Gift of Gold (31 page)

Then she remembered that he had claimed the dagger was a fake. If it was a reproduction, she told herself in relief, it shouldn’t have any effect on him. She relaxed again.

Jonas took the dagger down from the wall. Verity trembled as a flickering image of the psychic tunnel slithered in
and out of her mind. It didn’t take a firm, solid shape the way it had the last time she had seen it. It was as if this part of the corridor were not as completely constructed; as if it were somehow
newer.

There was a brief impression of Jonas’s presence but she couldn’t see him. She was turning around to look at him when a hazy image appeared in the corridor behind her. Thinking it might be Jonas, she hurried toward it. She did not like being alone in this psychic tunnel.

She was almost on top of the image before it crystallized briefly into a scene of an old-fashioned, formal dining room. There was a man seated in an ornate armchair at the far end of an inlaid table. He was clutching at his heart, a stricken expression on his aging, florid face. He seemed to be staring past her toward someone who was not present.

Heart attack,
Verity thought, instinctively moving forward. But even as she watched the man pitched forward, the upper half of his body sprawling across a plate of what appeared to be linguini with prawns.

It was then that Verity saw the blood. It welled from the man’s chest, mingling with the linguini and turning the white cream sauce a sickly shade of red.

Verity halted in shock. No one bled like that from a heart attack. Her mind whirled as fear and a terrible sensation of violence swirled around her. Writhing tendrils of emotion leaped from the image and dived toward her.

Verity turned to run and collided with Jonas. He grabbed her wrist, his eyes narrow and grim as he looked at the flickering, fading scene behind her.

“It’s okay,” he said roughly. “It’s okay, honey. I’m releasing the dagger. We’re out of here.”

An instant later the half-formed corridor and the dying man at the dinner table popped out of existence in Verity’s mind. She opened her eyes and nearly lost her balance. Automatically she reached out to steady herself and found herself grabbing Damon Kincaid’s arm.

“I beg your pardon?” Kincaid, who had been watching Jonas with close attention, glanced down at Verity’s hand on his arm. “Something wrong, Miss Ames?”

“No, nothing.” She took a deep breath and tried another of the smiles Jonas had instructed her to apply. “I just felt a bit dizzy for a moment. I haven’t eaten today. Time for lunch.” She let go of Kincaid’s expensive jacket sleeve. Across the room, Jonas had restored the dagger to the wall. He was watching her with a furious glint in his eyes as she freed their host’s arm.

Kincaid glanced at the thin gold and steel watch on his wrist. “You’re right,” he said jovially. “It is almost lunchtime. I would be pleased if the two of you would allow me to take you out to a meal as a thank-you for bringing the duelers here to my office.” He looked at Verity, not Jonas, for an acceptance of his invitation.

Verity, still reorienting herself, looked at Jonas for guidance. She didn’t want to kill a potential deal by making the wrong choice here.

Jonas took immediate command of the situation.

“No, thanks,” he said coldly. “Verity and I have to be on our way. We’ve got a lot to do today. Are you ready, Verity?”

“Yes, Jonas;” she said meekly, trying out the sweet smile again. She was curious to see if it had any direct effect on him the way it seemed to have had on Kincaid.

“Let’s go.” He closed the mahogany pistol case and started for the door. He appeared to be totally unaware of Verity’s fluff-brained smile.

“Just a moment,” Kincaid said as they reached the door. “You didn’t give me your final verdict on the dagger. Still think it’s a phony now that you’ve had a chance to handle it?”

“It’s not sixteenth century,” Jonas said from the doorway. “More like 1955. Excellent work, but definitely a reproduction.”

Kincaid’s mouth hardened. “You must be mistaken.”

Jonas shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He started to close the door and then paused one last time. “If I were you, though, I’d be careful about dealing with whoever sold that dagger to you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“For one thing, he sold you a reproduction. For another, I get the feeling his acquisition technique is a little crude.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Kincaid looked furious.

“Forget it. Probably just some minor professional jealousy on my part. After all, he got a fortune out of you for a fake and I couldn’t even sell you a genuine set of pistols. Goodbye, Mr. Kincaid.”

