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“Did you find something?” Cress quivers with excitement, or maybe apprehension as she leans against Max for support.
I rub my arms, again noticing the chill.
“All I can find is he used Lanscombe’s account, but I can’t figure out who he’s been dealing with on the dark web or imagine how he found them. They must be really good to hide their tracks like that. Absolutely no trace.”
Max hands me my phone. Like a charm, I clutch it in my hand, willing a message or call from JL. Nothing.
“I think I can answer that question.” Satisfaction oozes out of Max.
Jarvis swivels around in the big desk chair, facing the three of us. “What? Who?” Instead of sounding thrilled, Jarvis’ grumpy expression reflects losing some imaginary race.
“Let’s shut everything down and reconvene in the lounge for a drink. And I’ll tell you a story.” Max puts his hand on Cress’ back and guides her down the hall. I trail behind, the sound of Jarvis’ grumbling punctuating my path.
Reluctance slows my steps. Instead of eagerness to find out how Sam is managing to terrorize me, I want to emulate an ostrich. Getting the sweater takes a little time and when I reach the bottom of the stairs, pulling on the cardigan, I almost walk into Jarvis, who clomps into the living room, seemingly still pissed off at Max’s apparent cyber victory.
“By the way, Max turned off your phone.”
He did, and I never noticed. I slipped the phone into the pocket of my sweatpants when Max handed it to me. Now I put the heavy rectangle into my cardigan pocket where it bangs against my hip as I walk into the room. I don’t turn it back on. If I’m going to pay attention, I don’t need distractions.
Several bottles of wine sit on the drinks cart, along with white wine and red wine glasses, reminding me of the wine party at Louisette Martin’s house. Cress has put out sliced sausage, a couple of blocks of cheese, crackers, and chips. Jarvis has made a beeline to the wine and fills a big balloon glass almost to the brim with a dark ruby red liquid. He sips to make sure it doesn’t spill over.
Cress, her ankle wrapped up with an ice pack, has a glass of something bubbly.
“Prosecco,” she says, holding up the glass to admire the play of the tiny bubbles. “Want some?”
Must be the drink of the moment. Even though we’ve been drinking cocktails, I enjoyed the Prosecco I’ve had the last few days, so why not? Eschewing my usual red, I nod. Max jumps up with alacrity. Soon, I’m ensconced in one of the armchairs with my drink and a selection of cheese and crackers.
Cats twine around ankles, trying to decide which laps look most inviting. Thorfinn sits between Max and Cress on the couch, while Dorothy continues to wander. Her intermittent chirps sound like a radar system.
Settling in, Max downs his shot of whisky and drops the glass onto the end table. Head back, eyes closed, he clears his throat.
“After a lot of digging, I decided to see if anything Sam told you about his background was true.” He pauses and rubs Cress’ cheek with a thumb. “Like many con men, he kept too much.”
Jarvis snickers. “Elementary mistake, but great for us.”
“Uh-hum.” Max practically purrs. “He went to school in Highland Park, not Lake Forest. And he kept his first name, Samuel.”
“Highland Park?” Jarvis rolls his eyes, disbelieving.
“Don’t tell me you believed all that back country, good ole boy baloney?” Cress’ acid comment makes me want to laugh.
“Well, the overalls, ball cap, Appalachian accent…” Jarvis protests.
“When he became a ‘folk artist,’ he changed his image,” I explain. “The accent has always been a little hit or miss.”
When Max breaks in, a hint of briskness reminds me of his professionalism. “Funnily enough, six guys named Sam went to school with the Samson Beaton, who died.”
“How convenient,” Cress interjects.
“Could be.” He scratches at the unusual scruff around his jaw. “Beaton committed suicide. Drowned in Lake Michigan in a boating accident with some schoolmates At least that was the verdict. Two of them are of interest in this case. No proof anyone helped him along, but no proof he wasn’t either.”
“If it was one of the six, and not some other guy, how did you figure out which one?”
“One of them is a Samuel Lanscombe. The name rang a bell. They both played on the school baseball team. In fact, Beaton was tipped as a future pro. He was one of the friends in the boat.”
My mouth drops open. “Lanscombe. You’re shitting me,” I squeal before I slug back the rest of the wine and snort when bubbles go up my nose. Such an unusual name. Can’t be a coincidence. Fred’s what? Son, nephew, distant cousin? There must be a connection.
Instead of throwing out my suspicions, I focus on something else. “Sam loved to brag about how good he was as a baseball player in high school but gave it up for his art.”
