The Reverend Mickey Ivester stood over the stranger's lifeless body. His ears rang from the shots that had echoed through the parking garage.
Mickey trembled and the gun tumbled from his hand. He fell on his knees to the cold concrete. He'd never even fired a gun, much less killed anyone. "Let the dead bury the dead," he muttered, as he turned to hold his friend Charlie's clammy hand.
***
Earlier...
Mickey Ivester threw his overnight bag onto the hotel bed then sat beside it. Alone at last!
Pastor of a large Methodist church in South Georgia, father of three, husband to his wife Anne, Mickey rarely had time alone. This antique show in the Atlanta Conference Center was his perfect opportunity, though he wouldn't be alone for long. Charlie Sutton, a long-time friend and detective in the Atlanta PD, was meeting him for dinner.
Mickey stood. He was anxious to finish the business end of the trip, so he could enjoy his peace and quiet. He dug through his suitcase and found it--a small worn velvet case, old and dusty. He opened the case and felt the same disbelief he'd been feeling for a year, ever since his grandmother had called him to her home as she lay dying and had directed him where to find the box.
Mickey's
grandmother hadn't been a wealthy woman. So when she'd told him, her only
grandchild, where to find the box, he'd expected something different. Letters,
maybe, or something sentimental, of value only to her. Instead he'd found this
brooch. It was a gaudy thing. About three inches across, it had clear stones
which could have been diamonds, but he didn't bet on it. They were surrounded by
a network of green stones and the whole thing formed a bow shape.
His grandmother wouldn't say how it had come into the family, only that it was priceless--beyond the worth of just the diamonds and emeralds in the piece.
After she died, Mickey put it away and nearly forgot about it, until he and Anne moved to a bigger church and new parsonage. He'd found the brooch about the same time he'd heard of the Antique Show in Atlanta, so it had sounded perfectly reasonable to have it appraised.
Mickey stepped off the elevator, the velvet box in his jacket pocket. The Antique Show took up the ballroom and a good bit of the lobby in the big hotel. Hundreds of people milled around, carrying small pieces of furniture, paintings, and goodness knew what else.
Lines snaked at almost every booth as people waited to have their treasures appraised. One woman actually held a partial suit of armor; another wore something feathered on her head--he assumed it was an antique hat--and she carried a large hatbox under her arm.
He wandered into the ballroom and found the jewelry appraiser's booth. It was a company he'd heard of, Martin and Brothers Fine Jewelers, so Mickey was prepared to believe what they said. Paste or diamonds and emeralds, it didn't matter. Since it had belonged to his grandmother, he knew he'd never sell it.
Mickey waited his turn in line. Ahead of him, a woman squealed with delight when the appraiser, a tall, balding man whose nametag said he was Mr. Fitzgerald, told her a pair of earrings was worth at least four thousand dollars.
As he stepped to the counter, Mickey pulled out the velvet box. "I have this thing--it's a pin I guess." He opened the box and offered it to Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald's eyebrows rose and he took the brooch from its box. He turned it over in his hand. He placed a jeweler's glass in his eye and studied the piece. Fitzgerald seemed more interested in an engraving on the back than the jewels. Mickey had never been able to read the flowery writing, which seemed to be in Latin.
"Where did you get this?" Fitzgerald spoke in a clipped British accent. His eyes never left the brooch.
Mickey shrugged. Something about the way the man fingered the brooch made him uncomfortable. "Inherited it." He held out his hand and Fitzgerald put the brooch in it. Mickey returned it to its velvet bed. "So, real or paste?"
Fitzgerald pursed his lips. "The jewels are real. I'll offer you three thousand dollars for it." Not an appraisal, but an offer.
Mickey put the box into his sport coat pocket. The amount surprised him. Three thousand wasn't "priceless" but it was nothing to sneeze at. "No thanks." As Mickey turned to walk away, Fitzgerald said something to the next person in line. Then he scooted to the far end of his booth and took out a cell phone. Odd, Mickey thought, but then anyone who dealt in antique jewelry might well be odd.
"Hey, Bud." Mickey turned at Charlie's familiar voice. They shook hands, hugged, laughed and stood in the lobby catching up for almost a half-hour. Every once in a while Mickey glanced up to see Fitzgerald studying him from his booth. Finally, Mickey's stomach rumbled. "This is great," he said to Charlie, "but we can do it over dinner."
Mickey and Charlie had gone to high school together, then to junior college. They'd almost entered the police academy together, but only Charlie had followed through. Mickey had listened to a different calling. "You save sinners your way, and I'll save them my way," Charlie often said, patting his gun.
"Let's go then," Charlie said. "I need a steak."
The two walked to the elevator and went one floor down to the parking garage.
"Since when have you been into antiques?" Charlie asked as he pushed open the door. Their heels clicked on the concrete floor.
"It's just a piece of jewelry I inherited from my grandmother. I'll show it to you."
Charlie laughed. "Just don't be pulling out any ring boxes in the restaurant. Last thing I need is for it to get back to--"
At that moment, a deafening explosion reverberated in Mickey's ears. "What--" he began, then saw a bloom of red on Charlie's white shirt. Charlie's knees buckled. Mickey grabbed him and they sank to the floor beside Mickey's car.
Mickey felt a weak pulse in Charlie's throat. He fumbled for the cell phone on his belt, while trying to peer over the car. With stiff, shaking fingers, he tried to dial 911. Another shot pinged the car right above his head.
Charlie moaned, an awful, bubbling sound.
"Come on, buddy," Mickey said. "Stay with me until help gets here." The cell phone was dead--no signal in the underground garage. He dropped the phone and fumbled with Charlie's gun. It felt huge and foreign in his hands. He held it down at his side and tried to peer over the car hood.
Suddenly, a scowling man stood in front of the car, the huge black barrel of a gun pointed at Mickey's chest. Mickey hoped the man couldn't see the gun he held. He hoped he wouldn't faint.
The man gestured. "Stand slowly and give me the pin."
Mickey's mouth dropped open. This wasn't an enemy of Charlie exacting some sort of revenge against a cop? Charlie got shot because of his brooch?
Mickey held up his free hand. "It's in my pocket, okay?"
"Do it slow, and don't try anything."
Feeling as if he were in a bad movie, Mickey nodded. He stood and reached into his pocket with one hand. Then he heard a door open at the other end of the garage. The man's eyes darted toward the sound, long enough for Mickey to pull up the gun and pull the trigger, without thinking what the piece of lead would do to a human body.
***
Much later, Mickey sat beside Charlie's bed in the hospital. "You'll be fine, buddy."
Charlie looked at the tubes emerging from various places in his body and grimaced.
"Turns out my grandmother was right. The brooch is pretty priceless."
Charlie raised his eyebrows.
"Don't know where she got it. But the legend is it belonged to Queen Victoria. It was given to her by the man that some say was her father."
"You're killing me here," Charlie said, his voice hoarse. "Why does it matter who gave her the thing?"
Mickey shrugged. "I don't know anything about British royalty, and I don't care. But apparently there was a rumor back then that Victoria was illegitimate. Not really the heir to the throne."
Charlie glared at him. "So?"
"The inscription is in Latin, but it says 'to my daughter.' If this guy was her father, then none of the current royalty is really descended from kings--just from a male secretary. That's what Fitzgerald said when they picked him up."
Charlie stared at the tubes and machines. "I'm gonna get some sleep. I need peace and quiet."
"I've had enough peace and quiet," Mickey said. "I think I'll go home."
Copyright ©2006 Kimberly Brown All Rights Reserved