Roger left a turkey dinner in the fridge for the old man—some sliced turkey, mashed potatoes, and a mound of peas and carrots alongside a pumpkin pie—trusting that he’d find it and feed himself. He took the Prius out to his parents’ home, basking in the warmth of family in a way he hadn’t for a very, very long time.
He helped clear the table and do the dishes with his mother while his father and sister retreated to the living room to fall asleep over a football game.
“You seem happy,” his mother said, rinsing a plate and propping it in the drainer. “You found somebody?”
Roger chuckled and shook his head, running the dish towel around a water glass before placing it in the cupboard. “No, Mom. I like the job.”
She grinned at him. “You seem to be adapting. Why is that?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Roger said, although he knew that was a lie as soon as he said it.
“You’ve always been an adrenaline junkie. Army, then EMT. You never seemed happy unless you were out there on the edge.” She rinsed and stacked another plate. “Scared me almost to death more than once.”
Roger sighed and worked through the plates, drying them and putting them up into the cupboard. “Maybe I just got tired of it,” he said.
“That’s a big jump,” she said. “War zone to pantry.” She glanced at him. “You don’t find it too tame?”
“Too boring, you mean?” he asked.
She chuckled. “I suppose I do.”
“There’s always something to learn,” he said. “I’m trying to help the old guy with his physical and mental conditioning. Which means I need to learn about things that could help.”
“Is he really out of it?” she asked.
“No, Mom. He’s mostly there most of the time. He has spells where he’s pretty confused but they’ve been few and far between.”
She sighed and nodded. “But he’s getting worse,” she said.
“It’s hard to tell,” Roger said. “I don’t know how much of it is him getting worse or me getting more attuned to it.”
“You think he’s going to go to the assisted living facility?” she asked.
“Maybe one day,” he said. “I don’t know if you can reverse that kind of thing.”
“Well, they’re doing a lot of research. Maybe they’ll come up with some kind of magic bullet for it.”
Roger fought the urge to laugh. “That’s what I’m hoping, but anything I can do to help him slow down the memory loss—well, just seems like something I should do.”
His mother finished the last of the dishes and wrung her dishcloth out before swabbing down the counter. “There’s only so much you can do, Roger.”
“I know, Mom. I know.” He wiped the last dish and placed it in the correct cupboard. “But I feel better knowing I’m doing what I can.”
She nodded and gave him a one-armed hug. “You’re a good man, Rog. You make me proud.” She looked up at him, her eyes suspiciously shiny.
He gave her a hug back. “Now, don’t go getting all sappy on me.”
“When do you have to get back?” she asked.
Roger glanced at the clock over the sink. “I don’t have to be back at any given hour, but I hate thinking of him in that big house by himself.”
“You still get days off, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Every Saturday.”
“Come to dinner?”
Roger shrugged. “Not this week but next? Sure.”
“What are you doing this week?”
“Looking into gym memberships,” he said. “I can’t run outside through the winter.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I could but I’d prefer not. It’s dark in the morning to begin with and I don’t really need to risk slipping and falling.”
She nodded. “I can see that. Can you get away for that amount of time?”
Roger sighed. “I’ve been running for half an hour in the morning before he gets up, but you’re right. I’ll need to think about that.”
She nodded again and gave him another hug. “Well, you go if you need to. It’s just lovely having you home again. I’ve seen more of you in the last few months than the previous few years.” She grinned at him. “Can’t help it if I like it.”
He hugged her back. “Thanks, Mom.”
Roger circulated through the living room, giving everybody hugs and saying his good-byes. He drove away with a warm sense of fulfillment in his core but the uneasy feeling that he needed to be back at Shackleford House. He couldn’t shake the feeling and didn’t breathe easy until he’d parked the Prius and got back inside. He took his time putting on his uniform but checked in with Shackleford as soon as he was appropriately dressed.
He knocked on the library door and entered, finding Shackleford slumped over in his chair. Alarm bells went off in Roger’s head and he crouched beside the old man’s chair just as he snored loud enough to wake himself.
Roger stood while Shackleford blinked himself awake and straightened in his seat. “Good afternoon, sir.”
Shackleford looked up and nodded. “Perkins. Good, you’re back. I’m feeling a bit peckish. A cup of tea and some of those shortbread cookies?”
“Of course, sir. Anything else?”
“That’ll do for now, Perkins.” Shackleford picked up the book that lay open on his lap: the brown one again.
Roger bit his lip and nodded. “Very good, sir. I’ll be just a moment.”
“Thank you, Perkins.”
Roger organized the tea and found the turkey dinner still wrapped in film in the fridge. He slipped it into the microwave and nuked it for a couple of minutes while he added a small plate of shortbread cookies to the tray. He pondered the significance of the brown leather-bound book. Whenever Shackleford went walkabout in his head, he picked up the brown book. Was it because the demon in the necklace made him take it? Or was it because something in his head recognized that the brown would be more useful even when his focus seemed to go elsewhere?
The tea timer and microwave dinged at about the same time, and he finished assembling the tray.
