Ormolu

388

For RB and Aine-Maire, without whom this story would have neither meaning nor life, and without whom my life would have far less meaning. Ta sibh araon i mo chroi go deo. Profoundest thanks to Melissa, whose insight, intelligence, and friendship lit the path.

Originally published in Venice Place Chronicles III.

---

“‘Turlan’s Junkque Shop’ was, unfortunately, exactly as Starsky had remembered it: every available inch of space covered with the precarious heaps of discarded ephemera from which the resident pack rat derived the legal portion of his income; noxiously musty odor; the entire premises dark as a cave. Sticking to the narrow trail that wound a serpentine path to the cash register, Starsky began to carefully wend his way through the maze.

“Turlan! Turlan? You in here somewhere?”

The response might have only been a few monosyllabic huffing sounds, but it offered the remaining clue needed as to his quarry’s approximate location. Starsky peered cautiously over the long glass-faced counter and down at the owlish figure staring forlornly up at him from his perch on the low stool. “Hey, Turlan. What’s up?”

“Whaddya want?”

“Good to see you, too. You’ve got a real winning personality, anybody ever tell you that? What I’ve always loved best about you. Well, that and the hair.”

Reflexively shooting a hand up to smooth his wildly fuzzy crown, the little proprietor began to whine. “I’m legit! Everything in here is perfectly above board, no matter what anyone says.”

“I know, ya didn’t do it and you’ll never do it again. Good for you.” Starsky grinned broadly and handed down a few photocopied sheets of paper, upsetting the contents of a box on his way back up. “Relax. Just want you to take a look a some pictures in case anyone tries to procure your talents as a fence. Someone who doesn’t know you’ve gone all legal and upstanding on us.” At the indignant puff of response, Starsky set out on the entirely hopeless task of returning the assorted debris to its home in the carton. He had managed to locate about a third of the spilled junk and was fingering a curiously pleasing metal disk – coin? – when Turlan’s high-pitched voice assaulted his ears once again.

“Don’t have ’em, never seen ’em, wouldn’t buy ’em if I did.” The sheets were thrust roughly back in Starsky’s direction.

Feeling his blood pressure rising in direct proportion to the rate of speed at which his patience was evaporating, Starsky inhaled deeply. “How about you keep them for reference,” he said, thrusting the papers back from whence they came, ”just in case?”

Turlan folded his arms defiantly and blinked up in what Starsky took to be the man’s best attempt at an aggressive pose. Sadly for him, the combination of stocky body, random tufts of white hair all standing at attention, and horn-rimmed glasses that must have been correcting a killer case of myopia, conspired to create an effect far more comedic than threatening. “I know all about you,” he almost hissed. “You can’t do this. You’re not a cop anymore.”

Though inarguably true, the unexpected words pierced Starsky like daggers, causing very real physical pain. It took a few seconds of regrouping before he found both the breath and voice to respond. “These belong to a friend – a police lieutenant’s wife – stolen from their house three days ago. They’re heirlooms, don’t mean anything to anybody else but them. Every cop – every former cop – who is, or has ever been on the job is out looking for these and you do not want to be holding the bag when we find them. Help and collect a reward or hold out and take the fall. Your choice. Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.” Angrily, he slapped a hand down on the counter glass, turned to leave, then spun back to face the startled shop owner. “And just for your information, I may be on disability, but they didn’t take my shield!” It was a slight, perhaps irrelevant distinction under the circumstances, but it made Starsky feel just a little better to have said it. His hand was already on the door handle before the increasingly irritating voice called after him.

“Hey! That’ll be two fifty.”

“What?”

“You’ve got something of mine. Either put it back or pay up. Two fifty.” Turlan extended his hand expectantly while Starsky just stared, completely lost. Impatiently, Turlan pointed to Starsky’s left hand. “The coin. You’ve been flippin’ and pettin’ it ever since you picked it up. Gimme my money or put it back.”

Starsky stared at the object in his hand as if it had somehow materialized there from thin air. For all he could remember, it might have. With slow precision he held it up for Turlan’s benefit, set it forcefully down alongside a dusty Tiki Figure with a missing arm, and stalked out the door.

Leaning briefly against a nearby mailbox while his eyes adjusted to the shock of the bright May day, Starsky felt a bit like a mole snatched from its underground sanctuary and exposed to the harshness of sunlight. In truth, he also desperately needed a few minutes to decompress before returning to Hutch. No matter what spin he tried to put on it, no matter how cheerful a face, the fact remained that his partner would know something had happened. Hutch’s radar was almost infallible in that regard. Have to get used to it sometime, Starsky. You’re not a cop anymore.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool of the metal. Yeah? So what the hell are you, then? Even more maddening than the recent exchange, Starsky found himself increasingly bothered by something else entirely. The coin – an object he hadn’t even been consciously aware of holding – had left a strange coldness in its wake, its sudden absence felt keenly enough to make him seriously reconsider the wisdom of leaving it behind. “Idiot,” he mouthed, hoping to dispel whatever mood was settling down upon him. He already had a pet rock; what need did he have of a pet coin? The logic was undeniably perfect, but his feet refused to budge. Terrific.

 Anger bubbling to the surface once again, he strode in purposeful silence back into the shop, retrieved the coin, slammed two dollars and fifty cents onto the counter, narrowed his eyes at the smirking owner, and clipped out without saying a word. Idiot. As with so many other things recently, the effort at self-chastisement didn’t seem to be getting him very far.

Hutch, predictably, was stretched lazily against the car by the time Starsky rejoined him, contentedly soaking up the high California sun.

“So how’s Turlan these days?”

“How do you think? As far as I can tell, he only comes in one flavor.”

Whether betrayed by voice, posture, facial expression, or some obscure vibe detectable only by Hutch, the telltale stiffening in the figure at his side was a reliable enough harbinger of what was to come. Starsky could have lip-synched the question to follow.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I gave ‘im the copies, threatened him a little. If he gets wind of anything, I’m sure ol’ Turlan will be on the phone ASAP. Not the bravest soul in the world, y’know. He gets hives just thinking about being brought in.”

“Yeah, but what happened?”

Giving the coin a few nervous tosses up into the air, Starsky concluded that unadulterated honesty was probably the easiest course and shrugged. “He reminded me of what I’m not anymore, that’s all. I’ll get used to it. Right now it still stings.”

It was Hutch’s turn to sigh. “Starsk… ”

Starsky turned and flashed a bright-if-not-quite-convincing grin. “Hey, it’s okay. Get in the car and let’s get outta here.”

“You’d have been re-qualified,” Hutch said softly as he settled into the passenger seat. “I was with you on the course that day. You made almost everything the first time through. If you’d have decided -”

“Yeah, but I didn’t.” The words came out harsher than intended and he took a few deep breaths before continuing. “Sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you, it’s just… You’re right. I probably could have pushed past the limit and been okayed for street duty, but that’s not what we decided and I don’t regret that. Is it hard sometimes? Yeah, but I’ll adjust.” Thoughts of the private run through the police course played unbidden in his mind. While it was true that he might possibly have been able to con the panel, he couldn’t con himself. He had fought his way through, all right, but the cost had been a fourteen hour sleep when he got home and a level of exhaustion and discomfort that even Hutch wasn’t fully aware of. Starsky was glad that the decision to accept disability and try for an Academy position had been made before that March morning. If not, it would surely have had to be faced after, and that would have felt even more like defeat.

“What have you got there?”

“Hmm?” The gentle voice roused him from his thoughts, but not enough to catch the drift of the question.

Hutch nodded at the coin. “That. Found something you couldn’t live without, huh?”

Starsky actually looked at his new acquisition for the first time. “Something like that. It’s a coin, I guess. Kinda weird… never seen one like this before.” He handed it over to Hutch for inspection, then peered over his shoulder. “Well, what’s the verdict? Think we can we sell it and buy that condo on Capri?”

“We don’t want to live on Capri.” Hutch chuckled as he turned the coin slowly in the light. “What is it with you and this need to adopt things no one else wants?”

“Wouldn’t take that too far, if I were you.”

“Point taken,” Hutch agreed with a smile. “Old, but it’s certainly seen better days. I can’t even make out the date… what? Sixty nine? Can’t tell if that’s a seventeen or eighteen, though, and the image is too worn to make a stab at country of origin. You didn’t pay much, I hope?” Hutch asked as he handed it back to its new owner.

“Nah, about two bucks.” Starsky shoved it into his pocket with one hand as he turned the key in the ignition with the other. “Hey, how much time’ve we got before we have to go pick up Aunt Corrie? Don’t want to strand the only relative you actually like at the airport.”

Hutch grinned, not bothering to deny a statement both recognized as being largely true. “Dunno. What time’ve you got?”

“Two forty two, give or take.”

After a few quick mental calculations, Hutch replied, “That means we’ve got time to grab some lunch and clean up a bit first. Her flight doesn’t get in until after five.” After a few moments of seemingly deep thought, he added, “I wonder what she wants.”

“She wants to see us. She likes us, remember?”

“Yeah, but that’s not why she’s flying clear to the opposite coast. I know she’s in a state over the appraisal, but there’s really nothing we can do about that except give her moral support. And we could do that long distance.”

Starsky regarded Hutch as if he’d insulted both Lincoln and Santa in the same breath. “You are something else, you know that? Your favorite living relative – the woman responsible for some of your happiest childhood memories – comes out for a visit, and all you can think about is that she must have some kind of an ulterior motive? I swear, you’re getting more cynical by the year.”

“No, I’ve just known her longer than you have.” Hutch began counting off points on his fingers. “She makes an appraisal here in California. The piece the museum receives is a fake. Rumors begin flying about incompetence, she maintains that the object she handled was authentic. Two weeks later she just happens to get the urge to renew old family ties? Come on, Starsk.”

“You’re just sayin’ that because she embarrasses you.”

“She does not!

“Sure she does,” Starsky countered patiently. “She’s uninhibited and carries around pictures of you in the buff. Granted, you were only six months old at the time, but still. I understand, really I do, but that’s no reason to get all defensive and negative.”

“She’s going to try and drag us into something.”

“Hutch….” Starsky let out a defeated sigh.

“No, she knows we don’t have anything going at the moment, she’s got a plan, and it involves us.” In response to the disapproving glance shot his way, Hutch added, “Mark my words, Starsk. Remember last time?”

Lunch and the trip home afterward were largely taken up with discussion of the eventful and ever-interesting ‘last time.’ It was still the topic on tap as they entered the apartment, Hutch ducking in for a quick change of clothes while Starsky checked for telephone messages. It was as he was heading for the bedroom himself, still flipping the coin distractedly, that Starsky missed. Dropping at an odd angle to the floor, his newest possession did something that coins were just simply not supposed to do: it separated evenly into two parts, a yellowed piece of paper wedged tantalizingly into one half. Starsky stared at it, frozen, for several seconds before recovering enough to crouch down and get a better look.

“Hutch!”

“Starsky? What’s -” The urgent tone in Starsky’s voice produced an irrational chill, yanking Hutch from the bedroom as surely as if he’d been pulled out on a tether. Unbuttoned shirt flapping, he rounded the corner too quickly and stubbed a toe against the couch; the resulting pain barely registering. “Starsk?”

“Take a look at this.”

The sight of Starsky sitting on his heels like a catcher in a baseball game stopped Hutch short. Nothing so dire after all. What at one time would have been disproportionate relief washed over him in waves, an apt reminder of events now one year, six days old… events responsible for destroying, reshaping, and redefining everything Hutch once considered ‘normal.’ Temporarily swallowing his curiosity, he massaged a wounded toe, and waited for his heart to return to a less jarring rhythm before attempting further movement. If Starsky noticed any of this, he gave no indication- gaze remaining solidly fixed on something still hidden from Hutch’s field of view.

“Come ‘ere. The coin it. . .it just split in half. At first I thought it broke, but – ”

Broke? Hutch hobbled his way over as the unlikelihood of that statement sank in.”Coins don’t-” he paused, catching sight of the two brown disks on the floor, “-break.”

“Yeah? Well, they’re not supposed to be hollow and have notes stuffed inside of ’em, either, but-­ Just get down here and have a look, will you?”

Intrigued, Hutch knelt down and let training kick in. What had first appeared to be one one-inch diameter copper coin now gave every indication of being two; filed and fitted together carefully to form a shallow box. The ’empty’ half revealed an interior that was tarnished, but not to the same degree as the exterior. What was visible of the paper – if it was paper – looked aged. His attempt to get a better look at the filled half by encouraging it closer with his pen was halted abruptly by a restraining hand clamping onto his wrist.

“Wait.” Drawing his free hand across his eyes, Starsky chuckled. “Put the pen away. You know what we’re doing here, don’t you? We’re treating this like a crime scene. We treat everything unexpected like a crime scene.”

“Wha – ?” Hutch considered, then had to laugh as his own ponderings yielded the same conclusion. “Conditioned response, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” With a determined shake of the head, Starsky reached down and picked up both pieces, handing the empty one to Hutch while setting about the delicate task of prying the paper from its longtime home. “Well, seeing as how it doesn’t have to be photographed by C.S.U. or dusted for prints, what say we move this operation to a place with better light?”

The sunlight streaming through the largest of the living room windows suited their needs perfectly, revealing a faint-but-elaborate floral engraving within Hutch’s half of the coin.

“Someone did a lot of work on this.” Receiving no response, he thwacked his partner lightly on the shoulder. “Starsk? Hey, lookit… ” Glancing up, he saw the reason for Starsky’s distraction, and cringed – reaching out to quell an enthusiastic tug-of-war between man and paper by placing his hand over Starsky’s. “Gently,” he cautioned, visions of paper dust dancing across his mind. “Pull too hard on brittle paper and it’ll just disintegrate.” Suddenly realizing what the scene reminded him of, he added, “If that’s your fortune, keep it to yourself, huh? Work is weird enough.”

Starsky laughed as, with one more light tug, the paper came free without complaint. “Deal, but this doesn’t look like any fortune cookie I’ve ever seen. Well, what’ve we got?” Unfolding the tiny sheet with great care, he frowned, mouthed something, then shrugged. ‘”By le-om ig conay’? What kind of message is that?” Handing it over, Starsky alternated his gaze between paper and partner. “Any ideas?”

Bi liom i gconai. Nothing rang even the slightest bell. The paper itself was oddly familiar, though….

“Can I deduce from your expression that that’s not Spanish?”

“What gave you the first clue?”

“Not Hebrew or Cantonese, either.” In answer to the raised eyebrows, Starsky grinned. “Well, it’s not. Didn’t say I knew them all that well. Guess it’s not so old after all, huh?”

Still engrossed in the writing, it took a moment for that to register. “Hmm? Why do you say that?”

“Well, as you said, the paper- it would have fallen apart by now. Don’tcha think?”

“Not necessarily, espec-” The association suddenly snapped into place and Hutch grabbed Starsky’s arm excitedly. “Especially if it’s old. That’s what it reminded me of……. my books!”

“Whoa, back up. You’re losing me. What books?”

“You’ve seen them,” Hutch replied, drawing in a deep breath. “Those two 18^th century books of poetry I keep in the box? The paper is just like this. It was made of something else back then – cotton, I think? – and is pretty stable. I remember reading somewhere that the older the paper, the better it holds up. This could be really old, Starsk.”

Starsky looked unconvinced. “Yeah?”

“Yeah! Feel it. Does that feel like modem paper to you?”

“So what do you think it is?”

Hutch tried to collate all of the available data before responding. Considering what they had, it didn’t take long. “I don’t know. What do you typically write down, then hide?”

“Typically, I don’t. Dunno… combinations, I guess? Codes, passwords.” Starsky puffed out his cheeks. “Hmm. Directions to a buried treasure?”

“Only in B-movies,” Hutch said with a laugh. “Could be place, though. A meeting place you don’t want anyone else to know about. Something secretive… evidence? Proof of something, something you could use for blackmail?”

Starsky looked thoughtful, turning the other half of the coin in the light until something caught his eye. “Unless…”

“What’ve you got?”

“Initials, looks like, but I can’t read ’em. What about yours?” They traded, examined, and looked up simultaneously – sheepish grins suggesting that they’d arrived at similar conclusions.

“Damn,” Starsky said softly. “Still thinking too much like a cop.”

“Initials, flowers.. .it’s a keepsake. Love note?”

“Not a very wordy one.”

“A people of brevity, maybe,” Hutch offered lightly. “If we could narrow down the country of origin, we-” The rest of his thought was cut off by the sound of the telephone ringing.

“I’ll get it,” Starsky said cheerfully, handing Hutch the other coin half and the paper. “Here. Just keep going – you’re on a roll.”

Unfortunately, the roll had already slowed to a crawl and was at a standstill well before Starsky returned.

“Have it all worked out?”

Hutch made a face. “All I started to say was, we really need to narrow it down to a country of origin. If we had that, some of the rest might fit into place.”

“Well, it just so happens we might get some help with that in a few minutes.” His face was brightened with an expression that always struck a chord of fear in his partner.

No, it couldn’t…. “Starsk? Who was that?” The sinking feeling that had formed in Hutch’s stomach was rapidly spreading.

“That was Aunt Corrie. They took an earlier flight, checked in, and are already waiting for us at Huggy’s. Who better to ask about an antique than a renowned antiques person?” Giving Hutch a quick once-over, he added with a wink, “You might want to give some thought to buttoning that shirt before we go. Aunt Corrie might think it was a fashion statement, but I’ll bet it’d make an interesting first impression on her assistant.”

Hutch rested his head against the wall and tried to convince himself that this visit would be different. It didn’t work. He thought briefly about mentioning that Aunt Corrie’s specialty was 18^th century European Decorative Arts, not exonumia, but Starsky hadn’t looked quite this happy in a long time, and he just didn’t have the heart.

~*~*~*~

“If she’s in there telling everyone another embarrassing anecdote from my childhood, I’m serious, Starsk. I’m walking out.”

“Can’t.”

 “Why not?”

“‘Cause I’ve got the keys. Now will you stop?”

“She told everyone about the socks.”

“I know she did.” It was said with tremendous sympathy, but the slowly expanding smile suggested something else altogether.

“Then – are you listening? And then she just kept plowing along. Even the fish-”

The smile evolved into an full-fledged grin. “I liked the fish story, didn’t you? That was cute.” Hand on the door handle, Starsky paused long enough to waggle his eyebrows a couple of times. “I’m betting on the hotdog/baseball tale myself. I don’t think she’s told anyone else that one yet.”

Hutch winced in mock despair, bringing both hands up to cover his eyes. “Before she leaves, I’m either going to have to pay off or kill everyone I know.”

Even discounting his aunt’s unusual gift for becoming the center of a room merely by walking into it, her table would have been easy enough to spot just by virtue of Huggy’s brightly-clad presence there. Towed through the impressive afternoon crowd in his partner’s wake, Hutch experienced an oddly familiar blend of amusement and impending doom as three heads looked up from the table simultaneously.

“There! They’ve spotted us. Wave, will ya?”

Alarmingly broad grins spread across faces focused solely on Hutch, all three of which reconvened almost immediately in a conspiratorial huddle. Hutch’s lighthearted U-turn was, not surprisingly, both anticipated and smoothly reversed by a chuckling Starsky, who whispered, “Ah-ah, come on. You can’t get out of it that easy. Smile. Hey, Aunt Corrie!”

Corrie Kettering rose from the table with all the grace of the dancer she once had been, predictably bestowing the full measure of her affection on Starsky first, while Hutch watched, amused, from the sidelines and awaited his turn in the spotlight.

“Hello, love. It’s so nice to see you out of bed. This is twice in a row now, isn’t it?”

Starsky cast a wide-eyed glance at Corrie’s attractive young assistant while Hutch, suddenly quite happy to be there, smirked without remorse. “Uh… ” he flashed his trademark grin, “.. .it’s not the way it sounds. I, uh, I was under the weather for a while and… ”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Marie wouldn’t think-” Pulling out of the embrace, Corrie looked down with a sigh and rested a hand on Starsky’s arm. “Where are my manners today? Guys, this is Marie Ashton – my assistant. Marie, this is Dave Starsky and K-”

“Hutch.”

“Hutch.” She chewed on her lower lip for a second, and smiled knowingly. “I have three names for him and they all compete-”

“How was the flight? You must be hungry – everybody order already?” Experience had taught him that, while he could only rarely completely avert disaster, small talk at least sometimes served to delay it.

“The ladies have entrusted me to prepare for them a splendid repast of Special Chicken with all the fixin’s… but I’m assuming you two’ll stick to the usual?”

“The usual’s fine, Hug. Thanks.”

Answering Starsky with a resigned shrug, Huggy grinned as he snaked past Hutch on his way to the kitchen, whispering, “Take some friendly advice? I’d be real nice to that aunt of yours, dig? She has got the serious goods on you.”

As he watched Starsky eagerly throw himself into the beginnings of an animated conversation with the two women, Hutch reflected on how long an evening this promised to be. He also knew there was no point whatsoever in trying to speed things along: Corrie had her own unique sense of timing and would share the real reason behind the reason for their arrival when she saw fit. Maybe even offer a clue as to why she felt the need to bring a secretary along….

It wasn’t until the meal was completed and all four had settled back, beers in hand, that the conversation took a serious turn. Hutch wasn’t at all convinced he was hearing quite right when it did.

“Let me get this straight. You two, you’re here to investigate the disappearance of something no one is even sure has disappeared?”

“If I were a secretary, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

The appreciative smile was the only indication that Corrie had even heard her assistant. “Maybe disappeared, maybe just replaced.”

“Okay. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“A secretary would probably be keeping minutes right about now, dontcha think?” Marie deadpanned.

“I said I was sorry,” Hutch protested, kicking Starsky under the table for the snicker. “It’s the same story now as it was two weeks ago, love. Nothing’s changed.”

Starsky, mercifully, decided to jump in at that point, and said gently, “I know, Aunt Corrie, but why don’t you tell us again? Just so we’re all on the same page, ‘kay?”

Corrie sighed. “It was just a garden-variety appraisal. Attorneys for the estate of one Jonathan Emerrist III called me in to authenticate and give written appraisal for an 18^th century decorative ormolu cup-presented to the Emerrist family by the Court of Louis XVI in 1781.”

“Orma–?”

“Ormolu,” Marie interjected, turning to Starsky. “It’s an amalgam of gold and mercury that was used to decorate all sorts of things back in the 18^th and 19^th centuries. Didn’t do a whole lot for the folks who had to work with it, but the people who could afford the big bucks didn’t seem to find that too much of a stressor. Also the name of my puppy, but that’s neither here nor there.” Drawing a squiggle in the condensation on her glass, she added, “I do type about fifty words a minute, so it’s not like I failed the test or anything. Do you type?”

“Oh, hunt-and-peck. Hutch types real good, though.  Don’t you, Hutch?  He even-ow!”

Returning his foot once again to its place beneath his own chair, Hutch glared at both his and his aunt’s partner, and jerked a thumb Starsky’s way. “He didn’t know, either.”

“No, but I didn’t-”

“Nobody would guess,” Hutch interrupted. “Nobody would ever take you for a post-grad who’s combining a Master’s and PhD. I mean, you don’t look like-” Feeling the color slowly rise from the neck and spread evenly up to his hairline, Hutch snapped his jaw shut like a turtle and wished for all the world that he could unsay that last bit.

“Don’t look like what, Hutch?”

“I. ..I… uh, what I meant was….” He sighed. “That sounded really bad, didn’t it?”

“Ya think?”

“Ken always was good with his hands,” Corrie mused. “When he was just a little-”

“Aunt Corrie? The cup?” Nearly tangible affection belied the harshness of words never intended to be unkind. Hutch could already feel the conversation spiraling out of control; adding his aunt’s propensity for veering off on unmarked and irrelevant trails could easily mean they’d still be here at dawn.

“Cup. Yes-”

“A cup of what, loveliness?” Huggy asked, grabbing a chair and joining the party. “Anything I have or can get is yours for the asking.”

“Huggy! You shouldn’t flirt with married girls like that. It’ll do nothing but get you into trouble.”

