CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (30 page)

Ruedi Baumann was her next choice. The first link identified him
as the International Bank of Zurich's CEO. She continued until she
had printed the biographies for each name-all high-profile world
leaders who wielded enormous political, military, and economic
power.

"Any idea what those names have in common?" John asked.

"A very big iceberg," Cotten said as they walked toward the jeep.

"Maybe whoever stole the Cup is holding it for ransom," John said as
he and Cotten sat in the parking lot of a Food Lion supermarket a
few miles from the library.

"Or they're trying to sell it on the antiquities black market." Cotten leafed through the printouts, stopping on the French Supreme
Court justice. "He could be a potential buyer. Any one of them
could." She stared at the bio of the Russian general. "Blackmail? Ransom? Black market art collectors? Was knowing their names so
threatening to these men that Thornton had to die?"

John stared at the papers and shrugged. "It's an impressive list, but
it could also be just a to-do list of future news contacts."

"You're right. We could be getting all excited about nothing. But
Thornton did feel he needed to mail it to himself. Why? He wouldn't
have gone to that kind of trouble for a simple list of future news
interviews. Did he want to make sure someone would see the list if
something happened to him?"

She watched a mother pushing a stroller through the parking lot.
"And where are his notes? He was obsessive about keeping detailed
records. He used to scold me, complain that I wasn't thorough
enough. He made a point many times that reviewing his notes, seeing
it on paper, brought clarity."

John leaned back. "Well, think of it this way-the missing notes
could be confirmation that he was murdered because of the story-because of the Grail theft. The killer must have taken Thornton's
notebook."

"So we're back to the list."

"What do you want to do now?"

"I'm going to call my Uncle Gus. Let him take a shot at tying these
names together. If anyone can do it, he can. I need to check in with
him anyway on the Wingate thing."

"While you do that, I'll go into the market and get some supplies."
John looked at the scribbled list in Cotten's hand. "There's one more
thing you wrote here that you haven't mentioned." He pointed to her
notes. "S-T, S-I-N."

"Yeah, I have no idea about that one. Cheryl said Thornton had
circled something at the bottom of the page. She said he'd circled it so
many times that the pen lines ran over it and made it impossible to
read the whole thing. All she could make out was the beginning. S-T
period. Like in the abbreviation for Saint. Saint Christopher. Saint
Louis. Might as well be Saint Supermarket." She motioned to the Food Lion and shrugged. "Then beneath it again he wrote S-T but
followed it with a slash and the word SIN and something else. Cheryl
tried to describe what it looked like and said she couldn't really make
sense of it.

John stared at the notation. "I have no idea." He shook his head
and looked at her. "Go make your call and meet me back here in
twenty minutes."

"Deal." He started to get out, but she touched his sleeve. "There
was one other thing Cheryl said, but I didn't write it down."

"What?"

"I thought she said grandmother at first, but I had her repeat it.
She said Thornton had written Grand Master."

John's mouth dropped open. "Cotten, the Knights Templar
referred to themselves as the Guardians of the Grail. Their leader was
always called the Grand Master."

"Do YOU THINK THE Knights Templar are still around today?" Cotten asked from the kitchen as she stirred the pot of spaghetti sauce on
the old gas stove.

"There are a number of organizations that have their roots in the
Templars. The Freemasons are a good example."

"Oh, yeah, like the DeMolay boys' club. I just heard about that
one the other day."

John stoked the fire. Heavy snow clouds had returned in the
afternoon and the temperature took a dive. "Many historians trace
the Mason's beginnings to the Templars. Now that I think of it, the
head of each Masonic Lodge is called a Grand Master." He stood as
the fire roared to life, and the heat poured into the room. "By the way,
that sure smells good."

"Thanks. This was one of my father's favorites."

"I can understand why if it tastes as great as it smells." John came
into the kitchen and looked over her shoulder at the thick red sauce.

Cotten scooped a small amount onto the tip of her wooden
spoon and offered it to him.

"Excellent," he said, sampling.

"How about fixing us a glass of Chianti while we let this simmer."

John found the corkscrew and opened the bottle of Italian red
wine. He pulled two mugs from the shelf. "Sorry about no wine
glasses. We rough it up here."

"It won't be the first time I drank wine from a coffee cup." She
placed the lid on the pot of sauce. "What would the Masons want
with the Grail?"

"I don't think they would. Even though they're somewhat of a
secret organization, they're into supporting charities, not murdering
news reporters. Tons of notable people have been Masons-George
Washington and Winston Churchill for example, and famous celebrities like Clark Gable and Red Skelton. The list is a mile long." John
handed Cotten a mug of wine. "Cheers," he said, raising his.

Their cups clinked. Cotten took a sip. "Let's go out on the deck."

"And freeze to death?"

