Sadie's Secret: 3 (The Secret Lives of Will Tucker) (44 page)

Thirty-Three

J
efferson stalked to the desk muttering under his breath about the irrationalities of the female persuasion. Situating himself in his father’s chair, he began to put the pieces of the puzzle together in what he hoped would be an orderly fashion.

Testimonies from British Museum officials at the Iraq dig site went in one pile. Those he would use to document the antiquities that had been excavated and declared under the purview and ownership of the museum.

A list of officials and employees of all agencies associated with the dig went into another stack. To that stack, he also added the roster listing the names of all persons and shops known to possess or sell items that were either directly connected to the dig or possible forgeries of those items. These would be used to compile a list of suspects.

Then came a most perplexing set of documents. These fit into neither category and seemed to defy classification beyond the fact that some of the same persons, shops, or bills of lading were involved. His gift of the Durer painting fit in that category too.

He set them aside and began to read the topmost page carefully, although he had already committed each document to memory.

“Jefferson?”

Startled, he looked up to see Sadie standing in the doorway, a battered valise tucked under one arm. The fact she’d managed to take him by surprise was most disconcerting.

As was her smile.

“What do you have there?” he asked when she set the valise on the desk between the two large stacks of papers.

“The full resources of the Pinkerton Agency. And the expertise of one of its best agents.”

She laughed when she said that last part, and yet Jefferson found no humor in it. She was good, and though he had nothing with which to compare, given her quick thinking and critical skills, a case could certainly be made for that statement.

What he did know was there couldn’t possibly be another agent who combined brains with beauty the way Sadie Callum did.

He met her gaze. Allowed his attention to fall to her smile. Her lips. Indeed, he would have a most difficult time of concentrating in her presence.

“Jefferson?”

She shook her head when his eyes found hers again and then tucked a strand of straw-colored hair behind her ear. The faintest scent of lavender and lemons teased him as she settled into the chair across from him and then proceeded to unload the contents of her valise.

Several notebooks and a collection of newspapers wrapped with a yellow ribbon landed on the desk. Next she retrieved three file folders and placed them neatly atop the newspapers.

With each movement, each moment of concentration, her expression softened. Thick lashes teased cheekbones of creamy ivory skin warmed by the lamp’s glow as she paused to open yet another notebook and glanced down at the pages.

Her gaze lifted to sweep the contents of his desk before returning to her task. When she was finished, the notebook now set atop the others and Sadie looked up at him expectantly.

“Somewhere in all of this is a connection. We just have to find it.”

“Simply put,” he said. “And yet you’re correct.”

She sat back and directed her attention to the pencil she held. “Perhaps if we each were to write the facts of the case in some order, chronological I think, then maybe we will see a clearer path to the solution.”

“All right,” he said as he retrieved writing paper from the desk. He offered a sheet to her, but she declined and retrieved her notebook once more.

“Beginning to end?” Jefferson asked.

“Yes, I believe so.”

Sadie applied herself to the task with vigor while he struggled to recall just what he was to be writing. Yes, the genesis of the case from the moment he was called into service until his incarceration. He wrote the dates of his travels, almost three years in all, and then noted the cities where he had found pieces of the puzzle that lay on the desk before her.

It all added up to nothing more than a travelogue. Certainly no new clues emerged.

Then he decided to follow the trail of one piece to see if the facts became clearer in specific rather than in general. After drawing the piece, he thought of Baghdad, where he had occasion to watch a particularly valuable coin being painstakingly pulled from the muck after centuries of debris had covered it. To Rome, where that same coin was cleaned and prepared for shipping. Then came Paris, where the piece was spotted for sale in a shop in the Fourth Arrondissement before disappearing. And finally to London, where a coin that appeared startlingly similar was sold at auction by Sotheby’s.

Only after the sale did the owner cry foul and claim forgery. That case was still pending, though the reputation of the auction house and thoroughness of their staff precluded any such nonsense as selling forged coins.

However, the word among Jefferson’s informants was that while the Sotheby’s coin was real, the person making the claim against the venerable auction house might very well be fake. It was an odd conundrum he hadn’t quite worked out yet. Why would a person whose identity was false make a claim against an artifact that was real?

He considered Sotheby’s as the connection and then quickly discarded it. They didn’t deal with most of the items on the list.

Sadie looked up and then leaned forward to peer down at his notes. “That coin,” she said. “I’ve seen it.”

He shrugged. “I don’t doubt it. There are many of them. Most are real.”

“May I?” At his nod, she retrieved his notes and read through them.

“So your case hinges on provenance? If an item was part of the museum dig, then it belongs to the museum?”

“Yes.”

“Then that means there is a common thread in how these items got from their place of origin to the place where they were sold.”

