The Pearl Dagger

by L. A. Chandlar

  Lane’s eyes sparkled as she watched her friends meet. Her zeal for life never ceased to amaze Finn. She extracted joy and pleasure as much as humanly possible. She wasn’t an extravagant beauty, not like those formal models who looked like ice ran in their veins even though the external beauty might be staggering. But Lane was alive. And that kind of beauty lasts, making you want to just be around it, lingering and enjoying it.

  Orson was clearly excited and said to Lane, “I just think . . . I think this will be the greatest success of my life, Lane. I mean, opening night traffic was stopped for five blocks, you couldn’t even get near Harlem. Everybody who was anybody was there and there were so many curtain calls at the end, we finally left the curtain open! Just let the audience come up onstage to congratulate the actors. And that was . . . that was magical.”

  Orson leaned closer to Lane, looking at Finn with a secretive look, and said, “Did you keep it secret? Or did you tell him?”

  Lane gave a wolfish smile, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, he knows it’s Macbeth. But that’s all.”

  That’s all?

  Orson rubbed his hands together, enjoying the anticipation. “Ooh, this will be fun. Are you all ready? Let’s go!”

  Lane grasped Finn’s hand and came in close. She whispered in his ear, “Are you ready, Finn?” God, she was sexy. Yes. He was ready. She kissed his neck and he felt desire heat through.

  “Let’s go, love.”

  They walked in and took their seats. He enjoyed the preshow static in the air, feeling the anticipation running through the theater. The sound of the instruments being tuned, the low rumble of conversations, the scent of a mixture of perfumes from the patrons dressing up for the night. He knew the basic story of the play. The man Macbeth wrestling with wanting power, murdering the king to get it, and the backlash of guilt. But it was so much more than that.

  When the curtain opened, Finn’s breath whooshed out of him. Macbeth was supposed to take place in Scotland. But when the red velvet swept back, it revealed a massive, dark jungle with heavy greenery, the suggestion of skeletons, and a captivating yet eerie drumbeat. It instantly drew him in and made his heart pump faster. The entire theater sat forward just a little bit more. This was Voodoo Macbeth.

  The first all-black theater cast in the country was perfection. The cool blue lighting shined on the actors’ bodies, creating a moonlit glow that gave them an ethereal quality. There was a primal nature to the iambic pentameter of the words. And Shakespeare. God, his words. After a few minutes of listening to this older English, it became like watching a film with subtitles where after a while, the words at the bottom blended with the action on the screen and it was as if the words melted into your consciousness instead of actually being aware of reading them. He felt the very essence of the passion, the poetry, and the struggle.

  The lilting and beautiful words spoke to Finn’s soul. Welles had created a whole world with the music, the artistry of the set, and the talent of the actors who knew this was more than just a play. They were making history. The intensity, beauty, and danger made the words come alive. The evil and avarice became a living thing in the theater. The guilt heavier than anything he’d known. The fear of the inability to control something that began with a single, horrific decision was claustrophobic. The blood on their hands . . . it was magnificent.

  And it was personal. The plight between friends and comrades, family struggling for power, murderous decisions that backlashed with potent consequences. So much of it mirrored how he felt about his family and their own murderous desires. And it filled him with dread.

  Finn was struck anew with fear at the second witch’s line: “Cool it with a baboon’s blood, then the charm is firm and good.”

  The charm. There was a legend that the play Macbeth was cursed. Actors were often superstitious to even utter the word Macbeth at the playhouse. They called it the Scottish Play instead. He had to admit, there were more injuries and deaths in the play than any other he’d heard about. Maybe that’s what worried him most. Maybe . . . he was charmed. His family certainly seemed cursed.

  * * *

  Finn grasped the cold deck railing even firmer. He had to tell Lane. He hadn’t told her the whole story about his brother. He could have, the night they spent hours on deck, gazing at the stars, finishing off a bottle of champagne. Why was he holding back? It hadn’t been his fault, so why not share it with her? But then it occurred to him, he did know why. Finn’s brother Sean had caused enough misery. He would be damned if he’d let it affect Lane, too. But he also felt guilt. It was something he’d wrestled with since he left England. That play sent a prickle of fear down to the very core of him.

  “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” He felt it. Something was indeed coming. It was coming for him.

  CHAPTER 14

  For a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

  —the second witch, Macbeth

  The final day, as we neared the shores of Southampton, I sensed a coolness in Finn. He was distracted and looked like he was steeling himself against something. I found him at the railing that afternoon, looking out toward his old life, his old memories.

  “Finn, are you okay?” I asked, slipping my arm around his waist, under his suitcoat, his arm automatically coming around me and pulling me in.

  “Yeah. Just looking ahead.” He paused as we both looked at the gray sky, the dark green water rolling beneath us. I had to admit, it wasn’t too inviting. A nice bit of sunshine would have been quite welcome. “I think . . . I think that I need to tell you the whole story. About Sean.”

  “You sure you’re ready?” I asked.

  He took a contemplative breath. “I feel like we don’t know all that we could be facing when we arrive. I can’t help but feel the old ghosts. Like we were safe in the States, but not here. And . . . I want you to know. It’s not that I’ve been hiding anything from you, I just . . .” He shook his head in indecision.

