Ashes to Ashes (16 page)

Rebecca’s heart sank. He couldn’t have sold the Erskine letter. Michael leaned his chin on his hand and his elbow on the table.

“But I think there really were some things taken,” the sheriff went on. “After all these years half the people in Putnam probably have keys to the house. Had keys, that is.” He drained his cider and drew his clipboard across the table. “All right. Let me take down the information. Dr. Campbell said something about you and a chair, Miss Reid.”

Rebecca filled the sheriff in, concluding, “— so Phil took the pieces to the shed.” It all sounded foolish now, almost as much as stories of footsteps, objects moved around, and lights going on and off by themselves.

“The way I see it,” said Michael into his fist, “a few odd bits of hauntin’ are happenstance. A broken chair and a room mucked about might be coincidence. But the missin’ mazer— now that’s enemy action.”

Rebecca grinned. “Very tidy summary. Thank you.”

“Sounds good to me,” Lansdale commented, scribbling away.

“Dr. Campbell,” said Eric, plunking his cup down on the table, “why don’t you take care of the formal reports. I’d like Rebecca to show me her room, just in case you— she— missed anything.”

Michael’s eyes gazed unblinkingly out over his knuckles, hard and cold as blue srctic ice. “Very well, Mr. Adler, why don’t I do just that?”

Eric seized Rebecca’s elbow and whisked her out of the room. “Is Campbell always like that?” he hissed when they were halfway up the stairs.

“No. Mostly to you, I think. How do you expect him to act when you practically accuse him of taking the mazer? Why didn’t you accuse me as well? I had almost as much opportunity as he did.”

“You don’t have the museum background he does,” Eric reasoned. He glanced around Rebecca’s room, spending a moment or two inspecting smudges on the typewriter and clock.

“Yes,” she said, “there’re probably fingerprints. You know typewriter ribbons— the ink gets all over everything. But it was Michael who tidied them up… . “She stopped in midphrase. “All right, even if you got any good prints off those smudges, half of them would be Michael’s.”

Eric’s lips thinned. He seized her coat from the wardrobe and bundled her into it. “Come on. I want to talk to you. Up here.”

She buttoned the coat, feeling both gratified and betrayed that his polished veneer could not only be scratched but gouged. He steered her to the sixth floor, then up the steps to a tiny room just beneath the roof platform whose broken windows were lined with birds’ nests. Even in the chill draft the room smelled of droppings and decay. When the trapdoor in the ceiling slammed open a brief riot of chirps and flutters erupted from above. Then there was only the moan of the wind.

Guided by Eric’s hand, Rebecca climbed the ladder onto the roof. Fine raindrops struck her face like a slap. And yet the view from the platform was spectacular. She could see all the way to the rooftops of Putnam, brown and green smeared into a uniform gray. The dark crimson of the trees below her was muted by the mist. Shadowed land and overcast sky blended so subtly at the horizon that Dun Iain seemed to be encapsulated in a huge murky crystal ball. It was frightening and exhilarating at once— just like the last few days.

She stood cautiously in the very center of the platform, her ponytail flapping like a banner, and considered Eric. He was certainly masterful, the proverbial iron fist in a velvet glove. She wasn’t sure she appreciated that. She’d have to see how he handled this crisis.

He stood right at the low balustrade, surveying the landscape laid out at his feet like Napoleon plotting new conquests. “Sorry for the bum’s rush,” he said. “The walls inside have ears.” One corner of his mouth tucked itself into his cheek, acknowledging that he wasn’t quite joking.

“They have eyes and noses, too, I think,” Rebecca returned. “But aren’t you overreacting just a little?”

“Probably. Making a living in the law courts doesn’t do much for your opinion of human nature.”

“Whose nature? Michael’s?”

“I ought to call Edinburgh and make sure he is who he says he is.”

“But you wrote to him just like you wrote to me!”

“I wrote to a Michael Campbell, yes.”

“Sure, the international art thief bumps off the old professor and takes his identity,” she groaned. “Michael knows his history too well to be an imposter, for one thing.”

“He’s a foreigner… ” Eric stopped short at Rebecca’s frown.

“Then we should give him the benefit of the doubt. I have.”

“Oh, I see that you have,” Eric said softly. “How did he manage to convince you of his sincerity?”

