Nightwork, page 36
“What if I’d woken up and you weren’t here? I’d’ve been worried, upset.”
“You’re right. I’m not used to having someone who’ll worry or be upset. Maybe you could grade me on a curve for now.”
“For now,” she said, and took his face in her hands. “But the curve isn’t endless.”
“Got it.” He rose, wrapped his arms around her. “I’m a pretty fast learner.”
“Good, because I intend to educate you. But for now I imagine you have work to deal with.”
“A couple things, yeah.”
“You can add this if it’s helpful.” She took a flash drive out of her pocket. “It’s everything I found on the Red Goddess. I imagine you already know all of it. How it was mined in Western Australia eighty-four years ago, its weight, its worth then and now, and so on. The untimely end of Carl Santis, the owner of the mine, before he completed the sale of the stone to a Lady Jane Dubois, a wealthy British aristocrat.”
He knew the story, and all its varieties, but let her tell it.
“The unfortunate owner’s partner then put the stone up for auction,” Miranda continued, “and Lady Jane, apparently determined, ended up paying nearly eight hundred pounds a carat—or about four million pounds more than the original agreed-on price.”
“Santis needed the cash flow, and set the original price too low.”
“And was likely murdered by his partner, but they never proved that. I suspect money changed hands to keep him in the clear.”
Booth smiled. “Do you?”
“Clearly. In any case, the surely murderous partner absconded with the money, leaving the mine and Santis’s family in dire financial straits. The oldest son committed suicide, the daughter died in childbirth, the younger son fled to America and was never heard from again.”
“Victims—if you buy into it—of the Curse of the Red Goddess.”
“A lot of tragedy for one family inside a year. And the partner ended up floating facedown in New York’s East River shortly thereafter.”
“Some pin that on the younger son, some on the Goddess.”
“Dead either way,” Miranda finished. “Then came the weeklong house party at Lady Jane’s estate, which was supposed to conclude with the cutting of the stone by the experts she’d engaged.”
“She set it up like theater,” Booth put in. “Had the press there, fellow aristocrats, servants, security. A stupid, indulgent show of wealth and privilege.”
“She paid for it, didn’t she, as the stone disappeared never to be—officially—seen again. Major investigation, of course, and not a trace. I’d look at you”—Miranda tapped a hand on his chest—“but you weren’t born at the time.”
“Reincarnation?”
“Always a possibility. Anyway, I added in the multitude of conspiracy theories, the mythos, the curses, the supposed mystical powers of the stone—the Goddess’s revenge, among others. The various accounts of sightings over the last seventy-five years. And I have a question.”
“I can’t promise to have the answer, but go ahead.”
“Obviously LaPorte’s seen the stone, had it authenticated. Why in the eight decades since it was dug out of the mine hasn’t anyone taken this big, ugly lump of rock and had it sensibly cut into bright, shiny, beautiful stones?”
It took him a moment to find his voice. “Ugly lump?”
“Well, yes. It’s just…” She held out her hands, palms up, to mimic holding it. “A big, dull lump.”
He couldn’t respond until he found the breath she’d knocked out of him.
“There’s nothing like it in the world. It’s the only one of its kind.”
“There’s only one Red Shield, right? The five point eleven carat red diamond cut from the Moussaieff Red. And it’s stunning. Maybe I don’t care for the setting, but that’s just personal taste. But people have murdered for this lump of carbon and never revealed what it holds. It’s like Michelangelo leaving David inside the massive slab of marble.”
He decided he needed to sit down. “That’s one school of thought.”
“Obviously not yours. What is yours?”
“It’s pure, Miranda. It’s a legend. If you read into that legend, you know it’s said that anyone who’s planned to or attempted to cut it met with one of those untimely ends.”
“I’d let out an amused laugh and say you don’t actually believe that, but I see you do. You who scoff at psychics.”
“I don’t scoff, and I don’t not believe it. Lady Jane died of influenza three months after the Goddess was stolen from her. Josh Stein, the expert she hired to cut the stone, died in a car crash—a single-car crash—outside London only weeks later. The two assistants with him at Lady Jane’s both died within the year.
“That’s a serious run of bad luck, and doesn’t include others believed to have been hired after the theft who ended up dead.”
“So you do buy into it.”
“A pattern’s a pattern. I respect a pattern.”
“But you’re not worried about stealing it?”
“I’m not going to cut it or hire anyone to. If LaPorte plans to—and I doubt it—he’s not going to get to keep it anyway.”
“Who will? You’ve never said.”
“I’m guessing that’s going to be a long, protracted battle between the authorities and anyone claiming to be one of Lady Jane’s heirs. She bought it. Then again, Santis’s heirs could try a claim. Not my circus by that point.”
“It belongs in a museum.”
“And I don’t not believe that. It won’t be my call.”
“What if it were?”
“I’d opt for the museum. I think—and you can hold the amused laugh—I think she wants to be seen, admired, respected.”
“I’m not laughing, and I have an idea on how we could—possibly—make that happen. Do you know any forgers?”
Baffled, he frowned. “Maybe.”
