Pirate (6 page)

P
rofessor Hopkins opened the manila folder. “This,” he said. “It was hidden behind the endpapers.”

“May I?” Sam asked, reaching for the folder.

“Of course.”

Sam took it in hand, holding it so that he and Remi could view it together. Inside was a piece of yellowed parchment almost as large as the book cover with something illustrated in black ink. A map of an island and, next to it, a circle with symbols, atop a square with letters beneath. The complete alphabet, he realized. “A cipher wheel?” he asked the professor.

“An illustration of one,” Hopkins replied. “It has to be what they were searching for. Had it not been for all those thefts and reported damage to the endpapers, it might have gone unnoticed. Honestly, I was about to call to ask if you wanted me to glue the endpaper that had come loose. That's when I saw it.”

Remi leaned in for a closer look. “I wonder if Mr. Pickering was aware that this was in there when he gave it to me?”

A very good question, Sam thought. But not one he wanted to go into right now. “We can't thank you enough,” he told Professor Hopkins.

“Since you've paid me twice over what I normally charge, I think you have. You've definitely got a fascinating mystery here.”

The screen to Remi's cell phone lit up. She glanced at it, then turned it facedown on the cloth. “We do appreciate your time.”

The professor slid his chair back. “And I really do need to get to that next appointment.” He stood, shook hands with Sam, and smiled at Remi. “Enjoy the rest of your lunch.”

The moment he left, Remi picked up her phone. “It's a text from Bree.”

“Saying what?” Sam asked.

“To call her as soon as I can.”

Sam asked for the check, and they finished their dessert while they waited. Once it came, he paid and left a generous tip, then they hurriedly walked to the rental car.

Remi called, placing it on speakerphone. “Bree? Are you okay? We were so worried when we couldn't get ahold of you.”

“I'm fine. Now. I'm—I'm in North Carolina.”

“North Carolina?”

“To visit my cousin. To tell her about her father.”

“We're so very sorry.”

“I know. Listen, I was wondering if—did my uncle give you the book when you were there?
Pyrates and Privateers
?”

Remi glanced at Sam, hesitating the slightest of instances as she said, “I bought a copy from him. Why?”

“My cousin—um, she's pretty devastated. Apparently he promised it to her, and—and I was hoping I could give it to her. Something to remember her father by.”

“After what happened to your uncle, Sam and I thought maybe we should turn it over to the police.”

“No! Please . . .”

“Bree? Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm—yes. It's just—you can imagine how devastating this has all been. And it would mean so much for her to have it. If you turn it in, it'll only be tied up in probate. She's too ill to travel, and—” Bree broke down crying. After several seconds, she said, “I'm sorry. This has all been so hard.”

“What can we do to help?” Remi asked.

“I was hoping you wouldn't mind mailing the book to her. To remember her father by.”

“Of course we wouldn't mind. But Sam and I will deliver it in person.”

“No. I couldn't ask that of you. It's too much.”

“We insist,” she said, eyeing Sam, who nodded in encouragement. “This book is too valuable to trust to the post office. Just text me the address and we'll deliver it tomorrow.”

“I will. Thank you . . .”

They heard a quiet sob as Remi said, “We'll see you tomorrow. And pass on our condolences to your cousin.”

Sam pulled out of the parking garage and on into traffic. “She sounded pretty upset.”

“Understandably,” Remi said. “First the robbery, then the heart attack. I can't imagine what Pickering's daughter must be going through. Not being able to travel. At least Bree's there for her.”

“About the book . . . ?”

“I thought about that. And I think at the very least we should show it to Pickering's daughter and let her make that decision. She is the next of kin, after all. At least this way we can explain in person why we feel it best to turn it in to the authorities.”

He stopped at a red light, looked over at his wife, then back at the road. “I guess we'll be filing a change in flight plans to North Carolina.”

The advantage of having a private jet meant they could change plans at a moment's notice. Selma made the arrangements for a hotel and rental car on their arrival, and after a decent night's sleep and a hot breakfast, they drove to the location Bree had texted. Remi, of course, asked Selma to look into the address on the off chance something was wrong. Much to her relief, it came back to a Larayne Pickering-Smith, who Selma had determined was, in fact, Gerald Pickering's daughter.

She lived in rural Harlowe, and as they drove east through miles of tobacco farms, the sky darkened with a gathering storm. Sam parked in front, eyeing the property, a white clapboard farmhouse, with a black SUV in the gravel drive. Someone pulled the drape slightly from an upstairs window, then dropped it.

Remi, the book in her lap, patted the front cover, saying, “Let's get this thing delivered.”

“You sure you want to give it to her?”

“Yes. It has to be better than tying it up in evidence or even probate for who knows how long. Maybe his daughter can tell us what's so important about the book.”

Together, they walked up the path, and Sam knocked on the front door. It opened a moment later a few inches, and Bree looked out at them. Her eyes were red and slightly swollen, no doubt from crying. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo . . .” She gave a faltering smile. “You have the book?”

Remi handed her the brown-wrapped parcel. “How is your cousin?”

