Trophies (19 page)

Beside the door, Patty stood alone. She
stared at me with sad and disillusioned eyes. It brought me to a
dead stop. I hadn't meant for my favorite mouse to see this side of
me, but she had, and I couldn't just brush past her now.

I spoke the simple truth. "I'm sorry, Patty.
But this is who I am and what I do."

She bit her lip and looked away. "I think
I'll go to the hospital. I called earlier, and Mum and Dad are
there."

Someone sympathetic who would listen while
she poured out her heartache, she meant. Perhaps she hadn't heard
anything comforting from Caren during their time in the
kitchen.

It was time to pull out the heavy ammunition.
She had an unwelcome new image of me; what she needed now was a new
one for herself, as well, as Aunt Edith had known when she and I
wrote her will. "At least take a look at the wedding dress. It's in
the armoire and Aunt Edith left it to you."

I trotted downstairs, chest tight and aching.
If this didn't work, our relationship was over. If she turned and
walked away, I promised myself, I wasn't going to cry.

When I returned with the two toolkits, she
stood at the armoire, the wedding dress in her arms. Her eyes were
huge, her lips parted. Tears streamed down her face. Her right hand
skimmed over the seed pearls, traced the purple insets in the
sleeves, arranged the pleats of the skirt. The fact that it was a
wedding dress was incidental. It was Aunt Edith's most prized
possession, she had judged Patty most worthy to receive it, and
Patty's delicate, reverent touch reflected the value of the gift.
She didn't seem to notice anyone else was in the room, even though
Sherlock and Caren weren't being quiet.

"Damn, more investment records," he said as I
entered. "Those high-rolling guys got nothing on this woman."

"And more copies of checks and cash deposit
slips." Caren sat on the floor cross-legged, thumbing through the
contents of a small box that looked designed to hold just such
records. "Goodness, Patricia, here's another one from your brother
Jacob. Do you think she made him a loan? That's what, five deposit
slips so far?" She finally glanced up. "Patricia?"

Patty turned, holding the gown to her front.
Even though the bound-up train made her look pregnant, even though
her hair was tied severely back, and even with tears on her face,
the transformation was astounding: instead of the family mouse, she
looked like the princess in a fairy tale. As we stared, I swear her
shoulders straightened, and I couldn't restrain a grin.

Caren gave me a mischievous smile. "So how
long will it take for you to fall desperately in love?"

"Two weeks." Patty sniffed. "Give me two
weeks." She carefully folded the gown back into the garment bag and
closed the armoire door as if it held her soul rather than a bunch
of old clothes. Then she slid down beside Caren and grabbed a
handful of papers from the desk drawer.

Sherlock finally awoke; his long considering
stare I did not take as a good sign. "You gonna prop up the wall,
Robbie, or work on that trunk?"

I wanted to tell him off, but wasn't willing
to risk bruising the fragile new accord with Patty by fighting so
soon with someone else. So instead, without a word, I worked on
that trunk.

It was rusted shut, as Sherlock had pointed
out. I tried silicone powder, sewing machine oil, whatever I could
think of, but the picks bent alarmingly and the lock refused to
budge. Finally I made a fourth trip downstairs, came back with a
screwdriver and hammer from the garage, and had it open within
seconds. Everyone applauded, even Patty. I shot Sherlock, at least,
a filthy look.

"Great performance," he assured me.

Even for peace with Patty, I couldn't let
that pass. "At least it was a performance from Shakespeare and not
A.C. Doyle."

Of course, he came right back. "If so, it's
from the cheap-seats half."

Caren held the box before her face but her
shoulders were shaking.

Bugger them all. I forced open the lid of the
chest, hinges grating. Whatever was in that cavernous container
occupied amazingly little space. I leaned over and peered in.

"What?" Patty stared at Sherlock as if she
couldn't believe he was educated enough for such a comeback. I
could have warned her otherwise.

He huffed, pretending to take insult.
"Everybody knows Shakespeare wrote poetry for the upper crust and
comedy for all the rest of us. Right?" He gave me an arch look. "So
what do we finally have?"

