Authors: Deeanne Gist
“I don’t believe this is any of your business, Mr. Woods.”
The line went dead. Sebastian had hung up. Suppressing a flare of anger, Logan scrolled through her phone book again. A name caught his eye. But instead of calling, he grabbed his car keys and headed out the door. .
In the car, he flipped on the radio. After the tail end of the latest r&b ingénue’s hit debut—he’d gotten where he couldn’t tell them apart anymore—an evening host started recapping the events of the day. Logan turned up the volume.
“So did you hear?” the host said.
A female radio voice replied, “Hear what?”
“They caught the Robin Hood Burglar this morning, only it turned out to be Maid Marian. The dude was a lady.”
“No kidding? I guess sisters are doin’ it for themselves.”
“And get this, the burglar was actually, like, the neighborhood dogwalker!”
“The dogwalker?”
“You know, the person they hire to walk the dog.”
“Huh,” the female voice said. “I guess that’s what they get for not walking the dog their own self!”
He switched it off.
The sun was on its way down as he made his second trip of the day to James Island. Taking the turn off Camp Road into Bishop Gadsden, he parked outside the Cloister, retracing his steps from the earlier visit.
He told himself Rylee would want him here. As close as her grandmother was, she’d appreciate his reassuring her that everything was fine, even if he wasn’t too sure himself.
Or if she didn’t know, maybe he should instruct the nurses to make sure she didn’t find out. He wasn’t certain. All he knew was that being with Flora Monroe would somehow combat his feeling of helplessness. If he couldn’t pay Rylee’s bail, if he couldn’t enlist Grant, if he couldn’t find the real Robin Hood, he could at least set her grandmother’s mind at rest.
The nurse from last time wasn’t on duty. Instead, a kind-faced woman in a floral smock presided. For all her politeness, she wasn’t too keen to let Logan pass.
“If you’d like to see Mrs. Monroe, you’ll need permission from her granddaughter.”
“Rylee’s the one who brought me the first time,” he said. “I’m here on her behalf.”
The woman frowned, reaching for the phone. “Why don’t I just call her, then?”
“I guess you haven’t heard.”
“Heard what?”
“Early this morning, Rylee was arrested. That’s why I’m here.
She wouldn’t want her grandmother to hear about it accidentally and not have anyone to explain.”
If he’d have told her he had come from the moon with a special message for earthlings, the nurse couldn’t have looked more astonished. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I wish it was,” he said. “Look, there was another nurse here when I visited before. She’ll remember me. If you call her, she can verify what I’m saying.”
They spent the next five minutes wrangling, but she finally made a phone call and within another ten minutes Nurse Melanie herself appeared, her face filled with concern.
He explained what had happened and then tried to explain why he’d come, though his motives were getting muddier by the moment.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Maybe I shouldn’t even be here. I don’t know. I just thought . . . I mean, Mrs. Monroe is the only family Rylee has, and if she somehow got hold of this news . . .”
She made a stop sign of her hand. “Say no more and follow me.”
At the door to c5, they paused. In an undertone, Nurse Melanie suggested she enter first, and she’d invite Logan inside if the moment was right. Having no choice, he agreed.
He leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back. This was definitely the wrong move, coming to see a senile old lady he’d only met once before. He’d probably do more harm than good.
Nurse Melanie peered through the door. “Okay. I think she’s ready.”
When he’d entered before, Mrs. Monroe was sitting upright, anticipating a visit. Now she lay buried in covers almost to the chin, her eyes like dark slits, giving only the slightest sign of following his movements.
He returned to the chair he’d occupied last time, hoping this would heighten her sense of familiarity.
“What is it?” she asked, confused, as if he’d awakened her.
He cleared his throat. “It’s Logan Woods, remember? I’m Rylee’s . . . friend. From the other night. We stopped by and visited.”
Her head craned for a better look. When he stopped talking, she waited, as if for a translation. At the foot of the bed, Nurse Melanie encouraged him with a nod.
“Rylee sent me to tell you . . .”
The old lady blinked.
“She wants you to know . . . everything’s fine.”
