“Images like icons?”
“Possibly.”
“It might have been an iconostasis.”
“A what?”
“An iconostasis. It’s a wall of icons and religious paintings, separating the nave, or inner arcade, from the sanctuary or it can be a portable icon stand that can be placed anywhere within a church. This is unbelievable. Do you realize what an amazing cultural find this is? A nineteenth-century Russian-Orthodox church, for all intents and purposes, untouched by time. Thank goodness we found it before Greg Stevens or other treasure hunters; otherwise, the only people to enjoy it would be black-market dealers and their rich clientele. How soon can we get back down there?”
“As soon as this storm passes.” Cole set down his mug, the rubber bottom keeping it still despite the rocking of the waves. “Hopefully first thing tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t bank on it,” Gage said, entering the galley. “Weather station’s reporting a massive storm.” He sat on the bench and opened his soda. “Looks like we could be grounded several days.”
Cole sank back as disappointment spread over everyone’s faces. Wonderful. They’d finally found what they’d been searching for and they couldn’t touch it.
But, on the bright side, Bailey would be sticking around a little while longer. He recognized the hunger in her eyes. She was hooked. No way she’d leave without seeing the ruins.
Question was, was that a good thing?
Two rocky hours later, Tariuk Island’s rugged mountains appeared in the distance, the peaks breaching the heavy cloud cover. As they discussed the protocol they’d follow once in the ruins, Bailey marveled at how quickly she had been drawn into the adventure—into this place and its people.
“I’ve got a friend who’s an antiquities theft investigator,” she said. “She deals with this sort of thing every day. I’ll give her a call and find out the best way to retrieve the artifacts in the most expedient manner, while still preserving their integrity, of course. We obviously don’t have time to go through the typical laborious documentation process, not with a killer on the loose.”
Cole poured a refill of coffee for him and Bailey. “I imagine we’ll utilize methods similar to those we use for salvaging wrecks.”
Bailey swallowed a sip. “You salvage ships?”
“Now and then an underwater archaeologist shows up with a theory about where a particular ship may be resting, but they need up-front divers who know the area. We only work with trained archaeologists, never treasure hunters out to make a quick buck.” He retook his seat beside her. “Once we locate the ship, we typically help them with artifact retrieval. A couple of years ago we assisted with the salvage of the Dorian. The contents are on display at the University of Anchorage. It’s always exciting work.”
“Wow, you really are a man of many talents.”
Cole shrugged with a sexy smile. “I try.”
Landon entered the station, feeling hope for the first time since the case began. An end looked within reach. Whatever secrets the church held would surely provide the answers they sought and lead them to the killer, or the killer to them.
“Grainger.” Slidell lifted his chin in greeting. “Any luck?”
Landon dropped his duffel on the chair. “Would you believe we found the intact ruins of the church in an undersea canyon?”
“Seriously?”
“I kid you not.”
Slidell rocked forward, the front legs of his chair hitting the linoleum floor with a thud. “That’s great news. Did you find the icon?”
Landon shook his head. “Cole discovered the entrance to the ruins just as the storm blew in. We had to note the location and haul out. Soon as this storm’s gone, we’re back down there.”
“Well, looks like this is our lucky day.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone recognized Greg Stevens’s sketch—the older version Bailey gave us, that is.”
“Who?”
“Peg Wilson said she’s been renting him her hunting cabin for about two months.”
“Two months?” What had he been doing in Yancey all that time? “That’s a month before Liz and Nikolai’s arrival and nearly six weeks before Agnes’s crash.”
“You think he and Agnes had any contact?”
“At this rate, it wouldn’t surprise me. Definitely gives us cause to pull her phone records.”
“Good. Get on that.”
“Will do. Peg say anything else about him?”
Slidell thumbed through his notes. “Only that he paid the first month’s rent up front and in cash.”
“He mention how long he was planning to stay?”
Slidell shook his head. “Said he hadn’t decided, so he and Peg have been working on a month-to-month basis. Peg didn’t seem to mind. Said he was a great tenant. Quiet. Kept to himself.”
“I’ll bet. Did he tell her what he was doing out here?”
“Said he was looking for some peace and quiet.”
“Probably shouldn’t have started killing people, then, should he have?” At least they had him now. “When are we going in?”
“Already done. Right after I spoke with Peg.”
“And?” No one was in the holding cell.
“Gone.”
“Gone?” Surely he wouldn’t leave town without the icon. “How long?”
“Not long. Probably out for the day and got wind we were on to him. Earl’s watching the place. He hasn’t returned, and I don’t expect him to. He’s too smart.”
“You check the hotels in town? See if they got any new patrons?”
Slidell nodded. “Nada.”
“Cole said he’d have needed a boat to meet up with Nick on Cleary’s. Maybe he’s bunked down on it somewhere.”
“I’ll have Tom check the marina.”
“It’s worth a shot, but I doubt you’ll find him there. If he knows we’re on to him, I’m sure he’s well out of sight.”
“One positive. He left some stuff behind.”
Landon arched a brow as anticipation surged through him.
