Blood, Ash, and Bone (26 page)

Fitzhugh was firmly back in know-it-all land. But I knew why he avoided other dealers—they were harder to cheat. Audrina Harrington’s collection had probably been purchased for pennies on the dollar from folks who didn’t know better.

I’d opened my mouth to explain what I thought of this when I noticed Trey’s expression. He’d tilted his head to the left, and then to the right. Recalibrating. I knew what that meant. I’d triggered that response a hundred times.

I tsk-tsked at Mr. Fitzhugh. “Technically true, but deliberately evasive.”

His forehead wrinkled. “What?”

“It’s a common trick habitual liars use, telling the truth but not the whole truth. Trey can peg it every time.” I leaned forward. “So tell me, Mr. Fitzhugh, what are you hiding?”

“Nothing!”

I looked at Trey. Trey shook his head.

“And that,” I said, “was a downright lie.”

Fitzhugh stared at him, baffled, which was what most people did when faced with Trey’s cranial lie detector. Some bluffed. Some blustered. But most went baffled.

“But I’ve told you everything!” Fitzhugh said, his voice pitched with fear again.

Trey stepped forward. “No, you haven’t. We don’t have the Bible, which means that you’re still in danger, and will be as long as it’s missing. If you want our help, you need to tell us everything, right now.”

Fitzhugh stared at him, outrage written on his features. He said nothing.

Trey remained firm. “In that case, there’s nothing more I can do for you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for the ball.”

He went into the bedroom without another word. Fitzhugh watched him go like a man watching the cavalry ride over someone else’s hill. The bourbon in his glass trembled. Nonetheless, he stood and buttoned his jacket.

I stood too. “You really should come clean, you know. These people don’t play, and if they think you’re holding out, which you obviously are, you’re in serious trouble.”

He ignored the warning. I saw fear and stubbornness in his eyes, and also determination.

“I’ll take care of this situation myself,” he said.

“How?”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

I pulled one of my business cards from my pocket and slid it into his jacket. “When you come to your senses, call me. Until then, I suggest you find a copy of the
Sniper Evasionary Manual
. And avoid open spaces.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Once I shut the door on Fitzhugh, I joined Trey in the bedroom. He was already in the shower. I noticed a garment bag lying in state on the bed, a froth of white showing through the plastic—my dress for the ball. I pulled it from the bag and laid it on the bedspread. It was bride-white, with black satin trim at the hem and bodice. A laced corset underpinned the whole gig, which included a massive pouf of crinoline skirting ribbed with assorted hoops.

I kicked my shoes into the corner. Then I opened the bathroom door and got a face full of steam.

“Fitzhugh’s gone,” I said loudly.

“I heard.” Trey’s voice echoed in the shower stall.

“He’s decided to go it alone since we turned out to be less pliable than he thought. But he must have been desperate to ask for help in the first place.”

“He thought we had the Bible.”

“He thought wrong.”

I returned to the bedroom, picked up my dress, and groaned. Two dozen hook and eye fasteners ran up the back in an intricate track. I sighed and got busy undoing them.

“But all that stuff about Winston and the Bible being a fake was true, right?”

“Those parts, yes,” Trey called back. “And the part about someone searching his room and then calling him afterward.”

“But who could that be? Not the people who did the snipe and grab—they have the Bible, fake as it may be.”

“Perhaps someone has taken it from them.”

“Competing criminal interests? Really?”

“It’s one possibility. Graph it and you’ll see.”

I pulled my shirt over my head and threw it in the corner with the shoes. The jeans followed next, the bra too. I heard the shower stop, then the sound of the curtain being pulled back. I picked up the corset, a tangle of lace and underwiring as complex as a time bomb.

I stepped into the thing. “Okay, let’s say you’re right. Say somebody wanted the Bible enough to steal it from our sniper team.” I shimmied the corset up over my hips. “What if they got it before Winston went to the meeting with the Grand Wizard? What if our sniper team clipped Winston and snatched the briefcase, only to get back to Bad Guy Headquarters and find it empty? That would put them on the prowl for it in a big way.”

