Tess imagined Bobby might have felt the same way.
“The pike is missing, so you assume that’s what Hayes was beaten with?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m afraid it is,” Pitts said, and it wasn’t clear if his grief was for his associate, still comatose, or the loss of a valuable object.
“But you spoke of two other items.” Tess was remembering her anonymous caller, who had told her they were worth killing for. “The two items taken from Shawn Hayes’s home. What were they?”
“Only the jewels of our collection,” Pitts said. “Only the two greatest items I ever found, discoveries that overshadow everything else. I bought them from an old lady, a thief in her own right, but a stupid thief who didn’t understand their significance. If only she knew what she really had-”
“What?” Tess was past all patience.
“The very things that Edgar Allan Poe may have been killed for, in his final days in Baltimore.”
Chapter 29
Fifteen minutes later TeSS yanked open the curtain that surrounded Pitts’s bed in the emergency room-and almost ran smack into Dr. R. Massinger, who was hovering around the periphery. Tess hoped she hadn’t been eavesdropping. If she had, what would she make of Pitts’s sobbing confession, the strange little tale that had just tumbled out of the man?
“I have to take Gretchen to… get her prescription filled,” she told the young doctor, who appeared to be board certified in soulful, empathetic looks. “Please don’t let my uncle leave, whatever happens.”
“If he wants to sign himself out, it’s hospital policy-”
“Look-” Tess caught herself and slowed down, remembering to play the part expected of her, loving niece. “You have to understand, Uncle Arnold is a proud old cuss. He thinks he can take care of himself, but clearly he can’t. I’m going to get Gretchen whatever she needs and then the two of us are going to take him to my house. But he’ll freak if you tell him he’s not going back to his place tonight. I’ve told him that a friend of his is going to be here soon, Horatio Lyman.” Trust Pitts to have a lawyer with a name straight out of a nineteenth-century novel. “If he asks, tell him Lyman’s en route. We won’t be long.”
“But what if he wants-”
“You’re a dear,” Tess said, rushing off. It had taken all her self-control not to shout over her shoulder, Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. When would she get the chance to say that again?
Gretchen, holding an ice pack to her swollen jaw, asked fewer questions when Tess grabbed her and took her to the car, but only because speech was still difficult.
“You know what you’re doing?”
“Not really,” Tess said. “But I know what we’re looking for. Two pieces of jewelry: a gold bug, with sapphire eyes, and a locket. Arnold Pitts says Poe had them on his person when he traveled from Richmond to Baltimore in the last days of his life. But he didn’t have them when he was found and taken to Washington Medical College, where he died, and there was no written record of their existence.”
She filled Gretchen in on everything Pitts had said. “Pitts said he had to find the Visitor because Bobby claimed to have given him these two items, after stealing them from Shawn Hayes’s home.”
“When? The night Bobby was killed or earlier? It would have to be earlier, to justify hiring me, right?”
“Not necessarily,” Tess said. “Pitts thinks Bobby lied to cover himself and decided later to make the lie come true. Think about it: He has this contraband, this incredibly valuable stuff that can’t even be reported missing and will link him to the attack on Shawn. He can keep it, but Pitts and Ensor are on to him. So he gives it to someone who everyone knows-and yet no one knows. He does it in front of eyewitnesses. If he hadn’t been killed, he would have gotten away with it.”
“But how can a gold pin and a locket be worth killing someone for?”
“Because it’s not just any old locket. It’s a memento mori.”
“A what?”
“I didn’t know the term either, except as the title of a Muriel Spark novel,” Tess said. “It’s a piece of jewelry that commemorates someone who’s dead and often uses the deceased’s hair in the design. If Pitts is telling the truth, this one had the hair of Poe’s wife, Virginia, worked into it. It would be incredibly valuable-if Pitts is telling the truth.”
“Big if,” Gretchen muttered.
And so it was. “Which is why we’re going to the Poe Museum right now. The Beacon-Light ran a list of the theories about Poe’s death the week that Bobby was killed, but there was nothing about gold bugs or lockets, and I haven’t read anything like that in the biographies. I called my uncle Donald, who has contacts all over the state, and asked him to arrange for someone to meet us there. Somehow he pulled it off.”
“Uncle Donald? Is he one of the black-sheep family members that Pitts used to threaten you with?”
“More of a pale gray one,” Tess said. “He likes to say his tombstone will say never indicted.”
Given its bucolic name, Amity Street should have been in the middle of the country, overlooking fields and copses of trees. In Poe’s time there, it had been. The city had overtaken the block long ago, however, and it was now in one of West Baltimore ’s most blighted areas, surrounded by public housing. These low-rises were called the Poe Homes, a cruel and ironic tribute. The city had to keep a patrol car on the block during regular visiting hours, to protect the adventuresome tourists who dared to find their way here.
But there, in the middle of Amity Street, stood the tiny brick house where Poe had lived with Marie Clemm and Virginia Clemm in the 1830s. It looked forlorn and a little tired, as if it might just collapse under its own weight one day.
Jeff Jerome, who ran the Poe Society, had a young child at home and had begged off from giving this private tour, sending a docent in his place. Tess had not felt particularly guilty about the deception that had brought them here until the wooden door swung open and she saw the docent had arrived in full Poe regalia. Gretchen, usually so fearless, jumped back at the sight of the man in the white collar, string tie, and coarse black wig.
“Welcome to my home,” he intoned.
Tess sighed inwardly. This reminded her of a trip to Appomattox, back in high school. The Civil War site had actors, representing various Civil War archetypes-the Union soldier, the Confederate scout-who trailed vistors through the park and attempted to “interact” in didactic fashion. Lee wasn’t the only one who was ready to surrender there.
“I’m Tess Monaghan,” she said, “and this is my associate, Gretchen O’Brien.”
Gretchen frowned at the word “associate,” and Tess knew she thought it meant her rank was lesser. “We’re partners,” she added, hoping this would appease her.
“Partners who represent the Talbot Foundation, as I understand it?” Poe inquired hopefully. Tess wondered if the deep somnolent voice was based on some historical account of Poe’s speaking voice. To her, it brought to mind the host on those late-night horror movie marathons, the local dweeb who dressed as a vampire or phantom and bayed at the moon at every commercial break.
Then Tess remembered that the man in the bad wig was a person, a person who was doing her an enormous favor, opening the museum a few minutes before midnight. While she-she was a fraud, dangling money that wasn’t hers to give, in front of a museum that wasn’t going to get it.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you for agreeing to meet us on such short notice. The Talbots are famously impulsive.”