Bridget didn’t even try to pretend Della’s story was plausible. She burst into laughter, doubling over. “Are you kidding? You think Marlee’s interested in that creep? Are you out of your mind?”
Della’s face, red from the cold night and the alcohol she’d already consumed, turned scarlet as she turned her rage from Marlee to Bridget. “Who do you two think you are? Neither one of you are any big prize. You’re not married, and you don’t have boyfriends.”
“So what? That’s hardly the measure of success,” Marlee interjected. “I assure you I have no romantic feelings toward Conrad, and even if I did, I wouldn’t act on them because I know he’s your man.” She hoped the display of respect for Della’s relationship would be enough to calm her down so they could have a rational conversation. It was doubtful since Della was many things, but rational wasn’t one of them.
“Then why did you flatten the tire on my Suburban?” Della challenged.
Marlee took a quick breath. She knew Della hadn’t seen her do it, because she was walking her dog on a side street when Marlee used the nail to let the air out of a back tire. Of course, it didn’t take a detective to figure out that Marlee had something to do with the deflated tire.
“Right! Like Marlee would do something like that,” Bridget scoffed, moving back to the couch.
“Jeez, Della. Why would I give you a flat tire? That seems more like a juvenile prank somebody played on you. Or maybe you drove over a nail,” Marlee suggested, hoping her arguments were more convincing than she felt.
“It seems like a hell of a coincidence,” Della muttered, taking off her parka and stocking cap and throwing them toward a 19th century mahogany hall bench, complete with bolstered ends and tapered legs. “Guess it could be the little shithead across the street.” Her stocking cap landed on the bench, but the puffy parka landed on the floor.
The McCabe cousins both vigorously nodded in support of Della’s new theory. “I saw a kid walking down the street when I left your place,” Marlee said, feeling marginally guilty for throwing the neighborhood kid under the bus to save herself.
Conrad Thayer entered the room, no longer wearing his cowboy hat. “The dogs toppled an original Venetian console table and broke my Bahia De Caraquez figurine from South America. I’m sure I can have it glued back together.” He looked adoringly at Della, not upset in the least that her dogs would probably destroy most of his collections if left unattended.
With a loud wolf whistle, Della summoned the dogs to the sitting room where they both jumped up on the couch between Bridget and Della, settling in for a nap. “Good doggies,” Della crooned, running her hand through the fur of the smaller dog. She turned back toward Marlee. “Now, what are you two doing here?”
“I came over to find out more about the antique pipe and how Conrad made the connection to Ian O’Sullivan. Bridget just got back into town and stopped by my house. Kelsey told her I might be over here,” Marlee said, thinking quickly on her feet.
“Are you still convinced that emeralds were smuggled inside the pipe?” Della rolled her eyes as she shifted her weight on the couch to accommodate the larger dog.
“I don’t know,” Marlee said truthfully. Kelsey could have been lying, under the influence of painkillers, or mistaken. Conrad and Della could also be lying. There was no clear answer, but Marlee suspected Conrad was up to more than just avoiding import taxes on an antique pipe.
Conrad cleared his throat as he handed a double scotch to Della and poured one for himself. “I have all the money and possessions I could ever want. If there’s something, I desire I buy it. And I like to display my things. If I had emeralds, I’d be showing them off to everyone. For the record, I could buy enough emeralds to fill up that cheap little SUV you drive,” he nodded toward Marlee. “But I’m not interested in emeralds unless they’re encrusted in antique jewelry or a royal crown.”
“What other things have you obtained through Ian O’Sullivan?” Marlee was beating a dead horse with the emerald angle, so she tried for a new approach.
“Follow me,” Conrad said, walking toward the stairs. “I’ll show you some of the pieces Ian helped me procure.”
Bridget made a face, and Marlee winced as they got an in-your-face angle of Conrad walking up the stairs ahead of them in his assless pants and red briefs. “For the love of God, Conrad, put on some pants!” Bridget barked, averting her eyes.
“I think we all know you two are enjoying the show,” Della snapped, reaching out to give Marlee a shove as she walked behind the rest of the group.