I heard the sound of a garment bag being unzipped in the bathroom, followed by the rustle of heavy cloth. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Why would you? This is the first we’re hearing that people are still looking for that damn Bible. Factor in Jasper’s warning about the Grand Wizard wanting to hush up his involvement, and things get even more confusing.”

I sucked in a breath and yanked the corset over my heaving bosom. The hose went next, seamed thigh-highs topped with white lace. I fumbled them up my legs and snapped them to the garter straps, wondering for the life of me what men found so sexy about this particular contraption.

“So maybe this is how Hope fits in,” I said. “Maybe she’s the one. Maybe she took the Bible from Winston before he could make the trade with the Grand Dragon. Maybe that’s why she was there, to watch him get humiliated when the briefcase turned up empty. Unfortunately, somebody shot him between the eyes first.”

“Unfortunately.”

“And I’ll bet Hope stuck that forger’s kit back under the counter too, so that when the cops came looking, they’d find it in Winston’s possession. Hope doesn’t do things by halves. If she was going to set up Winston, she was going to do it all the way.”

There was no reply from the bathroom.

“Trey?”

“I’m listening. It’s just…” He exhaled in annoyance. “Go on.”

“Hope was at the scene when Winston was killed, so everybody assumed she was a part of the sniping. But what if she wasn’t?” I picked the dress up in a heap and dumped it over my head. It spilled around me in a waterfall of taffeta and fluff like a collapsed circus tent. “What if she was there to watch Winston open up an empty briefcase? That would mean
she’s
the one with the Bible, not the snipers.”

The hooks tangled in my hair. I tried to pull free, which only complicated things further. I cursed and snatched harder.

“Stop,” Trey said, his voice close now. “Let me help.”

I felt one hand maneuver under the massive skirts and pull my right arm gently through the gauzy sleeve. Then I felt his fingers in my hair—patient, dexterous, working the hooks free from the frizzed ringlets.

“And what the hell is the KKK up to?” I said, my voice muffled under layers of fabric. “Why are they trying to erase their involvement with Winston? Is it because they were responsible for his death?”

“That seems the most likely motive.”

“Except for one thing—what would the KKK want with that particular Bible? It makes no sense ideology-wise.”

“Perhaps they saw it as an investment.”

“Perhaps. But it still feels wrong to me.”

The dress fell heavily about me in a cascade, and I poked my head through the neck hole. Trey stood behind me, fastening the hooks.

I held my hair out of the way. “So maybe the KKK is afraid too, of whoever shot Winston.”

“Maybe.”

“Regardless, somebody’s got the Bible and somebody else wants it, and these somebodies don’t play nice. That leaves two questions. One, what is Fitzhugh hiding that’s worth risking his neck over? And two…”

I turned around. And completely lost my train of thought.

Trey wore a black cutaway tailcoat and trousers, sharply creased, his snow-white linen shirt and matching cravat secured with a tiny silver pin. A sword dangled at his hip, etched silver with a foiled scabbard. He was utterly discombobulated and devastatingly handsome.

I stared. “Omigod.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What was the second question?”

“Oh.” I swished my skirts into place. “Why are people dying over a Bible that isn’t real?”

“Those are good questions.”

“I know.” I put my arms around his neck, his skin still hot and moist from the shower. “But they don’t change the fact that I’m not chasing that Bible anymore.”

“You’re not?”

“Nope. Done with that. My goal now is to get us back to Atlanta in one piece.”

He was a study in chivalrous gentility, except for the outlines of the holster under his jacket. I reached down and ran a finger along the shiny blade at his hip. A very nice reproduction of an officer’s presentation sword.

I smiled up at him. “Remember the night we met? How I held a sword to your throat and called you a lying son of a bitch?”

He ignored my reminiscence and glared hotly at the scabbard. “It’s utterly unworkable for either offense or defense, especially with this jacket.” He rotated his shoulder. “The sleeves are too tight. I can barely raise my arm.”

“It’s not cut for concealed carry. And the sword is a status symbol, not a weapon.”

“Nonetheless—”

“Trey.” I reached up and rubbed the spot between his eyes. “It’s four hours of discomfort. We’ll deal with it. And then we’re done.”

He looked me in the eye, his expression serious. “Stay close tonight. I can’t look out for you and watch Reynolds at the same time. I need you where I can see you, at all times.”

