Page 55 of Dead Beat

Darlington shook some of the powder into Alex’s waiting palm, then in unison, they sprinkled it over the casket and whispered, “You have got to show me.”

“So you did do the reading,” he murmured, and she must have heard him because she smiled.

The dust fell unceremoniously onto the lid and drizzled down the sides. Only when it brushed against the lock did it fizz and pop, giving off soft red sparks.

“Just the lock is enchanted,” Darlington noted. But it was still a problem. “We’re going to need to break the glass. The spell I prepared for reassembly will work, but it’s messy.”

“I know one in Ladino,” Alex said. “My grandmother claimed it could put anything back together. Even a broken heart.”

“Really?”

“My grandmother said a lot of things. Why don’t we just take off the hinges? We won’t have to touch the lock.”

Darlington blinked. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Alex shrugged. “We had to do it to the bathroom door when Betcha locked us out. He was so wasted he fell asleep in the tub.”

“An elegant solution.”

“I’m all elegance, Darlington.”

Those words sent a bolt of desire through him. She was not elegant, not in her speech, her history, her way of punching at a problem until it just capitulated. And yet, in the line of her jaw, the sway of her hair, and even in her thinking, she always seemed to find the unexpected path—and that thrilled him.

He had a Swiss Army knife in his coat pocket, not unlike the one Turner had used, a long-ago gift from Bernadette for his tenth birthday. He crawled under the casket to the other side, then sorted through the knife’s tools until he found the tiny screwdriver. It was fiddly work and he had a brief moment of panic when one of the screws dropped to the floor with a plink.

“Just keep working,” Alex said. “I’ll find it.”

Seconds later he handed her the rest of the screws, and he pushed up the lid.

The scent from inside the casket was stale, the odor somewhere between the sweet perfume of oils and a harsh chemical tang.

“It’s heavy,” he said with a grunt.

Alex ducked under the casket and joined him, helping him prop the lid open while he lifted the golden plate away from the mummy. It was smaller and heavier than he’d expected, shaped like a wide, flat diamond. The jackal design at its center was inset with lapis and carnelian, and just to the left of its pointed ears he saw a small star-shaped indent. It might have been a blemish, a bit of damage incurred over thousands of years. But he didn’t think so.

The star was meant to mark the heart.

20

“They’re going to notice this is missing,” Alex said.

“I’m not so sure.”

“Seriously? That thing is probably worth a down payment on a house. In a good neighborhood.”

“Maybe a whole block,” he corrected.

“In New Haven?”

“In New York.”

“Maybe I should steal it.”

“Stern.”

“No part of you wants to just sling that bag over your shoulder, walk out of this place, and keep walking? You could restore all of Black Elm with money to spare.”

“No,” he said with a laugh. “It’s not rightfully mine.”