A Study in Revenge (20 page)

“Obviously.”

Cyrus ignored his grandson’s sarcasm. “The girl had her charms, to be sure, but still. When his father discovered what was going on, he beat the tar out of the girl, drove her from the house. Put a pistol to Horace’s head. Said he’d kill him if he ever saw the girl again.”

“Did he? See her again, that is?”

“No. He was a fool in love—I suppose.”

Grey noted Cyrus’s discomfort as the old man tacked on the last two words, as if he couldn’t bring himself to wholly endorse the concept of actual love existing between his white friend Horace and a woman of Caribbean descent.

“But not a complete fool,” Cyrus continued. “It put a bit of a rip in his sails, I think. He was withdrawn after, slowly drifted away from the rest of us. I suspect he bore a grudge against his father until the day the man died.”

“Hard to find fault with him if he did,” Grey said.

“His father’s methods may have been rather blunt. Too forceful, perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” Grey raised an eyebrow at the word. “You said he beat the tar out of the girl.”

“I suppose. An overreaction, but sometimes that’s what’s needed to see that things are taken care of. A mere warning would never have forced Horace’s hand. It could have been disastrous if left unchecked.”

“Yes, who can say what horrors would have resulted?”

Cyrus gave a half sneer at Grey’s sardonic and self-referential comment. “Very droll, Perceval. But the man had the best wishes at heart for his child. The same as any parent, wanting to protect his child, see right done for him.”

“ ‘Best wishes.’ An oddly turned phrase, given the results that so often follow.”

“Easy for you to say with no child of your own to fret over. You do what you can, all that you can, but still, ultimately, you come down to nothing left to offer but wishes for your child.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, now let’s see if dinner’s ready and put our mouths to better use than this.”

“What do you have left for me, in terms of wishes?” Grey asked with a grin.

“Nothing. Except maybe a wish that you’d let an old man be and not rake him over the coals with such glee.”

P
HEBE SAT AT A DESK IN THE STARKLY APPOINTED FRONT
room of her Uncle Euripides’ corporate office on Cross Street in Portland. Pages laid out in neat rows showed various production orders, bills of lading, and inventory reports. She stared at the paper in front of her, failing to focus on the array of figures that held no meaning for her at that moment. She’d come into the office that morning desperate to escape the sorrow that draped the house she’d shared with her grandfather. Instead she found herself painfully distracted from the menial paperwork that Euripides handed her.

Vague thoughts and memories of Horace Webster meandered through her mind, each one colliding with or fading into another. Phebe ignored the vision of the man as he’d been in the past month, feebly lying in bed. Her images were pulled from the prior twenty years, when her grandfather, though old, still carried himself with an inner strength and dignity. She longed for those happier days and his solid, reassuring presence.

Goose bumps trickled up her arms, and a tingling sensation flashed across the back of her neck, like the reach of fingertips just a hairsbreadth from her skin. Though her head was bowed over the desk, she caught sight of something along the upper reaches of her vision. Phebe saw a man’s body, darkly dressed, standing several feet in front of her desk. Her eyes shot up to meet a serious, wrinkled face interrupted by a long, grizzled mustache and topped by a large, wide-brimmed hat. There was no real resemblance to her grandfather, but the sudden, silent appearance of an older man right before her eyes was still enough to force a curtailed yelp from Phebe.

“Terribly sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man doffed
his hat briefly, revealing long gray hair brushed back from the front. “I sometimes forget to walk loudly enough for white folk to hear me coming.”

Phebe wasn’t sure what the man meant, but she did glance toward his feet, where he wore thick-heeled boots. His heavy trousers and dark tan frock coat also looked suited to an active outdoor life. Apart from having a face so weathered that she couldn’t hazard a guess as to his precise age, the man himself looked white. Still agitated from the surprise, Phebe let the man’s apology pass without any other thoughts. She forced a smile.

“Can I help you?”

“That’s what I’m hoping. I’ve got to speak with your boss, Mr. ’Ripides Webster.”

“You mean my uncle.”

