Chapter 3 #2
“My friend Bastien and his sister are missing. David checked hospitals, jails, and the morgue, but there weren’t any leads since Bastien arrived in Chicago yesterday afternoon.
Bastien and Marcelle were supposed to attend a fundraiser last night and fly to New Orleans this morning.
They aren’t in any pictures from last night’s event.
And they weren’t on this morning’s flight from Chicago. ”
Clay’s head popped up. “Maybe they got drunk and went home with other people.”
“Bastien and Marcelle wouldn’t have done that. And he wouldn’t miss our gig in New Orleans. He’s invested too much effort in getting the band ready for Mardi Gras. Something doesn’t add up.”
“Did ye ask Ofello?” Elliott asked.
“Did that first,” David said, pulling out a chair and sitting close to the chess table. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, eyes intent. “Ofello found no record of them.”
Elliott’s pawn reached the far side of the board, and he exchanged it for a knight. “While Remy flies to Chicago, why don’t ye try the old-fashioned way to locate them?”
David pushed up from the chair just enough to hover over Elliott’s shoulder, palms braced on the table as he studied the board in silence. His gaze flicked once from the pieces to Elliott’s face. “Do ye not trust Ofello?”
“Not completely. While the supercomputer is helpful, we should continue double-checking its information until we’re convinced it’s accurate.”
David eased back into his chair, the wood creaking softly beneath him.
He crossed one ankle over the other, expression calm but resolute.
“I’m already convinced,” he said evenly.
“But if ye want me to spend a few hours digging into the gray zone—and a few thousand dollars paying my sources—I’ll do it. ”
Elliott tapped his fingers on the table with his eyes fixed on the chessboard. “Save the money. If Remy can’t find anything in Chicago, spend it freely.”
“Are you going to Chicago and coming back here, or straight to New Orleans?” Clay asked.
“It depends on what I find.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time in Chicago. If you’re unfamiliar with the city, I can help.”
Relief loosened something tight and painful in Remy’s chest when Clay volunteered.
He’d faced plenty of brutal situations in his life—danger, loss, decisions that came with consequences no one ever talked about—but this was different.
This was personal. The thought of walking into the aftermath of his friends’ murder sat heavy in his gut, an unfamiliar weight that made his jaw ache from clenching it too hard.
He didn’t know how he’d hold himself together if reality stopped being theoretical.
From everything Remy knew, Clay didn’t spook easily.
“Glad to have you,” Remy said, keeping his voice even, controlled, the way he always did when the stakes climbed. “Grab a go-bag from the supply closet. I doan plan to stay up there, but if we need to, we’ll be prepared.”
Clay knocked over his king. “I’ve already lost this game. Elliott was stretching out the torture to teach me chess piece mobility and pawn structure, but his lesson stalled a while ago.”
Elliott swiveled in his chair and crossed his legs, ignoring the comment. “You haven’t mentioned Bastien’s sister. Do ye know her well?”
“I grew up with her. She’s in Chicago and hasn’t visited Richmond lately, so I haven’t seen her for a while. But I keep up with her through Bastien.”
“She’s a professor.”
“She’s a lecturer at the University of Chicago’s Department of Music and a trumpet player for the Chicago Symphony.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Not unless she met a guy recently that Bastien hasn’t heard about. He doesn’t like any guy she dates.”
“As Kenzie and I’ve discovered, it goes with the territory. Henry and Robbie believe they can pick who Laurie Wallis spends time with. She hates it,” David said.
“That’s Bastien for you. Anyway, he asked her to fill in for our trumpet player, whose wife went into labor a week early.”
Elliott carried his coffee cup to the refreshment bar and rinsed it out. “If I remember correctly, a kid on crack murdered Bastien and Marcelle’s parents, and nobody was able to find her to tell her what happened.”
“And that’s why she stays connected now. She wouldn’t go silent on purpose.”
“I agree,” Elliott said. “If ye can’t find them today, we’ll have to cancel this weekend. Let’s not tell the family until we have more information.” He placed his cup on a drying rack and asked, “Any chance they have a brooch?”
Remy’s heart rate spiked. “Don’t you get a signal or something when one is activated?”
“I always have, but that doesn’t mean I always will.”
“Can we assume a brooch isn’t involved?” Remy shouldn’t assume anything, but in this situation it appeared far-fetched.
