thorns Page 26