"Looks like more clothes." I lifted out a
classic black tuxedo jacket, folded so long ago the creases were
set and wouldn't shake out. It stirred a memory, at first pleasant,
then painful. "This was Uncle Hubert's. I think he wore it the
night he died."

"The back's all stained," Patty said.

I turned the jacket around. The stains were
stiff, matte black against the shinier fabric, and rust-colored if
turned at an angle. "She didn't have it cleaned." I folded it with
the stains inside, set it beside me, and returned to the trunk.
"Trousers, cummerbund, dress shirt that was once white, all in the
same condition." I made certain Patty didn't see the horrible
shirt, no matter how much she irritated me, by rolling it inside
the trousers. "No shoes."

"Remind me," Sherlock said. "Who's Uncle
Hubert? And how did he die?"

"Sorry," I said. "Hubert Hunter was Aunt
Edith's husband, a tenured British history professor over at
Harvard. He was struck by a hit-and-run driver the night he won a
special award for teaching. Here, what's this?"

It was a uniform jacket; I knew those too
well to miss the marks of old-fashioned tailoring, notched collar,
and epaulets. This one wasn't from any military organization I
recognized, although the dark blue of the heavy serge made me think
it might be from some banana-republic air force or police unit.
Threads dangled from the breast, upper sleeves, and wrists, as if
patches and insignia had been ripped off. A bullet's entry hole,
right above the heart, was small and neat; the exit hole, in the
back, was larger and ragged; and the same sort of stains covered
front and back.

"Death clothing," Sherlock said. "No wonder
she locked it away and never opened that trunk."

"Are you saying someone died in that?" Patty
demanded.

"Judging from the location of the bullet,
probably." I looked back inside the trunk, but the rest of the
uniform wasn't there, so I moved on to the next layer of clothing
that was. "Black trousers, and a black sweater that looks
hand-knitted and also heavily stained."

"Those are women's trousers." Caren took them
and examined the insides. "And they're hand-made, as well." She
scrambled up and measured the trousers against her leg; they fell
to her mid-calf and couldn't possibly stretch around those curvy
hips. "Did Edith sew?"

I tore my stare from the hips. "I don't know,
but she could knit. She always made sweaters for Uncle Hubert and
me every autumn." Suddenly I realized I was speaking of her in the
past tense. It felt disloyal. I forced myself not to glance toward
the door and instead leaned back into the trunk. It was almost
empty. "Now, what's this?"

I thought at first it was an old photo album,
the sort that held black-and-whites of people staring solemnly out
at you, and indeed such a stare embellished the first page. But the
photo, of a pale and handsome young man with lively eyes and chin
held low, was part of a newspaper article, and as I flipped a few
more pages, I realized what it was.

"It's a scrapbook." I skimmed through the
article on the page before me. "But I don't recognize any of these
people's names."

"Let me try," Patricia said.

I handed her the album, or at least I assume
I did. I know I lifted it out of the trunk and moved it aside, and
I know it wasn't in my hand a moment later. But what I saw in the
bottom of the trunk so shocked me that I don't remember whatever
actually happened in those few seconds.

It was a pistol.

current time

Before Sherlock could say, "Fingerprints!"
I'd picked it up by the barrel. In the abrupt silence we all
stared, fascinated and horrified. The pearl grey grip sported three
black-rust ovals on its left side, whorls and arches unsmudged.

"Have I ever mentioned," I said to Sherlock,
"how I hate your little flashes of intuition? I mean, why can't I
have a normal commanding officer, like everyone else?"

"Why be normal?" Bonnie strolled in and
glanced at the pistol I held. "Family heirloom?"

"It seems so." I examined it more closely.
"It's a Browning, I think one of the old blow-backs, probably made
between the two World Wars. About a seven point six five; it's too
small to be a nine millimeter and the Europeans didn't make many
twenty-twos."

"Did you find Theresa?" Sherlock didn't look
away from the Browning.

"Yeah, no sweat, except for her." Bonnie
snickered. It sounded out of place. "She's still at Laughlin Air
Force Base. She's hitched a ride on a transport trainer heading
this way, but takeoff's been delayed and they won't tell her
why."

"Oh, no." Sherlock winced. "I hope she's
taking it calmly."