Elliott turned and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Our lives have changed, and we don’t know the significance of Erik and Violet’s departure. We all need some of Braham’s preternatural acuteness. Stay alert.”
“I wonder if I can still have visions. I haven’t had one since we returned from Buffalo, but Violet said on the tape that she didn’t send them to me,” Clay said.
“Our edge, ESP, visions, insight, and wisdom aren’t gone,” David said.
“And they weren’t gifts from Erik or Violet.
They tapped into the family’s special talents.
What ye have, ye’ve always had. Plus, I don’t believe half of what they said.
They knew we were surveilling the cave and said what they wanted us to hear. ”
“Fucking liars,” Remy said. “But why?”
David shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.”
Elliott sat back in his chair at the game table. A flicker of pain and disappointment flashed in his eyes. He usually kept a filter between his thoughts and his expressions, but not today.
“Back to Bastien and Marcelle. Where’s their family from originally?” Elliott asked.
“They’re French Acadian. Their family settled in New Orleans in the mid-1700s. They’re Cajun and don’t have any Scottish ancestors. So, no family brooch,” Remy said.
David leaned back in his chair and spread his hands slowly, palms up, as if laying evidence on a table. “Penny bought one at an estate sale,” he said. “Just saying.”
“We’ll continue this discussion later. Find yer friends. I don’t want to cancel the trip to New Orleans.”
“There’s no reason to cancel. If our band isn’t playing, there’ll be plenty of others to listen to.”
“We’re not leaving while yer friends are missing,” David said. “We’ll have more information tonight. If we need to change our plans, we will.”
“Let’s go, Clay,” Remy said. “Bastien and Marcelle might be in trouble.”
Clay pocketed his phone and headed toward the door. “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be ready.”
“I’ll meet you out front.” Remy stood there, arms crossed, staring at Elliott.
“Your wisdom, passion for life, and love for your family didn’t come from Erik.
He can’t take away what he hasn’t given you.
The same goes for you, David. You earned a Victoria Cross for extraordinary bravery under enemy fire in Afghanistan.
That wasn’t Erik whispering in your ear. ”
Elliott gave him a strained smile. “Thank ye, lad.”
David pulled him into a bro-hug. “Find yer friends, and let’s go visit yer hometown.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
Remy left David and Elliott and found Clay in the foyer on one knee, hugging Rory, his twelve-year-old nephew.
“Are ye coming back tonight?” Rory asked.
“That’s the plan.”
“And tomorrow we’ll go to New Orleans?”
“That’s also the plan.”
“I’m all packed.” Rory checked his watch. “I have to go now. Sarah and I are taking a golf cart to the construction site. There’s not much to see, but she doesn’t care. She just wants to get out for a while.”
“Sarah must be bored if she wants to see a big hole in the ground,” Remy said.
“She’s sad, not bored. Aunt Charlotte said it would take Sarah a few weeks to recover from brain surgery, and that’s part of the reason she cries. The other reason is that she misses Patrick.”
Clay hugged Rory tighter. “Sarah appreciates your attention. Text me if you need anything.”
Rory pulled back from the hug. “Do ye have the newest version of the house plans? She wants to see them.”
“They’re on the desk in my suite.”
“Can we take them with us?”
“Sure.”
“If ye have time to shop, will ye bring me a souvenir to give to Sarah?”
“Do you have anything in mind?”
“How about a Chicago sweatshirt? She’s wearing one today from London with Buckingham Palace on the front. Does Chicago have famous landmarks?”
“Don’t let Aunt Amy hear you ask that. Chicago has one of the most iconic baseball fields in the country. It’s called Wrigley Field, the second-oldest ballpark in the Major League.”
“If I give ye some money, will ye get a sweatshirt for Sarah and one for Patrick’s little brother, Carlton? He loves baseball.”
“I bet Amy has given Carlton a sweatshirt from every Major League stadium.”
“Ye’re right. I’ll save my money and only get one for Sarah.” Rory dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small roll of dollar bills.
“Whoa! Where’d you get all that money?”
“Granny Mere gave me a trust fund, remember?” Rory said. “And Uncle Kevin is helping me manage it. He said I could have some money to spend each month, but I had to record every penny in a notebook. That way, I’d have a record of where my money goes. How much does a sweatshirt cost? A dollar?”