“The theory being the heartfelt words will warm your soul, you’ll lose the husband, and I can talk to you in another way entirely. Anyway, it’s not every day that two of the Three Graces choose to elevate my humble establishment by their presence.” Turning the charm on Marie, he added, “If the fair Corrie’s out of bounds, maybe I could interest you in playing Circe to my Odysseus?”

“Oh, I give up.” Hutch pushed the empty beer glass forward and rolled his eyes.

“Thanks, Mr. Bear, but I’m afraid I’ve already got a Poseidon waiting for me back home. Harry’s a diving instructor,” she explained with a shrug.

Starsky just gazed at Huggy, head on hand. “You been readin’ mythology again, Hug? Just remember where that got you the last time.”

“Never mind them, and don’t let me interrupt. You were talking about a cup?”

“Mmm. The ‘Emerrist Jewel.’ The craftsmanship, rarity, thickness of the gold -which is ninety­ nine percent intact – overall desirability, and documented provenance, all add up to a -”

“Provenance?” Starsky asked, addressing the table in general. Hutch and Marie both made to answer but Huggy beat them both to it.

“Think pedigree, like with dogs. Who made it, when, and who all has had it since.” In answer to the quizzical looks all around, he added defensively, “My cousin, Lettie, has a shop. She’s whipped up some pretty impressive provenance in her day.”

“A verifiable provenance can increase the value of an object enormously, and this one’s impeccable. As I was saying, it all added up to a healthy sum. I was comfortable placing value at between $10,000 – $15,000.”

Hutch let out a low whistle. “Pricey cup.”

“Yes, it is. It was bequeathed to the Archer Museum in Delaware. They’re a small place with practically no budget and were thrilled… at least until it arrived.”

“And you’re saying someone swapped it for a fake?” Starsky asked.

“I’m saying that the cup they received isn’t the cup I appraised. By whom or when I don’t know.”

“How many people had access?” And how did you manage to finesse this ‘visit’ into an investigation without my even noticing? Even as he thought it, Hutch already knew the answer: Corrie had always had a knack for slight of hand.

“The immediate family, I would imagine, along with at least two attorneys. The museum curator and staff. Me, of course.”

Hutch braced himself, dreading the next logical question as much as he knew it had to be asked. “Is there any possibility- any at all-that you might have been mistaken? That there aren’t actually two objects involved?”

Four people fixed Hutch with collective looks that made the space under the table look considerably more inviting than what was above.

Regarding him with the expression most often displayed by grandparents at their most indulgent, Corrie replied, “It’s possible for any appraiser to make a mistake and, were it a better fake, I might be more inclined to at least consider the possibility. It is, in fact, a very bad fake: the detail’s weak, the gold is lacquered… there are enough red flags that even a beginner would question it. Although – and this interested me no end – I would say that the mold used was made from the original.”

Starsky sat up a little straighter. “Meaning that the forger had access… ”

“Mmm.”

Volumes were spoken in the silent glance Hutch traded with Starsky.

“Okay,” Hutch began, leaning forward and rubbing the back of his neck lightly. “Let’s assume you’re right and someone did replace the original with a forgery. First of all, it’s going to be nearly impossible to prove that a crime actually took place. Secondly, it would be up to either the museum or the family to push an investigation forward. What exactly do you two hope to accomplish here?”

“The museum has offered a reward to anyone who finds the original, should such a piece exist, and be proven to be the one left to them in the will. Since I was the appraiser, my gallery has the right to investigate – as long as the family is willing. We’ll manage. They might not be enthusiastic, but they’re not calling in their lawyers, either. ‘Lawyering up’? Isn’t that what you call it in law enforcement?”

“No, it-never mind.”

Huggy stared at Starsky and Hutch expectantly. “Don’t tell me you two knights are just going to sit on your respective a–” Glancing at the woman on either side of him, he cleared his throat. “-hands and do nothing? I guess I’ll have to call in Turq and see what we can come up with.”

“No!” Both Starsky and Hutch answered simultaneously, but it was Starsky who added, “No. Of course we’ll help. We were planning to all along.” He kneed Hutch. “Right?”

“Right.” Though it was said without any trace of enthusiasm, the tone had no effect.

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I knew we could count on you. I’ll make sure you get all of the information, know who to talk to, and so forth. We can meet at the Rinnaught Museum in the morning – I had Archer send the forged cup over – so you can see what all the fuss is about.”

“Then, if I were you, I’d start with the family,” Marie offered helpfully. “Something just doesn’t gee-haw there. Whole lot of them are peculiar.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Hutch replied dryly, “I’d say it sounded as if you two already had everything arranged.”

“Double-teaming, when done well, is a thing of beauty,” Huggy said with a grin, high-fiving Corrie.

“If there’s anything we can do for you to reciprocate-”

Marie’s response was cut short by the sound of Starsky snapping his fingers. “That reminds me! Found something odd today, in a junk shop.” He rose up enough to free the coin from its prison within the pocket of his jeans. “Mind taking a look at it?”

After the brief demonstration of the coin’s rather unusual talents, Corrie took possession and turned it lightly in her hands, examining both interior and exterior, as well as the paper.

“Well-loved, wasn’t it? This isn’t really my field,” she began, then stopped as Hutch did his best to silently plead on his partner’s behalf. It must have worked, for after a barely noticeable smile directed at her nephew, she continued, “However, I do seem to recall reading something about pieces like this. Marie? You’re the scholar among us – here.”

Marie reached into her handbag and nonchalantly extracted a jeweler’s loupe and light. “You carry that with you everywhere?” Starsky was incredulous.

“Never leave home without ’em. It’s not my field either, but I know what it is: it’s called a box coin. They were popular here in the States throughout the 19^th century, but this isn’t domestic.” She glanced at Corrie and made a face. “What you need is a good exonumismatist.”

“Thanks, but I feel fine.”

“Someone who deals with what looks like coins, but aren’t, Starsk. There are several downtown we could try.” Hutch allowed himself a brief gloat at having managed to beat everyone else to the explanation this time.

“Either that, or I can introduce you to someone when you come to the museum tomorrow.” Corrie took the final swallow of her beer. “Bruce Avers is one of the top collectors in the field and he also happens to owe me one.” Her eyes sparkled unnaturally when she said it.

~*~*~*~

“You are not going to tell me you like this.” Starsky stared intently at the hideous triad of miniature figures comprising the stem portion of the cup, extended hands supporting the bowl.

“No one could like this. Okay, some people probably could, but we used to arrest them, remember?”

“I didn’t say I liked it, I said that I appreciate it.” Words seeming to fail him suddenly, Hutch started gesturing. “It’s… they’re – I mean, they’re certainly…. ”

“The product of a sick mind?”

“Starsky! They’re art. They’re artistic.”

“The Mona Lisa’s artistic. These are chubby, naked little boys with wings.”

“You’re both right,” Corrie replied with a resigned tilt of the head. “Putti. They’ve been a wildly popular motif throughout the ages, but used to excess on everything imaginable in the 18^th century: clocks, tables, candlesticks, and most things in-between. These happen to represent some of the finest figural work of the period, and the original’s even sharper. And no, I still wouldn’t want one sitting on my mantle.” Motioning toward some of the other eclectic objects cluttering the table in one of the museum’s many back rooms, she added, “I could say that about seventy-five percent of the things here. Victoriana’s even worse. I’d really hoped to be dead before it won favor, but it turns out God wasn’t that merciful.”

“It’s smaller than I’d expected,” Hutch observed.

“Mmm. A cup or chalice made for use would have been twice that size, if not more. This was strictly for show.”

“Brag piece?” Although in a vastly different league, it reminded Starsky a little of his mother’s treasured photograph of herself with Paul Muni. Snapped during a chance encounter in a restaurant, it nonetheless offered proof that she ‘knew’ the great actor, and was still shown off to anyone who would stand still long enough to look.

“I’m sure it was never called that to its face, but brass tacks? That’s exactly what it was.”

“Still is,” Marie contributed from behind a stack of reference books. “The Emerrist clan’s been in a custody battle for more than a hundred years over the silly thing, and the way they talk? You’d get the impression we’re dealing with the Holy Grail here.”

“Sounds like a fun family,” Starsky said to Hutch with a sigh.

Hutch nodded. “Which of them are we going to have the pleasure of meeting today?”                                           ·

Accepting the few pages of carefully written notes and directions handed her by Marie, Corrie read off the suggested itinerary. “You should probably start with William Emerrist. He took care of his uncle Jonathan for the last few years of the man’s life and, I gather, fully expected to receive the cup as compensation for his trouble.”

“A little bitter, maybe?”

All turned toward the sound of Marie’s derisive snort.

“The argument could be made,” Corrie replied with a smile, passing the papers to Hutch. Hutch gave them a cursory glance, then did a double take. “You fill up the car this morning?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Look’s like we’ve got a road trip on our hands.” As Starsky moved in close enough behind to browse over a shoulder, Hutch added, “Just our luck; Emerrist seems to have forsworn the city in favor of the suburban elite.”

~*~*~*~

“I saw a place just like this once in a movie,” Starsky said as he exited the car and stretched, some two hours after they’d set out, “and it was spooky there, too.”

“The one where all the inhabitants ended up being robots?”

He nodded. “I mean, look at ’em all. Neat, tidy houses in neat, tidy rows. If a dandelion sprang up here at one o’clock in the morning, ten to one some alarm would go off and five people would come running out of nowhere armed with weed killer and spades.”

Hutch squared his shoulders like someone preparing for a fight. “Well, let’s hope the natives are programmed to be friendly, huh? We’re going to have to rely on charm instead of badges this time.”

Nothing had been meant by the comment. Starsky knew that unequivocally. Yet, just as at one time even the softest clothing had felt like blades scraping against not-completely-healed wound sites, the words stung. “Yours is still good,” he whispered.

Hutch spun back in obvious surprise. “I didn’t mean-” Tucking chin against chest, he ran a hand raggedly through his hair before re-tracing the steps back to the car. “You know that’s not even true: my shield might as well be a bubble gum wrapper unless we’re on official business.”

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just-” A large hand effectively halted all forward movement.

“Hey. I’ve been walking on eggshells around you for weeks and I still manage to set you off. You’ve gotta start talking to me, partner, because I’m groping my way in the dark here.”

“I’ve been talking.”

“Like hell. In-depth discussion of what makes the perfect egg cream doesn’t count. You’re blowing me off, Starsk. Again.”

“I’m not-” Yes, you are, the irritating, unwaveringly honest voice within accused. And of all the people to push away. “We’ll talk, but-” “Starsky-”

“No, I mean it. But now’s not the time, okay?” The ‘reassuring’ smile he managed appeared to do anything but.

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Aunt Corrie’s coming over to cook tonight.”

“Then we’ll talk after. Right now, I wanna hear what Willy has to say for himself. Don’t you?” The waves of hesitation and concern emanating from Hutch were heartwarming, if unnecessary, and a genuine smile originating from someplace deep within managed to surface this time. Giving his partner an affectionate pat on the stomach, he added, “I’m fine, really, and I promise we’ll talk. But we can’t keep Mister Not-Quite-Rich-And-Famous, esquire, waiting too long, y’know? Something tells me we’re not his kinda people as it is.”

A shy young woman in a maid’s uniform answered the door and ushered them into a side room with an apologetic, “Mr. Emerrist is engaged at the moment. If you wait here, I’m sure he’ll be with you shortly.”

As the door closed softly behind her, Hutch raised a brow at Starsky and smiled softly. “Five minutes?”

“Nah. Six and a half, at least.” They’d played the game enough times to recognize it on sight.                               ·

The only engaging Emerrist was involved in at the moment was posturing: he wanted to be the one to set both tone and ranking in their meeting and knew full well that nothing said ‘alpha’ like making everyone else wait.

His grand entrance some seven minutes later only reinforced Starsky’s already strong impression that the pretentious upper-middle-class community of Grayson Heights and their host were a match made in heaven. William Emerrist was a tall, distinguished man in his fifties; suave to the point of being smarmy, overly solicitous, and downright patronizing. After the requisite introductions were over, he led both men the long way through the house toward the parlor – a march that, oddly enough, brought to mind distant post-transgression trips to the principal’s office. On the plus side, it did afford both men the opportunity to take in the décor, and Starsky catalogued it all in turn: expensive, but not the best available. Tasteful, but forced. It didn’t take Hutch’s trained eye to come to the conclusion that, lacking any personality of its own, the surroundings were designed for the sole purpose of impressing guests. On Starsky, at least, it failed miserably.

Motioning the men to chairs, Emerrist offered his guests drinks, pouring one for himself in the process. “I understand that you’re here on behalf of Kettering Gallery?”

“And the Archer Museum. That’s right, sir.”

“Well, Mr….Hutchinson, is it? I can’t really see how I might be of any help to you. I’ve already been over this with representatives of both, and there’s nothing more I can add. Ms. Kettering was engaged to appraise an heirloom cup belonging to the estate of my uncle. She did so, the object was forwarded to the museum as per the instructions in Uncle Jonathan’s will, and the museum deemed it a fake. One can only assume that either Ms. Kettering or the museum made a mistake.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Emerrist, we don’t believe that to be likely.” Though Hutch couched it diplomatically, the accusation wasn’t lost on Emerrist, and the silent stare they exchanged could have frozen the room.

“I see.”

“Maybe you could help us out with some alternative scenarios, then?” Starsky asked. “Anything that comes to mind- no matter how far-fetched- is worth looking into.”

Emerrist twirled his glass grimly, and didn’t bother to look up when he responded. “I really can’t help you.”

More like won’t help. Okay, your turn, Starsky communicated to Hutch with a look.

“Then maybe you’d give us some history on the object itself? We understand that it’s been a contested issue in your family for some time.”

That got Emerrist’s attention – his head shot up immediately, face suggesting tightly controlled anger and something else… fear?

“Yes, I assume you know how it came into our hands originally? An honor bestowed upon our family by the Royal Court of France for services rendered during the earliest stirrings of the Revolution. It’s been handed down from oldest son to oldest son since the beginning.”

“Except that Jonathan Emerrist didn’t have any children, right? So how does that work?” Starsky didn’t miss the shadow of pain that flashed in their host’s eyes, then vanished.

Emerrist licked his lips. “By tradition, it should have gone to the oldest male nephew, but-”

“That would be you?” Hutch asked.

“That would be me. But it’s tradition, not law. He had the right to leave it to whomever – or whatever – he saw fit.”

“Still,” Starsky began, “it must’ve been a bit of a shock when the will was read.”

“Not at all, I’d seen-” Face suddenly quite pale, there was no doubt Emerrist hadn’t intended to reveal that detail.

“You’d seen the will before he died?” Hutch asked softly.

“Well, I was responsible for his care, and he’d confide in me… ” His voice trailed off.

“That didn’t bother you?”

“Of course it bothered me!” he snapped. “It bothered all of us, but there wasn’t anything we could do about it.”

“All of whom?” Hutch prodded.

Emerrist seemed to deflate, rubbing a spot on his forehead wearily. “Look, is this really necessary? I don’t see how-”

“Please, sir,” Starsky soothed. “We’re just trying to get a beat on what happened here. If – and I’m only saying if – someone did steal your family’s heirloom, don’t you want to know who it is? See it recovered?”

Emerrist considered, then shrugged.  “My cousin, Constance -that’s Constance Leighton-Pierce -for a start. My brother Charles, and me. We-”

“Wait a minute.” Hutch held up a hand to silence their host. “How does your cousin figure in all of this?”

Getting up to pour himself another drink, Emerrist snorted. “She’d tell you the cup is rightfully hers. It’s a long and complicated history, gentlemen, but the last time the Jewel found itself without an heir to be passed down to was during the American Civil War, when a twice-great uncle of mine died without issue.” Wandering back to his position of choice, he sat down heavily enough to make the pale liquid dance around the very rim of his glass. “There was a split in the family – Emerrists on the North, Leightons on the South – both sides had claims and, for about twenty-five years it was in the possession of the Leighton side. Should never have been of course, they had no legal argument, and it returned back to us. Where, I might add, it’s been ever since.”

“Okay,” Starsky began thoughtfully, “so Uncle Jonathan suggested that history might repeat itself?”

Emerrist arose from the intricately carved desk and turned his back on both men, gazing out the window and upsetting the ice cubes in his drink before replying.

“Let’s just say that my uncle gave reason for both sides to hope. He-” Suddenly more animated than they’d seen him act so far, he thrust the window open and bellowed, “Matthew! Get out of there! You know the garden is strictly off-limits.” As Starsky and Hutch exchanged quizzical glances, Emerrist closed the window and muttered, “Damned boy.” To his guests, “Domestic’s son. Anyway, I won’t lie to you. My uncle was a singularly unpleasant man. He delighted in pitting people against each other, found it high sport. Wouldn’t let a little thing like death stop him. It’s no secret that willing the Jewel to a museum was a devastating blow for all of us. I fail to see what any of this has to do with what you’re investigating, though.”

Oh, give me a break, Starsky thought. You may be pompous, but you’re not stupid. Fortunately, it was Hutch who picked up the thread.

“Forgive me, I can see you and your cousin being upset, but your brother? It wouldn’t have passed to him anyway. Just family pride?”

Emerrist smiled thinly, the effect giving his face an almost evil cast. “My wife and I have no children, either, Mr. Hutchinson. Charles and his wife have three.” Taking a final swig from the glass, he straightened. “Will that be all, gentlemen? I really do have business to attend to.”

“Of course,” Starsky replied, as both he and Hutch extricated themselves from the overstuffed couch. “Just out of curiosity, what do you do for a living?”

Puffing his chest out in an almost comical manner, Emerrist replied, “I’m the president of Tenhight Bank. You can see why my time is precious.”

“As is most people’s, Mr. Emerrist,” Hutch managed with just the slightest twinge of sarcasm. “Thank you for your help.”

“If, um, if you do find out anything, you will let me know?”

“You got it,” Starsky replied with a wink and a smile, hoping to yank Emerrist’s chain a little, since the interview was over, anyway. The satisfying pink tinge that suddenly highlighted their host’s ears told him that he’d met with some success.

Back in the car, both men sat for a moment in silence. After an audible exhale, Starsky turned the key in the ignition and asked, “Whaddya think?”

“I think he’s a small time banker who wants to be a big time socialite, and a guy who knows a lot more than he’s saying. You?”

Starsky nodded. “I’d also like to know just how long he knew about the will.”

“Any odds that it was time enough to have a forgery made?”

“Sorry,” Starsky replied with a grin. “No bet.”

Hutch’s face sported a matching expression. “Me neither. Up for a meeting with Cousin Constance now?”

“Lunch first, then Connie.” To Hutch’s unspoken question, he answered, “Hey, if the Leightons are anything like the Emerrists, we’ll need all the strength we can get.”

~*~*~*~

If William Emerrist had been annoying, Constance was downright scary. A tall, wiry woman who gave all the outward indications of being well on her way toward an early stroke, she granted entry into her sumptuous home with a shrill sort of eagerness that set Starsky’s nerves on edge. Apparently not one to linger over formalities, she hastily acknowledged the beleaguered­ looking man in the armchair to be her husband, Brian, and claimed center stage.

“You’re here to investigate the disappearance of the Jewel?”

“We-”

“Well, it’s about damned time! I’ve been screaming for the police to launch an investigation for weeks, and no one has given me any satisfaction at all. I suppose my threat to go to the Commissioner-”

“We’re not investigating for the police, ma’am,” Hutch interrupted.

Her mouth snapped shut; then, “I beg your pardon?”

“We’re here on behalf of Kettering-”

“You are investigating the theft of the cup?”

“Disappearance,” Starsky corrected.

“It was stolen, and I don’t care who you represent, just so long as you nail William to the wall with his own-”

“Constance!”

“You stay out of this, Brian,” she snapped. “It has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

Starsky cast a sympathetic glance Brian’s way and wondered if life in the Pierce household was always this exhilarating.

“Have you spoken with my cousin yet?”

“Just about an hour ago,” Starsky replied cheerfully. “He sends his regards.”

She snorted. “William is from the same stock as all of his predecessors – pigs beget pigs, I suppose. Let me guess, he told you that the Jewel is rightfully theirs, that the Leightons have no legal claim?”

“Words to that effect,” Hutch admitted.

“Well, that’s a lie! They took advantage of war, money, and politics to wrest it away from us, but it won’t stand. Our claim is valid, and I’ll prove it someday. Have to,” she mumbled. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Point of what?”

“Becoming an attorney, continuing the fight…anything.” Pacing now, and wringing her hands before tucking them into the relative safety of sweater sleeves, Constance added defiantly, “He can’t be allowed to get away with this. I won’t let him.”

It wasn’t until he glanced over at Hutch’s startled expression that Starsky realized how far his own jaw had dropped. “You… you mean, you actually became a lawyer just so you could get this thing back?” The idea that a mere object-and a profoundly ugly one, at that- could be worth so much grief was completely beyond his comprehension.

“Of course. It’s my duty, my duty as a Leighton. Restoring the cup to its proper place means restoring our honor.”

Spoken like a true fanatic, Starsky thought. William ever slips on a banana peel, we’ll have a pretty good idea who ate the fruit. He didn’t miss Brian’s subtle eye roll, though, and one look at Hutch told him that he hadn’t, either. It would be worth the effort to try and corral the husband into a solitary chat, and his partner’s discreet nod was all the confirmation needed to know they were on the same page.

“Okay then, how about you tell us just what exactly it is you think William did?”

She stared at Hutch as if he represented the densest specimen of humanity she had yet come across. “He stole it. He stole my cup.”

“That’s a pretty heavy accusation, ma’am,” Starsky said, denying life to the grin that wanted desperately to form, “unless you happen to have some evidence to back it up?”

“The forgery’s not enough evidence for you? He had one made, you know.”

“Is that what you think,” Hutch asked softly, as both he and Starsky leaned a little nearer the couch’s edge, “or is this something you actually know to be true?”

“I know he was planning to have one made; Uncle Jonathan warned me shortly before he died. Now the original’s disappeared and a fake’s shown up in its place… you’re not going to try and tell me there’s no connection, are you?” Her eyes darting impatiently from Starsky to Hutch and back again, Constance actually seemed to expect an answer.

“Your uncle didn’t happen to give you any details, did he? Hint at names, dates… anything that might help us narrow down who your cousin might have dealt with?” Starsky tried to gauge her reaction thus far, and wasn’t particularly buoyed by what he saw. “I mean, he couldn’t have made the copy himself, right?”

“Well, of course he didn’t! What kind of investigators are you, anyway?”

The under-appreciated kind, apparently, Starsky thought, as he felt his jaw start to tighten.

Maybe it was just a bad day; maybe Constance didn’t often have the opportunity to vent to people other than her husband. Whatever the reason, talking with her was like trying to carry on a conversation with the wind, and Starsky eventually allowed the staccato voice to fade a little into the background. Hutch appeared to be either mesmerized or catatonic – it was difficult to determine which – and Starsky unilaterally decided it was high time to set their plan into motion and give Brian a shot. Hey, if you don’t want the lead role, I’ll take it. After a kneed head’s up to his partner, he threw himself into a ‘consumptive patient’ routine with all the élan of a veteran stage actor, and soon found himself on the receiving end of a couple of unnecessarily hard thwacks on the back and a surreptitious wink from an otherwise convincingly dutiful Hutch.

“Hey, buddy? You okay there?”

“Throat,” Starsky wheezed, glaring.

Directing his attention now to Brian, Hutch finessed stage two with practiced skill. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you to show my partner to the kitchen, maybe get him a drink of water, while your wife and I are talking?”

“Oh, of course. Here, come with me – it’s just to the left.”

Hacking a few more times for good measure, Starsky rose to follow, and was treated to an enthusiastic parting slap from Hutch before he’d even made it completely off the couch.

“You really don’t look at all well, you know?”

“Yeah? Something tells me I’ll be fine in just a second.”

In his haste to escape the foot zeroing in rapidly on his toes, Hutch managed to achieve the twin feats of wearing most of his tea and brightening his partner’s day considerably.

“See? Feel better already,” Starsky whispered on the way past.

Sipping the water as slowly as he could, Starsky asked a few conversational questions about the décor of a kitchen larger than the dining area of their still-new duplex, and set about loosening Brian up a bit. It took neither much time nor a great deal of effort.

