Copenhagen Cozenage (13 page)

“Someone call the police,” I shouted. “This man tried to kill me.”

They all kept staring.

“Look! Look at his drawings. It’s me. He set me up with that stupid dog, all so he could get material for his coffee table books. Now he thinks I have the key to the crown jewels and his personal thug is killing someone in the basement right now.”

Everyone looked at the sketches.

The resemblance was difficult to see what with all of the blood and frosting I had accumulated.

Axel Rasmussen stepped forward, drawing the attention of the brunchers. “Stay, everyone. I know these young women and if you could all remain perfectly still I shall see that they are returned to the hospital immediately.”

The brunchers set down their phones and looked up at him with clear trusting gazes.

Freja wasn’t helping my image any either, slumped over in the wheelchair, comatose.

My grandfather nodded to one of his many assistants.

The man lifted a walkie-talkie to his ear.

I pulled the wheelchair back until we were braced against the corner of the room by the elephant sculpture. If I couldn’t prove my story, this was not going to be pretty.

“Look, just check the basement. There’s a huge guy down there beating up a man named August Bruun.”

In the silence that followed, I heard the clear, ringing steps of someone approaching the tall French doors across the room. Their elegant gray trim and elaborate window arch with its delicate, oval centerpiece failed to awe and impress me, for I knew the man who opened those beautiful doors.

Maks walked into the room, alone. Somehow he had showered and changed into a fresh suit. Maks’s face had a few recent contusions, but he looked imposing and capable and far saner than yours truly. How was this even possible? Had I been that slow moving down the hall? Or had Maks practiced speed bathing in some backwoods military institution?

My grandfather smiled apologetically and gave Maks a significant look. “Would you please see that these young ladies are taken to the hospital before they hurt themselves further?”

“That’s him.” I pointed at Maks and backed up a step, bumping into the wall. My pulse clattered against my throat. What had Maks done to August?

Axel Rasmussen sighed and addressed his Goliath. “Have you seen anything odd in the cellar, Maks?”

“Not a thing, sir. Place is quiet and empty. Nothing but pastries and flour down there.”

I had nowhere to go.

Maks advanced across the room. Every single step echoed off the muraled walls and antique china cabinets. I smooshed myself back against the fireplace, but Maks’s huge hand went all the way around my arm. I was completely and truly trapped.

He urged me toward the door and there was nothing for it but to shove the wheelchair forward and shuffle along. The man was a mountain and a half of muscle. When we got to the doorway, I turned around partway and pleaded with the crowd.

“Please believe me. These men are deceiving you. Axel Rasmussen and his art are nothing more than smoke and cozenage.”

Most people turned back to fiddle with the fish and croissants on their plates. A few gave me sad, patient smiles.

I slouched over the wheelchair. Then I straightened and took that final step through the doorway.

Something huge came hurtling down the hall, leapt over Freja, and knocked me back into the opulent lounge. I cried out in pain and relief. Pain, because there really is no nice way to smash someone to the ground when they have a fracture. Relief, because my attacker was none other than Leroy. I never imagined that his droopy, slobbery face would ever elicit such a thrill of hope. But hope I did.

For not only did everyone in the room gasp in dismay, they also turned and stared at my grandfather’s sketches. Through the glittering black of an approaching faint, I saw what they saw.

Leroy was unmistakable.

Once the crowd recognized Leroy, their gazes naturally strayed to the sketch of yours truly being mugged by a gigantic behemoth of a man. The mugger in the hilarious Axel Rasmussen sketch bore a surprising resemblance to Maks.

21

The Keys

Leroy licked my face and bounded up against Maks as the huge man bent and seized my shoulder.

Maks staggered back and turned to shove at the dog.

Leroy remained undaunted. The big dog leaped onto a nearby table and slurped Maks’s face with alacrity.

Maks ducked aside and grabbed Freja’s wheelchair only to park her a few feet away.

Leroy thumped down off the table and gave Freja a few enthusiastic licks and wags. While Leroy slobbered the unconscious woman, Maks scooped me over his shoulder.

