A Lady Never Trifles with Thieves (15 page)

Won Li smiled. “My beloved Joby. I may have misspoken to a degree, but we all have weaknesses and strengths. What I meant to impart is that Mrs. LeBruton needs your help more now than ever she has.”

“If you are exacting with yourself but forgiving to others,” I recited, “then you will put enmity at a distance.”

“It pleases me that the lessons of the
I Ching
are familiar to you.” He angled a thumb toward Jack. “Care to practice what it is you preach?”

I
was sitting tailor-style under the sheet of oilcloth I’d had the presence of mind to pack behind Izzy’s saddle.

By the time Won Li and I had gotten home from the LeBrutons’ the rain had let up and trees had even doffed the sulky droop they take on when starved for sunshine. Then wouldn’t you know, I’d heard drops peck the window-glass as I’d been changing into the Union suit, itchy and still damp from the night before.

I’d hooked the neck band over an upper corner of the wardrobe, thinking it would dry faster. Perhaps it had, considering the weather, but gravity had stretched the legs clean to the floor, and the shoulder and one sleeve were pulled anti-goggling.

There’d been no help for it. About twenty feet of britches leg had been jammed into my boots, and the overlong sleeve had been yanked to my wrist. The excess girdling my arm had cocked it out like shootists depicted on covers of blood-and-thunder magazines. There’d been no help for that, either.

The previous night, I had reminded Won Li that I hadn’t had much sleep of late, so I was turning in early. Out the bedroom window I’d gone to saddle Izzy and make for my hideout. If he knew I’d snuck out or in again well after midnight, he hadn’t said a word.

After Jack and I exchanged apologies on the LeBrutons’ lawn, he’d invited me to supper tonight. I’d failed to conjure a lie fast enough to decline. I was certain when he arrived to fetch me—shortly after I’d bailed out the window—Won Li must have called me a half dozen times before he’d rapped on my door. When I didn’t answer, he might have gone as far as to open it, but a battering ram to the back wouldn’t have pushed him into my room, proper.

He respected my privacy. So did I.

Crouched in my Gulliver-sized long handles under the oilcloth scrap in the pouring down rain, I pictured Won Li and Jack at the table, sipping libations and telling each other what an irresponsible, ungrateful, double-dealing, prevaricating piece of work I am.

That hurt. I cared a lot what they thought of me. Maybe I was guilty of being some of those things, some of the time, but not all of them, all of the time, and none of them without good reason, most of the time.

An upstairs light at the near corner of the house flickered, then went out. I froze, staring at the shiny, blank panes. A few moments later, my stance relaxed. Like the night before, that was the nearest thing to excitement I’d had in an hour. Could be two.

I was beginning to revise my thinking on the marvel of owning a big house. Judging by recent observations, spacious quarters spread things out too much. You’d have to be in the same room with somebody to have a conversation. And children would be neither seen nor heard. Having been one of the type that bore careful watching, the mischief I’d have made had we lived in a mansion could have wiped Ft. Smith, Arkansas, and its surrounds clean off the map.

The hair on the back of my neck quickened. I tilted my head left and closed one eye to better listen for the soft swish I’d heard behind me and to the right.

Hang it all. Either it had stopped or it had never existed but in my imagination. Oilcloth was a lousy choice of tarpaulin. Drumming raindrops blotted the noise. A wool blanket would have—

My breath hitched. There it was again. Closer. Coming steadily closer. It wasn’t a cat this time. Lord God, if my heart thumped any louder, whoever it was would hear it. I turned from the waist—slowly…slowly. My spine locked as though the vertebrae were welded together.

Motion. A figure loomed. A wet hand clapped my mouth. Thumb and fingertips vised my jaw. I peeled my lips back. Forced my teeth apart. Chomped down on the meaty ridge below the assailant’s index finger.

A muffled yowl ended with, “Shit
fire,
Joby. Turn loose—
turn loose,
damn it. It’s
me.”

The hand still at my mouth induced a heavy reliance on m-sounds. As the grip released, Jack cautioned, “Don’t go to yelling or anything, all right?”

Nodding, I spied his boot inches from my bent knee. Palms together and fingers laced like a bludgeon, I swung back and clouted his big toe so hard that a ball should have shot up a stanchion and rung the brass bell at the top.

