Stolen (7 page)

“Hey.” Still, Michael didn't protest. Although his office had a system to it, there wasn't much in the way of organization that an outsider might recognize. He knew where everything was, though, and that was all that mattered.

“No, thank you. The offer is appreciated, but you've got work of your own to tend to. Making Keith's mermaids more Family Channel than Adults-only, if memory serves.”

Michael gazed at the nearly unrumpled side of the bed that was Molly's. “Did you sleep last night?”

“A few hours.”

Guilt crept in. He hadn't even noticed when she'd gotten up. “Perhaps I can make us some breakfast.”

“Iris took care of it earlier. Breakfast was delightful.”

“I know Irwin would have also been up early despite the late hour last night.” The caretaker was a workaholic, as bad as any of the video-game programmers Michael had ever met. Michael worked that way himself at various times on a project, but he didn't function like clockwork. Sometimes Irwin seemed more than human.

“Of course. The limo has already been cleaned and put away. He's been out this morning investigating the possibility of enhancing the security. But, if you shower and become civilized again, I'd welcome a chance to watch you eat breakfast.”

“I'll be down in a moment.”

A window opened on the plasma television monitor. The security system they'd chosen was wired to show any visitors at the gates, whether they rang or tripped an alarm. In a second, the window was filled with the image of a man sitting at the gates in a luxury vehicle. He wore a suit, but he was built like a bull mastiff.

“We have company.” Michael picked up the television remote.

“I see. I'm at my computer. Do you recognize him?”

“No. I think I know the car, though.” He brought up the audio speaker on the television. “May I help you?”

The driver leaned out of the car. Morning light fell across his scarred face and thick features. “Mr. Aleister Crowe for Mrs. Graham, please.”

Michael muted the audio. “Were you expecting Crowe?”

“If I were, I'd have said something.”

Michael was tempted to tell the man to leave, but he was intrigued as to what brought Crowe to their home. The
man was a rare visitor, and only showed up when Molly was entertaining, never by himself.

“Fancy a breakfast chat, love?” Michael stared at the grim-faced driver.

“It would be the fastest way to find out what he wants. If we turn him away now, I'd be dying of curiosity. So would you.”

“True.” Michael resumed the audio and told the driver to pull through, that someone would meet them at the main house. Then he raced for the shower.

“M
RS.
G
RAHAM
, M
R
. C
ROWE
is here to see you.”

Molly stood at the entrance to the breakfast nook, dressed for the day in jeans and a sweater. Judging from Aleister Crowe's dismissive gaze, he wasn't impressed.

Crowe wore a black Saville Row suit and carried his namesake silver-headed cane in one hand and a hat in the other. His coat hung across his shoulders and made him resemble even more the predatory bird his family name was derived from.

They exchanged quick and polite good mornings, then Molly asked him if he'd like tea in the nook. He agreed.

Irwin took Crowe's coat and hat and disappeared with them, but Molly knew that the caretaker wouldn't go far. Irwin didn't care for Aleister Crowe any more than Michael did.

The breakfast nook was a large sunroom. On the north side of the house, the room benefited from steady light without facing either sunrise or sunset. Potted plants hung from the ceiling and sat on the floor. Large bookshelves filled one wall, stocked with books she and Michael treasured, a fireplace another, and floor-to-ceiling windows finished the other two walls.

Molly loved the room. Whenever she felt the need to get away from everything but didn't want to leave the house, she came here. Iris had already put a fresh flower arrange
ment from the greenhouse on the small, intimate table surrounded by four captain's chairs.

“Charming.” Crowe pulled out one of the chairs for Molly.

She thanked him and sat, then waited while he took a chair across from her. “I like it.”

“Where is your husband?”

“He will be joining us momentarily.”

“Good.” Crowe said that as if he meant it, but the tension in his words told Molly that he didn't. She was a good judge of lies and liars, and Crowe was one of the best liars she'd ever met. “That will make things easier.”

“What things, Mr. Crowe?”

Crowe smiled but with precious little mirth. “You Americans. You really go straight for the jugular, don't you? Don't sort out the niceties beforehand.”

“I would have thought your showing up here this morning precluded all that. Evidently you believed you had something compelling to say or you wouldn't have come.”

“Touché, Mrs. Graham.”

“Perhaps it would be best if we got to it.”

Crowe frowned and his eyebrows knitted into a black slash above his dark eyes. “I think your little endeavor regarding this train robbery has stirred up more ghosts than you'd counted on.”

