Chapter Three

A glint of light crept through the curtains in the room, rousing Cecily from sleep. She rubbed her eyes and stretched while vignettes of dreams flashed behind her eyelids. A child again, she'd been scampering through Mae and Gus' home, the very same opulent house she was in now on Grand Avenue in Des Moines, Iowa.

Her dream began on the main level, anchored by the same hardwood floors throughout. She swept through the great room with its mahogany bookshelves flanking the fireplace. From there, she entered the dining room where holiday meals were shared. She tiptoed toward the armed chair at the head of the table and stepped on the shiny metal button set into the floor. Mae told her the button was once used to summon servants from the kitchen. Ah, the kitchen, her favorite room in the house with its abundance of white cabinets and stained-glass fronts, a large, round table where they’d taken most of their meals, and the French doors leading to the enormous back yard.

In her dream, something nudged her toward the grand staircase with the brass railing. At the top of the landing, she'd discover eight bedrooms with a green marble washstand in every room. Another endearing leftover Mae said from when the house was built in late eighteen-hundreds. The master bedroom sat at the end of the long hallway, Mae and Gus' room, complete with sewing room and renovated master bath.

The last two bedrooms on the left side of the hallway—closest to the master—were locked as usual, the intimidating, silver padlocks glaring back at her. She couldn't recall a time those inaccessible rooms weren't locked. On the right side of the hallway, sat Elliott and Marcel's bedrooms, and nestled beside them, hers and Calder's.

She bolted upright when a thought interrupted her dream, forcing her to abandon sleep. The door to Calder's room was closed but it shouldn't be locked. With a burst of energy, she scrambled from bed, pulled a pair of worn-out jeans over her hips, plucked a fuchsia tank top from her open suitcase and slipped it over her head. Barefoot, she walked from her room and listened for sounds of life in the house. Eerily quiet, which meant Mae was no doubt in the kitchen and Elliott and Marcel off shuttling clients in their pseudo limo service. With outstretched arm, she paused at the door of her brother's room and drew a deep breath. You can do this, Cecily. You have to do this, no matter how much it hurts.

Drakkar, Calder's characteristic scent, lingered in the air and nearly severed her at the knees. She drew a deep breath to steel her nerves and then closed the door behind her. She'd find the same scent on the pillows and pervading his clothes in the walk-in closet. God, you can do this, Cecily, you must do it. Her feet stumbled toward the four-poster bed and eventually the nightstand. She thumbed through several books he'd been reading, her fingers halting on his distinctive writing in the well-used calendar/address book. So many nuances about her twin were identical to hers. She could have just as well written the names, the dates and the events.

Phone numbers, notations about work-related meetings, luncheons and seemingly insignificant locations stared back at her. Why so many out-of-town events? She made a mental note to ask Marcel if his so-called limo service provided transportation beyond the city limits…way beyond. Hmm, perhaps, the distant locations weren't so insignificant after all. If Calder had been involved in dubious undertakings, he'd never leave his personal address book in the open for everyone to see. He was too smart for that.

She scanned the richly decorated room and the dark, patterned drapes covering the window. Definitely masculine in tone and design. Think, girl, think. She slapped a hand to her forehead, the muffled words slipping from her mouth, “Of course, the secret panel.” With renewed determination, she walked toward the large wall opposite the bed and counted off thirteen panels (Calder's lucky number). Like she had done so many times when they were children, she wedged a fingernail beneath the single panel on the right and eased the wood forward. It released with a familiar popping noise. Acutely aware of the dread rumbling in her gut, nostalgia washed over her as she stared at the hidden contents.

She removed a piece of faded green fabric, folded in thirds and tied with the same color cord. It felt heavy in her hand. Again, dread gripped her but she'd have a better chance of forcing herself to stop breathing than walking away now. With trembling fingers, she untied the cord and allowed the fabric to fall away. A shiny, silver knife lay in her hand. No, it looked more like a dagger with a six-inch blade and ornate carvings on the pearl handle. One such carving was of a serpent wrapped around a knife. And the cross with a loop at the top? Wait . . . hadn’t she seen the same tattoos in blue ink on Marcel’s shoulder and arm? There had to be a connection between this knife and Marcel. And, why in hell would Calder hide a dagger in the wall?

Next, she picked up a book from the secret cubby and flipped through the pages. It wasn't a book but a journal with entries penned by Calder . . . dates and one-word entries that meant nothing to her. Agony clutched her heart. So, twins did keep secrets from one another. She never thought she'd see this day, not between her and Calder.

She tucked the journal and the dagger under her arm, replaced the panel and rose on shaky legs. Marcel would tell her nothing, of that she was certain. She'd have to dig deeper, find out about the dagger, try to decipher the notations in the journal and make a call to the local funeral home. If they wouldn't help her, she'd drive to St. Louis, speak to the coroner and get his version of the incident and a copy of the death certificate.

Her bones ached again. She imagined psychic folks would call it her sixth sense, an anomaly she acquired at birth or inherited from some long, gone ancestor. The premonitions were a curse sometimes, but also a help when she needed them most in life. Another thing kicked in, an invisible aura of deceit. It hung around her like a funereal veil. Her brain was too cloudy right now to determine whether the aura was nefarious or a result of her overactive imagination. She knew Marcel almost as well as she knew herself. His eyes had shifted one too many times when she questioned him about Calder's death at the cemetery, and what the hell was up with Elliott? Why did Marcel say, “He dilutes all his problems with alcohol these days?”

