Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 02 - London Broil (16 page)

“I’m a pretty tough bloke to kill. Many have tried.”

I wanted to strangle him for being cavalier. Benny’s word for Roger. I sighed. “Darcy’s in a hospital somewhere in London. Veal gave her some sort of truth serum and she went psycho. So he dumped her at an emergency room.”

Roger braced his hands on the rail and pushed himself up. “I’m okay,” he said looking down at me. “We’ll have the Met find her.”

I stood, feeling the full effect of adrenalin withdrawal. My muscles ached and I was uber-dizzy. “Let’s see about that shooting.”

We hustled down the southwest staircase. As we reached the second landing, Roger was steadier, and I was saying silent prayers of thanks to any deities who might be listening. The lobby was filled with museum security and a few professor-types, jackets off and ties askew.

Roger and I tried to work our way out the doors and down the front stairs, but that’s where the real tumult was. Angus’s red-hair caught my eye as he rose from the body of Victor Veal sprawled in a pool of blood.

“Don’t look,” I shielded Roger’s eyes. “There’s blood.”

He looked at the high lobby ceiling, as if counting birds, and spoke to me from the side of his mouth. “Who’s been shot?”

“Victor Veal. It’s okay to look now. They covered him.”

Granddaddy Earl, Birdie, and the kidnapping cabbie were part of the crowd. The cabbie’s dreadlocks had slipped down over his sugar-bowl ears. It was Algy Green. Son of a…

Their eyes as big as ostrich eggs, they stood at the edge of the crowd. Birdie held the gift shop bag. Earl had his arm around Algy’s neck in a half-hearted stranglehold. The makeup on Algy’s face was smeared and his cheek was swollen.

Angus locked eyes with me. He held the package containing the fake Lost Boy. The detective peeled the wrappings like a banana. He shot me a daggered look… hell hath no fury like an antiquities thief who’s been stiffed with a forgery. I knew whose side Angus was on and it wasn’t the good guys.

The detective dropped the gnome on the floor as two uniformed Met police came at him. He held up his hands, the gun dangled from his fingers. More police gathered around Angus, shielding him from the onlookers.

Roger leaned into me. “I feel woozy.”

I guided him to a marble step at the base of a pillar. “Sit here for a minute.” He sat and I ran.

I flew to the edge of the crime scene like a hawk on prey. I grabbed the gnome from under shuffling feet. The little guy had done well and was owed a safe return to Benny’s garden. I edged back to Roger, hiding the fake Lost Boy behind my back. I could feel the tacky paint sticking to my hands.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, tugging on his arm.

“I want to speak with Angus first,” Roger said.

“Trust me. You don’t. Besides, the Met is probably grilling him right now. Even a Detective Chief Inspector can’t shoot someone and walk away. Let’s get a cab. We have a Lost Boy to collect.”

Chapter 42

B
ig Ben struck nine as Roger and I exited the cab in front of the Abbey. The building was locked for the night.

“Are you positive Thirteen is here?”

“Beyond a doubt. It’s under the Coronation Chair… near the tomb of Henry V.”

“I have to call in a big favor. Give me your cell.”

As I passed my phone to Roger, I wondered how long Angus would be occupied with his Crime Scene people. He had to know I created the forgery and would figure I had the real thing.

Roger put my phone in my hand. “I reached Michael, the assistant to the Receiver General who handles the security of the Abbey. He’s sending two guards to open up. Michael will join us.” Roger’s eyelids drooped.

We sat on a bench outside the west door. It was stinking hot. I would have loved a cold beer or a naked moon bath. Neither was in my immediate future.

“I have a weird feeling about Angus,” I said. “He’s always one step behind me. I think he’s after the Lost Boy.”

“He’s a cop. That’s part of his aura – giving off scary vibes.”

“Are you a member of some sort of secret society? Angus said you both belonged to the International Society for the Protection of Antiquities. What is that all about?”

“He got me involved in the Society years ago. They turned out to be a bunch of smugglers. Angus’s father went to prison for his part in that gang. You misunderstood him. That’s old stuff.”

Roger pulled me close. “Let’s just sit quiet and savor this moment. There will never be another one like it. Our quest may soon be over.”

I wasn’t wrong. Angus was bad news, but I wasn’t up to arguing, not now. I leaned my head against Roger’s shoulder; he leaned into my lean. We were in the leaning thing when a chap in light slacks and a dark tailored shirt came careening round the building. He was followed by a security guard.