Jack squatted down beside me, teeth clenched and grimacing. “Judas priest,” he whispered. “I take care not to scare you out of ten years’ growth and what do I get? My hand half bit off and a broken foot.”

“You thought creeping up behind me and slapping your hand over my face wouldn’t scare me?”

“I was trying to keep you from screaming.”

“Want to know the best way to have done that?”

“No, but I’m bound to hear it.”

“How about not coming here in the first place?” I started at another window going dark. My nerves were so tight they should have pierced my skin. “How did you find me, anyway?”

“Easy.” Gaze focused on the second-story windows, Jack huddled closer, pulling the oilcloth over his head. “Won Li saw you slink home last night, wet as sop. He thought you’d gone spying on the LeBrutons.

“When you came up missing tonight, I knew it wasn’t them you were watching. Didn’t take much to guess who it was. Spying Izzy tethered to a tree down yonder made it fact.”

I shrugged. “So, now that you know, you can leave me be.”

“Nope.”

“This is my case, Jack.”

“Your obsession, you mean.” He shook his head. “I can’t feature why you refuse to believe Vittorio Ciccone is a thief and a murderer.”

“From the look of him, he could be both, but he didn’t rob the Abercrombies and he didn’t kill Belinda.”

“Another hunch, huh. Keep spiking ’em this fast and you’ll run out before the week does.”

“It’s more than a hunch.” I unfolded my legs and curled them under me. My feet were as cold and numb as paving stones. “Answer me this. Why would Ciccone climb a rope to access Belinda’s bedroom from the balcony, then after he strangled her, run hell bent for election down the stairs and out the front door? And knocking over a vase on his way past?”

“He’d just killed a woman,” Jack said. “He panicked.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

“Makes sense.”

I agreed. “What doesn’t is how Ciccone could knot the climbing rope around the balcony rail from the ground. Remember, there was no hook at the end of it. An amazing job of lassoing, if you ask me.

“Even if by some miracle he managed it, from all accounts Belinda was in the room when he got there. By the dressing gown she wore, she was also awake, not sleeping.”

“She could have been dozing on the bed. Drowsy and unwell, but not quite ready to turn in for the night.”

Papa used to brag that he could whip his weight in wildcats on four hours’ sleep. Snoring to beat Billy Ned for another four or so in the rocking chair before he donned a nightshirt didn’t figure into the equation.

I said, “If Belinda was dozing, the lights must have been on in the room.”

“Couldn’t have been, or the burglar wouldn’t have risked it.”

“Did you ask anyone if the room was dark or lit when Belinda’s body was discovered?”

“Nope. You?”

“Never entered my mind,” I said.

Jack pondered for a full minute. “If he came in and went out the front door, why’d he need a rope? Unless he tied it on to escape, if he was discovered, or the other way was blocked.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “Possible,” I admitted, “but if it were me in a panic, I’d have wits enough to climb down from the balcony, not run pellmell through the house.”

From his expression, Jack would, too. He knew without my prompting that the vase wasn’t smashed on the way in. The noise was what had wakened Jules and Pansy, and the front doors were open when he investigated. It was ludicrous to think if the burglar entered that way, he didn’t close them behind him.

“Never mind entrances and exits,” I said. “It’s the pearl necklace that nagged at me from the start. A thief using the only fake strand of pearls Belinda owned is just too convenient.” Continuing with the explanation included a fast-talking account of my second visit to the jail.

“Ah, yes. The pretty Miz Peabody with the jealous fiancé. Waylon Thomas, the turnkey, is still mooning over you.” Jack chuckled. “Not that I blame him.”

“You knew? And you’re not angry?”

“I did and I was, but I’m not anymore.” Even in ambient light, his eyes were a clear, honest blue. “You were wrong to pussyfoot around behind my back. I was wrong in acting like you need my permission to set foot out the door. If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have
had
to pussyfoot.”

“Well…” I held up a hand. “You’re right. No argument. Except there’s a part of me that kind of enjoys finagling my own way of doing things.”

“Do tell.”

