Death & the Brewmaster's Widow (18 page)

Sophie nodded reluctantly.

“They were planning to make it look like he died after Alaina became his heir, but Leilani was suspicious and pressing them in court. If they were ordered to produce him, they were screwed. Not only would she not inherit anything, but at that point it would become obvious that they were both guilty of fraud. Seeing Randy's picture in the paper must have seemed like divine intervention.”

“It wouldn't have worked,” Sophie said slowly. “Their original plan, if you're right, it wouldn't have worked. With that much money at stake, the heir's brother as the physician of record and Leilani contesting the will, any judge in the country would have ordered an autopsy. They'd have been presenting a body that had undergone a massive aortic aneurysm and had no signs of major medical intervention and claiming that the aneurysm happened months earlier and the subject had been on life support since. The contradictions would have been glaringly obvious.”

“They probably came up with it in a hurry, when Andrew suddenly died on them, and didn't stop to think it through until they were already in it up to their necks. Gregory's a doctor—he must have realized by now that it was a bad plan.”

“So,” Wren said, “even with all the complications involved in kidnapping Randy and switching bodies, it was still safer than any other option they had available. And there's nothing about freezing the body that would come up in a standard autopsy?”

“There would probably have been trace amounts of antifreeze solution in his veins,” Sophie said, “but the most common solution used for that is based on glucosine. I'd imagine it would come back as high blood sugar.”

“And that could be covered up by filling his stomach with a large quantity of sweet tea,” Death said, satisfied.

_____

“What do we do now?” Wren asked, when Sophie had returned to work.

“We've gotta figure out a way to get Alaina and her brother out of the house so I can get in to see my brother.”

“And get DNA or fingerprints?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

Wren sighed. “I know that tone of voice,” she said. “If you're planning on throwing him over your shoulder and absconding with him, I'd like to remind you that you'd pass out from lack of oxygen before you made it down the stairs.”

“I've been doing much better with stairs,” he objected. “And down is easier than up, anyway.”

“Not carrying giant young firefighters, it's not.”

Death tipped his head in a reluctant concession to reason. “You said the mail carrier has seen him walking in the garden recently though, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe he's mobile. If so, maybe I can convince him to leave with me.”

“Yeah, maybe. And then we could get his fingerprints checked and that would prove if he's Randy. And if he is—”

“He is!”

She rubbed along his upper arm. “
If
he is, we can go to the police and have Alaina and her brother arrested for kidnapping. How do we get them out of the house, though?”

Death's phone rang. He glanced at the number, gave Wren a slight shrug, and answered it in his professional voice. “Bogart Investigations.”

His eyebrows rose and he glanced at her meaningfully.

“Yes, Doctor, I'm feeling much better, thanks.” He put it on speaker and held it out where they could both hear.

“I hope you don't think it too forward of me to call you,” Gregory said, “but I realized after your visit the other day that I'd had a celebrity in my office.”

“Me?” Death snorted. “I'm hardly a celebrity.”

“A minor one, at least. Your name was quite prominent in the news a couple of months ago. Something to do with missing jewels? Some of them dating back to the Civil War?”

“Uh, yeah. That was a case I was working on.”

“It sounds fascinating. Listen, my sister and I are planning to go out on the river tomorrow, if the weather holds. I have a neat little 27-foot pontoon boat that we like to tootle around in.”

Wren's eyes danced and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Death gave her a stern look.

“I thought maybe you'd like to come along. We'd be absolutely delighted to hear about your adventures.” The doctor sighed, maybe just a bit too dramatically. “I'm hoping to cheer Alaina up, frankly. Her anniversary was a couple of days ago but, sadly, her husband is in no condition to celebrate with her. I know that she'd be charmed to meet you. Plus, of course, she's a woman. Jewels are one of her favorite subjects.”

“Gee, I don't know what to say,” Death shot Wren a questioning glance and she tipped her head and shrugged. “Yeah, sure, that'd be great, I guess. Thanks for asking.”

“Wonderful! And thank you in advance for joining us. Why don't we meet at my yacht club at, say, five p.m.?”

Death agreed and after Gregory had given him the address of the club they said goodbye. He hung up and Wren let out the laugh she was suppressing. “He said tootle!”

