Ripped From the Pages

“Rascal,” Derek said, shrugging. “Scalawag.”

 

 

“For real?” I was puzzled. “As fired up as Henri was, that’s an awfully weak slur.”

 

“There were women present,” Gabriel surmised. “If he’d used stronger terms, the men would’ve kicked his ass.”

 

“I wanted to slap him,” I said, my fists bunching up at the memory. “I mean, rascal isn’t the worst expletive in the world, but how dare he say anything like that to Guru Bob. It’s not his fault his grandfather never gave that stuff back. And hey, Guru Bob went over there to let those people know their stuff was still safe and they could have it anytime. So gee, Henri, maybe you should’ve said, Thank you, Badger, instead of calling him all those rude names.”

 

Gabriel snorted while Derek leaned over and gave my hand a comforting stroke. “Robson deliberately put himself in that role, darling. He knew what was coming, even predicted there would be some confrontations. I’d say we got off easy if Henri was the only one attempting to stir up trouble.”

 

“There’ll be more,” Gabriel warned.

 

“I agree,” Derek said soberly. “The others might have longer fuses, but a few of them will end up taking potshots, too.”

 

I let out a little moan at the thought of more clashes with the French families. “The sooner we get rid of all that stuff, the better.”

 

“Agreed.” Derek drained his beer. “I didn’t care for Henri threatening to go to the newspapers, either.”

 

I turned to Gabriel. “How do you plan to protect the caves from Henri and rude reporters and any other troublemakers who come along?”

 

“The usual way,” he said nonchalantly. “Satellite technology, surveillance drones, big guys with guns.”

 

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

 

Derek bit back a smile. “I think he just told you, love.”

 

I frowned at the two of them. “Drones? Are you kidding?”

 

Gabriel shrugged. “They work. It’s a good way to keep an eye on things. I’ve also installed motion sensors that’ll activate closed-circuit cameras.”

 

“You’ve already installed them?”

 

“Babe,” he said, and left it at that.

 

“Right. Of course you have. You know what you’re doing. But drones? Wow.” I took a long sip of beer. Times had changed.

 

“Brooklyn,” Derek said as he tossed his beer bottle in the plastic recycling crate, “we’ve got to return those calls from the media people who want information.”

 

I winced. “With everything else going on, I forgot all about that.”

 

“We’ll split up the list. You call half and I’ll call half.”

 

“That’ll help ease the pain.”

 

He smiled. “And while I’m thinking about it, I’d like to get those photos you showed to the French folks. I want to scan them and send them to Interpol in case any of the items have been reported stolen.”

 

I pulled the pictures from my purse and handed them to him. Gabriel was smart enough to take off then, and after he’d left, Derek and I discussed our strategy for dealing with the media. I wanted to make sure we had our stories straight in order to present a united front for the sake of the Fellowship and for Guru Bob.

 

“Not that he has anything to hide,” I said quickly. “I mean, none of us do. We just happened to find Mr. Renaud’s body. And thank goodness, the sheriff’s detectives are convinced that nobody living here today could’ve killed him. End of story.”

 

“We both know it’s not the end of the story,” he said.

 

“No, of course not, but we’re not going to discuss anything about the artwork and furnishings we found, right?”

 

“That’s right,” he said as he cleared the table. He wrapped the remaining cheese in plastic wrap and stuck it in the fridge. “At least, not during this first round of calls. It’ll come up eventually, though.”

 

“Sooner than we think,” I muttered.

 

“Now that the French families know, it’s only a matter of time.”

 

“And who can guess what fresh hell they’ll stir up.” I folded the paper with Guru Bob’s notes, tore it neatly in half, and handed Derek one of the sheets. “Here are your names. I guess we should get started.”

 

“All right. I’ll make my calls in the office.” He studied my face. “Something’s bothering you.”

 

He knew me too well. I held up the paper with the list of names. “I’m concerned that one of these guys on the list will try to turn the story into another Robson Benedict exposé.”

 

“You still feel the need to protect him.”

 

“I do,” I said, unsure how to explain my feelings. “He’s . . . vulnerable. It’s because he has so many followers and they’re all thriving up here. People can be weird about that. It’s as if they don’t approve of all this positivity. They don’t understand it.”

 

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