Grace Cries Uncle (16 page)

“For reasons of security, I am unable to be more specific at this time.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Let's call this location a sacred burial ground. Legend has it that the ruler of this region had a magnificent palace built into a mountainside. This was where he and his family would eventually be interred. He kept the exact location secret from all but his closest advisors.”

Mountains? I began to review geography in my head to narrow down possibilities. A futile effort. Asia was simply too big. What I said was, “Kings, emperors, rulers of all kinds have been making elaborate plans for the afterlife since the beginning of time. Is this someone I've likely heard of? Can you tell me that much?”

“I'd prefer to keep specifics out of the discussion.” With a conspiratorial glance to Bennett, he added, “I can tell you, however, that Mr. Marshfield was unaware of this particular dynasty.”

Then most likely, I would be unaware as well. “I gather then, that these folks were super wealthy but obscure?”

“The region's culture might have been lost forever if not
for the efforts of a small, dedicated group of historians who made it their mission to rediscover the lost burial ground.”

“I take it they were successful.”

He nodded. “The treasures they uncovered far surpass those from the vaults of Sree Padmanabhaswamy. The historians were smart enough to keep news of their discovery from making headlines, but unfortunately, not savvy enough to prevent insidious forces from worming their way in.”

“The government of—wherever this is—is claiming ownership?”

“Not quite. The inhabitants of the area surrounding the burial ground are a passive people, eager to trust. Unfortunately, it appears they are also easily deceived. Before the historians could summon professionals to assist the government in evaluating the cultural windfall, an item of extraordinary value was stolen.” He tapped the photo. “This.”

I studied the picture more closely, rotating it counterclockwise, trying to determine which way was up. “What is it, exactly?”

“A puzzle and a key,” he said, returning the page to its original orientation. “Here.” He indicated one of the odd-shaped item's long golden edges. “See that small mark? This piece is made up of eight intricately designed segments. Once assembled correctly—as it is in this photograph—it fits into a hollowed-out niche, unlocking the door to the treasure tomb of the burial ground.”

“You're kidding me,” I said. He wasn't, of course. “Sounds like something out of
Indiana Jones
.”

I'd expected him to show a hint of humor. Nope. The flat stare continued.

“The historians locked the tomb to protect it, but then this was stolen.” He tapped the picture. “The ancient name is long and difficult to pronounce. We call it the jeweled key.”

“Why are you looking for it? I wouldn't think the FBI would be called in. Don't you guys handle mostly domestic issues?”

“That is correct. The FBI would not ordinarily be involved in this matter.”

“And yet, you're here in Emberstowne. Showing me this photo and looking for my sister's husband. What's the connection? Whoever stole this item from the burial ground had to be exceptionally clever. Eric isn't stupid, but this is way above his pay grade.”

McClowery folded his hands in his lap. “That's where you and Mr. Marshfield come in.”

*   *   *

An hour later my head was spinning. McClowery, with Bennett's assistance, explained the whole intricate and confusing story.

The rogue who'd stolen the jeweled key from the tomb had done so at the behest of an unnamed broker—McClowery referred to him as “Mr. X”—who dealt primarily in black-market art and priceless antiquities. Mr. X used a go-between to offer the jeweled key for sale to a high-stakes bidder. Eric had been that go-between. What Eric hadn't realized is that the high-stakes bidder he'd been courting—on Mr. X's behalf—was McClowery, working undercover. The Bureau wasn't interested in Eric; they wanted to use him to snag Mr. X.

“We intended to recover the jeweled key in the process as well,” McClowery said.

“I take it something went wrong?”

“I asked Eric for proof of the jeweled key's existence. That's standard procedure in such matters,” he said. “According to Eric, the broker refused to allow him to take possession of such a valuable item. I suggested Mr. X show himself, to complete the transaction in person. That would have been ideal. Mr. X, however, countered by offering to allow Eric to bring me three of the eight pieces in a show of faith.”

“Only three?” I asked.

During McClowery's explanation, Bennett had gotten up
to bring glasses and a pitcher of water. McClowery took a deep draught before continuing.

“Without all eight segments assembled together, the key is useless and considerably less valuable.”

“What happened?”

“Eric never showed up. We feared Mr. X had gotten wind of the FBI's involvement, but no. Once Eric took possession of the three pieces”—McClowery opened his fingers like a fast-blooming tulip— “poof, he was gone.”

“Can't you track him via his cell phone? Or credit cards? Isn't that how it works?”

“The cell phone in his name hasn't been used since he disappeared. Same for his credit cards.”

“Maybe he's using Nina Buchman's phone and credit cards,” I said. “Can't you track her?”

“We ran the name after I talked with you and your sister. It's an alias.”

“Wow,” I said, stunned by Eric's wily maneuvers. “You wouldn't think it would be so easy to drop out of sight. Not these days.”

