Gift of Fire (7 page)

“A little. It’s still sore, but it should be back to normal in a few days. Laura found this cane for me and it’s been a great help.” She waved a hardwood staff aloft. “It’s left over from two years ago, when Rick threw his back out.”

“I have a friend,” Elyssa went on helpfully, “someone I met in one of Preston’s seminars. He works with crystals. He could probably do something for you.”

“I should warn you, my sister is really involved in this crap,” Doug Warwick said in an aside to Jonas.

“Pay no attention to Doug,” Elyssa retorted gently. “He’s still very linear in his thinking. He doesn’t understand that the paths to enlightenment don’t always follow the straight, one-dimensional approach of most Western thought. He hasn’t accepted a holistic approach to truth yet, but I have confidence that he will one day soon.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Doug muttered.

“I think some of the New Age ideas are very interesting,” Verity declared. `After all, it’s not as if they’re really new. Some of these concepts have been around for thousands of years. There must be some truth to them.”

“Con men have a long history, too,” Jonas said blandly. “That doesn’t mean there’s any more truth in a modem-day con than there was five thousand years ago. That’s all most of this New Age stuff is, a good con.”

“Jonas!” Verity glowered at him, willing him to shut his mouth before he mortally offended one of their potential clients. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Elyssa. He’s just got a typical academic bias against nontraditional methods of learning.” A heck of a bias for someone who happened to have psychic abilities himself, Verity thought wryly.

“I understand completely,” Elyssa assured her, gazing at Jonas. She appeared to be infinitely indulgent of his petty carping. She turned back to Verity. “Will you be able to accompany Jonas to our villa with that injured ankle?”

“Oh, definitely. I’m looking forward to it.” Verity nodded briskly, trying to pump some enthusiasm into Jonas. He ignored her.

“I can give you a report on the villa easily enough,” Jonas said. “But I understand you also want me to chase some damned legend. I should warn you that from what Verity has told me, it sounds like a complete waste of time. Are you sure you want to pay my, uh, consulting fee to help you hunt for a treasure that probably doesn’t exist?”

Doug chuckled. “It must sound a little silly to you, but I assure you that Uncle Digby was on the trail of something in that villa. Elyssa wants to see if we can find it before we get rid of the place. Since you’ll be going over the villa anyway, you might as well keep an eye out for treasure.”

“What makes you think your uncle Digby wasn’t just loony tunes?”

“Jonas!” Verity hissed. He was being downright rude.

Elyssa smiled serenely. “It’s all right, Verity. Doug and I have also wondered about Uncle Digby. He might very well have been completely insane. He was certainly an odd character. But he definitely believed there was a treasure buried in that old villa. He left a diary detailing his search for it. Unfortunately, he kept his notes in Latin. He also found a crystal at one point.”

“Crystal?” Verity tilted her head inquiringly.

Doug nodded. “I saw it myself about five years ago. Digby showed it to me shortly after he found it. He was sure it was a key of some kind. It’s green, about two inches long. It’s egg-shaped and very smooth, with tiny, odd-shaped little facets cut into the bottom. It disappeared a couple of years ago along with Uncle Digby. He either hid it somewhere or had it on him when he disappeared.”

Jonas sat forward, finally, showing real interest. “He believed the crystal was genuine Renaissance work?”

“Oh yes,” Elyssa said. Her bracelets jingled as she turned to Jonas. “He may have been senile there at the end, but at one time Digby Hazelhurst had quite a reputation in academic circles. Thirty years ago he was considered an expert on Renaissance history.”

“Hazelhurst?” Jonas repeated. “Your uncle was Digby Hazelhurst?”

“Have you heard of him?”

“I remember running across some early papers he did on Renaissance scientific learning,” Jonas said slowly. “They were gathering dust in an old library file at Vincent College. I found them by accident.”

“I’m afraid that by the time he died, Uncle Digby’s academic reputation had been shot to pieces,” Doug said. “His work got more and more bizarre during the last twenty years, I’m told. His colleagues ignored him, he couldn’t get teaching positions, and academic journals stopped publishing him entirely. He eventually retired to his island to spend the last years of his life searching for the treasure.”

“You said your uncle died a couple of years ago?”