With her last breath she'd find out what Calder, Marcel and Elliott were keeping from her. She wouldn't quit until she knew how her brother really died.

* * *

Cecily found Mae in the kitchen reading the newspaper with a steaming cup of coffee beside her. “Good morning, Mae.”

Peering over the paper, Mae smiled. “Morning, dear. How did you sleep?”

“Better than I thought I would. I'm sure my familiar childhood bed had something to do with that.”

Mae wiggled out of the chair, crossed to the counter and poured her a cup of coffee. “Two creams, just as you like it,” she said returning to set the cup down in front of her.

Cecily took a sip and looked up. “Mae, do you think I could use your car for a while today?”

“Of course, but why don't you take Gus' Ford Escape parked next to mine in the garage? In fact, use it as long as you're home.”

“Thanks.”

Mae’s long, silver hair flounced when she nodded toward a rack near the outside door. “Keys with the yellow ring. Where you off to?”

“Oh, nowhere in particular; thought I'd head downtown, do a little shopping.”

“Sounds lovely. I'd join you but I have Garden Club this afternoon at Miranda Whiteside's. You remember her, don't you, dear?”

Cecily smiled. “Oh, yes. I remember her picking daisies in heels and pruning roses in the evening gown she wore to last night's Metro Opera performance.”

“I think that sums her up perfectly.” Mae came to her feet. “I'll see you at dinner tonight.”

“Yes, six o'clock.”

As soon as Mae pulled out of the garage, Cecily called Iowa State University of Science and Technology and made an appointment with a metallurgist, a man by the name of Stephen Oliver. She had to speak to him about the dagger, see if he could shed light on the ominous knife. Although on summer break, the man seemed more than eager to meet with her that very afternoon.

Forty-one miles and an hour later, she pulled into Ames, followed the directions to the parking lot at the University and then entered the building where Oliver said to meet him. The man was younger than he sounded on the phone. Brown hair met the collar of his white shirt and matched the color of his eyes. The round face enhanced his youth, but the thick, black-framed glasses screamed academic geek or major book nerd. She hoped an intellectual brain went along with that scholarly appearance.

“Have a seat Miss . . .”

“Cecily, Cecily Sizemore. Thanks so much for agreeing to see me.”

“I hope I can be of help.”

She settled into a chair on the other side of his desk. “Me, too.”

“You mentioned you'd like to know a little about a knife you came across.”

“Dagger, I believe, but first, tell me what a metallurgist does.”

“Of course. I take it for granted people know.” Elbows on the desk, he leaned forward. “Most don't. We like to call ourselves scientists who specialize in metals, steel, aluminum, iron and copper. We work with alloys too, metals mixed with each other, or other elements to create materials with specific properties.”

“Sounds complicated. Do you perform a lot of your work in the field, you know, architectural digs and that sort of thing?”

He sighed. “Unfortunately, no. We spend most of our time in offices, laboratories and manufacturing facilities, or like me, in a college setting. A small percentage work for the Federal Government.” He extended an arm across the desk and opened his hand. “So, the dagger, as you call it, I assume you brought it?”

She dug in her bag and placed it in his hand. And then she watched his expressions change as he studied it. He flipped it over several times, held it up to the light overhead and then turned it this way and that. Next, he lifted his hand up and then lowered it, as if weighing its worth. While she squirmed in the chair, she wondered what his silence meant. She did her best to tamp down her accelerated heartbeat. “Well?” she said after a lengthy time ensued. “What do you think?”

He examined the blade, ran his hand over the twisted serpent on the pearl handle and at last, blew a light whistle. “It's quite detailed, isn't it?”

“Yes, what do you suppose those designs mean on the handle?”

“They're symbols, religious or perhaps mythological. I need to examine them under a microscope before I commit.” Dagger still in hand, he lifted his chin and caught her eyes. Fudge. The color of his reminded her of chocolate fudge. “Where did you say you got this?”

“I didn't, but it's been in the family for years. When my aunt died, she left it to me.” She hated to lie but until she knew whether or not the dagger was related to Calder's death, she wanted to play it safe.

“As I said, I need to examine the piece up close. Any chance you'd be willing to leave it for a day or two? I'll be happy to write out a receipt that it's on temporary loan to the University, technically, the Department.”

“Yes, I can do that. You said you'd look closely at the symbols but will you be able to determine what it's made from?”

His mocking smile made him look even more boyish. “I didn't say, but yes, I should be able to come up with a breakdown of metals.”

Cecily stood and offered a hand. “Thank you. If you'd be so kind to write out that receipt, I'll return in two days for your analysis. What do I owe you?”

“Oh, nothing. I can't take money for this, against the rules and all that.” He dipped his chin and looked over those ebony frames. “However, if you'd like to make a donation to the college, I wouldn't object.”

“I'll hit the office on my way out,” she said with a vigorous nod. “Thank you, Mr. Oliver.”

“You're welcome. Send me a text on Friday and I'll meet you here again.”

“Have a good day.”

“And you, Miss Sizemore.”

After slumping behind the wheel of the Escape, Cecily expelled a long breath. She relived the many expressions that had crossed Oliver's face as he turned the dagger over in his hands. A flash of surprise flitted through his eyes and then they widened. He seemed to compose himself after that, working hard, in her opinion, to school his features. She tapped her lips with a finger. Did he know a lot more at first glance than he let on?

Seconds later, she turned the key in the ignition and drove from the parking lot.

Next on her agenda, a meeting with Mr. Bridger at the mortuary.