McClowery didn't comment. “Our initial fear was that Eric intended to melt the segments down and sell the gold and precious stones individually.”

“He wouldn't, would he? Doesn't he realize what a tragedy that would be?” I was hit with a thought so terrible, it felt like a brick had dropped in my gut. “Could my sister have the pieces? Is that why Eric is after her?”

McClowery shook his head. “Your sister was never aware of the jeweled key's existence. I never met Liza until the other night because Eric told me—during our many meetings—that he preferred to keep her in the dark. She clearly didn't recognize me when I came to your house, and I believe her when she says she took nothing from him.”

“Then why would he care that she's gone? Or ask if she's been in contact with Bennett?”

My many questions may have been taxing the man's
patience, but his stone-faced expression provided no clue. “You must understand that whenever we're undercover, we establish a bond with our subject. It's necessary to earn the subject's trust. Eric told me a great deal about his relationship with Liza. She not only possesses knowledge about him and his business dealings that could land him in prison, she is a conduit to Mr. Marshfield via her relationship to you.”

“Wait, what?” I asked. “What possible reason could Eric have for wanting to connect with Bennett?”

McClowery hesitated. “We have reason to believe that Eric has initiated talks with another buyer interested in the jeweled key.”

“Oh?”

Bennett cleared his throat. “Remember that gentleman you met downstairs last week?” he asked. “Malcolm Krol?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “You wouldn't tell me much about him.”

“While our initial fear was that Eric would melt down the pieces for some easy cash, we discovered, through other sources, that Eric connected with Krol. In the world of priceless antiquities, the jeweled key is of enormous importance. Those who deal in the black market are salivating at the chance to possess even a single piece.”

“But without the key, the burial ground people can't open the tomb,” I said.

“Not without damaging the mechanism and ruining historical artifacts surrounding the lock,” he agreed. “Everyone involved in preserving the burial ground would prefer to avoid destructive measures. The return of the key is of paramount importance to them.” He gave a one shoulder shrug. “There are, however, many collectors with deep pockets and shallow scruples.”

“Krol believes I am one such collector,” Bennett said.

I couldn't contain my indignation. “How can he? You're the most honorable individual I've ever met.”

“Krol believes that because we made him believe it,” McClowery said. “We're working on two fronts here. Our
primary goal is to apprehend Eric and use him to unmask Mr. X, thereby closing down his operations once and for all. Our secondary objective is to assist in the recovery of the jeweled key. All eight pieces, if possible.”

Bennett leaned forward. “I know you were confused, and maybe even hurt that I wasn't being more forthcoming with my reasons for skipping the FAAC this year, but we couldn't risk Mr. X, or Krol, or Eric, approaching me in a public setting. The reception planned for Tuesday night is designed to flush out the person who possesses the jeweled key.”

“Tuesday's reception, then,” I began, “is a stakeout?”

Bennett nodded. “I wanted you in on it from the beginning.” He threw a displeased look at McClowery. “They refused.”

“The situation changed,” McClowery said.

“Why did you come to my door and identify yourself as an FBI agent?”

“My cover was blown, which is why—we believe—Eric took off. He needed to find a new buyer. At this point, I can accomplish more with my credentials than I can working undercover.” For the first time since I'd walked in, McClowery smiled. “Well, except for at our first meeting.”

“And I chased you off.” I saw no need to apologize again. “What about the fake FBI agent? Who was he?”

“Eric's disappearance upset Mr. X. He sent Emilio Ochoa here to find Eric. Or, more accurately, find him, kill him, and bring back the missing pieces of the jeweled key.”

“Then who killed Ochoa?”

McClowery shook his head. “We still don't have the answer to that.”

“You were gone a long time,” Liza said when I retrieved her from Tooney's care. “That had to be some meeting.”

“It was.”

As we headed up the stairs from the basement, she fingered her hair. “I don't like stumbling through that passageway. It's dark. And dirty.”

I didn't bother answering. My mind was still on my conversation with Bennett and Agent McClowery. I wanted desperately to sit Liza down and grill her with questions until I was satisfied that she had no knowledge of the jeweled key, but there was no way to do so without breaking confidence.

“That Frederick,” she began again when we were back in the kitchen, “what does he do for a living?”

“I don't know, exactly,” I said. “He helped Hillary establish her business and seems to have had a good influence on her. I'm not entirely certain whether he's a small-time venture capitalist or a life coach.”

“Hmm.”

Her tone snapped me out of my musings. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Nothing wrong with that.”

“You asked me about him before.”

“Did I?” Giving an indifferent shrug, she pointed upward. “I'm heading up for a shower. That walk underground makes me feel gritty.”

*   *   *

Liza spent the rest of the day following me around, making small talk. It wasn't in my sister's nature to prattle on without purpose, but I didn't detect any ulterior motive to her chatter. She helped prepare dinner and didn't disappear when it was time to clean up. For the first time since her arrival, I didn't loathe every moment of our time together.

