Priced to Move (24 page)

Shadowman steps into the room, silent as always.

Aunt Weeby reads, and then turns, if possible, even paler. “Oh no! This is dreadful. Sick! Sick, sick, sick. Why would someone do such a thing? And who? Who would do it? What are you going to do about it, Donald?”

“I’m trying, Miz Weeby. I’m trying as fast and hard and everything I can.”

I come up to his side. “Could I read it, please?”

“Here. See if you recognize the writing.”

The block printing doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before. But I’m not surprised. It’s clear someone tried to disguise their handwriting. And the words? They’re just disgusting and disturbing.

Hand them over, or this is only a taste of what’s coming
your way.

“Well?” the chief says.

Max comes closer. “Could I take a look?”

“Sugarplum?”

“Never seen it before,” I say. “How about you?”

Aunt Weeby shakes her head. “So what do you think?”

“It’s all about the rubies,” Max says.

My aunt gives one of her trademark sniffs. “That’s what
I’ve
been thinking for a while now.”

Knock me over with a feather. “You have, have you?”

“Why, sure, ever since you and Mona told me about that mine, the market, the shooting, and them missing stones. I reckon your friend knew about the multimillion-dollar stolen rubies. It just works, don’t you think?”

If someone like Aunt Weeby, who has no knowledge of the gem world, never met Mr. Pak, and didn’t get shot at in Myanmar feels this way, then I know my gut’s been right all along.

“What’s this about multimillion dollars?” Chief Clark asks. The shadow comes within inches of where I stand. I glare and he backs off. I definitely feel stalked right now.

I turn back to the chief. “There’s a parcel of multimillion-dollar rubies out there somewhere. That’s what killed Mr. Pak—well, not the rubies themselves, but someone involved with the theft, or someone who knew Mr. Pak. Mr. Pak must have known what happened to the stones. And I’m sure there’s more than one person out there who wants them. The man most desperate to find them is the one you have to find.”

He narrows his eyes. “Or woman, Miss Andie. Women kill too.”

Why do I feel he’d like nothing more than to lock me up?

18
⁰⁰

After two days filled with flurries of shows and hospital visits, I bring Aunt Weeby home. Her head’s fine. Well, there’s no concussion, just normal nuttiness. And although Miss Mona shows no sign of intracranial bleeding, the doctors want her to stay a bit longer, since she was out for so long.

Every time I look at her, see her hooked up to machines that blink and beep, I get angrier by the minute. You know about my temper, right?

Why did Mr. Pak come see me? That’s what started it all. After more thinking than my mush-for-brain wants to handle, I’m so confused that I can’t tell what’s what. I decide to revisit all that’s happened and in the order it happened. After helping Aunt Weeby to bed, I sit at the kitchen table. Armed with notebook and pen, I list events, observations, feelings, anything and everything that comes to mind about the last few weeks.

At eight thirty, the doorbell rings. I’m so involved with my lists that I’m tempted to ignore it, but in the end, I can’t let it go. It could be important.

But guess what? It’s Mr. Magnificent. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Wow! Is that a welcome or what?”

Or what. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I’m kind of busy. Is there anything you need?”

He stares at my Pooh slippers. “I see you weren’t ready for a state visit. What’s kept you so busy?”

Wouldn’t you want to know? “Stuff.”

“Hmm . . . conclusive.” He shifts his weight and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Can I come in? I couldn’t stop thinking about the death, the shooting, the gas leak, and the accident. I wondered if you wouldn’t mind doing some brainstorming. Maybe we can make some sense of the situation.”

Something fishy going on? “Ah . . . sure. Go ahead. I was in the kitchen, doing just that.”

“Really? Did you come up with anything interesting?”

Is he here to brainstorm? To check out what I know? Or worse, am I in his crosshairs?

I gesture for him to go ahead. Right on cue, Rio lets out his “
Squawk! Shriek, shriek!

”

Max stumbles, trips over his feet. “Whoa!”

I fight the urge to laugh. “Just ignore him. He’s saying hi. It turns out Aunt Weeby’s cage cover really works. He’ll be quiet now after that first blast.”

“Lucky you!”

“I won’t dignify that comment with an answer. Why don’t you sit? Want some coffee? Or maybe iced tea? Water? Soda?”

“Tea sounds great—as long as it’s sweet.”