“Yes,” he said again, his frustration rising. “And yet I cannot find one connection to tie the facts together.”

“Surely there must be. Think, Jefferson,” she said in an echo of his previous demand of her.

Unbidden came the recollection of their kisses. Of how she felt leaning against him in the moonlight on the banks of the Mississippi with the stars falling overhead.

“I’m trying not to.” He pushed back from the desk. “Let’s talk about the Durer. And Valletta.”

“All right.” She sat back primly as if waiting to be questioned. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me your impression. What does your gut tell you about Valletta?”

“He’s a forger?” She shook her head. “No. Too plebian. That man is a collector. Oh! That’s it. He is a collector. But he cannot have what belongs in a museum.
So…”
She stood, her fingers gripping the back of the chair. “So he hires out forgeries of the pieces he wants and then…”

She began to move, stepping around the chair to walk the length of the room. Outside a watch bell clanged.

“And then?”

“And then he realizes how much money is to be made in the trafficking of these forgeries. The next step is to cultivate a network of artists and a pool of buyers.” She stopped short. “Yes, that would explain all the wrapped parcels and crates in his apartment. But…”

She gave Jefferson a stricken look. “But what does that have to do with your case? The antiquities appearing on the London market are real but stolen. The ones Valletta had were forged but not stolen. Oh, Jefferson, it’s all too confusing. Then there is the connection to John. And the Durer that mysteriously arrived at my home with your name on it.”

She returned to her chair and sat with a most unladylike plop. Her eyes met his.

“Thoughts?”

Yes. I want to kiss you again.

“Yes,” he said as he stood and walked around the desk to help Sadie to her feet. “We table this discussion for now and get some sleep. Sometimes what makes no sense at night becomes perfectly clear in the morning.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She reached out to gather up her documents and return them to her valise.

Sadie awakened the next morning to a strange and eerie quiet, punctuated here and there by snatches of conversation spoken in hushed tones, the clang of a ship’s bell in the distance, and the staccato of birds squawking overhead.

Key West.

Dressing quickly, she hurried past the salon and up onto the deck, where the brilliant sunshine stopped her in her tracks. Placing her hand over her eyes, she moved forward at a more decorous pace to join Jefferson as he stood in conversation with his father on the aft deck.

“Good morning,” he said, and his father echoed the greeting.

Captain Tucker wore what appeared to be a dress uniform complete with gold buttons that gleamed in the morning sun. Jefferson, however, looked as if he were a planter on holiday with his summer suit and Panama hat.

“Indeed it is,” she said as she surveyed the city sprawled out before her. From the red brick buildings to the collection of various structures tumbled together, Key West was indeed a treat to the eye. “We are going ashore, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Jefferson said. “I will be happy to escort you.”

“We can leave now,” the captain called to both of them. “I’ve a meeting in half an hour and then I visit with the Porters. If you promise not to miss the luncheon, I will forgive you for not keeping an old man company this morning. But only if you’ll see that I get where I need to be first.”

Jefferson nodded toward the gangplank. “After you, Sadie,” he said. “Have you been to Key West before?”

“Never.”

“Let’s remedy that then,” he said as he helped her down the moveable bridge connecting the ship to solid ground.

Her feet were now on dry land, but her legs protested, leaving her knees feeling as if they might buckle. Putting a brave face on the silly infirmity, she pressed on and followed Jefferson across the docks and around the warehouse district to where a redbrick building, still under construction, loomed large among a dozen smaller buildings.

The morning was warm for May, and the breeze off the water scented the air with the briny smell of salt and fresh fish. Sadie allowed Jefferson to help her up into a small open carriage pulled by a sand-colored mare.

“Whitehead Street?” Jefferson said as he set the rented carriage in motion.

“Just down from Porter’s place. Do you think you can remember where the doctor lives?”

“It hasn’t been that long ago, Dad. I believe I can find it.”

Jefferson eased the carriage into the throng of vehicles and set off away from the docks. Glad for the hat that shaded her face from the harsh sun, Sadie sat back to enjoy the ride.

The bustling city was larger than she expected, its population apparently divided among a mix of dandies in fancy dress, exotically costumed foreigners chattering in unrecognizable languages, and persons who might easily pass for a more criminal element elsewhere. A cluster of buildings, shops of many types, hugged Duval Street and provided a backdrop for the chaos that reigned on the avenue.

After making a left onto Southard Street, they were traveling where palm fronds dipped toward a dusty road clogged with carriages and wagons. Here chickens and pedestrians fought for what little space remained. Behind fences made of ironwork or wood were homes of various sizes.

As they turned down Whitehead Street the homes became larger and more uniform in size. And though the locale was tropical, Sadie only had to look beyond the hibiscus and palms to find mansions more suitable to the finer streets in New Orleans than here in such a remote location.