“What if, on her deathbed, Lady Jane saw the error of her ways and left instructions regarding her wishes for the Red Goddess? Explicit instructions, witnessed and certified by her attorney. Like a codicil to her will. And what if that codicil suddenly came to light?”
Maybe it seemed like something out of a Gothic novel, but … he liked gothic novels. “It’d be a hell of a coincidence.”
“True, but … not our circus.”
He swiveled right and left in his chair. Details, he considered. More details.
“Let me think about it.”
“Do that.” She set the flash drive on his desk.
He would think about it, he decided. If he could work it, it would be something he could do for her as much as for the Goddess.
Any document like it would undergo thorough examination and authentication. The paper, the ink, the seal, over and above the handwriting. If he could work it, it would cost him—time and money. But, if he made it work, worth it.
A kind of justice, he thought. Righting wrongs.
But first he had to get the stone, and he wanted more than blueprints. He wanted a good look inside the house.
He had some ideas on that, and, swiveling to his desk, began to water seeds he’d already planted.
* * *
The show came first, and he wouldn’t let his kids down, so he set all he could aside for the week before opening night.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t take a hike in the woods on a Saturday morning. With Miranda, as she refused to let him shake her off.
“Keep any conversation light. We’re just taking a morning walk.”
“I’ve got it, Booth.” She took his hand when they stepped outside into cool April air. “You should get a dog.”
“I work all day.”
“It just feels like a walk in the woods should have a cheerful dog trotting along with you. A big, goofy dog, that’s your type.”
“Big and goofy’s my type?” She’d nailed it—him—and that baffled him.
“For dogs, yes. One that likes to swim so he could play in the river. Everything’s getting green.” She took a deep breath of spring as they took the beaten path through the trees. “Your lilacs are glorious. Birds are singing. I like that you have bird feeders set up in the yard. I should do that at the rental.”
“They have some nice ones in town,” he told her. He’d already spotted two cameras, and expected to see more. “But you’re only here for a few more months.”
“Oh, you never know.” She said it breezily, sent him a coy look.
The first time, he thought, he’d ever seen coy on her face. She did a damn good job of it.
“I can write anywhere, after all, and I’ve gotten really fond of the area. Especially my neighbors.”
He kissed the top of her head, and deliberately rolled his eyes over it for the camera.
“We—I mean you—should really think about getting that dog. Can’t you just see a happy Lab maybe running around the woods, splashing in the river?”
“Tracking mud through the house, barking at squirrels.”
She laughed, elbow poked him. “Oh, you!”
“Oh, me.”
He felt it—someone watching, and not just by the cameras. And he heard it—the faint rustle, the quiet footsteps. He didn’t react, just draped an arm around Miranda’s shoulders.
“I don’t have a lot of time today. I’ve got tech this afternoon.”
“Opening night on Friday. I can’t wait to see what you’ve done.”
“It’s about the kids.”
“Of course, but you’re guiding them through it. I love how dedicated you are to— Did you hear something?”
“It’s probably a—” He broke off when the woman stepped onto the path.
She had a camera on a strap around her neck and a camera bag on her shoulder he suspected held more than lenses. Lean to the point she looked whittled down to muscle and speed, she stood in hiking boots, jeans, and a camo hoodie with a black ball cap over her short black hair.
“I’m so sorry.” She held up her hands in apology. “Did I cross the line?”
He caught the faintest accent buried in her voice. She hadn’t completely eradicated her Arkansas roots.
He gave her an easy smile, but made sure she’d see suspicion in his eyes. “What line?”
“The property line. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m Lori Slade. We’ve rented the bungalow.” She gestured vaguely. “I’m a photographer. I was taking some shots. I didn’t mean to trespass.”
“No problem, as long as you’re taking shots with a camera. We’re not real fussy about property lines. Sebastian Booth.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“Miranda Emerson. I think I drove by the day y’all moved in. Welcome to the Rappahannock.”
“Thanks. It’s beautiful. Just what I was after for my project. I heard what I think was a woodpecker earlier, and I grabbed my equipment, but I haven’t found it.”
“Get yourself a suet feeder,” Booth suggested, all friendly neighbor. “They’ll come around.”
“Suet? I’ll look into that. Thanks. I should get back. I didn’t even tell my husband I was going out.”
“Enjoy your weekend,” Miranda called out as the woman slipped away again. “She gave me a start.”
Booth just shrugged. “I don’t know why anybody who could afford that Nikon rented a dump like that bungalow. But it takes all kinds. We should get back, too. I’ve got some chores before I head into school.”
“You and your Saturday chores.” She hooked an arm around his waist as they turned back. “You know, you could hire someone to clean your house.”
“It’s good mind-clearing work.”
“But kayaking tomorrow, right? I’m going into town to get my own today.”
“Sure. That’s mind-clearing recreation.”
“The new neighbor? She’s beautiful. I don’t think she had a speck of makeup on. And she looked so slim and competent. Didn’t she?”
“Can’t say I noticed.” Booth kissed the top of her head again, rolled his eyes again. “I like redheads.”
She giggled, snuggled against him as they walked back to the house.
