Read Online Roses in Moonlight by Lynn Kurland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynn Kurland
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ha’pennies, waiting for just enough of them to buy this legally?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
Oliver shook his head. “Not much market for a whacking great piece of lace of that vintage, is there?”
“That’s what baffles me,” Derrick admitted. “It isn’t as if they could dispose of it at a flea market, is it? I didn’t pay any calls to seedier suspects, but I did have friendly visits with most every legitimate dealer who would be interested in that sort of thing. I came up empty-handed.”
“Most,” Oliver repeated, glancing at him briefly. “Who’d you miss?”
“This is what doesn’t make sense,” Derrick said slowly. He looked at Oliver. “The only reputable bloke I didn’t talk to was Gavin Drummond.”
Oliver rolled his eyes, which for him was an appalling display of deep emotion. “That pansy-waisted Yank? He can’t even overcharge for bad art and you think he’s in the market for stolen lace?”
“I’m just wondering about him,” Derrick said, shrugging. “I’ve often wondered if he’s using Yolynda’s gallery as a stepping-stone to bigger things.” He shot Oliver a look. “Do you know who his parents are?”
“His mother is some long-winded harridan with a penchant for cheap Victorian knickknacks and his father is a blowhard who thinks he’s the second coming of Sir Laurence Olivier, and both of them hold court in some exclusive little university in the States where their students no doubt live in fear of what’ll happen to their marks if they indulge in a very justifiable bit of sleeping to stave off the utter boredom of the classes this narcissistic pair purports to teach.” He looked at Derrick blandly. “Is that about right?”
Derrick laughed a little in spite of himself. “Something like that.”
“And why do you think Gavin Drummond’s trying to better his life?”
Derrick watched the door open and a woman in her twenties step out onto the sidewalk. She was pretty, in a bookish, spinsterish sort of way. All she was missing to complete the picture were librarian-style glasses. He wondered, absently, what she might look like if someone had cut off the thick, nondescript braid that hung down her back. He had certainly considered that a time or two the day before when he’d been putting himself in her way in the Castle’s great hall. He nodded toward her.
“Because of that lass there.”
“The one who looks like she’s been kept in storage for the past thirty years?”
“The very same.” Derrick looked at him. “Know who she is?”
“Samantha Drummond,” Oliver said. “Gavin’s youngest sister.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I believe you were shadowing her yesterday.”
“My faith is restored.”
“I wasn’t snoozing.”
“You never do.”
Oliver shrugged. “I have a reputation to maintain. Pray I don’t disappoint when you need me the most.”
“I do, laddie, every day.”
“And you think she’s involved in this?”
“I can hardly credit it,” Derrick said, “but the timing of her arrival is suspicious. As is her occupancy here with this particular set of antique collectors.” He glanced at Oliver. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s convenient,” Oliver conceded. “Find out anything useful about her yesterday?”
“She believes in paranormal happenings.”
Oliver smiled briefly. “How interesting.”
“I thought so, too.”
Oliver was silent for a moment or two, then pushed off from the wall. “See you at the station. I’ll catch her bus. I checked us out of the hotel, by the way. In cash.”
Derrick expected nothing else. They’d both spent so many years flying under the radar whilst ferreting out details for Robert Cameron that remaining as anonymous as possible was simply second nature. Derrick wondered now and again if that had made him paranoid, but he never wondered about it enough to change how he did business. He tossed his coffee in the trash, slung his backpack over his shoulders and walked
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
Oliver shook his head. “Not much market for a whacking great piece of lace of that vintage, is there?”
“That’s what baffles me,” Derrick admitted. “It isn’t as if they could dispose of it at a flea market, is it? I didn’t pay any calls to seedier suspects, but I did have friendly visits with most every legitimate dealer who would be interested in that sort of thing. I came up empty-handed.”
“Most,” Oliver repeated, glancing at him briefly. “Who’d you miss?”
“This is what doesn’t make sense,” Derrick said slowly. He looked at Oliver. “The only reputable bloke I didn’t talk to was Gavin Drummond.”
Oliver rolled his eyes, which for him was an appalling display of deep emotion. “That pansy-waisted Yank? He can’t even overcharge for bad art and you think he’s in the market for stolen lace?”
“I’m just wondering about him,” Derrick said, shrugging. “I’ve often wondered if he’s using Yolynda’s gallery as a stepping-stone to bigger things.” He shot Oliver a look. “Do you know who his parents are?”
“His mother is some long-winded harridan with a penchant for cheap Victorian knickknacks and his father is a blowhard who thinks he’s the second coming of Sir Laurence Olivier, and both of them hold court in some exclusive little university in the States where their students no doubt live in fear of what’ll happen to their marks if they indulge in a very justifiable bit of sleeping to stave off the utter boredom of the classes this narcissistic pair purports to teach.” He looked at Derrick blandly. “Is that about right?”
Derrick laughed a little in spite of himself. “Something like that.”
“And why do you think Gavin Drummond’s trying to better his life?”
Derrick watched the door open and a woman in her twenties step out onto the sidewalk. She was pretty, in a bookish, spinsterish sort of way. All she was missing to complete the picture were librarian-style glasses. He wondered, absently, what she might look like if someone had cut off the thick, nondescript braid that hung down her back. He had certainly considered that a time or two the day before when he’d been putting himself in her way in the Castle’s great hall. He nodded toward her.
“Because of that lass there.”
“The one who looks like she’s been kept in storage for the past thirty years?”
“The very same.” Derrick looked at him. “Know who she is?”
“Samantha Drummond,” Oliver said. “Gavin’s youngest sister.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I believe you were shadowing her yesterday.”
“My faith is restored.”
“I wasn’t snoozing.”
“You never do.”
Oliver shrugged. “I have a reputation to maintain. Pray I don’t disappoint when you need me the most.”
“I do, laddie, every day.”
“And you think she’s involved in this?”
“I can hardly credit it,” Derrick said, “but the timing of her arrival is suspicious. As is her occupancy here with this particular set of antique collectors.” He glanced at Oliver. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s convenient,” Oliver conceded. “Find out anything useful about her yesterday?”
“She believes in paranormal happenings.”
Oliver smiled briefly. “How interesting.”
“I thought so, too.”
Oliver was silent for a moment or two, then pushed off from the wall. “See you at the station. I’ll catch her bus. I checked us out of the hotel, by the way. In cash.”
Derrick expected nothing else. They’d both spent so many years flying under the radar whilst ferreting out details for Robert Cameron that remaining as anonymous as possible was simply second nature. Derrick wondered now and again if that had made him paranoid, but he never wondered about it enough to change how he did business. He tossed his coffee in the trash, slung his backpack over his shoulders and walked
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