“Yeah, I noticed. What the hell was that?”

“They know you're investigating Randy's ‘death'. Do you think they want a chance to see how much you've figured out?”

He lifted one shoulder. “Possible, I guess.”

“And convenient!”

Death frowned. “Convenient how?”

“You wanted them out of the house. Now you're getting them out of the house. And you'll be able to keep an eye on them and know exactly when they're heading back.”

“Yeah, but there's a hole in that plan. I'll be with them. I can't very well go boating with them and sneak into their house at the same time.”

“You can't maybe,” Wren said, “but as far as I could tell, that invitation didn't include me.”

eighteen

The crowbar clanked against
the floor of the raised Einstadt passage as Death tossed it in, the echoes sending chills down Wren's spine. She climbed up through the entrance on her hands and knees and pushed herself to her feet, turning back to help him follow. “Jeez, make some noise why don't you?” she teased to cover her own nervousness. Her palms were sweaty and she felt her heart thump against her rib cage. The light from Death's flashlight danced ahead of them down the tunnel.

Death was quiet and intense. “I really hate this plan,” he muttered. “I still think you should just try to talk your way in with the maid.”

“You haven't met the maid,” Wren replied, letting him lead the way. Their passage stirred up dust and their voices echoed. She resisted the urge to whisper and tiptoe, the nature of their mission making her want to sneak. Down here in the silent dark it would not only be pointless, it would sap her energy and feed her nerves.

She looked forward to this experience with a mixture of anticipation and dread, and the passageway seemed both much longer and much shorter than she remembered. She paced along in Death's footsteps, her brain supplying her with unwanted scenarios of all the things that could go wrong. Before she knew it, they had reached the T in the path and the rusted-out door and pile of rubble separating them from the Grey house was just ten feet away.

“This may not even be possible,” Death said, approaching the barrier with a slow, catlike stride, examining it analytically. “If we can't make a path through here, we'll have to scrap this plan and think of something else. I could do a little second-story work tonight after everyone's asleep.”

“Don't give up too quickly,” Wren scolded. “Have a little faith.”

He shot her a quick smile, his teeth white in the dark. “In you? Always.”

He studied the rockfall, then carefully inserted the tip of the crowbar under the largest boulder.

“You need my muscle?”

“Maybe. Hang on a second and let me see what happens.” He pushed down experimentally, testing the stone's balance. There was a brittle
pop
and the rock shifted. Death frowned, set the length of iron aside, and moved in to study the rubble pile more carefully. “Well, I'll be damned.”

“What is it?”

By way of answering, he picked up the enormous stone and turned around, staggering a little. “Here,” he said, “catch!”

He tossed it at her and Wren shrieked and ducked. The rock hit her lightly and bounced away and Death laughed. She stared at him and the stone, completely nonplussed. “What the …?”

“Styrofoam.”

“The tunnel's made out of Styrofoam?”

“Not the whole tunnel.” He turned back and studied the barrier again. “Not even the whole rock pile. This is really ingenious.” Wren moved up to stand next to him where she could see too.

“See?” he said. “The ceiling collapse is real, but someone has cleared a doorway in it. Then they made false stones out of Styrofoam and painted them to look like the rocks and bricks. The fake rocks are glued to a screen door.” He found a handle in among the rubble and pulled and the wall of fallen stones opened outward. Moving more quietly now that they were so close to their destination, they passed through.

Beyond the rocks, the tunnel extended for another eight feet or so and ended at a wooden door. Death leaned down and put his mouth close to Wren's ear. “You can sneak now if you want.”

“Thanks,” she whispered back. “I was trying not to earlier.”

“I know. I could tell.”

They snuck up on the door and Death crouched beside it and took a small metal tube from his pocket. It opened out to a miniature telescope. “Woah! Cool,” Wren said softly. “Where did you get that?”

“On eBay.”

“Of course.”

He put it to the keyhole before looking through it.

“Okay, there's just a little bit of natural light coming in, probably from a ground-level window somewhere. There's a short passage on the other side that leads to an elevator. One door on the right side of the passage and a second door just left of the elevator. One of the doors probably leads to a staircase. You'll have to decide which one is less conspicuous, the elevator or the stairs. You wanna look?”