When he closed the door behind them, Miranda turned to him. “That was her. That was—”
“Selene Warwick.” He hung his light jacket in the mudroom, gestured for Miranda to hand hers over. “Born in the Ozarks. Got her start in the drug trade—transporting and distributing, not using. Graduated to murder for hire before she was legally old enough to drink. She’s damn good at what she does.”
“I meant what I said about her being beautiful. She is. But it’s hard.” When she caught herself rubbing the chill from her arms, she stopped. “Everything about her reads hard, and a little scary.”
“You were a little scary yourself.” He moved into the kitchen, got Cokes for both of them. “All coy, clinging, and saccharine.”
“Since all three go against my nature, I thought I pulled it off.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Do you think she pokes around in the woods regularly, hoping to run into you?”
“She doesn’t have to with the cameras letting her know if I walk in.”
“You saw cameras?”
“I spotted four before she decided to cross paths.”
“I’m pretty observant, and I didn’t see any.” She frowned, sipped at the Coke. “That’s annoying.”
“Don’t walk in there alone. The job’s to keep watch, but no point taking chances. I do have tech,” he added, “and the chores.”
“I’ll help with the chores. That’s what a coy, clinging, saccharine woman who’s determined to bag you would do.”
“Great. Let’s go strip the bed. You can put on fresh sheets while I start the laundry. While we’re cleaning, I’ll tell you about the appointment I have two weeks from today with Mrs. Mountjoy.”
“You—you have an appointment with the people you’re going to steal from?”
“I’ll tell you about it,” he repeated.
When they kayaked the next day, Booth made sure they glided past the bungalow. He spotted Cannery in the yard, sent out a wave—a casual, hi-neighbor sort of gesture. Cannery lifted his in return, the same tone, added a kind of smirk.
Then he set all that aside to enjoy a couple of hours on the river with Miranda.
She wore a broad-brimmed hat—a redhead’s shield against the sun—and had strong, smooth strokes with the paddle. He relaxed as the river took them through sun and shade. One quiet afternoon, he thought, with deer grazing silently in the woods, a couple of boys sitting on rocks with their lines in the water, a hawk circling, endlessly patient, overhead.
“It really is beautiful here,” Miranda said. “I’ve been so busy, or just haven’t taken the time. I haven’t been in a kayak for a year.”
“You haven’t lost your stroke. When there’s more time, we can take a long one, head down to the bay. I can get someone to pick us up, drive us back.”
She shot him a look. “What, do you think I can’t handle the return trip?”
“It’s a long one,” he repeated. “Maybe … we could book a room, make it a weekend deal.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“When this is all taken care of. Like, toward the end of August.”
She tipped down her sunglasses. “I’ll pencil you in. It’s interesting that we’re having this really lovely interlude as if it’s all we have to do or think about.”
“Today, it is.” He reached across the water to take her hand. “Let’s take today.”
* * *
Chaos reigned backstage on opening night. Nerves, the shaky edge of hysteria, breathless (sometimes literally) excitement played together in a crazed concert as teenagers donned costumes, applied makeup, worked hair into the style of the sixties.
Dancers stretched, singers vocalized.
Booth did his best to be everywhere at once. He calmed nerves, dried a few anxiety tears, walked through cues with the crew and his stage manager.
A peek from the wings showed him the house filling up, and filling up nicely. Among the familiar faces he saw Miranda, program in hand, chatting with Lorna and Cesca.
He heard the call: Fifteen minutes to curtain. Fifteen minutes.
He walked through for another check and spotted Louis—now known as Lou—with the rest of the black-clad stagehands. One of the gang now, Booth thought. He checked costumes, makeup, the soundboard, the lighting board, checked on props.
He checked everything.
Then he called the cast together, a circle of nervous glee.
“Okay, gang, this is it. You’ve done the work, and I’m proud of every one of you. Now it’s time for the payoff. You’re not just going to take the stage, you’re going to take the night. Are you ready?”
He got a chorus of Yeah! We’re ready! Damn right! and stretched a hand into the circle’s center. Hands joined his, slapped together.
“Are you ready?”
Louder now, hands gripping hands.
“Then take it! Three, two, one.”
Hands flew up on shouts.
“Places,” he said, and took his own in the wings.
He waited, watched his kids take their positions onstage.
“Dim the house lights. Open us up, Marlie.”
“Good evening, and welcome to Westbend High School’s production of Michael Stewart’s Bye Bye Birdie, with music by Charles Strouse, lyrics by Lee Adams. Please turn off your cell phones and refrain from any flash photography or Principal Downey will personally scold you. You don’t want that. Now sit back and enjoy the show.”
“Curtain,” Booth said, and knew every one of the cast and crew thrilled to the sound of applause. He cued the light on Kim and her friend, opposite sides of the stage, old-fashioned phones in hand for the opening dialogue.
Then the ringing phone, the lights washing over the cubicle center stage. More applause with voices rising over it. What’s the story, morning glory? What’s the tale, nightingale?
Booth thought: Knock ’em dead.
Controlled chaos now backstage as kids scrambled off, stagehands hurried on for scene changes. He heard laughter from the audience—at the right moments. Robust applause after every number.