Roger and Michael embraced doing the guy-back-pat thing. “Wendy, let me introduce you to my good friend from university, Sir Michael Wellington. We carried each other through Oxford.”

After we shook hands, he said, “On with it then!” We followed him like ducklings to a side entrance where a second guard waited for us.

Inside it was cool and smelled like history. The lights were on full. The antiquities contained in the church were beyond priceless, collected since before the eleventh century. I felt as if the royals and the saints were looking down on us, shocked at our trespass.

“Where to?” Michael asked.

“The Coronation Throne,” I said, my voice cracking. This was more than I had imagined. Real Estate Broker to Tomb Raider, Recovery Division.

Roger and I followed Michael, and the guards followed us. The chair stood on a modern pedestal near the tomb of Henry V.

Michael said, “Almost every monarch since Edward II in 1308 has been crowned while seated there.”

Harp music played in my mind. Decorated with faded paintings of birds, foliage, and animals on gilt background, the chair was exquisite. The guard shined his flashlight under it.

I grabbed Roger’s arm. There, in the beam of light, was the Lost Boy
.
We had it!

The guard switched off the laser security and Roger moved forward in slow motion. He lifted the death Shadow of the last Lost Boy from under the throne. It was an eight-inch tall effigy made from one solid black diamond with jewel-encrusted vestments. It cast subtle prisms across Roger’s face. We locked eyes and smiled.

One of the guards took out a handkerchief and handed it to Roger, who wrapped the Boy in it. He clutched it to his chest. Sir Michael stepped back looking proud as punch.

“Wendy, may I borrow your phone again?”

Roger dialed, waited. It rang and rang. “Anna? I have it. We’ll be there within the hour.” He clicked off and handed back my cell. We exchanged glances and then looked away, not wanting to expose our emotions.

“I’ll drive you to the museum,” Michael said. “The guards will accompany us.”

It was a relief to know we weren’t going by taxi.

***

Twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of the British Museum. I popped out of the back of Michael’s car. Roger slowly slid out of the front passenger seat, taking way too much time thanking his friend. He held the Shadow wrapped in the handkerchief. I waited three stairs up, eager to get the Lost Boy off our hands.

Something came behind me. It was large and smelled of fried fish. Chunky arms held me fast in a bear hug. “Sorry, Wendy.” It was Nobby Seemore back for more.

I elbowed him in his plump tummy, but he held fast. Algy, sans the dreadlocks but still wearing most of his makeup, winged at me like a goofy gargoyle and grabbed the gnome from my mitts. The thugs took off galumphing down the marble stairs, Nobby tripping over Algy. Maybe that was how they always went down stairs. The orange-doored taxi sat at the curb at the corner. They sprinted toward it, clutching the garden gnome.

“Idiots!” I yelled.

Nobby blew me a kiss.

Chapter 43

D
r. Anna Hill, Chief Curator of the Ancient Egypt collection, greeted us in the darkened lobby accompanied by a contingent of security guards, a passel of assistants, and a covey of curators. I wondered if they all spent the night in their exhibits… We hadn’t given them much notice and yet there they stood, beaming.

We followed Dr. Anna down to the basement vault, our footsteps echoing off the stone walls and marble floors. I’d never been in a museum at night. I took mental snapshots of all I was seeing so I could pull the memories out and fondle them in years to come.

Roger and Anna went inside the reinforced room; the rest of us peeked in the door. The archaeologist and the curator carefully unwrapped the last Lost Boy and placed him in the velvet case with his brothers.

Dr. Anna hugged Roger. He blushed. They turned and faced the group clustered at the doorway. We all applauded. I thought I saw tears in Roger’s eyes, but maybe they were in mine.

When he returned to my side, he whispered, “Thank you.”

I squeezed his arm.

“You and I,” he said, “are just passing through history. This is history.”

***

We left the still-cheering museum crowd fifteen minutes later and got in Michael’s car to go to Roger’s flat. It had been the wildest twenty-four hours in my life. Roger dialed the Met and explained his problem with the misplaced Darcy. I smiled when he described her as a large, delusional female resembling the late Anna Nicole Smith, well past her centerfold days. He clicked off and handed me the phone.

