Blood, Ash, and Bone (25 page)

I scanned the crowd. “I’m still getting suspicious looks.”

“Blame the sniper you refuse to talk about.”

“I’m serious. You know as well as I do that reputation makes or breaks you in this game. And if I—”

“Uh oh, darlin’. Speaking of your reputation.”

She pointed. I saw him across the room standing at his mother’s table—Rock the grieving biker. He was more mountain than rock this morning, a six-four craggy blockage flanked by dozens of sympathetic fellow retailers and his motorcycle crew. Except for Earl the homicidal sneak thief, of course. Mrs. Simmons was nowhere to be seen, but Rock had spotted me. Suddenly the crowd parted, and the mountain was coming my way.

My stomach sank. “Aw shit.”

“You wanna make a run for it?”

“No. I braved a damn sniper to come to this thing, I can brave a mad-ass biker.”

I lifted my chin and met his eyes. Up close, his grief showed in stark relief, his eyes red-rimmed, his mouth straight.

He put his hands on my table. “I came to apologize.”

I almost dropped my coffee. “What?”

“To say I’m sorry. We’re sorry. I talked Mama into dropping that restraining order. Weren’t no call for that, especially not after Earl confessed.” His expression hardened. “You won’t have any more trouble from me and mine. I wanted to tell you that face to face.”

I smiled, a little dumbfounded. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you. I know you were doing it to clear your name. But I also know you’ve been right respectful, even when Mama pulled a Dirty Harry on you.”

“Grief is hard. We all deserve a little slack then.”

He held out his hand. I took it. We shook solemnly, me and the mountain. And then he went back to his table. When he did, dozens of eyes swiveled in my direction. Curious and sharp, but not as suspicious anymore.

I sat behind the table, straightened my stack of long johns. Across the room, I saw Trey. He’d found a spot in the corner near the snack counter with an unobstructed view of my table and was making a quick notation in his leather notebook, eyes locked on me.

I shot him a thumbs up. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, tucked the notebook into his jacket. The doors at the front swung open.

Dee Lynn grinned. “And they’re off!”

***

The next hours galloped by in a headlong rush. I smiled. I shook hands. People showed me old photographs of Dexter. I helped Dee Lynn protect her shark tooth fossils from a handsy toddler, then identified a LeFaucheux pinfire revolver and pronounced its value with only a tiny hint from Dee Lynn. I took a request from a woman seeking a cavalry saber like her great-great-grandfather wore at the Battle of Bull Run, then discussed the intricacies of rolling your own black powder charges.

And I sold hell out of that underwear, the handmade socks and t-shirts too. By the time lunch was over, I had twenty new orders. My cousin in Alabama would be very busy for the next few weeks.

The hours passed quickly, and I fell into the rhythm. When four-thirty came around, I did a quick tally of my receipt book. Lo and behold, it looked pretty full. I closed the book with a satisfied snap as my next customer stepped to the table.

I smiled and looked up. “How can I help you?”

But this was no customer—it was Jasper. He held himself aloof from the rest of the milling crowd, a thick menacing presence in camo and heavy boots. Built strong and solid like his older brother, but edgier, less stable. From the way his jacket bunched, I guessed he was in violation of the “no loaded firearms” rule.

He fingered my samples. “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Not here.” He pointed toward the vendor’s private area. “Over there looks good.”

“Sorry. I’ve got customers.”

Jasper leaned forward. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a message.”

“Then deliver it.” I leaned forward too. “But you’d best drop the threatening mannerisms or my boyfriend will have you up against that wall in three seconds.”

Jasper looked Trey’s way, and Trey looked back. Hard. Jasper did a quick calculation, then cut his eyes back at me. They were Boone’s eyes, but callous and humorless.

His mouth twisted. “How fast you think he can get over here?”

“Lay a hand on me and you’ll find out.”

He laughed. “You always let your man fight your battles?”

“He fights everybody’s battles. It’s who he is. Now say what you came to say. I’ve got work to do.”

Jasper put his hands on his hips. He stood with his feet spread wide, taking up room. Alpha male posturing. And though it was stunt behavior, Jasper was capable of delivering. I crossed my fingers and prayed he wouldn’t.