She chose to ignore Della, even though her assaults had escalated from verbal to physical. Marlee made up her mind if Della touched her again, she would flatten the little troll, just like she’d done to Della’s tire.
Conrad led them to a room in the back, one Marlee had never seen on her previous tours of the eccentric collector’s house. He opened the door to a dark room, a stained-glass lamp barely illuminating the space with a low wattage bulb. “Come on in, ladies.”
An eerie feeling swept through Marlee, similar to being in a haunted house at Halloween. She shivered in spite of herself, looking for the masked man who would jump from behind the drapes to chase them through the house with a chain saw. Glancing at Bridget, she noticed her cousin’s pinched face and fidgeting hands.
“Okay if I flip the light on, Conrad?” Marlee asked moving toward the light switch inside the door.
“No!” Conrad and Della shouted at the same time.
What’s so important about them? I know where to get boxes of these old things back home.
Chapter 17
Marlee jumped back after the rebuke by Conrad and Della, now convinced something sinister was going to happen in the house. The walls were painted a deep burgundy, or maybe even black. It was hard to tell in the dimly lit room. Wooden bookcases lined the walls containing a multitude of aged books.
“These are some of my treasures.” Conrad made a sweeping gesture toward the bookcases, turning as he proudly brought attention to another of his collections. At first glance, this collection didn’t look like the other crap he amassed. Marlee found herself pulled toward one bookcase in particular, squinting to read the text on the lone, blue hardback book cover in the darkened room. Bridget crouched beside her.
“What is this?” she asked, intrigued by the aged look of the book.
“It’s a first edition of Ulysses, written by the famous Irish author, James Joyce.” Conrad puffed out his chest as he spoke, realizing that he had the attention and admiration of both Marlee and Bridget. Money and mansions didn’t impress them, but old books did. “It’s number eighty-two of only one hundred signed copies. I paid over $300,000 for it last year, and it will only increase in value.”
“This is incredible,” Bridget murmured, focusing on the well-worn book.
“And Ian helped you procure this book? All these books?” Marlee asked, realizing the whole room was filled with written treasures.
“Yes and no. He connected me to the people who made it happen. This room is the jewel in my crown,” Conrad crowed. “I keep the room dark but for this lamp. The books are specifically arranged in the bookcases and this room itself is held at 65-degree temperature and 40 percent humidity year-round. No one but me can handle the books, and when I do, I wear cotton gloves to protect the pages. I rarely bring anyone in here.”
“Except for me,” Della drawled in a voice much too loud for the austere scene. “You showed me on my first visit here. Right after we were in the playroom.”
“Oh, dear God,” Marlee said under her breath to Bridget. Please tell me that’s not some kind of kinky sex room, she thought, although she knew it probably was. “Now, I’ll never be able to get that vision out of my head.” She shook her head from side to side as if trying to rid herself of a bad dream.
“No kidding!” Bridget whispered. “These two are the sickest pair I’ve ever met. If he tries to get us in the playroom, we’re leaving.”
Marlee n
odded in agreement as she looked over her shoulder and saw Conrad and Della smiling at each other. Conrad stood with one leg up on a chair facing Della, who shimmied her shoulders at him. Bridget covered her mouth and made a gagging sound, looking away before the situation got any worse.
In an attempt to interrupt the upcoming sex show, Marlee asked, “Conrad, are these all actual first editions or replicas?” She motioned toward the glass-enclosed bookcase.
He emitted a mocking laugh, moving toward the McCabe cousins. “They are hardly replicas. I paid top dollar to obtain the original works of James Joyce and a number of other famous authors. If they were fakes, I wouldn’t need to protect and preserve them in this fashion.”
“Unless you wanted people to think they were the real deal. Maybe it’s a ploy to make people think these are the original books while you keep the real books in a safe. Or maybe you don’t own the originals at all,” Marlee said, knowing Conrad would have a strong reaction to her claims.
“And you say this because you follow the trends in rare books, antiques, and collectibles? You’ve studied art and appreciate it in various forms? Or are you just making noise?” The haughty Conrad was back in full bloom.
