Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
J enny wore her grandfather’s rubber overalls to muck out the drainage pipes at the river’s edge. It was a wet, stinky, and dangerous job because this river had its fair share of poisonous snakes and alligators.
There weren’t any alligators today, just the buzz from a pair of dragonflies as they zinged across the surface of the water. The river level was low, exposing soft mud banks and releasing the organic smell of silt. Mucking out the drainage pipes had to be done twice a year or they’d clog up and she’d have a soggy grove. It required wading several yards into the river, then squatting down to insert a long-handled hook into the end of the drainage pipes to drag out the gunk.
She hoisted a wad of drippy sludge toward the bank and dumped it. Specks of mud and algae spattered her face, but the goggles protected her eyes. She was heading back for another load when she spotted Hemingway hurrying toward the riverbank.
“We’re about to have company,” he called out. “Bad Penny is on her way over with a film crew.”
Jenny used a sleeve to swipe mud from her jaw. “Tell her she can’t film on the property.”
“You might want to rethink that,” he replied. “She commissioned a forensic artist to make a sketch of the woman from the tree and wants to show it to you. It should be interesting.”
That was something worth getting out of the river to see. Jenny tossed the pole onto the bank. “Help me out,” she said. Hemingway continued relaying information as he hauled her up the steep bank. Apparently, Penny called a few minutes ago and Hemingway had already opened the front gate for her.
“She wants to film your reaction to the sketch,” Hemingway said. “Trust me, she’s going to milk this for every drop of publicity she can wring from it.”
Jenny peeled off her goggles. They probably left red marks imprinted on her face alongside the mud and sweat. Her grandfather’s rubber overalls came up to her armpits, but there wasn’t any time to change. The news van was already creeping up the front drive and Jenny waddled forward to meet them. She didn’t care how she looked, she just wanted to see that sketch.
Penny was immaculate as she descended from the van, her shiny hair in a sleek, shoulder-length cut with expensive highlights. A crewmember followed behind her, hoisting a camera onto his shoulder.
“No filming,” Jenny said.
Penny put on her poised, newscaster smile. “Are you sure? I brought a forensic sketch of the lady found in your cypress tree.”
The paper fluttered in Penny’s hand as she held it aloft, and even from here Jenny could see a remarkably lifelike sketch of a woman.
She had to see it, and there wasn’t anything on the grove she needed to hide anymore. “Okay, go ahead and film. Let me see that picture.”
Penny waited until the cameraman gave the signal, then she handed Jenny the sketch.
It was a charcoal drawing, and the lady was attractive. She had high cheekbones, a thin aquiline nose, and arched eyebrows plucked like they would have been in the 1950s. Her face was long and narrow.
“Do you recognize her?” Penny asked. “Is she someone from your family?”
“I’ve never seen her before,” Jenny replied, still admiring the quality of the sketch. The hair was styled in a short, soft bob like a woman from the 1950s would have worn. The artist gave her no expression, but the high cheekbones and narrow chin made her universally attractive. Fine lines and a slight sag beneath her eyes hinted at her age, yet she still looked refined and healthy. How did a woman like this end up dead in that old cypress tree?
She passed the drawing to Hemingway, who had no answers either. They stared at the drawing so long that the cameraman stopped filming.
“Does she look like your grandmother?” Penny asked. “I understand your grandmother died sometime in the 1950s. Cancer? Where was she buried?”
Jenny raised her brows. “Are you suggesting my grandfather dumped his wife in a cypress tree instead of burying her? Because that’s what it sounds like.”
Penny was unfazed. “It’s well known that your grandfather had mental disorders.”
“I think the proper term is mental illness,” Hemingway corrected.
Jenny wasn’t so polite. “Actually, I think the term is this isn’t any of your business, Penny. ”
Penny easily shifted gears. “How is your quest to win the Fabergé egg coming along? I gather you’re about three weeks into that ninety-day countdown.”
Two weeks and five days, but who’s counting? Jenny collected the rake, eager to finish mucking out the drainage pipe. “I’m not letting myself think about it yet.”
“Did you hear that Raymond Wakefield has filed a claim on it?”
Jenny froze, the weight of disappointment making it hard to breathe. This was what she’d feared. The Wakefields had a long-standing interest in Fabergé eggs and might be able to scrounge up some kind of proof they were entitled to it.
“What’s the basis for his claim?” she asked.
“The judge won’t let outsiders review the application, but I thought you might know something about it.”
All Jenny knew was that Raymond was likely to swoop in and win that egg and crush all Jenny’s nascent hopes for getting out of debt. “Sorry, Penny, I don’t know anything.”
Hemingway waited until Penny climbed back into the van and the wheels started rolling before he talked, his voice deliberately casual.
“I think it’s time to pay a visit to Raymond and find out why he thinks he has a claim to that egg. He won’t resist being able to brag.”
As always, Hemingway was right.
“Be nice,” Jenny warned Hemingway as she drove the truck toward the Wakefield estate. She needed Hemingway’s insight into Wakefield family history in order to ask the right questions, but he could be such a wild card in his eternal quest to needle Raymond.