“Ah, forgive me.” The man froze for a second. Then he removed his hat a second time and held it to his breast. “My condolences, miss, on your grandfather’s passing. May the Great Spirit bless him and smile upon him.”

“Thank you.” At something of a loss, Phebe glanced down at the papers on her desk, futilely seeking guidance from a collection of sheets that had absolutely no relevance to her uncle’s daily schedule. “I wasn’t aware he had any appointments today.”

“I ’spect he wouldn’t grant me an audience. Except maybe on the first Friday after never. But yet, I assure you, it’s a matter of the utmost importance that I speak with him.”

“I see,” Phebe said with a glance back at the closed door to Euripides’ office, which offered no hint that her uncle was on the verge of appearing to remedy the unexpected arrival of this stranger.

“Let me just check with him and see if …” She edged toward the door, then glanced back at the man. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Chief Jefferson.”

She offered another set smile as she reached for the door handle. “One moment, please.”

“
Kchi oliwni
—great thanks,” the chief said.

Phebe slipped into the office and eased the door closed behind her.

Euripides spared a glance but continued writing at his large maple desk. “Did I hear some bit of commotion out there?”

“There’s a man here to see you. Says it’s rather important.” The last part was framed as almost a question. When Euripides stared at her with a crooked eyebrow, she added, “He says his name is
Chief
Jefferson.”

Euripides bolted upright, dropping his pen, which splattered ink droplets across the page he’d been working on.

“That damned arrogant son of a—” Euripides caught his tongue.

Phebe rushed over to remedy the mess. She set the pen back in its holder and cradled the spotted page in her hands.

Euripides leaned forward and planted two angry fists upon his desk. “Father’s barely even in the ground and here he is, back again—worse than a bloody vulture.”

“I’ll ask him to leave,” Phebe said, “and see if I can salvage this page.” She turned toward the door and gasped. Chief Jefferson was standing there, just inside the room. She took a step back and to the side, allowing Euripides to see the uninvited arrival.

Chief Jefferson gave a solemn nod in greeting. “No disrespect, and I don’t mean to rile you, coming so soon after your father’s death. But you know what I’m after, and I couldn’t risk waiting. In case you had thoughts of selling the item to any other interested parties. Course, I’d be willing to match any other offer for the Stone of Pamola.”

“It’s not the bloody Stone of Pamola, and it’s not for sale. Even if it were, I’d sell it to someone else for half what you’d offer. Better that than lower my family’s name by taking money from the likes of you: some filthy fake Indian!”

Phebe watched in alarm as the veins bulged in Euripides’ neck. She looked toward the door, hoping for a sign that the chief would accept this rebuke and leave, but the man didn’t move an inch.

“I understand this is a hard time for you, and you can keep on bullyragging me all you like. But that don’t change the truth.” Chief Jefferson kept his voice level. “What you’re hiding belongs to the Abenaki. It was stolen from our people.”

“From
your
people, is it? A traitor to your own race is what you are. Nothing but a two-bit fraud and liar. Stolen from you! I see it now—this
visit is just a ruse, a dirty trick learned from ‘your people’ to cover your tracks. You’re the one who stole the thunderstone!”

The accusation caught Phebe completely off guard. Chief Jefferson looked even more perplexed.

“What do you mean—I stole it?” The chief took a step toward Euripides, the display of civility that he’d maintained since his arrival finally cracked. “What’s happened to the stone?”

“Listen to him, pretending he doesn’t know!” Euripides declared.

“This is some ruse of yours to keep the stone from its true owners,” Chief Jefferson answered back, his voice rising.

Phebe stepped in front of the man, trying to create a buffer between him and Euripides. Her hands still cradled the inky page before her, giving her the appearance of pleading.

“Please leave, before matters get worse. I shouldn’t like to have to summon the police.”

Chief Jefferson turned his attention to her, a hint of disgust upon his cheerless face. “More men with guns, along with badges so that others will think what they’re doing’s right. When all it amounts to is more of the white man’s habit of beating skulls and thievery.”

