Last Breath (9 page)

When he got off the phone, he told Daria, “I know you hated having to do that, but look at it this way, once the Bureau gets involved, you can use that to reason with the private collectors.”

“You can deal with me quietly now and we can resolve this, or I'm going to have to turn it over to the FBI. They're already on the case, but I thought it better for you personally if we handled this matter between you and the university…” She talked it out. “Makes them feel as if they're being given special treatment.”

“Exactly.”

“All right. We'll try that.” She slid the folder into her shoulder bag and said, “So we're headed to Centerville first, right? Damian Cross and his statue of the goddess?”

“That's a good place to start. You know how to get there?”

“Roughly.”

“Roughly, eh?” He stood and gathered the papers from the table. “I don't suppose that rental car of yours has GPS?”

She frowned. “What does GPS mean?”

“It means we're taking my car.”

EIGHT

T
he main road leading to Centerville, Delaware, was tree-lined and cool, even under the August sun. Many of the houses Connor drove past were set on wide lawns, the air of wealth and privilege more pervasive than the humidity. Here and there, private lanes led over gently rolling hills that hid handsome homes from curious eyes. Large estates, their boundaries marked by the ubiquitous split-rail fences, sat quietly in the distance.

“I've been through this area before,” Daria noted, “when I was younger. One of my aunts took Iona and me.”

She pointed to a sign on the left side of the road.

“That's Winterthur, down that lane. It's a museum. It was the home of one of the DuPonts, but I don't know which one,” she told him. “It houses a world-famous collection of American art and furniture. The grounds are magnificent.”

“Open to the public?”

“Yes.” She turned in her seat as they passed what seemed to be endless fields surrounding the old estate, which wasn't visible from the road. “I'd like to go back while I'm in the area. I'd like to see it through adult eyes. I imagine I'll have a different sort of appreciation for their displays. I remember being so impressed with the house, the one time I was there. I must have been nine or so, and we'd just come back from a summer trekking around some ruins somewhere in the Mediterranean, I can't even remember which ones. So when our aunt told us she was taking us to see a famous old American house, well, of course, we were expecting something completely different.”

“You expected to find ruins.” Connor's mouth tilted in a smile.

“Exactly.” Daria grinned. “Imagine our surprise when we arrived at this very elegant, gracious manor house, surrounded by beautiful gardens and woods. And inside, the loveliest furniture, paintings, china. My sister and I felt like total bumpkins.”

“Maybe we'll get to go sometime soon. You can take me on a tour.” Connor glanced at the GPS monitor. “We take the next left.”

“Amazing little device, isn't it?” Daria stared at the small screen. “Like having a tiny person in your car who always knows exactly where you're supposed to go.”

“That's the idea.” Connor put on his turn signal and waited for a truck to pass.

“This is one zippy little car, isn't it?”

He smiled. “Would you like to drive home?'

“Uh-uh. My most recent driving machines have been a centuries-old Honda and that little Ford I got from the rental place. Very basic transportation. Nothing at all like this.” She touched the dash appreciatively. “I've never driven a Porsche before.”

“Then you should take the opportunity while you have it.”

“Maybe another day.” She pointed to the monitor. “If I'm reading this correctly, Damian Cross's house should be right up there on the left.”

“I believe you're right.” Connor slowed and turned onto a cobbled drive. He parked in front of a stand-alone garage and turned off the ignition. “Let's see if Mr. Cross is around.”

“There's no car, but he has”—she counted—“four, five garage bays to park in. He must own a lot of cars.”

Connor inspected the outside wall of the garage.

“A lot of cars or a lot of something he likes to keep at a controlled temperature.” He pointed to the gauges. “Looks like it's air-conditioned and heated. Must have something good in there.”

“Too bad the windows have those pesky shades, otherwise we could see.” Daria looked around. “And he sure does like these cobbley stones. Not just the driveway, but the walkway, and it looks like a patio out back and that area around the pool are all made of the same stones.”

Connor followed her gaze. “He's got quite a place. Old restored farmhouse set nicely off a narrow country road, pretty gardens out back, looks like fruit trees on the other side of the house. Mr. Cross seems to have his own little Eden here.”

