"I didn't think of it at the time," he said. "But after Fideal talked to me, I started thinking. That walking stick in your car was O'Donnell's, wasn't it? He'd just bought it off of eBay a couple of days before he died."
"Yes."
"Do you think it had something to do with his death? I know the police say they don't think that robbery was the motive, but O'Donnell started collecting Celtic stuff a couple of months ago. He claimed it was pretty valuable."
"Did he say where he got it?" I asked.
"He said he inherited some of it and the rest he picked up on eBay." He paused. "You know, he said that it was all magical fae stuff, but he couldn't get any of it to do anything. I assumed that he was just being conned…but do you suppose he actually got something that really belonged to the fae and they decided to take it back?"
"I don't know. Did you get a good look at his collection?"
"I recognized that staff," he said slowly. "But not until Fideal told me that you had a connection with O'Donnell. There was a stone with some writing on it, a few battered pieces of jewelry that might have been silver—or silver plate…If I took a look at his collection, I might be able to tell you what is missing."
"I think the whole collection is missing. Except for the walking stick." I saw no need to tell him that the fae had gotten some of it back.
He whistled. "So it was a robbery."
"That's what it looks like. If I can prove that, then my friend is no longer a good suspect."
The Gray Lords didn't want any mortals knowing that they had magical artifacts, and I could see their point. The problem was that the Gray Lords could be ruthless in making sure that no word got out. Tim already knew too much.
"Did Fideal know about the collection?" I asked.
Tim considered it. "No. I don't think so. O'Donnell didn't like him, and Fideal never went to O'Donnell's house. I think the only ones he showed it to were Austin and me."
"Okay." I took a deep breath. "Look, it might be dangerous to know about that collection. If he did manage to find something that belonged to the fae, they wouldn't want that known. And you, of all people, know how ruthless they are. Don't talk to the police or anyone else about it for now."
"You do think it was a fae who killed him," Tim said, sounding a little taken aback.
"The collection is gone," I said. "Maybe one of the fae sent someone after it, or maybe someone else believed O'Donnell's stories and wanted it. I might be able to figure out more, if I knew what he had. Could you make a list of what you remember?"
"Maybe," he said. "I only saw it the once. How about I do my best to write it down and we can take a look at them tonight?"
I remembered that I'd called him to cancel our dinner.
He didn't give me a chance to say anything. "If I have all day to think about it, I should be able to put together most of it. I'll see Austin at school; we usually do lunch together. He saw O'Donnell's collection, too, and he's a pretty decent artist." He gave a rueful laugh. "Yes, I know. Good looks, intelligence, and talented, too. He can do anything. If he wasn't so nice, I'd hate him, too."
"Drawings would be terrific," I said. I could compare them to the drawings in Tad's friend's book. "Just remember that this is dangerous stuff."
"I will. See you tonight."
I hung up the phone.
I ought to call Adam and tell him what I was doing. I dialed the first number and then hung it up. It was easier to get forgiveness than permission—not that I should need permission. Getting a list of what O'Donnell had stolen was a good enough reason that Adam would understand why I went to Tim's house. He might get mad, but he wouldn't be hurt.
And Adam angry was really an awesome sight. Was I a bad person that I enjoyed it?
Laughing to myself, I went to work.
Tim opened his own door this time, and the house smelled of garlic, oregano, basil, and fresh-baked bread.
"Hi," I said. "Sorry I'm late. It took me a while to get the grease out from under my nails." I'd taken Gabriel and some chains out to the Rabbit after work and towed it home with my Vanagon. It had taken a little longer than I'd expected. "I forgot to ask what to bring so I stopped and picked up some chocolate for dessert."
He took the paper bag and smiled. "You didn't have to bring anything, but chocolate is—"
I sighed. "A girl thing, I know."
His smile widened. "I was going to say, it is always good. Come in."
He led me through the house and into the kitchen, where he had a small bowl of Caesar salad.
"I like your kitchen." It was the only room that seemed to have a personality. I'd been expecting oak cabinets and granite counter tops and I'd been right about the counters. But the cabinets were cherry, and contrasted nicely with the dark gray counters. Nothing too daring, but at least it wasn't bland.
He looked around with a frown. "Do you think it looks all right? My fiancée—ex-fiancée—told me I needed a decorator for the kitchen."
"It's lovely," I assured him.
A bell chimed and he opened the oven door and pulled out a small pizza. My oven's timer buzzes like an angry bee.
The smell of the pizza distracted me from my oven-envy.
"Now that smells marvelous," I told him, closing my eyes to get a better sniff.
A red flush tinted his cheeks at my compliment as he slid it onto a stone round and cut it with expert speed. "If you'll get the salad and follow me, we can eat."
Obediently I took the wooden bowl of greens and followed him through the house.
"This is the dining room," he told me unnecessarily, since the big mahogany table gave it away. "But when I eat alone or with just a couple of people, I eat out here."
"Out here" was a small circular room surrounded by windows. The shape of the room was innovative, but it was outblanded by beige tiles and window treatments. His architect would be sad to know his artistic vision had been swallowed by insipidness.
Tim set the pizza on the small oak table and opened the roman blinds so we had a view of his backyard.
"I keep the curtains down most of the time, or it gets like an oven in here," he said. "I suppose it will be nice in the winter."
He'd already set the table, and like the kitchen, his tableware was a surprise. Handmade stoneware plates that didn't match exactly, either in size or color, but somehow complemented each other, and handmade pottery goblets. His was blue with a cracked glaze finish and mine brown and aged-looking. There was a pitcher on the table, but he'd already filled the glasses.
I thought of Adam's house and wondered if he still used his ex-wife's china the way Tim obviously used the stuff his ex-fiancée or maybe the decorator had chosen.
"Sit, sit," he said, following his own advice. He put a piece of pizza on my plate, but allowed me to get my own salad and a generous helping of some kind of baked pear dish.
I took a cautious sip of the contents of my glass. "What is this?" I asked. It wasn't alcoholic, which surprised me, but something both sweet and tart.
He grinned. "It's a secret. Maybe I'll show you how to make it after dinner."
I sipped again. "Yes, please."
"I noticed you're limping."
I smiled. "I stepped on some glass. Nothing to worry about."
We both quit talking as we dug into the meal with appetite.
"Tell me about your friend," he said as he ate. "The one the police think killed O'Donnell."
"He's a grumpy, fussy old man," I said. "And I love him." The pears had some sort of brown sugar glaze. I expected them to be too sweet, but they were tart and melted in my mouth. "Mmm. This is good. Anyway, right now he's ticked off at me for poking my nose into this investigation." I took a deep drink. "Or else he thinks it's dangerous and I'll quit investigating if he makes me think he's angry with me." Zee was right, I talked too much. Time to shift the conversation Tim's way. "You know, I'd have thought you would be angry with me when you found out I had an ulterior motive for attending your meeting."