“The Met will get someone on it right now. They’ll call round to all the London hospitals with psychiatric wards,” he said.

I took his hand and squeezed it. In return he squeezed my thigh.

At one in the morning, we stumbled up the stairs to Roger’s apartment. By virtue of his aroma, he won the right to be the first to shower.

“You smell like a mummy.”

“Better than being a mummy. How about saving on water and showering with me?”

“Didn’t you hear me say you smell like a mummy?”

Roger threw me a tired air kiss and walked into his bathroom.

Hildy and Holly were sound asleep in their blanket nest; their soft goose-snores were comforting. I poured two water glasses of scotch. Thirty minutes later Roger hadn’t emerged. Concerned, I poked my head in the door. He was asleep on the floor, hair wet, a towel around his waist. I roused him by tapping his cheeks.

“Whatever Veal slipped me is still in my system. I can’t stay awake,” he said as he struggled to stand. Just then Hildy and Holly rushed at Roger, their web-footed waddle making that peculiar sound I’d come to love. They entwined their spindly grey necks around his shaky knees.

“If these birds aren’t gone by Christmas, they are dinner!” he said, fighting off their fowl caresses.

“Go sit in the corner,” I said to the girls.

I walked Roger to the sofa and we sat down. “I’ll make us a nice cup of tea instead of scotch.” I slipped my hand behind his shoulder and drew him close. He still smelled faintly of sarcophagus, “Sweetie, Victor gave Darcy some truth serum. Something called
3Ts.
Maybe that’s what he slipped you.”

“Bloody hell! Mixing something like that with her medicines for schizophrenia could have destroyed her mind.”

I hugged him again. He found my lips, nibbling then kissing. My emotions bubbled near the surface like magma preparing to erupt from a volcano. His towel came loose and fell away, which did nothing to discourage our plans.

“Roger, we’re not alone.” Two sets of black beady eyes watched us intently. “Hang on, I’ll get rid of them.”

“All I do is hang on.”

I went into the kitchen, grabbed a bag of popped popcorn from the counter, spilled it into a dish, and walked to the patio. The geese followed me like two over-sized puppies. I set the dish down. While Hildy and Holly gobbled the food making little goose sounds low in their throats, I stepped into the flat and closed the sliding screen behind me.

Roger was watching me return, so I sashayed an exaggerated hip sway and grinned. I knelt on the sofa and kissed him. I was slipping out of my top while trying to stay lip-connected when there came a pounding on the door. We looked at each other as we both said… “Darcy.”

Roger tied the towel around his waist, went to the door, and looked through the peephole.

“It’s Angus.” He opened the door before I could stop him.

Detective Chief Inspector Angus Black burst in the room. “Where is it?”

Clueless, Roger patted Angus on the back, “Are you okay? Want a drink?” He pushed the detective toward the sofa. “Tell us what happened with Veal. I take it he pulled a gun?”

Angus remained standing, his green eyes fixed on me. “Where the bloody hell is it?”

I gave him a palms-up shrug. He was going to go ballistic when he found out the last Lost Boy was in a vault with his brothers.

He shoved Roger onto the sofa. My archaeologist turned to me. “We seem to bring out the worst in people.”

“Angus, tell him,” I said.

“I’m after the last Lost Boy.”

Roger turned to me with a stunned look, “You were right!”

“Your detective friend has also gone over to the dark side. It’s getting crowded over there.” I stood ready to rumble. “Detective Black, I’m guessing Victor Veal was unarmed?”

Angus took a menacing step toward me. I jumped over the back of the sofa.

“Nice trick with the lawn gnome. Only now you’ve really chafed my bum. I want that Lost Boy and I want it now,” he said.

Roger’s eyeballs spun trying to follow the conversation – what with lawn gnomes and cop’s bums.

Inching my way along the back of the sofa, I managed to grab a bronze bull from an end table. Valuable or not, it was a good heavy weapon. But it would be a big mistake to pull an unloaded bull if he was still armed. I hoped Angus had turned over his gun after shooting Veal.

“Angus… we’ve already returned Thirteen to the museum. The deal is done and the last Lost Boy is out of play.”

“Err!” The cop roared as he swung his fist. Roger ducked and his towel fell off. It was the equivalent of mud wrestling for a female audience. It might have been fun to get on video, but it was going to get bloody soon. Angus was raving when he took his final lunge at Roger.