Kincaid stared at the door as it closed. He was torn between rage and a deep sense of danger. He stabbed the intercom on his desk.

“Get Hatch in here.”

“Yes, Mr. Kincaid.”

Hatch appeared almost immediately, his colorless eyes blandly inquiring. “Yes, sir?”

“Get hold of Gelkirk. I want him here in one hour.”

“The appraiser? I’ll call him immediately.”

William Gelkirk scuttled nervously into Kincaid’s office forty-five minutes later. He was a rotund little man with a fringe of hair surrounding a bald head and small eyes that looked out at the world through thick lenses. Kincaid found him irritating, fussy, and boring, but there was no doubt that Gelkirk was one of the finest authorities on sixteenth-century armor on the West Coast. He had appraised a few items for Kincaid in the past, but Kincaid had not consulted him about the dagger.

Kincaid had been very certain of the dagger’s authenticity. After all, he had removed it himself from the vault the night he had calmly shot Henry Wilcox dead. The police had declared the incident a random act of violence since nothing seemed to be missing from Wilcox’s Beverly Hills mansion. No one had known about the dagger. Wilcox had only recently acquired it and not yet insured it.

Wilcox had been so proud of the dagger, Kincaid remembered. The first time he had displayed it was to a fellow collector whom he knew would appreciate it. Kincaid had taken one look at it, considered its untraceability, and decided he appreciated the weapon far more than Wilcox did. He made his decision and acted on it immediately. He used Wilcox’s personal gun, the one the older man kept in his desk drawer to protect himself in the event of a break-in.

The police were always warning people that weapons kept in the home were far more likely to be used against the owners than in self-defense. In this case, they were right, as usual.

Kincaid no longer did his own acquisition work. He now had the kind of contacts that enabled him to contract out that sort of thing. But back in his younger days he had been much more impetuous.

He forced a reassuring smile as he handed the dagger to Gelkirk. “It was very kind of you to come on such short notice. I’m extremely anxious for your opinion on this dagger. For years I assumed it was the genuine article, sixteenth century, Italian. But recently someone put some doubts in my head. If you would be so good as to give me your opinion? The usual rates, of course.”

Gelkirk nodded eagerly and took the dagger. He peered at the ornately fashioned grip and then carried it to the window to examine the steel blade in sunlight.

“I’d have to run some tests to be certain, but my first impression is that this is not sixteenth century. It just isn’t heavy enough. They had good steel in those days, legendary steel, but it wasn’t this light. My guess is that the blade, at least, is modern. Would you like me to take it back to my shop and check it more thoroughly?”

Kincaid contained his fury behind a facade of rueful gratitude. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I may follow up later to see just how badly I’ve been had, but in the meantime I’ll take your word for it. This experience will teach me always to get a second opinion before I buy. Thank you, Mr. Gelkirk. My secretary will issue you a check for your services and call you a cab.”

Gelkirk beamed. “Anytime, Mr. Kincaid. Anytime. I’m always pleased to be of service to a dedicated collector such as yourself. And don’t feel too bad about the dagger. It really is an excellent reproduction. A lot of experts wouldn’t have been suspicious.”

“I’ll take what comfort I can from that,” Kincaid said dryly, holding the door for Gelkirk. He waited impatiently for the little man to walk through and then closed it with a carefully controlled slam.

“
Goddammit.
”

He took three long strides across the marble floor and snatched up the brass-plated telephone. The number he dialed was unlisted. It was answered on the second ring by a man’s voice that confirmed the number but offered no greeting.

“This is Kincaid. I want to talk to Tresslar.”

The male receptionist did not respond verbally. He simply made the connection. A few minutes later a low-pitched voice with a thick southern accent answered.

“Yeah?”

“Tresslar?”

“You got it.”

Kincaid winced at the accent. “I have a job for your firm. Do you have someone available?”

“Sure. I always have a man available. Rates have gone up some since we last worked for you, though.”

“That’s not a problem as long as I get reliable service.”

“You got it.”

Kincaid described Jonas and the location of the restaurant in Sequence Springs. “His name is Quarrel. Jonas Quarrel. I want it to look like the work of a small-time thief who got scared and used his gun on his victim. That sort of thing happens all the time these days. The police can only investigate so far before they give up and wait for the thief to try his luck again.”

