Chapter 4 Chicago—Remy #3
“Marcelle’s doing me a favor,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Our band’s trumpet player was unavailable, so she agreed to fill in. I wanted a thank-you gift.”
“I heard all about the gig.” Rachel tilted her head. “What do you play?”
Remy set his palms on the glass, then lifted them, tapping a rhythm against the edge.
“Drums,” she said, eyes dropping briefly to his hands before rising again. “Drums?” Her interest sharpened. “I’d love to hear you play.” She let the pause stretch, then smiled slowly. “Maybe I should close the store and head to New Orleans.”
The look she gave him was unmistakable—warm, curious, an open invitation dressed up as conversation.
Remy shifted back, straightening.
Clay cleared his throat and stepped in beside him, brushing his shoulder just enough to break the spell. “Remy,” he said evenly, tapping his watch, “we’re on a tight schedule.”
The moment cracked. The air changed. And Remy was grateful for it.
“How much do I owe you for these two brooches?” he asked.
She totaled the sale. “Three seventy-six thirty-five.”
Remy handed her four one-hundred-dollar bills. Rachel blinked at the money before recovering and giving him change.
“I’ll wrap these up for you.” She wrapped the brooches in tissue and placed them in a small gift bag. “You’ll make Marcelle extremely happy.”
“I hope the sale makes you happy, too.”
“Are you kidding? I’m thrilled.” Rachel’s smile flicked back toward flirtation. “Tell Marcelle I can’t wait to hear about her weekend.”
Remy returned his wallet to his back pocket and buttoned it. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Rachel.”
“Next time you’re in town, stop by.”
“I’ll do that,” he said. “Have a good day.”
“I’m well on my way.” She leaned over the counter, cleavage on full display, and wiggled her fingers in a flirtatious wave as he and Clay left.
As soon as they hit the sidewalk, Clay punched his arm. “What the hell? You were eye-fucking her. We’ve got two missing friends, and you were putting on a show like that.”
Remy didn’t break stride. “This is a hardball league, Clay. Wear a helmet.”
Clay scrunched his face. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“This business is fast-paced and dangerous. You can’t pass up opportunities.”
“Isn’t that what you did? I was ready to buy popcorn and sit in that chair and watch.”
“Pervert.” Remy shrugged. “I might’ve gone for it, but she’s a friend of Marcelle’s, and I doan want to make either of them mad.”
“It surprises me. That’s all. I’ve never seen that side of you. You’re always so sullen.”
“Sullen? What the hell does that mean?”
Clay snorted. “You’re always bummed out about something.”
“It’s been a rough couple of months.” Remy glanced back at the shop’s window, then forward again. “Plus, that side of me only shows up when I’m away from the family.”
Clay checked his phone. “While you were flirting, I sent David pictures of the brooch and the receipt from the Edith Robertson estate. He can track down the agent handling the sale and find out where the brooch came from.”
Penny O’Grady had bought her brooch at an estate sale. Her trip to 1814 New Orleans had led them to the Fontenots—stranded for a decade until Penny went back in time.
“A brooch didn’t strand Edith in Texas,” Clay said.
“There’s always a reason one doesn’t work,” Remy muttered. “But getting stuck without hope of going home is scary as hell.”
Clay pointed toward a store across the street. “I need to look in there for Rory’s sweatshirt.”
Remy stepped off the curb to jaywalk, but Clay caught his sleeve. “Crosswalk.”
“No one’s coming.”
“Doesn’t matter. I got hit once crossing illegally. I’ll never do it again.”
“And you got hurt?”
“Hell, yeah. Concussion and a sore hip.”
“Fuck,” Remy said. “How old were you?”
“Old enough to know better.”
Remy quirked his head. “I’m gonna ask Ofello.”
“Go ahead,” Clay said. “I’d like to know what the supercomputer uncovers.”
Clay ducked into the shop. Remy sat on a bench and checked emails. His bandmates were worried about Bastien. Remy couldn’t offer reassurance.
Clay returned fifteen minutes later carrying a shopping bag large enough to hold more than a sweatshirt.
“Found what I was looking for,” Clay said.
“How many did you get?”
“Two. Identical sweatshirts for Rory and Sarah.”
“You’re gonna enjoy spoiling that kid.”
“I want Rory to thrive,” Clay said simply.
They headed back toward the townhouse, the cold biting harder now.
Inside, Remy’s phone rang. David.
Remy put the call on speaker as he walked to the kitchen. “What’s up?”
“Where are ye now?”
“Back at Marcelle’s townhouse. We’re looking for the brooch. Did you find out where it came from?”
Remy opened cabinets, searching for whisky. He found Woodford Reserve and poured two shots, handing one to Clay.
“Aye,” David said. “The estate belonged to Edith Robertson. If I’m correct, Edith’s only sibling was Alistair Robertson. He married his wife, Sheena, in the late 1960s. The couple disappeared from their home in Inverness in 1972. Police never found bodies or charged anyone with a crime.”
“Missing,” Clay said quietly. “Like brooch missing.”
“Hard to say,” David replied. “If they went brooch-missing, why didn’t they return? And how did Edith end up with a brooch?”
Remy tossed back his shot and poured another. “We’ll search.”
“We should buy Edith’s entire estate,” Remy added.
