Trophies (38 page)

I closed my eyes. "Only now, after her death,
am I beginning to realize just how much that woman complicated my
life. What's one more irritation between good relatives?"

He laughed but was slow in taking my offered
hand, as if there was something else he wanted to discuss but
wasn't certain how to start. Out of the blue I understood: that
photograph. He wanted his family photo back but wasn't willing to
jeopardize our tenuous relationship with such a hot topic.

Well, I wasn't ready for that one, either, so
I beat a hasty retreat. Father and Sherlock seemed to be hitting it
off famously. William stood at Father's elbow, looking skeptical,
but Uncle Preston stood a few feet off with Patricia still beneath
his wing, both blatantly eavesdropping, and they positively beamed
at whatever Sherlock said. Beside them, Lindsay listened with
wondering eyes and slightly open mouth.

I say "whatever it was," because as soon as I
entered the reception area, Sherlock shut up and everyone in the
room stared at me. That left no doubt as to the topic of their
former conversation.

"Colonel." I gave Sherlock a butt-out-of-it
look.

"Captain," he replied, his usual impervious
self.

Father watched me. Nor did he turn away when
I met his gaze. There was something — and I'm not certain how to
describe this — something enlightened in his expression. If his
face had been an old-fashioned cash register, someone had tugged
his swing handle down, he had just gone
ka-ching,
and the
money drawer had popped open.

"Father," I said. "William."

"Charles," Father said.

His voice, too, held that sudden
understanding and I wondered desperately what Sherlock had said.
Whatever it was, it hadn't changed my father's basic conception of
me; there was still an amazing depth of anger in his eyes. It
seemed much more profound than what might be expected from a scene
in a public place, no matter how ugly or vindictive or humiliating,
and I hesitated. There was something I had to say but Father's
still-forbidding mien wasn't making it particularly easy.

William threw open his suit jacket — he too
had changed clothing and the dark elegant suit had been cleaned and
pressed — planted his fists on his hips, and kept quiet. But there
was a considering edge to his expression, too, with just the touch
of a wrinkle between his eyebrows. Sherlock's comments were causing
some reconsideration of my role within the family all around, it
seemed.

I ignored William and said what I had to
before giving myself too much time to worry about it. "Father, I
owe you an apology."

"Well," William said. "This ought to be
good."

"Stuff it." I kept my voice light. "I made a
scene in the gallery the other night, I was rude, and I
apologize."

"Perhaps we might start with an explanation."
Father's voice wasn't light. But — and it took me a moment to
understand this — nor was it the powerful, cadenced tone he'd used
to address me as a child, the one he practiced before the mirror,
intended to sway juries but just as suitable for reproving an
errant younger son. This wasn't a prepared speech nor a role he was
playing.

For the first time in my life I had the
attention, not of my father's persona, but of my father.

To hell with Sherlock's presence, or
William's. The lack of familial communication had continued for too
long, there were too many secrets and misunderstandings between
Father and me, and quite simply far too much that needed to be
said, no matter who might be listening. I caught and held his gaze
long enough to know I had his attention, not some ghostly memory of
his little sister: relationships among the living should matter
more than those involving the dead. And, much as I loved Aunt
Edith, she was dead and protecting my father's opinion of her would
not bring her back. "No one ever told me that living arrangement
wasn't intended to be permanent."

Before my eyes, he aged ten years in fewer
seconds. "So for all these years — what did you think? Did you
believe I didn't want you? Is that what you've believed of me all
these years?"

As he spoke, the pain sliced even deeper into
the lines about his mouth and eyes. And his evident fury — and
volume — mounted to follow. Behind the polished desk, the
receptionist froze, then pressed a button on her telephone and
murmured into her headpiece.

Father's reaction surprised me, to say the
least: if he still intended to extend an olive branch in my general
direction, well, yelling at me in the reception area of Wynne
Cameron Gamble et al. was an astounding method of doing so. I'm
certain I stared at him and I can only imagine what showed in my
face. I glanced for a second at Sherlock — steady as Gibraltar, of
course he knew to stay out of a real family fight — and spoke the
simple truth.

