“You’re going to give the old boy a stroke.” I rose and caught her from behind in a hug. “Now then. Care to tell me what it is that’s got you so excited?”
I nuzzled her neck. It’s a nice neck for nuzzling.
She laughed and settled back against me.
“I’m about to make you a very happy man,” she said.
“You do that here and we’ll have to haul old Burris out in a box.”
She turned in my embrace and draped her arms around my neck.
“Your Mr. Fields not just a cook in the eighth regiment of the Kingery Division of the second battalion of the Sixth Army of the West. He was a private cook, for an officer.” She rubbed the tip of her nose against mine. “Care to guess the name of that officer?”
“You don’t say.”
“I don’t. The records do. They knew each other well, my bleary-eyed intended. Didn’t you say they both denied ever meeting the other?”
“I did. They did.”
“Then you were right. Everybody lies.”
“You don’t.”
She smiled and kissed me.
A door down the hall slammed. We separated.
“There’s more.” Darla nodded toward the maze of papers she’d spread across the floor. “Someone was cooking the books. Nothing balances. Supplies were being bought and paid for, but weren’t being delivered. Dead soldiers were being paid after being buried. Someone in the Sixth was robbing the Kingdom blind.”
“Any idea who?”
She sighed. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. So much is missing. But they weren’t even trying, Markhat. Was no one reading anything?”
“I doubt it. The War wasn’t going well. And then it ended, the Kingdom collapsed and…” I shrugged. “Well, they put old Burris on the case. How much are we talking, just guessing?”
“Tens of thousands. Hundreds, perhaps.”
“Enough to set yourself up in style after the War.”
“Weren’t the Lethways already rich?”
“That’s a post-War house they’re in.”
“The Fields too.”
“Could just be coincidence. But why lie about serving together?”
Darla glared at the mountain of papers. “I’ll need more time. Lots more time.”
I chuckled and took her hand. “You’ve got a business to run, young woman. We’ll stick around until Burris locks the doors. But I don’t want to catch you hanging around here tomorrow. I think the Master Sergeant has designs on your person.”
She giggled. “I do like older men.”
Burris emerged down the hall, bearing a platter of biscuits and coffee.
“Well, don’t let me stand in the way of true love.”
She rushed down the hall to help Burris with the platter. I watched her go, then turned back to yet another box of forgotten scribbles and useless ciphers.
Damned if Darla and I didn’t spend the entire day and a good part of the evening in the Barracks.
When we finally emerged, dusty and bleary-eyed, we had established that Lethway and Fields were lying about their service together. And Darla was convinced that the Sixth was used as a private bankroll by someone high in the chain of command.
They’d been sloppy enough to leave plenty of tracks. Darla explained it to me, but most of the details just smiled and waved in passing. But what I did have a firm grasp of was the concept that money had been taken in for Army expenses that were never actually paid.
Darla was sure she could eventually lay the blame at the embezzler’s feet, if she had the time and access to the Barracks.
I reminded her such a feat might take months, even years, if the records were there in the first place. And, I pointed out, there were more direct means to find the answers that related to Lethway and Fields.
I planned to just show up and ask. And when they denied everything, I’d suggest that the Regency might conduct its own review of the records, if, for instance, someone from House Avalante suggested such an investigation.
Kicking a finder to the curb is one thing. Giving the Regency the boot is quite another.
For the first time since that morning Darla had bribed me with sticky buns, I felt like I was working the case.
I dropped Darla off at her place, and kissed her goodnight beneath her tiny yellow porch. I knew she was hoping I’d ask her to come with me on my visit to Mr. Fields, but knowing the reception I was going to get, I didn’t ask.
The cab rolled away from Darla’s neat little house. I could see her standing in the window, watching me go.
“Where to, pal?” called down the cabbie.
I gave him the address to the bakery. I was hoping Fields would still be there, even though it must be closing. Normally I don’t like to bother a man at his work, but I didn’t think he’d be any happier to find me on his doorstep at home.
My sleepless the night before was catching up with me. I put my face in the cab’s window and let the cool evening air rush past. Rannit stinks in my neighborhood, but closer to the bakery, it smelled of meals cooking and fresh-cut grass.
I wasn’t exactly revived when we arrived, but I felt a bit more coherent. The cab pulled right in front of the bakery, and I clambered out and paid the cabbie and sauntered to the doors.
They weren’t locked yet. The CLOSED sign was nowhere to be seen.
But neither was Mr. Fields, or anyone else.
Call it a sixth sense. Call it a touch of Mama Hog’s Sight. Call it what you want. But the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and a cemetery chill scampered down my spine. When I opened the door, I did so slowly, and as it opened I slipped my hand inside and caught that cheery little bell and I put my pinkie finger inside it to silence its cheery little ring.
Then I darted in and closed the door carefully behind me.
Voices. I heard voices, from the kitchen. Male and low and angry. In no way did they suggest a discussion about cinnamon was taking place.
I moved gingerly across the tile floor, thanking the Angels it hadn’t rained. My shoes would have squeaked, had they been wet. And if my hunch was right, squeaky shoes and tinkling bells were a good way to get killed, in that place and at that time.
The closer I moved to the swinging gate that led behind the counter, the better I could hear.
One of the speakers was Mr. Fields. There were two others. One did most of the talking. The other added occasional grunts or snorts to the conversation.
“…going to tell us what we want to know,” said a voice.
“I’ve told you I don’t know a damned thing,” replied Mr. Fields.
“He’s lying,” said the other voice.
“Could be,” said the first. “Maybe he needs reminding who it is he’s stalling.”
Then there came a crash and a rattle. Tin pots fell, glassware shattered, men grunted and cussed.
Outnumbered two to one, and with no assurances that Fields wouldn’t turn on me just out of spite, I did the only thing I could think of, which was go back to the door and yank it open and give that cheerful little bell a damned good shake.
The ruckus in the back abated, just a bit.
“Mr. Fields?” I called, good and loud. “Agent of the Regency. Time for your food service license inspection. Loomis, Charles, you two get started. Milton, take the back.”