Rebecca turned her back on him, planted her hands in her pockets, pulled her head like a turtle into her collar, and looked out across the lawn behind the house. A few scraggly flower beds showed where once had been a formal garden. Surely she wasn’t defending Michael just because he liked the maudlin old songs. “Like I said last night,” she answered, grasping at some reason, any reason. “Intuition. He can be pretty obnoxious, but he just doesn’t seem to be any more a criminal than anyone else around here. And it’s not fair to pick on him because he’s not an American.”

The wind wept and wailed. Rebecca shivered, her entire body clenched like a fist; she’d contradicted him, now he wouldn’t like her anymore.

“You’re right,” Eric said, and she spun back around. His stern, arrogant mask cracked into a rueful grimace. The wind tousled the dark strands of hair across his brow, making him look less formidable. “Keep reminding me that I can act pretty obnoxious, too. There’re hazards to having been trained in adversarial relationships.”

“Oh,” said Rebecca. “I see.”

“I suppose a real international art thief would expect a better return on his efforts than some old bric a brac from a Victorian folly.”

“Unless the stories about treasure are true, and the mazer was taken just for an appetizer.”

Eric stiffened. A tiny flame flickered deep in his eyes. “Rebecca, I worked for James Forbes for three years. If there were anything to that treasure rumor don’t you think I’d know about it?”

She contemplated that flame. “Would you? Or are you denying the existence of a treasure because you’re hurt he wouldn’t tell you about it?”

He stared at her the same way Lansdale had stared at Michael. She could almost hear the gates opening and closing in his mind, computing comprehension.

“Who does know about it?” she went on. “Phil? Steve? Warren? What better cover than being the sheriff? What if Dorothy didn’t think her legacy was enough payment for all her work? How do I know you don’t have some scam going to rake off more than your fair share of the Forbes money?”

She stood with her mouth open, the damp, earthy wind scouring her teeth. My God. She’d actually said it. She snapped her mouth shut— too late, damn it— and waited for the deluge of contempt.

The flame in Eric’s eyes sparked and went out. He threw his head back and laughed. “You’re the devious one, aren’t you? Should we, just for the sake of argument, assume there is a treasure of some kind? Should we suspect everyone, even ourselves, of being after it?”

“Probably,” she replied. She felt as if she’d picked up a brick and found it to be papier-mache.

Still laughing, he opened his arms. She went into them. His jacket was freezing; shocked by her own boldness, she opened and dived beneath it to embrace the warmth of his shirt. His mouth wasn’t cold at all. Amazing, she managed to think, how comforting a hug and a kiss could be.

“Did James ever say that the place was haunted?” she asked at last, when Eric’s warm breath migrated to her ear.

“He was convinced of it. I’ll admit I never believed him. None of the ghosts ever performed for me.” He drew away, brows puckered. “Do you believe there are ghosts here?”

“I’m not sure. Michael has seen and heard some of the same things I have— if you’ll accept the consensus of a couple of social scientists, not parapsychologists.”

Eric shook his head, confused, she judged, and irritated at being confused. “Look, Rebecca, if you’re scared to stay here, maybe you could stay with your friend in town.”

“No, if I’m going to work here I need to be here. I’m not going to run away just because the place makes me a little nervous.”

He clasped her even more tightly. “But what if there’s real danger?”

“It’s probably dangerous standing up here! What isn’t dangerous? Driving on the freeway, eating pesticide-laced food… .”

A catcall wavered on the wind. Eric and Rebecca looked at each other, then over the balustrade to the ground. Far below Steve leaned out of the pickup, hooting some thankfully muffled remark as he started the engine.

Rebecca blushed, her face burning against the cold leather covering Eric’s shoulder. Eric’s eyes narrowly followed the pickup along the driveway and into the trees. “Sorry,” he said when the vehicle had disappeared. “This is hardly the time or the place, is it?”

He was implying there would be a time and place. “I never made a public spectacle of myself before. I’m having all sorts of new experiences.”

“Like being in danger.” He helped her back through the trapdoor.

Rebecca made a mental note to ask Phil to fix the broken windows. Leaking rain wouldn’t help the plaster ceilings, that was for sure.

The ballroom seemed oddly close and quiet after the airy platform, except for a cold draft. The window that had slipped when Rebecca leaned against it was partially open again. She shut it and checked the locking lever, even though it would probably open itself again as soon as they were gone. She returned to Eric’s side, grateful for his presence.