"Yes, Father, that's exactly what I believed
of you."

For one more flaming moment Father glared at
me, and I realized that, even as an adult and fully trained in
military self-defense, I was not immune to the fear he'd aroused in
me as a child. And even as that shiver flashed across my soul he
eased closer, invading my personal space just as William did. As
the fire in his mien transformed into ice, I felt I watched hell
freezing over.

"Did you ever consider ringing me up and
asking me?" His voice was very quiet.

The Ellandun genetics in my soul suggested a
comment on the multiple directions that particular parkway could
have been traveled. The self-control I'd learned in my battle with
PTSD intervened. There was no point in continuing the argument
because I was not the true target of his sniper's fire; he gunned
for me simply because Aunt Edith could no longer be bracketed by
his crosshairs. Even if it meant rolling over and playing dead, it
was time to end this. It was preferable to murdering any love that
remained between us.

"I'm sorry, Father."

He stared at me for a few seconds longer
while ice and tension melted between us. He no longer looked like
the father who had frightened me as a child, but rather like
someone old and stricken who vaguely resembled that long-ago
person. But it was too late to unsay his ugly words, and he turned
and limped toward the elevators without even a nod toward
Sherlock.

William still stared at me. Physically he
hadn't moved; he still stood with his legs spread, fists on hips
and jacket slung back. But his face wasn't the face of the same
person who'd stood there a moment ago, nor was it the face of the
elder brother who'd beaten me so brutally when I was a teenager. It
seemed I'd given him, too, a new viewpoint to consider.

"Are you going with him or what?" I said.
"And while you're at it, why don't you explain to him why E.T.
never phoned home?"

He blinked. If Uncle Preston, minus Patricia
and Lindsay, hadn't been holding the elevator for him, he wouldn't
have made it.

The reception area was nearly empty, and
quiet once more. Patricia sat on the arm of one of the blue sofas,
her legs tucked and folded in a graceful curve. She ripped the pins
from her hair and shook it about her shoulders in a wave that
glittered and reflected golden highlights. Her eyes glowed. "Well
done," she said, then blushed as if realizing how patronizing that
sounded.

"So that's what's between you and Dad,"
Lindsay said.

I let it all go. I felt no satisfaction, only
shame and a restless sort of weariness. Future overtures from my
family would not be answered. I'd suffered enough at their hands,
whether I was the primary target or the displaced one.

The mini-scene with William, of course, was
another matter entirely.

"Boss?" I asked.

He shrugged. "It's not like you haven't seen
my dad rip into me."

At that confused moment, his line seemed the
height of funny. I burst out laughing. Behind her desk, the
receptionist smiled and murmured again into her headpiece, then
pressed a button and opened a magazine.

"Does it make any difference, your father
being a general and one of our commanding officers?"

He shook his head, lower lip jutting out.
"Nope. It still makes me feel like I'm about six years old again."
He nodded toward the now-empty conference room. "How'd it go in
there?"

"It's official. The house is ours." For a
moment he and I stood shoulder to shoulder, watching a stunning
blonde in a pretty green suit cross from the elevators to the door
behind the receptionist's desk. She smiled at us in passing. We
both smiled back, probably at the same moment. "Wonder if I ought
to keep the condo, just in case of emergencies."

Patty blinked. "What sort of emergency?"

I eased away. "The mouse might roar."

She smacked me, of course.

Theresa was still at the library when we
returned. Patricia resumed her work in the dining room, with copies
of deposit slips, itemized bank statements, and such over half the
big table. Sherlock and Lindsay cheerfully got in her way. Bonnie
was napping. She had, after all, held the swing shift last night
during guard duty.

In Uncle Hubert's old study, Caren sat at the
big mahogany desk, two wire-bound notebooks propped open before her
and several sheets of paper, scribbled in columns in Patty's
businesslike handwriting, spread out around them. I helped myself
to a swig of her Moosehead, then another.

