Trophies (32 page)

She retrieved the old scrapbook from beneath
the wilting roses. Setting it on her knees, she opened it to that
first black-and-white photo of the intense young man. She paused,
then flipped to another photo, almost at the back.

The same man descended a broad flight of
white steps. Again he wore a dark suit, with light shirt and
elegant inconspicuous tie, this time adding a Homburg and an
expensive coat draped over his arm. He watched his feet as if
ignoring the cameraman; even across the distance and through the
years, rage glittered in his slitted eyes.

"This man's name," Caren said, "was Basil
Glendower. He was a stockbroker in the City of London."

"I've heard that name somewhere before." I
shut my eyes and tried to think, but my tired and stressed brain
was not cooperative. "I just can't recall where. Help me out,
Patty? I think it was Aunt Edith who mentioned it."

But Patricia shook her head. "I've never
heard it before."

"So what about him?" Lindsay asked.

Caren compressed her lips. "This scrapbook
contains newspaper clippings — stories about a series of burglaries
in England over a two-year period about thirty years ago. We're not
discussing the family silver or credit cards here. Only gemstones
and jewelry were stolen and only collectors' items, in the category
of the Hope diamond, the Waterford Blue, the Star of India, stuff
like that."

"Whoa." Lindsay sat back.

Bonnie took advantage of Lindsay's
distraction and stretched over more of the sofa. "The sort of stuff
Richard Burton bought for Elizabeth Taylor."

"Yes," Caren said. "The last robbery went
south. The thief murdered a guard who'd just been added to the
manor's security staff. Scotland Yard never caught the thief. They
never found the murder weapon nor the stolen jewelry." She took a
deep breath and returned the scrapbook to the coffee table. "Those
are the facts. The press, of course, had a field day and printed
all sorts of rumors. Basil Glendower was one of the people asked in
for questioning. Because he was the most prominent and respectable
of the suspects, he was the one the press concentrated on, and they
trashed his name and reputation. Scotland Yard did not reveal their
evidence. Glendower fled England and vanished before he could be
charged, some people said because the scandal the press created
ruined him. The last article says he killed himself."

I did not like that tale and could sit still
no longer. Across the room hung the photograph of Aunt Edith and
Uncle Hubert on their wedding day, on the far wall beyond the
sideboard. He was a bit portly even then, hair already lightening
and thinning, pompous and wonderful in his penguin suit and
mustache. She was stunning — there was no other possible word for
it — in that royal sweep of white silk, her arms full of lavender,
black hair gloriously unbound and decorated with glints of jewels
to echo the thousands of seed pearls sewn into the bodice and
purple-slashed princess sleeves of her gown. For some reason I
never liked seeing that photo hang off kilter, which it often did,
and straightened it now more out of habit than anything else.

"Why, why ever would Aunt Edith have
something like that?" I gestured to the scrapbook.

Caren met my gaze without flinching. "She
would have been Glendower's contemporary. She would have moved in
the same level of society and might have known him."

The circle of society that had rejected her,
I wanted to say. But suddenly I wondered why it had done so, what
they knew that I didn't. I stayed silent.

Sherlock shifted and said it for me. "And, if
she got her hands on the murder weapon and the dead security
guard's uniform jacket, she could have blackmailed Glendower and
maybe contributed to his suicide." He turned to Patricia. "And
that's why I've got to know what those financial records mean. If
I'm correct, we've reached the heart of this mystery and you should
find some deposits from Glendower among Edith Hunter's transactions
up to the point where he killed himself. Bonnie, I know this isn't
your sort of thing, but give Patricia here all the help you can,
okay? This is what we have to figure out next."

Bonnie's lip curled, but she nodded. "I
wonder if we can get his fingerprints. We should check them against
the ones on that Browning."

"But the Suburban—" Lindsay began.

Sherlock gently cut her off. "The hell with
the Suburban, Lindsay. He's just after Robbie and we can deal with
that."

"Oh, you're sweet, you are," Patricia
said.

