The Big Steal (24 page)

She had spoken her last words quietly, more to herself than to me. Then turning her full attention to me she asked, “You haven't come across them have you?”

I didn't say a thing. I just moved my head ever so slightly in a noncommittal way and hoped I had kept my body language under control while trying to block out images of the grand American pieces in Mazie's secret room.

“I wouldn't have thought so,” she said. “But about the furniture over there …”

All the while Tracy had been talking, half my brain had been thinking about the secret rooms and the appraisal
stashed between the mattress and box spring of my bed. Now I was wondering how we'd gotten back on the furniture at Wynderly. I had consciously dodged the subject first go-round. Tracy had even praised me for not saying anything. Was it a coincidence that our conversation had come full circle, or had that been her intention all along? A glass or two of wine. A little cozy conversation about men. A couple of harmless confessions about her personal life to put me at ease …

I do wish I wasn't so suspicious
all
the time. But that's part of being an appraiser.

Casting my Southern manners to the wind, I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table. “I think I know how your father felt being a lawyer,” I said. “There must have been many times when he wanted to talk about a case, get it off his chest, but couldn't. Client confidentiality can be a real burden. That's what I'm struggling with right now. You see, before I can say anything about what I've found … or
haven't
found at Wynderly, I really
do
have to talk to Matt Yardley. Then, if he gives me permission to … But meanwhile, my loyalty has to be to the insurance company,” I stuttered. “Until then … I can't even discuss the situation with the board … not till I've talked to Matt. I'm sorry.”

I had watched Tracy DuMont as best I could while trying to find my words.

“Sterling Glass, I'll give it to you. You are a rare person. I've seen men of influence crumble in this setting, knowing the power my name and money hold. You didn't. My daddy would have liked you.”

I wished Peter Donaldson could have heard her words. Matt Yardley, too.

She crossed her heart like a kid. “I promise not to bring up Wynderly again, how's that? Let's have some decadent dessert. Chocolate.”

“But we can talk about
your
things, can't we?” I said.

“Oh yes. My favorite topic.” Tracy pushed the silent buzzer on the floor beneath her feet. Yves appeared.

“We'll take dessert now. And tea,” she said. “Now, I told you about the huntboard. These chairs …”

A
FTER THE PROMISED TOUR
of Terena, as we stood at the door saying our good-byes, Tracy said, “Are you sure you know how to get back to Belle Ayre?”

I dismissed the cautiousness in her voice with a laugh. “Oh yes, I think so. I have directions. I'm going to turn them around, read them backwards, and see what happens.”

Opening the drawer of the Pembroke table, Tracy said, “You do have a gun, don't you?”

“Gun?” I could hardly get the word out of my throat. “Gun? No, I haven't.”

“Here, take this one.” She took out a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver, checked the cylinder, and handed it to me, butt first. “It's fully loaded.”

My hand leapt to my heart.

“Or would you feel better with a semiautomatic? I've plenty of nine millimeters around. They can be temperamental, though, hard to control. I find a good old revolver more foolproof.”

Even though I'd taken the Leemont Citizens' Police Academy and handled a semiautomatic pretty well, I'd also learned it wasn't wise to be toting around a concealed weapon. “Thank
you, but I really don't think I'll need it. I don't have a permit and I don't—”

“How about some mace, then?”

When she saw the look on my face, Tracy shrugged. “Guess not.” She glanced at her watch. “You're right. It is early yet. You should be fine.”

Tracy put the weapon back where she'd gotten it. “But do be careful.” Then smiling, she reached out and gave me a warm hug. “It's been a delightful visit, and it won't be our last.”

Another typical Tracy DuMont over-the-top moment, I thought, and waved to her while unlocking the car. “Thanks again for everything,” I called to her.

“OK, but
do
be careful, and watch out for the deer and foxes,” she called back.

Dear Antiques Expert: When going through some family things we found a pistol. Accompanying it was a note reading “9 mm WW I German Luger taken off a Nazi officer.” My great-grandfather served in WW I, and my grandfather in WW II. Could this information be true, and what would the gun's value be?