“That cup really means a lot to your wife, doesn’t it?”

“Good gravy day,” Brian replied with a moan. “Sometimes I think it’s the only thing that does matter to her. Everything else – everyone else- is varying degrees of expendable.”

“Must’ve been a major blow then, finding out that it was going to be gifted to the museum.”

He sighed. “Yeah, but she had a pl-”

A plan? It was always a pleasure interviewing people who were basically honest – the truth tended to slip out despite best intentions to the contrary.

“Um,” he corrected hastily, “I mean, she could’ve challenged that, the will. You know? It’s the fact that the cup is missing that has her tied up in knots. Really hope you guys can get a beat on it. I’d contribute to an award myself at this point.”

Just bet you would, Starsky thought, not without a degree of pity. She can’t be a terrific housemate at the moment. Mate of any kind, for that matter. Though he managed to nurse the water along for another five minutes or so, Brian either had nothing more to offer or had arrived at the conclusion he’d already said too much. Starsky returned to the living room only to find that Hutch had independently arrived at the same impasse with Constance, so they said their goodbyes and headed out into the welcoming warmth.

“You get anything from Brian?” Hutch asked, reaching into the glove compartment and swallowing a couple of aspirin dry.

“Not sure. He let something slip about a plan to beat the museum out of their newest treasure, but then he clammed up. Got the definite impression William checkmated that idea, whatever it was, with the forgery. What about you? Get anything more from Pollyanna?”

“Other than the fact that she and William don’t exchange Christmas cards? Not a thing.”

Starsky frowned. Hutch was wearing that haunted expression seen most often in the emotional fallout from interviewing victims. Unless he was feeling sorry for Brian, that made no sense at all.

“Hey.”

“Huh?”

“I’m supposed to have a lock on ‘moody’, remember? Wait your turn.”

Hutch laughed, but darkened almost instantly, looking back over his shoulder one last time at the Pierce house.

“Hutch?”

“I dunno. I guess maybe I just feel a little sorry for her, that’s all.”

“For her? Hutch, she’s a-”

“I know.” With a heavy sigh, he turned to face Starsky. “I know, but she wasn’t born that way. Can you imagine what it must’ve been like growing up like that? Knowing that the sole measure of your worth will be whether you’ve managed to achieve what may be an impossible goal? It would be enough to make anyone obsessed.”

“Yeah, but. .. you’ve still got free will. She could’ve made other choices.”

Hutch smiled sadly. “Maybe. But being a disappointment to your family isn’t always an easy thing to live with.”

Ouch. Starsky instinctively shot a hand out to Hutch’s shoulder.

“I’m not saying it’s an excuse, but that cup may be the only thing she’s got to hold onto. And you want to know the saddest thing of all?”

“What’s that?”

“She and Brian have two kids.”

~*~*~*~

Braced to go three for three, Starsky wasn’t sure precisely what he was expecting to greet them when they arrived at the door of chez Charles Emerrist, but it certainly wasn’t this. In almost shocking contrast to his brother and cousin, Charles was dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, declined to shake hands as his own were caked with mud, and was almost painfully affable. Considering the family, surely there must be a catch?

“Hey, you mind if we talk out back? I’d really like to get the weeding done before the sun swings round that way.”

“By all means,” Hutch replied, obviously as stunned as his partner.

The garden was a complicated stepped affair worthy of a full photo spread in any one of the major glitzy home magazines. Starsky was impressed; Hutch was in heaven.

“My wife’s a botanist over at the arboretum,” Charles explained with a smile, “and I was an enthusiast even before we met. We’ve worked very hard for years to create the private little haven we have here. You like it? Have a seat.”

Allowing Hutch the opportunity to drink in the sights for a few minutes more uninterrupted, Starsky took it upon himself to start this round of questioning.

“You know we’re here about the disappearance of your family’s heirloom. Anything you could tell us – no matter how insignificant it seems – might be just what we need to pick up the trail of the original. You have any idea what might’ve happened to it?”

“Oh, I have my theories, but I’m probably not the one you need to talk to. William and Constance are a lot more in the loop on this than I am.”

“We’ve already spoken to them.” Hutch was too engrossed in the study of a flawlessly shaped rosebush to give Charles much more than a passing glance. “Now we’d like to hear your views.”

Charles smiled as he yanked another weed from in-between two fussy-looking plant beds. “You’ve already had the pleasure, huh? Must’ve been a fun day. That’s ‘Miriam’s Honor,’ by the way,” he said, nodding to the rose bush. “My own hybrid. Anyway, if you’ve spoken to my brother, you’re no doubt already aware that I never was in the running for the Jewel – it always passes from oldest son to oldest son.”

“He also told us that your children would be,” Starsky said pointedly.

“True.” Wiping his brow with a sleeve, Charles sat back on his heels and sighed. “But it’s also true that neither my kids nor their parents could give a damn about the stupid thing. It’s all we ever heard growing up. We’d be dressed up like little dolls and posed for pictures with it on every occasion of note; had its illustrious history forced down our throats until I wanted to scream; it automatically became the topic of every school project and report, and was the subject of more newspaper and television human interest stories than I can count. All for one old, grotesque object that’s managed to poison just about every life it’s touched.” He returned to the task at hand with a cheerful shrug. “What can I tell you? I guess you could say I’m the proverbial black sheep.”

“If you don’t care about the cup, then maybe you’d like to help us clear the reputation of the woman who appraised the original. This is hurting her, and she has nothing to do with your family.”

Clever ploy, Starsky thought. Whether his humanitarian leanings are real or an act, he can’t very well let that one slide.

 “Mrs. Kettering? Yes, I was sorry about that. She seems like a genuinely nice lady. I don’t know if I can help, but what do you want to know?”

“You could share your theories for a start,” Starsky suggested.

Charles thought for a moment. “How much do you know about Uncle Jonathan?”

“Just that he was the previous holder; William saw to his care and probably expected to inherit, but the will said otherwise.”

“Yeah. Uncle Jonathan was a piece of work. I mean really. Spent a lifetime playing both sides against the middle and had elevated it to a high art by the time he was bedridden. He always held the cup out to Will and Connie like some carrot on a string: ‘Do this and it will be yours.’ ‘No, wait- I think I’ll leave it to him unless….’ ‘Just one more favor and I’ll hand it over now.’ I don’t think he ever had the least intention of giving it to either of them, but he sure got years of service by holding it out as a possibility. Things that-well, I won’t go there. We’re not close, but they’re still family.”

“You think one or both of them might be capable of having a forgery made and replacing the original like this?”

Charles tried to scratch his nose with an elbow, then smiled. “Oh, I expect that either would be eminently capable. I’ll tell you something though. I would be very surprised if either one of them actually has possession of the original now. And that’s all I’m going to say. Please feel to look around a bit before you go – you’re not likely to find a better private garden in the entire state.”

~*~*~*~

“Cryptic,” Hutch mused. “You get the feeling everyone’s holding out on us?”

“So what else is new?” The words, once spoken, produced that same jab of pain that was rapidly approaching commonplace. This might be the last time someone does hold out on us during an investigation. Might be the last time we investigate period. Not likely true, he realized: if Hutch did periodically work either cold cases or come in as a consultant, as planned, it was taken for granted his partner would be there at his side – just like always. Except it wouldn’t be just like always… not quite.

“Staaarsky.”

Roused from his daydream, he turned to find Hutch talking to him through a makeshift newspaper megaphone.

“You zoning out on me here?”

“No, I-  sorry. What were you saying?”

Hutch shook his head and grinned, swatting Starsky on the back of the head with the newspaper. “Never mind. I was just proposing we try Huggy when we get back, see if we can’t get a lead on a likely forger.”

“Huggy? I know Corrie said it was poorly done, but still…… It’s a cut above the usual street fakers in Huggy’s circle.”

“Yeah, but you find one faker looking for a deal-”

“-you’ll find the trail to every forger he knows,” Starsky finished with a nod. “Let’s go.”

~*~*~*~

“Are you sure they know who to look for?”

“Come on, Starsk. Alan and Tolliver have been on the beat for seven months now -they’ll find him.”

“I dunno. Marconi’s as slippery as an eel in grease. How many years did it take us to map out all of his hiding places? And- no offense to Alan and Tolliver-they ain’t us.”

Pausing just before the hidden back entrance to the museum, Hutch took a deep breath and expelled it slowly – a sure sign that he was rapidly losing patience. “Yeah, and we also diligently typed out all of those places in our reports. Last time I checked, both these guys could read. If you want to call them up and give pointers on the fine art of detecting, be my guest, but they know our number, too. If they have questions, I’m sure they won’t be shy about asking.”

It was true. Starsky knew it was true. That fact didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“Hey.” Hutch gave Starsky’s left arm a quick rubdown. “Huggy said he’s been unusually active lately and has a line of clients waiting. Shouldn’t be either too difficult to spot or to turn – assuming, of course that he’s heard of someone who’d fit the bill for the sort of guy we’re after. If we don’t hear by morning, we’ll give ’em a call. Okay? Right now we’ve got to make a report to our C.O.”

Starsky couldn’t help but laugh as the image of Dobey being replaced – even temporarily- by Corrie flashed across his mind. “At least she won’t complain about my typing.” He stopped abruptly. “Damn. What time is it?”

“Uh,” Hutch twisted around to read Starsky’s watch, “y’know, someday we’re really going to have to teach you how to tell time. Looks like about five of five. Why?”

“Had an appointment with Bruce Avers at 4:30.”

“Bruce-?”

“You know, the exowhatsits guy who owes Corrie. He’s just a few doors down….. ”

“Go.”

 “Are you sure?”

“I can do the synopsis, come back and meet you, and we can fill her in on all the gory details over dinner. Go.”

~*~*~*~

As was befitting a shop named ‘Avers Rare Coin Gallery,’ both exterior and interior were neo­ classical chic: recessed lighting, cathedral ceilings, tons of marble. Class. In Starsky’s experience at least, the owner’s name in the business title was a pretty good indication that you’d pay through the nose for whatever service or product was being offered. In this case, the security gate, coupled with the fact that none of the coins in the elegant glass display cases were furnished with prices, would’ve made a fairly compelling argument on their own.

“May I help you, sir?” The voice belonged to a stunningly sophisticated young woman who would have looked much more at home on a fashion runway than in retail… even upscale retail.

“Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Avers, please.”

Her expression a mixture of curiosity and bemusement, she looked Starsky over from head to foot as though she’d never before encountered a man attired in something other than a three-piece suit. “You do realize that he sees people by appointment only? If you could give me your name and tell me what it’s about, I’ll-”

“David Starsky, and I do have an appointment. Had one, anyway.” In answer to her quirked eyebrow, he gave a half-cough, half-laugh and explained, “Traffic. You know how it is.”

She blinked a few times and murmured a placating, “Of course. Would you like to wait here for a moment please? I’ll see if Mr. Avers is engaged.”

Now where have I heard that before? He sighed and started to scan the contents of the largest cases, surprisingly seduced by what he found there. Staring up at him from their beds of black velvet, were the likenesses of Hercules, Medusa, Athena, and a cortege of lesser gods and goddesses probably more familiar to Hutch than to him – all represented here in perfect miniature. Like glittering portals into an ancient and foreign mythological landscape, Starsky found himself strangely drawn to their world and was almost sorry to hear the click of high heels approaching on the parquet floor.

“I am so sorry, sir-”

“That’s okay; my fault for being late. I’ll just-”

“I had no idea you were a special guest of Mr. Avers. Please come this way. May I get you some tea? Anything?”

The transformation was too much to take in all at once, and Starsky found himself gaping at the poor girl – requiring a moment before recovering enough to politely decline the offer of a beverage and to follow her into an office that would’ve put Amboy’s to shame. Corrie, you sure know how to open doors. But what the hell am I supposed to do now that I’m in? Suddenly his humble box coin looked woefully insignificant.

“Bruce Avers,” the sandy-haired forty-something gentleman behind the desk greeted, hand extended. “Hold the calls, will you, Fi?” Then to Starsky, “Welcome to my little world.”

“David Starsky. Thanks, it’s.. .impressive. I’m sorry for being late – we just got caught in traffic and-”

“That’s quite all right. I think the world of Ms. Kettering and couldn’t be happier that you’re helping her out. You live and die by your reputation in the trade… this is a lot more serious than a bruised ego. Please,” he motioned to the high-backed chair, “have a seat. Now Corrie tells me you have a mysterious find you’d like me to have a look at.”

“Might as well tell you up front, it’s about a league below what you’re used to dealing with. Just something I picked up in a junk shop and, well, I was curious. I’m afraid that coming here is a bit like going to a neurosurgeon with a hangnail.”

Avers’ laugh possessed a faintly melodic quality that echoed through the room and set Starsky unaccountably at ease. “You’d be surprised. Box coins are an old hobby of mine. I started out in exonumia, so you might say it’s a case of first love, best love. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Avers examined the piece under a massive lighted magnifier, turning it carefully and making many of the same guttural sounds Starsky’s doctor made during a physical examination.

Extending the comparison one further, Avers was equally good at keeping his findings to himself until the procedure was complete.

“Not terribly valuable, but you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“I only paid two and a half-wasn’t really expecting it to be the lottery. I’m more interested in knowing what it is, where it’s from… things like that.”

Avers handed it back with a smile. “Irish. The date’s worn, but I can tell you it’s a 1769 George III halfpenny, type I.”

“1769? That old?”

“Well, considering that most of the coins I deal with were struck somewhere between the fifth and first centuries, BC, that’s like five hours old in coin talk. Whether the box was made then is another matter, but I can tell you that the paper would tend to date it to no later than the first quarter of the nineteenth century – probably earlier. The maker might not have been his generation’s Degas, but what he lacked in skill, he certainly made up for in style. If it weren’t so worn, you’d be looking at a good hundred dollars for it, easily, which is high for a box coin.”

“Are they that common?” Starsky asked, regarding the piece with a newfound appreciation.

“No, quite rare, actually. There’s just not much demand and, what there is, tends to be geared toward domestic pieces and the so-called opium dollars.”

“They were used in the drug trade?”

“Probably not,” Avers replied with a wink, “but who knows? They’re just early American Trade Dollars, basically, but it makes for a romantic story. Box coins were actually used to pass messages during the Napoleonic Wars, and became excessively popular here in the early days of photography – made great lockets. Of course, those are the hinged kind, with mica inserts and­–” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m an enthusiast. Does it show?”

“Hey, don’t apologize- it’s fascinating! I was wondering-”

Starsky’s sentence was cut off by a polite tapping at the door, followed by Fi’s resonant voice announcing, “Mr. Hutchinson’s just arrived. Shall I send him in?”

“Please.”

Hutch walked in looking decidedly odd: a sheepish, embarrassed quality all but oozing from his pores; sporting a tell-tale pink hue that visited his face only when he did something truly stupid. Starsky grinned, Hutch avoided eye contact at all costs. Oh, this has to be good.

 Sailing through the introductions as quickly as politeness allowed, Hutch guided the conversation as far away from him and close to the topic of exonumia as possible. Much to Starsky’s chagrin, he had an ally in Avers.

“There was something else you wanted to ask me?”

“Yeah,” Starsky replied, briefly returning his attention to the matter at hand. “I was wondering if the symbols etched into the inside mean anything, or are just decorative. Also, if you know of anywhere we could go to get the paper translated.”

“Well, I don’t recognize the symbols, so I’d say that either they’re merely decorative or their meaning was a personal one. As to the paper….” He blew out his cheeks. “If it’s Irish, that’s not going to be easy. From what I understand, it’s all but a dead language now. You could always try some popular Irish hangouts in the city, but you might be better served by requesting more information from the shopkeeper where you found it.”

Turlan. Just terrific.

 “If there’s nothing else? I do have another appointment….. ”

“Of course,” Starsky said, as both he and Hutch rose. “Thank you so much for your time. What did Aunt Corrie do for you, by the way, to call in a favor like this?”

Avers’ expression turned remarkably similar to the one Hutch had been wearing only a few minutes previous. “Not even for a mint gold stater,” he replied with a grin. “Good luck with the investigation, though.”

Emerging from Olympus back into the real world out-of-doors, Starsky wasted no time in the effort to wheedle information out of his partner – he knew it would be an uphill climb.

“Hutch-”

“Was he able to give you some good leads? It didn’t look like you could’ve cornered a better expert.”

“Yeah, I’ll fill you in later. What-”

“Did you check out that showroom? He had some amazing things. I-”

“Okay, stop. Halt, cease, desist, already.”

“What?”

“What happened?”

“What do you-”

“HUTCH!”

Shoving his hands into pockets, Hutch cleared his throat, and studied the intricacies of his shoes. “There was an accident.”

“What kind of an accident? You’re not hurt?”

He shook his head. “Not that kind of an accident.”

“I’m listening.”

“Well, I was giving Corrie the rundown, right? And she asked me to go find Marie and help her bring in some reference books and papers.”

“Yeah?”

“I found her.” He coughed again. “I couldn’t get the door to open – thought it was stuck – so I gave it a shove and-”

“She was on the other side of the door trying to get in.” Starsky started to laugh… he couldn’t help it. “Was she okay?”

“Yeah. Just sort of glared at me from the floor, but she wasn’t hurt. God, what a mess, though.”

Still chuckling, Starsky soothed, “Well, you know what they say about being at the bottom: at least it can’t get any worse.”

Hutch winced. “Hutch?”

“When I was helping pick up? We both made a grab for the same book and-”

“You didn’t butt heads?”

Hutch nodded morosely.

“Y’know something?” Starsky asked, wrapping an arm about his partner’s shoulders as they edged nearer the car. “It’s probably a good thing Harry’s still in Boston, or you could be in some serious trouble right now.”

“I dunno, it’s weird. I get the feeling that whenever we’re in the same room, we de-magnetize the walls.”

“Maybe it’s a cosmic thing. What’s her sign?”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Really, Starsk. Right now I wouldn’t even ask what her favorite vegetable is.”

“Never mind. Let’s go home and get ready for Corrie. Ya seem to do okay with her.” Starsky had only a one-and-a-half second head start in the resulting game of tag.

~*~*~*~

Starsky heard Hutch approach from the kitchen; could actually feel the moment’s hesitation in the doorway before he finally came into full view in the living room. It’s okay.. .I won’t bite. Apparently arriving at the same conclusion without being told, Hutch dropped down onto the couch a few seconds later, damp dish towel still in hand. Though neither felt the need to speak for a good minute, Starsky knew that mood wouldn’t last long. A promise was, after all, a promise. The problem was, where to begin?

“You’ll wear that out before you get any solid leads on it, if you’re not careful.”

“What?”

“The box coin. You’ve been rubbing it like you expect a genie to pop out any second now.” Starsky stopped the motion and chuckled softly. “Well, you can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”

“And what would you wish for if it worked?”

The words were spoken in the hushed tone Hutch used when he was being deadly serious. Don’t do this to me...I’m not ready for this yet. Levity would be both the simplest and most comfortable form of response, but Hutch deserved better. He deserved honesty, but what was the honest answer to that one? “I dunno. Other choices.” Starsky shrugged. “Answers. I’m not sure.” Smiling as he remembered another conversation, he added, “Y’know, Corrie asked me earlier if I wanted any motherly advice.”

“Yeah?”

“And I told her not really- just had some things I had to work through on my own. Know what she said?”

“I wouldn’t even hazard a guess.”

“She said that was a relief, because she didn’t have any.”

Hutch chuckled, too. “That sounds like Corrie.”

Turning serious, Starsky leaned forward and absently traced a crease in his jeans, letting his shoulders slump in the process. “Look, I know you’ve been worried and, if things were reversed, I’d be worried about you, too.”

“I’d be less worried if you’d tell me what’s going on.”

Fair enough. If only things were that simple. “Telling you means knowing myself, and I’m still figuring that part out.” He knitted his brow, trying to put the swirling thoughts and feelings into something that could be verbally expressed. “I guess I’m just sort of free-falling right now. I was a cop. I will be an instructor. I’m not really anything right now.”

“You’re still the same person you’ve always been-”

“No!” Then, more gently, “No, I’m not. What’s that Latin phrase again? ‘Times change and we change with the times’? We’ve both changed this past year, and I don’t just mean the bad stuff…there’s been a lot of good, too.” Turning to make eye contact, he smiled as he saw the flicker of relief replace the trepidation that had suddenly flashed in Hutch’s eyes. It was of the utmost importance that there be no doubt whatsoever as to the veracity of these words. Hand laid softly over Hutch’s wrist for emphasis, he said slowly, “Good that I wouldn’t trade for anything in the whole world. It’s just. .. being a cop meant everything to me once, y’know? It was who I was, and I was damned good at it. Just takes a little getting used to.” Slapping the hand over Hutch’s mouth before he could interrupt, Starsky added, “And before ya say it, I don’t need to be cheered up. I don’t really wanna be cheered up.”

“I know what you’re saying, Starsk, but you could go back and try for re-certification even now. I know it isn’t what we decided on, but-”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“But-“

 “Hutch… I couldn’t.” Though he’d have gladly given just about anything to make this go away, it refused to be avoided any longer. They locked eyes at that moment, and Starsky cringed inwardly as the light slowly dawned and a varied play of tightly controlled emotions crossed Hutch’s face. The price of a falsehood was always steep, even when the lie was only one of omission.

Stiffening, Hutch pulled back both physically and emotionally. “That day on the course, it. . .it was worse than you let on.”

“Yeah. It was.”

Hutch shook his head, anger just hovering below the surface. “Some detective I am, huh?”

“Hutch…”

“Why? Why did you lie to me?”

Starsky sighed heavily, leaning into elbows that were now resting on his knees. “Didn’t. You just happened to be in the room when I lied to me.” The sudden softening of Hutch’s expression did more to warm him that any five blankets would. “I had to believe it, don’t you see? I know it shouldn’t have mattered. We made our decision beforehand and I really was okay with that – am okay. I just…I guess I needed to believe that Gunther didn’t take that decision away from us, y’know? He didn’t take it all, and it could’ve been a lot worse – probably should’ve been. But he took a lot, and I need to come to terms with that.” Tugging on a frayed end of fabric, he added, “That shrink the doctor sent me off to? He accused me of trying to bury my feelings rather than experience ’em, remember? Well, I don’t want to do that this time. Make any sense?”

“Shiva?”

Starsky grinned, amazed once again at his partner’s ability to grasp a meaning deeper than words could adequately convey. A formal period of mourning was about as good an analogy as you could get for this. “It’s really irritating when you condense things like that, but yeah. I mean, I’ll adapt. I’m living proof that you can adapt to just about anything. It’ll just take some time.”

“Living proof,” Hutch echoed, so quietly that the words were almost inaudible.

What the...? That Starsky hadn’t seen coming. “Hey, lookit me.” Nudging closer, hand resting comfortably just above Hutch’s knee, he offered, “I’m not planning on falling on my sword, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

“No. I. … ” Hutch swallowed hard, obviously struggling to find the words he wanted. “You’ve been through so much, I guess… .I just wonder sometimes if you think it wasn’t… ”

Though his voice trailed off, Starsky could fill in the blanks easily enough: ‘worth it.’ Before he had a chance to respond, Hutch had decided to continue.

“Is it enough? What you have?”

Oh, Hutch. Wrapping an arm around Hutch’s shoulders, Starsky tugged his unresisting partner into a firm embrace and whispered, “Is it enough? You kiddin’ me? We could sell pencils in the middle of Western and Sunset and it would be enough. We’re both in one piece and we’re together. Everything else is optional. Always has been, always will be. ‘Kay?”

The answering smile was worth all the pain of the conversation, and life suddenly took on a much brighter hue than it had in some time.

~*~*~*~

“And there he was,” Alan Brandywine said with a broad grin, “wedged between two dryers like a big ol’ piece of lint. Took both of us to perform the extraction. You’d think we were dragging him out to the slaughterhouse, ‘stead of the precinct.”

“That sounds like Marconi,” Hutch agreed distractedly, casting yet another worried sideways glance at his partner. Legs straddling a backwards-facing chair, Starsky had buried himself in the mountain of paperwork before them with the intensity of a student preparing for finals – physically present, but leaving all of the verbal interactions to Hutch.

