Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(14)
A rumble of laugher interrupted me.
I looked up at him.
Wiggins’s spaniel brown eyes were kind. “I remind myself that you mean well. And”—he brightened—“Susan clings to the thought that she is imagining you. Certainly that perception is better than for her to truly recognize your status. And”—now his tone warmed—“that’s the only time you have appeared. One transgression does not destroy a mission. We all”—magnanimity here—“must be granted some understanding.”
The implication is that we both knew I was a wobbly emissary but one strike didn’t send me to the bench.
Our plates arrived and we tucked into our magnificent Lulu breakfast. I was delighting in the excellence of cream gravy on Texas toast when Wiggins gave an avuncular nod. “Your appearance to reassure Susan is understandable. In the main, you have done excellent work.”
I felt like Donald Lam when Bertha Cool admired his efforts.
“However.”
The Texas toast remained poised in the air.
“I have a grave concern.” His face creased in a troubled frown.
I replaced the toast on my plate, waited apprehensively.
“The box.” His glance was conspiratorial, and his voice dropped. “You know the box to which I refer?”
I nodded and pictured the red, white, and blue box on the card table in Susan’s living room.
“We cannot”—his voice was firm—“be complicit in the execution of grand theft. I have a solution.”
I began to breathe again. “Solution?”
“Find a store that sells that kind of shoe. Surely some boxes are discarded. Taking such a box isn’t theft. If the disappearance is noticed, it will simply be one of those puzzles that occur in everyday life.” His look was hopeful. “A box is missing. They will find a solution.” He gave a casual wave of the hand holding a strip of bacon.
Shoe stores display their wares. There would be discarded boxes. I would procure one. I said quickly, “That’s easy to arrange.”
He beamed approval. “Fill the box with folded sheets of newspaper or anything that makes the weight similar to the box filled with bills. If you hurry you can take care of this before Susan arises. She will leave the box with paper wherever the kidnapper directs, and you can return the original box to its owner.”
And in my spare time I could solve the problems of globalism and climate change. However, as my mama always told us kids: “To change a man’s plan, start with praise.”
“Wiggins”—I gazed with wide-eyed admiration—“that is simply a splendid solution.” I paused as if struck by a thought. “But Susan is quite a good secretary, and good secretaries double-check. I can’t make the substitution until she looks to be sure the money is in the box. Then I’m sure there will be a moment when I can make the switch.” Another pause. Did I appear to have a thought balloon above my head? “Oh. I just realized what will happen. The kidnapper will tell Susan to leave the box in a particular place and then depart. The kidnapper will come and get the box and open it. If the money isn’t in there, Sylvie won’t be released, and—it’s frightening to imagine—the kidnapper might follow through on the threat to harm her.” I pressed fingertips against my cheeks. “I know!” Triumph lifted my voice. “I will remain with the box, follow the kidnapper to be sure Sylvie is released, and then I will take the box.”
Wiggins nodded judiciously. “A good plan, Bailey Ruth, a very good plan.”
I didn’t tell him it was my original plan. I simply looked modestly pleased.
? ? ?
Susan was attractive in a turquoise cashmere sweater and gray slacks. But the fingers holding a pin to fasten a matching cashmere scarf shook, and her face was drawn and forlorn. She managed to fasten the scarf then whirled and walked to the card table. She started to pick up the box, her hand inches away from the cardboard side, froze. Instead she grabbed the black leather gloves lying there, pulled them on. True to my warning to Wiggins, she lifted the lid, slapped it back in place. She stood beside the card table, her shoulders hunched, and held the box tightly in her gloved hands. Her dark eyes scanned the room.
It would be daunting to have in your possession more than a hundred thousand dollars in a modest house with ordinary door locks and windows that likely could easily be pushed up. Was she thinking what might happen if a thief chose this morning to break in? She tucked the box under her arm and walked across the room to a hall closet. She opened the closet door, pulled out a canvas book bag, slid the box in. She glanced at the clock, put an arm through the bag’s cotton straps, grabbed her purse, and hurried outside. When she reached the car, she struggled again with indecision, finally opened the trunk, put the book bag inside. She removed the gloves and dropped them beside the carryall.
In the car she gripped the wheel tightly, backed out, drove fast, the same route we’d taken the night before. She stared straight ahead, her shoulders rigid.
“Think of Waikiki and ukuleles.”
Her head jerked toward the apparently empty passenger seat. “The sheets and blanket were folded on top of the pillow this morning on the couch. I thought maybe I’d dreamed you and put the bed things out.”
“I’m here.” I made my voice deliberately cheery. “It’s a beautiful day.” The air was November thin, but sunlight spilled through the trees and onto the street. “Soon Sylvie will be home and we’ll put the money back in the safe and—”