Chapter 20 The Tea Cart and the Flying Retriever #3
"You're insane!" Sly spat, struggling against Tyler’s grip as the deputy began dragging him toward the foyer. "You can't prove a word of that! It's all circumstantial! Julian was a thief! I was trying to protect the family estate!"
"We have your tire tracks outside the carriage house from Tuesday night, Sly," Lawson said calmly, following them into the grand hallway.
"We have the blue paint transfer from your tailgate on the bumper of Croft's rental car.
And ten minutes ago, the state forensics lab in Asheville called my cruiser.
They pulled a full set of your latent prints off the brass counterweight of that beam scale. "
Sly’s ranting stopped instantly. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking hollow, old, and pathetic.
"Take him down to the county jail, Tyler," Lawson ordered, his voice echoing through the vast marble foyer. "Book him on first-degree murder, armed burglary, tampering with evidence, and three counts of attempted murder. I'll be down to file the formal warrants once I secure this crime scene."
"With pleasure, Sheriff," Tyler said, shoving the disgraced antique dealer through the grand double doors into the howling storm, where the flashing blue lights cast long, erratic shadows into the mountain night.
As the heavy doors clicked shut behind them, the sudden quiet in Blackwood Manor felt almost reverent. The only sound remaining was the steady patter of rain against the roof and the crackle of the dying fire.
Lawson turned back to face the three of us. He took off his campaign hat, ran a hand over his tired face, and let out a long, low whistle as he surveyed the wreckage of the library.
"I’ve been sheriff in this county for twenty-two years," Lawson said, a wry, reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mustache. "I’ve seen moonshiners take out barn doors with pickup trucks, and I’ve seen feuding cousins go at it with weed-whackers.
But I have never, in all my days, seen a felon taken down by a drop-leaf tea cart and a library ladder. "
"That tea cart was solid Appalachian oak, Frank," Birdie said haughtily, though she was leaning heavily against a mahogany bookcase to take the weight off her sore foot. "Built to endure. Just like the women of Black Walnut Cove."
Luke chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound that seemed to chase away the last remnants of cold dread lingering in the room. He set the heavy fireplace poker back into its brass stand, wiped his dusty hands on his jeans, and walked over to where I was standing.
He didn't say anything at first. He just looked down at me, his hazel eyes searching my face with an intensity that made my breath hitch in my throat. Gently, his rough, warm fingers reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair away from my forehead.
"You okay, Maggie?" he asked, his voice low and private.
"I'm fine, Luke," I said, and to my surprise, I actually meant it. My hands had stopped shaking. "Just a little bruised around the edges."
"You were incredible," Luke said, the slow, crooked grin spreading across his face that always made him look ten years younger. "The way you launched that cart... I swear you put more back into that shove than I do felling timber."
"Desperation is a wonderful physical trainer," I said, feeling a warm, unmistakable blush creeping up my cheeks.
Buster, clearly feeling neglected by the lack of direct adulation, wedged his golden head firmly between Luke’s knees and mine, letting out a dramatic, mournful whine.
Luke laughed, dropping to one knee and gathering Buster’s big, furry head into both of his hands, scrubbing the dog’s ears until Buster’s eyes fluttered shut in sheer ecstasy. "And you, my friend. You are getting the biggest ribeye steak the butcher shop has to offer tomorrow morning. On my dime."
"Make that two steaks," Birdie chimed in, hobbling toward the parlor. "One for the dog, and one for the woman who just kicked an eight-hundred-pound ladder barefoot. Frank, tell me you have coffee in that patrol cruiser, or so help me, I will start raiding Eleanor’s vintage sherry."
Lawson chuckled, tucking Eleanor Vance's 1845 ledger safely under his arm. "There’s a fresh thermos in the front seat, Birdie. Go help yourself before the rain ruins what's left of your hairdo."
As Birdie and the Sheriff made their way toward the front porch, Luke stood back up, looking down at me with that quiet, steady warmth that had sustained me through the past three harrowing days.
"Come on, Maggie," Luke said softly, offering me his arm. "Let's get you and Buster home."
I looked around the grand, shadowed library of Blackwood Manor one last time. The ghosts of the Vance family secrets were finally laid to rest, the ancient land was safe from greedy hands, and Callahan & Company had survived the most dangerous estate sale in North Carolina history.
I linked my arm through Luke’s, feeling the solid, reassuring strength of his shoulder against mine, and whistled for Buster.
"Home sounds wonderful," I said.