“You sound like you two got to know him pretty well over the years.”

Hutch forced a smile at Michael Tolliver and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. For a smart guy, his brains seem to go AWOL every time he catches sight of a cop. Three names, huh? How’d you narrow the list down to one so quickly?”

“Oh, wasn’t that hard, really.” Tolliver burrowed through the wasteland of files littering his desk, eventually excavating the right one. “Hardwicke was an easy discount – he died a year-and-a­ half ago in a flop job that worked a little too well. If he’s your guy, you’d better call in a medium.”

“And Jacobs has spent the last four months serving for a museum scam that, by all accounts, wouldn’t have given him enough free time to fiddle around with Play-Doh, let alone work on your piece. That just leaves Arthur Evans – provided you believe Marconi, of course. According to him, these were the only three that made sense. Unfortunately, our sources say he skipped to New York a couple a months ago.”

“Got any favors you can call in with the N.Y.P.D.?”

“Ross and McMahon?” Hutch nudged Starsky, but received nothing more than a brief nod in response. Fine. “Maybe,” he replied, figuring that someone ought to answer the query. “We know people who know people, anyway. Worth a try. What did you finally use to get ‘im to open up, anyway? It’s been awhile,” he tapped the file, “but I know he didn’t volunteer this.”

Brandywine laughed. “You won’t believe it, but-”

“Brandywine! Tolliver! Get in my off-” Dobey’s shouted command was aborted mid-sentence as he caught sight of Starsky and Hutch, his expression evolving from shocked to something approaching wistful in a matter of seconds. “Oh. Didn’t know you two were here. Why are you here, anyway?” Pointing to the pair with the ever-present pencil, he added, “Guess I should’ve known you wouldn’t be that easy to get rid of.” The warmth of both tone and expression effectively canceled out the gruffness of the words.

“Well, you know how it is, Captain. Just couldn’t stay away.”

“Couple a bad pennies,” Starsky added softly, the words his first since the initial salutations had been completed. “We’ll stop in before we go, Cap. ‘Kay?”

“You do that.” The smile evaporated as Dobey returned his attention to his newest team of detectives. “All right, you two, in my office. Save it!” he snapped at an open-mouthed Brandywine. “You can try to defend your partner in there, though I don’t know why you bother.” Dobey jerked his head toward the office, shook it wearily at Starsky and Hutch and, squaring his shoulders, slammed the door behind him.

“Kind of comforting to know that some things never change, huh?” Hutch didn’t actually expect a reply, but it was worth a shot.

“I’ll handle Mac, but if we strike out there, we probably should track down Hardwicke’s near and dear. Says here he had a sister, so at least we’ve got a starting point. Some former cellmates, too.”

Cool, professional, detached. The sight of Starsky bracing himself before walking into Metro, his tightly-controlled reaction to seeing two other detectives sitting at desks that had once been a home away from home, now this – all registered with Hutch on an almost physical level.

Although close enough that he got elbowed every time Starsky flipped a page, the distance between them could have been miles. It’s a coping mechanism. Give him time, Hutch reminded himself. You’ve been here at least a few days every week-you’ve had time to get used to it; to them. Maybe ‘used to it’ wasn’t the proper term: this would always be their place in his mind, too, as well as in his heart. The difference was that he had moved through his own period of mourning some time ago, and the pain it brought had not been so terribly intense to begin with. It was time to move on. Just wish you were ready to move on with me, babe. It’s getting lonely out here by myself. Hutch sighed. Give him time. Startled out of his reverie by a kick from under the chair, to say that he was surprised to find Brandywine and Tolliver staring down at him would have been a gross understatement.

“Having a Zen moment, Hutchinson, or didn’t you get your beauty sleep last night?” Tolliver managed to say it with a straight face, but his partner didn’t even try.

“Short attention span,” Starsky quipped without looking up. “Ya lose ‘im every now and then, but he always comes back.”

“Not enough sleep,” Hutch corrected with a glare. “Good for you.”

As much as he wanted to be irritated by Tolliver’s remark, the expanding smirk unfolding on Starsky’s face made that very difficult. Hutch settled instead for a dig of his own. “You still gainfully employed, or can you throw the alarm clock away?”

“No, the captain was just explaining how unlikely it was that Mike here would ever make lieutenant if he keeps on misbehaving. Tsk, tsk.”

“That’s okay. Anyone can get promoted. I’m going for demotion – that’s much harder to accomplish. Now where were we?”

“I have a question,” Starsky announced, smirk still intact. “Anybody pull the death certificate on old Jonathan? Between Constance and William, we were wondering if anyone might’ve helped speed the process along a bit.”

“Arsenic in the cornflakes?” Tolliver sighed, miraculously retrieving the right paper from a precarious-looking stack. “No sign of it. COD is listed as emphysema. Apparently the guy was a lifelong three-pack-a-day smoker so, however antagonistic he may have been in life, he more than made up for it by being accommodating in death.”

“Thank God,” Hutch said, and meant it. “This is complicated enough without adding murder to the mix.”

It wasn’t until they were back out in the sunlight that Starsky seemed able to breathe deeply and relax once again – very much a man emerging from a veiled, solitary battlefield.

“You okay?”

Starsky smiled and reached out to pat a plaid-covered arm. “Yeah. It’s just-” Turning back to face the door, he paused, then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. So what’s the plan? We wait for Mac’s call this evening, and see where we stand? Depending on what he says, we may end up having to gather the troops tomorrow and take a vote on where we go from here.”

“Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

“Nope. Well, maybe.” To Hutch’s inquisitive look, he answered, “Turlan. Yeah, I know. I don’t like ‘im any better than you do, but we’ve got the time and I would like to know what he’s got to say about this.” Starsky patted his front pocket while Hutch did his best to look aggrieved. “Care to join me?”

“Oh, why not? After those few moments of happiness this morning, it probably is time to set the cosmic scales back into balance.”

“Yeah? That was just a few moments?” Deftly snagging the car keys Hutch had been playing catch with, Starsky’s mien transformed from melancholy to teasing with almost dizzying alacrity. “‘Coulda sworn it went on longer than that,” he whispered with a wink.

As if a spell had been broken, the short drive to ‘Turlan’s Junque Shop” was filled with more laughter than had been heard during the entire trip to Metro that morning. Though it could be a challenge to adjust to Starsky’s rapidly changing moods these days, Hutch was disinclined to complain – at least for the time being.

Turlan visibly shrunk at the sight of the two men entering his shop. “I didn’t-”

“-do anything,” Hutch finished.

“He’s legit now,” Starsky confirmed solemnly. “They gave him a ribbon and everything.”

“What do you want?”

“Just some answers. Nothing painful.” Starsky dug the box coin from his pocket and placed it carefully on the counter while Turlan looked from one to the other, twitching expectantly.

“It was sold as-is. I don’t give refunds.”

“Oh, man-” Starsky drew a hand over his face and glanced at an amused Hutch. Taking a deep breath, he tapped lightly on the counter a few times. “Don’t want a refund, Turlan; we want answers. Where’d you get it?”

Turlan slid it slowly back in Starsky’s direction. “Don’t remember.”

Hutch pushed it back. “Pretend.”

“Look guys, it’s not hot. Honest! Why do you care where it came from?”

“We’re curious, Turlan. We want to know! Will ya stop being difficult and just give us the information, already?”

The raised voice assisted in a strange evolution from twitching into all-out quivering, and the shopkeeper raised his hands in surrender. “Elizabeth. I got it from Elizabeth Morgan.”

“Okay,” Hutch said evenly, “I’ll bite. Who’s Elizabeth?”

“She’s an estate agent. Her company settles estates – auctions, you know the kind of thing – and she brings me the leftovers. I got it from her.”

“Address?”

“I don’t have to give this to you, you know.”

“Turlan!” Two voices shouted his name in stereo.

“Here! Here. She does her business on the swishier side of the street.”

~*~*~*~

“How?!” Corrie’s hands had shot over her mouth at the news, shock giving way to glee as everyone around the table was embraced in turn.

For a moment, Hutch wondered if she was going to stop at their comer or spread the joy to the entire Pits post-lunchtime crowd, one table at a time. “Hey,” he cautioned, “you’re not off the hook yet. We still haven’t found the original and William hasn’t admitted to anything… at least not so far.”

“We’ll get him, though,” Starsky reassured.

“Oh, my. Evans admitted it? He actually said he made the copy? Why would he do that? And how did they even find him so quickly?”

“Evans doesn’t get around much at the moment,” Hutch explained dryly. “He’s living at the city’s expense over on Staten Island.”

Starsky chuckled. “Two in prison, one pushing up daisies… these three could be poster children for the ‘Crime Does Not Pay’ campaign, y’know it? We have some friends over at the N.Y.P.D. who were more than willing to go out and have a chat with ‘im yesterday.”

“Your friends must be formidable conversationalists,” Marie mused.

“Either that, or somebody got something he wanted in return.” Huggy folded his arms and rested them lightly on the table. “Don’t know of too many jailbirds willing to sing if the music ain’t gonna win them either more seed, a bigger cage, or a shorter period in captivity.”

“You’d be surprised, Hug.” Hutch twirled his glass thoughtfully. “Evans considers himself an artiste, apparently, so they just praised the work. By the time they’d set the tone, distracted him with a few other matters, casually took him out of the running for this job just because his work wasn’t up to standard, he was happy to take full credit. Name, dates, how the transaction was made – signed, sealed, and delivered.”

Marie frowned. “I don’t pretend to be an expert in law enforcement, but doesn’t this mean that you can arrest William E. esquire? What am I missing here?”

Hutch blew out his cheeks and turned to Starsky. You explain it.

 “Uh-oh,” Huggy said with a sigh. “I know that look.”

“Yeah. You see, it’s not illegal to have a copy made of a piece of personal property. If we try to stick Emerrist with this, he’ll just come up with any one of a dozen possible – if not plausible­ explanations for having it done.”

“A copy would be clearly marked as such,” Corrie protested. “Besides which, it wasn’t his personal property to begin with.”

“Yes, but he can counter that his uncle gave permission. There’s no one to refute it.” Hutch drew a drop of spilled water across the table with a fingertip. “We’re not saying he didn’t intend to commit a crime, just that we can’t prove it.”

“Now it shouldn’t be hard to get William to admit to the possibility that you appraised the original, and that the copy was somehow sent to the museum-” Starsky made quotation marks in the air “-by mistake- but we’ve decided to up the ante a little and see what happens.”

“You have a plan?” Corrie tucked in her chin and eyed each ‘nephew’ in turn.

“I know that look, too, so give it up already. Inquiring minds and all that.”

“Just baiting the line, Huggy,” Hutch said with a soft smile.

“Called in a favor with a reporter we know, and arranged to have her make three calls-” Starsky checked them off on his fingers “–William, Constance, and Charles. She’s to tell each of them that she’s doing a story on the theft of the cup and wants an interview; that her sources are telling her-off the record, of course – there’s been a breakthrough in the investigation and it will all be wrapped up with a big yellow bow on top by morning.”

“And you’re waiting to see who nibbles first?” Marie laughed. “Clever, guys.”

“The ploy’s as old as the hills,” Hutch said, “but there’s a reason it’s been around that long: it works. We’ll just tail them and see where they lead us. Of course, this doesn’t come without a price.” He nodded at his aunt and Marie. “Jane Hutton drives a hard bargain – she fully expects a story for her troubles.”

“While I am well aware that your powers of deduction are legendary, isn’t it going to be a bit of a stretch for two of you to cover three of them?”

“You volunteering, Hug? Aw, that’s terrific. You never cease to surprise me.”

“Did somebody deputize me when I wasn’t looking, Starsky, or are you packing your bags for Cabrillo State?”

Hutch grinned. “Relax. We had a nice visit with Dobey yesterday and he wanted to help. I have to hand it to you, Cor, you have a knack for making friends. The only thing he wanted in exchange was the pleasure of your company over dinner before you head back home.”

“I want to come, too.”

Starsky frowned. “I think that’s the whole idea, Aunt Corrie. You see, he wants-”

“No. I mean I want to come along on the stakeout.”

“That’s probably not a good idea-”

“Why not?” She cast an exasperated glance at the group as a whole. “This isn’t the Normandy Invasion and I do have a stake in the outcome. If any bullets start to fly, I promise you, I’ll hit the floor.”

“I’m with Corrie. We didn’t fly out here just to be decorative. Besides which, who do you think would have been handling the investigation if you two would’ve bowed out? Okay, we didn’t really expect that you would, but it was a possibility and we were good and ready to handle it ourselves if need be.” Marie crossed her arms defiantly in a tacit challenge.

“Please, Mast?”

The next sound heard was the unmistakable whoosh that signaled Hutch had just aspirated his beer. The color that flushed his cheeks and warmed his ears uncomfortably had very little to do with the coughing fit, and feeling, more than seeing, Starsky’s attempt to stifle laughter didn’t help at all. Marie seemed like a nice enough girl, though, maybe she’d let it ride….

“Mast?”

Of course not.

“Master Hutchinson.” Corrie beamed as she rubbed the closest of Hutch’s knees, seemingly oblivious to the growing storm of embarrassment swirling just below the surface of her beloved nephew. “He was all of four years old when we were introduced, and his mama dressed him up like Little Lord Fauntleroy. That was all I could think to call him.”

“Well, bro,” Huggy carefully adjusted his psychedelic fish-patterned neckerchief, “I can absolutely guarantee that will be one nickname you’ll never hear emanating from these lips.”

“That makes two of us.” The initial snorts of laughter having subsided, Starsky draped an arm affectionately around Hutch’s shoulders and sighed. “Not even when we’re all alone.”

“Okay.” Hutch was aware that his voice had to be muffled nearly to the point of being unintelligible, but was unwilling to disentangle his head from his arms. “If I just say ‘okay,’ will everybody stop talking?”

~*~*~*~

“Be honest now: how much of that ‘Mast’ slip was a slip, and how much was really a clever piece of blackmail?”

“David Michael Starsky! How could you even think such a thing?”

Despite the vehemence of the response, it wasn’t an outright denial, and the barely-there smile on Corrie’s face just reinforced his suspicions.

“Uh-huh, figured as much. And he’s not the only one you’re playing games with tonight, is he?”

“Mmm?”

‘”Mmm’.” Starsky, elbow against the driver’s side window, lazily rested his head in his hand and regarded the troublesome passenger with amused disbelief. “Don’t give me that. Which one a you cooked up this ‘Corrie should go with Starsky tonight’ thing, huh? Know it wasn’t Marie – she’s justifiably worried about the fate of the planet if she and Hutch spend any time together. Or was it both of you hatched it together?”

She nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip, then said quietly, “He’s worried about you.”

“Yeah, he’s good at that. Had lots of practice.”

“You’ve given him plenty of reasons over the years. Does he have reason to be now?”

Starsky took a deep breath and considered a moment before responding to a question he wasn’t entirely sure of the answer to himself. “I’m okay. It’s been kinda rough lately, but we’re dealing with it. Been through worse.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I was there for part of it. Do you know you called me ‘Ma’ a few times?”

He laughed, then reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I called everybody ‘Ma’ in the hospital. I even called Hutch ‘Ma’ once or twice.”

“Yes, but I was a much more convincing mother figure, don’t you think? Actually, ‘Hutch’ was the only word you spoke for the longest time.” She stifled a giggle for a few seconds, but it soon became full-fledged laughter.

“What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

“What?”

 “Well – it’s just that the medication made you do and say such silly things. I was remembering the time you carried on a twenty minute conversation with your reflection in a teaspoon.”

“Terrific,” Starsky said with a laugh. “Now I know how Hutch feels when you tell that story about him trying to flush all his socks down the toilet.”

She sobered suddenly. “I wonder if he’ll ever really forgive me.”

“For telling those stories? Aw, he makes a lotta noise, but it doesn’t mean anything-you know that.”

“No, I mean-” She paused, staring out the window for a moment before continuing. “Officially, I was only a Hutchinson for four years before Ivor died, and afterward I wasn’t really considered family. If I still look at him and sometimes see the little boy who packed a suitcase and begged me to take him along when I left, he must sometimes see the woman who left him standing in the driveway and drove off.”

An almost eerie silence settled on the car for a long moment, as Starsky laid a hand gently on Corrie’s shoulder and tried to think of something comforting to say. It wasn’t that the story was news, but it had never before been spoken of so openly – at least not by Corrie herself. Open up with me so I’ll open up with you? “You never broke the link,” he reminded her softly. “All those years of letters and telephone calls… even now, you know you were the only one who came out after the shooting?”

“Yes, but- is that someone by the front window?”

Abruptly switching gears, Starsky grabbed the binoculars and had a look. “Brian again,” he said with a sigh. “Have you even caught a glimpse of Constance since we’ve been here?”

“Not so far.” She accepted the binoculars, studied the house for a moment, then handed them back. “I actually felt sorry for her by the time I’d finished with the appraisal.”

“What? Is that a Hutchinson thing? That’s exactly what he said after our interview with her was over.”

“Well, really.” Corrie made an expansive gesture with her hands. “I don’t think any of them had particularly easy lives, but she must have always been the one on the outside looking in. From everything I’ve heard, her uncle was a horrible man, and her cousin William’s an ass.”

“Corrie!”

“Well, it’s true. You met the man. He’s so full of himself, there’s no room for anyone else. Besides, it’s hard to respect someone who hates children.”

“They don’t have any, do they? Oh, you mean the maid’s son?”

She nodded. “Yes – sweet boy. I was over at the house a few times doing appraisals on a handful of other pieces from the collection.”

“I didn’t know you appraised anything else for them.” Instincts long ago honed to the sharpness of a knife’s edge told him this bit of information might be important but, for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine how.

“Nothing major. He had a couple of smalls he wanted me to look at… nothing that topped out at more than five hundred or so. They have some nice pieces, but not one of them qualifies as extraordinary.”

Still trying to nail down what his mind thought it heard, Starsky asked, “What about the house itself? Anything that struck you as odd? Places he didn’t want you to go? Anything?”

All was silent while Corrie thought. Finally, she shook her head and said, “No, nothing that comes to mind. I was shown to the places they wanted me to be in, but no one stood guard, and nothing seemed other than usual.”

“What about Charles? Nobody seems to talk about him much.”

“I only met him once, that time we all gathered in the attorney’s office. I liked him, actually – he seemed fun.” She smiled. “The only one there who didn’t act like the future of the world was revolving around their precious cup.”

Brian appeared at the window once again, and Starsky drummed his fingers thoughtfully against the steering wheel.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m starting to get the feeling that Brian may be waiting for the same thing we are, and if Connie’s gone AWOL. … ” The finger drumming graduated to full-palm tapping.

“Then we may be forced to go to Plan B.”

“What’s that?”

“Dunno. Haven’t come up with it yet.” He turned and leaned his back against the car door. “In the meantime, why don’tcha tell me a story?”

“What kind of a story?”

He grinned. “How about the time Hutch siphoned up the teacher’s goldfish in second grade?”

~*~*~*~

Marie had spent most of the trip to William’s house looking as though she expected a small planet to drop from the sky and crush both car and occupants. Hutch couldn’t really blame her – their interactions thus far had been less than auspicious – but was relieved nonetheless when, once they were safely ensconced in their surveillance position, she seemed finally to show signs of relaxing.

“How long have you worked with my aunt now? You’ve been together awhile, haven’t you?”

“Almost a year. If all goes well, I will be for some time to come. She’s offered me a senior position at the gallery when I graduate.”

Hutch didn’t even attempt to mask the surprise. “Someone with your education could do a lot better than gallery work, surely?”

“What? As a secretary?” She laughed. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Yeah, in a sense I guess I could, but we work so well together. I have this dream of someday combining a partnership at the gallery with teaching… the best of both worlds.” She drew in a deep breath and smiled. “I have the advantage over you. You do realize that? Corrie talks about you both incessantly, even keeps this photo of you two goofing off – on a dock maybe?- sitting on her desk. Loves it when people ask her which one she’s related to, and the answer never varies.. .I know it by heart now.” Doing an almost frighteningly good impression of her boss, she continued, “She points to you and says, ‘This one by marriage,’ then points to David and says, ‘This one through adoption. They’ve been a matched set since they were at the Police Academy together.’ And it’s true, isn’t it?”

You have no idea. Hutch nodded his agreement. “I guess that pretty much sums it up.”

Marie nodded, too. “I feel as though I’ve known you for years, but you know practically nothing at all about me.”

“Then you’ll just have to fill me in, won’t you?” He turned her direction and smiled. “Knowing Corrie, you probably know enough to blackmail both of us to into oblivion.”

“Yeah. It’s a little like getting to know two characters from a book really well, then actually meet them in real life. One of the reasons I wanted to tag along, actually.”

“Oh, that reminds me: thanks for coming along like this tonight. I realize, I mean, considering our track record…”

She shrugged. “Can’t say it never occurred, but considering all things….. They’re really a lot alike, aren’t they?”

“Wh-wait a sec – somebody’s moving over there.” Hutch raised the binoculars, then lowered them with a frown. “We’re not at a very good angle here. If he doesn’t move back around, I may have to leave you for a while.” He sighed. “I’m sorry – what were you saying?”

“Just that I was a little surprised at how many personality traits Corrie and David seem to share. They really speak the same language, don’t they? Goes a long way toward explaining why she’s always saying she loves you both, but she understands him. Always wondered about that. And you won’t have to leave me – I’ll come, too.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you’re going.” She raised her hand before he could make the protest verbal. “Hey, this is probably the only stakeout I’ll be on in the whole of my life. Don’t want to miss anything. Besides, I’m probably evil for saying this, but Emerrist really irks my craw, and I’d love to be a witness to him doing something he shouldn’t.”

Hutch laughed. “You really have it in for the guy, don’t you? He’s odious, but something tells me there’s more to it than that.” Watching the smile that won out over Marie’s best attempts to beat it down, Hutch nudged her lightly. “Come on, we’re supposed to be getting to know each other here. What’d he do to you?”

After a few seconds fidgeting with her necklace, she leaned back in the seat with a sigh. “I can deal with pomposity and condescension, but when you add bottom-pinching to the mix… I swear, he followed me around all day like a dog in heat, and came that close,” the space between index finger and thumb was less than a half an inch, “to getting to know his fountain pen better than he’d ever imagined.”

Hutch roared. “Can’t see a thing from here now.” Decorously extending a hand, he asked, “Care to join me for a turn around the grounds?”

“My pleasure, Ma-” Giggling at the reaction, she corrected, “Hutch.”

They spotted William Emerrist through the slightly askew curtain of a side window on their second pass around, and settled by the relative shelter of a tree to watch his actions.

“That’s his study,” she confirmed, steadying the binoculars. “I recognize the desk from being chased around it a few times. Looks like he’s shuffling through files like a madman. I wonder wha-”

Her comment was abruptly cut off by Hutch’s hand firmly covering her mouth.

“Wha-”

 “Shh. I heard something.” Experiencing the all-too-familiar sensation of adrenaline coursing through his veins – a by-product of every internal alarm capable of signaling danger going off at once – Hutch raced through the available options. Drawing his weapon was just a bad idea altogether: too risky with this many unknowns, not to mention a civilian in tow. They had no hope of making a dash for the car, not with the footsteps approaching so quickly. He might be able to shove Marie behind a tree, but then again…… In a bad situation, he’d long ago learned to opt for whatever represented the best chance for success, and face the consequences later. The next second, he was pinning Marie against the tree like an over-stimulated teenager on a first date.

The first thing he heard was the surprised gasp of Marie trying to re-inflate her lungs; the second, a throat being cleared with a touch too much drama to be incidental. Though totally unexpected, and totally out of place, it was also completely familiar… even without a voice to match it against. Hutch spun around instantly, vaguely aware that Marie – for some inexplicable reason – was still adhered to his chest. “Starsky?”

“Hi, Hutch.” He nodded to the woman twisting awkwardly in Hutch’s arms. “Marie. Don’t let us interrupt.”

The initial expression of shock – or was it something else? – that crossed Starsky’s face was almost immediately replaced with recognition, for this wasn’t exactly an unfamiliar undercover technique. That, in turn, gave way to well-hidden amusement.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be watching Constance? What-”

“David?” Corrie’s head popped around from behind a bush. “There you are.” She blinked at her nephew and assistant with something almost approaching disinterest. “Oh. Hello, love.”