“Which I’m trying to, about the pearls. Flat out, I think the robbery was faked to throw blame on the burglar. The real murderer couldn’t bring himself to kill Belinda with a strand of ungodly expensive pearls.”

“Himself. Meaning Hubert Abercrombie.”

“Yes. Belinda was pregnant. I’ll bet every dime I have that the child wasn’t Hubert’s. If it was, why the secrecy? Everybody from Avilla to Pansy said Belinda was nauseous after lunch. Not a soul blamed it on morning sickness, which has naught to do with time of—”

Jack squeezed my wrist. My gaze followed his. I ceased to breathe. We’d been so caught up in conversation that neither of us had seen the French doors to Belinda’s balcony open.

A hooded, black-clad form knelt down to tie a rope to the wrought-iron corner post. Once secured, a coiled length was tossed over the railing.

A tickle tiptoed up my nose. I wiggled it. Pinched the bejesus out of the bridge to dam it. Eyes watery and heavy, I buried my face in Jack’s shoulder.

To my throbbing eardrums, the sneeze sounded as loud as a paddle slapping water, broadside. Jack’s coat must have born the brunt, for when I chanced a peek, the reverse burglar was spidering down the rope.

Jack signaled that he’d follow him, while I stayed put. No, I mouthed and pointed at myself, then him. He shook his head and peeled back his coat, displaying the revolver holstered at his hip. I shrugged and delved my boot top for my derringer. His jaw dropped, eyes slapping open as big as twin blue moons.

Without further ado, I slithered from under the oilcloth. Crouched low, I started after the rapidly disappearing figure. Like him, I ran a zigzag pattern into and out of deep shadow. From the corner of my eye, I saw Jack doing the same, about ten feet to my left.

Neighboring homes were widely separated by weedy, vacant lots. We’d snaked through two back lawns, three, then a fourth, when I lost sight of my quarry. Hands on my knees, I squinted into the drizzly dark, trying to hear something—anything—besides the pound of my own pulse.

Jack kept going, his back hunched nigh vertical to the ground to offset his height. I started up again, praying he wasn’t tracking blind. If we jogged past the burglar, he’d spot us and double back to his house.

Had Jack’s arm not swung in the direction, I’d have never seen the figure climbing an ivy trellis up the wall of the sandstone-block house.

No lights showed in the back or side windows. Assuming the occupants were away, I ran for the front entrance. There was no time for niceties such as knocking. Rousing a servant, then explaining why I was there, would take too blessed long.

Into the door’s keyhole, I inserted a waxed-paper-wrapped cylinder taken from the pouch strung around my neck. The tiny, explosive charge would disable the lock a lot faster than I could pick it open. Striking a match on the stone wall, I lit the short string fuse and backpedaled a safe distance.

The blast knocked me on my butt. The concussion sent me somersaulting across the wet grass, until a sizeable oak tree halted my egress. The doors fluttered by, shearing off limbs as they passed. Glass from the shattered sidelights dappled the ground like sleet.

Scrambling upright, I dashed through the smoldering maw. Acrid smoke obscured my vision. Groping and stumbling, I bashed a shin on a newel post. Screams commenced from all directions as I ran up the stairs. I burst through the door of the corner room. The burglar, silhouetted against the window, was poised to climb back out.

“Stop, thief!” I wrapped my arms around his thighs and jerked backward. We tumbled to the floor, my body bearing the brunt of both our weights. A woman shrieked, “Aaron-n-n!”

Grunting and wriggling, the burglar fought with all his might to free himself. A match flared. A bare foot kicked me in the ribs. Fingernails clawed and pinched my arms. “Let him go, you brute. Stop it, I say.”

The screaming woman’s English accent gave me pause. A peek at the garish, plaid pajamas smothering me from above lent a longer one. Just as I concluded that the person I’d tackled might not be the burglar, Jack bellowed my name from the doorway.

My arms fell to my sides. My captive rolled off me and leapt to his feet. Truth be known, he better resembled Izzy than Hubert Abercrombie.

Confused and mayhaps a tad disoriented by the explosion, I cocked back my head to look up at Jack. If I read his expression correctly in the scant light, he was deliberating whether the revolver he held would be put to better use dispatching me or intimidating the prisoner gripped in his other hand.