The Last of the Stanfields(68)
“Exactly. But that’s not what stuck with me. It was the Scotch. The 1926 Macallan.”
“What, you’re some kind of aficionado?”
“Not at all, and neither is my mother. And yet she had that very bottle of whisky. I remember seeing it, up on the shelf, all through my childhood. Every October, she’d take just the tiniest little glass of it, savoring every drop. I guess that makes sense now, considering how much it’s worth. I eventually did ask her what was up with her weird annual ritual, but she never gave me a direct answer.”
“Just to play devil’s advocate, there must be as many bottles of this type of Scotch in Baltimore as there are thefts and tragedies.”
“Not according to the professor, not from 1926. Barely ten of them left at the time, he told us. And he seemed to know what he was talking about. Seems a bit of a stretch for it to be a coincidence that my mother lived in Baltimore and ended up with a bottle. I think it’s safe to say, the Macallan on my mother’s shelf must have come from Robert Stanfield’s own liquor cabinet.”
“Could that be the treasure she talked about in the letter?”
“Well, we could look into the actual value of the Scotch, but I doubt that’s what she meant. Although that would be hysterical, thinking back on how she treasured it! But seriously . . . I can’t help but feel like we’re following someone’s trail of bread crumbs, and I’d like to know who it is.”
“You’re not honestly telling me you think running into the mayor was part of some master plan?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But Morris could have been.”
“For the last time, it’s Morrison!”
“Baltimore’s very own ‘living memory,’ as the mayor put it. Those anonymous letters put the two of us together right in front of a photo of our mothers. That photo led us to the archives of the Independent, which put us on the trail to the Stanfields. Sooner or later, we were bound to stumble upon that statue, or at least learn it was out there. Plenty of clues that lead back to that charming professor.”
“You really suspect him?”
“Well, why not? Who else would know what really happened at the Stanfield estate?”
“Sure. Okay. And he’s obviously not able to get around well, which explains why he’d want us to come all the way here to him. But I don’t see how he could have pieced together where you and I fit into all this, much less track us down. What’s more, he would have had to know you were desperately hoping to find your father, and so many other intimate details of our lives, down to my sister’s name.”
“Let’s say he knows a little more than he’s letting on about whatever was stolen. Let’s say he even suspects our mothers of being the perpetrators. If so, that matches what’s in the letter, and there’s your link. As for the rest, maybe he’s not as anti-internet as he says, and he did admit having a knack for pumping people for information.”
“You think he’s after the treasure? He didn’t seem to be the type that’s out for money. The only thing more beaten up than his suit was his hairline.”
“Don’t forget: people who are that passionate aren’t always in it for the money. The professor also bragged about being a leading member of the Baltimore Historical Preservation Society, or whatever it was. What if the thing they stole is of great historical value, so he’s willing to go to great lengths to get it back?”
“Excellent question. You would have made a great investigative journalist.”
“Say, you didn’t just pay me a compliment by any chance, did you?” He flashed me a coy look that I had to admit I found downright sexy. And it wasn’t the first time I had noticed, to be honest. I wanted to kiss him, right then and there. But I didn’t.
Even though I could still hear Maggie’s warnings ringing in my ears, I wasn’t afraid of George-Harrison anymore—I was more scared of myself. I had no idea where this whole quest might take me, or if I could even see it through to completion. But I did know that my days in Baltimore were numbered. My job wouldn’t let me stay here forever. Getting involved with George-Harrison would only complicate things, even if it was ultimately only a fling.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, right on cue.
“Nothing special, just wondering why we’re parked in front of the police station.”
“We’re here so you can waltz in there, flash your press card, and work your magic on whatever cop comes out to greet you, flirting your way straight into the police archives. With a bit of luck, we might just get our hands on the official police report of the theft, and more specifically, find out just what was stolen.”
“And if it’s a female cop?”
“In that case, I’ll do my best.”
“I’ve already seen you ‘do your best’ a couple of times, and for someone who claims not to be a ladies’ man, you seem to get by just fine.”
28
SALLY-ANNE
October 1980, Baltimore
Sally-Anne stepped into the loft and stopped in her tracks. Glass tealights, over twenty in all, had been lined up in a path that led straight to the bedroom. She rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. Romantic gestures like this were touching and all, but Sally-Anne felt like her own reaction to them was always forced, and the outpouring of emotion made her feel uneasy. Tonight, she just didn’t have the heart to play along. Then, something unexpected caught her eye: shards of broken dishes were scattered across the floor. Sally-Anne sidestepped the sharp ceramic pieces and knocked at the door to the bedroom nook.