Starsky made a flapping sign with his hands. “Went bye-bye. Brian’s clueless. I asked Dobey to put out an alert on the license number but, obviously, an APB is out of the question. Since everybody else is behaving…” He grinned. “Or maybe I should re-phrase that-we thought it might be a good idea to launch a Search and Rescue operation.”

“Oh.”

“You think we might discuss this after….?” Starsky gestured to a still tightly-held Marie.

“Oh.” Hutch abruptly let go.

“Well. Under the circumstances, this is a little odd.” Marie blinked up at him, but shifted her position very little.

“I thought-I…I…I didn’t know-” Hutch swallowed hard. “Cover, you know? Sorry. Um, you could probably actually…”

“Let go? Yeah. Thing is, Hutch, my hair’s caught in your zipper.”

“Poor dear. Let me see.” Corrie immediately set to work attempting to salvage Marie’s blonde locks from Hutch’s jacket zipper with the minimum amount of loss, while Starsky stood back, arms akimbo.

“It’s not-” Hutch began unnecessarily, but Starsky just shook his head. Once free, Marie turned back to Hutch, opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think the better of it. Both she and Corrie scuttled off in the direction of the car, the faint sounds of giggling mapping an audible trail.

“Cannot leave you alone for even one second, can I?” Starsky kept up the almost-convincingly stern attitude for a bit, but the mock seriousness quickly dissolved into genuine laughter. Hutch, despite the keenly-felt embarrassment, wasn’t very long in joining him.

“I don’t remember it ever being this hard before,” Hutch finally managed with a snort, wiping his eyes.

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you get out of practice.” Punching Hutch lightly in the shoulder he added, “But unless you got plans you haven’t told me about, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I’m not,” he answered softly, his voice – he hoped – adequately conveying the shift in tone. Squeezing Starsky’s shoulder lightly as he passed, he made for the car. “What say we get the ‘Great Connie Hunt’ on the road, huh?”

A little over an hour later, the roads much easier to navigate with the comparative trickle of nighttime traffic, Hutch pulled into the duplex’s parking space a mere fifteen minutes after his partner. With the exception of watching Starsky’s vehicle make an unexpected swerve in a successful bid to avoid an indeterminate nocturnal creature, the trip back had been blessedly without incident.

“What happens now?”

“Depends, Cor,” Hutch answered, locking the car door. “If the radio units have spotted the car, we’ll just head over to wherever she is and watch. If not, I guess we’ll have to split up and try to find her.”

“Without even a clue where she might be? Isn’t that a bit like-”

“A needle in a haystack? Yeah, but we’ve-”

His sentence didn’t have a chance to progress further, thanks to an animated Starsky calling to them from the door.

“Just stay there! Back in the car.”

Hutch jogged halfway to meet him. “What’s going on?”

“They’ve found Constance. You’re not gonna believe it, Hutch – she was trying to break into a bank!”

~*~*~*~

The drive to Metro had been both alarmingly rapid and unusually animated; the car filled with a cacophony of voices, each vying for dominance in the game of supposition. The under-informed, comfortably-loose theorizing and banter made the chill Starsky felt now, upon arrival at their destination, seem twice as harsh by contrast. Back to the front lines. It took every ounce of willpower he could muster just to force himself out of the car and forward, and even that effort eventually failed him, his feet deciding to put down roots about three steps away from the entrance. It was not yet something he’d been able to put into words, this strangely predictable-if­ unwelcome reaction to a place that had been a second home for so long. Hutch, he knew, had probably chalked it up in large measure to the shooting itself, but there was no direct connection. This was something far, far more basic…and much harder to face.

“Starsk?”

He was startled back into the here and now by the sudden appearance of a hand at his elbow. Hutch. Though not renowned for his natural physical grace, Hutch nevertheless had an unusual knack for the soundless, stealthy approach. The concern radiating from him was just this side of tangible.

“M’tired,” Starsky explained firmly, shrugging off the mood as best he could. It wasn’t a lie, exactly; just not the whole truth. “I’m fine.” Hutch seemed to accept, if not believe it, and for the moment that would have to do.

Once inside, there was more than enough activity to distract from whatever raw emotions chose to linger, and for that, Starsky was grateful. Brandywine, whose natural ebullience appeared to have reached critical mass and actually gone up a few notches, stopped pacing, snagged the entourage as soon as they walked in the door, and quickly beckoned them over to the desks.

‘”Bout time you guys got here. We didn’t want to start the party without you.” He smiled and nodded at Corrie and Marie, extending a hand in an easy greeting. “Alan Brandywine. Hi.”

“I’m sorry, Alan. This is Corrie Kettering, my aunt, and her assistant, Marie Ashton. Ladies, this is Detective Sgt. Alan Brandywine. He and his partner have been helping us out during the investigation.”

“Thank you.” Corrie and Marie spoke in tandem.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” He pumped Corrie’s hand eagerly, and smiled almost shyly at Marie. “You two’ve been a frequent topic of conversation around here lately. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable – just grab a seat anywhere – while I borrow your crack investigative team for a while. Minnie there-” he pointed to the appropriate person, “-will be happy to get you whatever you need. Guys?” Nodding toward the interrogation rooms, he took off at a near-sprint, leaving Starsky and Hutch to play catch-up.

By the book, huh? Civilians – even civilians directly involved with the case at hand-were not meant to be privy to the particulars of any investigation. It was a rule he and Hutch had chosen to regard more as a suggestion throughout the course of their careers, but Brandywine seemed content enough to tow the party line.

No one spoke a word until the door closed on the observation room where Tolliver was already ensconced – the one currently offering a spectacular view of a singularly irate Constance Leighton-Pierce. But what the hell… ?

“What’s going on?” Hutch demanded. “We just-”

“Hey, wait a minute.” Starsky tapped his partner lightly on the shoulder. He’d been staring at the strange sight since they’d walked in, even tried blinking a few times, just in case it was a hallucination. It wasn’t. “Turn around. Ya gotta see this.” As Hutch peered through the glass for the first time, Starsky addressed the other two detectives. “Before we do anything else, which one of you is going to tell me what Constance is doing dressed up as a cleaning lady?”

Tolliver made a face. “Well, she doesn’t really want to say, but I can take a guess. Where exactly would you fellas like us to start?”

Hutch turned back to Starsky, mouth slightly agape, glanced one more time through the glass, and finally rubbed his eyes wearily. “From the top, Mike, please. It probably won’t make any difference, but part of me wants to cling to the belief it will make more sense that way.”

“Fine. We went ahead and tagged all of the people involved in this little caper of yours, and asked Dispatch to let us know if any of them decided to do something they shouldn’t. You know the drill: give us a call, fill us in on the particulars, and so on.”

“And then-”

“Shush,” Tolliver cautioned his partner. “You’ll have a chance; just be patient. Anyhoo, word came through from the captain this evening that Ms. Pierce in there was out among the missing, and to be on the lookout. Oh, about an hour and a half later, we heard the suspected 211 call at Tenhight Bank come over the radio, drove out there on a hunch, and who should we find showed up for work tonight as the newest member of the cleaning crew?” He gestured grandly at the woman on the other side of the glass. “Cinderella herself.”

“Does she know that you know about the cup?” Starsky ran through all of the possibilities he could think of, discarding each one in turn as increasingly unlikely.

“Not unless she’s a psychic,” Brandywine replied.

Hutch had been leaning against the far wall, ankles crossed, since Tolliver had begun the narration, and didn’t seem eager to give up the position. “What exactly has she said?”

“Not a whole lot. Mike and I have been saving the interrogation until you arrived, but did the prelim interview as soon as processing was complete. Didn’t want a lawyer; insists she didn’t do anything wrong. Seems more concerned with the possibility of being seen by someone she knows while still wearing a cleaning uniform than anything else.”

“Is she being charged with a 211?” Starsky asked.

”No, not yet,” Tolliver replied. “Brought her in on a UE, figuring we can always work our way up from there. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’d like to get as much of this chat in as we can before her cousin arrives, her husband arrives, or she decides to declare a case of amnesia. Please feel free to stay and watch.”

“Yeah,” Brandywine added with a grin, “this could get real interesting before it’s done.” He nudged Tolliver lightly with his foot. “So, how do you wanna do it?”

“Usual tried-and-true seems to be working. Why mess with it?”

‘”Cause it’s not fair. Why do you always get to play bad cop first?”

“Ohhh, because I’m naturally surly, and you look too much like Dobie Gillis to be intimidating.”

Brandywine let his shoulders slump and stared at his feet dejectedly, but only for a few seconds. When he brought his head back up, he was beaming again. “You’re right, but when I grow up ”

“Yeah, yeah.” Though his mouth seemed rarely to twitch into a smile for any reason, the shove toward the door that Tolliver gave his partner was obvious play.

As soon as the other detectives were out of the room, Hutch edged closer to Starsky. “She thinks he’s got it secreted away somewhere. Well, we wanted a reaction… looks like we got one.”

“Yeah, but all this one did was clear Constance. Nothing but a damned game of elimination.”

“True. But once you eliminate all but one-”

“Bingo. I suppose, but it still would’ve been a lot simpler if someone just led us to the treasure in the first place. Doesn’t seem like so much to ask, does it?”

Hutch laughed. “That’s too easy. Never know, though,” he nodded toward Constance, “she looks just stressed enough to maybe let something slip this time.”

Starsky folded his arms and rested his forehead against the wood. “That implies she’s got something to tell.”

Tolliver sauntered into the interrogation room like a man holding all the cards; his partner, playing the role of friendly backup, actually starting the ball rolling.

“Good evening again, Mrs. Leighton-Pierce. Is there anything we can get for you before we begin?” Brandywine settled himself across the table from her and opened a file.

“I want my clothes – you know where they are, they’re out in the car – but at this point I’d take anything. Robe, shirt, toga… ” she held up a fistful of cleaning uniform, “just so long as it isn’t this.”

 “Come on, Counselor, you know better than that,” Tolliver said sharply. “Evidence in a crime. Sorry if you don’t like the get-up, but just remember who chose it.”

“So how didja come to be wearing this, anyway? I’m guessing it’s not your usual. Correct, ma’am?”

“No! Yes.” She tossed her head defiantly, then stared at the floor, tapping one foot in a rapid beat. “I mean, of course it’s not my normal attire.”

“They’re not going to get anywhere if they don’t push a little,” Starsky said definitively. “We’ve spoken with her before; we know how to play ‘er. Maybe we should-”

“Give them a chance. Their approach is a little different, not as well choreographed, but it works.” Hutch smiled. “I’m sure they’ll give a yell if they need reinforcements. Relax.”

“Yeah, but Tolliver should be-”

“Special occasion?” Tolliver snapped, right on cue. “Or were you contemplating a career change?”

She glared at her inquisitor with a look that must have dropped the ambient room temperature by at least twenty degrees, then stubbornly looked the other way.

Brandywine offered a beguiling smile. “You don’t have to talk to us, of course, but we already have enough evidence to charge you with unlawful entry. We found the cleaning lady whose clothes you borrowed, and her statement is very interesting, I thought. She says,” he sniffed and quickly scanned a form, “she says that you paid her two hundred dollars for a copy of the graveyard security schedule of the bank, arranged to borrow the uniform on the day the regular guy was off, and swore to pay another six hundred if she promised to keep her mouth shut.” Straightening the little pile of papers in front of him, he added, “Too bad the temp called in sick tonight and the regular guy worked anyway, huh? Just not your day, is it?”

“Lean on her!” Starsky almost spit. He could feel Hutch staring, but was beyond caring at this point. The situation was unbearable: their case, their suspect, and they couldn’t get to her because two idiots who had no place even handling an investigation had usurped their roles. Damn it! He cuffed the wall.

“Sure, she can keep quiet,” Tolliver taunted. “Right now she’s looking at a very good possibility of being charged with an attempted bank heist. What? You can’t be a very good lawyer: you’re the first one I’ve known yet who had to rob a bank to make ends meet.”

“It’s not about the money!”

“No, it’s not, is it? So why don’t you tell us what you were really doing there?”

Constance gave every indication of being a woman staring over the edge of a precipice with no visible bottom. Starsky knew the look – he’d seen it reflected in the mirror not so very long ago. Even now, some distant part of him registered the fact that he was matching her borderline hyperventilation breath for breath.

“I had no choice,” she whispered. “You don’t understand. I have to find it. It. ..it’s my duty. It’s all I have.”

“What is?”

Say it, Starsky pleaded silently. None of this would mean anything if she didn’t offer it herself. Something else was happening, too, something on a very personal level, as emotions that had obediently retreated to a point below the surface suddenly and violently claimed the ascendant position once again. It didn’t matter. Not right now.

Constance swallowed hard, and four other people held their collective breath. “An antique cup.”

Yes. Constance suddenly made herself vertical, screaming something that he didn’t quite catch. Brandywine and Tolliver seemed to be contributing to the melee, and even Hutch’s voice could be heard in the mix. None of the words made any sense at the moment though, anymore than the whiteness of his knuckles against the wooden ledge. He should feel pleased – he knew that – but instead felt… what? Oddly detached. Nauseous.

“Starsky!”

Hutch’s voice broke through the fog with surprising force, punctuated, no doubt, by the fact that he had physically turned Starsky away from the glass.

“Sit down.” A command, not a request.

“No.” Get. A. Grip.

“You’re not seeing yourself, partner. Come on-”

“No.” Starsky pulled out of the strong hold and backed toward the door with slow precision. “No. Just need some air. I’m fine.” He put up a restraining hand when Hutch made to follow. “Don’t. I’m fine.”

Time seemed to flow at its normal speed once again by the time he reached the men’s room. Splashing cold water on his face until the dizziness subsided, he wasn’t surprised to find Hutch’s reflection staring back at him in the mirror when he looked up. A little surprised that there was so little anger, maybe. Then again, maybe not.

“You want to tell me what happened in there?”

“When I figure it out, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Not good enough.”

Starsky sighed. “Well, it’s gonna have to be, because I don’t know any more that that.”

“I could understand it – maybe – if this was the breakthrough in the case, but it’s not. It’s just-”

“Not about that.”

Hutch folded his arms and leaned against a basin. “Thought you didn’t know what it was about.”

“I don’t, but…” Starsky took a deep breath. “Listen, whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. All right? Just not right now. Right now I’m gonna grab something with sugar in it, and I’ll be back. Promise.”

Starsky had already reached the door before Hutch offered his reply. “That card can only be played so many times, Starsk, and you’re right at the limit. Got it?”

He paused in the doorway, not turning around, but not walking out immediately, either. “Got it.”

Maybe Hutch is right, and I’m just not supposed to have sugar, Starsky thought, as a series of events unfolded in rapid suggestion, all of which seemed part of a larger conspiracy designed solely to deny him his confection. The machine ate the first quarter, and wouldn’t accept the second. The spirited assault he launched – one that had met with some degree of success in the past – was interrupted by Dobey’s sudden appearance at the side door.

“Hey, Cap. What’s-”

“Not now, Starsky.” Paper held firmly in his grip, Dobey looked to be a man on a mission, and headed straight toward the interrogation rooms.

Starsky was still watching the rapid departure when another commotion caught his attention: William Emerrist – with brother Charles in tow – had apparently whizzed right past the front desk and were now demanding both information and access to their cousin. Terrific. Giving up on candy for the moment, Starsky rushed to re-join the others.

“-say if they want to, why not?” Brandywine started at the door opening. “Good timing, Starsky! Your William Emerrist and-”

“I know,” Starsky replied quietly, doing his best to avoid Hutch’s penetrating stare. “Saw them from out in the hall.”

“Tolliver?” Dobey asked.

“I agree with Alan. If Willy and Chuck want to come in and visit with Constance, who are we to stop them? We all know she wasn’t there to rob the bank. Getting all three of them in a room together might make for an interesting dynamic, cause some things to shake loose.”

“Hutch?”

Hutch looked up in obvious surprise. “Not my case, Captain.”

“No, but you’re allowed to have an opinion. And I’m asking.”

He shifted position a few times while he considered the options. “Works for me.”

“Starsky?”

The gesture might not have been necessary from a tactical point of view, but Starsky appreciated it nonetheless. “I agree, but you’d better have a fire extinguisher handy- this could get hot.”

Despite the comment, it was a cold fire…at least at first. Constance and William eyed each other from across the table like predatory animals sizing up a kill: no sound, no movement and, eeriest of all, no visible emotion. The latter was the first to give way, as Constance emitted an almost feral growl and launched herself in William’s direction. William, never one to be outdone, came absolutely unhinged. It was difficult to identify what limbs belonged to whom but, as near as Starsky could tell, Brandywine made a grab for Constance while the taller and more sturdily-built Tolliver attempted to subdue William. To his credit, Charles tried to play peacemaker by standing in-between the two – a gesture that won him a right cross from his brother. Hutch assisted Tolliver, Starsky assisted Brandywine, but a cease-fire wasn’t reached until Dobey entered the room.

“ENOUGH!” The booming voice had an effect roughly similar to a semi-automatic rifle firing a warning shot into the ceiling: all movement froze instantly. “Thank you. Now the both of you are courting Assault of a Police Officer charges already. Anyone want to try for something more? No? Then sit down!” Even Brandywine obliged. Dobey allowed each miscreant an equal measure of his glare, shook his head, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, and boomed at Tolliver, “Next one moves a muscle out of turn, put them under arrest!”

After a brief moment of silence following Dobey’s departure, Tolliver cleared his throat. “Okay children, let’s see if we can’t do this like grown-ups and try mouths, instead of fists, this time.”

“One at a time!” clarified Brandywine, into the ensuing noise. “Ladies first.”

“I want him charged with theft!”

“Theft?! That’s rich, coming from the woman who just broke into my bank. I didn’t steal anything, and the cup is none of your concern, anyway. The will clearly stated-”

“The will, the will – I suppose that’s why you had a copy made, because you always intended to follow the will!” She spun in her chair toward Tolliver. “You didn’t know that, did you? He had a forgery made, and I can prove it.”

Starsky, sharing a far wall with Hutch and a smarting Charles, raised his hand. “Um, we did, actually.”

It was William’s tum to spin around, while Constance just blinked at Starsky, apparently newly aware of his presence in the room. To Tolliver she asked, “What is he doing here?”

“Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson probably heard the nuclear bomb going off in here a few minutes ago and came to our assist. Do you have a problem with them being here?”

“Well, no. I-”

“Good. Messrs. Emerrist?”

“No,” William replied glumly.

“More the merrier.” Charles gave all indications of being the only person in the room who was truly at ease. “So, how’d you find out about the fake?”

“Charles!”

“Oh, loosen up, Will. It’s not like I can tell them anything incriminating. You don’t tell me anything, so how could I?” To Starsky and Hutch, he added, “I had it pegged from the beginning, but I never had any evidence. How did you come up with it?”

“We tracked down Arthur Evans,” Hutch replied simply. “He’s the man who actually got paid by your brother to make the forgery.”

William blanched. “Oh, God. I, I, I. ..I can explain.”

“Oh, good. We were really hoping you could.” Brandywine beamed. “Well, go on then.”

“Oh, well… ” William swallowed hard while Constance laughed derisively. “Shut up! Quite simple, really. I, uh, I. .. my uncle had promised to bequeath the cup to me but, you see, I, I knew him, knew his duplicity and affinity for damned mind games. I’ll admit,” straightening, he systematically began a full physical and emotional preening, “I managed to gain an early look at the will, which, of course, left the piece to the Archer Museum. I confronted him with it and he promised to change it if I …well, if I did certain things. Naturally, I didn’t trust him, so I did the only sensible thing open to me and had a copy made. If the original were to be lost, then at least our family could display a reasonable facsimile in our home. A reminder, if you will, of all that once was ours.”

“Oh, bravo!” Constance said dryly, clapping her hands in a gesture of exaggerated applause. In this case, at least, Starsky was inclined to go along with her.

“I see.” Tolliver pointed a pen at William. “That might-” he produced something suggestive of a smile, “-explain the copy, if you like Little Red Riding Hood and things like that, but how’d you end up with both? You were obviously given the copy after it was completed, and we know you had the original at one time, because Evans made a mold from it. So where’d it go?”

William momentarily looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “I put it back when Evans was done with it. Maybe he broke in and stole it! I don’t know.”

“Oh, brother,” Starsky whispered, as Hutch rolled his eyes.

“So, in order to have a forgery made, you ‘borrowed’ the original, put it back where it belonged after you got through with it, and then it disappeared? From your uncle’s house?” Brandywine blinked at him in what appeared to be amazement.

“That’s correct.”

“I see, sir. And you gave the forgery to the museum because…. ”

“I didn’t realize at the time that it was the forgery.”

“Oh,” Tolliver said, glancing up from his notes. “So you’re saying they got switched somehow, and you ended up with the original?”

William had begun to perspire profusely. “Uh, yes. Yes, that’s right.”

“So we’re back to what happened to the original?”

“I said-”

“You’ve just made two conflicting statements, sir,” Brandywine interjected. “It would be a whole lot simpler if you’d just tell us the truth.”

“It was a mistake! All right? They got switched somehow – like you said- and I didn’t realize it until after I heard that the copy had been sent to the museum.”

“Corrie,” Starsky whispered, “you just officially got let off the hook.”

“Thanks to William taking over as chief worm,” Hutch finished.

William, now both pink and wriggling furiously, actually bore more than just a passing resemblance to one, and it took a monumental effort on Starsky’s part to retain even a semi­ professional stance. From the quivering of Hutch’s lips, Starsky guessed his partner wasn’t faring much better.

“It was in a plain brown sack in the back of my closet… the copy! Well, what I believed to be the copy at the time. It was there one minute, and the next time I checked, it was gone. That was weeks ago. I have no idea where it might be now.”

“Bravo, William,” Constance reiterated. “How long did it take you to rehearse it?”

“Just try and prove otherwise,” he snarled. As if a thought just occurred, he fixed Tolliver with a steely stare that turned into an even cooler smile. “You say you knew about the copy, but did you also know about the forged will?” Both the genuine surprise of the room’s occupants and Constance’s shuddering breath seemed to buoy William, and he continued with relish. “No, you didn’t, did you? That’s what I thought. You may charge her with more than attempted bank robbery, if you like…. I can prove that she had a second will made up, naming her as beneficiary. A forged will, naturally. I’ve managed to obtain a few of the first drafts.”

Constance rose once more from the chair, this time looking even more agitated than before. “How-?” she choked out.

“Almost makes you wish you had some popcorn, doesn’t it?” Charles whispered cheerfully to Starsky and Hutch. “It’s okay. I’ve always had this sneaking suspicion I was adopted anyway.”

“All right,” Tolliver snapped. “Sit back down. We’ll determine our own charges, if it’s all the same to you.” Control wasn’t held so firmly in his grasp that he could afford to take any chances.

It occurred to Starsky that this might be as good a time as any to make a run for the observation room. Legally, they couldn’t ask any questions anyway, and the powder keg had already gone off. Besides, it would be handy to be in a soundproof room where they could discuss everything transpiring in this one. “Hutch?” he whispered. No response. Well, that wasn’t unexpected: whatever else you might call it, the scene was certainly riveting. When all else fails… “Hey, Hutch?” This time, Starsky added a puff of air into the nearest ear. Predictably, Hutch’s undivided attention was his once more. He grinned. “Let’s-”

Hutch nodded, and they silently slipped from the room.

“What do you think?” Starsky asked eagerly, as soon as they were alone. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s just… ”

“Yeah, it is. Hey, do I look half as shell-shocked as you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t suggest that you-”

“Wait.” One of the more useful fringe-benefits of being a long-term cop was a heightened ability to read people, and right now Brandywine was giving off every signal in the book to indicate he’d just honed in on something important. Hutch had recognized the same thing, and both men stopped to listen.

“-and you say that you both have hard evidence of each other’s somewhat less-than-ethical conduct. So where’d you get the evidence?”

“Uncle Jona-”

The answer came in stereo, shocking – it seemed – both Constance and William equally. Charles just laughed.

Hutch gave a low whistle, while Starsky just pressed closer against the glass.