I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “I’ll be as close as your shadow. Now fetch the hairpins. I gotta get this mess into something resembling a hairdo.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

The key to replicating a nineteenth-century ball appeared to be lots and lots of swag—white draperies, tablecloths in black linen, ribbons and garlands and hundreds of carnations. Small tables clustered on the perimeter of the ballroom, candlelit and cozy, with the larger inner space kept clear for dancing. And there would be dancing—reels and waltzes and polkas—the music provided by a five-piece band already filling the air with fiddle and dulcimer.

Trey surveyed the scene. The row of windows on the far wall overlooked the water. Even from where we stood, I could see the luminous sparks of River Street and the white dots of boats pulled up to the dock.

Trey eyed the room critically. “They didn’t close the curtains.”

“Didn’t your data proclaim this a low-risk zone?”

“No greater than average risk, yes. The dock is problematic, however, not enough on-site surveillance.” He frowned. “The interior perimeter should minimize any difficulties, however.”

“So everything looks good?”

“Everything looks acceptable.”

He still hadn’t reconciled his data and his gut. He might have been assigned only one asset—Reynolds—but some part of him still felt the urge to protect everyone in the room. He stood too close to me. A true Victorian chaperone would have swatted him by now.

I took his arm. “You’re nervous.”

“I know.”

“Can you go off the clock? Maybe have a drink, take a spin on the floor?”

“I don’t…” He looked across the ballroom and relaxed the tiniest degree. “Good, they’re here.”

I followed his gaze. Reynolds and Marisa stood next to the punchbowl. She wore all black, including a French mantilla veil over her sleekly styled up-do. I’d never seen her work a room before, but her eyes swept back and forth like Trey’s, cataloging every detail. For the first time it occurred to me that she was as well-armed as Trey, and as potentially dangerous.

Reynolds spotted us and bustled his way over. He looked like a daguerreotype come to life, his white beard trimmed, his stocky body in a black frock coat, this time with a white sash across his chest. He had a sword too, the same one he’d worn to the reenactment.

“Good evening!” He grinned at Trey. “You’re looking all the dash, young man. Marisa wants to see you for a quick yoo-hoo.” Then he turned to me. “May I ask the lady for a dance in your absence?”

Trey looked at me, puzzled. I tapped him with my fan. “He’s supposed to ask you, and you’re supposed to say yes, and then I’m supposed to dance.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose.”

I took Reynolds’ elbow and moved onto the dance floor as Trey went over to talk to Marisa. The band began a lilting waltz, all strings and harpsichord.

Reynolds swiveled me into position. “You’re looking exceedingly lovely, m’dear.”

“Really? I feel like a top-heavy wedding cake.”

“Nonsense.”

I put one hand on his shoulder, and he gathered the other in his gloved fingers. He smelled of aftershave and warm wool. In his time, he’d been a heartbreaker, I was certain of it. We mingled with the sweeping circle, in the timeless one-two-three. Reynolds was a fine dancer—assured, natural, easy.

He laughed. “You’re trying to lead.”

“You’re surprised?”

He laughed some more. I tried to follow. Things worked easier when I let the pressure of his hand guide me, when I countered his movement not with resistance, but with response. I caught glimpses of Trey over his shoulder, he and Marisa in a close confab.

Reynolds smiled. “You like the sword?”

“It’s very suave.”

“Look closer.”

I glanced down again. For the first time, I saw the cross-hatching on the scabbard, the dings and discolorations on the grip, and most telling of all, the floating C. S. casting on the hilt.

“Omigod, that’s a genuine Leech and Rigdon!”

Reynolds grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That thing’s worth fifty thousand dollars!”

“And then some,” he agreed pleasantly.

“How in the hell—”

“Easy.” He bent his head closer to my ear, not once dropping the beat. “I smuggled it out of Audrina’s safe room.”

“Won’t she notice the sword-shaped hole?”

“Not if there’s a sword in it.”

I stopped dancing. “Are you telling me you stuck a fake sword in your sister’s collection and stole the real one?”

He made a hurt face and swirled me back into step. “Not stole. Borrowed.”

“I’m not sure Audrina will see it that way.”