Dead Silver

10

We finished opening up the walls with no results. Then there was nothing left but the crawl space, which deserved its name. It was just deep enough for us to squirm under the rough old two-by-twelve joists if we wanted to. We didn't. Doing that kind of thing was bad enough anyway, and this ground was thick with rat dung. We decided to take up a couple of floor planks and look in from the top.

That was cleaner but not easy. The rusty old twenty-penny nails, four inches long and thick as a pencil, weren't about to pull free. We had to lever up the planks enough to get a recip saw blade under them and cut the nails as we worked our way along. By now we were only speaking to growl curses at the metal and wood that fought us back. We were tired, and sweetie though Renee might be, we'd had our fill of this.

When we'd made a channel wide enough to hang our heads down into, we each took an end and started scanning the crawl space with flashlights.

Almost immediately, Madbird said, "Well, kiss my ass and call me howdy."

I rolled onto my other side so I could follow his flashlight beam. It was focused about ten feet from where he lay, on top of the foundation wall inside the rim joist. I could glimpse a few small dull metallic glints, the color of gold or brass, along with some paper scraps strewn around.

I heaved myself up, waddled over to Madbird on my complaining knees, and dropped down beside him for a better look.

I still couldn't tell what the metal was, but the other bits were fragments of photographs, with the same faded flesh tone as the ones of Astrid.

I felt like a well driller who'd finally hit water that he hadn't really believed was there.

Getting to it still wasn't any piece of cake. Professor Callister had been an expert bird hunter and had loaded his own ammunition-we'd found chewed-up plastic bottles of black powder, wadding, and other materials when we'd cleaned-and the spot was underneath his heavy old workbench. We had to unbolt that from the wall and drag it away, then cut another chunk out of the floor.

There, blocked from our earlier view by a mid span girder, we found something even better-a cloisonne jewelry box. It had an intricate pattern of deep red enamel inlaid with gold and a lid that rested inside the rim. Maybe the rats had clawed at it trying to get the gold-even without the flashlight, enough daylight filtered in through the floorboards to give that a faint glint-or maybe there'd been some perfumed object or sachet inside that they'd smelled. However it had happened, they'd managed to nudge the lid aside and pillage the contents.

Without doubt, this was the cache of photos that Renee had hoped for. There must have been a stack of them to start with, and there were still a few at the bottom that looked more or less intact.

The box must have also contained jewelry, no doubt dragged off into rat lairs in the woods, where it would be all but impossible to find. But a single earring remained, spared by the marauders because its hook had gotten caught in a splintered patch on a joist. At first glance, it looked like a spinner for big game fish like musky or northern pike; it was a good two inches long and one inch wide, in the shape of the letter S with an arc cupping its bottom like a rocker on a rocking chair. It appeared to be made of silver and was encrusted with blue stones, probably sapphires, that looked like real ones. If so, it was worth a fair chunk of cash. But it was so garish it was almost laughable; it suggested Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, fringed buckskin, cowboy hats with chin strings.

Exactly the kind of outfit that Astrid was sporting in the photos-along with earrings that looked a lot like this one.

"I can't say it looks like good news," I said.

"We don't have to tell her. Your call."

I rocked back on my heels, stood, and walked to the door to get a faceful of fresh air. Evening was coming on, and the lights of the main house exuded a cheerful warmth.

But inside there, an anxious woman was waiting, hoping to learn that her father had not been a vicious murderer.

I tried to weigh the factors. The photos were damning enough to Professor Callister. Jewelry, a classic killer's souvenir, was more serious still. And yet, there it all was, a reality that couldn't be denied.

Maybe settling the matter would be best for her-would bring closure, as the buzzword seemed to be these days. Then again, maybe that was bullshit.

I turned back to Madbird. "I guess I feel like we can't keep it from her," I said. "We don't have the right."

He lifted his chin in a way that told me he wasn't just going along, he agreed. That meant a lot.

I went to get Renee.