“Well, that’s interesting. Isn’t it?” Even Tolliver seemed to be having a difficult time keeping a straight face. “So it looks like Uncle Jonathan played each of you against the other, is that right?”

“That would be very much in keeping with my late uncle’s personality, I assure you,” Charles affirmed. “He didn’t really have a lot of redeeming qualities.”

“So where’s the cup now?” Starsky asked.

“I’m with you so far,” Brandywine said, looking faintly puzzled, “but where do you think the cup is now?”

“He’s got it!” Constance shrieked, pointing at William.

“I do not, you miserable-”

“Now, now.” Brandywine wagged a warning finger. “None of that, or we won’t stop for ice cream on the way home. Just tell us where it is. Or where you think it might be.”

“I don’t know! Why are you focusing on me? What about the will?”

“We’ll get to that,” Tolliver promised. “We’ll cover everything before anyone can even hope to leave this room.”

~*~*~*~

“Noooo, she didn’t. Did she? Really?” Corrie placed both hands over her mouth in a vain attempt to hide a giggle, shaking her head.

Starsky took a sip of too-hot coffee in an attempt to get his own laughter under control before responding. “Hey, this is serious stuff. She could face federal charges for that little stunt, will almost certainly have her license to practice suspended. All because she was convinced William was hiding family treasures in his bank offices.”

“Do you suppose she was right, and there is something to find?” Predictably, Marie had regained her composure a few minutes before Corrie.

“I doubt it, but we should know one way or the other soon enough. William says has no objection to a search, either of his home or place of work. Would you hand me the pepper, please?” Hutch apparently found “Debbie’s Diner Special Eggs #2” falling somewhat short of their promise.

“Thank you. Of course, that probably gives us the answer right there.”

“And after everything that they did and said, and how many hours at the police station? – in the end, nobody even got arrested?” Corrie looked awed.

Starsky chuckled. “Yeah, ya gotta love the Criminal Justice System at work. Constance might be formally charged with unlawful entry but, if William presses charges, he knows Constance will find a way to turn the screws on him for the forgery.” The attempt to find a more comfortable position in the restaurant booth resulted in just the opposite effect, and he winced as muscles in his right shoulder rebelled. The familiar catch in his ribcage heralded the arrival of spasms there, too. Terrific.

 “So she really tried to break into Emerrist’s bank,” Marie mused, regarding her fluffy white biscuit with something approaching bliss. “Give the girl a cookie. Anyway, what happens next? Where do we go from here?”

“The next thing in the investigation will be a thorough search of the Emerrist homes -those owned by both William and Charles, as well as a run through the Pierce residence. Although that’s almost certainly a lost cause.” Hutch casually began massaging Starsky’s shoulder with a free hand. “The next thing for us, I think, should be some sleep. Either until I’m not hearing the voices of the Emerrist clan ringing in my ears anymore or tomorrow – whichever comes first.”

“Here, here!” Corrie cheered, laughing as all four tablemates tapped their orange juice glasses in unison.

“Actually,” Starsky corrected, “it’s more like take a shower, kick back until l :30, make our appointment, and then sleep.”

“What appointment?” Hutch stopped mid-knead. “With whom, and about what?”

“Just a little to the left, will ya? Yeah, that’s it. Elizabeth Morgan, remember? We’ve got an appointment with her set up for 2:15. I figured-”

“Whoa, just- It’s been a really long day already, Starsk. Refresh my memory: who’s Elizabeth Morgan?”

“Estate agent?”

“The box coin,” Corrie exclaimed. “Oh, that’s wonderful! I do hope she’ll be able to give you the full history. Would you call me this evening and let me know what she says?”

“You got it, schweetheart,” Starsky said with a wink.

“You’re kidding, Starsk. That’s today? Couldn’t we maybe… reschedule?”

“Why would we want to do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about the fact that you’re dead on your feet and need some rest?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who forgot who Elizabeth was.” Starsky managed to neatly circumvent the inevitable retort by shoving a piece of toast in Hutch’s mouth before he could speak. “I know. Really, I do. But we can sleep afterward, ‘kay? This is important-we need to catch her while she still stands a chance of remembering something about it.”

“Wot fur?”

“Wot fur?” Starsky grinned. “Don’t you know better than to talk with your mouth full?”

~*~*~*~

Elizabeth Morgan fingered the coin with suspicion, the way one might a known biohazard risk. “Is this a joke?”

“No, ma’am,” Starsky said cheerfully. “I purchased it from Turlan’s Junque Shop back on the 21st. He said that it had been in one of the boxes you sent over? Anyway, I was just hoping maybe you could give us some background – either on the coin itself or its previous owner. Anything? We’re trying to run down as much of its history as possible.” She handed it back with a shrug. “I’m very sorry, Mr…?”

“Starsky.”

” … Starsky, but I’m afraid that I really can’t help you. You must understand, we routinely handle a few estates per day. There’s obviously no way I could possibly remember even a small portion of what passes through our hands. Now, if it were a Goddard Townsend or a Giambologna, I could certainly help you. Something like… that?” She flashed a smile that appeared to be half amusement, half pity. “I probably never even saw it. If you don’t happen to know which estate it came from, I couldn’t even hazard a guess.”

“Oh.” Too tired to bother concealing his disappointment, Starsky grudgingly conceded- at least to himself – that Hutch had been right in the first place, and sleep would’ve been the better course of action.

“Surely, you must keep records of some kind?” Hutch asked testily.

Elizabeth blinked as though he’d posed the question in Sanskrit. “Of course we do, but only to a point. Every estate is bound to have a certain percentage of items that, quite frankly, don’t warrant our time. I expect that this was one of them. So sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Starsky flipped the coin once before returning it to the safety of his pocket. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. We’re sorry to have taken up your valuable time.”

“We’re not out of options yet,” Hutch offered encouragingly as they neared the door. “We’ll track down someone who knows Irish Gaelic and go from there. Who knows? The note may end up offering a better clue to the history than the estate could’ve.”

“Maybe, but-”

“Excuse me?”

Both men swung around to face a Ms. Morgan who, for the first time, actually appeared interested in the conversation.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but did I hear you say that this was of Irish origin?”

“Yeah,” Starsky replied, exchanging quizzical glances with Hutch, “at least that’s what we’ve been told.”

The answering smile was the first genuine article they’d seen so far; Starsky was sure of it. “Please come back and sit down – I may be able to help you after all.”

While they proceeded to get re-situated, Elizabeth began an enthusiastic hunt through a tall filing cabinet. “We cleared the estate of a ninety-seven -year-old woman a couple months back, and she, if I recall correctly, was from Ireland.” She pulled a file. “Yes, here we are: Niamh Bourke. I ended up purchasing a piece, myself – lovely example of an early music box – that’s why it stuck in my mind. I have no way of confirming that your coin came from this particular estate, of course, but I do remember that she had several boxes-worth of smalls, many of which would have eventually ended up at Mr. Turlan’s establishment.”

“That’s close enough for us,” Hutch replied with a grin.

“Now, what would you like to know?”

Starsky pulled out a notebook, and began scribbling furiously. The first request was for the proper spelling of the name of the coin’s previous owner. The second, “And on whose behalf was the estate settled?”

She scanned the file. “The Sisters of Mercy.”

It was Hutch who requested clarification. “There were no heirs who inherited? It went to a religious order?”

“Yes, that’s correct. All proceeds from the estate went to The Sisters of Mercy.”

“Well, that answers that question.” Putting away his pen, Starsky flipped the notebook closed again.

“Even so, Starsk, we’re still leaving with more than we came with.”

“Yeah, we are. Just no heirs.” He smiled at Elizabeth, and rose for the second time. “Thank you again-”

“Why are you looking for heirs?” Elizabeth’s eyes reflected keen curiosity now.

Starsky shrugged. “Oh, it was a longshot. We just wanted to quiz the family on the origins of the coin, get some stories maybe. That sort of thing.”

“Find out if it even is a family heirloom, for that matter.” Hutch shrugged. “For all we know, it could’ve been something someone picked up six months ago at a local flea market.”

“I see. Well, then you might want to try her sister.”

Startled, both Starsky and Hutch turned back to face their hostess.

“There was a sister?” Hutch rested his hands on the back of the chair he’d just vacated. “If there’s next of kin, why didn’t she inherit?”

“A vow of poverty, I imagine. The only living relative of Niamh Bourke is her identical twin sister, Brighid – who also happens to a member of the-”

“Sisters of Mercy,” Starsky finished, grinning at Hutch. “Got it.”

“Here. This is the address of her convent. If you call ahead and explain what you’re after, I can’t imagine there would be any problem with you visiting. St. Brighid’s as sharp as a tack, and also happens to be an excellent storyteller. Good luck, gentleman.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” Hutch stifled a yawn, and stretched in the afternoon warmth.

“I can live with that, just so long as the trail doesn’t run cold.” Starsky took a minute to take in their surroundings. “Y’know something?”

“What?”

 “Turlan was right. This really is the swishier side of the street.”

~*~*~*~

Back-to-back on the living room floor- instructions, hardware, packing material, and the oddly­ shaped pieces of wood trying so valiantly to become a shelving unit spread in splendid disarray before them – Starsky allowed his mind to rewind the day’s events. In the course of all that had transpired, one scene kept drifting in and out of his consciousness, its meaning and repercussions having nothing whatsoever to do with the case at hand. The interrogation. Something dwelling at a fundamental level within him had changed during that hour or so. Not vastly, nothing that would qualify as an even minor epiphany… but a shift no less real for its subtlety. Hutch was witness, too, and had given Starsky both space and time to work it through. Even now, he was patiently, silently waiting to be invited in.

“They’re good.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Tolliver and Brandywine. They’re good, aren’t they?”

Silence. Starsky felt the muscles in Hutch’s back contract as all motion temporarily ceased.

“Yeah. I guess they are.”

“You never told me.”

There was an answering shrug, after which he found himself nearly horizontal as Hutch reached for a rapidly-escaping washer. “Ya wanna warn me before you do that again?”

“Sorry.” Hutch chuckled softly and rubbed the back of his head lightly against his partner’s. “Didn’t expect you to come along.”

Starsky turned a thinly-veneered piece of wood around in his hands a few times, studying it with an intensity he didn’t particularly feel. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me more about them? You’ve been working around ’em for a couple a months now.”

“Would you have really wanted to hear?”

Fair point. “Prob’ly not.” He tossed the wood next to a pile of its brethren. “They’re handling the beat, though. Good cops, play off each other well. Experienced.” He sighed, then whispered, “Everything’s changing. Changed already, I guess.”

It was Hutch’s turn to lean against him. “Not everything. And we did make our mark. Indelible. It will never be like we were never there. We’re a part of it, Starsk – we’ll always be a part of it.” He turned slightly. “Do you know what I mean, or am I whistling in the wind again?”

“I know what you mean.” Hutch’s hand snaked around on a surprise visit and patted a leg, something Starsky acknowledged with a laugh that sounded a bit sad even to his own ears. Both returning to the project, it was Starsky who, once again, broke the silence a few minutes later. “It was strange watching them work today. Kept hoping one of ’em would screw up and make me feel like I still had a place there, y’know? It would have made it easier somehow … but they didn’t.” Drawing knees up to his chin, he swayed slightly, his swallow thick. “And I don’t. I knew that before, I think, but now… now I know it. Hard to explain. When I ran out today?”

Abandoning the field of construction for the present, Hutch drew one knee up and turned slightly. “Yeah?”

“It suddenly felt like the whole world had moved on without me, and I was empty – a ghost in a place where I used to belong. Couldn’t stay there a minute longer or something inside of me would’ve snapped.” Giving voice to feelings long held captive in the darkest of prisons required a depth of surrender Starsky didn’t know he was capable of, and the emotional nakedness it engendered made him shiver. A sheltering cloak came in the form of arms wrapping him in a close embrace: no longer back-to-back, they were suddenly spooned back-to-chest, and Starsky gratefully squeezed the arms of the one person in his life with whom he could be completely vulnerable. Warm. Immutable. Absolute. “Time to let go, isn’t it? I mean… let go for real?”

“It’s time when it’s time. You’ll know when.”

“And you’ll just wait? You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, we’re a little past the point of one leaving the other behind, don’t you think? It will never be the whole world that moves on without you,” he whispered. “You know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” Starsky smiled. “That was the flip side of today. The whole time, the only thing that made sense there anymore was you.” He sighed. “It’s nothin’ that I haven’t known forever, but we belong. True when we were cops; it’ll be true whatever comes next.”

“Yeah.” Neither spoke again for several moments, content to relax in a unific warmth. Finally, lazily stretching a long leg out to the side, Hutch added, “What you felt today? That lack of connection? It’s what I tried so hard to explain when I first went back. I’m there, I can do the work, and – on the surface, at least – things look pretty much the same. It’s a stop-gap, though…just work to do while life is somewhere else.”

“Been wondering what’s taking me so long to catch up?”

“Oh, not really-”

Starsky could actually feel the widening grin transforming Hutch’s face, and braced himself for whatever was to follow.

“-I’ve had years to get used to waiting for you to catch up.”

Turning abruptly, he thwacked Hutch relentlessly with the rolled-up instruction booklet.

“Okay! Okay, I give.”

“Okay.” Starsky leaned forward, didn’t care for the coldness the loss of contact ushered in, reversed the move, and found himself once more against his partner’s back. “They still ain’t us.”

“No, they’re them.”

“Good together, though. I wonder if we can teach that. Y’ think we could? I’d sure like to try.”

“Teach that they’re not us?” Hutch sounded genuinely confused.

“No, dummy. How to be partners. I know there’s a lot that can’t be taught – it’s either there, or it isn’t- but what can.. .it would be nice to be able to pass that along. Y’know, to the next generation going out on the streets.”

Hutch had stiffened again, this time in mid-reach. “What?”

“Nothing. It. .. you’ve never brought up the teaching before, that’s all. Oh, all the things that we’ve had to discuss, yes, but you’ve never volunteered it. Just took me by surprise.”

“Yeah, well. Glad I can still surprise you every now and then.”

Hutch jerked to the side without warning, simultaneously pivoting and extending his legs to form a cushion for the body that toppled backwards onto his lap.

“What the-” Starsky stopped to find his breath, laughing at the amused, affectionate expression reflected in the eyes blinking down at him. “Wanna fill me in on the rules here, babe? At least like to know how to keep score.”

“Just reminding you I can always return the favor.”

The ensuing chaos scattered assorted project pieces throughout the room (and maybe even to places beyond) but, though it took no small amount of time to rediscover a semblance of order, neither man seemed inclined to complain. Two beers and a gratifying amount of laughter later, Hutch re-introduced conversation to the evening.

“You want to remind me again why we’re doing this?”

Under the circumstances, Starsky figured the question was more or less rhetorical. “Basically, we’re doing this because your shelves couldn’t make the move and mine have been commandeered for use by your Garden of Eden over there.” He gestured in the general direction of the plants. “Anyway, it’s ‘you,’ not ‘we.’ My half’s almost done. Tada!”

Hutch turned and cast a worried glance at Starsky’s carpentry marvel. “What did you leave off?”

“What do you mean, what did I leave off? Does it look like I left something off?”

“No, but- I’m just starting to get a feel for the instructions myself and I don’t see-” He shrugged. “Hand me the whatchamacallit, will you?”

Starsky reached over and snagged the hammer. “This has been a really weird day, huh?”

“Yeah, you could say that. God, what a mess.”

“Them, or this?” Frowning, Starsky held up a piece that didn’t seem to fit anywhere.

“Both! But the cup- I’m really beginning to seriously doubt that any of them have it.”

“That’s what Charles said the day we first interviewed him.” Starsky swore softly as the screw he’d been so carefully adjusting bolted from its moorings. “Remember? You know, if this were a movie, five’d get you ten he’d be the villain.”

“Least likely suspect? Yeah, I know what you mean. Good thing life doesn’t imitate art too closely, or we’d have been out of work years ago. Don’t see it, though, not this time. I just don’t see Charles involved in this – at least not directly.”

“No, neither do I. Although,” he groped back for the instructions and flipped through to find the set in English. It didn’t help. “Sometimes it’s the quiet ones ya gotta worry about. Something we probably ought to do – if nothing pans out on the street – is go back and have a chat with whatshemame.”

Hutch straightened against him. “Marcy, you mean? Emerrist’s maid?”

Hutch’s ability to retain names without benefit of notes continued to be a source of amazement for Starsky: he imagined it always would. “That’s the one. I’m sure Marie isn’t the only one Emerrist’s tried to study anatomy with. Between that and the way he treats her kid, she might’ve decided it was time for some payback. With access… what better way than to take the one thing he treasures most in life?”

“Emotional emasculation, huh?” Hutch paused for a moment. “Won’t work, though. If this got stolen right under his nose, that would’ve had to be his first thought, too. He didn’t have any qualms about having the thing made in the first place, can’t imagine he’d have any about tearing up her apartment in search of it, and turning the screws until she gave it up. If she’s still in their employ, don’t you think he must’ve cleared her already?”

It was a good point…and yet. “Maybe. Still worth a chat, though. Even if she didn’t do it herself, she might have a beat on who or how. Whatever happened to it, I’ll tell you one thing: of all the people we’ve met? Constance is the one I’d least like to meet in a dark alley. Scary lady.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“You still feel sorry-” Starsky turned to get a look at Hutch’s face and was incredulous at the sincerity he found reflected there. “Come on, Hutch. She’s acting like a psychopath over a piece of metal. Time for a reality check.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” he asked softly. “You see a psychopath, while I see a woman who grew up wanting only one thing out of life, saw the possibility of it becoming a reality, only to have it snatched away from her at the last minute, through no fault of her own. Remind you of anyone?”

It took a moment to sink in but, when it did, the subtle parallels Hutch was drawing impacted Starsky all at once and sent his world reeling. “You…you’re not saying-? You’re not saying that I’m acting anything like that! You’re not… are you?”

Hutch smiled. “Not as extreme, no. But think about it-how much of her identity is wrapped up in that ‘piece of metal,’ as you call it? How many choices have been wrested from her hands? Sure, there are as many differences as there are commonalties, but still…I can’t be totally without sympathy for her, either. Hand me the screwdriver, will you? No, the other one.”

“Huh. You really think… ?” Starsky handed the Philips over and positioned himself once again against the warmth of Hutch’s back.

“Thanks. Hey, it wasn’t meant as an insult, just an observation.”

What had been a steady rattling sound evolved into an alarming blend of thud, rattle, squeak; then silence. Starsky was tempted to turn around, but higher reason and self-preservation won that battle with very little effort.

“Are you okay?” Hutch asked, more softly than before. “I wondered about you today… there were a few times there you felt miles away.”

“Yeah? Wasn’t really.” In a voice that was just barely above a whisper, he added, “Shiva’s almost over, I think. That’s all.”

The squeaking paused for a few seconds, then resumed. “You sure?”

“Yep. I’m not saying things aren’t going to bother me sometimes for…hell, probably forever. But, yeah – I’m sure.” Starsky drew in a deep breath. “M’ gonna have to work on that other one for a while, though. I mean, I never looked… Huh.”

The ripples that ran through Hutch’s back muscles when he laughed vibrated against Starsky, producing the oddest of sensations.

“Well, you think you can pull yourself away from Psych 101 long enough to help finish this little home improvement project we’ve got decorating the living room floor?” He held up a strange­ looking bracket. “What’d you do with this one?”

Starsky scowled at it for a moment, then reached under some packing materials and retrieved a small baggie, handing it over to his partner without a word.

As Hutch stared blankly at the contents, his mouth opened and shut a few times, but no sound was forthcoming. Finally, he sputtered, “How many do you have left over?!”

“Oh, ’bout nine or ten. Give or take. You know the Loretto Staircase? Well, we’ve got the Loretto Bookcase.”

“You… but…. ” Hutch finally gave up trying to speak, slapping a hand against his forehead and shaking his head.

“Take it easy. Y’know they always put in extras.” Starsky offered what he hoped to be a reassuring smile.

“Ex- You have three-quarters of the hardware they included sitting in there. That qualifies as a little more than a few ‘extras’!”

Starsky shrugged. “What works, works. Right? I think it looks pretty good, don’t you? And if it starts listin’ too bad, there’s always glue.”

~*~*~*~

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Hutch said as the others got seated. “We’ve exhausted every source, every street fence, every contact we have -and no one has seen the Jewel.”

“At least no one will admit to it if they have,” Starsky corrected. “But I agree with Hutch, this isn’t like a diamond that can be re-cut, or even a solid piece of gold that could be melted down. Too hot, too visible.. .if it’s out there at all, it probably won’t surface anytime soon.”

“That’s not untypical for the antiques trade,” Corrie said sadly. “Prominent pieces routinely disappear for generations before being unearthed in a warehouse, basement, attic… wherever somebody shoved them away for safekeeping.” She nibbled her lower lip for a second or two. “You’ve all but given up ever finding it, haven’t you?”

After a short, silent conference with Starsky, Hutch replied, “All we are reasonably certain of at the moment is that William had the duplicate made – a rush job, because your appraisal heralded the permanent departure of the cup from their family. He swapped them just after you left, hid the original – at least according to him – in a plain brown bag in the bottom of the bedroom closet. Came back an hour later, and both bag and cup had gone truant.”

“It doesn’t seem likely that an outsider could’ve broken in, found it, grabbed it, and escaped without a trace in such a short a period of time. All without being seen by a soul, or tripping off any one a the snazzy alarm systems Sir William has hooked up throughout the house.” Starsky took another sip of coffee, swirling it lightly in the mug before continuing. “That leaves wife, maid, or the man himself… unless you consider the possibility of an exterminator, delivery boy, or someone else who could gain access without arousing undue suspicion. But the logistics… ” He shrugged. “I dunno, but I think that one’s about as likely as Hutch here deciding it’d be fun to play to a sold-out crowd at The Roxy.”

“He never did like appearing in public,” Corrie began warmly. “I asked him why once, and he said it always gave him goosebumples.”

Head on hand, Hutch regarded his aunt thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. “You know, at this point I would actually pay you not to do that.”

“Never work,” Starsky replied with a wink. “We’d just pay ‘er more to keep going.”

“I was afraid of that.” He sat up, working the kinks out of his neck before continuing. “There is actually one other plausible scenario – it might have been either taken or dumped by accident. If it was taken, the person who received it might be afraid to come forward. Dumped? It could be at the bottom of a landfill by now.”

Marie leaned forward, exhaling into hands posed in a palm-to-palm prayer position at her lips. “You really don’t think any of the clan helped liberate it? Any of them came to my house for a visit? First thing I’d do after they left is count the teaspoons.”

“You’re preachin’ to the choir here,” Starsky said with a grin.

Hutch laughed. “Yeah, we’re not discounting them based on their strict adherence to any ethical code we’re familiar with. Well,” he glanced over at Starsky, who shrugged, “- Charles maybe, but I’m not even positive about him.”

“And Marcy was no help at all?”

“Marcy.” At Corrie’s question, Starsky removed his feet from the extra chair and straightened a little. “Marcy swears up and down that she knows nothing at all about it. .. never even saw it in the house. She’s a live-in until a better apartment presents itself, and Emerrist apparently tore her room apart looking for any sign of his prodigal cup. Even threatened her at one point, until the wife stepped in. What’s her name?”

“Laura.”

“Laura. She’s been Laura’s maid since before Laura became Mrs. Emerrist, and there seems to be a lot of mutual loyalty there. ‘Course if she accidentally threw the thing out with yesterday’s crab puffs, I doubt she’d ‘fess up to it. I wouldn’t.”

“I’m surprised William didn’t give her the boot anyway, under the circumstances. His wife never seemed to rate that high on his list of favorite things.”

Hutch smiled. “Can’t afford to, Aunt Cor. William might have the pedigree, but it’s Laura who has the money. Faced with a choice between husband and Marcy, I get the impression that William suspects it would be no-contest, with husband on the losing side of the equation.”

“Anybody talk to Matthew?” Apparently interpreting the echoing silence as a prompt for clarification, Marie continued, “You know? The little boy? Kids are observant, and they sometimes see things they shouldn’t. Just a thought.”