“I can't wait to see the inside of the house.” Daria smiled and tugged on Connor's arm. “As beautifully restored as the exterior is, I bet the inside is just gorgeous.”

They walked around to the front of the house.

Daria pointed to the foundation plantings. “The landscaping is impeccable. I'd say Damian Cross is a man of some means. Probably has lots of really nice antiques in there.”

“We'll know in a minute,” Connor said as he rang the doorbell. Immediately, a dog began barking wildly on the other side of the door.

When no one answered the door, Connor rang the bell again.

“I don't think anyone is home, Connor,” Daria told him. “Between the doorbell and the dog, I think anyone inside would know we're here.”

The dog continued to bark and scratch at the door.

“Dog doesn't sound too friendly.” Connor noted. “Think I should leave a card?”

“I think coming home and finding a business card from the FBI might spook him. He might not call. Why don't we just drive up to Gladwyne and see if the Blumes are home, then check again on our way back?”

“Cross could be at work at this hour. Let's see how far we are from the Blumes.”

They walked back to the car and got in. Connor turned on the engine, then entered the Gladwyne address into the GPS system.

“A little over an hour,” he said. “It's almost three. Want to give it a try?”

“Sure.”

He started back the way they'd come, and Daria said, “I guess the new security people should be arriving at the museum right about now.”

“Were you supposed to be there?”

“No. Louise and Stefano Korban, the only archaeology professor on campus this summer, will be meeting them. Louise thought my time was better spent tracking down the artifacts at this point, and I totally agree.”

“Have you met Korban?”

“No. I'm sure I will soon, though. Louise thinks highly of him.” She watched out the window as the scenery changed from country fields and quaint antiques shops to restaurants and gas stations. Up ahead was the Brandywine Battlefield, and farther still, several more restaurants and a small strip mall. Connor swung into the left lane to turn onto a highway that led northwest.

“It's interesting that for a small school with no money and no real reputation to speak of, Howe has several people on staff who are well-known in the field of archaeology.”

“This Korban guy?”

“Yes. He and the head of the department, Sabina Bokhari. You'd expect to find professors with their credentials at places like Penn or Yale. Not Howe.”

“Why do you suppose they're here?”

“I don't know.”

“You could probably ask them.”

“Maybe I will.” She smiled and leaned back against the seat.

Forty minutes later, Connor pulled up in front of a large colonial-style home situated on a wide, grassy lot in a very upscale neighborhood. A for sale sign spelled out the name of a real-estate company in red letters, above which a likeness of the realtor, Nancy Keenan, beamed. A phone number ran across the bottom of the sign.

“Well, at least we caught them before they moved,” Daria said as they got out of the car and started across the lawn.

“I'm not so sure of that,” Connor replied. “The house looks vacant. You can see through the front windows clear to the back of the house.”

They walked up to the front door and peered through the side lights.

“You're right, I spoke too soon,” Daria said. “The house is totally cleaned out.”

“Let's walk around back.” Connor gestured for her to follow him.

The Blumes' backyard was a peaceful oasis consisting of a stone patio with a wall on three sides and a koi pond at one end, and quiet, lush gardens in shades of cool greens.

“It's lovely,” Daria said. “I'd sure be hard-pressed to leave a house like this.”

Before Connor could comment, a car pulled into the driveway at the house next door.

“Let's see if the neighbor knows anything,” Connor said as he took off across the lawn.

Daria caught up to him just as he was introducing himself to the neighbor, a petite blond woman wearing a short denim skirt and a coral T-shirt. Her face was mostly hidden by very large dark glasses, and she wore sandals of braided leather.

The woman placed a shopping bag bearing the name of a tony-sounding store on the ground next to her car. “I'm happy to see someone looking at the house. We'd love to have new neighbors. With the houses spread out the way they are here, and us being one in from the corner, it's gotten a bit lonely. We'd love to see the house inhabited again.”

“Did you know the previous owners well?” Connor asked.

“I'd say we knew them fairly well,” the neighbor seemed to choose her words carefully. “They were about twenty years older than we are, so we didn't socialize a whole lot, except for holidays. Someone in the neighborhood always had a big open house, so we'd see them then. And sometimes I'd see her out on the patio and she'd invite me over for a cup of coffee or something, and we'd chat. So we were friendly, but not the best of friends, if you follow. Still, we really do miss them. They were lovely people.”

