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Together, they walked up the path, and Sam knocked on the front door. It opened a moment later a few inches, and Bree looked out at them. Her eyes were red and slightly swollen, no doubt from crying. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo . . .” She gave a faltering smile. “You have the book?”
Remi handed her the brown-wrapped parcel. “How is your cousin?”
“She’s . . . not well.” Bree hugged the book to her chest. “I’d invite you in, but . . .”
“No worries,” Remi said. “We were wondering, though, if you know what was so important about this volume. Why someone might be looking for it?”
“No.” She gave a slight shrug. “But thank you. For bringing it all this way.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
Bree nodded.
When the silence became awkward, Remi took a step back and smiled. “Let us know if you need anything.”
“There is one thing I was wondering. How is Mr. Wickham? He wasn’t hurt in the robbery, was he?”
“No.”
Bree looked down at the book, then at Remi. “Tell him I miss him and that I’ll try to write to him. Would you?”
“I’ll be glad to.” Remi linked her arm through Sam’s, saying, “We should get going. It’s a long flight home.”
Sam gave a polite nod. “Bye.”
“Good-bye,” Bree said, then closed the door as he and Remi returned to the car.
Remi said, “She’s in trouble. You heard what she said? Asking me to pass a message to Mr. Wickham? Pickering’s cat? We need to go in there and rescue her.”
“Not a good idea, Remi.”
“But you’ve got a gun this time.”
“One against how many? We don’t even know who’s in there. If you had yours, we might stand a chance.”
She frowned at him, then took out her cell phone. “Then we call the cops and up our odds.”
“Not in front of the house,” he said. “If she’s being held, they’ll be watching us.” He pulled away from the curb, then drove down the street.
Remi phoned the moment they were out of sight, and the dispatcher directed them to wait at a market that was located off the highway about a mile inland. A few minutes after they pulled into the parking lot, her phone buzzed, and she saw she had a text from Selma to call home ASAP.
Remi called, putting the phone on speaker. “You found something on the digital photos we sent?” she asked.
“Not yet, Mrs. Fargo. But that’s not why I needed to talk. An officer stopped by a few minutes ago asking for you. They found Bree Marshall’s car abandoned on the side of the road not too far from the airport. There were several boxes of fund-raiser tickets and an envelope with checks made out to the Fargo Foundation in the vehicle. The officer was wondering if we wanted to pick them up from the tow yard.”
Remi looked at Sam, who said, “Was there any indication of a struggle?”
“He didn’t say, Mr. Fargo. But I expect if there was, he might have mentioned it.”
“Thanks, Selma,” Sam told her. “We’ve just called a deputy to check on her. We’ll let him know.”
About ten minutes later, a Carteret County sheriff’s deputy pulled up. The offshore wind whipped at him as he stepped out of his car, nearly blowing his hat from his head, and he directed them to the front of the store, where they’d be somewhat sheltered. Remi gave a brief explanation.
The deputy’s expression turned dubious. “Is it possible her car broke down on her way to the airport? Maybe she called for a cab or something.”
“Maybe,” Remi said. “But there’s also the matter of her telling us to pass a message on to her late uncle’s cat.”
“A lot of people talk to their animals.”