“Not much, mind you. Some clothes, a few personal items. Nothing overly useful, but we sent it all to the lab. Maybe they’ll be able to get a full print this time.”
“We can hope.” But he doubted it. The guy was too good at covering his tracks.
38
Bailey stared out the Trading Post window at the sheets of rain blanketing Yancey and groaned. “Weather says it’ll be another day before it lets up.” The find at their fingertips and a storm blocking their path.
“With this case, it seems par for the course.” Cole sank down on the couch. “Should we get back to the diary?”
She stretched. “I suppose so.” Settling back in her chair, she opened the diary. “Either I’m getting old or the lighting in here is dimming.” She reached to turn on the end-table lamp, only to find it gone. “That’s strange.”
“What’s that?” Cole asked, popping a tortilla chip in his mouth.
“Agnes had a Tiffany lamp here. She read by it every night.”
“Maybe it broke.”
“Maybe. I’ll see what else I can find.” She stood and strode the length of the store looking for a lamp she could use. She was ready to head upstairs when the Tiffany lamp caught her eye, settled on a small accent table in the crook of the wall. That’s a weird place for it. Nothing to illuminate there. She bent, unplugged it, and carried it back to the end table. “No idea why she put it over there.” She plugged it in. “Much more useful here.” She reached for the switch, and something cold jiggled against her palm. “That’s odd.”
Cole arched a brow.
“There’s something attached to the string.” Shifting, she ducked to look under the antique lampshade. “Huh.”
“What is it?”
“A key.”
“A key?” Curiosity piqued in Cole’s husky voice.
“Yeah.” It took a moment, but she tugged it free. Forgetting her original purpose,
she left the light off and sank back into place, holding the key in front of her.
Cole moved beside her, examining it over her shoulder. “It’s not a house key. Too small. Looks more like a key to a . . . a . . . safety deposit box.”
A safety deposit box. Bailey smiled. Oh, Agnes, you sneaky, wonderful woman. . . .
“Safety deposit box, you say?” Gus asked over the crackling phone line. “Don’t recall Agnes having one. But that don’t mean much.” He chuckled. “Agnes had her secrets. A woman of intrigue, I used to tease her.”
Bailey shook her head. She’d learned more about Agnes in the past few weeks than she had in the three years living with her. “If she did have a box, which bank do you think it’d be at?”
Gus whistled. “Far as I know, she did all her banking at Morton’s. She and Phil went way back. If I was a betting man, I’d check there first.”
Thunder rocked the building, and the lights dimmed. They brightened for a brief moment before returning to normal.
“Thanks, Gus.”
“No problem.” He paused. “Say, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s this all about?”
Bailey huddled against the building in the onslaught of the storm, her windbreaker wrapped fast about her. Rain poured off the rim of her hood.
“Sorry to drag you out here after closing, Phil. And in such weather,” Cole said.
Phil Morton slipped his key in the lock and turned it. “Gus said it was important. That’s good enough for me.”
Yanking the door open, he ushered them inside. An alarm trilled in the background, and Phil shuffled to the keypad, punching in a code. The ringing stopped and a series of recessed lights flickered on.
Bailey slipped the hood from her head and ran a hand through her damp hair. “Thank you again for meeting us tonight.” She’d have never slept if they’d had to wait until morning.
“No worries.” The elderly man smiled, his wrinkled face creasing with the motion. “Vault’s back here.” He signaled them to follow. “Watch your step,” he cautioned as they filed down a series of steps at the rear of the building.
“How long ago did you say Agnes rented the box?” Bailey asked.
“Let’s see now. It was Ida’s birthday that day. I remember because I was fixing to close up shop a little early. I had tickets to a show to surprise her with and we had to catch the five-o’clock ferry to make it in time.”
At the base of the stairwell, Phil unlocked another door and ushered them into a second hallway, leading them by flashlight until he reached the switch plate on the wall. “There now, that’s better.” He smiled. “Where was I?”
“You were closing early,” Cole said.
“Oh yes. It’s not that Marilyn and Tess aren’t competent enough. Those ladies keep me on the straight and narrow and could probably run the place better than I, but it’s a Morton tradition that goes back to my great-grandpappy and the founding of Morton’s Depository in 1898. We Mortons are here from open to close, Monday through Friday. When tradition stands, banks don’t crumble. I don’t understand high-falutin’ banks where the owners are never on the premises. Why, I bet they don’t even know who their employees are.” He shook his head. “No way to run a business, if you ask me.”
The hallway, which looked more like a subterranean tunnel, banked right and ended at the vault door—solid and imposing in stature.
“They don’t make safes like they used to.” Phil sighed. “Now, if you kind folks would turn around for a moment.”
“Of course.” Cole turned, and Bailey followed suit.
A creaking signaled the opening of the vault, and Cole moved to help Phil with the door.
“Thank you, son. That door keeps getting heavier and heavier. Now to business.” He straightened his coat and turned to Bailey. “Gus informs me that you are Agnes’s heir and are in possession of the box key. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then the contents of box twenty-two belong to you.” He pulled a master key from his breast pocket, led her to the box, inserted his key, and signaled her to do the same.