"While you're up," she said dryly.

I took the wingback chair near the fireplace,
behind her, bottle still in my hand. "So how's it going?"

She leaned back in the swivel chair and swung
it to face me, pulling her feet up onto the seat against her
thighs. She had changed from jeans to shorts and the view was
terrific. "You know, I really like this room. It's so," she paused,
her eyes crinkling at the corners, "so writerly. It seems the sort
of room where a serious scholar would turn out some lasting tome on
a deep subject that only a very few readers would fully
understand."

I chuckled. "You know, Uncle Hubert wrote an
analysis of Celtic culture in Britain in this room and that's a
pretty good description of it."

She held out her hand. I returned the bottle
to her. It was, of course, empty, and she handed it right back. I
fetched her a fresh one from the kitchen, then left her in peace
with a kiss on the nape of her neck, beneath that marvelous soft
hair. For now, I was satisfied. From her smile, so was she.

In the dining room, Sherlock read over
several other pages of Patricia's notes. "Robbie, I'm sorry. It
really is looking like blackmail."

"For God's sake, at least it's not murder." I
yanked out a chair, swung it around, and straddled it facing them;
I could torture the furniture now if I wanted. "Aunt Edith's
chances of dying peacefully in her bed at an advanced old age
weren't very good, were they?"

His scarred face was serious. "Practically
nil."

I leaned my chin on the chair's back. "Tell
me."

"We've — excuse me, Patricia's identified six
different payees. And Robbie, we're not talking minor sums of money
here. It looks like Edith Hunter built an empire this way."

I turned to Patricia. "Can you total up sums
for me?"

She wouldn't meet my eyes but nodded. "I
think so."

"Good. Because the value of this estate will
drop by that amount. I'm not taking blackmail money."

Sherlock shifted. "We don't yet know what
these people did. Remember the death clothes in the garret? We
could be talking murder here."

"So I give the money to charity. I don't
care. I'm serious, Sherlock. I can't do this."

"Cool," Lindsay said.

"Well." For once in our relationship,
Sherlock let me off the hook without major squirming on my part.
"The major payee seems to have been someone named Thomas Rainwater,
to the tune of over a half million dollars."

I whistled. "Never heard of the man."

"Before crashing, Bonnie hooked up your
computer and did an Internet search on the guy. Rainwater was an
assistant professor of British history at Harvard about fifteen,
twenty years ago. Am I correct in assuming that would have made him
a peer of your Uncle Hubert?"

"Yes."

"Rainwater appeared to be on tenure track."
Sherlock set down the pages of Patricia's notes, leaned back, and
met my gaze. "He taught several popular courses, including a senior
seminar that filled three semesters in a row, and published
regularly. Without warning, he retired. The payments began the
following week."

Patricia still would not lift her eyes from
her work. "The payments began two weeks after Uncle Hubert's
death."

Sherlock stared at her. "You didn't tell me
that, sweetie."

Her eyes were dark against a too-pale face.
"I've just realized it."

He turned back to me. "Research theft, maybe?
Collegiate espionage?"

"Murder?" So many things were beginning to
become clear, as if I had removed a pair of mental sunglasses and
taken a good look at the world around me. "The police never did
catch the driver of the car that struck Uncle Hubert."

Sherlock was still for a long moment. Then
his eyes hooded. "We got his address, Robber."

"Later." I tapped my teeth with my fingernail
and thought, then scooped up an address book from the middle of the
table. "What's this?" It was an expensive thing, bound in maroon
leather, and looked both old and unused at the same time.

Patricia shrugged. "Caren found that in the
garret when we went back through the writing desk. Charles, do you
know any of those people?"

I thumbed through it. "Earl of Danvers,
Connor Twining. Address in Shropshire. Lady Meara Montgomery of
Northamptonshire. No, I've never heard of them, no matter how
impressive their titles might be."

"What in the world does all this mean?"