A grin tugged at Clay’s mouth, warm and indulgent. “I’ll buy it, and you can pay me back. How’s that?”
Rory’s brows knit in fierce concentration. “Don’t go over two dollars.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Clay stood and picked up his bag. “Have you seen Robert? I need to tell him I’m leaving town.”
“Where’re you going?” They all looked up. Robert was standing at the top of the curved staircase.
“What are you doing up there?” Clay asked.
“Studying Braham’s sky room.”
“It’s an oculus,” Rory said, staring up at the circular glass view of the sky. “Are ye going to put one in our house?”
“I’m considering it.”
Rory’s face lit up. “What if Uncle Braham doesn’t want ye to take his idea? One oculus might be enough for Mallory Plantation. We should do something that no one else has done. How about an escalator? Would that cost too much?”
“More than an oculus, but you can put it on your list.” Robert reached the foyer and nodded toward the duffel bag. “Where are you going? New Orleans?”
“Chicago,” Remy said. “The band’s sax and trumpet players have gone missing. We’re going to look for them.”
“If you can’t find your bandmates, David can play sax, and Clay can play trumpet,” Robert said.
Remy gave Clay a curious look. “You play trumpet, too?”
“Not well enough to play in a band.”
“Can you play jazz on your flute? If so, you can play in a band,” Remy said.
Clay scoffed softly, lips twisting as he shook his head. “You don’t play jazz on a flute. You play Celtic music.”
“Bullshit.” Remy didn’t bother softening it. “Have you ever listened to Herbie Mann? He was a jazz flute player.”
“Good for him.” Clay lifted a hand in dismissal, already stepping away from the idea. “I’m still not going to substitute. Sorry.”
“In that case, you’d better find your missing guys,” Robert said.
“Find her,” Remy said. “The trumpeter is female.”
Robert’s eyebrow arched, interest sharpening his gaze. “A female trumpet player?” A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “Can’t wait to hear her hit those high, brassy notes.”
“Robert,” Rory said, planting his small fist on his hip with theatrical authority. “Granny Mere says women can do everything men can.”
“And probably better. Come on. I want to see the hole in the ground. Where’s Sarah?”
“In her room, studying. I’ll go get her.”
Remy opened the front door, and he and Clay headed out onto the veranda. “If you need me, text,” Clay said to Robert.
Robert followed them outside. “We’ll be fine if I can keep Rory away from the bulldozers. They fascinate him.”
“Braham has a mini excavator. He might give Rory a ride,” Remy said.
“Good idea. I’ll ask.”
Clay waved. “Take pictures and send them to me.”
Robert waved back and shut the door as Clay and Remy climbed into Remy’s black Ford Super Duty F-250. When Remy fired up the engine, its throaty roar sounded more like a jet plane taking off.
“What the hell is under the hood?”
“More power than I need but less than I want.” Remy kicked it into gear, but instead of using the power to jettison them off the property, he coasted to the security gate.
“Why so slow?”
“If one of the security guys stops me, they’ll ban the truck from the property. Charlotte woan tolerate speeding. Kids, runners, horses, and golf carts dart in and out, and she’s afraid somebody might get hurt.”
“Makes sense. I don’t have a car here, but if I ever drive more than a golf cart, I’ll remember to leave my lead foot on the highway.”
Remy eased the truck off the plantation road and onto the open highway, the tires humming louder as the pavement smoothed out beneath them.
The wide stretch of road ahead felt deceptive—too calm, too ordinary for what churned beneath his ribs.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, jaw setting as his instincts shifted from waiting to motion.
“I feel the need…” he began, the words slipping out with a half-smile.
“The need for speed!” Clay finished instantly, pointing at the windshield. “Don’t buzz the tower.”
A quiet huff of amusement escaped Remy as he flicked a glance at him. “I hear a subtle warning.”
“Not for you. The warning is for me,” Clay said. “Whatever this turns out to be, I need to curb my Jack Mallory impulses.”
Remy snorted softly, but the sound carried relief more than humor. “God, I hope so. You almost got yourself killed chasing a story on your first adventure.”
Clay exhaled, gaze fixed on the passing landscape. “Yeah. I remember.”
“Please doan run off when we get to Chicago,” Remy added, his voice lowering, the Cajun drawl thickening when concern crept in. “I’d hate to leave you behind.”