Interestingly, the manufacture of the Luger changed from Jewish control to the Nazis in the early 1940s. Because Lugers were issued to ranking German officers during both world wars, the information could be accurate. However, if the gun bears the stamp “Germany,” it would have been among those made for export to America, of which there were many. A weapons expert can identify the age of the gun by its marking—the serial and model numbers—and give you its value according to its type, condition, etc. It could possibly be worth a thousand dollars or more.

T
HOUGH
I
HAD
made every effort to sound confident, once I closed the door and started the engine, I threw up a little prayer. Dark nights and strange places with no houses, stores, or streetlights around are not within my comfort zone. I stopped at the
end of Tracy's driveway and fumbled with the wrinkled page of directions, turning it first this way, then that. The dim reading light in the car was next to no help. I fished around in the glove compartment till I found my flashlight, but even with the extra light, the more I looked at my directions, the more confused I got. Why had I let Tracy pour that last glass of wine? In frustration I flipped the flashlight off, looked at the road in front of me. Which way was I supposed to turn at the gate? Left. Right. Which way had I turned when I was coming to the house?

It was only a little past nine. If I went the wrong way, I'd surely figure it out eventually, then turn around and go the other way. I turned to the right, looking for anything familiar that I had seen a couple of hours earlier. But in the black of night, who can tell one stand of dark trees from another? Even with my brights on, I had a hard time reading the names of houses and watching for blind curves at the same time.

Trying to get my mind on something less worrisome, I flipped on the radio, but the twangy voices singing country and western music dominating the airwaves didn't do anything for me, especially after the elegance of Tracy's home. My mind wandered back to Terena.

Worth Merritt had been right when he'd sworn that any time spent with Tracy DuMont would be time well spent. Mother often said that every woman has two faces—one she shows to the world, and one she shows to the man she loves. I'd learned that Miss Mary Sophie was certainly living proof of that old saw. It was clear that Tracy, too, had a public and a private face. I was glad I'd had a chance to see them both—the one entertaining and domineering, the other, though strong at times, surprisingly endearing.

I was midway through a long twisting curve when a bolt of light from a vehicle flashed in my side mirror. Startled, I grasped the steering wheel so tightly that I accidentally veered into the other lane, or what normally would be the other lane, except these back roads had no center lines.

At the same instant, lights of an oncoming car practically blinded me as it swung onto the narrow strip of grass on the roadside, missing me by no more than a foot or two, its horn blaring as it did so. By the time I had steered my car back into my lane I was a wreck. And the vehicle behind me was still on my bumper.

I slowed down to see the next curve and allow the fool behind me to pass. By now, I realized it wasn't a car, or even an SUV tailing me, but a pickup truck. The driver was undoubtedly from around these parts and knew the road. Of course he wanted to go fast.

Up ahead four or five deer were grazing a few feet from the road. Again I clicked on my brights. One of the deer turned and ambled away. The others ignored the whole situation. Thank you, Lord, I said, thankful none had bounded across the road. I reached to open the driver's window so I could motion to the truck to pass me. When I touched the brake lightly, my car lurched forward as the truck hit me, not hard, but with too much force to be accidental. I threw my hands up in the air and strained to get a better look in my rearview mirror.

Sitting high and laughing hard were two guys in the lighted cab of the truck. Its bumper couldn't have been more than an inch or two off my rear. Maybe if they were drinking they hadn't meant to ram me.

I crept along until I got to what looked to be an even patch
of ground, pulled onto the shoulder, and eased to a stop. But instead of zooming past, the truck stayed glued to me.

At least I hadn't been forced into a low ditch or sent tumbling down a hillside. Surely someone would come along. It wasn't like it was midnight.

I heard the truck doors slam.

The seconds that passed seemed an eternity. The guy in the passenger seat had disappeared behind the truck, probably to take a leak. The driver stood by his door shuffling his feet, bull-like, snuffing out the remains of a cigarette. My instincts told me to gun it and get the hell out of there, but I knew that they could outrun me cold.