  “Oh, I know all about needing the right timing to figure out old secrets and old ghosts, Finn. You tell me when you’re ready. And perhaps when I have a whiskey sour in my hand.”

  He chuckled softly. “That’s not a bad idea at all. Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  We headed in and found a spot at a cozy bar; we only had an hour before we’d dock and disembark. But between bantering with the bartender and running into a charming little old couple we’d met earlier, we never went over his story. I didn’t push; Finn had to tell it when it was the right time. But part of me feared that he would wait too long.

  Hours later, we were all set in our quaint train, ready to head to London. We enjoyed a cup of tea and some buttery crumpets. I could’ve eaten about ten.

  “Well, that was quite the adventure, love!” said Finn as he set his tea down.

  “The Queen Mary was gorgeous, I could hardly believe it,” I said, dabbing my lips with my napkin.

  Both of us felt the heavy weight of fatigue settle onto us. So we leaned back, getting comfortable, and I rested my head upon his shoulder for a little nap.

  After a train ride of just under two hours, we arrived in London. I tried not to look like a tourist, certain I was failing miserably, because my eyes were drinking in every little detail.

  “What are those red fire-hydrant-looking things?” I asked.

  “Pillar boxes.”

  “What’s a pillar box?”

  “It’s a postal box.”

  “Mailbox?” I clarified.

  “Yes.”

  “But . . . it’s red. Don’t the dogs . . .” I sputtered.

  “They seem to leave them alone. But if an American dog came by, it’d be a problem.”

  “I like the red phone booths!”

  “Phone boxes.”

  “Okay. Londoners love their boxes. Let’s go to the restaurant box. I’m starving.”

  We headed to the pub where Finn first met his London informant and former spy, Miles Havalaar
. I had a soft spot for the guy as we worked closely with him on our last case. He had known my parents and was instrumental in getting us information about Rex Ruby’s heir and revealing the true identity of Tucker Henslowe, a friend who turned out to be anything but.

  As we walked, I got a better feel for London, how it was different from New York and Detroit. It was quirky and colorful with odd bits of superstition and ghosts scattered over the city. Mixed in with patriotic monuments to war heroes of old and strange little stores smashed between two bigger buildings with crooked chimneys poking out. It was like a bohemian quilt full of textures, colors, and stories, then coated with a frosting of elegance from famous hotels like Claridges, stores like Selfridges and Harrods, and of course museums aplenty.

  We walked into a quintessential London pub complete with sprinkles of hay on the floor, tall pub tables, dark booths, the scent of Guinness in the air, and low, murmuring conversations all against the backdrop of a fireplace glowing with warmth and the feeling of camaraderie.

  “I love this place,” I said with passion.

  “I knew you would.”

  I spotted Miles at the corner pub table near the fireplace. I noticed it was the perfect situation to keep an eye on all the patrons, yet near a back door for a quick exit. He saw us and raised his already half-empty glass, beckoning us over with a lopsided grin.

  “Miles! So good to see you!” I exclaimed as I gave him a big hug, making him turn bright red and bashful.

  Finn slapped him on the back and waved to the bartender for two more pints of Guinness. Miles was not one for small talk, so we quickly filled him in on the last couple of weeks and talked about our mission here.

  Finn began, “So, Miles. There are some questions arising about just what Lane’s parents—Matthew and Charlotte Lorian—were involved in as they worked undercover infiltrating the Red Scroll Network. And now that we know who the heir is to Rex’s legacy we need to see if the new leader will be starting things up again over here. Police Commissioner Valentine sent us here, in the hope that we can shed light on the possibilities of future gang activity as well as finding out more about the Lorians for Lane’s sake.”

  Miles cast a beady eye on me, digesting this information. My parents and I had always had the last name of Sanders, until I found out recently that our original last name was Lorian. They changed our names to be thorough in hiding out in Rochester, Michigan, when they were trying to extricate themselves from their intelligence work. It had felt strange knowing that I’d been born with a completely and utterly foreign last name. But Sanders was a part of me now. I’d always be Lane Sanders.

  Miles hadn’t said more than a few words since we arrived, and we let him simmer as we watched his mind work. He looked good. Finn had told me that when he’d first located Miles, he’d been running scared and paranoid for years, running from Rex and the network. But Finn had given him a chance to turn things around and work against that crime syndicate. There was power against fear when you had a mission.

  I turned to Miles and said, “So, any suggestions on where we should start?”

  “So you discovered the heir, ay?” said Miles with a glint in his eye. “Well, well, well. Let me give it a guess.”

  Finn ordered us all fish ’n’ chips as Miles gave it some deep thought. “Yeah. Yeah,” Miles said, ruminating. “I get it. I think Commissioner Valentine was right to send you here. Whoever is the heir has been working all along. It’s not someone new, that’s for sure, which means they’ve built up power over all this time.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Rex would’ve hand-picked someone. He was too controlling to allow it to chance. For certain, yeah. I’m sure Rex would’ve rather had his own son, Rutherford, be the one to carry on the business. Rex loved the idea of family. But his son wasn’t cut out for it, so I thought for sure it was that Donagan fella. He fit what I would think Rex would choose. Yet . . .” His accent grew more and more Cockney as he thought more deeply, his fingers drumming on the table.

