Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties) (10 page)

Was she speaking in riddles or being difficult? Regardless, they might be going about this the wrong way. Perhaps it was best to follow Dr. Bacall’s original instructions. “Did you make a map of their locations?” he asked.

“A map?” The late Mrs. Bacall laughed with Aida’s mouth. “Yes, I made a map, if that’s what you choose to call it. A record of my great endeavor to keep Archie and Noel from killing each other, I suppose.”

Ah, Noel was the partner, then.

“Listen closely, and I’ll tell you where you can look for my map. You can find it in the Seine’s cold quays, in the fields of gazing grain, on night’s Plutonian Shore, and on a painted ship.”

More riddles.

“You’d do well to leave it be,” the spirit said before a short pause. “My darling. Your hair is blacker than pitch and impossibly thick. Just like mine.”

“Please speak plainly and tell me where you’ve hidden the map,” Hadley answered with a frustrated edge to her voice.

“Why, I have spoken plainly. Think about it a little, and you’ll figure it out. You were always so bright. Seems fitting that you’d follow my trail of bread crumbs. A bit like Isis scouring the earth to find the scattered limbs of Osiris.”

“This is a game to you?”

“Everything in life is a game. Listen, my dear, I can feel a dark presence attached to you. I hope that doesn’t mean I passed the curse along. If I could go back and make different decisions, I would.”

Hadley looked embarrassed.

Her mother’s spirit then asked, “Was the base of the amulet located?”

No one answered.

“The object’s purpose is no myth. That kind of magic is dangerous. The ancient priestesses stored the pieces in different temples for a reason, which is why I followed their example. Your father cannot be allowed near it. If you manage to find the crossbars and rejoin them to the base, under no circumstances whatsoever can you allow him to possess it.”

Unless he was waving a hundred-grand check around. No disrespect to the dead, but Lowe was still alive, and he needed that cash.

“Noel either,” she added. “I did my best to protect your father from him, but I fear what could happen if they were to compete again. Keep it away from the two of them. Please promise me.”

“Why?” Hadley asked, but a strangled sound was the only answer given. Aida jerked and gulped air. And on her next exhalation, the eerie white breath had disappeared.

The late Mrs. Bacall had left the room.

“Whew, that one made me a little dizzy,” Aida said, as if what she’d just done was no more miraculous than standing up too fast after a long nap. The mastiff never once lifted his big head. “Was anything she said helpful?”

“Not really,” Lowe said at the exact moment Hadley answered, “Extremely.”

Lowe squinted. “It was?”

“I’d say so.” She stood and collected her coat from where it was draped on a tasseled silk cushion. “I do believe I know exactly where my mother hid that map.”

“I’LL TAKE A TAXI,”
Hadley told Lowe after they strode into the foyer. She glanced around to get her bearings and spotted the spirit medium and her great beast of a dog entering a birdcage elevator that flanked a grand staircase.

The Magnusson home was spacious and well kept. Impressive, even. Much more welcoming than either her apartment or her father’s house. Livelier, too. She’d wondered what it would be like to live in a home like this, where a radio played from the servants’ hall and laugher seeped through the ceiling from a room above.

“You want to take a taxi,” Lowe repeated.

“If I can just borrow your telephone.”

“Like hell you will. Where’s the map?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Why?” Lowe tilted his head to catch her gaze. “I’ll tell you why. Because we made a deal.”

“Yes, a deal that I wouldn’t tell my father. And I won’t.”

“No, no, no—this is my treasure hunt, not yours.”

“All right. Go find the map yourself then.”

“I will. As soon as you tell me where to look.”

“Seems we’re at a standstill.”

A girl’s voice called out a name from the second floor. The handsome young Chinese man she’d met at the train station, Bo, passed through the hallway behind Lowe and gave her a curious look before hiking up the staircase.

Lowe stepped closer. Her mind conjured an image of him stroking the flower in her hair, which temporarily disabled the more civilized parts of her brain. He spoke in a lowered voice. “Allow me to propose a compromise. On one hand, you know where the map is, and your mother seems to think you’re smart enough to figure out her puzzle. On the other hand, you’re not even supposed to know about the map or the pieces. I’m the one being paid to do the job, and I’m not so shabby with riddles myself. I
did
find the base.”

Why did he have to smell so good? “Go on.”

“Two heads might be better than one. So if you help me find the amulet pieces, I’ll talk to your father and ensure that you get the department head position at the museum.”

She snorted. “Like you have the power to do that.”

“I can be persuasive when I want to be.”

“Father’s too smart to believe your silly stories.”