“Why would it do that?”

“That robbery was…very complicated. It had rather severe repercussions.”

“It was also seventy years ago. Other than providing the subject for an interesting documentary, I don't see those repercussions could still be relevant today.”

“Yet Simon Wineguard saw fit to mention the possibility of treasure.”

“Stories are always better if they have treasure in them,” Michael said as he strode across the room from the doorway. “Wouldn't you agree, love?” He looked tanned and fit in a pair of cargo pants and a ringer T-shirt. He smiled, then leaned down and kissed Molly on the cheek. “If she owns up to it, something she'll never do unless she's in a mood to, I'm sure my lovely wife will admit that the stories concerning the lost treasures are one of the main reasons she chose to explore this subject with her film crew.”

“They're not
my
film crew.” Molly raised her coffee cup to mask her smile. She knew Michael had deliberately chosen to dress casually to poke fun at Crowe's stuffy ways.

He took a seat beside her, close but not close enough to intrude on her personal space. Still, the triangle at the table made it clear they were on one side and Crowe was on the other. Michael glanced at Molly. “Has our guest explained his reasons for dropping by?”

“We were just getting to that.” Molly sipped her coffee.

Iris brought a new mug to the table and placed it before Michael. He thanked her and poured himself a cup of coffee. He hadn't given up his morning tea, but he had picked up the coffee habit easily enough.

“I assume Paddington warned you to be on your guard.” Crowe watched them with a blank face.

“Why?” Michael added cream to his cup.

Crowe locked eyes with him. Molly was intrigued again by how dark Crowe seemed, even sitting in the well-lit room.

“Your unfortunate break-in, of course. Did they get what they were after?” Crowe fisted the silver head of his cane reflexively.

Michael shrugged. “We've found nothing missing.”

“Interesting.” Crowe's tone indicated that he wasn't overly concerned that none of their possessions had been stolen. “Thieves that break in, then don't steal.”

Michael leaned back in his chair. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness in coming here to warn us.”

Crowe hesitated, then nodded. “I considered it my civic duty.”

A lazy smile played across Michael's lips and Molly couldn't help watching her husband more than Crowe. Michael was a better showman.

“Please excuse me if I appear rude, but I've never known you to be so civic-minded in the past.”

If Crowe took offense, he didn't let on. “We're practically neighbors.” He swiveled his gaze to Molly. “I did come for another reason, as well, Mrs. Graham. This one concerns you. And the documentary efforts.”

“Really? In what regard?”

“Given that poor woman's death, I thought it was possible some of the people who had funded the documentary might try to pull out.”

Molly kept her face relaxed. As a matter of fact, she had received two calls so far stating exactly that.

“There has been some anxiety, but I expect it will blow over.”

Crowe smiled. “I hope that it does. I understand this project is near and dear to your heart.”

Molly decided not to play the man's game. Crowe was more transparent than he believed. “I'm not worried about the documentary, Mr. Crowe. The funding is all in place, and I'm sure that once the initial shock subsides, the investors will see reason and believe in this project again.”

“Of course they will, Mrs. Graham.” Crowe shrugged and gave her another smile, wider this time. “In the event
that some of them decide this situation presents more risks than they can deal with, I'd like to offer my support.”

“I appreciate that.” Molly returned his smile. She noticed Michael watching her. Her husband's eyes were bright with amusement.

Crowe hesitated for a moment. “I didn't just mean moral support. Though you have that, as well. I was referring to financing your project.”

“Really?” Molly was determined not to let Crowe wriggle off the hook so easily. “As I recall, you weren't overly receptive when I sent you a prospectus.”

“I've had a change of heart.” To the man's credit, he spoke with a straight face and no detectable insincerity.

“All right then. If I need further funding, I'll let you know.”

“Excellent.” Crowe stood and took a fresh grip on his cane. “Mrs. Graham, thank you for your hospitality. I'll see myself out.”

Irwin appeared almost magically in the doorway with Crowe's coat and hat.

Crowe took his things from Irwin, then said his goodbyes and followed the caretaker to the door.

 

“H
AVE
I
EVER MENTIONED
how creepy that man is?” Michael stood at the window overlooking the parking area in front of the main house.

Outside, the burly driver opened the back door of the luxury sedan and allowed Crowe to crawl in. The wind caught the chauffeur's jacket for just a moment, lifting it enough to flash the revolver snugged in a holster on his belt.