But he’d forgotten one thing. Bridget McCabe had a doctorate in Film Studies but had a vast amount of education and knowledge about art; visual, motion picture, and written. Marlee could barely distinguish a Picasso from a Peanuts cartoon, but Bridget knew art.
“I’ve loved art as long as I can remember, Conrad, and I will until I die. A fair amount of my professional life is centered on the study, teaching, and appreciation of art. So quit bullshitting and tell us the story behind these books.” Bridget turned to face Conrad, averting her eyes from his chaps and red underwear combo.
He shook his head, mouth wrenched into a sneer. “You’re both a couple of hicks. You don’t fool me! Neither of you know anything about art or forgeries.”
“Books are my world. My life up to this point has been all about reading and learning. And as you might recall, I have a Ph.D. in Criminology, so I know quite a bit about criminal offenses and why people are motivated to commit crimes. One of the things I’ve spent more time studying since I met you a couple years ago is the FBI’s art theft program. I know how lucrative it is for so-called collectors like yourself to buy prized works of written and visual art on the black market after they’ve been stolen from private owners or museums.” Marlee stood beside Bridget, facing Conrad head on.
“Well, aren’t you intelligent for a couple of bumpkins?” Conrad spat. “I’m a real collector and a legitimate one at that. There’s no need for me to buy stolen goods. I have more money than Oprah.”
“Then why pay to have Kelsey smuggle an antique pipe to you? Either it’s stolen or the emeralds inside were stolen. I can’t imagine a man of your means taking a risk just to avoid import tax,” Marlee countered.
“For the last fucking time, there are no emeralds. There never have been!” Conrad bellowed, setting his half-empty highball glass on a nondescript end table. “It’s time for you to go. Both of you. Della and I have a romantic evening planned, and we’re already behind schedule.”
Conrad and Della were the first ones out of the room. Bridget and Marlee took their time leaving, getting a last glance at the room. When Conrad circled back in to shoo them out, the cousins reluctantly picked up the pace.
Della and Conrad stood at the door, glaring at Marlee and Bridget as they walked toward their vehicles. They could be overheard talking, but Marlee couldn’t make out their words. What could be heard without any problem was Della’s loud cackle and the slamming of the door.
“Did you let the air out of Della’s tires?” Bridget asked.
“Just one tire,” Marlee said.
“I thought so.”
Marlee grinned as she looked at her cousin. “I also spit in the drink Conrad has in his hand right now.”
Marlee pulled into her garage, and Bridget parked behind her. They walked along the snowy sidewalk to Marlee’s back door and were greeted by Kelsey, standing in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of red wine.
“It’s just to steady my nerves,” Kelsey said, taking a gulp as Marlee and Bridget left their coats and snow boots in the entryway.
“We talked about the drinking age and how you’re two years shy of it,” Marlee chastised, knowing she probably wasn’t going to do much about Kelsey’s drinking. It would be easier if she tried to hide it, and then they could both pretend it wasn’t happening. The pill use was another matter entirely. Marlee hoped she could ship Kelsey back to Dublin soon so someone else could handle the wayward Irish girl and her drug habit.
Kelsey nodded. “I just got to worrying and couldn’t stop. Everything is coming down on me all at once, and I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t know what to do either, but drinking isn’t going to help anything,” Marlee said as she opened the fridge and grabbed two Bud Lights for herself and Bridget. She motioned Bridget and Kelsey to the dining room table where Pippa was firmly planted taking a snooze.
“I haven’t left the house since our trip to campus this morning, and I was going batty. What if Ian tracks me here and tries to kill me? What if Mr. Thayer wants me to smuggle more antiques and jewels from Ireland?” Kelsey ran the stem of the wine glass back and forth between her palms as she sat perched on the edge of the dining room chair.
Bridget leaned on the table, across from Kelsey. “Marlee told me about the pain killers. When’s the last time you used?”