Nurse Melanie shuffled to the door. “I’ll leave you two alone a minute.”
He wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. He almost called after her, but that would have been even more absurd. After campaigning so hard to get into the room, there was no turning back.
Nonie stared at him a moment, then shut her eyes.
Her breathing grew deep and regular. Asleep.
On the nightstand, the stack of photo albums sang to him like a siren. Their leather covers glistened like the skin of the forbidden fruit. He stood, waited, and then moved quietly around the bed. At the far side, he leaned over her, checking to make sure she was asleep. Then he picked up the album on top, opening to the middle.
He couldn’t find the photo from the other night. After flipping a few pages, his eyes alighted on a candid shot, a man in a three-piece suit seated in a leather chair, reading a small black book. It wasn’t the reader who caught his attention, though.
On the side table behind the man’s chair stood a familiar-looking piece of art. A bronze-cast jockey identical to the one that was plucked unnoticed from the Bostick house, later discovered on the steps of First Scots Presbyterian, where Rylee had smothered it with her hands.
Stunned, he turned the page. Nothing revelatory. He continued through the album, stopping on the second-to-last photo.
In the lower corner of the leaf, a sepia-toned boy had a violin propped beneath his chin, bow at the ready. Logan held the album closer, scrutinizing the instrument. He wondered whether the details were clear enough for Jamison Ormsby to tell whether or not this was his Prokop. And though Logan would ask him, he already knew in his heart that it was.
Did Rylee know about these? Of course. She had to. Which meant she hadn’t been honest with him. She’d known all along these items were linked to her family somehow, yet she never said a word. He wanted to know why.
“Is she asleep?” Nurse Melanie stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised.
Logan closed the album, tucking it under his arm. “She nodded off before I could explain. So I’d appreciate it if you’d keep her away from any tv or radio.” He patted the album. “I’ll bring this back when I come check on her again.”
Before the nurse could reply, he slipped past her into the hallway. In his hand, the album grew heavy as a stone.
According to the jail’s desk clerk, it would be after ten thirty before Rylee would be released. So Logan hit the newsroom, pounding the keyboard like it was his evening workout. His article about her arrest was due within the hour.
He skimmed over the actual arrest, though, focusing instead on the inconsistencies of the investigation. Highlighting what he could about the stolen painting.
A curator at Gibbes Museum hadn’t been able to offer much, since the painting was in a private collection. And his calls to Ann Davidson about Rylee as well as the painting’s provenance had gone unanswered so far. Meanwhile, he had plenty on the painter, Charles Fraser, to use as filler until he gleaned more specifics.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered without checking the display, thinking Mrs. Davidson was finally returning his call.
“I just read the pages you sent,” his agent said. “And this dog-walker character is great. I can’t believe all this stuff! The editor went crazy. She wants you to ramp Rylee up a bit, though. Really flesh her out. Give us an intimate look at her background, her fears, what makes her tick.”
Logan stilled. He’d e-mailed the raw pages to get Seth off his back, assuming they’d talk before he forwarded anything to Dora. Now, hearing his agent talk about Rylee this way, as if she was just another character in the story, he wanted to take it all back.
“To be honest, Seth . . .” He shifted in his chair. “I was actually going to decrease her role. Maybe take her out completely.”
“No, no, no,” Seth said. “A beautiful girl is always a good draw, but you’ve got to play up this Southern Gothic backstory of hers, the victimized girl lashing out at the people living the life that should have been hers, a female Robin Hood. It’s fantastic.”
Logan cringed. “Where did you hear that? I didn’t write that.”
“Don’t you read your own paper? It’s all over the website. Dora’s called me twice already.”
He fell back in his chair. “Unbelievable.”
“What’s the matter? This is great. Maybe the national news stations will even pick it up. The bigger the story, the bigger the book deal.”
“She didn’t do it, Seth. And she’s been through a lot. She has no family to speak of. No support system. I’m not about to exploit her further.”
Seth took a moment before answering. “Logan, are you, have you . . . What’s up with you and this girl?”
