by Laura Childs
In the powder room, Theodosia had to face her hair. Due to the wind, lingering rain, and industrial strength humidity, her so-called “do” had taken on a life of its own. What most women longed for—tremendous body and fullness—Theodosia had spent her life trying to tame. She brushed her auburn hair until it crackled and then pinned it up in a messy, but hopefully cute, chignon. Theodosia touched up her mascara, put a pouf of tinted moisturizer on each cheek and rubbed it in, and added a nice lip gloss in a pinky-watermelon shade.
Okay, ready to go. Time to hit the road.
Humming to herself, thinking about how the FBI would probably take charge of the search for Brooklyn Vance—Tidwell had called it a barely controlled snake hunt—Theodosia grabbed Earl Grey’s leash, a handful of his “good dog” treats, and headed out the back door.
She found Earl Grey with his entire head stuck in the lower branches of a palmetto tree.
“What are you looking at?” Theodosia asked him. She hoped he hadn’t sniffed out a bird’s nest. Last year, a pair of starlings had built their nest in the low hanging branches of one of her boxwoods, and Earl Grey had practically worried them to death. She’d had an image of the poor momma bird sitting on her nest and pleading with her eggs to hatch so they could all pick up and fly to a safer home.
Earl Grey pulled his head out of the shrubbery and wagged his tail at Theodosia. He was in a good mood; she should be, too.
Okay, Theodosia told herself. Time for a serious attitude adjustment on her part. She was heading over to Pete Riley’s apartment where he’d promised to cook her a fabulous dinner. The brown butter sea scallops would probably be delicious, but whatever he came up with, even if he just opened a can of tuna, would be better than eating dinner without him. She’d missed Riley this past week. More than she thought she would.
Theodosia was also bursting with things to tell him. She knew she could keep the conversation rolling for hours just by bringing him up to speed on the drone killings, the historic flag, the suspects, Townsend getting shot, and the genuine possibility that Brooklyn Vance was the mastermind and killer.
Only one thing worried Theodosia. Once Pete Riley joined the hunt for Brooklyn Vance, would he want her to step aside?
Probably.
Would she?
That remained to be seen.
* * *
* * *
Theodosia bent down and clipped Earl Grey’s leash to his collar. Unfortunately, the rain had started up again. The warmth of the day had drained away and a cold drizzle was pattering down. Theodosia thought about ducking back inside to grab her rain hat, the one that made her look like Paddington Bear, and decided not to. The rain, along with the walk over to Riley’s place, would do her good. Help clear her head.
Together, she and Earl Grey picked their way across the wet patio and followed the cobblestone path around the side of the house. Tendrils of fog, a product of the rapidly cooling air meeting the warmth of the day, swirled at her feet, and a dark mist made it difficult to see more than ten feet ahead of her. Overhead, trees drip-dripped with rainwater and wind stirred the air. Theodosia could almost smell a hint of saltiness carried in by the surging Atlantic.
And there was something else, too.
Theodosia felt the tiny hairs prickle at the back of her neck. Something stirred deep down in the limbic part, the reptile portion, of her brain.
Someone there? Someone watching me?
There was a faint rustle from deep inside the hedge that ran along her path, and then a rapid-fire chi-chi-chi. Almost like a bird’s warning call.
Theodosia stopped dead in her tracks as a new sound, a high-pitched humming sound, filled her ears. Almost as if someone had turned a blender on high. As if the next-door neighbors were sitting on their back patio whipping up a pitcher of brandy alexanders.
In this rain? No, that noise sounds more like . . .
Theodosia took a step backward as a stiff breeze lifted her hair and a whirling, twirling drone missed cutting off the top of her head by a mere two inches. If she’d stayed where she was, if she hadn’t felt a buzz of anxiety, the drone would have nailed her for sure!
Jerking hard on Earl Grey’s leash, Theodosia pulled him tight against her hip. Then she ducked down, frightened, but fighting to keep her wits about her. Because keeping her wits meant . . . survival.