The one who'd gone around the truck reappeared. He was tall and wore a baseball cap. Together they sauntered up to my side of the car. The one who'd been driving peered in my window.

“Pro-fess-or Fox,” he called out in a singsongy falsetto voice.

I grabbed my flashlight and clutched it as tightly as I would have a World War I German Luger and shone it straight in his eyes.

He jerked back in surprise. I could hear the men's cussing through the glass. The tall guy in the baseball cap kicked the side of my car.

“Damn it, Emmett. Don't get him mad.”

The one who'd spoken banged his fist on my window. “Open up, Fox.”

I didn't point the flashlight this time. I just listened to my own heart beating above their commotion. The one named Emmett leaned over the hood of my car so he could see in.
As he did so, the moon slid out from behind clouds, and I caught a clear glimpse of his face—the same face I'd seen at the 7-Eleven a couple of nights earlier. I turned to see who the other man was. It wasn't the boy who had been with Michelle and Emmett. This man was middle-aged and with a sallow, pockmarked complexion.

“Emmett, this ain't Fox. It's a … a woman. It's a lady.”

Emmett cupped his hands and face against the windshield so he could see inside my car, distorting his features as he did so. Shrinking back even further, I pressed my hands hard against the steering wheel as if that would create some invisible barrier between his looming presence and me. Only when he jumped back, cursing and yelling, did I realize I was hitting the horn. I jerked my hands off the wheel.

“Honest lady. We didn't mean to scare you,” the older man yelled. “Open the window.” He was making a wide rolling motion with his hand.

I cracked the window no more than an inch. He put his lips up to the opening. A burst of sour whiskey and cigarettes exploded with his words. “Honest. I'm real sorry. You OK? My buddy Emmett and me, we thought you was somebody else.” He laughed a fake laugh. “We was just having a little fun. Guy thing, you know.”

By now Emmett had joined him. “Why'd you have to lay on your horn like that for? Huh?”

“Hold up, Emmett. I'm sure she didn't mean to,” he said.

I could feel the panic of the moment passing. I cracked the window a little more. For half a second I thought about apologizing for scaring him. Instead I said, “You guys scared the living crap out of me. My God, don't you know you could have
killed me back there. I thought you wanted to
pass
me. Who'd you say you thought I was anyway?”

“Fox,” the one blurted out before Emmett boxed him on the side of the head.

“Shut the crap up, Joe,” Emmett mumbled between clinched teeth. “Nobody,” he said to me. “Just some old guy we like to mess with. No harm intended, lady.” Emmett made a half effort to tip the rim of his John Deere cap in my direction.

Fox. I'd heard right the first time. I did my best to laugh like I didn't think any harm had been intended, and they turned to leave.

“Did you hurt yourself when you kicked my car?” I called after them.

“Huh?” Joe turned and stopped.

Emmett shook his head and kept walking back to the truck.

“Him. Your buddy, Emmett. He kicked my car door,” I said. “Did he break his toe? Dent my car?”

“Naw. Your car's not hurt. Them Germans, they built these old Mercedes like they built their panzers. That's what started it. Your car's just like the one—“Joe stopped. “Yeah, it sure looks like our buddy's. Most Mercedes in these parts is
new
. Say, you live around here? Wouldn't want to make the same mistake twice.”

“Just passing through.” I shook my head and heaved a heavy sigh. With genuine feeling I said, “Trust me, I can't say I'd want to run into you guys again. But hey, before you go … I think you owe me something.”

I saw Joe reach into his jeans pocket. “How about helping me out after scaring me to death. Is this the way to Orange
and on up to Culpepper?” I purposely made it sound like I was heading somewhere else.

“No, ma'am,” Joe said. “Orange is back that a way.” He swayed slightly as he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “Going straight down this road will end you up in Uno and carry you on to Rochelle. You need to turn around and go for, about, oh, I dun't know … two, three miles. When you come to the V in the road, go left. Pretty soon you'll see a sign pointing you toward the highway. Once you get on it there's signs into Orange.” He paused and scratched his head. “Hell, you
are
lost, lady.”