Starsky nudged Hutch lightly. “Wanna?”

Hutch considered a moment, then nodded. “We’d need-”

“Easy. Instead of sending those papers back, we could deliver them in person. Couldn’t hurt. And I don’t know about you, but I’d really like to pay a surprise visit this time – see what direction Emerrist jumps.”

Hutch laughed. “Hoping to find a hidden panel in the den?”

“Hey, it wouldn’t be the first thing about this case that reminded me of a bad movie.”

No one seemed inclined to argue the point.

~*~*~*~

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Starsky groaned as they pulled in alongside of Constance’s car at the Emerrist estate.

“Well, you have to give her full marks for persistence.” Hutch felt the hood. “Still warm. Do you think anyone would actually mind if we just stood back this time and let them kill each other?”

“No, but you’d get all guilty and who do you think would have to pick up the pieces then? Too much work, and I’ve got enough of my own problems.”

Rolling his eyes at Starsky’s exaggerated ‘after you’ gesture, Hutch led the way to the house and the explosive exchange taking place within – sufficiently heated now for the enraged voices to seep through the walls.

A jittery-looking Marcy answered the door on the third ring. “Oh, I….” She licked her lips and glanced back in the direction of the living room. “Mr. Emerrist is in a conference right now. Perhaps you’d care to come back?”

‘”A conference’?” Starsky shot Hutch a brilliant grin. ”Never heard it called that before.”

“We’d like a few minutes of Mr. Emerrist’s time, but that’s not primarily why we’re here. We’d actually like to talk with both you and your son for a while, if that’s all right.” Watching the wave of panic start to wash over her, Hutch quickly added, “It’s just routine. Matthew’s the only person we haven’t spoken to who was here on the day the object disappeared.”

“He’s only five!”

“We know it’s a longshot,” Starsky soothed, “but children always grasp more than adults want to give them credit for, and we’ve tried everything else. These records had to come back anyway, and we just thought it would be worth a-”

A shrill, familiar shriek pierced the air, effectively assassinating all other voices it encountered. Hutch cringed as he felt the sound reverberate endlessly through every single nerve ending; Starsky going so far as to place his hands over his ears.

“Tantrum or-?”

Hutch cocked his head and waited, listening. A long stretch of silence would be a very bad sign, as would more screaming. If, on the other hand… William’s booming rebuttal began just then, and he shrugged. “Tantrum.”

“Anyway, Marcy, we just need to ask him a few questions. Hutch here is really good with kids, and I promise we won’t scare him.”

Marcy seemed to weigh the options carefully before nodding her consent. “He’s still playing in the kitchen. We just finished lunch, and I wanted him to stay inside until the battle’s over.” In response to their quizzical looks, she added, “I know it’s not the best thing for a child’s ears, but if he got into some kind of trouble outside, I’d never be able to hear him over the din. Not even if he called for me at the top of his lungs.”

A small, angelic-looking child with brown eyes that seemed to take up a full two-thirds of his face, Matthew looked up from the spoon fort he was building on the kitchen floor, and beamed at the interlopers to his world.

“Look what I built, Mommy!”

“Yes, I see that.” To Starsky and Hutch, “I’m afraid he’s going to be an architect someday -he’s always building something. Matthew, sweetheart? This is Mr. – I’m sorry?”

Hutch folded himself down alongside the child and smiled. “Hi, Matthew. I’m Ken and this is David.”

“Hello, Matthew.”

“That’s a neat fort you’ve got going there,” Hutch said, genuinely impressed. “Can we lend a hand?”

Matthew nodded and helpfully proffered a spoon, as Starsky eased himself down.

“Thanks. David and I are trying to find something, and we wondered if you would help us. Could we ask you a couple of questions?”

Matthew looked up expectantly at his mother.

“It’s all right, hon. They’re just trying to help Mr. Emerrist find that cup he lost.”

Starsky smiled and picked up a handful of utensils. “Haven’t done this since I was your age, but I used to be pretty good at it. Now I want you to do me a favor, okay? If you don’t know the answer to something we ask, just tell us you don’t know, huh? Even tell ya a secret,” he leaned toward Matthew, whispering conspiratorially, “none of the grown-ups we’ve asked have known the answers, either.”

“I promise that nothing you say will get you into trouble, and nothing you say will make us mad, okay?”

He looked up at Hutch dolefully. “He yells a lot. He gets mad at me all the time, even when I don’t do anything bad.”

Hutch brushed a red tendril of hair from a tiny forehead and smiled. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Matthew. He yells at us sometimes, too.”

Matthew beamed back – happy, evidently, to discover two comrades-in-arms. “Now I want you to think really carefully-”

The question was interrupted by more clamor from the living room – William’s voice this time – as he screamed, “You wouldn’t...Not the Ming!”

 Apparently William’s assessment was a little off, for it was followed at once by the inimitable crunch and tinkling sounds pottery makes when it shatters.

“Uh-oh,” Matthew said sadly. “It broked. Somebody’s gonna be in trouble.”

“Yeah,” Hutch glanced Starsky’s way as they both scrambled to their feet, “I’m afraid you’re probably right.”

Their dash to the living room gained them entry at the precise moment William had managed to wrap his hands around his cousin’s throat, showing every sign of being quite sincere in his efforts to throttle her.

It’s not that I don’t understand the temptation, buddy, but really... Hutch launched himself at William, while Starsky peeled Constance from the steely grip. True to form, she used her newly­ found freedom to attempt a counter-attack with a nicely-cut crystal objet d’art. Starsky, no stranger to war strategies, anticipated and smoothly thwarted the move by forming a barrier between woman and knick-knack, all the while managing to dodge nails that should have been declared dangerous weapons. Incensed both at being denied access to the enemy and any physical form of victory, she opted to turn her considerable store of verbal venom on the person closest at hand.

“Wow,” he replied, wide-eyed, after the first volley was over. “Where’d you learn that one? You never served in the Army, now did you?”

Hutch, on the other hand, had his hands full with an equally irate William. Unlike Constance, who seemed to function on a steady burn, her cousin was more akin to a spark plug – calm for a few seconds, then up again and ready to continue on with the fight. By the third time he’d shot off the couch in an effort to get across the room, Hutch had had enough. The current formula yielding less than positive results, he decided to try a different tack and calmly requested Marcy call the local police in his name and request a unit to arrest both combatants, charges to be detailed on arrival. William first blanched dramatically, then sat primly on the couch and folded his hands in his lap.

“Good choice. Hey, Starsk, how’s it-” Starsky automatically turned his head at Hutch’s voice, finger still pointed menacingly at Constance’s face, and Hutch saw the beginnings of a disaster play out in front of his eyes. Finger. Constance. Mouth. “Starsky!”

Swinging back around, Starsky came eye-to-eye with his opponent as she advanced just past the halfway mark to the digit, mouth poised and ready to bite. He regarded her with a cool indifference, not giving up any ground in retreat. “Do it, and it will be the last experience those teeth ever have. Understand?”

Constance blinked and slowly cowered back.

It wasn’t until William and Constance had sat mutely through a ten minute lecture outlining all the consequences risked by remaining on the present course, that Starsky and Hutch felt comfortable enough to return to Matthew. The blissful, echoing silence lasted no longer than their arrival on the other side of the door.

“Oh, for the love of…. ” Eyes closed, Hutch leaned against the wall and banged his head softly beside the doorframe.

“They oughta charge admission. I’m tellin’ you, Hutch, Ali and Frazier had nothing on these two.” He sighed. “Well, how do you want-” Starsky’s query was cut short as a small hand tugged urgently at his pants leg. “Hi, Matthew.”

“You wanna come outside and play with me?”

“The fort’s done already?” At the solemn nod, Starsky grinned. “Sure, why not?”

Hutch spun back around in disbelief. “What? Now?”

“Why’re we here in the first place?”

“Yeah, but…. ”

He shrugged. “If they get too unmanageable, make the call. If it gets really bad, just give a yell.” He bent down close to Matthew’s height, hands on knees. “We won’t wander all that far, will we?”

“Can’t. I have to stay close to the house or the garden.” Recited in the sing-song voice of a nursery rhyme, this was obviously a rule committed to memory.

“See?”

“Traitor,” Hutch almost hissed.

“Hey,” Starsky whispered on the way out. “You know how you’ve been wanting me to find the bright side of being off the force? Well, I think I just found it. Have fun.” With a wink, both he and Matthew marched toward the door.

Hutch smiled as he watched them go. It wasn’t that he was altogether happy at the prospect of facing down Constance and William on his own – hell, he wasn’t happy about facing them down as a team- but it was more the troublesome role of referee that beckoned now, neither protagonist likely to pose a real physical threat. The unadulterated joy, however, came from hearing the first tentative-but-genuine joke Starsky had made about his change in employment status. There had been witty comments thrown out before, but the thin veneer of humor never quite covered the emotional shield below… protection against pain. This was different. One more step.

 ~*~*~*~

“You’ve sure got a big backyard to play in out here.”

“No.” He jutted out his lower lip in a pout. “Can only play from here,” he mapped the boundaries with a pudgy finger, “to there, and back to here again.”

“Oh. Got you fenced in, huh? So where’re we going?”

“My favorite place.” He squeezed Starsky’s hand tightly and smiled. “It’s just like the beach, only there’s no water.”

Starsky laughed when he saw the reality that had spawned such a creative – and cryptic – metaphor. A sign of landscaping work in progress, he supposed, just hidden from the house by a series of boulders and a small mound, was a neat pile of sand. Matthew ran ahead and dove in with an unbridled passion rarely seen past the ages of seven or eight, and cheerfully set to constructing… something. Starsky watched for a minute or so, loathe to bring adult concerns into the simple – almost sacred – magic of what amounted to a child’s sandbox. Matthew beckoned eagerly, though, and held out a spoon in the way one holds out a nibble of food to entice a puppy nearer. It worked: in the manner least likely to elicit a complaint from his body, Starsky plopped down across from his prospective witness, scooped some sand into unidentifiable shapes, and began the interrogation. “So, did you know that Mr. Emerrist lost his cup?”

Matthew nodded. “It made him really mad at everybody.”

“I’ll bet. You haven’t happened to see any strangers around here lately, have you? Anybody who might’ve come inside the house?”

Matthew continued packing and unpacking the sand, mixing in a little water from a nearby bowl to obtain the proper consistency, and considered. “The big guy came with those barrels of water for the kitchen.”

“That’s good, kiddo. You remember when he came?”

“Before lunch. I had a hot dog, and crackers, and cheese… but they got soggy.” He made it sound like one of the greatest disappointments he’d encountered so far in life.

“That can happen,” Starsky said, not without sympathy. He was beginning to take Marcy’s point, though; Matthew was adorable, but he hadn’t developed a sense of time yet. Yesterday, today, two weeks ago – all had roughly the same meaning in his frame of reference. Something either happened or it didn’t; it didn’t happen when. The dampened sand began to allow for more complex shaping, and Starsky started molding the foundation for a castle, just about ready to concede defeat on the other front that had brought him here. Unless. . . “Hey. You ever see anyone take anything out of the house? Something in a bag or a little box, maybe?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. Mommy has bags.”

Okaaay. Well, if nothing else, he would have spent some part of his afternoon in the company of a terrific kid, who gave him the opportunity to revert to being a child again… even if the illusion only lasted fifteen or twenty minutes. He was happily engaged in raising the walls when a small hand grabbed him by the wrist.

”No! You’re doing it wrong.”

“I am?”

“We’re making a spaceship. You need humps,” he pointed, “there and there.”

“Humps?” Oddly enough, Starsky didn’t remember it being this complicated back when he was a kid.

“I’ll show you.” With a sigh, Matthew dug into a side mound of dry sand and tugged at something that seemed to ignite when just an outer edge caught in the sunlight. Onnolu!

 Starsky stared, speechless, as Matthew went over the finer points of creating sand ‘humps’ with a one-hundred-and-eighty-five-year-old Louis XVI ornamental treasure. When the shock began to wear off and Starsky thought it possible he might be able to keep his voice steady, he decided to try for a completely different line of inquiry. “Um, Matthew?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know what you’ve got there?” He nodded at the cup, currently half-filled with squishy sand.

“A hump-maker.”

“Okay.” Starsky swallowed hard. The kid wasn’t trying to be cute -he genuinely had no idea. “So where’d you get it?”

“They threw it away.” He stopped work for a second, stared at the object in his hands, and giggled. “I know why, too.”

The laughter was infectious. “Oh, yeah? Why?”

Matthew scrambled over so he could whisper the answer in his playmate’s ear. “They don’t got any clothes on!”

~*~*~*~

Hearing the clear, resonant tones of his partner’s voice shouting, “Be quiet!” at the loudest volume possible, Starsky judged that the battle must be still raging on in the living room. This ought to be interesting ….

 Hutch was standing like the last bastion between civilization and the barbarian tide, dead center in-between the twin joys of Constance and William, both of whom were trying to be heard above the other. It took a while even to get Hutch’s attention and, once he had it, Starsky wasn’t sure he really wanted it. Hutch was ticked.

“Hutch….” He tapped him lightly on a shoulder. “Gotta talk to you.”

“What?” At the sound of a thud, he spun his attention back on Constance. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you.. .I said sit down!”

 “Hutch, listen for a-”

“And you.” He pointed a warning index finger in William’s direction. “Open your mouth one more time and I swear I will have you brought in.”

“On what charges?!”

“I will think of something. You have no idea how thin an edge you’re-”

“Would you excuse us for a few minutes? Just sit like that and give your vocal chords a rest. Yeah, just like that.” Starsky tugged urgently enough on Hutch’s arm to finally draw him off into a space where they could talk. “Hutch-”

“Don’t interrupt me, Starsky,” Hutch seethed. “I’m just going to shoot them both. It’s the only answer: just aim, fire, and you know something? There’s not a jury in the state that would convict me. They-”

“Okay. Listen to me first, though. All right?” He waited patiently until he had his partner’s full attention. “You’ve heard of burying your head in the sand? Well, I didn’t find a head, but. .. ” He lifted one edge of the kitchen towel and rotated the object until the gold flashed in the light. Predictably, Hutch’s jaw dropped near floor level.

“Is that-?

“Uh-huh.”

“And it’s-?”

“Yep.”

 Hutch stared for a moment, looked up at Starsky, and abruptly towed him by the elbow toward the kitchen. “Talk to me, partner.”

When they emerged about ten minutes later, the argument had reached a crescendo once again.

“Could we have your attention, please?” No response, so Hutch tried increasing the volume. “Excuse me, but there’s something we need to discuss… ” If either heard over their own stentorian voices, neither acknowledged the fact. Hutch opened his mouth in preparation for attempt number three, but Starsky pushed him slightly to the side and emitted a deafening whistle.

“Listen up, people!” The words had actually been entirely unnecessary, the whistle more than sufficient to bring all other activities in the room to a screeching halt. “Thank you.” Starsky folded his arms and smiled, stepping back a bit to give Hutch the floor.

“The cup has been found,” Hutch announced without preamble. “And it is now in our possession.” Stunned silence followed, and it was only then he realized just how badly his ears were ringing.

William found his tongue first. “How? I, I mean… where did you… ? How?” Unfortunately, his brain hadn’t yet caught up.

“We didn’t,” Starsky said proudly. “And the finder wishes to remain anonymous but, for the record? It wasn’t stolen; it was just misplaced.”

Hutch did the grand unveiling of a newly-washed cup, holding it up for both to see, before starting the careful task of wrapping it for transport. Several things happened in that instant, and it was difficult afterward to determine exact sequence.

“MY CUP!” two voices shrieked in unison, Constance making a dive for the object she had worked so hard to possess. William, sensing a threat, made a dive, too. Starsky jumped in front, while Hutch leapt onto the coffee table in an attempt to keep the object out of the fray. After a brief tussle, Starsky joined Hutch on the table and whistled again.

“ENOUGH!”

And once again, there was silence.

“Right,” Starsky started, out of breath. “Here’s how we’re gonna play it. Either you two crawl back and sit down, or you will be arrested. Fingerprinted, photographed, the works.”

As Constance opened her mouth to speak, Hutch interjected, “Yeah. Mrs. Leighton-Pierce has recently had the experience and I don’t think she’s ready to try it again. Mr. Emerrist?”

“No.” He dabbed at the perspiration on his lip with a neatly-folded handkerchief. “No, of course not. I’ll have my cousin escorted from the premises at once. Then perhaps we can work something out-”

“No! It’s not his,” Constance pleaded. “You can’t just give it to him!”

“We don’t intend to,” Hutch assured. “We don’t intend to give it to either one of you.”

“But-”

 “Hush. You had a forgery made,” Starsky began, “and-”

William looked up sharply. “But I-”

“Don’t even try. That might work to keep you out of a court of law, but we all know what happened here. And you,” he swung around to face Constance. “You went so far as to forge a will. Well, I’ve got news for you – it doesn’t belong to either one of you. It never did.”

“You can’t just take it!” William protested.

“Sure we can,” Hutch replied equably, bounding off the table. “We were hired by the museum to retrieve their cup, and that’s what we did. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to give you the ‘facsimile’ in exchange. If there’s nothing else?”

“Take some free advice,” Starsky said to Constance. “There’s a radio car on its way to pick you up. Go back home and behave. Talk with your husband, hug your kids, get drunk, whatever. But get out of here. The satisfaction you’d get from waling on your cousin isn’t worth the price. Trust me.”

Seeing William’s mouth start to open, Hutch added, “Don’t. Whatever you’re going to say, just keep it to yourself. You’re not in any position to cast the first stone, and I don’t think you want us to dig too deeply into any more of your affairs. It’s over.”

 With a final glance a the two protagonists, Starsky and Hutch backed slowly out of the room and made a dash for the car.

After about a five block ride, Starsky pulled over to the curb.

“Something wrong?”

“No, just… whew.”

Hutch rested his head against the backrest. “Yeah. I know what you mean. Don’t get me wrong: it’s found, I’m happy, it’s great. But that little diversion I pulled for you? If I end up deaf someday, it’s your fault.” He clubbed his ears for emphasis.

“It’s too bad,” Starsky said seriously.

“What is?”

“Just too bad.”

“Starsky, what?” It wasn’t until he saw the comers of his partner’s mouth start to twitch that he realized it was a joke, and waited patiently for the punchline.

“It just woulda been nice to see their faces if we could’ve told them their precious antique cup had spent the last month or so doing duty as a ‘sand-bumper’.”

~*~*~*~

“And why did-” Corrie paused until all of the flight announcements booming over the airport PA system had ceased. “And why did Matthew think it had been thrown away?”

“Apparently, Marcy pulled the bag out while she was cleaning the closet, put it down by the wastebasket while she worked, and didn’t think anything of it.” Hutch eyed Marie curiously as he continued with the assignment she had given him. It was weird, and he wanted to ask, but….

“In the meantime, Matthew – who had been told that everything in the house was off-limits except stuff that was being tossed anyway – must’ve popped in when mom was out of the room, peeked in the bag, saw something useful, and took off.” Starsky chuckled. “Poor kid knew that there was a commotion, but had no idea something he’d done was causing it.”

“No,” Hutch agreed. “What might be a priceless antique to everyone else was just an engineering marvel to him – something thrown away because the children on it had lost all their clothes.”

“Matthew’s my kind of art critic.” Starsky paused work for a moment to affix a luggage tag onto one of Corrie’s carry-ons. “Strange, though, that nobody thought to ask him about the disappearance.”

“I did,” Marie pointed out. “Still, I’ve got to say that it’s doubtful an interview would have done much good, anyway.” She examined Hutch’s waterglobe burping technique and seemed to find something seriously lacking. “You can show a little more enthusiasm, you know. Just pull that sucker right up and out of there.” Offering a mini-demonstration in proper plug removal, she handed it back. “And tap it hard to get all the bubbles out. Otherwise, these leak all over the place on the plane.”

“Like this?”

“Not quite.” She smiled encouragingly. “You’ll get the hang of it; just watch Corrie and David.”

“Hutch is a slow learner, Marie,” Starsky teased. “You’ve gotta be real patient and use small words.”

“Now as a child, he used to pick things up unusually fast.” Corrie sighed. “Well, maybe not the tap-dancing… ”

Starsky’s snicker was short-lived, as water from the snow-globe Hutch was holding mysteriously ‘burped’ onto his knees.

“Thanks,” Hutch said, innocently. “I think I’ve got it now.”

“Anyhow,” Marie continued, “even if Matthew had been asked about the cup, did anyone stop to think what the word ‘cup’ represents to a five-year-old? I mean, the Jewel wouldn’t be the first thing to jump into my mind, either. Doesn’t look anything like a cup.”

“It’s a fair point when you say it now, but I can’t honestly say it would have occurred to me otherwise.” Corrie distractedly swirled a globe for a few seconds, looking very far away. “You don’t think it’s a little odd, maybe, that Marcy should happen to accidentally place it so close to the trash?”

Starsky and Hutch exchanged glances, Starsky nudging Hutch to answer. “It’s crossed our minds, too, Aunt Cor. Whether it was at Laura’s request, on her behalf, or purely by chance, Marcy managed to help set into motion a scenario that robbed Emerrist of the thing he held most dear. It’s always a possibility.”

“Probably one of those things that only the principals involved will ever know the whole story behind, but that’s actually okay,” Starsky added. “Both the original and copy are accounted for and exactly where they should be, your reputation is unsullied, and Emerrist and Constance have – so far, anyway – managed to refrain from killin’ each other. When you think about it, it’s not a bad way to wrap-up to a case.”

“God and the court system will figure out the rest,” Marie agreed. “Who will get the reward money? I understand Marcy’s desire to keep their roles in all this hush-hush, but it seems like Matthew deserved something for losing his toy.”

“We bought him a new one,” Hutch said with a laugh. “But he’ll have the reward money sitting in a trust fund by the end of the week, anyway. The museum had a privacy clause written into the reward offer, so Marcy could claim it without fear of it going down on the public record.” He stared over at the ever-increasing cache of waterglobes being lovingly packed into the shoulder bag. “Did you buy out the entire gift shop? How many do you have there?”

“Oh, about thirty. Hey! They make great souvenirs and I’ve got a lot of friends.”

“But they’re tacky.” Hutch held up a neon-colored “Hollywood” diorama with glitter in place of snow. “You know that, right?”

“Ignore him,” Starsky urged. “That’s snowglobe jealousy talking.”

“I figured as much. Just keep burping.”

Hutch was down to the last globe by the time the boarding call sounded and he found himself completely engulfed in a warm, uniquely-Corrie kind of embrace.

“Good-bye, love, and thank you. Really. There just aren’t words for everything you both accomplished but, even if you hadn’t, it would still have been more than worth the trip.”

“You’ve always got another home here with us, Aunt Cor,” he said gently. “You know that. And thank you for the clock! It’s… well, you know what it’s always meant to me, and Starsk here has a full-blown love affair going with timepieces.”

“Yes he does,” Starsky piped up over Marie’s shoulder, in the midst of a parting embrace. “And it’s an incredible piece.”

“Well, I was always saving it for your wedding, but so much of this case revolved around family heirlooms, what they represent, what they teach us about our past and who we are.” She smiled secretively, and added, “Besides, love… the time was right.”

The first thing that Marie did when she and Corrie traded farewell partners was to deliberately and firmly stomp on Hutch’s left foot.

“Ow! What did you-?!”

She smiled sweetly. “I’ve always been a big believer in the proactive approach, Hutch. You know how the economies of several third-world nations collapse every time we’re together? Well, I finally figured it out. If I bite first, the spell should be broken.”

“Not the only thing,” he grumbled.

“Awww.” She went up on tip-toe and kissed him gently on the cheek. “That’s for being sweet, in spite of everything.”

Corrie and Marie were more than halfway to the gate when Hutch paused the waving, turned his head so violently and unexpectedly toward the chairs that he could easily have ended up with a case of whiplash, and realized that something was terribly wrong. “Oh, God.”

“What?” Starsky glanced over at the sitting area and back again. “What’s wrong?”

“You know that last waterglobe I was working on?”

“Yeah.”

 “She packed it.”

“Yeah?”

