“Yeah?” I said in greeting.
“I need to talk to you. Is Ben there?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong?”
“Where are you?”
“That pub a couple of blocks from the hotel.”
“Right. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
“Cormac, wait—” But he’d already hung up. I looked at Ben. “Cormac’s on the way.”
“What’s wrong?” Ben asked, concerned. I had to shrug.
We went back inside and ordered another round of drinks while we waited.
Chapter 8
CORMAC APPEARED at the door and took off his sunglasses before looking around. He brought his fingerprint-unique scent with him—the aged leather of his coat, soap on male skin. Ben waved, and he took the seat Caleb had been using.
“I need help,” he said, before hello even.
Ben and I both straightened. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
He scratched the corner of his mustache, an uncharacteristic nervous gesture. “Really it’s Amelia who needs help. Or thinks she does. We do, I mean.” He winced, and I gaped. Cormac, tongue-tied and awkward? Something really was wrong. “Amelia thinks you can help,” he said finally.
I raised my brow and waited some more. Scowling, he ducked his gaze, and if he looked like he was having an argument with himself, he probably was. My curiosity boiled.
“You want to explain?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I say we just break into the place—”
“Maybe from the beginning?”
“You want something to drink first?” Ben said.
“Yeah, I think I do.”
Ben went to get him a beer, and by the time he got back, he’d figured out how to tell the story.
“I spent most of yesterday in libraries,” he said. “Looking up genealogies, family histories. Amelia tracked down her family—her brother and his descendants. They’ve still got land and money, her couple of greats grand-nephew owns the house where she grew up, the one she was living in before she left.” Before she set out on the travels and adventures that took her around the world and eventually to Colorado, where she’d been wrongfully executed for murder.
He continued, “She hid some things in the house. Journals, odds and ends. She wants to try to get them back.”
“You can’t exactly walk up to some guy’s door, knock, and ask to go searching for his dead great-aunt’s lost journals,” I said.
“I can’t.” He pointed at his scowling face and rough appearance, then pointed at me. “You might be able to.”
I huffed. “Oh, come on! You can’t expect me to try to sell that story to a total stranger.”
“That’s what I think—but for some reason she doesn’t want me breaking in and grabbing the stuff.”
“No breaking and entering,” Ben said. “Especially not in a foreign country, not while you’re still on parole. Not ever.” Ben glared, and Cormac actually lowered his gaze, chagrined.
I started to ask why they didn’t just write a letter or make a phone call explaining the situation, then realized—who would believe that? The nephew might not believe someone telling him this in person, but he wouldn’t be able to ignore the plea, like tossing a letter in the trash.
&nb