“And too smart to disregard my request if I withhold the amulet in exchange for you getting the job?”

Hmm. He might actually have something there. Clearly after tonight’s public betrayal—and her hotheaded reaction—Father wasn’t interested in bargaining with her. It wasn’t the first time she’d lashed out at him in anger with the Mori, but since he’d lost his sight, he was less trusting of her. Tonight might’ve been the final straw. She could appeal to the board for a chance at the position, but they’d never go against her father’s wishes.

“We work as partners,” she said after a long moment. “I help you, you help me. We keep everything honest between us. No lying to me about the hunt. No working behind each other’s backs. You get the money, I get the job. And all of this is contingent on whether I’m right about the map’s hiding place.”

“Agreed.”

“Do you want to start right now?” she asked.

“It just so happens that a falling chandelier has cleared my schedule.”

She looked up. A copper and stained-glass Craftsman pendant hung from the ceiling. “The night’s young,” she said, giving Lowe a small smile.

He leaned in to murmur near her ear. “I really do like the way you flirt, Miss Bacall.”

Before she could protest, he called out to the kitchen, informing them that he’d be home later. Then he shucked off his tuxedo jacket and exchanged it for a leather jacket snagged from a coat rack. “This way.” He steered her into a hall that led to a covered side porch. On the other side of the railing stretched a driveway packed with cars. But Lowe was striding toward the red motorcycle. “Where are we headed?”

“What are you doing?”

“Dusting off the passenger seat,” he said, brushing a small plank of wood that floated above the back tire. The rickety thing looked to be held in place by a few spindly scraps of metal and a couple of nuts and bolts.

“I’m not riding on that. Are you crazy?”

“Don’t call her a ‘that.’ This is Lulu, and she’s a custom-made Indian motorcycle. Goes ninety miles an hour on a straightaway. But no need to worry—I don’t push her like that in the city. Astrid rides with me all the time on the second seat.”

Lulu? How ridiculous. “My dress—”

“Will be protected by that million-dollar fur of yours. Just pull it tight around your legs so it doesn’t get caught up in the wheel.”

“There are several respectable cars here. Surely we can take one of them.”

“Thought you wanted to be treated like a man, not a princess.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Her emotions hovered between frustration and fear.

“Come on. It’s perfectly safe.”

She highly doubted that.

A dangerous smile tugged at his mouth. “I’ll go slow.” He held out his hand and nodded toward the motorcycle.

She reluctantly accepted. While he steadied the bike, she followed his instructions, stepping up on a small footrest jutting out from the wheel before throwing her leg over to straddle the seat. A metal handle shaped like a croquet wicket arched between her seat and his. She grabbed it for balance. “This won’t work. My dress is too tight.”

“Ruck it up under your coat. No one can see anything,” he said as he mounted the driver’s seat and fiddled with a couple of mechanical switches. “Not even me, unfortunately.”

Using the heel of his shoe, Lowe roughly bore down on the starter lever near her right leg. The bike angrily rumbled to life like a bear awakened in the middle of a long winter nap, vibrating every bone in her body. No choice in the matter now. She quickly adjusted her dress and pulled her coat tight, tucking it around her thighs.

“Got everything out of harm’s way?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“This will never work,” she repeated as she gripped the handle harder. “You’ll kill me.”

“Then we’ll be even. Where to?”

She exhaled a long breath. “The museum.”

He nodded, showing no surprise for their destination—just popped the kickstand and glided the bike down the driveway. Not so bad. Until he headed onto the street. The pavement seemed to peel away when the motorcycle sped into the night. Cool air rustled the hairs of the mink as they raced past the mansions on Broadway.

When he turned down a road that sloped toward the Bay, she lost faith in the handle and threw her arms around Lowe’s torso, holding on for dear life. Her stomach dropped. Her heart drummed against her ribs. She pressed her cheek against his back and held on more tightly, wanting to scream for help or maybe even joy—
joy?
How was that possible?

But it was. An exhilarating sort of joy that bordered on madness. And even through the cantankerous roar of the engine, she could hear laughter rumbling inside his chest. He was deliciously warm and solid beneath her arms—so much so, she didn’t care about the rickety wicket of a handle uncomfortably jabbing her stomach, or the sharp scent of gasoline and motor oil wafting past her face, or her no-touching rule. Nothing mattered but the shape of him—a living, breathing anchor. And while city lights blurred along the foggy roads they traveled, she did her best to memorize how it felt to hold on to something so reassuringly sturdy.