Excitement coursed through her. What would they find? Would it be of any help with the case? What new thing would she learn about the aunt she’d thought she’d known so well?
On Phil’s instruction, Bailey turned her key simultaneously with his. The door opened and Phil retracted his key. He stepped back. “I’ll give you folks some privacy. Just holler when you’re done.”
“Thanks.” Bailey pulled the key from the lock and slid it into her jeans pocket. “I’m sorry, when did you say Agnes purchased the box?”
“I guess I never did finish that story.” Phil’s cheeks flushed a mottled pink. “My mind seems to do that these days, wandering from one point to another without finishing the first.” He gave a weak smile. “The glories of getting old. On the good side, the shorter you realize your time is on this earth, the more important things that truly matter become to you. Faith. Family. You don’t waste time on senseless pursuits. . . .”
He shook his head resignedly. “I’ve gone and done it again. Off on a tangent. The answer to your question, my dear, is that Agnes opened the box on July thirty-first. I was just about to leave when she came in. She seemed quite urgent about it, so I took the time to rent her the box.” He chuckled. “Fastest I ever processed one. But it all worked out in the end. Agnes got her box, and Ida and I made the play with time to spare.”
“Did Agnes say why it was so urgent, or what she needed the box for?” Cole asked.
“No, sir. She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. A security box . . .” He lifted onto his toes, then rocked back, sliding his hands in his pockets. “Now, that’s a person’s private business. And on that note, I’ll leave you to your privacy.”
With a breath of anticipation, Bailey slid the box from its slot and set it on the long table running the length of the compact room. “July thirty-first. That’s the evening before Agnes flew to Russia.”
“Makes me wonder what she was trying to keep safe.”
“One way to find out.” Biting her bottom lip, Bailey lifted the lid and stared inside. Not another diary. She lifted the brown leather book from the box, its cover worn and aged with time. She flipped through the crude parchment pages, trying not to let disappointment consume her. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting—she just knew this wasn’t it. “It looks like a story of some sort, or perhaps a journal.”
“Another one?”
Her sentiments exactly. What was it going to hold that the other didn’t? Was this all some wild-goose chase? Did the murders have nothing to do with Agnes or the stolen diary? Were they forcing connections where there were none?
“Wait.” His hand stilled hers. “There’s something else.” He pointed to the envelope wedged in the back of the box.
Bailey fished it out. “Agnes’s handwriting.” With trembling hands, she flipped it over. “It’s addressed to me.” She scanned the note scrawled across the seal and exhaled.
“What?”
“It says not to open the letter until I’ve read the book.”
39
Bailey flipped another page as the lights flickered, the storm raging on outside. “Unbelievable.”
Cole wiggled her foot. “What does it say?”
“Sorry.” She gave a sheepish grin. It was just too captivating. “It chronicles Tsar Ivan VI’s escape from Shlisselburg Fortress. According to the history books Ivan was murdered during the attempt, but this says the escape was successful.”
Cole scooted forward. “Go on.”
Bailey flipped to the next page, and everything went dark.
“Looks like the electrical lines finally gave out. Good thing Yancey only gets a handful of thunderstorms a year.” He clicked the flashlight on. “You got any candles?”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
The candles aglow, Bailey settled in once more beside Cole on the couch. The flames flickered and danced in shadows along
the walls—the russet glow shimmering along Cole’s tanned face and arms, highlighting the golden streaks in his hair.
He smiled at her lingering gaze, and heat shot through her.
She stared at the page, willing her eyes to focus on the words.
“Okay.” He reclined. “Russian history’s not really my area of expertise. . . . Who was Ivan the VI and why was he imprisoned?”
“Ivan VI was the grandson of Ivan V, who was co-tsar with his half brother Peter the Great.”
“I didn’t realize Peter the Great had a co-tsar.”
“Most people don’t, and for all intents and purposes, he didn’t. Ivan V was the true heir to the Romanov throne, the eldest living son of Alexis I by his first marriage. So, by law, he was next in line for the throne upon his father’s death. Unfortunately Ivan V was mentally handicapped. So, to avoid a coup, or a power struggle for the throne, they came to the best agreement they could to keep the monarchy strong and unified. They named Peter Ivan’s co-tsar. Peter was the son of Alexis I by his second wife, and he ushered Russia into the modern age.”
“And Ivan VI?”
“Right. When he ascended the throne after the deaths of Ivan V and Peter, Peter the Great’s daughter Elizabeth staged a coup. She seized the throne and had Ivan and his entire family imprisoned.”
“And no one objected?”
“I’m sure some did. Elizabeth’s claim on the throne was shaky at best, and she feared an uprising, so she kept Ivan completely isolated from the rest of his family. Since he was so young and had only been tsar for a matter of months, she hoped to wipe any memory of him from the people’s minds. So she set about erasing every trace of him from all documents and anything else mentioning his name. She even sent out a decree directing the public to turn in any coins depicting Ivan for an exchange of new coins at full value.
“When Elizabeth’s nephew, Peter III, ascended the throne upon her death, he visited Ivan and sympathized with him. Some believed Peter might even release Ivan, but the hope was short-lived. Peter III died unexpectedly.