“Yeah!”

He handed over the tiny telescope and she peered through the keyhole and noted the things he'd pointed out. When she was done she tried to hand it back but he closed her hand over it. “Hang on to that. You can use it to make sure the coast is clear before you go in.”

She nodded and tried the door handle, but it was locked. Death pulled out a set of lock picks and made short work of getting it open. “You're just prepared for everything, aren't you?”

He winked at her. “Boy Scouts ain't got nothing on the Marines.” He put the lock picks back in his pocket, then took a small can of penetrating oil from his other pocket and oiled the hinges. He looked at his watch and sighed. “I need to leave soon if I'm going to meet Alaina and Gregory at five. His yacht club is up in St. Charles. Walk me back to the entrance?”

“Only if you hold my hand,” she said.

Death took her hand obediently, casting a longing look on the wooden door before they turned away. Wren knew, without him having to say it, what was going through his mind. He believed his brother was alive and was just on the other side of that door. After all the long and lonely time he'd spent mourning him, Randy was alive, possibly injured, painfully close. And now Death was supposed to just walk away and leave him in her hands.

She squeezed his hand. “It'll be okay,” she said. “I know it's hard and I know it seems like it's taking forever. But it won't be long now. We're going to bring him home.” The smile he gave her in return was bright and brittle with need and she could only pray that she was telling him the truth.

_____

“The diamonds or the pearls with this blouse?”

James Gregory, lounging in his sister's bedroom while she finished dressing, sipped his drink and tipped his head. “Which would you least mind losing if it fell in the water?”

She gave him a brief, irritated glance.

“I'm not planning on throwing either of them in the water.”

“No. But we're going to be on the river. There's always the chance of something going overboard.”

Alaina turned back to her dressing table, set the pearls aside, and gazed down at the diamonds cupped in her hand.

“Andrew gave me these for a wedding present,” she said. Leaning toward the mirror, she fastened them in place. “So what do you know about,” she paused and glanced to the open hall door, lowering her voice, “about this man we're meeting?”

“I know he's smart. Dangerously so. No longer as physically powerful as he once was. Currently fragile, even. His lungs were damaged as the result of an injury during combat and he's fighting a nasty respiratory infection. He's suffering from clinical depression as well. Probably a mild case, but still … His doctor gave him a new prescription for antidepressants just a short time ago. It's always dangerous when someone starts taking those.”

Alaina frowned and turned to look at him directly. “Dangerous how?”

“Depression isn't simply sadness. There's a plethora of symptoms, and they can include extreme fatigue and apathy. Often those suffering depression have suicidal thoughts, but they're too hopeless and exhausted to act on them. The danger is that the medication can give them the energy to kill themselves.”

“You think he might be suicidal?”

James raised one eyebrow. He drained his drink and hauled himself out of the low recliner. “Please tell me you're going to put on more sensible shoes.”

_____

“It'll take me about half an hour to get to the yacht club,” Death said, checking his watch. “I'll call you when I'm sure they're both there. Don't try to go in before then. You're still going to have to get past the gardener and at least the one maid, so promise me you'll be careful.”

“I'll be careful,” Wren said. “Are you sure this is such a good idea, though?”

“Baby, if you don't want to go—”

“Not for me,” she said. “For you. Going out on the river in a boat with those people. I don't trust them. It could be dangerous.”

“It's a busy river and we'll be out in broad daylight.” She frowned at him and he laughed and bopped her nose. “Okay, broad twilight. Still, it's nowhere near sundown and on a pleasant summer evening there will be other boaters, people fishing off the shore, maybe a riverboat at the landing below the Arch. Alaina and her brother would have to be crazy to try anything drastic.”

“Or desperate. Desperate people do stupid things. Just promise me you'll be careful, too.”

“Careful is my middle name.”

“No it isn't. Your middle name starts with a D.”

“Smartass.”

She was sitting in the entrance to the Einstadt passage and he was standing on the stone they'd rolled over to climb up on. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against her forehead. “Here's to bringing Randy home. Wait for my call, okay?”

“I will. Just you see that you take care of my Marine.”

“And you take care of my auctioneer.”

