Ghost of a Chance

“They went to a party last week, at the Astors,” Bickman said. “A picture of the Lady Atwood wearing the brooch was in the Times.”

“Convenient,” North said, turning the brooch over in his hands. “I think I see where you’re going with this.”

“Based on what Mr. Wilks of Callahan Brothers Property told me, I’ve made a few enquiries,” Greta said. “The Atwoods have sold off quite a bit of their art collection over the last year.”

“That’s true,” Bickman said. “The elder Mr. Atwood was the collector. The master said he disliked art.”

“I suspect it’s more that he likes money,” North said.

“Or rather spending it,” Alex added. “When was the last time you got paid?” he asked Bickman. “I mean in cash.”

Caught off guard by the question, Bickman took a moment to answer.

“Most of our needs are taken care of as part of the household,” he said. “The master usually just puts my salary in his safe for me. I think the last time I needed money was about a month ago when I took Marjorie to a picture show.”

“What’s this about?” Marjorie asked, her fearful look back with a vengeance.

“Your boss is broke,” Detective North said. “He got rid of this so he could collect the insurance.”

“I suspect they sold off the stones in the real brooch a few at a time,” Greta supplied. “Eventually even the setting. I have a colleague trying to track them down as we speak.”

Alex chuckled at that. Wilks might be a jerk, but he was very good at his job. If the Atwoods had sold off the stones on the black market, Wilks would know about it by breakfast.

“My God,” Marjorie gasped, clinging to her husband. “If the Atwoods are broke, what about our money?”

“How much do they owe you?” Detective North asked.

“Sixteen hundred and twelve dollars,” Bickman answered immediately. “It’s supposed to be in his office safe.”

“I’ll look into that,” North said. “But if they’re trying their hand at insurance fraud, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Mrs. Bickman made a sobbing noise and buried her face in her husband’s lapel.

“What are we going to do?” Bickman asked, his face ashen. “That money is all we have and until the accusations against my wife are cleared up, no one will hire us.”

Alex looked at North, but the detective just shrugged.

“I’ve got some questions for the Atwoods,” he said, pocketing the fake brooch. “I’ll lean on him about your money.”

“Thank you, detective,” Bickman said, somewhat woodenly.

“I’ll go with you,” Greta said to North as the detective headed toward the enormous house. “I have some questions of my own.”

Alex watched them go as Marjorie sobbed into Bickman’s tuxedo jacket. He pulled out his rune book and tore out a minor restoration rune, passing it to the diminutive valet.

“This will get the stains out of your jacket,” he said.

“Thank you,” Bickman said in the same wooden voice he’d used with Detective North.

“Do you have a place to stay?” Alex asked.

Bickman nodded after a moment.

“Marjorie’s sister lives in the city.”

“Good. Take your wife there.” Alex hesitated. He really didn’t want to go on, but the sight of Bickman’s lost expression and Marjorie’s sobbing drove him on. He sighed and resigned himself to the course of action in front of him. “Call me in the morning,” he said at last. “I might be able to help.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lockerby,” Bickman said, his face brightening a little. “I’m sorry… I only have my pocket money right now. I can’t pay you.”

Alex didn’t even grimace when the valet said it. Of course he’d known it was coming, so it wasn’t such an incredible accomplishment.

“I know,” he said, putting a comforting hand on Bickman’s shoulder. “You’ll pay me when you can.”

2 The Midnight Sun

Alex regretted promising to help the Bickmans almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. They were nice enough people, sure, and they’d been dealt a bum hand, but helping them would mean calling her. He didn’t even want to think about that.

He did, however, really need to get paid. He had about thirty cents in his pocket and that was pretty much it.

To avoid making the dreaded call, Alex crossed town to The Lunch Box, a diner a few blocks from the brownstone where he rented a room from his mentor, Dr. Bell. Iggy would be making dinner soon, but Alex hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. He hadn’t really been up to food after his encounter with the landfill.

“Hey, sugar,” the waitress said as Alex sat down at the counter. “Haven’t seen you in here in a while. What’ll it be?”

A faded tag on her blue apron read, Doris, but she was such a fixture at the diner that she didn’t really need a name-tag. Alex wondered if The Lunch Box even had another waitress.

“Coffee,” he said.

Hungry or not, he wasn’t about to insult Iggy by eating right before dinner. Besides, he didn’t have enough money to spare for even a poached egg.

“Anyone leave a copy of the Times lying around?” he asked.

“Just this,” Doris said, handing him a folded paper before putting a coffee cup in front of him.