My grandfather called out, drawing the people’s gazes away from his sketches. “I have contacted the authorities. There is no need to dial the police. Mental health professionals will be here within the next three minutes. You can all go back to your meal.”

I struggled in Maks’s arms. It was like trying to push away from a glacier. But my laughable efforts did alert Leroy to my peril.

Leroy’s head snapped up and he bounded to smother Maks with debilitating wags and kisses.

Maks made a deep growling noise and kneed the dog onto his shaggy rear.

Leroy yelped.

Maks shoved past the dog and made a break for the door.

August stood in his way. One eye was purple and swollen. There was blood along his hairline and on the knuckles of both hands. He trailed duct tape and his good eye burned with a cold fury I had never imagined on his dimpled face.

Axel Rasmussen coughed into his hand. “So everyone, this last sketch depicts the final straw in my heroine’s horrendous dog-sitting experience. Notice how the blues of the sky, water, and pirate ship mural all—”

Maks turned so that I was draped over the shoulder closest to August. Then he shuffled forward and I was his human shield.

August took three slow breaths, lowered his eyes, and stepped aside.

What? I mean, I didn’t want to get punched in the face any more than the next girl. But letting Maks just haul me off wasn’t my idea of saving the day.

As Maks pressed past him in the hall, August picked up a crystal vase from a decorative alcove and smashed it across the back of Maks’s head. Maks wobbled and groaned.

I was pinned against the wall as he slumped sideways.

Gasps filled the room.

August snatched me out of harm’s way as the giant man slouched to the floor. August hobbled over to one of the cushy gray couches and slowly sat, cradling me in his arms.

We stared at each other, bloodied and trembling with pulses pounding over the horror and violence and pain.

I let my head fall against his chest. August’s soft blue T-shirt brushed against my cheek. I ignored the slight coating of flour and listened to the slow steady thump of his heart.

August squeezed my hand, glanced over at the unconscious Maks, and reached into his jeans pocket. “Before I get completely distracted duct taping Maks, I have something for you.” He produced a delicate gold watch key with a flourish. “I believe you misplaced your key.”

The room stilled.

Axel Rasmussen surged toward us. Before his third step had a chance to echo, a sound broke the stillness.

Every phone in the lounge beeped, three times. As one, the brunchers had noted the gleam of greed in my grandfather’s eye as he gazed upon the key. They dialed accordingly, 112.

So that was the Danish equivalent to 911.

We had won over the crowd.

22

Cinderella’s Slipper

I held the key in my palm and glanced up at August. “Thank you.”

Chalk it up to adrenaline, pain, or a bad case of dehydration. But at that moment, August looked just like Snarvich The Reticent rescuing the beautiful Okturra from the giant rats of Zoon. I sighed and scooted a little closer. After all, the man had rescued me from a lifetime in a mental institute.

“You’re welcome.” He searched my face. Despite the black eye and a dusting of flour on his clothes, his hair shone golden beneath the lamp light. Well, the parts without frosting.

“Morgan.” His voice was a whisper as he cupped my jaw, sliding his thumb along the ridge of my cheekbone. His hands seemed larger than I remembered. Square and solid against my skin. “Besides the broken bone, wheel chair chase, and the fact that someone will have to rip that mess of duct tape off your arm…how are you?”

“Fine,” I breathed, the word almost lost behind the pain and the crazy beating of my heart.

August sagged back against the designer couch and closed his eyes, resting his head on my hair.

I got the distinct impression that he was praying again, but some conversations are private. I could give August and God this time alone. I had begun to drift when August settled me on the couch and stood.

He secured Maks with duct tape remnants and retrieved Freja. The immediate danger was past, but Freja did not look well.

August talked in hushed tones with the businessman who brunched beside us.

“The ambulance will be here soon.”

August settled beside me. “Morgan, was your grandmother named Silje Østergaard?”

I nodded against his shoulder. “I think it was her maiden name, though.” The driving ache of the broken bone brought a rush of nausea that had me gritting my teeth to keep the bile down.