"Well, she yelled something about dynamite
and the men's room. But she said it sort of calmly."

He tilted his head back and stared at the
roof. "One officer doesn't have the sense to hop a commercial
flight when the flyboys won't dance her tune, another without the
sense to not pick up a murder weapon with his bare hands. Why can't
I have a normal command, like everyone else?"

"Oh, stuff it, boss. What makes you think
this is the murder weapon?" The holes in Aunt Edith's chest were
small, made with something about this size. But that trunk had
definitely not been opened anytime recently.

"I said
a
murder weapon, not
the.
And if those fingerprints are in blood, as I suspect,
then that's what it probably is. Right?"

"I hate it when you are." Along the
nickel-toned slide was engraved Fabrique Nationale d'Armes de
Guerre Herstal-Belgique; the pistol had been manufactured in
Belgium and brought across the pond. Legally? "So, do we give this
to Detective Wingate?"

"No!" Sherlock ran a hand through his hair.
Before the war, he'd kept it ultra-trimmed, but since then he'd let
it grow longer even if he couldn't keep his hands out of it. The
way this situation was developing, it might remain eternally
mussed. "Hell, no. Was your aunt ever fingerprinted?"

"I beg your pardon?" The ice in my voice
startled even me. But after a moment's thought, even through
Sherlock's rumpled glare, I didn't back down. Aunt Edith's
reputation was as a thief, nothing more. Nothing worse.

He grabbed the folded tuxedo jacket. "We know
someone died in this — Hubert, you said his name was? So this is
probably his blood." He set the old tux aside almost reverently,
grabbed up the uniform coat. "We're pretty convinced someone also
died in this. The bullet holes make a strong argument and that
blood almost certainly came from the person wearing it when they
were made." He set that coat aside, too, and picked up the black
knitted sweater. "There are no holes in this, but there's blood on
it. Chances are, it's someone else's blood, not the wearer's, and
same for that Browning. So how did it get there?"

In the pause, the only sound was Patricia's
ragged breathing.

"So you suspect those are Aunt Edith's
fingerprints." My voice was still cold, but now it reflected the
goose bumps prickling my arms. Her family reputation
notwithstanding, what in the world was she doing with these evil
old things?"

"Could possibly be," Sherlock said, "not
suspect. They could also belong to someone else and she might have
just hidden them. But that makes her an accessory after the fact.
Anyways, for the family's sake — and that includes you — we should
protect her reputation. In my humble opinion."

"Thank you." Patricia's voice was very
small.

"Anytime, ma'am. So was she ever
fingerprinted?"

I forced myself to think. "Probably when she
first entered this country. Do they keep such things on file that
long?"

"The police and the Feds keep everything.
They still have the ballistics evidence from the Sacco and Vanzetti
case. Why wouldn't they still have an import's fingerprints?"

I shrugged. "We can always lift her prints
from her bedroom if we have to. Granted, she wore gloves a lot."
Her white-sheathed hands used to select just the right coins from
her purse and slide them into a parking meter without fumbling. She
was the only person I knew who could wear gloves and not be made
clumsy by them — except for me, the other Ellandun family
thief.

The memory comforted me. If Aunt Edith had —
it was unthinkable, but if she
had
shot someone, she would
have worn gloves. I'd help Sherlock go through his exercise, but
these couldn't possibly be her fingerprints.

"There is another possibility besides
murder," Caren said.

We all turned. Patty dabbed her eyes with a
tiny embroidered handkerchief. It took me a moment to recognize the
one from Aunt Edith's hat box, and another to decide Patty may as
well have it as anyone else.

Caren still held the little box open on her
lap. She stared down at the financial papers, lips pursed, a
wrinkle between her dark eyes. "I'm finding lots of deposits —
large deposits, at regular intervals — from three or four different
people."

"Like blackmail checks?" Sherlock asked. "Do
blackmailers take checks?"

"They might if the blackmailee was family."
Caren laid a hand on Patricia's arm. "Some are from your brother
Jacob."

Patty froze. Bewilderment darkened her face,
as if she felt attacked on all fronts and wasn't certain where to
turn for help. I had to admit, I could relate.