From the Queen (4 page)

Her smile was restrained. “I have a friend who needs some investment advice and I told her I'd do some checking.”

He gave a partial bow. “Of course. Come in,” he stood aside for her to enter the room now used as his office. The walls were still the original pale blue of the old house. Red velvet hangings framed ceiling-high windows. An enormous mahogany desk was spread with papers. Flames flickered in a fire beneath an Adam mantel with two Chinese porcelain vases.

Walt seated her ceremoniously, his hand lingering on her arm, in a shield-back chair that faced the desk.

He didn't move to his chair, but remained quite near Annie, leaning against a corner of the desk. “A friend?”

Annie nodded, molded her face in an admiring gaze. “She's never had any money, but it looks as though she may realize perhaps a hundred and fifty thousand dollars from an item she can sell.”

Walt nodded, placed his fingertips together. “Does she have other investments?”

Annie shook her head. “Actually, she has nothing.” She gave him a steady stare. Was she being foolish? Perhaps. But anger burned deep inside; Ellen thrilled, Ellen thinking she had money to save her sight, Ellen left with nothing.

“Hmm. Perhaps she should consider an annuity. Or a mutual fund with a good record on rate of return.” His smile was kindly. “That's not the sort of thing I handle for clients, but,” he stood, “you can share that information with her.”

Annie rose, too, resisted saying thanks for nothing, and turned toward the door.

A large warm hand touched her shoulder. “Would you care to have a drink before you leave?”

Annie looked up into a suggestive gaze. “Thanks, Walt. But I have some errands to run.”

She walked briskly to the door, opened it, was on the porch.

Walt stood in the doorway. “Getting rather dark out now. That's one of the hazards on the island. Poor lighting. Don't take a wrong turn.”

The words rang in her mind as she hurried to the curb and slid into her car. His deep voice had been smooth. Had it also carried a note of amusement? And threat?

Walt was right about dusk falling. The street was full of shadows and any faraway figures were indistinct and unrecognizable. She parked in front of Parotti's Bar and Grill, feeling that she had earned a self-indulgent dinner.

Night covered the small commercial district like a pall of black velvet. Brilliant stars glittered, providing a faint radiance, but street lamps were few and far between, shedding small pools of light. Annie waited for her eyes to adjust when she stepped out of the warmth of Parotti's, replete after a bowl of chili topped by grated Longhorn cheese and onions and a cheerful welcome from gnome-sized Ben Parotti, who owned the island's oldest eatery combined with a sawdust-floored bait shop.

Ben's farewell lingered in her mind.
You and Max are letting us down. How about scaring up some excitement?
She wished she could share the next few minutes with Ben, lift him out of winter doldrums. She walked briskly toward the end of Main, her goal the old-fashioned telephone booth. The boardwalk was deserted. The brisk breeze off the harbor carried not only the February chill but was heavy with moisture. She shivered, walked faster.

The booth was as she remembered, worn wood, the door partially open. She grabbed the cold moisture-slick handle, pulled. The door jammed midway, but she squeezed inside. The light didn't work. She used a pencil flash from her purse to illuminate the battered pay phone. She stacked change on the metal counter, dropped coins into slots, dialed.

“Hello.” Nancy's deep voice evinced neither welcome nor hostility.

Annie took a breath, whispered, “I saw you Tuesday night. I know you have the book. I want the book. Bring it to the lifeguard stand next to the south beach pavilion. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Leave the book there, or I'll tell the police.” She depressed the hook switch.

Calvin Pickett's voice mail message was ebullient: As Lewis Carroll said,
Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle.
If you can top that, leave a message after the tone.

Despite her task, Annie was amused. But quite clever people can also be quite cleverly dishonest. She whispered into the receiver, depressed the switch.

She fed coins, punched the third number. After several rings, an answering machine responded. Walt Wisdom was almost surely home, but likely he ignored calls that registered Unknown in Caller ID. It took only a moment to record her whispered threat.