“Then your grandmother is my mysterious benefactor.” August pulled out an ornate pocket watch and in one swift movement separated the golden key from its side.

Two police officers and a man carrying a straitjacket stepped into the main lounge.

Leroy left off licking the semi-conscious Maks and rushed to assail them.

The officers pushed past his wriggling form and scanned the room.

“Morgan Nicole Ravn, would you please come with us.” It was not a request.

Instead of parting to allow the officers through, the brunchers turned as one and pointed to where Axel Rasmussen crept past the bloodied Maks. He’d made it two steps when a giant mass of fur and drool hit him between the shoulders with both front paws. Being accosted by a large animal is hard on an eighty-something-year-old man, villain or not.

The police were able to surround my scheming patriarch long before he got back on his feet.

August and I told our stories while an EMT got my arm stabilized enough for a ride to the hospital.

Five different people had incriminating photos on their phones of Axel trying to get my key and Maks hauling me away.

However, it was August’s testimony and bank account that sealed the deal. It’s hard to argue with a five thousand dollar payment for one day’s work and August’s copy of the online ad.

The EMTs were about to usher us outside, when I turned to the officer in charge. “Don’t you want to know if the jewels are here?”

He paused, and then gave a nod toward the little corner table.

August took me by the arm, the non-bandaged one, and we hobbled to the elephant together. Each of us took a key and inserted it into the elephant’s reaching trunk. They clicked into place. We turned our keys and heard a thud and the grinding of gears. The elephant’s entire trunk slid free, shattering upon the floor. August and I stood staring at a dark recess where the trunk had been and bent to look inside.

A lady’s dress shoe sat on a faded circle of red satin. It was a delicate sling-back made of creamy white leather with a thick, boxy heel. Tiny flowers were stamped into the strap and across the toe. August picked up the shoe. It must have belonged to the Cinderella Bandit, the jewel thief who had left her shoe behind. But why keep the other shoe?

“Do you think?” August looked down at me.

Before I could reply, Leroy lunged between us and snatched up the shoe. He bounded off across the lounge and crouched beneath the buffet table wagging. Much chasing and wrestling and shedding ensued.

One of the officers grabbed the piece of antique footwear just as Leroy gave a final crunch and the whole heel splintered in his jaws. The scolding died on the officer’s lips when he brushed the splinters aside. He bent down and picked up a golden chain formed of alternating elephants and towers. At the middle of the strand hung a larger elephant of enameled gold with a tower and turbaned driver on its back. Sunk into the elephant’s side was a cross formed of five large, table-cut diamonds.

My grandmother had done it: stolen the Chain of the Order of the Elephant in 1958, leaving conspiracy theorists and her con-artist lover scrambling for clues.

I supposed the government had tested the necklace she dropped and probably knew, but they’d managed to keep the secret for almost seventy years.

My grandfather sat on a stretcher sucking down oxygen. Why had she married the man? She had trusted a stranger, the child of her runaway daughter, more than her husband.

I turned away. That was a mystery I would never know. Still, despite the terrible legacy, I was honored to be the one she had turned to.

A museum representative arrived post haste to claim the royal treasure. He assured me that if the necklace proved genuine, August and I would return it to the treasure vault at Rosenborg Castle with all pomp and ceremony.

I was then whisked off into unconsciousness while they set my broken arm.

Later, as I lay curled in my hospital bed, trying to follow a sitcom in Danish, a handsome gentleman in a steel-gray suit stepped into my room. He bowed and kissed my hand. Despite his careful posture and perfect hair, there were tears in his blue eyes. “Thank you Miss Ravn. On behalf of the country of Denmark, I give you our eternal gratitude.”

I mumbled something indecipherable and blushed.

He set a small velvet bag on my nightstand next to a red and gold cardboard box. I yawned as politely as possible and tried to keep my eyelids from crashing, but the gentleman only laughed.

“I will let you rest. And I hope the remainder of your visit to Copenhagen is much less eventful.” He peeked out the door, gave me a boyish grin, and slid around the corner into the hall.