“You got it.”

Kincaid wondered how many more times he could deal with Tresslar before the accent got to him. “The money will be deposited to your account under the same arrangements as last time. Half up front. Half when the job is done.”

“How soon you want this done?”

“As soon as possible. This week, in fact.”

“You got it.” Tresslar hung up the phone.

Kincaid gritted his teeth and hung up his receiver. Then he stalked to the window.

There was no doubt about it. Quarrel had to be eliminated. He was turning into a major question mark. It appeared that he did indeed have the “touch.” And he was somehow involved with Caitlin Evanger. According to Hatch, he had been invited to the exclusive little get-together being held in two weeks at the house on the cliffs.

Quarrel could easily be representing a mysterious collector who wanted
Bloodlust.
But that wasn’t the reason Kincaid wanted him dead. Kincaid was confident he could compete financially against almost anyone. He had had Quarrel investigated only because he wanted to know in advance exactly what he would be up against. But now there was something more involved. Kincaid’s instincts were aroused at last.

Kincaid wanted Quarrel dead because he had seen the look on Quarrel’s face when he held the dagger in his hand. For just a moment Quarrel’s cool, sardonic expression had been replaced with another. It was an expression of sudden, jarring recognition. It was as if Quarrel had somehow
known
the blade at once, not just as a fake but for what it was, the cause of a murder.

And then there had been that parting crack at the door about the ethics of the “dealer” who had sold Kincaid the dagger.

Kincaid watched the sailboats on the Bay and drummed his neatly manicured fingers on the glass.

Whoever Quarrel was, it was plain he knew too much. There was no question about it. Kincaid didn’t understand how or why, but he didn’t question his instincts. He had survived on those instincts for years and he trusted them implicitly. Better to be safe than sorry.

There were too many factors coming together lately, he reflected. Coincidence was acceptable up to a point, but one too many made a man nervous. The appearance of Quarrel, with his mysterious ability, was too much to swallow in addition to this business of having to go back to the house on the cliffs. Something dangerous was afoot. The more Kincaid thought about it, the more everything seemed to be slowly focusing around Jonas Quarrel.

It was very disquieting that Quarrel had picked out that single dagger from all the blades on the wall. It gave Kincaid a strange, hunted feeling.

Rumors stayed alive for years in the world of collecting. Eventually some of them became legends. Kincaid did not like the notion that his dagger might be the basis of some unfortunate rumors that led back to him.

It was definitely time to get rid of Jonas Quarrel.

And when he was finished with Quarrel, Kincaid decided, he just might make it a point to get to know the little redhead better. Something about her smile had revived the old thrilling lust, the kind he had once indulged in Sandquist’s house on the cliffs. He hadn’t been able to luxuriate in that side of his nature for a long while.

Chapter
Fourteen

A deal for the dueling pistols was made with one Phillip J. Haggerty late Monday afternoon. Jonas presented the buyer’s check to Emerson Ames on Tuesday morning when he and Verity arrived back in Sequence Springs. Emerson kissed the check.

“I do believe you’ve saved my hind end, Jonas, old pal,” Emerson chortled. “Here, have a beer and tell me all about it.”

They were standing in Verity’s kitchen as she tried to set up for the luncheon crowd. Verity’s hands were full with a stack of stainless steel salad-mixing bowls. She glared at both men as she was forced to maneuver sideways to get around them. “Jonas can’t have a beer now. He has to help me with lunch.”

“Don’t pay any attention to her.” Jonas popped the top off the can and tipped back his head to take a long, thirsty swallow. “The Tuesday lunch crowd is the lightest of the week. She just needs something to complain about. You know how it is. Besides, I can wash dishes just as well drunk as sober.”

Her father chuckled richly, but Verity felt herself flushing as Jonas proceeded to give Emerson the tale of their visit to the city. She turned away to take a potato and pea salad out of the refrigerator. Normally she responded to Jonas’s cracks about her shrewishness with equanimity, but today, she discovered, his words hurt. Maybe she really was turning into a mean-spirited, fussy spinster.