“You have.” Molly walked to Michael's side. “On several occasions. On that, we agree.”

Michael glanced at her as the luxury sedan rolled
sedately toward the front gates. “So what do you think that was all about?”

“That was a fishing expedition. He was trying to ascertain how much of an impression last night made on us.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Molly turned away. “I've got to get started. I've done everything here that I can do. Time to get out and make the rounds. See that everyone is settled. Simon hopes to do some of the primary filming in the next few days, but I can't reach him on his mobile. Maybe Joyce Abernathy knows where he is….”

Michael reached out and caught her hand, pulling her back. She looked up at him, her free hand resting on his shoulder as if they were dancing.

“No way, big guy. I've got a full day. You're not going to act all cute and distract me.”

Delicately, Michael smoothed her hair behind one ear. “Don't tempt me, love. I can be quite distracting when I choose to be.” He smiled playfully, but the effort wasn't completely convincing.

As if sensing his somber mood, Molly touched his chin with a forefinger. “Yes, you can.”

“I don't know what's up and about with your project, love. But be careful.”

Molly studied him. “Where did all this nervousness come from?”

“It started in the alley last night.” Michael felt a chill steal up his spine. “Then the break-in, and Crowe brought more of it this morning. Frankly, it doesn't seem to be going away.” He paused. “I just want to make sure you're safe.”

“I'm a big girl. My uncle's a detective. I was his favorite niece. He gave me a pair of handcuffs when I was five. I can take care of myself.”

“I'd rather you didn't have to take care of yourself.”

“My hero.” Molly teased him with her smile. Then she glanced at her watch. “Sorry. I've really got to be going. I'll be fine, but if I need you, I'll call. Have fun with your mermaids.”

Reluctantly, Michael released her and watched her walk away. He glanced back at the gate where Crowe's car had vanished.

Real life wasn't like a video game. Not everything was a clue. Not everything was foreshadowing of something else. Coincidences—and murders—did happen and didn't touch on anything else.

Michael wasn't happy thinking that. He felt something was missing that was important. He just had no idea what it was.

T
HE GOOD THING ABOUT
Blackpool's general population depending largely on bicycles and walking to get around was the lack of competition for parking spaces. The downside was that few parking places existed. Thankfully the Blackpool Library had a handful of them tucked at the rear of the building.

Michael parked his dusty Land Rover, got out, stretched, then reached inside for his computer bag. The drive into town wasn't overly long, but he'd gotten knotted up in his thoughts. They'd been more twisted than the shore road and he hadn't had company to keep his mind from obsessing. He felt his back protest after the tension of the drive. He really needed to go for a run or bike ride.

But neither was on his agenda at the moment. He'd tried mucking about with the new game, tinkering with Keith's illustrations, but he hadn't been able to focus on anything other than the train robbery and the potential trouble Molly could find herself in.

The library sat on a hill overlooking the bay. In past days, as Mrs. Hirschfield, the librarian, was fond of saying, there had been a scaffold on the site. For a while it had been used to hang pirates, then to hang those men who hunted pirates. And occasionally whoever else bothered someone in power.

Mrs. Hirschfield wasn't sure when the scaffold had been torn down or what had become of it, but the legend
persisted. Liam McKenna often brought tours to the site, and some of the local kids experimented with Ouija boards and séances at night. A few claimed to have seen the dead wandering around the hills.

Michael crossed the crushed-seashell parking area toward the front door. Like the police station, the library had once been a family home and had been remodeled. This house was a lot larger, a rambling affair that was still hard to heat in the winter. Many of the walls had been removed to make bigger rooms, which were then filled with shelving.

Down the hill, the eastern section of Blackpool meandered toward the abbreviated beach dotted with piers and small marinas. Michael paused to admire the view.

Then the door opened and a bell overhead tinkled like breaking glass.

Startled, he turned around and discovered Mrs. Hirschfield standing before him. She was a small gnome of a woman, with a wrinkled face and hair piled on top of her head. Bracelets and bangles bounced on her bony wrists. She peered myopically at Michael through John Lennon glasses, the lenses so thick they almost made her look cross-eyed.

“Mrs. Hirschfield.” Michael smiled. “You gave me a bit of a start.”

“You were standing there long enough that I wondered if you'd forgotten how to operate the door.”

“Just admiring the view.”

“I suppose I know what brings you to the library this morning.”

“Can't I just stop by and browse?”