“Kenzie’s working on it,” David said. “Once we gain access, we might discover documents or notes. Or a journal.”
“If Edith traveled,” Clay said, “she would’ve protected the brooch.”
“Maybe she couldn’t,” Remy said.
“That would fit with what Erik told us at Jarlshof,” David said. “If the brooch didn’t intend ye to travel, the inscription would be invisible.”
“Invisible?” Clay said. “What about the items already sold?”
“Kenzie will get names and buy back what she can. Now search thoroughly. Then call me back.”
Remy ended the call and stared at the bed like it had insulted him. “Let’s look.”
They searched quickly—methodical, impatient. Then Remy grabbed one side of the bed and Clay the other.
They shifted it a few inches.
Metal hit hardwood with a sharp clap.
Both men froze.
Remy exhaled through his teeth. “Jesus.”
Clay swallowed. “Tell me that’s not—”
“It is,” Remy said.
Behind the headboard, nestled against the baseboard, lay a Celtic brooch. The stone at its center looked too dark, too glossy—too much like the jasper in the Polaroid.
Clay reached down and lifted it carefully. “Hand over my winnings.”
Remy dug out his billfold, counted a thousand dollars, and passed it over without a word. Clay slapped the brooch into Remy’s palm and pocketed the cash.
“Doan spend it,” Remy said. “I’m winning it back.”
Chuckling, Clay leaned against the wall. “We’ll see.”
Remy stared at the brooch, imagining the terror Bastien and Marcelle had faced. “If they’re stuck, Bastien will adjust for Marcelle’s sake. But he woan accept it.”
“They’re young and tough,” Clay said. “They’ll survive.”
“But it woan be the life they wanted.”
Remy called David.
“Ye found it,” David said before Remy could speak.
“Yeah.”
“I brought Elliott up to speed. Ye need to leave today to rescue the LeBlancs. He doesn’t want to cancel the Mardi Gras trip and disappoint the family. Ye and Clay will have to manage this on yer own.”
“Only the two of us?” Remy asked. Not since Jack and David rescued Kenzie had only two people gone on a brooch trip—and that had gone sideways fast.
David laughed. “How many secret trips did ye and Elliott make? If anybody can handle a two-person adventure, it’s ye.”
Remy’s shoulders squared. “Clay and I can handle it. It’ll be easier with only two travelers. We’ll get in, get the job done, and come home.” The moment he said it, he regretted the confidence. “Where do you think they’ve gone?”
“I checked the gala announcement on the Symphony’s website,” David said. “Costumes encouraged. Where else would a flapper go?” He paused. “Marcelle’s favorite trumpet player is Louis Armstrong. He’s in Chicago during the 1920s. Ye’ll find yer friends there.”
“Why not New York City or New Orleans? Armstrong was in those cities, too.”
“The brooch will take ye where ye need to be. Since they were already in Chicago, I’d start there.”
Remy sat heavily, rubbing his lower lip. “The 1920s were a dangerous time in Chicago.”
“It was dangerous everywhere for rumrunners,” David said. “But ye’re not a gangster. Don’t get mixed up with Capone, and ye’ll be fine.”
Clay leaned in. “You can join a band, Remy. Bastien and Marcelle will hear about a new drummer in town and come find you.”
“Clay’s right,” David said. “I bet they find ye before ye find them.”
“Finding isn’t the problem,” Remy muttered. “It’s what happens later.”
“Don’t fuck around,” David said. “Get in. Get out.”
“It’s never that easy.”
“Make it happen,” David said, then softened slightly. “Be careful. Handle this trip better than I did.”
Remy drew in a chest-expanding breath. “If Marcelle gets a chance to play with Louis Armstrong, I woan tell her no.”
David went quiet for a beat. “Then plan yer next four or five moves and be ready for the consequences.”
Remy looked away, sweat prickling at his temple. “Sometimes you doan know where the next move is coming from.”
“I’m aware,” David said. “Now wrap up there. Get yer friends back.”
They disconnected.
Clay watched Remy for a moment. “You okay?”
Remy sat on the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees.
“Here’s the deal. In Afghanistan, a suicide bomber blew up Bastien’s truck.
Shrapnel sliced off the lower part of his leg.
When I reached him, he was staring at his foot—still in his boot.
I got him down, controlled the bleeding, stabilized him.
He almost died out there.” He swallowed hard.
“Since I heard he was missing, I’ve been back in that war. ”
Clay’s face softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah,” Remy said. “It sucks.” He took a breath and stood. “Let’s get out of here.”
They gathered what they could—computer bags, charger, extra battery, cases. Bastien’s sax case was empty.
“No sax,” Clay said, holding up the empty case.
“He must’ve taken it through the fog,” Remy said. “We’ll take the case anyway.”
Remy locked the townhouse behind them, plan forming in his mind like a map he didn’t want to follow.
They loaded the gear into the car and headed for the airport.
Halfway there, Remy stared at the brooch in his palm—and thought of Bastien’s prosthesis battery.
“Shit,” he said.
Clay looked over. “What?”
“He needs to charge the battery every two days.”
Clay’s mouth tightened. “Even if he has the charger, homes in the 1920s might not support it the way he needs.”
“Fuck,” Remy breathed, tension knotting hard in his neck and shoulders.
Now there was even more urgency to find his friend.