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Doc made a thoughtful sound, using a spatula to turn the fish over. “Is this that Emerson Harley fellow you were asking about the other day?”
“That’s right. He was Deputy Chief with the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives program.”
“A Monuments Man.” Doc’s smile was wry. He glanced at Jason. “I think I know where this is headed.” He nodded at the table. “Have a seat. I’ll fix our drinks.”
Jason sat down at the table. A set of Delft-style windmill salt-and-pepper shakers sat on the polished walnut. He lifted the saltshaker and read the faint stamp: Occupied Japan. He put the saltshaker down.
Doc was busy pouring ice and tequila into the blender. “The secret to a great margarita is fresh juice.”
Jason’s gaze traveled idly around the well-scrubbed kitchen. The hardwood floor looked clean enough to eat off. He had been pretty sure of his theory when he’d arrived on Doc’s doorstep, but now he was starting to wonder.
“Were you a combat medic? Is that where the nickname came from?”
Doc laughed. “Nope. The nickname came because of my sterling ability to give Jerry a taste of his own medicine.”
“Ah.”
Doc turned on the blender. As the ice and liquid whirled around noisily, he studied Jason—and Jason studied him back.
Doc turned off the blender, poured the margarita mix into two sparkling glasses, and carried them to the table.
Jason took his glass, clinked rims.
Doc said, “Geronimo.”
Jason sipped the cold, tangy liquid. He was not a huge fan of margaritas, but this was pretty good. The fresh juice did make a difference.
“Do you always have a batch of these ready to go?”
“Sure. Always Be Prepared. That’s the 101st’s motto.”
Jason grinned. “Actually, that’s the Boy Scouts’ motto. The 101st’s motto is Rendezvous with Destiny, isn’t it?”
Doc considered. “Maybe it is,” he agreed. He sipped his drink, then swallowed the rest in a gulp.
Jason followed suit.
“Another?” Doc inquired.
“Yep.”
Doc made another batch, carried the pitcher to the table, and refilled their glasses. “I don’t care for salt. At my age, it’s a bad idea. And I don’t want you thinking I’m trying to poison you.”
Jason laughed. “Nah. You wouldn’t make the mistake of trying to get fancy. You’d just hit me over the head with that bronze doorstop before I left.”
Doc laughed too. “I like you kid. You’re a pistol.” He downed his drink, said briskly, “Let’s have another, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Chapter Seventeen
The funny thing was Jason did most of the talking.
He started out discussing his case—and his darkest suspicions (which amused the hell out of Doc)—and somehow wound his way to talking about his grandfather and how important it had seemed to clear his name and protect his legacy, when the truth was Emerson Harley would have brushed all that tarnished-reputation stuff aside as nonsensical bullshit. One of his favorite phrases. Emerson Harley would have said the successful work he had done during the war was all the legacy any man needed.
“No,” Doc said solemnly, raising his glass and staring Jason in the eye. “Nope. He’d have said you’re his legacy.”
Of course, Doc was outdrinking Jason two-to-one at that point.
“I don’t know why Roy’s story changed over the years,” Doc admitted. “I don’t know why he did half the things he did. It wasn’t to get rich. He didn’t care that much about money. He didn’t sell any of the treasures. I can tell you that. He’d be mad as hell to know they’re being sold off now. He did give things to people. He gave his mama that pair of emerald earrings. Now what was she supposed to do with those? A nice little churchgoing lady like her? I think she wore them to Christmas once and gave them to the Goodwill.”