Dinner was over, the kitchen cleaned, and—at least for me—it was time to relax until Bruce and Scott got home. I pulled out the book I hadn't finished and got a roaring fire started in the parlor. Liza, surprisingly, picked up a book instead of watching television.

When I got up from my favorite wing chair to add a log to the blaze, she asked, “So why haven't you kicked me out?”

I was crouched on the floor. She was seated in the wing chair that matched mine, watching me with a patently curious look on her face.

“I thought we covered this.” I poked at the new log, wedging it into the thick of the flames.

“Then pretend I'm dense. What's really going on? I don't for a minute believe that your sudden meeting today didn't have something to do with my being here. You've been way too cagey since you got back home.”

I pushed myself up and returned to my seat.

Liza didn't wait for me to answer. “Are you working behind the scenes on a plan to kick me out? You're not talking with Aunt Belinda, are you? She hounds me relentlessly. I couldn't bear to live with that woman.”

Bootsie crept into the room and after a few seconds' hesitation, bounded into my lap.

“Have you called her?” I pointed to the prepaid cell phone that poked out from Liza's purse on the floor next to her chair. “Aunt Belinda?”

“Are you kidding? If she knew I was here, she'd have a conniption fit that you didn't tell her. I'm protecting you, you understand.”

“You're such a giver that way.”

“What's really going on?” she asked again. “You know I can tell when you're lying so don't even try.”

“No lies,” I said.
But no reason to share the whole truth
. “You're here, you're afraid of Eric.” I held up two fingers. “You have nowhere to go and, whether we like it or not, we're sisters.” Four fingers straight up, I extended my thumb. “Last and most important, the fact that the murder victim came here looking for Eric right before you showed up convinces me that you're in deeper trouble than you realize. You may annoy the heck out of me, but I'm not about to throw you into the arms of a killer.”

“You think Eric did it, don't you?”

“It's crossed my mind.” I waited a beat. “What do you think?”

Her eyes reddened as she stared into the fire. “Eric wouldn't hurt me.”

With no sound but the urgent crackle of the flames and Bootsie's gentle breathing, I took a chance. “Then what does he want from you, Liza?”

She met my eyes. “I don't know,” she said. “I knew he was hiding things from me, but I didn't pay attention. I was . . .” She stared away again. “My mind was on what I
thought
was important.”

“Liza?” I asked, keeping it quiet, “What aren't you telling me?”

She shook herself and coughed up a smile. “Nothing. Nothing important, at least. It's done.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Frances met me when I walked in. She stood a few feet inside the door to her office, tadpole brows arched over her half-glasses and thick arms folded across her chest. “Well, well, well,” she said, alerting me to her level of pique, “thought you'd pull one over on me, did you?”

I shrugged out of my coat and took my time hanging it on our office rack. “I don't have a clue what you're talking about.”

Her sensibly shod foot beat a breakneck rhythm against the floor. “When were you going to tell me that the Mister invited you to attend his soiree tomorrow night?” At the word
soiree
, her chubby fingers untucked themselves from their tight elbow nests, flying high to pantomime air quotes. “Last I heard, you and I were to stay away from this one. Let the Mister have his ‘secrets.'”

“Oh, that,” I said. How did this woman always get the scoop so accurately and so quickly? I had to believe she was still in the dark about the FBI's involvement, but we were talking Frances here. I couldn't be too sure.

“Yes, that.” The shoe kept up its frenetic pace. “Thought you'd sneak that past without me noticing, did you?”

“Not at all,” I said. “You didn't give me a chance. I just walked in, remember? I would have told you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I talked with the Mister this morning when I first came in.”

“Oh, so he told you?” That surprised me. “You see? No big secret.”

“He did not.” Frances's dark brows jumped with each word.

“Then I don't understand. How did you find out?”

She led me around her desk and pointed to her computer monitor. “Look at that.”

An open e-mail took up the screen. I skimmed. It was a
message from Bennett to Terrence, Marshfield's head of security, confirming that I had been added to tomorrow evening's list of expected guests.

“But . . .” I said, pointing, “you're not on this e-mail string. How did you get it?”

She waggled her head. “It was sent to me.”

I double-checked the header. “No, it wasn't. This was sent directly from Bennett to Terrence.” Now I folded my arms. “Explain.”

She pursed her lips. “Davey helped the Mister get comfortable with e-mail.”

“I know that. It doesn't explain this.”

Again the head waggle of discomfort. “I thought it would be good if I helped the Mister out when I could. The Mister had Davey set things up so that whenever he sent something, it would automatically send a duplicate copy to me.”

“Are you telling me that you've read every single one of Bennett's e-mails? For the past—what?—two years?”

She lifted one shoulder in a “so what?” move.