When he returned to the library, he placed the tray on the table in its usual spot. “Luncheon is served, sir. I thought you might enjoy a bit of turkey dinner today. It is Thanksgiving, after all.”
Shackleford perked up and smiled. “Thank you, Perkins. That was thoughtful. It’s Thanksgiving?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shouldn’t you be with your family today?”
“Thank you, sir. I spent the morning with my family. We had a lovely meal together. I’ve just returned.”
“Did you?” he asked. He shook his head and lifted the book. “I’ve been absorbed in this and didn’t notice.”
“I’ve noticed you reading that volume many times, sir. Is it interesting?” Roger held the chair in invitation for Shackleford, hoping to get him to the food before it got cold.
The old man took the hint and placed a ribbon in the book before placing it on the table beside his chair. “Fascinating, Perkins. Simply fascinating. It’s an examination of certain myths—specifically creation myths—from the Mesoamerican people. Olmec forward, as it were. Simply fascinating.” He crossed to his meal and took his seat. “So much we’ve lost, Perkins. So much.”
“I see, sir.” Roger spotted the green book on a chair across the room. “What about that one, sir? With the green cover.”
Shackleford looked up from his meal, a bite of turkey on his fork. “Interesting enough work on cursed artifacts. Fascinating in its own way, but lacking in scope, depth.” He shook his head and ate the turkey.
“Thank you, sir. Quite enlightening.”
“Feel free to borrow them if you wish, Perkins. Anything in the library, for that matter. You know that.”
“Yes, sir. I appreciate the offer, sir.” He gave a small nod and left the library, closing the door behind him. He felt no clearer about why one book over the other seemed to gravitate to the old man’s hands, but at lea
st he seemed to have a reliable indicator of Shackleford’s mental state. He had no idea about what to do with that knowledge, but it was a step.
Now if he could only figure out a way to get the necklace off the old man without killing him.
Chapter 14
The front doorbell drew Roger out of the laundry to find Amos Featherstone on the stoop. “Good morning, Mr. Featherstone. Please come in.”
He nodded and stepped inside. “Is Mr. Shackleford available?”
“I’ll check, sir. If you’d care to wait in the parlor?”
Featherstone made his way in and sat on the front edge of one of the easy chairs. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. His frown made Roger step a little more quickly than normal.
At the library door, he knocked twice and opened the door.
Shackleford looked up from the brown covered book. “Yes, Mulligan?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. Mr. Featherstone would like to speak with you. He’s in the parlor.”
“Show him up, please, Mulligan. And some coffee might be in order.”
“Of course, sir.”
Roger returned to the parlor and collected the detective. “Mr. Shackleford will see you, sir.”
Featherstone nodded and followed him, a half step behind and to one side. “How’s he doing?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Shackleford’s health, sir.”
Featherstone snorted. “Like I don’t know about that chunk of metal on his chest, but I appreciate the discretion, Mulligan.”
Roger stopped at the library door and gave him a nod. “Thank you for your understanding, sir.” He tapped the door and opened it, ushering him in. “Mr. Featherstone, sir.”
“Amos, good to see you.” Shackleford rose and crossed to meet Amos, grasping his hand in a firm shake. “Come in. Would you like a coffee? Tea?”
Featherstone nodded. “Coffee would be appreciated. Thank you.”
Shackleford raised an eyebrow at Roger.
“Of course, sir,” Roger said.
He missed the opening statements but returned shortly with coffee and a collection of finger pastries, placing the tray on the low table between the two men. Featherstone leaned forward, elbows on his knees, while Shackleford sat back, hands on the arms of the chair. Both men wore frowns and neither of them spoke as Roger entered.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
Shackleford raised a hand. “Stay for a moment, if you would, Mulligan. I’d like your opinion.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Tell him, Amos.”
“It’s this Griffin woman,” Featherstone said. “I know he’s got his heart set on finding a relative to leave this place to.” He nodded at Shackleford. “But this woman has a reputation of being something of a charlatan.”
Roger nodded. “I’m not surprised, given that website, sir. Is there a problem?”
Both men blinked up at him. “Care to explain that, Mulligan?” Shackleford asked.
“Well, sir, there are two ways to hide. One is to stay out of sight. Keep a low profile and lock the secret away behind doors. That’s been your approach, I believe, sir.”
Shackleford nodded and glanced at Featherstone, who shrugged in return.
“The other way is to hide in plain sight. Make the secret unbelievable and put it on display. If she has some mechanism for generating revenue through her less mundane skills, she’d need a way to account for that money without attracting the attention of the authorities, wouldn’t she?”
Shackleford frowned but Featherstone’s face went blank.
“What’s her financial status, Amos?”
Featherstone bit his lip. “Comfortable. I couldn’t get into her tax records but she doesn’t appear to be hurting or living above her means. Has a leased walk-up in the trendier part of town. Pays her bills on time. Clean credit record with a score above 800.”
“Marital status?” Shackleford asked.
“Divorced. Was married for a couple of years in her early twenties. No kids. Parents both alive, but her grandparents are all gone. Only sibling—a brother—died in a car accident when she was in her late teens. Drunk driver crossed the median.”