Doug nodded. “Lost at sea. The old man had no business sailing on the Sound alone at his age. But old Digby always was independent. He’d had a bad heart for years. The authorities concluded he probably had a heart attack and fell overboard. They never recovered the body, although the boat eventually washed ashore on a neighboring island.”

“And you’re left with the diary, the reconstructed villa, and a missing piece of crystal,” Jonas concluded.

Elyssa laughed and her earrings tinkled. “Doug’s right. We really do have to sell the villa, there’s no way we can afford to keep it. But I can’t bear not to try to find the treasure before we do. It should be fun, if nothing else. I’m inviting a few friends to help in the hunt.”

Jonas narrowed his eyes. “What kind of friends?”

“Don’t worry, they won’t get in your way,” she assured him hastily. “There’s plenty of room. Digby’s housekeeper, a Miss Frampton, is still at the villa. She’ll see to all the cooking and cleaning for us.”

“Jonas, it sounds like fun,” Verity said brightly.

He arched his brows and gave her a wry glance. “When it comes to business,” he said to the Warwicks, “I leave everything to my business manager. Looks like we’ll be seeing you in Seattle in a day or two.”

“Great.” Doug took a small, leatherbound volume out of his pocket. “I might as well let you have a look at the diary.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you happen to know Latin?”

“It’s been a while, but I can manage,” Jonas said with an air of dignified modesty. “Italian humanist scholars made a big deal out of learning Latin. It was considered the only suitable language for recording really important work. Looks like Digby felt the same way.”

“In this day and age, it makes for an excellent secret code,” Doug observed. “No one reads Latin anymore. There are a few pages missing from the back of the diary. You can see where they’ve been torn out. I don’t know what happened to them.”

Elyssa leaned toward Jonas as he reached for the book. Her jeweled fingers flashed light. “Mr. Quarrel, I have a personal question…”

“Jonas,” he corrected absently, examining the small volume.

“Jonas, then.” She smiled with obvious delight. “Forgive me for prying, but I’m dying of curiosity. Is it true that you have a talent for psychometry?”

Verity saw the anger flare in Jonas’s eyes and was suddenly afraid that the whole deal was going to end right then and there. She could have kicked Elyssa.

“The editor of the journal that published your article mentioned that you once had a reputation for authenticating items for museums and collectors,” Elyssa explained, apparently unaware of the narrow line she was walking. “From his description of your work, my friend Preston Yarwood speculated that you might have a psychic ability called psychometry. Is that true?”

“Pure bullshit,” Jonas said with clenched teeth.

“Preston said that you might not even be aware of how and why you can identify objects from the past,” Elyssa went on innocently. “He said the talent might be very elusive, something you just take for granted, and don’t even understand yourself.”

“Who’s Preston Yarwood?” Jonas demanded grimly.

“Mr. Yarwood is a friend of hers, Jonas,” Verity cut in. “He’s the one who contacted the journal editor who published your piece on Renaissance fencing techniques. The editor recommended you for this assignment.” She gave Jonas her most brilliant smile. “Funny how things work out, isn’t it? If you hadn’t published that piece, the Warwicks would never have learned about you, and we wouldn’t be on our way to Washington.”

Jonas tapped the Hazelhurst diary thoughtfully. “Funny isn’t exactly the word for it.”

Chapter Four

“What an ugly pile of rock. No wonder Doug said it was called Hazelhurst’s Honor.” Verity’s disappointment was obvious. She stood in the stern of the small launch Doug Warwick was piloting and studied the grim island fortress ahead.

Jonas grinned. “Well, it sure as hell doesn’t approach the architectural genius of Bramante or Brunelleschi.”

“What style is it, then?”

Jonas shrugged and surveyed the rugged structure dominating the cliff that rose from the cold waters of Puget Sound. It was a plain, solid-looking stone mass, two stories high. The rough, unattractive facade was studded with tiny windows and capped by a thick, bulky cornice that outlined the roof. “I’d say it’s late fifteenth century, probably Milanese, judging by the overall style. The architect will most likely remain anonymous forever.”

“And deservedly so,” Verity retorted. “When the Warwicks talked about an Italian villa, I imagined something a little grander.” The noise of the launch engine kept her complaints from being overheard by their host, who was busy guiding the boat into a small cove.