“Come on, Max. We’re in Kentucky. Tea only comes sweet here!”

He grins. “Then tea it is.”

My heartbeat speeds up, but I don’t know if it’s from his smile or from fear. And while I fill the glass with ice and tea, I ask myself how much I really fear Max.

Did he kill Mr. Pak? Would he hurt—kill—me?

What shocks me most is my lack of instant reaction. I glance over my shoulder and watch him study my lists. His expression is serious, intent. But at the same time, his posture is relaxed. He doesn’t exactly give off murderous vibes.

Besides, he’d have to be Oscar-worthy to pull off the gem-dunce act. To want those legendary rubies, you have to know your gems. And ignorance of gemological data doesn’t necessarily equal murderous tendencies.

I put his glass down on the counter, and to gain some time, I reach for a paper towel to wipe it off.
Lord? What do I do?
Can I trust him? Or did he kill Mr. Pak? Please guide me—I
can’t see my way clear.

“Here you go.” I put the glass within easy reach. “I see you’ve been looking at my lists. What do you think?”

“You’re pretty thorough.”

“So you don’t think I missed anything.”

“Not that I can see. But there’s still nothing here to go on.”

“That’s the problem.”
Okay, Lord. I’m going with my gut
here. I’m gonna trust him, so keep your eye on me. Aunt
Weeby needs me alive and kicking for a while longer. I
wouldn’t mind hanging around some more, either.
“I’ve been wanting to call Mrs. Pak, but I have no idea how to go about that. All I know is that they live in Bangkok. But millions of people live in Bangkok.”

“And there’s no way to know if Pak is the Thai equivalent of Jones or Brown.”

“Exactly. I’ve thought of calling the Thai embassy, but what do I say? ‘Hi. Your citizen was killed in our vault, and I want to talk to his wife about him.’ I can see them sending out the loony-tunes patrol for me.”

“You’re right. It won’t fly.” He picks up one of my lists, takes a sip of tea. “How about tracking down the bird?”

“I thought about that, Max. Mr. Pak couldn’t have brought the parrot from Thailand. There are strict export rules, and since that whole bird flu scare popped up, you can bet no Asian bird is getting in this country without every health expert checking it out. Besides, I don’t know if they have tropical parrots in Thailand.”

“That means he bought it here. Can you check bird . . . what? Farms? Hatcheries?”

I chuckle. “I think hatcheries are for fish, not necessarily eggs. And I tried to Google parrot breeders. Guess what? I got 35,200 sites! I don’t think either you or I will live long enough to check them all out.”

“True, but where did Mr. Pak go? I mean, how long had he been in the country? And what airport did he go through? Since he must have bought the bird here, I don’t think he would have traveled far from the airport where he arrived.” “Good point, but good luck trying to get any info on incoming passengers. There’s something called Homeland Security, remember?”

“There is that.” He takes another sip of tea, then returns to the lists. “How about your old boss? Wouldn’t he be a good one to talk to? You said he’s the one who introduced you to Mr. Pak. He must know something.”

“That’s where I went after we landed from Myanmar.”

Should I mention the
woo-woo
feeling I got while I waited for the cab? Nah. He already thinks I’m half-baked. Which I may very well be, after all I’ve done. And said. “Roger hadn’t even heard about the murder.”

“He hadn’t? That’s strange. You told Chief Clark about the connection between the two of them. I was there. Why wouldn’t the cops question him?”

“Hey, I asked the chief that very same thing. It did nothing for him. He said he had plenty to investigate here.”

“That’s crazy. And didn’t he mention the FBI?”

“No, I did. But he brought up Interpol. Where are all those guys?”

He shrugs. “Interagency jealousy?”

“Beats me.”

“Maybe they’ve been staking him out without anyone knowing.”

“Maybe, but that sounds a little too James Bondish to me. All I know is that there’s a dead man in the picture. That should trump all the other garbage.”

“I know the chief’s your father’s friend—”

“So he says, but I’ve never even heard of him.”

“Anyway, your aunt seems to like him, and she’s okay by me. I have to wonder if he’s really that much of a good ol’ boy cartoon character. What if he’s really doing his job, and lets everyone think he’s kind of slow?”

“I don’t think he’s slow, just nasty. He thinks I’m behind all this, and there’s no way! Besides, the FBI hasn’t even talked to me. Doesn’t that smell fishy to you?”