And that was the problem with having one of your closest friends as your agent. Not a lot gets by him.
“Talk to me, man.”
“I’m not dragging her personal life into this.”
Seth laughed. “You’re dating her, aren’t you? You dog! You’re dating the prime suspect. That’s not a book proposal, Logan. That’s a movie deal.”
“No.”
“How long have you been seeing her?”
He didn’t answer.
“Come on. How many dates?”
One
. But it didn’t matter. One. A hundred. He wasn’t putting her in the book.
“Listen, things like this don’t drop in your lap every day, Logan. You should get on your knees and thank the patron saint of publishing. If she’s the story, and you’re with her, then you’re the story. I’ve got to call Dora with this.”
Logan gripped the phone. “Just hold on a second.”
“I understand,” Seth said. “In terms of the journalism, this is a serious breach of ethics. I’m not going to out you or anything. But once this contract is signed, you won’t need to worry about the code of conduct. All your conflicts of interest will be resolved. This girl will be your number-one interest after all.”
“The entire book does not hinge on this one girl.”
“Maybe last week it didn’t, but it does now. And all you have to do is live it, then write it down.”
Logan pictured Nonie’s photo album. Rylee was somehow connected to the robberies. That much was obvious now. But until he’d spoken to her, he wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions—or let anyone else jump to them, either. “No, Seth.”
“Why? You can’t be in love with her. You haven’t known her long enough.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m willing to take advantage of her. She’s a person. With feelings. Who didn’t do anything but be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Everyone in your book is real. Every single crook you’ve written about is a person with feelings. Why should she be any different?”
“She’s not like them.”
I hope
.
Seth groaned. “You’re killing me here.”
He tried a different tack. “Lacey would have my head. She’s already given me an ultimatum. Made it crystal clear that the paper’s my first priority. If she finds out otherwise, she’ll drop the hammer on me without a second thought.”
“You told me you’d make whatever sacrifices were necessary.
What’s changed, Logan?”
He rubbed his eyes. “Everything.”
After hanging up, he took a walk around the newsroom to clear his head, then tried Ann Davidson again. This time, he got through.
“The Fraser?” she said, repeating his question. “Oh, we’ve had that painting going on twenty years or so. Acquired it from an estate.
Well, not directly, of course. It went through a third party.”
“A third party?” Trapping the phone between his ear and shoulder, he scribbled some notes. “Do you remember who that was?”
“Grant Sebastian. He handled it all.”
Logan froze. “You’re kidding.”
“Why, no. It came from the home of his former law partner, Jonathan Monroe. Since you know Rylee, I’m sure you’re familiar with the family’s tragic story. When he left, there was a terrible debt to settle, and Grant stepped in to help. ”
He removed the phone from his shoulder. “To help?”
“He didn’t have to. He organized everything very discreetly, of course, to protect the family’s dignity. If it wasn’t for him, I think the Monroes would have lost everything.” She paused. “I’m not giving you my permission to use this information. This is strictly off the record, you understand?”
“Of course.” Logan was reeling. “So you’re saying the painting stolen from your house used to belong to the Monroes? Do the police know that?”
“Not from me they don’t. That girl’s in a bad enough position as it is.”
“So you don’t think she’s guilty?”
“Let me tell you something, young man. In this country, people are innocent until proven guilty. We trusted her, and until somebody can prove otherwise, I’m going to believe she kept that trust. What happened here would have taken a lot of hate, don’t you think? Well, I don’t believe Rylee has that in her. Do you?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t believe she does.” He cleared his throat. “So this private sale, it must have included a lot more than the painting. Do you know if there was a violin, or maybe a bronze statue?”
“I wish I could help you,” she replied, though it was clear from her tone she was glad she couldn’t. “The truth is, Grant knew about my admiration for Fraser and brought the piece by. I have no idea what else he brokered, or who did the purchasing. Apart from the house, of course—but everybody knows that.”
“The house?”
“The Monroe house,” she said. “On East Battery.”
The photograph from the album came to mind, the familiar-looking façade he couldn’t quite place.