“You made a mistake yesterday,” he said. “You thought you saw Winston meeting Gerard Dupre, but you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. I told the cops all about it.”

“I know. They’ve been in contact with Mr. Dupre, who explained that he was sitting at his own table at that café, with his own associates. He was not meeting Winston Cargill there because he had no business with that individual, and he has no idea who shot him. So the next time you make an official statement, that’s what you need to say.”

Jasper’s words had all the precise delivery of a memorized speech. I was trying hard to keep my emotions in check. Anger warred with caution, disgust and curiosity mingled like oil and water.

“I told them what I saw,” I replied. “That’s what I’ll tell them again. Take that to your associates. Tell them burning crosses and grown men playing dress-up don’t scare me.”

I kept my voice steady. Across the room, Trey stood at attention, shoulders dropped, hands loose. Not turning a blind eye, but not barging over and slamming Jasper into the suspect prone position either. Occupying the middle ground.

Jasper was also calm. “I’ll tell them you said exactly that. But you’d best reconsider. Lots of things burn besides crosses.”

He gave me a twisted smile and headed for the exit. Trey watched him leave, then raised one eyebrow at me. I shook my head, my brain buzzing. So the KKK had something to hide too—they didn’t want it known that their Grand Wizard was meeting Winston, and they especially didn’t want that briefcase being associated with them.

I reached for my Coke, and noticed for the first time that my hands were shaking violently, and not from fear. From anger. I wanted nothing more than to march over to the KKK’s table and wipe it clean with a swipe of my arm. I imagined I wasn’t alone in that. But I also knew the Klan wasn’t alone either. They had their numbers in any crowd—cops and lawyers, teachers and politicians, CEOs and ministers. They were invisible but ever-present, like hatred itself.

So I stayed at my table until closing time. I filled my last thirty minutes debating the morals of battlefield excavations with one of Dee Lynn’s customers. I sold the last pair of my underwear and took the contact information of a man who claimed he had a real pair to sell. Through it all, I smiled, and smiled some more.

I did not look at the KKK table. I did not move from my seat. And I did not investigate. Not one bit.

Chapter Thirty-five

Back at the hotel, we sent the boxes up with the bellhop and took the elevator to our room. I was exhausted, but Trey remained insistent that I tell him everything about my encounter with Jasper.

“Did he say anything else?”

“No, just that one threatening message.”

Trey was on full seethe. “I’m filling out a 302 on him as soon as we get to the room. If he shows up at the ball tonight, I’m calling in the authorities.”

“Here’s the thing,” I said as the elevator rose. “Why would the KKK be interested in a Bible signed by Lincoln and Sherman, the two biggest enemies of the Confederate cause, especially if every piece of evidence is demonstrating it’s a forgery? It makes no sense.”

Trey didn’t reply. His ears were listening, but his eyes were scanning every corner with paranoid intensity. He was also snippy and noncommunicative and getting on my last nerve. I took a deep breath. All we had to do was get through the ball, and we could go back to Atlanta.

I checked the time. “When do you have to fetch Reynolds?”

“I don’t. Marisa is escorting him there.”

I got a little twitch of vengeful satisfaction at the thought of seeing Marisa in antebellum fashion. The woman would do anything for Phoenix, even pull a Scarlett O’Hara and make a ball gown out of the curtains if necessary.

The elevator dinged, and we stepped into the hall. I shook out my ponytail. “You shower, I’ve got to—”

“Stop.” Trey froze, one hand on my stomach. “There’s someone outside our room.”

I peered toward the end of the hall. Sure enough, I saw a flicker of movement. Someone—dark-clothed, furtive—hid behind the cart of shampoo and towels parked near our door.

“Housekeeping?” I suggested.

“No.” Trey’s hand moved toward the H&K. “Get back in the elevator.”

“But—”

“Now.”

I pushed the button, but the elevator had already moved to another floor. I pushed it again, spread my hands in frustration.
Now what?

He flattened his palm and pushed it down.
Stay here.
Then he took two steps forward, hand hovering at his beltline.

“You behind the cart,” he said. “Move into the open. Hands in the air. Slowly.”

