Pirate

“I know. Listen, I was wondering if — did my uncle give you the book when you were there? Pyrates and Privateers?”

Remi glanced at Sam, hesitating the slightest of instances as she said, “I bought a copy from him. Why?”

“My cousin — um, she’s pretty devastated. Apparently he promised it to her, and — and I was hoping I could give it to her. Something to remember her father by.”

“After what happened to your uncle, Sam and I thought maybe we should turn it over to the police.”

“No! Please…”

“Bree? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m — yes. It’s just — you can imagine how devastating this has all been. And it would mean so much for her to have it. If you turn it in, it’ll only be tied up in probate. She’s too ill to travel, and—” Bree broke down crying. After several seconds, she said, “I’m sorry. This has all been so hard.”

“What can we do to help?” Remi asked.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind mailing the book to her. To remember her father by.”

“Of course we wouldn’t mind. But Sam and I will deliver it in person.”

“No. I couldn’t ask that of you. It’s too much.”

“We insist,” she said, eyeing Sam, who nodded in encouragement. “This book is too valuable to trust to the post office. Just text me the address and we’ll deliver it tomorrow.”

“I will. Thank you…”

They heard a quiet sob as Remi said, “We’ll see you tomorrow. And pass on our condolences to your cousin.”

Sam pulled out of the parking garage and on into traffic. “She sounded pretty upset.”

“Understandably,” Remi said. “First the robbery, then the heart attack. I can’t imagine what Pickering’s daughter must be going through. Not being able to travel. At least Bree’s there for her.”

“About the book…?”

“I thought about that. And I think at the very least we should show it to Pickering’s daughter and let her make that decision. She is the next of kin, after all. At least this way we can explain in person why we feel it best to turn it in to the authorities.”

He stopped at a red light, looked over at his wife, then back at the road. “I guess we’ll be filing a change in flight plans to North Carolina.”

* * *

The advantage of having a private jet meant they could change plans at a moment’s notice. Selma made the arrangements for a hotel and rental car on their arrival, and after a decent night’s sleep and a hot breakfast, they drove to the location Bree had texted. Remi, of course, asked Selma to look into the address on the off chance something was wrong. Much to her relief, it came back to a Larayne Pickering-Smith, who Selma had determined was, in fact, Gerald Pickering’s daughter.

She lived in rural Harlowe, and as they drove east through miles of tobacco farms, the sky darkened with a gathering storm. Sam parked in front, eyeing the property, a white clapboard farmhouse, with a black SUV in the gravel drive. Someone pulled the drape slightly from an upstairs window, then dropped it.

Remi, the book in her lap, patted the front cover, saying, “Let’s get this thing delivered.”

“You sure you want to give it to her?”

“Yes. It has to be better than tying it up in evidence or even probate for who knows how long. Maybe his daughter can tell us what’s so important about the book.”

Together, they walked up the path, and Sam knocked on the front door. It opened a moment later a few inches, and Bree looked out at them. Her eyes were red and slightly swollen, no doubt from crying. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo…” She gave a faltering smile. “You have the book?”

Remi handed her the brown-wrapped parcel. “How is your cousin?”

“She’s… not well.” Bree hugged the book to her chest. “I’d invite you in, but…”

“No worries,” Remi said. “We were wondering, though, if you know what was so important about this volume. Why someone might be looking for it?”

“No.” She gave a slight shrug. “But thank you. For bringing it all this way.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

Bree nodded.

When the silence became awkward, Remi took a step back and smiled. “Let us know if you need anything.”

“There is one thing I was wondering. How is Mr. Wickham? He wasn’t hurt in the robbery, was he?”

“No.”

Bree looked down at the book, then at Remi. “Tell him I miss him and that I’ll try to write to him. Would you?”

“I’ll be glad to.” Remi linked her arm through Sam’s, saying, “We should get going. It’s a long flight home.”

Sam gave a polite nod. “Bye.”

“Good-bye,” Bree said, then closed the door as he and Remi returned to the car.

Remi said, “She’s in trouble. You heard what she said? Asking me to pass a message to Mr. Wickham? Pickering’s cat? We need to go in there and rescue her.”

“Not a good idea, Remi.”

“But you’ve got a gun this time.”

“One against how many? We don’t even know who’s in there. If you had yours, we might stand a chance.”

She frowned at him, then took out her cell phone. “Then we call the cops and up our odds.”

“Not in front of the house,” he said. “If she’s being held, they’ll be watching us.” He pulled away from the curb, then drove down the street.