_____

“Mr. Bogart,” Gregory said, “I don't believe you've met my sister, Alaina.”

“Mrs. Grey. Charmed,” Death said, kissing her fingers. The courtly gesture never failed to impress a woman. It also gave Death a chance to look closely at their fingers and hands. He'd used it more than once, when working divorce cases, to determine if this or that woman had a wedding ring or, maybe, a tan line where a ring had been. In this instance, he wanted a look at Alaina's rings. A woman could do a lot of damage with a big diamond and if there was a chance she was going to take a swing at him, he wanted to know ahead of time how well she was armed.

“I call her Lainey,” Gregory said.

“He's horrible,” Alaina simpered. “I keep telling him that Lainey's a name for a six-year-old with braces and pigtails. You're certainly welcome to call me Alaina, though.”

They were in the clubhouse at Gregory's yacht club, sitting around a high table in a corner heavily populated by potted plants. Gregory gestured to the bar. “How about something to drink before we go? They do a Tahitian sunset that's to die for.”

“Sounds great.”

The waiter was already on his way over with three brilliant orange drinks on a tray. Gregory handed Death the first one, picking it up with his hand across the top of the glass. “Now, you're not taking anything that shouldn't mix with alcohol, are you? As your doctor, I've got to ask.”

Death gave him a bright smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Not a thing,” he said cheerfully. He picked up the bright, fruity drink, and took a tiny, cautious sip. While far from an alcoholic, as a former Marine he'd had his share of experiences with alcohol. This drink had a bitter undertaste, faint and nearly hidden by the heavy flavors of the tropical fruit and rum, and a gritty texture.

Whatever Gregory put in it had been in pill form, he decided, and it hadn't dissolved completely in spite of being crushed ahead of time. Letting the little bit that he'd tasted dribble back into the glass, he winced, lowered the drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Wow, powerful stuff,” he laughed. While they were looking at him wiping his mouth with his right hand, he used his left to tip a little of the liquid out into the nearest potted plant. It would take subterfuge and sleight of hand, but he could get rid of the whole drink this way and they'd never guess he hadn't drunk it. With a bright smile, he feigned another swallow of alcohol. If they were trying to drug him, that had to be a good sign. Cheered, he wondered how Wren was doing.

_____

Twenty-seven minutes after Death left her sitting alone in the tunnel, Wren's phone lit up with a text message from him. It was a single word: Go.

Climbing to her feet, she retraced their earlier steps until she came to a stop outside the wooden door into the Grey mansion. Her hands were sweaty but her mouth was dry. She had been raised to respect other people and their belongings. Never to trespass. Entering someone's home without their permission went against her every instinct. But she was doing this for Death.

She would do anything for Death.

Kneeling before the door, she took out the miniature telescope, put the end to the keyhole, and peered once more through the lens. The passage beyond was as dark and silent as it had been before. She put the scope away, scrubbed her hands against her jeans, and took a deep breath. Easing the door open, she stepped inside.

The basement was dry and musty. An air conditioning unit was running somewhere, but otherwise, everything was silent. The door to her right was warped and didn't close completely. A glance inside showed a room full of jumbled junk and broken furniture, with no signs of life. She could look there later, if there seemed a point. Her main goal now was to find a way upstairs. With luck, she could steal a toothbrush and a comb or hairbrush and be gone with none of the occupants the wiser.

The elevator shaft before her was empty, the cage door closed and the car gone. There was a push button to call it down, but doing so would be a bad idea. Even a quiet motor would be loud in the still house.

The door next to the elevator led to a steep, narrow staircase. Wren climbed it gingerly, keeping her feet to the outside of the treads and wincing every time one creaked or groaned beneath her. The door at the top had no keyhole for her to peer through. If it was locked, it was latched on the other side. There was no way for her to pick that, even if she'd known how, and no way to tell if it was open except to try to open it.

She looked for some sign—light around the door, perhaps, where moving shadows could betray the presence of a person on the other side. It was no use, the door sat securely in its frame. She touched the surface tentatively, wondering even as she did what she thought she was doing. In a fire, she remembered, you were supposed to feel a door before opening it to see if it was hot. The door wasn't hot, so the house wasn't on fire.