"Just for a minute." She took a long drink of wine, then grinned
and nodded toward his cup. "It'll warm you up."

"That's why drunks freeze to death. They think they're warm."

"Be right back," Cotten said, heading for the hallway. A moment
later she returned with a heavy woolen blanket. "Come on." As she
opened the back door, a rush of frigid air struck her face.

John followed onto the deck and closed the door behind them.

"It's beautiful," she said, looking out over the mountains. "Twilight is magical, don't you think?"

He agreed, briskly rubbing his upper arms.

"Come here," she said, wrapping the blanket around herself and
holding one side open in invitation.

He stood close beside her and pulled the blanket around his
shoulders.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much."

Taking another mouthful of wine, she hooked her arm in his. The
land behind the cabin dropped off sharply-rocks jutting out in
ledges and ridges, the winter-barren terrain exposing the raw earth.

"There's a creek at the bottom," John said. "Not very big, but
when you're a young boy, it's an incredible playground every day during the summer. I used to spend sunup to sundown roaming these
mountains. I knew every rock, cave, and hollow tree for miles around.
I'd make my father let me out of the car way below. By the time he
and mom would drive up to the cabin, I'd be standing on the porch
with my arms crossed and a victory smile on my face. There was no
better place for a kid-a million adventures."

Cotten looked at him, seeing the innocence of a boy and the wisdom of a man. She found that disparity charming.

"Where did you live your adventures as a young girl?" he asked.

Cotten laughed. "Feeding the chickens."

"Come on. Every kid makes up adventures. Didn't you have a fort
or a secret hiding place?"

Cotten wondered for a moment. "A tree. A huge oak in the middle
of the back pasture. I nailed foot-long two-by-fours on it to make a
ladder and wedged a few boards between the limbs for a platform. I
was always running away to my tree house. Got my first kiss in that
tree. I must have been about twelve. Robbie White. We were sitting up
there hiding from Tommy Hipperling when all of a sudden Robbie
just leaned over and gave me the biggest smooch, right here." She
tapped her lips. "When it was done, neither one of us said anything
for a long time. I think it might have been his first kiss, too. We never
discussed what happened, but we found ourselves up in that tree
quite a few times that spring-practicing. Then he moved away, and I
never saw him again. I don't think I got another kiss until I was six teen, and that one couldn't compare to the memory of Robbie
White's."

"So while I was scaling these mountains and chasing pollywogs in
the creek, you were getting kissed by Robbie White."

"I was a tomboy, except for when it came to kissing. Then I felt
real girlie. I loved to kiss as much as I loved climbing trees with the
boys."

John drew in a breath and opened his mouth as if to speak, but
apparently decided against it.

Suddenly, they were hurrying for the door as the wind drove them
inside.

"This is delicious," John said, after his first mouthful of spaghetti.

"Thanks." Cotten's mind wasn't on dinner, it was back on the
Cup. "If the Templars consider themselves the Guardians of the Grail,
then maybe they would steal it to protect it, not to sell it."

"Maybe."

"The Cup could already be stowed away in some bank vault or
part of a private collection by now, and we may never see it again."

John pointed his fork toward her. "That doesn't explain killing
Thornton and trying to murder you. Someone is very scared of
you-scared you know their secret."

With a tentative smile, she said, "More wine?"

"Sure." He held out his mug, and she poured the last of the Chianti.

"Know what I read one time?" Cotten said. "It was in a book
about keeping a writer's notebook. The author, Fletcher was his
name, said he had overheard a waitress tell a story about how much
wine was left in an empty bottle. The waitress said there were always
thirteen drops left. Fletcher jotted that down in his notebook because
he thought it was a wonderful metaphor for when a person feels like
there's nothing left-like they're totally empty and drained, but still they always have thirteen drops in reserve." She sat the bottle down
and looked at John. "I hope if I ever need it, I have my thirteen drops
left."

Both glanced at the dark window as a gust of wind made the
cabin shudder.

"I can't believe how fast night falls up here," Cotten said.

"Just the opposite from the summer. On a cool summer night, the
twilight seems to go on forever. My grandfather and I would sit on
the front porch for hours counting fireflies until they faded into the
stars."

"When you were growing up, did you ever fall in love?"

"Actually, I did. Jones has a granddaughter that used to come up
here and visit us. I was madly in love with her for the whole month of
July."

"What happened?"

"Not much. We were only kids."

Cotten lifted both eyebrows in a playful expression. "Did you kiss
her?"

"Did Robbie White like sittin' in trees?"

They laughed, then Cotten said, "Ever hear from her?"

"No. She became a firefly and faded away."

"What about since you grew up-falling in love, I mean?"

John leaned back in his chair, sipped the wine, and stared across
the table at her.

"What?" she said.

He shook his head, then after a moment, stood. "I say we crack
open another bottle and clean up."