"Seriously, that's Mister Suburban's Achilles
heel. He's after Robbie, for whatever reason. We keep Robbie
surrounded, in a car, what have you, and we keep him safe. Then
Mister Suburban can do his worst and we'll catch him."

I knew he was right but still wanted to hit
him.

"Meeting adjourned," Sherlock said. "I'll
take first watch. Bonnie, you're mid-shift, and Robbie, you're dawn
patrol. Okay? Let's get some sleep, people." He stood and
stretched. "Wherever you can find room to spread out."

We moved Sherlock into my old bedroom with
me, leaving the guest suite for Caren and Bonnie, and Theresa when
she arrived, and crowded Lindsay in with Patricia. Aunt Edith's
suite we left empty; no one even suggested using it.

It took a long time for me to sleep, even
though I knew Bonnie would rouse me for sentry duty all too soon. I
still stared into the night when Sherlock came in from first shift
and slid into the double bed beside me; he snored within moments.
I'd seen Doctor Caren slip him some ibuprofen; headache, jarred
muscles from hitting me and the concrete, or both — I wasn't about
to ask.

The threat to my career was bad enough, with
Sherlock now aware of how hard I fought the manifestations of PTSD
to maintain my stability, much less my competence. But the subjects
I couldn't exorcise from my thoughts were Father and Aunt Edith.
She'd seduced me with her glamorous wickedness and shady ways, and
only now did I fully appreciate that. She'd stolen me from my
father heart and soul. And I'd let her, showing no more loyalty for
my family than love. Seventeen years after the fact, I finally felt
the shame that deserved.

But my change of allegiance from the
home-country side of the family to the exiled side did not change
the fact that Father left me there. He never returned to Boston for
me. What had she said to convince — or force — him to leave me with
her? What could possibly coerce a man to abandon his son? And did I
have any reason to forgive him for that abandonment?

Again I remembered that moment in the
gallery: I asked Father why, but he didn't understand the question.
His lack of comprehension was incomprehensible to me. He'd stranded
me in Boston as an Ellandun family exile and there was nothing
confusing about it.

And then there was William. Since his
arrival, he'd shown me no friendliness, made no advances, and even
attempted to convince Father not to approach me the night of the
gallery party. Granted, he'd been right and the evening had been an
unmitigated disaster because Father and Uncle Preston hadn't
listened. But if that was his attitude, why had he come at all and
why had he brought his family?

But what really kept me awake were my
memories, all too vivid, of the expressions on Trés' and Lindsay's
faces as they looked at me. It was the same expression I'd worn,
I'm certain, as I looked at Aunt Edith all those years ago. It was
the awe and hero worship of a young person watching someone new and
different from the humdrum of everyday, someone dangerous without
being scary. Someone who could, all too easily, become a role
model.

If I wanted revenge on William for his
bullying and contempt, it was the perfect opportunity. I could
steal his children away from him, the same way Aunt Edith had
seduced me away from Father.

And then I'd never feel alone again. Even if
Caren turned me down.

current time

Theresa was true to her word. She arrived
early, just after my telephone conversation with Detective
Wingate.

At first I thought we were under attack and
yanked the Colt .45 from my hidden holster. Then I realized it was
only someone pounding on the front door.

"That's gotta be Theresa," Sherlock said.
"Anyone sane would just use the doorbell." He rubbed his bloodshot
eyes. We hadn't drunk much of the hooch but it didn't take much of
that recipe to get serious results; if he'd had a headache last
night from driving, it was nothing compared to what he had to have
on this lovely morning after.

I put the Colt away and hurried to save the
door. I'd just gotten the house; I didn't want it destroyed
yet.

When I yanked the door open, she had drawn
back her fist for another go and was just starting her forward
swing. I ducked. She froze, blue eyes wide, looking wholesome and
innocent as the fruits and nuts and flakes in granola.

"Coffee?" she whimpered.

I pointed and got out of her way.

She went. Her nose was in the air, surely a
better guide than my vague arm.

I grabbed her backpack and, gingerly, a large
brown salesman's sample case, set them inside, closed and locked
the door, and followed.

