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Small-town gossip ruled Sawyer’s Peak. Everyone knew everyone else’s business and preyed on the failure of others. “It’s nothing like that. I do remember Grandpa drinking at the bar with a man named Fenton. But you say he was secretive? How so?”
Mr. Lambert grimaced. “The Young family all worked in the town government. Fenton was mayor at one point. Generations of them worked for Riley. Except the youngest. He’s a lot like you.” He pointed a shaky finger at Bryce. “Always going out of his way to disappoint the family. Gotta make your own way in life. Your family isn’t good enough for you.”
Bryce winced but held his composure. Kira refrained from telling the older man off. Respect your elders meant something. But her patience was on its last thread.
This guy was the definition of deadbeat. And yet, she found herself feeling sorry for him. For what he’d missed by not seeing Bryce all these years. It was a huge loss for him whether he knew it or not.
“Yeah,” Mr. Lambert said, “Fenton and your granddaddy used to sit at the bar and make up stories of buried treasure. They were just two old coots rambling on about art and war artifacts.”
“Did you spend time with Fenton?” Kira asked. Maybe they could keep him talking without tipping their hand. The less this guy knew about their investigation, the better.
“Nah. I like to drink alone. But I would be at the bar occasionally when the two men got together to shoot the breeze. They’d just talk about their daily finds with the metal detectors.”
Kira looked at Bryce for permission to take over the questioning. He nodded. It was evident his father opened up a bit more to her. “They never talked about finding anything big? Seems like a lot of work to always come up empty-handed.”
“Exactly. All that searching to come home broke every night. They barely made enough money to keep the bar tab paid.” He stroked his gray beard, chasing away a few stray crumbs that landed in his lap. “Except one night Fenton had too much whiskey. He claimed he was the guardian of the art world and that his father had smuggled some stolen art to West Virginia.” He pointed an oddly bent thumb in Bryce’s direction. “His grandpa pressed him about it and he clammed up, claiming he’d said too much. But I always wondered what the Youngs had gotten into. Probably smuggling moonshine if you want my opinion.”
Excitement hummed in her veins. He didn’t know it, but Fenton’s drunken ramble might be the key to unraveling one of the art world’s biggest mysteries. Historians had scoured the globe for the missing treasure of the Amber Room and wound up with more theories than actual evidence of its whereabouts. Assuming that the rabbit statues led to an actual treasure and weren’t some local conspiracy theory. But her gut urged her to keep digging.
“Well, we don’t want to intrude any longer, Mr. Lambert. It was nice to meet you.”
He nodded. “I’m so glad my good-for-nothing son found a nice woman. Come back any time.”
Kira bit her tongue, the tsunami of rage that welled surprising her. And while she could find compassion for him, he’d also made his choices that brought him to this point in time. Maybe if someone finally called him out on it—
Bryce must have noticed the darkness forming behind her eyes, because he looped his arm through hers and pulled her toward the door. “Thanks for seeing us, Pa. I’m going to send someone over to help you. Please don’t run them off.”
Mr. Lambert grunted. “Just be careful with that box. You aren’t the only ones looking for your grandpa’s old journals.”
Bryce froze. He’d been ready to bolt, thinking the day couldn’t get any worse—until his father dropped that bomb. If someone had inquired about the journals, his father’s safety might be in jeopardy.
He whipped around to face his father. “What do you mean?”
His father frowned. “Just that there were two Russian men knocking on my door asking about the journals. I chased them away with my shotgun. Told them I didn’t own anything from my pa. That everything had been destroyed in a fire.”
Of course the way the lies rolled so easily off his father’s tongue, Bryce wasn’t surprised the Russians believed him. And that very fact was what may have saved his life.
“What did the men look like?” Kira asked.
“Big. Dark hair. Spoke with accents. One said his name was Victor, and that he was from the historical preservation society or something like that. The other guy never said his name. But they seemed like bad news to me.”
“How long ago was this, Pa?”
His father scratched his beard. “Around a few weeks ago. Can’t be certain. All the days run together.”
Bryce bent by the arm of his father’s recliner, taking in the man’s gaunt appearance. Was he sick? “Please, Pa. Stay safe. I know you can take care of yourself. But why not let someone help you with cleaning and preparing meals? I want to make sure you are taken care of.”
“Oh, so now you care. You didn’t care when you left and never looked back.”
Bryce’s fingers tightened around the arm, and he forced them to relax. “You threw me out, remember?”
“Yeah, but families fight. You were supposed to cool off, not run away forever.”
He couldn’t deal with the hurt that surrounded those words. Not now. Mostly because he couldn’t tell if he’d truly wounded his father by leaving or if the man was once again trying to gaslight him.
Nevertheless . . . “Well, I won’t run away this time. If you accept my help.”
The old man nodded, which was more acknowledgment than Bryce had received in the past. He’d make sure his dad received care. Clearly the man suffered from mental and physical illnesses. And how had he not known his aunt had passed away eighteen months ago? Shame crept up beneath his collar and he raked a hand down his cheek. Not now. Don’t think about it now.
