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Remi called, placing it on speakerphone. “Bree? Are you okay? We were so worried when we couldn’t get ahold of you.”
“I’m fine. Now. I’m—I’m in North Carolina.”
“North Carolina?”
“To visit my cousin. To tell her about her father.”
“We’re so very sorry.”
“I know. Listen, I was wondering if—did my uncle give you the book when you were there? Pyrates and Privateers?”
Remi glanced at Sam, hesitating the slightest of instances as she said, “I bought a copy from him. Why?”
“My cousin—um, she’s pretty devastated. Apparently he promised it to her, and—and I was hoping I could give it to her. Something to remember her father by.”
“After what happened to your uncle, Sam and I thought maybe we should turn it over to the police.”
“No! Please . . .”
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“Bree? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m—yes. It’s just—you can imagine how devastating this has all been. And it would mean so much for her to have it. If you turn it in, it’ll only be tied up in probate. She’s too ill to travel, and—” Bree broke down crying. After several seconds, she said, “I’m sorry. This has all been so hard.”
“What can we do to help?” Remi asked.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind mailing the book to her. To remember her father by.”
“Of course we wouldn’t mind. But Sam and I will deliver it in person.”
“No. I couldn’t ask that of you. It’s too much.”
“We insist,” she said, eyeing Sam, who nodded in encouragement. “This book is too valuable to trust to the post office. Just text me the address and we’ll deliver it tomorrow.”
“I will. Thank you . . .”
They heard a quiet sob as Remi said, “We’ll see you tomorrow. And pass on our condolences to your cousin.”
Sam pulled out of the parking garage and on into traffic. “She sounded pretty upset.”
“Understandably,” Remi said. “First the robbery, then the heart attack. I can’t imagine what Pickering’s daughter must be going through. Not being able to travel. At least Bree’s there for her.”
“About the book . . . ?”
“I thought about that. And I think at the very least we should show it to Pickering’s daughter and let her make that decision. She is the next of kin, after all. At least this way we can explain in person why we feel it best to turn it in to the authorities.”
He stopped at a red light, looked over at his wife, then back at the road. “I guess we’ll be filing a change in flight plans to North Carolina.”
The advantage of having a private jet meant they could change plans at a moment’s notice. Selma made the arrangements for a hotel and rental car on their arrival, and after a decent night’s sleep and a hot breakfast, they drove to the location Bree had texted. Remi, of course, asked Selma to look into the address on the off chance something was wrong. Much to her relief, it came back to a Larayne Pickering-Smith, who Selma had determined was, in fact, Gerald Pickering’s daughter.
She lived in rural Harlowe, and as they drove east through miles of tobacco farms, the sky darkened with a gathering storm. Sam parked in front, eyeing the property, a white clapboard farmhouse, with a black SUV in the gravel drive. Someone pulled the drape slightly from an upstairs window, then dropped it.
Remi, the book in her lap, patted the front cover, saying, “Let’s get this thing delivered.”
“You sure you want to give it to her?”
“Yes. It has to be better than tying it up in evidence or even probate for who knows how long. Maybe his daughter can tell us what’s so important about the book.”
