Page 29 of Deadly Charade

“I’m Derek.” The man squinted at Kira. “Your car is too new to need work. I’m guessing you’re not here for maintenance. If you’re one of them city reporters, I have nothing to say about that rabbit statue—”

“Not reporters.” Kira put her hand up. “Just art lovers trying to get some more information. Possibly inquire if your father’s estate has any other art pieces for sale?”

The man snorted in disgust. “You and every other art collector up and down the East Coast. Believe me, if I had more, I wouldn’t be up to my elbows in motor oil day in and day out.” He wore greasy jeans and a worn bomber jacket. The coat, cracked with age, had a vintage military look, complete with patches on the chest and sleeve. Maybe it had once belonged to his father—or even his grandfather.

He waved a grimy hand at them and marched inside. They took that as an invitation to follow. Derek led them into a cramped office space at the back of the garage. In the larger area, two ancient, rusty cars were up on the hydraulic lifts, but no other mechanics were in sight.

“You work alone?” Bryce asked.

“I’ve got an assistant, but I do most of the work. I own this fairy tale.” He waved his arms around the glass window separating his office from the garage.

A space heater kicked on, blowing a steady warm breeze across the square musty room that contained a desk, three mismatched chairs, stacks of invoices, and miscellaneous nuts and bolts.

Several invoices spread across the desk had red Overdue stamps across the top.

The man offered them a seat, and Bryce sat in a plastic lawn chair, hoping it would hold up. “We’re interested in the rabbit statue and would love to hear how it came into your possession.”

The man winced. “Like I’ve told others, my father and I never got along. I hadn’t spoken to my old man in years, even though we lived in the same area. He was a hoarder—junk piles from floor to ceiling. And the Youngs collected junk for a century. It was my grandfather and great-grandfather’s boxes as well. I had no time to go through it all. Nobody has that kind of time. So I hired an estate company to clean it up and sell everything.”

“Why didn’t you and your father get along?” Kira asked. She’d chosen to stand, over sitting in the flimsy chairs.

Derek ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “He wanted me to take over the family business as town historian. But I love working with my hands and wanted to have my own business, not sit in some stuffy library maintaining records. My old man didn’t like it, but he didn’t like much about me. Never good enough for him. But”—he paused as if to compose himself—“I’ve come to accept it and move on.”

Bryce had the urge to reach over and hug the guy. He knew too well the hollow ache of never being enough for a father. His own had made sure of it—every word, every look a reminder that Bryce was a disappointment. The criticism hadn’t just stung, it had carved itself into him, staying with him long after the moment had passed. And the cruelest part? Even after he’d been the one who shouldered the burden, working to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table, it still hadn’t been enough. It never was. He kept his mental grimace off his face. He hoped.

“What happened to your father’s will?” Bryce wanted to keep the man talking but also recognized the emotional toll it was taking on him. “He never mentioned anything about owning priceless antiques?”

Derek’s face hardened. “No. I didn’t have any siblings, and he left me his house and whatever money he had. I’m kicking myself for not listening to him. He tried to reach out multiple times over the past few years, but after a childhood of being told I wasn’t enough, I wrote it off as the ramblings of a crazy man.”

“So there’s nothing remaining from your father’s possessions?” Kira’s question brought Bryce back to the present.

Derek held up his hands, palms up in defeat. “Nope. The house is empty. A few people—treasure hunters probably—bought any remaining boxes from me. But the only thing of value so far was those dumb rabbit statues.”

Statues? This was confirmation that more than one rabbit existed.

Kira stared at Derek. “How many statues were there?”

“Three.”

8

THREE STATUES?

Kira blinked. This had to be what Alex was after, with the list of towns crossed off. He was searching for the remaining statues.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “you said there were three statues sold?” The existence of three complicated their investigation. If one was worth a fortune, the complete set would be priceless.

Derek nodded. “All three were up for sale in the estate auction. They all looked the same, but each had their ears pointing in different directions. I assumed they were knickknacks. Most of the items my father owned appraised for little to no value. The estate company even deemed them worthless when they sold them. You’d think a reputable estate company would have done a quick Google search before shipping them off like they were junk. I have a lawyer reviewing my case against them.”

Kira sat in a lawn chair and leaned over the paper-and-grime-filled desk. “Where did the other statues wind up?”

The man flexed his fingers into a fist, and his face flushed red. “A curator for an antique shop bought two. But when I called his store, they said the statues were either sold or misplaced.” Derek air quoted the last word.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Kira murmured.

“My father was sitting on a fortune and never told me.” Regret and grief were etched across his face. “He tried to give me the statues. They were in a box with my name on it, along with a note. But I was broke and trusted the estate company to manage my father’s belongings.”

The man had to be devastated at the mix-up. Not only had he lost his father, but those pieces may also have been a gift.