Like an enormous mechanized vulture, the drone circled back and swooped low over Theodosia’s and Earl Grey’s heads once again. Fighting to defend his turf, Earl Grey struggled against his leash. Growling, his muzzle pulled into an angry snarl, he stretched his head up to snap at the drone, to rip the object right out of the air!
“No!” Theodosia screamed.
She yanked his leash, pulling him back again. From a crouched position, she dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms tightly around Earl Grey’s head and chest, shielding him as best she could.
But the drone wasn’t about to quit. It came zipping at her again, bobbing and wobbling, as if the thing was taunting her.
“Stop it!” Theodosia screamed to her unseen adversary. But she pretty much suspected who it was.
It’s Brooklyn. It has to be Brooklyn. But where is she?
Theodosia’s eyes probed the pathway just ahead, as fog continued to spill in. Darkness was thick all around her. Trees and shrubs that flourished along the pathway, making it so hidden and charming, now served as a hiding spot for her attacker.
If she could just pull her phone out of her bag and call for help . . .
“You’re not such a good little amateur detective now, are you?” Brooklyn’s voice cackled from somewhere in the bushes. “Sweet little Theodosia, always getting in the way. Trying to pry into everyone’s life. Well not anymore!”
Theodosia strained her eyes, trying to see.
Where is she?
“I know it’s you, Brooklyn! Give it up! The police are looking for you,” Theodosia shouted out.
“You want me to give up and miss all this fun?” Brooklyn called back.
Between the darkness and the drizzle and the fog, Theodosia could barely see more than a few steps in front of her. She blinked rain from her eyes and wiped frantically, wondering if she should retreat or try to crawl forward. She had Earl Grey to think of. Reaching the street might give her a chance to cry out for help. Retreating to her backyard could mean she’d end up a sitting duck. What to do?
“Get down,” she whispered to Earl Grey. “Down, boy.” Earl Grey scrunched down obediently. “Stay.”
Without making a conscious decision, Theodosia began to crawl forward on her hands and knees, inching her way along the cobblestone path. Grit dug into the palms of her hands; the knees of her slacks were damp from soaking up standing water.
Theodosia had managed to crawl perhaps a foot and a half when her right knee slammed into something rock-hard. Her face scrunched in pain and she wobbled wildly, almost losing her balance and falling face-first. Instinctively, her hands flew out to steady herself . . . and knocked against something standing in her way.
What is that?
Theodosia’s fingers hastily explored. They touched wood that was splintered and worn.
This has to be . . .
It was the wooden ladder that Shep had left leaning against the side of her house. And next to it was some sort of rake. He’d cleaned some of the gutters, but obviously hadn’t finished the job.
God bless you, Shep.
Making a split-second decision, Theodosia sprang to her feet. She grabbed hold of the ladder and muscled it around, putting it directly in front of her and shielding her from the drone. Maybe in the darkness, Brooklyn wouldn’t see what she was doing.
Blips of adrenaline pulsed through Theodosia’s veins as she vowed to end this standoff once and for all.
This time, when the drone came spinning toward her, Theodosia gave the ladder a pow
erful shove. It teetered for a sickening moment and then fell forward. She held her breath and prayed the ladder would hit its mark.
It did.
The wooden ladder toppled against the drone, cutting off its flight path. The wildly spinning drone clunked hard against the heavy ladder like a mosquito hitting a screen door. The motor revved loudly, then was immediately driven to an ungodly high-pitched scream. The drone whirled and wobbled, batting at the ladder frantically. Then it spun wildly off course.
“Stop that! What are you doing?” Brooklyn screamed.
As the crazed drone flew into the nearby bushes, Theodosia shoved the ladder away from her. Then, grabbing the rake that had been leaning against the house, Theodosia twirled it like a soldier with a lance and ran forward, jabbing the tines directly at Brooklyn. With a lucky thrust, she managed to hit Brooklyn right above her collarbone.
“Ouf!”
