Chapter 7 Pried Floorboards and Monogrammed Clues #2
Near the stone footing, accumulated silt had been scraped clear. The distinct rectangular impression of an eight-by-ten-inch book was stamped into the dirt.
"It was here," I breathed. "The ledger was hidden right here. Look at the corners pressed into the soil."
"And whoever brought the pry bar got it," Luke said, his jaw tightening.
"Wait a second," I said, noticing something else.
Just at the edge of the rectangular impression, half-buried beneath a drift of fine wood dust that had blown under the sill, something caught the LED beam. A tiny, brilliant pinprick of yellow fire.
"Hold that board steady," I told Luke.
"Got it. Be careful, Maggie. Don't touch it with bare hands if it’s evidence."
"I have my kit."
I pulled latex gloves and a slender stainless palette knife from my apron. Snapping the gloves on, I extended the blade into the gap.
The steel slipped beneath the glittering object. With a gentle flick, I scooped it into my palm.
Luke leaned in close, his breath warm against my temple as we both stared at the tiny object.
It was a cufflink. Heavy, solid eighteen-karat yellow gold, polished to a mirror shine that even decades of floorboard dust couldn't dull. In the center of the rectangular face, framed by a delicate border of black onyx inlay, was an ornate, hand-engraved monogram in sweeping script.
Two letters.
*G. V.*
The air left my lungs all at once. "Gregory Vance."
"The cousin from Raleigh," Luke said, his voice hard as granite. "The hedge fund broker."
"The one who arrived yesterday weeping into an Italian linen handkerchief about dear Aunt Eleanor," I said, turning the cufflink over.
The swivel bar was slightly bent, as if caught on the splintered wood when someone jerked their arm back.
"He claimed he was in Charlotte at an investment seminar when Julian was killed. "
"A man doesn't drop a custom, monogrammed gold cufflink under a floorboard while he's at an investment seminar in Charlotte," Luke pointed out.
"And he doesn't pry up floorboards in a cordoned-off crime scene unless he’s desperate to retrieve something that could send him to prison."
Before Luke could lower the plank, the heavy wooden door of the carriage house creaked wider. Footsteps crunched sharply on the gravel outside.
"Maggie? Luke?" Birdie’s voice floated through the gloom, accompanied by the urgent clicking of her kitten heels against the stone threshold. "Are you two finished romancing the dust bunnies yet? We have a minor diplomatic incident developing on the south lawn."
Luke eased the board back into its groove, pressing the tongue flush with his boot heel. He wiped his hands on his jacket while I slipped the gold cufflink into my apron pocket.
Birdie appeared around the corner of the cider press, looking slightly flushed, her cat-eye glasses pushed up onto her silver-streaked hair. Her crimson jacket was immaculate, though I noticed a distinct smear of pale yellow lemon curd on the cuff of her left sleeve.
"Did Tyler enjoy his breakfast?" I asked, stripping off the latex gloves and tucking them away.
"Tyler Briggs is in a sugar-induced state of spiritual enlightenment," Birdie reported. "He ate three slices, drank two cups of milk, and told me state police found two sets of tire tracks behind the carriage house: a wide truck radial and a narrow sports sedan."
"Did he mention anything about the heirs?" I asked, stepping toward her.
"That," Birdie said, dropping to an urgent hiss, "is the diplomatic incident. Gregory Vance just pulled up in a rented Mercedes. He’s out on the terrace screaming into his phone at the probate judge, demanding Lawson release the estate assets so he can liquidate before the weekend."
Luke and I exchanged a long, speaking glance.
"Did he happen to have his shirt sleeves rolled up, Birdie?" Luke asked mildly.
Birdie blinked, looking between the two of us with sudden suspicion. "As a matter of fact, he was wearing a navy bespoke suit with French cuffs. Why on earth do you care about Gregory Vance’s haberdashery?"
I reached into my apron pocket, pulled out the gold and onyx cufflink, and held it out on the flat of my palm so the morning light from the clerestory window hit the engraved initials.
Birdie’s jaw dropped. Her tortoiseshell glasses slid an inch down her nose.
"Well, sweet mother of pearl," Birdie whispered, staring at the monogram. "Tell me that doesn't stand for *Good Vibrations*."
"Gregory Vance was in this building last night, Birdie," I said, nodding toward the cider press. "He pried up the floorboards right where Julian’s body was found. And whatever he pulled out of that hiding spot... he’s got it right now."
Outside, a car horn blasted across the boxwoods, followed by Gregory Vance barking orders at Deputy Tyler.
Luke picked up his pry bar and rested it against his shoulder, a slow smile touching his mouth.
"Well, Maggie," Luke said, gesturing toward the doors. "Sounds like the heir is ready for his appraisal. Shall we see if he's missing some jewelry?"
"Let's," I said, patting my apron pocket and marching out into the mountain morning to meet our prime suspect.