  Finn prompted him, “Yet . . . ?”

  “Yeah. Let me think a moment. Actually, I can see Rex having someone not so visible, not so predictable, let’s say, in the wings waiting. Rex was patient. That’s what made him so deadly. He played chess when everyone else was playing checkers. My guess is that it’s someone invisible. Someone who might not look the lead, but will be that much more lethal.”

  The waitress quickly set the delightfully homey meal before us in baskets lined with newspaper.

  “Hmm,” I said, taking a swig of my creamy Guinness. “You’re absolutely right. It’s been someone on the sidelines, someone whom we never considered being even involved in the game, let alone future leader.”

  Miles squinted in thought. “Yeah, that sounds like Rex’s perfect candidate. Who was it? One of his two grandchildren? Tucker or Eliza?”

  I shook my head as Finn answered him. “No. Try their mother. It was Daphne.”

  “Good Lord,” gasped Miles. “God damn, she’s perfect,” he said in admiration. “So the insanity? Was it just an act?”

  I answered, “That’s debatable. Let’s just say it didn’t get in her way. It may have even helped her get farther. We found out that her room at the lunatic asylum was really just a front. Talk about a perfect hiding place. She’s definitely the one who killed Donagan. We have an eyewitness.”

  “That’s just bloody unbelievable,” said Miles.

  “We heard that she booked a passage to London recently, so it clinched the idea that we should get over here,” said Finn. “Can you get the word out to your people? See if anyone’s seen her?”

  “Yeah, but you might have to be patient,” said Miles.

  “What do you mean?” I asked rather sharply, making Miles jump. I wasn’t known for my patience.

  Miles eyed me carefully, righting the glass he’d knocked askew. “Like I said, Rex and his whole crew were imperturbable, willing to wait. If things got too hot, they’d cool everything way down. Let people think they’d disappeared or gotten tired or whatever. I’m just saying that they might be working on a new deal, or they might be waiting for us to relax. Let the trail go cold. I’d say he trained Daphne well. If she was able to hide out in an insane asylum, she’s got the patience of Job, as my mum would say.”

  By the disgruntled look on his face, Finn didn’t like that idea one bit, either. I’d gotten it into my head that we could finish this. Soon.

  “Well,” I declared, “what we can do is dig around here and find out two things. One, if the Network is still kicking. And two, we can try to find out more about my parents and, for my own sake, close the door on what they’d been involved in.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that, love?” asked Finn, also eyeing me carefully, his British accent more pronounced here in London than the Irish brogue that crept out at times. “You might find out things you don’t want to know.”

  I thought about it for a moment, my middle finger circling the top of my glass. “Actually, I don’t feel a deep need to know for the sake of curiosity, but so that I know what I’m walking into. What’s that saying? If there’s a spider in the room, I want to know where it is?”

  “I think it’s a wasp,” said Finn with a chuckle. I was famous among my friends for not getting song lyrics correct and now I could add aphorisms.

  “Well, either way, I want to know if there’s anything creepy and poisonous in the dark,” I said.

  There had been too many times lately where I felt that I was being hunted. I was in the crosshairs because of my job and my proximity to the mayor. But I was also involved because of my parents. I’d love to clear up one side of the issue if at all possible.

  “Well . . .” said Miles, setting down his napkin, marking the end of his meal. “I have an idea, a John fellow . . . I think he should tell us a bit of his story. He knew your folks, Lane. He worked on a small bit of a case with them. He’s out of the city, but maybe he can help.”

  �
��Okay! Let’s set something up with this John. We can take a drive tomorrow,” I said, taking one last chip.

  Just then the door to the pub opened. It had been opening and closing the entire time we’d been meeting, but something was different. A colder wind came in and something made the hairs on my neck stand on end.

  My back was to the door and just as I was about to turn, Finn uttered, “Oh no.”

  I quickly turned around and two women entered with the cold breeze. They looked like they might go over to the bar, but something made both of them as one turn their heads in our direction.

  They delightedly yelled and flapped their arms, waving and making a big fuss. “Finn!” I had a sinking feeling that this wasn’t going to go well. I heard him groan the tiniest bit. Miles chuckled.

  They ran over to Finn and he inched toward me for protection. The women were loud and still flapping a lot as I scrutinized them. They were funny little replicas of each other. They had varying shades of brown hair, but cut almost identically. Their dresses were shades of blue, and they each took off their little kid gloves at the same time. It was like one of those puzzles for kids where the pictures are almost identical and you have to study each picture to see where there were differences. One had bigger eyes and was slightly taller, and the other had a tiny space between her two front teeth. I think it was mainly their mannerisms that were striking. They must’ve spent a lot of time together to perfect such mimicry.

  “Hello, ladies. Agnes, Eunice.” Finn introduced Miles and me. They turned to Miles and they shook his hand. Then they turned to me and smiled. Neither of the smiles reached their eyes. They shook my hand, both of their hands feeling limp and lifeless.