Brooklyn let out a surprised gasp and toppled over backward. Her arms flailed wildly as her fingertips fought to find feeble purchase on nearby branches. Didn’t happen. Brooklyn landed flat on her back on the wet cobblestones. Her hands curled into claws as she fought to draw a shaky breath. When she finally gasped, it sounded like a death rattle.
Dear Lord, have I killed her?
But no. Brooklyn wasn’t done for yet. Like the tough-minded killer she was, she struggled to right herself, to get back on her feet.
That’s when Earl Grey took over and lunged full bore at Brooklyn. Powerful hind legs propelled him upward as he sailed gracefully through the air. When his front paws hit squarely on Brooklyn’s chest, his full weight took her down, like a linebacker swatting a broken field runner.
This time Brooklyn stayed down. But she found her voice and started to scream her head off.
“Get this miserable dog off me!” Brooklyn’s eyes burned black and hard like a pit viper. “Don’t let this hideous creature bite me!”
“Stay right where you are, Earl Grey,” Theodosia commanded. She grabbed the wooden ladder and muscled it toward Brooklyn. “Until I shove this ladder . . .” Theodosia heard a grunt and another shocked scream. “That’s it. Got her,” Theodosia said with satisfaction.
The downed drone was still whirling wildly in the bushes, like some weird automated salad spinner. It shredded leaves, dug up chunks of turf, sent bits of greenery flying through the air.
Theodosia didn’t mind. She calmly pulled out her phone and dialed 911.
34
A squad car with two officers showed up some three minutes later. Detective Tidwell arrived a minute behind them.
Tidwell slid out from behind his steering wheel, cut across the front yard, and picked his way carefully along the slick cobblestones. When he reached Theodosia, he stopped dead in his tracks. Brooklyn was sprawled beneath the wooden ladder, looking like a medieval torture victim who’d been pilloried in place. Theodosia was sitting on top of the ladder. Earl Grey was standing next to her munching one of his “good dog” treats.
The corners of Tidwell’s mouth twitched, then curled up ever so slightly. “Miss Browning, we have to stop meeting like this.”
“She came after me,” Theodosia said. Her voice was shaky and frayed around the edges. She looked drop-dead tired, edging into sheer exhaustion. “Brooklyn tried to kill me.” Theodosia fought to hold back a sob. “She tried to kill my dog.”
Brooklyn had been lying there, flipped out and grunting unintelligible sounds. When she heard Theodosia and Tidwell talking to each other, her caterwauling started up again tenfold.
“Let me up!” Brooklyn shrieked in a scratchy voice that could probably wake the dead if not the entire neighborhood. “This crazy witch tried to kill me and now she’s holding me prisoner! She just about broke my back and then her dog bit me! For all I know the mangy mutt is rabid.”
Earl Grey glanced sideways at Theodosia, as if looking for some kind of permission. Theodosia shook her head. No.
Tidwell stepped closer and kicked the ladder hard, sending a violent shudder up and down its length. “You’re the one who’s rabid,” he said in a steely voice. “Do you know what the law does to someone who’s unable to control their impulses? When they murder three innocent people in cold blood? We lock them up.”
“Get me out of here!” Brooklyn screamed again. She gripped the treads of the ladder with dirt-rimmed fingernails and shook it hard. “My ribs are fractured and I’m in pain! I’m soaked to the bone and freezing to death!”
“What you need is a ride in a nice warm police car,” Theodosia said. “That should cheer you up.”
As she said it, another car pulled up to the curb in front of her house. A car door slammed, and footsteps ran toward them.
“I heard it over my police scanner!” Bill Glass shouted as he emerged from the fog. He was breathless and eager as he danced about. “You caught the killer?”
“Did you seriously doubt that we wouldn’t?” Tidwell asked.
“Holy bat guano!” Glass yelped as he caught sight of Brooklyn Vance trapped beneath the ladder. “That fancy pants PhD chick’s the killer?” He looked at Tidwell, who nodded his confirmation. Then Glass squinted at Theodosia. “You’re wearing lipstick,” he said. “Looks good.”
Theodosia gave a faint smile.