Bonnie had poured the last mugful, set it
before Theresa, and was making a fresh pot. I hurried to move the
cream and sugar closer. We knew from bitter experience that Theresa
in this condition was best kept sweet. Okay, all of us were a
little off home base in one manner or another. She was way off, and
without sleep or patience she might blow the ball park.

"You did leave that plane in one piece?"
Sherlock alone was immune to her implicit background threat.
Granted, he was immune to everyone's.

She surfaced from a first swallow that left
the mug half drained and surely scalded her mouth. "Was I supposed
to?"

I went for ice cubes and ignored Caren's and
Patty's stares. When they knew her better, they'd understand.

Theresa didn't look dangerous. Tight short
curls framed her narrow face, her skin was pale and her complexion
good, her cheekbones wide and her nose aquiline. A perky little
Clara Bow mouth balanced out strong and mischievous blue eyes, all
roughened a bit at the edges, and her natural grace spoke to the
male animal in me. The overall effect was delicate, rather like
porcelain china that's been buffed by the wind, and I used to fight
to sit beside her.

That day she wore a fitted one-piece flight
suit with pockets at every available spot, some complete with
lumps, and the grungiest jump boots I'd ever seen. If anyone else
had worn them, I wouldn't have allowed them in the house. Theresa
grew up in the Nevada silver mines, where she'd been introduced to
explosives. Now she lived in a double-wide in the high plains of
West Texas, where she worked maintaining oil pumping platforms,
pretended to be an artist, manufactured jewelry that actually made
great Christmas gifts — the sterling silver in particular looked
lovely on Patricia — and adopted every stray cat, dog, cow, and
scorpion in the county. Her house and workshop were spotless — I've
seen them and can vouch for it — mainly because she never wore her
shoes indoors. General Chules had once come down on her about the
lack of shine on her shoes; she hadn't polished any of them
since.

"Can you listen and slurp at the same time?"
Sherlock asked.

Bonnie and I flinched. But Theresa only
nodded.

Sherlock briefed her on our investigation.
She listened silently — her ability to master the nuances of a
situation was as legendary as her pyromania — and drained half the
fresh pot of coffee. I pushed the hat box further into the shadows,
out of the way, and refilled her mug whenever she set it down, but
otherwise kept well back. It would take a better man than I, Gunga
Din, to open my mouth with Theresa in this mood.

Lindsay stared as if fascinated. Silently, I
scolded myself for even thinking of stealing her from William in
those insane midnight hours. She was a strong young woman, but
despite her high opinion of herself, she was only fifteen and she
needed her family. I'd keep my influence to a minimum. William and
Linda had enough on their plate without any interference from
me.

"So what's the plan for the day?" Theresa
finally asked.

Sherlock thought before answering, his
scarred and delicate hands wrapped around his own mug. "I need
Patricia to sort out those financial records, and I want Bonnie to
stay here for whatever help she can give and definitely for
protection. There's a police scene-of-crime forensics unit on its
way out here right now, to take fiber samples from the carpets,
collect fingerprints, stuff like that. When they're done here,
Caren and Robbie are going over to his condo with them to do the
same there. The reading of the lady's will is this afternoon.
Robbie and Lindsay and Patricia need to be there for that, and I
want to go along just to meet the rest of the family and see them
in action. Meanwhile, Lindsay and I are going to the hospital—"

"That's boring," Lindsay said.

"—mainly because if someone comes around to
finish the job on her brother, I'd like to be there for the
attempt. I mean, we know he doesn't remember who shot him but
supposedly the murderer doesn't."

"Do you expect anything?" Patricia asked, her
expression wary.

He shrugged. "His memory could come back to
him. The security guard was shot in the back while he locked the
front door, so he didn't see anything." He cocked his head at
Theresa. "So which group do you want to join?"

She slurped, set her mug down, and I refilled
it. "You hauled me all the way to Boston for guard duty?"

"You want to go back and call artillery
shots?"

"Point made." She added more cream. "What
about the possibility of tracking that Suburban? Or the Impala, for
that matter?"