Dorothy L, their ebullient white cat, crouched and watched intently as Annie built a fire. She gave a last puff from the bellows, watched flames dance. She closed the metal mesh screen, settled on a plaid sofa facing the fireplace. As she tucked a cushion behind her, her cell phone rang. Her heart sang. She loved her ring tone for Max, the first few bars of
Anything Goes
.

They both spoke at once. Then Annie breathed in awe, “You saw Rory McIlroy?” Annie practically quivered with envy. She'd adored the Irish golfer ever since his heroics at the Masters.

Max's tenor voice was chiding. “You are only to lift your voice in that tone for your adored spouse.”

Her laughter rippled. “All you have to do is win the Masters. Is he playing great?” She snuggled on the sofa in their den, Dorothy L cuddled in her lap.

“Three birdies in a row. If I …”

Annie listened, smiling, soaking in Max's voice, glad he was having fun.

“… enough about me. What's up there?”

“Oh, not much.” Her tone was careless. “Grand theft …”

“On the island?” He was startled.

Quickly she related Ellen's glorious discovery and heartbreaking loss and the three customers. “… so I left each one a message.”

“Do you honestly,” his voice was amused, “think the thief is going to obligingly arrive at the lifeguard stand at oh ten hundred?”

“Probably not. But if the camera picks up one of the three, we know where to start. Anyway, all it cost me was the camera and shipping fee.”

“Right.” His tone was kind, an obvious indication he thought she was wasting her time. “When I get back, we'll put together a description of the book and send it off to everyone we can think of. That's more likely to have some results.”

“But even if some buyer alerts us, how can we prove the book belonged to Ellen?”

“Someone at the nursing home packed that box. We'll get a statement and you can identify it on this end.”

“Spoken like Perry Mason to Della Street. But your plan will probably work better than mine.” Annie was feeling generous. “Anyway, I'll let you know if the camera picks up anyone— and tomorrow get a photo of Rory … have a great weekend … root for Rory … love you, too.”

As she clicked off the cell, she smiled. “Dorothy L, your favorite human will be home in four days.”

By then, if all went well, they might have some idea about the identity of the thief. Her telephoned threat might not work, but if she had stolen a book worth more than a hundred thousand dollars and a whispering voice called to say she had been seen, she would scarcely settle in for a long winter nap. The call would surely elicit a response.

A frightened thief might decide to take the book tonight to the lifeguard stand, make certain no one was near, use gloved hands, wrap the book in newspaper, place the bundle on the seat. The camera would not yet be running. But apprehending the thief wasn't as important as restoring the book to Ellen, once again opening up vistas of happiness for her.

The worst outcome would if the thief walked down to the harbor tonight, threw the book into the ocean. Or the thief might gamble on denying an accusations, hold on to the book. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, and, she blinked drowsily, if she didn't get the book back, no harm, no foul. The refrain rippled in her mind, no harm, no foul, definitely time to re-read Sarah Caudwell. If she were as clever as Sarah Caudwell, she'd figure out another way to retrieve the book. And Max's idea was very good …

Annie felt utterly relaxed in the warmth of the fire. Only nine o'clock. Too early for a solitary bedtime. She turned to the stack of TBR books on the end table,
Predator
by Janice Gable Bashman,
The Skin Collector
by Jeffrey Deaver,
Queen of Hearts
by Rhys Bowen,
Riders on the Storm
by Ed Gorman. Her hand hovered …

Squeak.

She looked toward the hallway to the kitchen.

An eddy of cool air reached her, just as if the back door had opened. A hinge on the door needed a pump of three-in-one oil. She hadn't yet locked up the house for the night. Like most islanders, she never bothered with locked doors when she was home. Was she imagining …

Calvin Pickett stood in the doorway, dark cap, dark sweater, dark jacket, dark trousers, dark running shoes, right hand jammed in the bulging pocket of the jacket.

She felt her eyes widen in shock, her face tighten, her breath draw in.

His gaze locked with hers. He stepped into the room.

She had never seen him without that bush of white hair. A navy seaman knit cap hid his hair. His rounded face no longer appeared cherubic. He balanced on his feet, like a wary boxer, faded brown eyes cold and intent. “I was right.”