Bill Glass finally had the presence of mind to remember his camera. “Boy oh boy, this is some kind of crazy storybook ending,” he said as he fiddled with his camera and held it up. “I gotta get a few shots of this!”
“Nooo!” Brooklyn wailed from her makeshift prison beneath the ladder. “Don’t you dare!”
Glass glanced at Theodosia again. “That dog. He’s yours? Could you move him into the shot? Tell him to look real fierce?”
Theodosia glanced at Tidwell, who gave a “who cares” shrug.
“Why not,” Theodosia said. She led Earl Grey into frame until he was practically standing on top of Brooklyn.
“Get that filthy mutt away from me!” Brooklyn screamed as Bill Glass happily clicked away. “He’s drooling! I can feel his hot doggy breath!”
“Perfect,” Glass said. He gazed at Theodosia. “I might even have the perfect caption for my pictures.”
Theodosia lifted an eyebrow.
Glass grinned. “Ding dong, the witch is dead.”
“One more shot,” Tidwell told him. “And then get lost.”
“No problemo,” Glass said. His shutter whirred and clicked, and then, like the proverbial Shadow from the old radio show, he was gone.
Tidwell signaled to the two police officers who’d been standing there, both of them looking amused and curious. “You can haul her away now. Cuff her, check her for weapons and keys. Oh, and you might find time to read her her rights, too.”
The officers lifted Brooklyn up and frisked her professionally. One of the officers gathered up her wallet and the keys to her rental car and turned them over to Tidwell.
“Thank you,” Tidwell said.
“Who is she?” Theodosia asked. “Open her wallet and see what her ID says.”
Tidwell flipped open the wallet and picked through it. “Which ID?”
“Seriously?”
“There are three IDs in here,” Tidwell said. “Probably all phony.”
“Car keys,” Theodosia said. Tidwell handed over Brooklyn’s car keys and watched as Theodosia hurried out to the street and punched a button on the key fob.
The headlights for a silver Buick flashed on.
“We have to check her car,” Theodosia said. With one hand on the car door, about to pull it open, she paused. “Do we need a search warrant?”
Tidwell shook his head. “Under these circumstances, no.”
Tidwell waited on the curb while Theodosia searched through the car. Front seat, glove box, back seat, underneath the seats. She found nothing.
Then Theodosia popped open the tru
nk and found a shiny stainless steel briefcase wedged in between two suitcases and a black nylon duffel bag. The briefcase was the kind international couriers carried chained to their wrists. But maybe that was only in the movies.
“Is it locked?” Tidwell asked her.
Theodosia laid the briefcase flat and popped both tabs. They opened right away. “Not locked,” she said.
“Well?” Tidwell rocked back on his heels expectantly.
Theodosia opened the briefcase. And there, in all its red and white glory, was the stolen Navy Jack flag. The flag that had flown in countless battles and that thousands had died for. The flag that had inspired a nation.
And we can’t forget the three men who died because of it just last week, Theodosia told herself.
“So it’s there, is it?” Tidwell called to her.
Theodosia reached in and reverently held up the flag. But she kept it sheltered, under the trunk lid, so it wouldn’t get wet. “This is it.”
“That’s my flag!” Brooklyn screamed from the back seat of a black-and-white police car. She was hammering at the side windows, pounding on the metal grate. Theodosia imagined she could see spit flying from Brooklyn’s mouth. She figured that if Brooklyn strained any harder, she might give herself a stroke.
“Time to go see a man about a flag,” Tidwell said.
Theodosia was about to close the trunk when tires screeched and a plethora of lights flashed behind her. She turned and squinted, not sure what was going on. Two vehicles had just arrived—a van and a car. More police? The FBI?
Dale Dickerson of TV8 jumped out of the lead vehicle. “Hey, cutie,” he called to Theodosia. Then, arms open wide, he said, “Come here and give me some sugar, will you? And the inside scoop?”
Theodosia sprinted toward Dickerson, splashing through puddles, flying over wet grass. At the very last second, she streaked right past him, practically spinning him around in her slipstream. Not giving him the slightest of glances.