The woman smiled politely. “Mr. Graham, you never just stop by and browse. You always have an agenda. You
only come here when you can't find answers anywhere else.”

Michael supposed that was true. With the Internet and Amazon at his fingertips, there wasn't much reason to visit the library. Despite its attempts to keep currently stocked with new books, the budget was severely lacking. And he liked to own books rather than borrow them.

With a smile, he nodded. “You've got me. I do have an agenda.”

“The train robbery in 1940, I gather?”

Taken a little aback, Michael nodded.

Mrs. Hirschfield adjusted her glasses. “Don't act surprised. The whole town is getting treasure fever. It's all nonsense, of course. If there were treasure from that train robbery or any other, it would have been found long before. Those young people and their cave spelunking certainly would have tumbled across it. No, those thieves made off with it all those years ago.” She stepped back and waved him inside. “Come in. You're letting the warm air out.”

As he crossed the threshold, Michael noticed that the chill that lay over the bay didn't encroach inside the library. He followed the librarian through the adjoining rooms.

“Frankly, I'm surprised you've been taken by treasure fever, Mr. Graham. I would have thought if you were interested, you would have accompanied Mrs. Graham when she visited to do her research.”

“Yes, well. I didn't expect to become so personally invested in the documentary.”

“Mrs. Whiteshire's death certainly cast things in a different light.”

“Yes, it did.”

“There are some who believe her death had something to do with the train robbery.”

“I rather doubt that.”

“What you want is back here.” Mrs. Hirschfield led Michael to a back room that was already occupied by library patrons and stacks of bound newspapers. “I've left everything out because so many people kept asking for it.”

Michael's heart sank. “You don't have digital copies of the newspapers from those times?”

Mrs. Hirschfield shot him an admonishing look. “We're not like those fancy libraries you're used to in London, Mr. Graham. We're a local library just struggling to get by. When I can put more books on the shelves than I have to throw away, I consider it a good year.”

“And well you should.” Michael didn't know what else to say, but he decided to pay attention to library donations in the future.

The chairs around the tables offered only the cold, hard promise of straight-backed torture. Most of the people in the room he recognized as townsfolk. A few were likely tourists, maybe camped at the marina. A young brunette with a BBC media bag and uncomfortable-looking high heels regarded him suspiciously.

Michael groaned inwardly. He was used to researching at home. He had a large screen and a SMART Board for when he wanted to think on his feet. There was also a lot more space to spread out the documents.

Michael reached into his computer bag and brought out a small digital camera. He never traveled anywhere without it.

He took a moment, breathing deeply to clear his mind, then removed a notepad and wrote out a list of questions as quickly as he could.

He sighed—it was going to be a long day. He focused and started reading.

 

M
OLLY WAS IN THE COMMON
room of the Cavendish House Bed-and-Breakfast, one of the better-appointed establishments in Blackpool, when Miss Abernathy returned from police custody.

The diminutive woman appeared completely out of place in the elegant Victorian stylings of the Cavendish House. Judging from the state of her dress, the wildness of her hair and the hollow circles under her eyes, her stay in the Blackpool jail hadn't agreed with her.

Martha Cavendish, the elderly hotelier, stared at her with a stern glare.

“Miss Abernathy.” Molly stepped toward the small woman.

Wheeling like a startled animal, Miss Abernathy focused on Molly. After a couple of blinks, recognition dawned in the woman's eyes and she smiled.

“Ah, Molly.” Miss Abernathy took Molly's hands in hers and blew kisses on either side of her cheeks as they embraced. “It is so good to see you. You look fantastic.”

Molly didn't bother to return the compliment. She knew from working with Miss Abernathy that the other woman wouldn't buy into any polite lies.

The woman leaned back and peered through one of the windows with a view of Main Street. “I've seen a number of cars in town this morning. I expect that's the BBC?”

Molly nodded. “And a few others.”

Miss Abernathy shook her head. “Evidently we've gone
gold after our very public appearance. Our story could be in the news before we get a chance to start shooting the documentary.”

“That's not what we want.”

“I realize it's not what
we
want.” Miss Abernathy scowled. “But it may be the very thing
Simon
wants.”

“I would think that was the last thing Simon sought.”

Miss Abernathy frowned. “Only a few months ago, I would have agreed. As it turns out, Simon has an agenda all his own.”

“What do you mean?”

After a quick glance over her shoulder at the hotelier, Miss Abernathy nodded toward the stairs. “Perhaps it would be better if we talked in my room. This little town has big ears.”