She paused a second, unsure of how to respond to the man’s sweeping accusation. Scraping sounds from behind grabbed her attention. Euripides pushed his chair aside and ripped open a desk drawer. He came around the desk, a pistol in hand. Phebe barely had time to react, stepping aside as he rushed forward like a charging bull. Euripides grabbed Chief Jefferson by the shirt front and shoved him back into the wall. He didn’t aim the pistol, only held it before the chief’s face.

“I don’t need the police. If you harass me again, or my niece, or any of my family, so help me God—I won’t need the police. I’ll shoot you down myself.”

Euripides’ furious grimace went still. A look of fear shot into his eyes. Phebe saw a knife in Chief Jefferson’s hand, seemingly conjured from thin air, the razor-sharp point pressed against her uncle’s neck.

“I don’t wish for violence,” the chief said in a low voice. His free hand went up to remove the pistol from Euripides’ grasp. “That’s not why I came. I only want what was taken from my people. Nothing but a curious stone to you, but a sacred relic to us.”

“I’ll see us both dead before I ever let you have that stone,” Euripides hissed through clenched teeth.

Chief Jefferson tossed the pistol to the floor, then felt for the door handle. With the knife still in place, he moved Euripides back a step, creating a space between them.

“I’m terribly sorry for all this thrashing around, miss,” the chief said to Phebe, without taking his eyes from her uncle. “My sincere apologies.”

With that, the chief escaped out the door, closing it behind him. Euripides stood fuming in the center of the room for a moment before retrieving his pistol from the floor. Phebe peeked into the outer room to be sure Chief Jefferson was safely gone.

M
Y SISTER
, M
ADDY
? R
EALLY
, M
R
. G
REY, DIDN
’
T YOUR
mother ever teach you that it was poor form to ask a lady to tea only to bring up the subject of a younger woman?” Phebe Webster gave him a look of mock indignation.

“Actually, no. The subject never came up.”

“Pity for you,” she said with a sympathetic smile, “and now for me as well.”

A bit of color came into Phebe’s cheeks after the last comment. Grey wondered if she felt embarrassed at having spoken a touch too openly with a man she hardly knew. He smiled, and, to give her a moment, he glanced out the window of the restaurant. They were on the second floor overlooking Fore Street. A gap in the buildings down toward the waterfront afforded them an obstructed view of Portland Harbor, where tall-masted sailing ships mingled with steam-powered boats coming in and out from the dozens of wharves there.

“I can honestly say, Mr. Grey, that Maddy does not need to be found by you. I’m sure she’s in no danger or distress, so you can put your mind at ease. In fact, you should march right down to Mr. Dyer and report that there is nothing here that needs looking into and move on to matters that actually require some investigating.”

“So you’ve heard from her recently, then, and she’s well?”

“No. I didn’t say that.”

“Just what are you saying, Miss Webster? I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, but it strikes me as a bit peculiar that you don’t display the least concern over your sister’s whereabouts and well-being. I’d have thought you’d be anxious to see her again.”

A hint of melancholy touched Phebe’s face. “Believe me, Mr. Grey,
nothing would bring me greater happiness than to have Maddy at my side this very minute. But I’m not about to sit by wasting away and waiting for that to happen.”

Phebe took another sip of her tea as Grey’s silent waiting became more and more awkward.

“My sister was full of life. A bit too full, some would say. She wasn’t exactly satisfied with what she could find here in Portland. She wanted more.”

“More of what, exactly?”

“Everything. She wanted to see the world, to drink it all in, to experience life on a grand scale and understand all its wonders.”

“And it doesn’t bother you in the least that she hasn’t contacted you. Not a telegram or even a postcard?”

This time the look of sadness lingered a moment longer about Phebe’s eyes. “My sister loves me. That I know. She always did. Since we were young, we were everything to each other. And I cherish that. But, in truth, Maddy wasn’t always the happiest child. Our parents both passed when we were young.”

Phebe regarded Grey intently, and he wondered if the look was meant to communicate some underlying connection or sympathy. It was plausible that the attorney, Dyer, had thoroughly looked into Grey’s own history before recommending his services to the ailing Horace Webster. The fates of Grey’s parents were certainly no secret among Portland’s upper classes. Nor was it hard to surmise that Dyer likely had shared his information with Miss Webster.