“He can get help in the morning if he yells loud enough,” I said, trying for a reassuring smile.
The businesses along this street behind the restaurant were closed. There was little chance of a stray pedestrian passing by, especially with a storm looming.
“Who is he?” Miss Weaver asked, voicing my own question.
“No one important,” Escott said. He took the tire iron from me, dropping it and the car keys on the front seat of the Ford. “He fancies himself to be a private investigator, but his methods are sloppy and his personal ethics questionable. If you offered him a dollar more than your cousin’s payment, he would cheerfully switch sides until such time as he could solicit her for a counteroffer.”
I’d talk to Escott later about Riordan. The way he grabbed the crowbar while glaring at the car trunk told me that it was just as well there was a locked steel barrier between them.
Escott drove us to Bawks House; Miss Weaver—Mabel now, she insisted—sat next to him. I had the backseat to myself, slumping low in case she noticed I wasn’t reflecting in the rearview mirror.
She fussed with her hat, trying to secure it better. She was cheerful, almost relaxed, and made a point of turning around to beam at me now and then as we talked. Escott had instructed her to trust us. With her, trust must also include liking a person. She acted as though we were all old friends. I’d have been uncomfortable, but she’d forget it in a few weeks.
We had the windows down on his Nash; the hot air blowing in was viscous as tar. Through breaks in the buildings we saw restless clouds thickening, making plans. Lightning defined their shifting forms for an instant, thunder grumbled, and they went dark until the next flash. We headed north, right into it.
Escott gently plied questions under the guise of conversation.
Since discovering the fake gem, Mabel had been careful not to give anything away to her cousin, otherwise the real diamond would evaporate to a safer hiding place. For the present, it was still in the house, cached in a shoe in her cousin’s bedroom closet.
“How did you find that out?” he asked.
“Agnes is always eavesdropping on the extensions, but until now I had no reason to do the same to her. She thinks I’m too goody-goody. Well, I started listening, too, and got an earful on everything.”
“You must have had opportunity to switch pendants prior to this.”
“No, I have not. One or the other of them is always home, they keep their bedroom door locked, and I don’t have a key. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more time, but only this morning did I learn about the collector coming tonight. Agnes’s husband found him. Agnes married him just a few months ago. He saw the big house, met our sick grandmother, and assumed he’d be coming into big money soon enough. Agnes didn’t set him straight. She and Clive were made for each other: both sly, greedy Philistines.”
Escott came subtly alert. “Is he English? That’s not a common first name in America.”
“Clive Latshaw’s no more English than I’m Greta Garbo. He puts on a good show, though. He’ll high-hat anyone if he thinks he can get away with it. He even charmed Grandma, but not enough so she’d change her will.”
“Who is this private collector?”
“I didn’t get a name, but they’re meeting at Bawks House at ten. We’ll be able to sneak in with no trouble. Agnes and Clive are always in the parlor with the radio on. She won’t go up for the Eye unless she sees the money.”
“This is very uncertain, if they should catch us—”
“Then I came home early from dinner, and you’re my invited guests. If we’re caught, I’ll be embarrassed, but I’m getting my property back. If it was me facing just Agnes I’d be fine, but Clive would step in, and he can be mean. I can’t fight them both.”
“Your gentleman friend did not put himself forward as a protector?”
“Bartie’s a good egg but no Jack Dempsey. Clive won’t try anything with you there, but if we’re careful, we can be in and out, and they’ll never know a thing. I just wish I could see Agnes’s face when she tries to palm off a piece of glass as a diamond.”
A reviving gust of cooler air hit my face. “What about this curse?”
Mabel was thoughtful. “I know it sounds silly, but I’ve always believed it. Grandma told stories, lots of them, about what happened whenever someone tried to take Hecate’s Eye away from its . . . well, Grandma called herself and the other women before her its guardians.”
“It kills people?”
“Men. It kills men. The Eye has always brought bad luck to them and good luck to women, but I don’t want to trust that too much.”
“How so?”
“If Agnes sells it, I think something terrible will happen to her. I don’t like her, but she’s family. I have a duty to try to protect her from herself.”
The storm hit just as we made the turn to Bawks House, and even I couldn’t see much of the joint through the heavy gray sheets of rain. It was big, and a single vivid lightning flash made it look haunted.
Mabel directed Escott to a branching in the drive that went around to the rear. He cut the headlamps, and we had to trust to luck that more lightning wouldn’t suddenly reveal us to anyone watching from the house.
She pointed toward a porte cochère serving the back door.
Escott glided under its shelter, parking next to a snappy-looking Buick coupe, which was parked pointing outward. The rain drumming on our roof ceased. We’d put the windows up to keep out the water and rolled them down again to let in the air.
“Feels like winter,” said Mabel in a more normal tone, sounding pleased.
“Whose vehicle?” Escott asked.
“Clive’s. He never uses the garage. Likes to leave quick when he has someplace to go.”
“Aren’t we a bit obvious here?”
“They’ll stay in the parlor so they can watch for their big buyer.”
“I’m curious about this providentially wealthy collector of rare gems—how would Clive Latshaw find such a person?”
“He must have asked around. Maybe he went to a jewelry store.”
“What about his background?”
She shrugged. “He said he was from New England—but his accent says Detroit. We must get moving. For all I know, Agnes might have brought the Eye down early, and all this effort will be wasted.”
I cleared my throat. “Say she did. We can still get it.”
Mabel gave me a sideways look. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing violent, but I can have a talk with them, make them see reason.”
“If it’s nothing violent, why mention it?”
“My associate has a very persuasive and calming manner even with the most obstreperous of types,” Escott explained. “You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
She waved a hand. “All right, but let’s try my way first. I’ll get the door open and you two follow. And be quiet.”
On the drive over, she’d given us her plan of attack, which was to sneak upstairs, have Escott pick the bedroom lock, and I’d keep lookout. Of course, I had my own way into the room that involved vanishing and sieving under the door, but Mabel Weaver didn’t need to witness it. This was her party; let her have her fun. She left the car, carefully not slamming the door. Escott and I did the same, following her through the back entry into a sizable mudroom. I had no need of an invitation to cross the threshold. Bram Stoker, go jump in a lake.
Mabel took her shoes off and gestured for us to do likewise.
Escott leaned close to whisper. “We’re shod in gumsoled shoes, Miss Weaver.”
“Really? I thought that was just in the movi—” She clapped a hand over her mouth, apparently remembering her own order about silence.