Kitty Steals the Show

back.”

“You can’t exactly walk up to some guy’s door, knock, and ask to go searching for his dead great-aunt’s lost journals,” I said.

“I can’t.” He pointed at his scowling face and rough appearance, then pointed at me. “You might be able to.”

I huffed. “Oh, come on! You can’t expect me to try to sell that story to a total stranger.”

“That’s what I think—but for some reason she doesn’t want me breaking in and grabbing the stuff.”

“No breaking and entering,” Ben said. “Especially not in a foreign country, not while you’re still on parole. Not ever.” Ben glared, and Cormac actually lowered his gaze, chagrined.

I started to ask why they didn’t just write a letter or make a phone call explaining the situation, then realized—who would believe that? The nephew might not believe someone telling him this in person, but he wouldn’t be able to ignore the plea, like tossing a letter in the trash.

The story was far-fetched, unlikely. I sympathized.

“Are you sure she isn’t trying to get part of her old life back?” I said.

Cormac pursed his lips, engaging in another of their silent, internal discussions. He tilted his head and said, “Wouldn’t you?”

I glared across the table at him. At them. I was going to get roped into this, wasn’t I? They weren’t just playing on my sympathy, they were playing on my curiosity. I’d chase the story. It might have been crazy and misguided. It might even have been sad, another reason to pity the tragic woman who’d attached herself to Cormac. But it also couldn’t hurt to try. What was the worst that could happen? The British equivalent of a restraining order? I knew better than to ask that question.

“Ben?” I said, glancing over.

He shrugged. “It never hurts to ask. But if he says no and kicks us out, are you going to be okay with that?”

“We just have to make sure he doesn’t say no.”

Cormac slid over a piece of paper with a name and phone number written on it. What could I do but pick it up? He watched, his hunter’s gaze cool and steady, as I pulled out my phone and dialed the number, writing a quick script in my head.

After only a couple of rings, the other end of the line picked up and a female voice answered. “Nicholas Parker’s office.”

I glanced at Cormac, thinking I maybe should have gotten a little more information about Nicholas Parker, apart from the belief that he was Amelia’s great-great-grandnephew, before calling. Oh well. “Hi, may I speak to Mr. Parker, please?”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“My name’s Kitty Norville, I have some information for him.” Maybe that would be enough. I didn’t even know what kind of office Parker had. Doctor? Lawyer? Stockbroker? Hairdresser? Lawyer, I bet.

“One moment, please.”

Waiting, I imagined what kind of indignant conversation Nicholas Parker and his secretary were having. Kitty who?

Then a male voice came on. “This is Nicholas Parker.” Tenor, BBC British, the kind of voice that narrated nature documentaries, that automatically inspired confidence in a backwoods American. Surely I’d be able to explain the situation to him.

My script kicked in. “Hi, I’m Kitty Norville, I host a radio show and I’m tracking down a story you might be able to help me with.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you. You’ve been in the news recently, I think.”

Right. Now, was that a good thing or a bad thing? “I have some information about a distant relative of yours, a great-aunt, I think. Amelia Parker?”

“Yes. She’s a bit of a family legend, came to an awful end in America if I remember right. Something of a scandal. I only know the family stories. I don’t even know if any of them are true.”

I took a deep breath. “What would you say if I told you I have a message for you from her?”

I expected the long pause. The question was, would there be a click of him hanging up at the end of it. But no, he answered. “I’d say I thought it was a bit odd.”

British understatement, gotta love it.

“She died, but that wasn’t the end of it. If you’ve heard of me then you know I deal with some pretty crazy stories, and this one’s a doozy. Can we meet in person?”

“I’m really not sure what to say, Ms. Norville. If you have some artifact that belonged to her, surely you can send it—”

“I said I have a message from her. I’d really like to talk to you about it. I can come to your office.” A nice, familiar, public place. That should have been comforting.

He sounded subdued, nervous. Of course he did. “I suppose I have a few minutes to spare this afternoon.”

“That’s all I need,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. He gave me the address and a time, and I promised to be there before hanging up.

I grinned at Cormac. “What do you know? Diplomacy beats breaking and entering.”

He sighed, relief softening his features. “Thank you.”

Chapter 9

THE THREE of us took a cab to Nicholas Parker’s office, which was a couple of neighborhoods over in Bloomsbury. The address was in a row of picturesque town houses, painted white with geraniums in flower boxes and with wrought-iron fencing in front. A short set of steps led to a red front door. Next to it, a brass plate announced PARKER, ALDRITCH, SOLICITORS.

“You ready for this?” I asked Cormac. He was searching the windows, as if he could see past the gauzy curtains to the shadows within. As for Amelia, I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking. You leave the world for a hundred years, then return, incorporeal, in search of an object you lost, or descendants, or some scrap of connection. Filtered through Cormac, a century dead, I didn’t know her well enough to be able to guess. I hoped this was worth it.

I opened the door; Cormac followed me inside, and Ben followed him, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket.

Ahead of us a set of stairs was blocked by a gate that said NO ADMITTANCE. To the right was a doorway that led to what was probably a parlor or sitting room in the house’s earlier days. It had been converted to a reception area, with several nicely upholstered chairs and a small coffee table of antique mahogany holding copies of high-end architectural and travel magazines. Decoration included bookshelves, tasteful knickknacks, and copies of Impressionist paintings that might have been hanging here for a century. A desk and a young, polished receptionist sat as guardians to a far doorway.

All three of us were out of place here.

“Hi,” I said, moving forward to the desk, letting momentum carry me. “I’m Kitty Norville, I have an appointment with Mr. Parker.”

The prim woman flashed a brief glance at us before looking over her shoulder at the door. “Yes, he’s expecting you.”

“Thanks.” We went to the second door, and I wondered if I should have come alone. We looked like a pack moving in, intimidating. But Cormac needed to be here, to plead our case, and we weren’t going to leave Ben behind.

Nicholas Parker might have been pacing, waiting for us. We caught him stopped by the window, looking out at the street, hands clasped behind his back, fingers twined anxiously. He glanced over his shoulder and sighed. He was in his thirties, clean-cut with upper-class polish, perfect shirt and tie, and neat hair. The jacket to the suit, charcoal gray, hung over the back of the chair. He had meat on his bones and probably spent time at a gym. A gold