Jonas chuckled, amused by her dismay. “Not everything built during the Renaissance was an architectural marvel. Just ask anyone who was born and raised in Rome, or Milan, or Florence. The most important criterion for a Renaissance house was that it be able to withstand an armed assault. This sucker looks like it was built to do the job.”

“I’ll say.” Verity shivered. “It’s going to be dark and gloomy inside.”

“Well, it won’t be
cheerful, that’s for sure, but it may not be too dark. It’s built around an enclosed courtyard. The rooms will all have much larger windows on the inside walls.”

“Just as long as it has indoor plumbing.”

“Don’t worry. Doug assured me that his uncle installed modern plumbing and wiring in the south wing. That’s the wing facing us. Hazelhurst didn’t fancy roughing it out here on an isolated island.”

Verity noticed a cheerful note in his voice and smiled. “You’re really getting into this, aren’t you? I can’t believe it. I practically had to threaten you to take this job, and already you’re enjoying yourself. Admit it.”

Jonas glanced at his duffel bag, which contained, among other things, Digby Hazelhurst’s diary. “Might turn out to be interesting after all.”

“I knew it,” Verity said with satisfaction. “Jonas, I have the feeling this is going to be the beginning of a wonderful consulting career.”

“We’ll see.”

But Verity refused to be put off by his cautious attitude. She had seen him poring over Hazelhurst’s diary for the past two days. He had spent every free minute with it before they had left Sequence Springs, and he’d kept his nose buried in it during the flight from San Francisco to Seattle. He had also gone through several texts on Renaissance architecture. Jonas might not admit it yet, Verity thought, but he was fascinated by the project ahead of him.

Doug Warwick had met them at the airport in Seattle. Laura had been right about him—he did own a BMW. They had driven north of the city to the ferry terminal that served the San Juan Islands. The ferry had taken them to one of the larger, more populated islands, and from there Doug had driven them to a marina where he kept a launch.

“The island Uncle Digby built his villa on is too small and isolated to be serviced by the ferry system,” Warwick had explained as he’d helped his guests into the boat. “He came over to this island to do
his shopping and pick up supplies.”

“Does anyone else live on Hazelhurst’s island?” Verity had asked as she hobbled carefully into the boat, using Jonas’s arm for support. Her ankle was still sore.

“Just Maggie Frampton, Uncle Digby’s housekeeper. I was sure she’d give her notice after my uncle died. His death really shook her up. I gather the two of them had a thing going. I can’t imagine why she would want to stay all alone in that pile of stone, but she seems content. She’s free to use the launch whenever she wants to shop or visit her sister in Portland.”

The island was tiny, just an oversized piece of rock covered by a thick forest of pine and fir. The stark, gloomy atmosphere was embellished by the gray skies and chill, damp breeze. Jonas had been right when he’d warned her this wasn’t going to be like Hawaii, Verity thought wryly.

The small cove below the villa had a floating dock. Verity steadied herself as Doug cut the engine. Jonas leaped lightly up onto the dock and grabbed the lines Doug tossed to him. Then he reached down to help Verity out of the boat.

“With any luck, your room will be ready. Maggie’s a good-hearted soul, but she’s sometimes a little disorganized. She’s not used to having a houseful of strangers,” Doug explained as he collected the luggage from the back of the launch. “Uncle Digby rarely entertained, mostly because he only wanted the company of other scholars—and toward the end they all shunned him.”

The villa’s entrance was set deep inside a massive arch. The huge wooden door swung open with a protesting squeak just as Doug reached it. Elyssa Warwick stood inside, covered from throat to toe in a flowing white dress that emphasized her voluptuous curves. Her smile of welcome was, as usual, serenely glowing. Verity wondered how anyone could radiate so much goodness and light without using an electrical outlet.

“You made it,” Elyssa exclaimed, as if there had been some doubt. Her gaze settled on Jonas. “I was getting worried. Preston had a vision of the plane being late. Was it?”

“A few minutes,” Verity admitted. “There was a slight delay on the runway.”

“I knew it,” Elyssa said triumphantly. “Preston is almost never wrong. His visions are so clear.”

“I hate to break this to you, Elyssa,” Jonas remarked, “but most planes run late these days. It doesn’t take any psychic talent to predict that one particular flight might be delayed.”