Shackleford winced and looked at Roger. “So you’re saying she’s using this spiritualist thing as a front?”
“That would be my guess, sir. If she’s getting cash somehow, having a business where the clientele pays in cash makes it easy for her to claim a few extra clients each day to account for the income.”
“You’re talking about money laundering,” Featherstone said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is she dealing drugs, Amos?” Shackleford asked.
Featherstone frowned. “I didn’t see any indication of it, but then, if she’s any good, I probably wouldn’t see it, would I? What makes you ask?”
“I’m trying to think of ways she might use her skills to generate revenues.”
“What? Alchemy? Turning grass into grass?” Featherstone asked, a grin playing on his lips.
“Aspirin into acid?” Shackleford tossed back.
Featherstone frowned. “You think this is possible.”
“I do,” Shackleford said. “Having a business where people walk in and out all day?” He looked at Roger. “Mulligan?”
Roger nodded. “Yes, sir. It would make a good cover.”
“You know a lot about money laundering?” Featherstone asked.
“Afghanistan, sir. Millions of dollars floating through an underworld that lived on black market drugs and weapons.”
Featherstone nodded and sighed before looking at Shackleford. “How do you want to proceed, Joe?”
“I think it’s time for me to visit Ms. Griffin.”
“And do what?” Featherstone asked.
“I’m thinking I make an appointment for a reading and see if I can get one of my own.”
Featherstone grimaced. “Is that wise?”
Shackleford shook his head. “Probably not. If she’s got any amount of talent, she’ll see through me immediately.”
“Then what?” Featherstone asked.
“Well, at least we’ll know.”
“So will she,” Featherstone said.
“Yes,” Shackleford said and smiled. “And that might be a good thing.”
Featherstone took a hefty belt of coffee and grimaced. “What are you thinking?”
“What is it? About three hours to get down there by car?” the old man asked.
“About that. Depends on rush hour.”
Shackleford nodded. “Mulligan, book us a room for a couple of days. Something nice but not ostentatious.” He looked at Featherstone. “We’ll drive down, spend the night, get an appointment to see her, and take it from there. Any objections?”
“You’re laying your cards on the table,” Featherstone said. “Are you being a bit premature?”
Shackleford shrugged. “I’m too old, Amos. I’m right on the edge of ‘too late’ and don’t want to take that chance.”
“You’re the boss. Anything you want me to do in the meantime?”
“Look up the ex,” Shackleford said. “See if he has any leverage on her.”
Featherstone nodded. “You’re thinking you need to protect her from him if she comes into any amount of—say—inheritance?”
“Precisely.”
Featherstone nodded. “I’ll look into the parents, too. Never know.”
“Probably wise,” Shackleford said.
“When would you like to go, sir?” Roger asked.
“No time like the present.” Shackleford looked at Featherstone. “How much time do you need?”
“I’ll head back down today. A couple of days should do it.” He took a sip of coffee and frowned. “Might want to book an appointment and then arrange the hotel around it.”
Shackleford’s eyebrows rose. “Is she that popular? I thought you said she was a charlatan.”
“I said she had the reputation. Fo
r all I know, that’s her talent and all the bad-mouthing is sour grapes.”
Shackleford snorted. “Fair enough.”
“You should still get an appointment. Sometime midweek next week, maybe,” Featherstone said. “That’ll give me time to sniff out the ex and take a look at the parents. Neither of them set off any alarm bells at first blush, but I wasn’t focused on either of them.”
“I’ll take care of that, sir,” Roger said.
“Thank you, Mulligan.”
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
Shackleford shook his head. “Can you stay and visit, Amos?”
Featherstone leaned back in his chair, cradling his cup in his hands. “I’ve got some time.”
“Carry on, Mulligan. I’ll ring you if we need something.”
Roger nodded and left them starting what sounded like a long-standing discussion about geopolitics.
* * *
Roger used his laptop and a throwaway spam address to book an appointment with Madam Dionysia for the following week. The number of booked time-slots surprised him a little, but midday, midweek offered the widest choices. He scrolled through the schedule, noting that the weekends were booked out for a couple of weeks. He wondered if that was because she didn’t work weekends or if the most people had time off then. The form only accepted times from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m., in any case. It only asked for a name, phone number, and a question for Madam Dionysia. He pressed the submit button and was mildly surprised that she didn’t ask for a credit card number.
A few minutes later his cell phone buzzed to let him know he had an incoming text. He opened it to read “Your appointment has been confirmed.”
She seemed to know her business in the networked age.
He switched over to a hotel booking site and arranged for a two-night stay in one of their midrange suites. The price made him second guess Shackleford’s instructions, but discovered that the cost of two separate rooms, even allowing for one economy and one high-end, wasn’t that much different from the suite. His middle-class roots died hard, apparently. Shackleford called the price of the Mercedes “petty cash.” Given the location of the house and the taxes he paid on it, Roger could accept that stance intellectually, but the numbers still made him swallow hard every time he thought about them. Saving money by scrimping on two nights in a hotel, even a hotel that charged four hundred a night, wouldn’t make that much difference in the rarefied economic atmosphere that Shackleford House enjoyed.
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