Marlee held her breath waiting for Kelsey to answer, and the reply was a long time in coming. “Yesterday. My connection here in town dried up, and I can’t find anyone else. I suspect your cop friend had something to do with me not being able to get anything from my source.” She frowned as she looked in Marlee’s direction.
“Look, we all want to help. You’re in over your head with the pills. It doesn’t sound like your use is just recreational, even though that’s how it started. I want you to get clean. We all do, and we’re here to support you. I’m going to do everything I can to get you set up in a rehab facility when you get back to Dublin.” Marlee put her hand on top of Kelsey’s in an uncharacteristic show of physical connection.
Kelsey looked at Marlee with a mixture of disgust and surprise. “I’ve told you over and over that I can’t go back to Dublin. Ian will make my life hell if I do.”
“So, you’re scared he might kill you here in Elmwood, but you also think he’ll wreck your life in Dublin?” Marlee asked. “If that’s the case, then it doesn’t make much difference where you are. Right?”
Kelsey either didn’t follow Marlee’s logic or was being intentionally obtuse. “I don’t know.”
Bridget took the reins, thinking she might be able to translate Marlee’s logic to Bridget’s teen view of the world. “What difference does it make if you’re here in Elmwood or back home in Dublin? You think Ian’s going to harm you either way?”
Marlee scoffed at Bridget, who had taken her statements and changed the wording. As if anyone couldn’t understand Marlee but would make sense of Bridget’s translation.
“That’s exactly right. I’m in danger either way, Bridget. The main difference is that if I stay in the U.S., then the focus won’t be on my family. If I was back in Dublin, I’d be living at the B&B again, and Ian would be coming round all the time to harass me,” Kelsey said.
“What’s to prevent him from going to your parents’ place anyway, whether you’re there or not?” Marlee asked, suspecting Kelsey was doing her damnedest to stay in the U.S.
“He’ll be here in America looking for me. Ian can’t very well be in two places, can he?” Kelsey shot back.
She seemed vindicated after Marlee and Bridget conceded that Ian could not be in Dublin and Elmwood at the same time. From there, her mood perked up. Or maybe it was the wine taking effect. “So, did you find the emeralds at Mr. Thayer’s place?”
“He swears there are no emeralds, and D
ella verifies his story, not that I believe either one of them.” Marlee grabbed two more beers from the fridge, twisted off the caps, and placed one in front of her cousin. “Are you one-hundred percent sure they were emeralds?”
“I think so,” Kelsey said. “I’ve never seen emeralds up close, just movies and on the Internet, but it looked like them.”
“Could they be anything else? Any other type of stones or valuable glass?” Bridget asked.
Kelsey shook her head from side to side. “Emeralds are the only thing that came to mind when I saw them. What else could they be?”
Marlee and Bridget both shrugged. “You said you took some pills before you went to Conrad’s house. Maybe you were hallucinating?” Marlee suggested, knowing Kelsey would deny it whether it was true or not.
“No, I’ve never hallucinated after using Oxy or any other drug,” Kelsey insisted.
“How do you know for sure?” Bridget asked, Kelsey turning a sharp look on her.
“What do you mean? Of course, I’d know for sure! I only use to relax. I’ve never thought dragons were in the room or ghosts were chasing me, so why would I hallucinate Mr. Thayer pouring emeralds out of the antique pipe?”
Marlee caught Bridget’s eye and saw they were on the same page. How can someone know for sure if they’re hallucinating? Marlee thought. She briefly used pain killers after a surgery and knew they had a mighty effect on her. And that’s when they were taken as prescribed. Marlee worked with enough addicts over the years to know that an individual isn’t always accurate in their assessment of a drug’s impact. The population she supervised as a probation officer tended to minimize the frequency, intensity, and duration of their drug and alcohol usage. Some of the minimization was intentional, but much was due to their lack of recall and clarity because of the drug usage itself. Most people, when drunk or high, were not the best historians of their behavior or substance use.
Leaving Kelsey’s question unanswered, Marlee moved to a different area of questioning. “So, you never really told me in detail how you know Ian O’Sullivan.”
Sinner or Saint Page 11
