I lean forward slightly. “That sounds pretty impossible if you ask me.”
He nods, slow and lazy like his head weighs a hundred pounds. “She’s just the mastermind. But after we’re done putting the screws to her, she’ll roll on her coconspirators, lickety-split. Then we’ll find out what they did with my Beaumont ruby.” His words are slurred and peppered with a whole lot of sh’s that aren’t normally there. His eyes close and his head bobs forward, lifeless. The empty glass slips from his grip and clanks against the bottle on the floor.
The room is silent except for the ticking of the clock on the mantle below Lady Rose’s portrait. The first mistress of High Point Bluff stares down at us, her crazy bug-eyes appear trained on her unconscious, soulless descendent.
“Is he dead?” Jack asks.
My pulse races, jumping in my neck as I stare at Beau’s motionless body. “I don’t know.”
“We should check.” He nudges my side with his elbow.
“We?”
“Well, you.” Shrugging, he attempts a pathetic smile.
I narrow my gaze and toss him my best reproachful look. “Baby.” Gathering my strength, I stand and gingerly step around the coffee table between the two sofas, then clamp a hand over my mouth and nose. His smell is even more putrid up close. I doubt he’s showered in the last week. Maybe two. Holding my breath, I lean toward his mammoth arm and give it a shake.
He doesn’t move.
My heart gallops against my rib cage. I shove him again, this time a little harder. “Beau?” My voice quivers.
His lids pop open as he starts and gasps for air.
I squeal, the sound so high and piercing, it nearly ruptures my eardrums.
He clutches my hand. “I need my ruby,” he rasps. Then his eyes roll back into his head as he slumps onto his side and snores.
My pulse sputters to a trot. He’s only passed out, unconscious from his copious consumption of alcohol. Surveying Beau’s vast, ashy-gray body, I listen to his labored breathing and can’t help but agree that he’s probably on his way out. He’s abused his body for too long, indulging in every vice known to man, the likely consequence of losing his soul. I almost feel sorry for him.
An image of Cooper, distorted and corrupt zooms across my mind. Shaking my head, I force it from my brain. I can’t let him turn into his father.
Glancing at Beau again, I notice the chain that’s affixed to his belt loop. The other end is tucked into his pocket, attached to the key to his private study. An idea forms.
“Hey, Jack. What if we found proof that Claude is a liar? That would be enough to get Beau to turn on him, right?”
“Sure but how are we going to do that? It’s not like he’s going to admit being a conjurer.”
“Beau said he checked Claude’s credentials himself. That they’re the best in the business.”
“Uh-huh?”
“What if they’re fake? I Googled him but couldn’t find anything before he was hired at The King Center. I’m guessing the résumé he gave Beau is full of lies. If we can prove it, Beau will toss him out on his butt.”
“Yeah, but where are we going to find it?”
I point the chain. “In the study. Where else?” I turn and maneuver around Beau’s splayed legs to scoop up my bag, then head toward the door.
He pushes off the couch. “Hey, you forgot the key.”
I spin around. “No I didn’t. You’re up.” I waggle my eyes and thumb my hand toward Beau’s expansive waistline.
Jack’s eyes goggle. “You want me to take it from his pocket?” His voice trembles.
I shrug. “You made me check if he was dead. I’d say it’ll make us about even.”
He shoots me the evil eye. “Fine.” He grumbles to himself as he tiptoes around the couch and sidles up to Beau. Swallowing hard, he extends his long, skinny fingers and skillfully detaches the chain from the belt loop. Beau doesn’t stir. With the free end in his grasp, Jack draws a deep breath and tugs on the other, pulling it ever so slowly from Beau’s pocket. Finally, it’s free. Jack thrusts a victorious fist in the air.
“Congratulations. Now let’s go,” I whisper and point to the hall. “We have no idea how long he’ll be out.”
We race from the room and head to the study. The key turns loose and easy. We slip inside and shut the door behind us, pocketing the key in case we might need it again. My pulse thrums as I take a moment to absorb the room. This is Beau’s private sanctuary, off-limits to us and Cooper for as long as we can remember. It almost feels like we’re in someplace sacred. Which is kind of weird because from the looks of it, it’s nothing special. Just an average office, furnished with a desk, leather wing chairs and a sofa, filing cabinets, and a wall of built-in shelves. No big whoop.
“So what are we looking for?” Jack heads toward the desk.
“Files, I guess. Anything he might have used to hire Claude. There’s got to be a résumé or a list of references or something.” I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and spin it around my back.
Jack gets to work, opening the desk drawers and leafing through whatever papers he finds, while I head for a file cabinet across the room, situated beneath the window. As I grab the handle on the top drawer, the nearby glass-enclosed shelf catches my eye. A squat, antique bottle twinkles in the sunlight. It’s just like the one we found on the beach at the beginning of the summer except this one is green. So much has happened since I stumbled on that first bottle, both good and bad, though lately, it seems like there’s been more bad.
Stepping toward the shelf to get a better look, I notice the other objects arranged with the bottle. There’s a yellowed beeswax candle, a jeweled hair comb, a cracked silver spoon, and a pewter mug, along with a broken piece of faded china, and a slew of other unrelated historical items that appear to date back to the 1700s. It’s kind of like a museum exhibit without a unifying theme. The shelf below has more of the same, though the artifacts look slightly less old, maybe from the nineteenth century. Among the nearly hundred objects is a lacy linen handkerchief next to a pocket watch, a fan with ivory handles, and a hand-painted picture of a landscape, some brass buttons, and a toy soldier figure. There’s also a long sword that looks like it was used in the civil war. On and on the shelves go, like densely packed time capsules of every decade of High Point Bluff’s history.
“Hey, are you going to get to work?” Jack asks, poised above a stack of files on Beau’s desk.
“In a second. Come look at this stuff. It’s amazing. It’s like a private museum.”
Jack scoffs. “I think we’ve had enough museums this summer, don’t you think?”
I chuckle. “Maybe. But this stuff is so cool.” Bending down to the look at the last shelf, I squint at a button from the last South Carolina governor’s election and a very modern iPhone in a bedazzled case.
My stomach seizes and the air rushes from my lungs in a gush.
“Jack,” I try to call but my mouth is suddenly so dry I barely produce a sound. Swallowing hard, I force the words from my throat. “Come here. Now.”