“You were right?” She heard her words and knew she'd made a mistake. She should have come to her feet, asked why he was here, pretended surprise.
I didn't hear you knock.

“You have quite an expressive face. It was rather interesting to watch. Easy to read.” His tone was clinical. “You were afraid. You had no reason to fear me unless you left that message on my answering machine. So Ellen did take the book to you.”

Annie struggled to breathe. Calvin was speaking openly about the book, the book he had stolen. Dark clothes … Why was he here? “What do you want?”

“Silence. Your silence.” He pulled his hand from his pocket. The gun he held with easy familiarity was dark, too, blue black steel. “Ellen told me how she opened a box and her life changed in less than an hour. She'd found an old book, thought it might be worth a few dollars and,” his voice went falsetto in an eerily accurate imitation,
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when I found out it's worth thousands.”
He moved nearer. “She isn't an expert. She'll never be able to prove I haven't had a similar book for some time. As I reflect,” his tone was amused, “I came across my book in a box of books I bought some- where or other. I've enjoyed having such a precious book, slipping a finger across the page with that inscription to The Queen. But now I'm ready to see the world and that's why I'm selling it.” His full lips moved into a mocking smile. “Do you like my musings about a book I've owned for several years?”

Annie stared at the barrel. If he pulled the trigger … There was no escape. He was too near. Pain …

“As for Ellen, apparently she opened a box a little while before I came and found a book but she didn't know if it was valuable. Yet by the time I came in, she'd learned the book was worth thousands of dollars. What did that reveal? She doesn't have a cash register, much less a computer. She had to ask someone. Who told her?” There was sharp intelligence in his brown eyes. “There was only one person near enough with the knowledge to realize the book's value. So I knew who called a little while ago. Whether you saw me or not doesn't matter. Somehow you knew or guessed I took it. If you alert appraisers and rare book collectors that the book was stolen, it would be hard for me to make a sale. No one will pay any attention to Ellen. But you have expertise.”

He gestured with the gun. “Get up.”

Annie's lips were dry, her throat tight. Slowly she stood. She couldn't dodge him. He was too near and the gun's barrel never wavered. Maybe if she rushed him … He would shoot and she would feel hot agony and fall. Max would come home to find her lying there, blood congealed into blackness. With Ingrid out of town, there would be no one to notice the store hadn't opened, no one to notice and come and see. Even if someone came, it would be too late for her. She had to do something, figure out a way. Max mustn't find her lying on the heart pine floor stained with blood. He would know the killer was one of Ellen's customers, but it would be forever too late to matter to her. Whatever she had to do, she would do.

“Or maybe,” his tone was considering, “you thought I'd leave the book on the beach for you and you'd sell it. Your husband's rich. You're rich. Maybe you're never rich enough. Trips to Paris, a safari in Africa. I read all about the favored ones in
The Gazette
.” Dislike and envy curdled his voice. “That's how I knew your husband was at Pebble Beach.
A Broward's Rock golf foursome is enjoying the best of the links with a trip to Pebble Beach.
I never had enough money to play golf. After I sell the book, I can take trips, too. I'm going to get the money. I'm going to sell the book and you aren't going to get in my way. I've never had anything. I told everybody I was a retired professor. Professor. That's an honored word. You know what I was? An instructor. Adjunct faculty. The lowest of the low. Bastards with tenure never bothered to say hello in the halls. No recognition for adjunct faculty scum. I went from college to college. Then I couldn't get hired anywhere. Do you know how much I get paid to squat in that little hole in the wall with its lousy collection of second-rate historical documents? A thousand dollars a month. Did you ever live on a thousand dollars a month?”

“Calvin, please leave.”

His full lips spread in a sardonic smile. “Oh, my, a rich woman speaks. She orders a minion begone. But give your request some thought. Are you in a hurry for me to go? You'll be dead when I walk out of here.”

Cool air eddied.

Annie felt the coolness. Or was she chilled by the specter of death?

A slim, athletic figure stepped lightly into the doorway. Hyla Harrison's green eyes stared at her in warning. Hyla, too, was dressed all in black, sweater, slacks, sneakers, her red hair hidden beneath a dark cap.