It didn’t last long enough, because she soon recognized the familiar lawns of Golden Gate Park. And when he parked by the administrative offices, she nearly fell off the motorcycle trying to disentangle herself from him while quickly shifting her dress into place.

“Mind the engine,” he said, helping to steady her while she stood on wobbly legs. “Burns like hell if you touch it. Believe me, I know from experience.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

If he said even a single word about her clinging to him, she would wither from humiliation. But when he didn’t, she eventually answered, “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Better than ‘awful,’ I suppose. I’ll take it.”

Mildly self-conscious, she glanced around the back parking lot. Empty but for three cars belonging to security guards. “If the guards question us, let me do the talking this time,” she said. “No more crazy stories of domestic abuse and pregnancy.”

“If you insist. Now, what’s the plan? Where do you think the map’s hidden?”

She retrieved a set of keys from her coat pocket. “Right under my father’s nose. Come on. Let’s see if I’m right.”

Shadows greeted them inside the office entrance. The guards concentrated their patrol on the museum proper, only occasionally making a pass through the administrative offices. Hadley would rather avoid them completely, so best to work quickly. She led Lowe directly to her father’s office and closed the door behind them.

“You didn’t recognize anything my mother said in regards to the location of the map?” she asked, switching on her father’s desk lamp.

“Sounded like bad poetry.”

“I suppose that depends on your tastes. Father used to give my mother books for every occasion—birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas. Expensive books. First editions. And they’re right over here.” She headed to one of the bookshelves on the far side of his office, near the door that connected to hers. “He said they were an investment, that he was giving her the pleasure of the words as well as something that would increase in value over time. But I remember hearing her tell my nanny that though Father may have given them to her, they were really more for him. Not that he’s a lover of poetry, mind you. He’s just a collector.”

“These here?” Lowe’s gaze darted over the shelves. “Must be a hundred or more. They survived the Great Fire?”

“My family home was just west of the fire line. We were lucky.”

“We were in the Fillmore District at the time, so us, too.” Lowe frowned. “You’re certain your mother was referring to lines of published poetry?”

“My parents might’ve only been collectors of books, but I’ve probably read every volume in this room at least once.”

“I read a lot in Egypt,” he said. “Mostly
The Argosy
and
Weird Tales
.”

“Pulp magazines don’t count as reading.”

“What a little snob you are,” he said, slanting narrowed eyes her way. His smile told her he was teasing, but maybe he had a point.

“Regardless,” she said. “If you’d read something with an actual spine, you might’ve figured this out. Because my mother said we could find the map in ‘Seine’s cold quays, in the fields of gazing grain, on night’s Plutonian Shore, and on a painted ship.’ I recognize at least two of those lines. ‘Plutonian Shore’ is from ‘The Raven.’”

“Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Very good. I suppose Berkeley didn’t completely fail you,” she murmured, scanning the shelves in front of them.

“There,” Lowe said, pointing to the highest shelf. “Help me move this out of the way.”

Together they dragged the wingback chair in which her father smoked cigars across the floor. Once it was out of the way, Lowe’s impressive height gave him access to the top shelf. The tips of his fingers tugged out a volume. It was Poe, all right. He thumbed through it, once, twice. Tipped it sideways and fluttered it around to see if anything fell out of its pages. Nothing.

“Give it to me,” she said. “Maybe there’s a clue on the page with that line.” She surveyed the index and found the poem. “I don’t see anything.”

He leaned over her shoulder to scan the pages with her, and she caught the scent of his leather coat—the scent she’d breathed in on the motorcycle when her cheek was against his back. Her pulse increased. “No marking,” he noted. “No corner turned down.” She felt his gaze shift to her face a moment before his fingers followed. “You’re wilted.”

“Pardon?”

“Your lily.” Heat spread over her neck as he slid the flower out from its pin. “Bedraggled by the ride, I’m afraid. Shame. Still smells nice.”

“Yes, well, nothing lasts forever.” Her hand patted the space where the flower had been. “Unless it’s been properly preserved, of course.”

“A mummy joke?”

She smiled to herself. “Please focus on the task at hand. I’d prefer to avoid the guards.”

“Well, the map’s not here. Maybe we’re looking in the wrong volume. Did your mother own two Poe books?”

She shook her head, fighting the disappointment unfurling in her chest. “Just this one.”

“Let’s try another verse, then. What was the other one you recognized?”

“On ‘a painted ship upon a painted ocean.’”

“Sounds very familiar,” Lowe mumbled.

“
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

“Ah-ha! I saw Coleridge . . . there. Let me reshelve the Poe.” He reached to slip the book back into place, then halted. “Hold on.”

“What?”

“This feels odd.”