“How long ago did they move?” he asked.

“They didn't exactly move,” she said with some apparent discomfort.

“What do you mean?” Connor frowned.

“Look, the realtor said we shouldn't talk about it to anyone, that we should just direct potential buyers to her. That's probably what I should do.”

“We're not potential buyers,” Connor told her. “We're trying to track down the Blumes. Do you know how we can contact them?”

“Really, you need to talk to the realtor. Her name and number are on the sign.” She picked up her shopping bag and went through a service door into her house.

“Well, that was odd,” Daria said. “What do you suppose that was all about?”

“Maybe there was some scandal, maybe the Blumes went bankrupt and the bank took the house.” Connor found his phone in his pocket and walked toward the sign. When he got close enough to read it, he punched in the numbers for the real-estate office, and hoped that Nancy Keenan was around.

He was in luck. She was not only there, but willing to show the house right away if Connor could wait five minutes for her.

The realtor drove up the driveway in a brand-new sedan and parked at the end of the drive. She was very fashionably dressed in a short black linen dress and sandals with kitten heels. Her dark hair was expertly cut—a fact that did not go unnoticed by Daria—and she carried a large black bag of pebbled leather. All in all, her appearance was very upscale, as befitted the neighborhood.

“Thanks for waiting, Mr. Shields.” She extended a well-manicured hand. She turned her attention to Daria. “And Mrs. Shields. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, I'm not—”

“We appreciate you dropping everything and coming over to show us the house,” Connor said smoothly, placing a hand on the back of Daria's neck and giving it a very gentle squeeze. “We were just passing through and saw the sign.”

“It's a wonderful neighborhood, isn't it? Did you look around the outside while you waited, as I suggested?”

“We did, yes. Very nice.” Connor nodded.

Fishing her keys from her shoulder bag, Nancy waved them on to the front door, which she unlocked and held open so that Daria and Connor could enter.

“Don't you love the chandelier here in the foyer?” She stepped past them and went straight to the kitchen. “Let me turn on the air and cool the house down. I usually try to do this before buyers arrive. Would you prefer to wait outside until it cools off a bit?”

“No, we're fine,” Daria said and winked at Connor.
If Nancy thinks this is hot, she's obviously never been in the Sahara in summer.
He got it, and winked back.

“Then let me show you around the first floor. As you can see, the foyer floor is marble—that's Italian marble, by the way, hand-selected by the previous owners.”

“Really?” Daria said, feigning interest.

“Oh, yes. They oversaw every bit of the renovation, just three years ago,” Nancy assured them. “Everything was replaced, and I mean everything.”

“I noticed the living room has a lot of niches built into the walls,” Connor said.

“The people who lived here were collectors. They had a very valuable collection of ancient pottery and things of that nature.”

Connor went up the steps ahead of Nancy and Daria, looking through every room until he found the master bedroom.

“This is a wonderful space,” Nancy said, coming into the room a few minutes behind him. “Large bedroom, sitting room with a fireplace, two dressing rooms, baths, and walk-in closets.”

“It looks like the carpet in here is brand-new,” Connor noted. “Here in the bedroom, and in the hallway.”

“Yes, it was replaced before the house went on the market.”

“Funny,” he said, “you'd expect the downstairs carpet to have more wear, and require replacing before the bedroom carpet. Especially since everything in the house was replaced within the past three years. Isn't that what you said?”

“Yes.” She shifted her gaze to the pull shade in the front window and pretended to fuss with it. “It was an odd color.”

“Was it red?” he asked.

She turned to him and, all the charm now gone, asked flatly, “Who are you?”

He held out his badge. “We're looking for the Blumes.”

“If you're really with the FBI, you shouldn't have any trouble finding out what happened to them. I'm sure you can get the reports—”

“Let's say we want to hear your version.”

“The Blumes were murdered in this house a few months ago. It's made it a real hard sell.”

“What can you tell me about it?” Connor asked.

“Very little. Just what was in the papers, actually. The son listed the house, and he didn't want to talk about it, so I didn't pump him for information. All I know is what everyone else knows. The Blumes were at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia on a Saturday night, they came home and apparently caught someone in the act of burglarizing their home. They were both killed.”