After only a second’s hesitation, a man stepped into the open. Instead of staying put, however, he hurried in our direction. Trey’s hand went under this jacket. At that moment, I recognized our visitor, even if his navy suit was disheveled and his white-capped grin nowhere to be seen.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” I grabbed Trey’s elbow. “It’s that guy, what’s-his-name, the Harrington’s authenticator!”

“Who?”

“David Fitzhugh. I met him at Audrina’s tea.”

Fitzhugh, oblivious to the danger, kept walking until he was standing two feet away. He was sweaty and wild-eyed, his complexion waxy, like a man on the verge of fainting.

“Do you have it?” he blurted. “Because if you do, for the love of God give it to them before they kill me too!”

Trey looked at me, puzzled. He put his hands on his hips, and I relaxed a little. I stepped between him and Fitzhugh and walked to our door.

I fished in my tote bag for the keycard. “You’d better come inside, Mr. Fitzhugh, before you get ventilated. Then we can have a talk about why you’re lurking outside our hotel room.”

***

Fitzhugh and I sat on the sofa. I had Jack on ice. He took his straight. Trey stuck with Pellegrino, and hung out near the curtained window.

“First off,” I said, “we don’t have the Bible. It was stolen by an elite sniper team. Didn’t you see the news?”

“Of course I did! But somebody seems to think I have it. I got back to my hotel room this afternoon, and it had been searched. Suitcases dumped out, drawers emptied.”

“But how do you know it was the Bible they were looking for?”

“Because they called me later and said so! They said I had twenty-four hours, or I’d get a bullet in the brain, just like Winston!”

I looked at Trey. He nodded. That was the truth.

This was making no sense. The bad guys had the Bible, after all. They killed Winston and snatched it. Why would they be searching for it in Fitzhugh’s room?

I poured myself another shot. “Let’s start at the beginning. You’re in Savannah chasing that Bible, correct?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“But in Atlanta, you called it a wild goose chase.”

“I thought it was. But then Winston contacted me, the day after you came to Miss Harrington’s. He’d seen me on television too, and he wanted to know if I had a client with the funds to afford something really special. Then he told me about the Bible. Two people, same story? That made me reconsider my assessment. So I arranged a meeting with him, here in Savannah.” He stared at his drink. “I told him you were looking for it as well, to claim it for John Wilde.”

I frowned. “Now why did you do that?”

“I thought that might incline him toward selling it more quickly.” Fitzhugh’s expression grew canny. “I had the feeling he had other buyers lined up, and I needed to remind him that I could outbid you and anyone else, easily, should the item prove to be authentic.”

I cursed. So that was how Winston and Hope had known Trey and I were at the Westin. Fitzhugh had spilled everything.

“So you’ve seen it?”

“More than that. I’ve actually held it in my hands.” He swirled his drink, staring into the amber liquid. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t worth my time.”

“It’s not real, is it?”

He shook his head, and I felt a stab of disappointment. All this time and energy chasing a phantom, and it turned out to be another special effect. Like the villains in sheets and roller skates on Scooby Doo.

“The Bible itself is authentic,” he continued, “a fine example of an Oxford King James. Slightly foxed but in otherwise excellent condition. However, the handwriting on the inscription isn’t representative of Mr. Lincoln’s, and the aging is suspicious, probably enhanced. I declined to buy it and told him why.”

I looked at Trey. Trey nodded. So this much was true too.

“When was this?”

“Monday.”

Then it hit me. “It was you, wasn’t it? You were the one following me on River Street when I went to see Winston for the first time. I almost caught you, but you ducked into the alley and escaped.”

He shook his head. “That was me, yes, but I was there for the Bible, not you. I’d left Winston’s shop and was trying to get back to my hotel unseen. I was avoiding you, not following you.”

I sipped my Jack, thinking hard. “So explain this to me. If that Bible is fake, then why are you still here and not back in Atlanta?”

Another hesitation. “I had further business here.”

“Doing what?”

“What I always do—searching for artifacts to enhance Miss Harrington’s collection.”

“I didn’t see you at the Expo.”

His lips tightened in a supercilious line. “I prefer private transactions with individuals, not dealers.”

“Oh, you mean those people who bring you…what was it you said? Deliberate fakes and sentimental slop?”

“I prefer that to over-priced trinkets from dubious salespeople.”