“She's . . . not well.” Bree hugged the book to her chest. “I'd invite you in, but . . .”

“No worries,” Remi said. “We were wondering, though, if you know what was so important about this volume. Why someone might be looking for it?”

“No.” She gave a slight shrug. “But thank you. For bringing it all this way.”

“You're sure you're okay?”

Bree nodded.

When the silence became awkward, Remi took a step back and smiled. “Let us know if you need anything.”

“There is one thing I was wondering. How is Mr. Wickham? He wasn't hurt in the robbery, was he?”

“No.”

Bree looked down at the book, then at Remi. “Tell him I miss him and that I'll try to write to him. Would you?”

“I'll be glad to.” Remi linked her arm through Sam's, saying, “We should get going. It's a long flight home.”

Sam gave a polite nod. “Bye.”

“Good-bye,” Bree said, then closed the door as he and Remi returned to the car.

Remi said, “She's in trouble. You heard what she said? Asking me to pass a message to Mr. Wickham? Pickering's cat? We need to go in there and rescue her.”

“Not a good idea, Remi.”

“But you've got a gun this time.”

“One against how many? We don't even know who's in there. If you had yours, we might stand a chance.”

She frowned at him, then took out her cell phone. “Then we call the cops and up our odds.”

“Not in front of the house,” he said. “If she's being held, they'll be watching us.” He pulled away from the curb, then drove down the street.

Remi phoned the moment they were out of sight, and the dispatcher directed them to wait at a market that was located off the highway about a mile inland. A few minutes after they pulled into the parking lot, her phone buzzed, and she saw she had a text from Selma to call home ASAP.

Remi called, putting the phone on speaker. “You found something on the digital photos we sent?” she asked.

“Not yet, Mrs. Fargo. But that's not why I needed to talk. An officer stopped by a few minutes ago asking for you. They found Bree Marshall's car abandoned on the side of the road not too far from the airport. There were several boxes of fund-raiser tickets and an envelope with checks made out to the Fargo Foundation in the vehicle. The officer was wondering if we wanted to pick them up from the tow yard.”

Remi looked at Sam, who said, “Was there any indication of a struggle?”

“He didn't say, Mr. Fargo. But I expect if there was, he might have mentioned it.”

“Thanks, Selma,” Sam told her. “We've just called a deputy to check on her. We'll let him know.”

About ten minutes later, a Carteret County sheriff's deputy pulled up. The offshore wind whipped at him as he stepped out of his car, nearly blowing his hat from his head, and he directed them to the front of the store, where they'd be somewhat sheltered. Remi gave a brief explanation.

The deputy's expression turned dubious. “Is it possible her car broke down on her way to the airport? Maybe she called for a cab or something.”

“Maybe,” Remi said. “But there's also the matter of her telling us to pass a message on to her late uncle's cat.”

“A lot of people talk to their animals.”

Sam, realizing the deputy failed to appreciate that bit of evidence, took a step forward, leveling his gaze at the officer. “Is it possible to ignore the reason we think our friend is in trouble and just check on her and see if she's okay?”

“Sure. Not that I don't believe you,” he replied, sounding exactly as if he didn't. “Just like to get the facts. I'm the only deputy in the area here, so if it's something that I can handle myself, I will. Otherwise, we're looking at waiting a good twenty minutes for backup.”

“Of course,” Sam said. He took a card from his wallet, handed it to the deputy, saying, “Our cell phone numbers. Should anything come up in between here and there.”

The deputy took the card, got into his patrol car, and drove off in the direction of the farmhouse.

They were about to follow him over when Remi pointed toward a vehicle driving in the opposite direction as the deputy. “That's the SUV that was parked at the farmhouse.”

“You're sure?”

“Definitely.”

He started the car. “You see who was inside?”

“Two men. I can't say for sure, except the passenger's profile reminded me of that gunman who robbed Pickering's shop,” she said as he took off after the SUV. “What about Bree?”

“The only deputy in a twenty-minute radius is checking on her. And judging from his reaction to your cat story, I highly doubt he's going to drop everything and follow a car that we have absolutely no evidence is doing anything wrong even if we could get ahold of him.”

“Good point.”

The two-lane rural road wasn't exactly one on which a person could drive unnoticed for too long. Even so, Sam did his best to keep plenty of distance between him and the SUV, figuring it was en route to Beaufort. Apparently it was headed to an industrial area near the water, and Sam followed as it made a right turn down a street that dead-ended into a dock with several large warehouses on one side. Sam slowed but didn't stop as they passed the street. If the car was there, he saw no sign of it. “See anything?” he asked Remi.

“No. It must have driven onto the dock or it's between the warehouses out of sight.”

Sam's phone rang. He dug it from his pocket and handed it to
Remi, who pressed the speaker function and held it up for Sam to answer.

“Deputy Wagner,” came the voice on the other end. “Just wanted you to know that I checked the house. There was no answer.”

“Sam . . .” Remi whispered.

He glanced at his wife, then back at the road. “We appreciate you checking. We followed the car we saw parked at the house. My wife thought one of the men looked like the man who robbed us in San Francisco.”