“Maybe they’re staking you out too. And maybe that’s the first thing we should look into. Has it been reported to the right authorities? And if not, then why not?”

We?
Is there really going to be a we here? And why? “How do you think we should go about doing that?”

He wiggles two fingers in the air. “Let your fingers do the walking. Check the phone book. I’m sure there are government listings. We’ll start there.”

“No. Better yet. Let me call Roger. If no one’s talked to him yet, then we know something weird’s really going on.” I flip out my cell phone. “I’ll try his cell. He never goes anywhere without it.”

The phone rings a couple of times, three, then, “Hello?” Dulcet feminine tones do not equal Roger. “Tiffany? Where’s Roger? Or did I dial your number by mistake?”

“Andie?” She sounds as surprised as I am. “Ah . . . I wasn’t expecting the phone to ring. Neither was Rog. He’s, um . . . unavailable. You do realize it’s late, right?”

“It’s not that late. Could I please speak with him? I only have a question or two for him. I won’t keep him for long.” Tiffany sniffs. “I can tell you’ve never been a bride, Andrea. We need our privacy.”

Eeuw!
TMI. “All right, all right. I’ll call him in the morning.” Then, to make my discomfort even greater, Max looks at me. “Well?”

I blush hotter than . . . well, than the fire of a Burmese ruby. “Trust me, Max. You don’t want to know. It has to do with the two of them and their privacy.”

To my mischievous delight, Max turns pigeon’s-blood red. “You’re right. I don’t want to know.”

Neither one of us speaks, and the grinding of our mental gears is almost deafening. Then something comes to me. “You know what else I want to know?”

He leans forward, empty glass in hand. “What’s that?”

“Who Chief Clark’s silent shadow is. Aren’t you curious?” Max leaves his glass on the table, sits back in his chair, tents his fingers. He doesn’t answer right away. When he finally speaks, he does so in a quiet and thoughtful voice.

“Maybe he’s one of the Feds on the case. They have to be involved. The chief even brought up Interpol, like you said. That guy with him looks like a Fed. He’s always worn a suit, white shirt, and navy tie. He’s almost a cliché.”

“Well, the chief wears his dress shirt and tie, but I think the missing suit jacket’s his style choice.” Or lack thereof. “But wouldn’t an FBI agent ask his own questions? Wouldn’t he introduce himself? How about homicide detective? Maybe that’s what he is, but in some junior, training job.”

“No way. The detectives came in right after the chief and the responding officers the first night. I think you were just too out of it to notice them collecting evidence.”

“And the chief’s the one that keeps coming after me. Interesting he’s not let the detectives take over. At least not with me. Sounds like control issues, you know.”

Max chuckles, but says nothing.

I go on. “Okay, if he’s a Fed, like you say, why didn’t he question me?”

“I’ve heard all these different law enforcement types tend to be territorial. The Fed might be deferring to the locals, as long as he feels everything’s being done right.”

“Still sounds strange to me.”

He pushes away from the table and stands. “Nothing about this is normal. Strange is the least I’d call it.”

“Then I know I’m not missing anything.”

“Unless I’m missing the same thing.” He shakes his head.

“I guess I’m just not cut out to be a detective.”

I wink. “Or a gemologist.”

“Not fair! I asked for lessons, but the accident got in the way. How about we start those up?”

If tonight is anything to go by, I think I’d survive. “Okay. Tomorrow looks good.”

“After the show we’ll get a phone book, check out some government agencies, eat, and do gems.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

A sudden awkwardness hits us both, and just as my cheeks start warming, he smiles and heads down the hall. “I’d better get some sleep,” he says. “Otherwise Allison’s job tomorrow’s going to be harder than usual.”

“You’re not worming any compliments out of me.”

He winks. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Good night, Max.”

“Good night, Andie.”

As I close the door behind him, I can’t make myself believe he’s the killer.

“Lord? Am I right? Because if I’m wrong, I’m
really
wrong. You know what I mean?”

The silence is thick, but I remember Peggy’s duct tape. I’m hanging. Still.

Faith. It’ll see me through.

The next day, our show goes off with less nastiness than usual. True, Max teases me a couple of times. I give him grief right back on his lack of knowledge. But I go easy on him. After all, most people would think a gem-quality kunzite looks like a washed-out amethyst.