“Don’t worry,” Hemingway assured her. “I’ve got a few million reasons not to provoke him today . . . even though it’s always fun,” he added with a wink.
Jenny shared Hemingway’s low opinion of Raymond. What sort of forty-five-year-old man had never been gainfully employed? Paying ghostwriters to churn out books could hardly be considered professional employment, nor did accepting vanity appointments to college boards. When he wasn’t touring European resorts with the baroness, Raymond spent his days training his foxhounds for the quarterly hunts scheduled on the Wakefield estate.
After turning onto Wakefield property, Jenny turned the truck onto a gravel path leading to the dog kennels. The free-standing kennel building was built of the same honey-colored stones as the main house. A picket fence contained a dog run and two acres on which the hounds could play. Raymond stood to one side, watching the baying dogs chase after balls shot from a mechanical tennis-ball launcher. The dogs chased the balls with joyous abandon, then came bounding back to drop the balls into the machine’s basket. On the rare occasion a dog’s ball missed the basket, Raymond snapped his fingers until the dog performed the skill correctly.
Jenny leaned her forearms on the top rail of the fence to watch while Hemingway explained how the fox hunts worked.
“Raymond rides the lead horse and blasts the hunting horn, all in an elaborate game of let’s-pretend-we’re-a-British-aristocrat. He actually yells ‘Tally-ho’ whenever the dogs change direction. Can you believe it?”
“Shh, he might hear you,” Jenny cautioned, because Raymond stepped away from the machine that kept the dogs busy and strolled over to them.
“Jenny, Hemingway,” he said with a cordial nod. “What brings you out this afternoon?”
There was no point in beating around the bush. Given the knowing gleam on Raymond’s face, he already suspected.
“We heard rumors that you’ve filed a claim on the Fabergé egg,” she said. “Just curious . . . can you tell us the basis for your application?” She clenched the top rail of the fence so hard her knuckles hurt, but she was proud of how calm she sounded.
“Easy,” Raymond said. “My grandfather bought and paid for that egg back in 1952. I’ve got proof.”
“What sort of proof?” Hemingway asked.
Raymond walked over to the ball launcher and turned it off. The dogs whimpered in disappointment at the abrupt halt to their game. Raymond’s whistle pierced the air, and with a few hand gestures he directed the dogs toward the kennel.
They obeyed.
The sudden silence seemed ominous as Raymond returned to the fence, determination in his face. “As soon as I heard about the egg, I knew that my grandfather was the only person in Pierce County with the interest or ability to buy it. I searched through his old files and found paperwork for an insurance policy he bought in 1952 in anticipation of acquiring another Fabergé egg. I’ve got the insurance policy and the cancelled check he used to pay for it. He had the egg professionally appraised, and I’ve got the paperwork for that, too. The appraisal identifies it as the Firebird Egg. I also have a cancelled check for a large sum he wrote a month after the appraisal.”
Jenny’s mouth went dry, but she managed to get out her question. “Who was the check written to?”
“A trust that was administered by a bank here in Amity,” Raymond said. “The bank has stonewalled me in getting access to those records, but the bank officer referred to the trust beneficiary as a ‘she.’ I suspect it was the woman in the tree.”
Disappointment settled on Jenny because it sounded like a strong case. Raymond continued. “The woman in the tree obviously double-crossed my grandfather. Or maybe she intended to deliver the egg, but someone killed her before she could make good on it. All I know is that my grandfather was in the process of buying the Firebird Egg and wrote her a check that cleared. He didn’t ever get the egg and ended up cancelling the insurance policy the following year. The egg was stolen from Karl Wakefield.”
“Did the check written to the trust match the amount of the egg’s appraisal?” Hemingway asked, and Raymond’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s irrelevant,” he said dismissively.
It was highly relevant. There might be no connection at all between Karl’s attempt to buy the Firebird Egg and the check he wrote to an unknown beneficiary. Rich people funded things all the time. That trust could have been set up for a charity or a mistress.
“Where was your father during all of this?” she asked, and Raymond waved a dismissive hand.
“My father was in India working in famine relief during those years. He doesn’t know anything.”
The three years the senator spent in India as a young man laid the basis for his reputation as a humanitarian and his future in politics. It coincided with the breakdown of his relationship with Millicent Hawkins . . . and Jenny had always wondered if it was a broken heart that sent the senator abroad rather than a purely humanitarian mission. All she knew for sure was that the senator was on the other side of the world when the lady in the tree died.
“How much was the check for?” Hemingway pressed.
“I told you that it’s not relevant.”
But it was obviously a huge, glaring hole in Raymond’s claim or he would have gladly shared it with them.
Hemingway refused to show concern and sent a teasing smirk to Raymond. “I’m not sure you’re right about that, but tally-ho, old boy.”
Jenny had to smother her laughter as they left. She intended to do everything within her legal powers to win that egg. The problem was that Raymond was known to be a cheat, which meant she would keep hoping for the best, but brace herself for a fight.