“Why didn't you tell me about this?”

“Why should I?” Her back rigid with indignation, she clamped her fists into her hips.

“Because . . .” Having to explain the magnitude of this impropriety rendered me speechless. “Where to start?” I finally sputtered, “Your actions are unethical, dishonorable, immoral.”

“Throw a few more of those fancy words at me, why don't you?” she said. “You know as well as I do that my job here is to protect the Mister. If keeping tabs on his e-mails helps me do that, so be it.”

Making a mental note to talk with Davey to ensure Frances's access was curtailed, I shifted gears. How much did Frances know about Bennett's involvement with Agent McClowery? I couldn't very well come out and ask.

Adopting a brisk, businesslike attitude, I wiggled the fingers of one hand in a “give it to me” gesture. “What else?”

Her pupils were pinpoint sharp. “What do you mean? What else is there?”

“I'm asking you what else you know about Bennett's business that you shouldn't.” I held up a finger, stopping myself. “Wait, let me rephrase that because I know you believe there is nothing you shouldn't be aware of. What else have you learned lately from reading Bennett's e-mail?”

Her cheek twitched. “After the way you attacked me just now, I should keep you guessing.”

She was toying with me. Expecting me to explode. And I was close. With one arm across my body propping up the other arm's elbow, I kept one hand snug against my mouth in an effort to keep myself reined in. She took her sweet time deigning to answer me. I couldn't tell if it was because she knew about the FBI's interests or if there was some other bombshell about to drop.

“The stress of having your sister living with you is affecting your mood and that's why you're so confrontational with me.”

The slow delivery was excruciating. Struggling to keep my impatience in check, I bit the tip of my thumb.

“You feel powerless to control your sister, so you're taking it out on me. That's it, isn't it?” she asked.

I strained for calm, reminding myself that Frances always cooperated better when she believed she held the upper hand. “My sister's presence
has
been affecting a lot of my decisions,” I said. “Thank you for your concern. Back to Bennett's e-mails. I need to know everything you've uncovered, whether or not you think it's important.”

She watched me closely. “Is there anything in particular?”

Teeth working my lower lip, I gave her a “whatever” look. “You never know what's important until you see it.”

“As it happens,” she said, “the Mister doesn't send a lot of e-mail messages. He's old-fashioned and prefers to pick up the phone. I think the only reason he sent this one instead
of calling is because Terrence e-mailed him a couple of days ago, requesting an update.”

“You get copies of every e-mail Bennett receives, too?”

“
Pheh
,” she said. “Who would want to sift through someone else's junk mail? If there's something interesting I need to know, it'll be underneath when the Mister responds.”

“You haven't answered my question. What else have you learned?”

She twisted her mouth to one side. “That's it. The only one. I told you that the Mister doesn't send very many. This was the first e-mail he'd sent in about a week. Nothing interesting in the prior ones.” Frances seemed disappointed to be unable to offer a juicy scoop. “It's not that the Mister isn't savvy enough to navigate e-mail. He simply doesn't care to.”

“Okay, good.” My entire body relaxed and my fists unclenched.

She folded her arms again. “What's on your mind? You're about as tense as I've ever seen you.” The foot started tapping again. “What aren't you telling me?”

“It all comes back to my sister.” I managed a self-conscious laugh. “You remember how much she wanted to talk with Bennett and how we wouldn't allow that? I was afraid she'd attempt an end-run around me.”

“You don't think I would have told you if the Mister had been e-mailing with her?”

I worked to sell the story I was fabricating on the fly. “Think about it, Frances. She doesn't have a computer. She would've had to hack into mine and use my account. Messages would've looked like they came from me.”

Frances's pursed lips twisted to the other side of her face. I wasn't sure she was buying it completely, but she gave grudging acceptance. “She's a wily one.”

“I've done my best to keep her out of trouble, but you never know.”

Behind me, the door to Frances's office opened, and Bennett strode in. “Good morning,” he said, his voice booming
with such good cheer that I wondered if there had been a break in the jeweled key investigation. “Am I interrupting an important discussion?”

“An enlightening one, I'd say.” Ignoring Frances's laser-eyed warning, I let Bennett know about my assistant's access to his sent e-mails.

He curled a finger in front of his lips and I watched as he ran through a silent, mental checklist. Nodding, he gave me a meaningful look. “No harm done,” he said.

“Good. I'll talk with Davey and get that changed.”

Frances grimaced. “I don't see why it's such a big deal.”

Bennett recognized her hurt feelings. He took her hand and patted it. “You've seen nothing that I wouldn't have been willing to share in person.” He spoke to Frances, but I knew his words were directed to me. My relief was complete.

Frances was not so easily mollified. “What about confirming Grace's invitation to your fancy reception here tomorrow night? It was bad enough when we were both left out. Now it seems I'm the only one who isn't worthy.”