“Rebecca,” he said, guiding her past the storerooms to the back stairway, “last night you offered to keep an eye on things here. Is that offer still good?”

“Of course.”

He planted a grateful kiss on her nose. “If you say Campbell knows his business, then he does. Just— well— make sure everything’s on the up and up. You have the historical expertise. You’ll know if something’s wrong.”

Rebecca smirked into her coat collar. So Dorothy thought Eric liked his women decorative. And here he was complimenting her intelligence.

Michael was alone in the Hall, looking over a carbon of the sheriff’s report. He glanced around, his jaundiced eye making a silent comment on Rebecca’s pink cheeks. No lipstick, she told him silently. No smudges. Nyah.

Michael scooted back his chair and stretched elaborately before Eric’s scrutiny. “The sheriff’s gone to see if he can find the broken chair. We were wonderin’ if you’d happen to know where the key to the mausoleum is. Lansdale hasn’t seen it since James’s funeral.”

“It’s in the Chippendale secretary in the study,” replied Eric. “Would you like me to show you?”

Michael waved toward the door. Eric strolled off. As Rebecca passed the staircase the locksmith called, “Ma’am?” She changed course toward him.

“I can’t remove the mechanism of the old lock without leaving a hole in the door. I’ve disabled it, though. And the new lock is all fixed.”

Rebecca checked it over. It was a sturdy bolt that could be slipped back from the inside, but that, if closed, could only be opened from the outside with a key. She took the four keys the man handed her and hung them beside the door. “Did Mr. Adler pay you?” she asked.

“Sure. Gave me a check when he came by the store this morning.”

Voices echoed down the staircase, Eric’s intense velvet semimonotone contrasting with Michael’s rhythmic swing and sway, like the hem of a kilt. Both tones were crisp with exaggerated courtesy. “Thank you,” Rebecca told the locksmith.

As he was going out the door Lansdale came in. “I can’t find that chair in the shed,” he announced, hanging that key, too, by the door. “Phil must’ve taken it away with him. James usually let him have broken things. Are you sure it was deliberately sawed through?”

“No,” Rebecca admitted. “And no one else saw it, either.”

Eric and Michael appeared at the foot of the stairs. Eric held out his hand. “I’m sorry I implied you were suspect number one. I’m responsible for the place, you understand.”

Michael looked from Eric to Rebecca and back as if unsure whether this was some kind of trap. Rebecca shook her head— if Eric was not quite as smooth as he pretended, neither was Michael as prickly. Michael shook Eric’s hand and said, “Oh aye, I understand. You’re just earnin’ your screw.”

Eric gaped incredulously. Lansdale stopped writing and started wheezing. Rebecca, wavering between mortification and hysteria, said brightly, “Here the word is salary, Michael. Pay packet. Wages.”

Michael, his complexion ruddier than usual, backpedaled toward the kitchen. “I’ll fix some tea, shall I? We still have work to do the day.”

“Please,” Rebecca called after him. Since the stones of the floor weren’t going to swallow her, she brazened it out and grinned sheepishly. Eric, slightly cross-eyed, muttered something about work in town, since he was here anyway, and escaped out the door.

Rebecca realized Lansdale was waiting for her to sign the report. She signed. The sheriff settled his hat on his head and zipped up his jacket. “Miss Reid, if you have any more problems, you let me know.”

“Thank you. I will.” Rebecca shook his hand, her fingers disappearing into his voluminous grasp, and then he, too, was gone.

Eric waited by his car, equilibrium restored. He said, “The key’s in the secretary. I guess it’s safe there. If anyone breaks into the mausoleum we’ll know we have a bunch of weirdos on our hands.”

“True enough.” Just as they turned to look at the tomb a fluff of butterscotch and white emerged from the dovecote and settled down to wash its paws. Rebecca laughed. “I bet that’s great mouse territory.”

Eric shuddered. He leaned over and gave her a perfunctory kiss, missing her mouth by an inch. “I’ll be back out on Monday to look through some papers, if you don’t mind. Sorry to have to rush off.” He was in the car, the door locked, the window rolled up, almost before he finished speaking.

She watched with affectionate exasperation as the Volvo zoomed past the mausoleum and vanished. Why, she asked herself, doesn’t he just admit he’s afraid of cats and have done with it? But no, he wouldn’t, would he? Endearing, to know he had more than one chink in his burnished armor.