Deadly Pedigree - By Jimmy Fox Page 0,85

“The material you asked me to put in my safe-deposit box.”

“What, the night of the play? Uh, yeah. Just a second.”

Nick went into his bathroom and splashed water on his face. He’d stayed with Hawty until eight a.m., trying to assuage her grief for her dead friend and her worry over Shelvin.

“You’re going to be angry,” she said. “It’s gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean? How could it be gone? Did the bank blow up?”

“I screwed up. I temporarily stored the material in the departmental safe. But I forgot about it, until this morning. I’ve had so much on my mind, Nick. The new semester, our departmental fall symposium…I’m so sorry. When I went to retrieve it this morning, it had vanished. The secretaries swear they don’t know what I’m talking about. Something’s strange, here. But I take full responsibility for–”

“Tawpie,” Nick muttered, now thoroughly awake, slouching in his boxers on the side of his bed. Armiger’s goons probably knew Una was one of the few friends he saw the night of the play, after he’d returned from Natchitoches. It must have just occurred to her to track Una’s movements during the following days. Frederick Tawpie no doubt told Armiger that Una had deposited something in the safe. Armiger certainly did have her “sources,” everywhere, it seemed.

Now Nick was that much closer to being expendable. Armiger had everything she feared. Or so she thought.

“What?” Una asked. “I didn’t catch that.”

“It’s okay,” Nick said. “I know where the stuff is. It would be better if you didn’t mention this to anyone again, because I don’t want you…because there’s been more violence. Hawty’s in the hospital–but she’s going to be all right. Shelvin, one of the Balzar heirs from Natchitoches suing Artemis, is in pretty bad shape. And another man is dead.”

Una was flabbergasted. She’d read about the growing Artemis controversy, which was starting to make local waves, and now fired off a dozen frantic questions Nick wouldn’t answer. He did tell her which hospital Hawty was in, and asked her to go keep her company, when she got the chance.

“This is awful, Nick…” The shock of all the bad news had temporarily stunned her, and Nick could tell she was on the verge of tears. “Oh, I really hope Hawty isn’t hurt too badly. Do you think she’ll recover? Where are you going? Will you be all right? You’d better come stay with Dion or me. You could be next.”

“Una, just do what I ask,” he said. “I’ll be busy for the next few days.”

.

27

Ronald’s funeral in Natchitoches was a big affair. And sad.

Relatives and friends lingered over the open casket, discussing how handsome he looked. The knife wounds and the autopsy damage were for the most part well disguised. On Shelvin’s instructions, Nick had purchased a new Brooks Brothers double-breasted pinstriped suit in New Orleans. The morticians had been impressed. Nick’s own touch for Ronald’s final costume was a tasteful boutonniere for the lapel.

Just visible below Ronald’s clasped hands were a brand-new small Bible and a sealed aluminum tube with a black ribbon. The tube contained Hyam Balazar’s original letter, which Ivanhoe had buried for safekeeping with his mother in 1869. Dora had bravely seen to this detail, with the help of a plumber friend. It was a form of insurance, Nick had told her.

Erasmus was completely broken up by his son’s death. Dora had her hands full taking care of him and the old man, Twice, who of course didn’t know what was going on. He would erupt now and then in the little rural Baptist church during the minister’s sermon with a demand for ice cream. The choir sang many rousing hymns throughout the long standing-room-only service; powerfully moved, Nick hummed along to “I Love the Lord, He Heard My Cry,” “Amazing Grace,” “We’ll Understand It Better By and By,” and other gospel favorites he wished he’d grown up hearing. Ronald and Shelvin’s sister, five childhood friends, a couple of coworkers (he had been advancing in a Dallas telecom company), and three high-school teachers delivered tearful eulogies.

Later, in the cemetery behind the church, Nick stood at the edge of the crowd, indulging his passion, guiltily, even in the midst of this tragedy. He was reading headstones, traveling back in time, wandering farther and farther from the group; but no one paid any attention. All eyes focused on the interment.

In a neglected, overgrown section of older graves he found Ivanhoe and his wife. The headstones were just marginally legible. He