He held out his hand, palm open, where a tiny rubber plug peacefully sat, oblivious to the angst its lack of presence somewhere else would soon be causing. “Maybe I could run-”

Starsky wrapped a consoling arm about his partner’s shoulders. “Forget it. If you’re lucky, they’ll be halfway to Boston before anybody even notices. Now wave.”

~*~*~*~

“Well, one thing you can say for Aunt Corrie,” Starsky did a quick search for the requisite airport parking ticket, didn’t find it, and rounded the car with a newly-found bounce in his step, “she knows how to make things happen. Boredom seems to take a hike whenever she’s around.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“Admit it: you’re gonna miss her as much as I will.”

“Yeah.” Hutch allowed a smile room to expand. “I will.” A powerful presence, Corrie was a person whose departure always left a vacuum in the space she used to occupy. “Can’t say I’m not looking forward to some time to just kick back, though. We’ve earned it.”

Conversation remained sporadic until they eased into the stream of traffic on 1-105 and settled in for the long haul, Hutch counting down the minutes until Starsky threatened to make unauthorized use of the mars light.

“Oh, I don’t believe –     Hey, you just want to grab some lunch and head home? This traffic’s not going to let up.”

Hutch chuckled. “I’ve got to hand it to you – you’re getting creative.”

“What?”

“Just when I thought you’d exhausted your supply of excuses, you go and pull out a new one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This knack you have for getting out of the trip to the convent. Why are you avoiding it? I thought you wanted to see Sr. Brighid- solve the mystery once and for all.”

“I do.”

“Starsk.”

“I do.” He sank down a little in the seat and sighed, a few moments passing before he spoke again. “I do, it’s just that another part of me doesn’t want to know, or is afraid it will wish it didn’t once it does.”

Shaking his head, Hutch threw his hands up in defeat.

“I know it’s stupid, but ever since I’ve had it, we’ve been building these terrific scenarios of what it might be. Guess I’m just not sure I’m ready to find out this treasure I’ve been carting around is really somebody’s old recipe for fruitcake. Y’know?”

“If you’re going to hide recipes, fruitcake’s probably as good as any to start with,” Hutch agreed dryly. “It’s your coin, but is preserving the mystery worth the cost of never knowing?”

“Nah, prob’ly not.” He leaned out the window in an impossible bid to glimpse what was causing the latest snarl. “There’s an even bigger part of me that won’t rest until I know. Besides, it is what it is – not knowing won’t make it into something else.”

“And knowing why we’ve stopped moving isn’t going to make us start.”

“Yeah.” Starsky exhaled loudly and sank back against the cushion, glancing quickly at his watch. “They must be well on their way by now.” Shooting a relaxed smile Hutch’s way, he added, “How about giving you the clock, huh? After all these years… ”

“She didn’t give it to me; she gave it to us. I know Aunt Corrie’s handwriting requires years of training to decipher, but that was your name next to mine on the envelope.” Gentle waves of early familial memories began lapping at the shore of his consciousness – mostly good ones, for once. “You know, I remember it sitting there on Grandfather’s mantle like it was yesterday; how desperate I was to grow big enough to finally be able to reach it, to handle it. He used to pull it down every once in a while, hold it on one knee and me on the other, and we’d tell each other stories about the sea life. No one ever could convince me that the thing on the finial was supposed to be a dolphin!” Hutch chuckled. “Those stories, though… he was a great storyteller.”

“You gonna share those with me sometime?”

“If I can remember any of them, yeah. Lifetime ago, Starsk.” He sighed. “Anyway, Granddad promised it to me before he died, but the will was drawn up bequeathing it to Ivor or his next of kin, and it was never changed. I was still a kid, unsettled, and Corrie promised to hold it for me until ‘someday.’ I guess ‘someday’ just came, huh?”

“I’ve got one question: if Corrie was saving it until you got married, why didn’t she give it to you when you and Van tied the knot?”

Hutch laughed. “She didn’t like Van. She likes you.”

“Oh.” Starsky flashed a brilliant grin. “Works both ways… she’s quite a lady. Hey!” A lightbulb seemed to go off in his head, and he slapped a hand down on Hutch’s knee. “We may not have a mantle, but we can give it a good home on the new bookcase. Would look great up there – lend the place some class. Whaddya think?”

“Uh…. ”

“Oh, that’s just great. You really expect it to keel over, don’t you? What did I ever do to make you doubt my abilities with a hammer?”

“What-? Complete or abridged version? Whatever other considerable talents you may or may not possess, I’m afraid you struck out in woodshop.”

“Yeah, well. Guess I could always try my hand at tap dancing.”

“Cute.” Hutch let the distraction of talk wait until after Starsky had successfully maneuvered out of the way of a particularly over-anxious driver. “I wonder if Constance and Emerrist will make the news yet…one of those weird double homicides that crops up every now and then?”

“I hope not. Maybe having the cup taken out of their hands will be the best thing that coulda happened to them – force them to move on. I’d like to think so, anyway.”

“That note you wrote to Constance….. ”

“Yeah?” Starsky glanced over his shoulder and skillfully advanced their place in line by at least two car lengths. “You mean why?”

Hutch nodded.

“I looked in a mirror.” He tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully. “You were right. I didn’t see it at the time, but who knows? Other circumstances, I just might’ve gone down a path leading to the same place. And I really don’t think her problem is with losing the cup any more than mine is with losing the job. Yeah, it means something- means a lot – but I was ready to move on, too. Hell, I did it willingly not all that long ago. It’s not having that choice that’s been gutting me, taking so long to come to terms with. Don’t know how long it will be before I can drive past Metro without feeling like someone’s thrown me in the deep-freeze, but I’m getting there. She might, too.”

“You actually wrote that?”

“Sort of.” Starsky used his knees for drums while traffic stalled yet again. “I told her a story. Something Aunt Rosie used to tell people, mostly at funerals.”

“You told her a funeral story?”

“You wanna hear this, or not?”

Hutch chuckled, raising both hands in surrender.

“‘Bout a old guy who lived on the Isle of Crete.”

“A Cretan.” In response to the exasperated look, “Seriously! I said ‘Cretan,’ with an ‘a.’ Not ‘cretin’ with an ‘i’.”

“Anyway. Now I don’t remember all of it, but it goes something like this: he was dying, but he loved Crete so much that he couldn’t bear to leave it. When he was on his deathbed and all his family gathered round, he asked the youngest to go outside and grab a handful of dirt, so he could take a bit of home along with him. He died, arrived at the Pearly Gates good to go, but they wouldn’t open for him. St. Peter explained that he was welcome, unparalleled joy awaited, but he’d have to let go of the dirt first. He was heartbroken; couldn’t do it. An angel came by and told him that everything he could ever want was behind those gates – to just let go of the dirt and come join them. But the old man, with great sorrow, explained that he just couldn’t let go…loved it too much. Finally the Spirit came to him disguised as a little boy claiming also to be from Crete, wanting just a little bit of the dirt to hold onto, too. The man opened his hand to share some, and the soil vanished. He was devastated and wept – everything that he loved, everything that made him HIM was gone. It wasn’t until he turned around that he saw the gates had flown open… and there spread out before him was the entire Isle of Crete.” Starsky, looking a bit embarrassed, shrugged. “Sounds corny, I know, but it kinda works. You have to let go of what you’ve lost before you can see what you’ve got.”

And you wondered if you’d have anything worth teaching. Hutch swallowed hard, suddenly feeling more than just a little inadequate. “It doesn’t sound corny at all.” He would have gone on, other things that probably should be said, but he didn’t have the opportunity. Whatever ambivalence Starsky may have been experiencing prior to their arrival at the Convent of St. Catherine seemed to have evaporated in the mid-day heat. He was out of the car before Hutch had even gotten the door open.

~*~*~*~

Though of comparatively recent construction, the convent was done in the style of a classic California Mission house, the massive solid oak door contributing heavily to an illusion that might have been complete, had it not been for the modern doorbell.

“Hello.” The pert young nun who answered the door seemed in glaring contrast to the fairly austere surroundings; she had a smile that could rival Starsky’s. “How can we help you?”

“Hi.” Starsky beamed back. “I’m Dave Starsky and this is Ken Hutchinson. I called a few days ago to make an appointment with Sr. Brighid? We’re a little late because of traffic, but…”

“Sr. Antonia, but please call me Nia – everyone does. You’re both here about her great­ grandmother’s coin, aren’t you?”

“That’d be us.”

“Oh, how lovely! She’s been telling us about it all week and will be just thrilled to know you’re here.” She opened the door wide and motioned them to enter. “Please come in.”

“The architecture’s impressive.” Hutch gazed appreciatively at the high, timbered ceiling. “Interesting blend of old and new.”

“Yes. It was completed in 1931 – the centenary of the foundation of our order – but the builders worked hard to make it as close to the eighteenth century originals as possible. They succeeded a little too well in places,” she added wryly.

Starsky nudged Hutch lightly. “We don’t seem to be having much luck getting out of the eighteenth century, do we?”

“Here we are.” She led the way into a small, comfortably finished sitting room with an expansive view of the grounds. “If you’d like to have a seat in our parlor, we’ll go collect Sr. Brighid.”

“Thank you, Nia.”

“Thanks.” Starsky was about to comment on the unusual painting hung just above and to the left of Hutch’s chosen seat, when Nia appeared once again in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to ask – could I get you some coffee or tea?”

Trying to stretch the kinks out of muscles grown angry from being cramped in the confining space of a car for too long, Starsky replied, “Coffee would be terrific, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Mr. Hutchinson?”

“Hutch. Yes, please. Coffee’s fine.”

Nia’s head had barely disappeared the second time, when it was thrust back around the doorframe. “I just wanted to let you know how excited Sr. Brighid was when we told her you were coming. Made her whole month.” She smiled again, then turned and scampered off, the clicking of shoes against hardwood floor measuring her distance.

“You look uncomfortable.”

“Stiff all over. Don’t know why, it wasn’t that long of a trip.”

“Stress,” Hutch replied gently, maneuvering his chair closer until it was flush with Starsky’s. “There’s been enough of it lately, and it’s harder on the body than digging ditches. Put your head down and let me see what I can do.. .it probably won’t be much until we get home.”

“S’okay.” More than just the muscles of his neck relaxed at the familiar touch, and he chuckled. “Ever think of doing this professionally? We could really clean up if we hired you out every so often.”

“You’re already a full-time job,” he teased. “Not so great on pay, but the fringe benefits aren’t bad.”

Both men jumped to attention as soon as Sr. Brighid made her appearance -under her own power, no less -with just a hemi-walker and fellow sister lending assistance. Remarkably well­ preserved for ninety-seven, her nearly transparent skin and bright green eyes gave her the overall appearance of a delicate wax doll.

She motioned them back into their chairs before the introductions were even complete, and treated them to a throaty laugh. “I’m too old and too unsteady to stand on ceremony, gentlemen. It’s hard enough to stand at all some days.” Arranging herself in the chair with great care, she patiently smoothed her jumper until it draped perfectly, then folded her hands in her lap. ”Now, then,” she began brightly, “what did you bring me?”

Starsky reached into his pocket and withdrew the coin with genuine reverence. “Found this by accident in a ju- um, in an antique shop, and have been trying ever since to decipher what it is. An estate agent said it belonged to your sister, but….” He shrugged and handed it over.

Her mouth opened slightly as she handled it, stroking the coin in the tender manner that had no doubt led to its surface being worn nearly smooth, tears that wouldn’t fall glistening and brightening her eyes. It was a long time before she regained either the will or ability to speak.

“It’s ours,” she acknowledged unnecessarily. “I’d tried, you know, to find what became of it after Niamh crossed over, but no one knew. No one….. Well, it’s not so much to look at, is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I liked it- couldn’t put it down once I’d held it a while.” He turned slightly Hutch’s way. “Taken it everywhere since I bought it. It just.. .I don’t know. Feels good somehow.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m not surprised, child. If an object can know it’s loved, this one does. Do you know what it is?”

“Only the basics,” Hutch answered, raising his voice to the higher-than-normal decibel level required to be heard.

“That’s why we’re here.” Starsky grinned. “You’re a tough lady to track down, anyone ever tell you that? No one could tell us much about it, and no one-” He stopped, drew a hand over his face, and regarded her for a few seconds. “I know I shouldn’t do this. I should be patient, let you tell us in your own time, but-”

“You want to know what the paper says?” She laughed. “We’ve never met before, but I understand you. I’d do the same thing.” Brighid squeezed the hand that came to meet the one she extended. “‘Bi liom i gconai’. It’s Gaeilge – Irish Gaelic – but you knew that, yes? ‘Be with me always,’ that’s what it means.”

Hutch tapped one of Starsky’s knees with his own. “See? Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t a fruitcake recipe?”

“Fruitcake?”

“It- Oh, it’s a long story, sort of a private joke. If it’s not too personal, who wrote this, and why?”

Eyes darting from Starsky, to Hutch, and back again, she leaned forward and asked eagerly, “Would you like to hear the entire story?”

Starsky took both her hands in his. “If you’re willing to tell it, you’ve got a captive audience over here.”

Brighid licked her lips and thought for a few minutes. “Let me see how much I can remember. Hmm. Been awhile since I’ve spoken of this…long while.”

Hutch leaned forward, too. “Take your time, Sister. We’re not in a hurry, so take however long you need.”

“Well, to tell you why it was made, I have to go back to before…to what started it all. My great­ grandfather – his initials are inside. Did you see?” Fingers not quite dexterous enough to manage such a delicate task nonetheless made a valiant attempt to pry open the coin.

“Here,” Starsky said gently, extending a hand. “Let me?”

As soon as he’d handed it back, she pointed to the florid monogram engraved into the reverse half of the coin. “That ‘EL’? That’s for ‘Edward Lowell, my great-grandfather.” She leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Englishman, he was, serving in the one of the many regiments garrisoned in Ireland at the time. Oh, the time being around 1794 or thereabouts. Never told a lot about him, really. Poor, probably….” She grinned. “The upper crust didn’t really tend to go in for that sort of thing. There were whispers of revolution again, and with the ’78 Rebellion still fresh in everyone’s mind, there was no shortage of Anglo-Irish tension.” She emitted a sound halfway between a giggle and a snort. “Nothing new there, either. Now Great-Grandma, she was a bird of a different plume.” Hands shaking slightly, she pointed to the engraving on the inner obverse half. ‘”Brighid O’Cleirigh’ – ‘BOC’. Brighid wrinkled her nose at her visitors. “I’m her namesake, I am.”

“So how-”

Hutch cut Starsky’s query off abruptly with a tap and nod toward the door where Nia was lurking, tray in hand.

“Sorry to interrupt, everyone, but I thought you might like a pot of coffee of your own. And yes, Sister, a pot of tea for you.” Nia scampered off as quickly as she’d appeared, leaving Hutch to play ‘mother’ and pour.

Starsky sat back and watched the fragile-looking woman with concern, wondering if he should give her an ‘out.’ At ninety-seven, you could never be too careful…“Sister Brighid?”

She paused her tea drinking and waited.

“As much as we’d like to hear the whole story today, if you get tired, just let us know. We can always come back.”

“Hush, child. I’m stronger than I look. True, the body demands its due now, and a lot more of it than before, but I’m fine. Let you know if I’m not.”

I’ll just bet you would, too. The soft smile that flickered briefly on Hutch’s face told him that their thoughts were, as usual, in alignment.

“Now where were we?” Brighid licked her lips again, then nibbled on a cookie – also thoughtfully provided by Sister Nia.

“You had just introduced us to your great-grandmother,” Hutch reminded.

“Yes. Yes, Great-Grandma was from a different class entirely. Landowners, probably, before the English came, so no love lost there. Power and position, too. No idea how they met, or why… not sure I ever did. By rights, they should have hated each other on sight, but that didn’t happen, either.”

Brighid paused the story there, calmly taking a few more sips of tea, and Starsky had to nearly bite his tongue to keep from rushing her. Surely a little nudge wouldn’t hurt?

 “And they fell in love?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, quite. According to the family legends, it was a romance on a par with Romeo and Whatshername, but there’s so much water under the bridge now, who knows exactly what happened? Still,” she fingered the coin lightly, “the facts speak for themselves.”

“What sort of facts?” Hutch asked.

Aha. She’s hooked you, too.

 “They were forbidden to see each other, of course: Edward by the Army, Brighid by the family. And they did what every young couple in human history before and since has done in similar circumstances -they saw each other anyway.” She laughed and held up the coin. “Somewhere along the way, he made this. Took the time to learn a bit of her native tongue, too, which must’ve scored some serious points in his favor. Now there are stories I grew up with that swore this coin was used to arrange their secret trysts.” Lowering her voice and leaning forward in the chair just slightly, she wove a spell with practiced skill. “One or the other would write the location down on a slip of paper, carry it down to a shop where the proprietor was sympathetic to their cause, and ‘pay’ for something with this halfpenny. The other would come in after, require change, and be given it back – the meet arranged with neither speaking a word and no one but themselves privy to the location.” She leaned back with a puff. “Of course, that’s probably all piffle, pure and simple.”

“It is?” Starsky couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice, and even Hutch looked a bit let down.

Brighid’s eyes softened and she patted Starsky’s hand consolingly. “Well, dear, it’s always possible. Too much water under the bridge to know for certain. Did I already say that? I lose track sometimes.”

“You’re doing fine, Sister,” Hutch reassured.

“Good, good. Now I. .. Oh, yes. Whatever they did find in each other must have been singular, though, because they deemed it worth sacrificing everything else they had in life to keep. She walked away from a life of respect and comparative privilege with just the clothes on her back and this coin. Edward took his life in his hands and became a traitor – actually deserted the Army – and secreted them away on a ship to… somewhere else. Don’t think I ever knew that, either.”

“And the note,” Starsky prompted, “which one of them wrote it, and when?”

“Oh, the note! I’m sorry.” Brighid patted his knee. “You’re such a nice boy.” She turned to Hutch. “Isn’t he nice?”

“Just super,” Hutch agreed dryly, grimacing slightly as Starsky’s heel connected with his shin.

“The note was written by Edward, no doubt about that. There are a few surviving documents from his various enterprises, and the handwriting matches. No one knows now if it was a pledge or a proposal, but it doesn’t much matter – it was just a tangible representation of something intangible. Whatever the intent, it must’ve worked: they were together until the day she died. Edward followed in a couple of months of her passing.” She smiled sadly. “I remember Grandma telling me that he’d asked how it was he was supposed to go on when half his soul was missing. ‘Course, he wasn’t newly-hatched anymore, himself. It was probably time.”

“Where did they end up?” Hutch asked. “Where did they raise their family?”

“Here in America… Pennsylvania, I think. Came paupers, died paupers. Most of my grandmother’s generation moved back home again.” Nibbling on another cookie, she giggled. “Height of ironies, I am. The family struggles so hard to get back home, and finally a generation is born there. I go join an order, and where do they send me?”

“They sound like fascinating people, your great-grandparents.” It seemed a gross understatement to Starsky, even as the words left his mouth.

“Never met them, of course, but they must’ve been. Something very rare, very… something transcendent, I suppose.” She shook herself suddenly, as if caught up in one of her own tales. “I don’t mean to sugarcoat them. Grandma also remembered Edward threatening to cut out Bridhid’s tongue and lock it in a box, and I’m sure she had similar threats for him. But still… to love someone so much that just being with them is worth more than life itself.” She sighed. “Can you imagine?”

“Yes,” two voices answered in unison. Starsky smiled; didn’t look back, didn’t have to. “Yes,” he said again, meeting her gaze. “I can.”

She stared deeply at him for a few seconds, a trembling hand eventually making an unsteady upward journey and cupping his chin. “You do understand, don’t you.” Brighid seemed to find the answer in his eyes before the affirmation could leave his lips. “Then you can understand why he made it – why she accepted and carried it with her from that day forward. It’s her fingers that wore it down, you know. Oh, yes… this has been loved.”

She gazed at the piece with affection for a while, eventually enclosing it in a palm and shutting her eyes. Memories, prayers, or something else altogether? She remained frozen like that for a long enough period that Starsky actually wondered if Sr. Brighid had perhaps fallen asleep… or worse. By mutual agreement, Hutch headed out post haste to locate Nia, while Starsky stood watch. Hutch hadn’t been gone more than thirty seconds when Brighid’s head shot up sharply and she fixed him with a look so penetrating that he literally withdrew a space. It was like staring into the eyes of a seer.

“I was sorry to have lost this, mostly because I knew it would mean nothing to anyone else. Now I think I was wrong.” The stare never wavering in intensity, she leaned forward and continued without even blinking. “It found you, child. For a reason… no accidents, no coincidences. Do you know what to do with it?”

Caught up in the dueling sensations of being held captive by those green eyes and scanned down to his soul, Starsky answered. “Yes.” It was undeniably true; he just wasn’t sure either how or when he’d arrived at it.

“Yes.” She smiled and nodded, the spell finally broken. “Take it.” A slightly trembling hand extended his way. “Do with it what you must.”

She was back to herself by the time Hutch and Nia came back. It was Starsky who was left a little shaken.

~*~*~*~

“Disappointed?” Hutch asked, once they had re-entered the oven that was Southern California in the summer.

“Wha-?” Starsky started, the question seeming totally at odds with everything they’d just heard, until he remembered the conversation they’d had on the way in. “Oh,” he replied, answering Hutch’s soft smile with one of his own. “How could anyone be disappointed with that? Better story than any of the ones I came up with.” Getting into the car and fitting the keys into the ignition by rote, he finally surrendered to his mind’s need for a meander through – and reflection upon – some of the highlights of the encounter. Be with me always. Proposal or pledge. A tangible representation of the intangible. It found you …do you know what to do with it? Me and thee. Bi liom i gconai. Be with me always…..

 “… of course, if you’d prefer to just stay here, I can always run off with Sr. Nia. She wouldn’t necessarily be my first choice, but at least she talks to me.”

“Wha- I’m sorry, what?”

Hutch laughed. “Maybe it would be a good idea if I drove back? You seem pretty out of it.”

“No, I actually think I’m more ‘with it’ than I’ve been for a long time.” He held up the coin, turning it in the light. “It’s a pretty amazing piece, to look at it now. I mean, I always thought it was amazing, but after…”

“Fascinating history – no argument there. Funny how two objects, made at roughly the same time and treasured for generations can take such divergent paths, huh?”

“Upside down.”

“The coin?”

“No, dummy. It’s just weird when you think about it: on the one hand you’ve got a priceless cup that’s been lied for, cheated for-hell-probably even killed for at least once or twice. Wanted by everybody. But it’s empty.”

“Well, it would be. Ornamental, remember?” Hutch asked with a snicker.

Starsky tried to maintain a harsh glare, but couldn’t keep up the pretense. Giving Hutch a playful punch in the arm, he went on. “I’m tryin’ to make a point here. You mind? I just wonder if in all that time, anyone ever loved it. Oh, it’s been desired, but it was a brag piece a hundred-and­ eighty-five years ago, and I don’t think it’s changed its spots since. On the other hand, you’ve got this little carved out copper coin. Not much to look at, not something you’d have to set up an alarm system to protect… and it ends up being the one that actually means something. Handled so much that it’s nearly worn away.”

“Gift of self,” Hutch agreed. “Interesting contrast, though – even Aunt Corrie blanched when we whipped out the cup without putting gloves on first.”

Starsky chuckled, “Considering that we’d just rescued it from the indignity of life as a sandcastle mold, you wouldn’t have thought that would’ve been too high up there on the list of concerns.”

“I’m not so sure Matthew didn’t have the right idea in the first place – first time in its entire existence it was actually useful to someone.”

“Yeah, but back to ‘gift of self – that’s kinda where I was going with all this. When you think of what the coin stands for, why Edward Lowell even bothered to make it in the first place…get right down to it, it’s really just something you can hold in your hands that speaks for all the things you can’t say with words.”

Hutch’s expression was hard to decipher, but his voice was both gentle and serious. “Yeah, Starsk. I got that.”

Starsky nodded, looked out at the serenity of the grounds for a moment, and shook the box coin as if it were a die. Memories and emotions drawn from what felt like a shared lifetime percolated swiftly to the surface – events that had served to draw them near to impossible closeness, stretched that cord of connection to its absolute breaking point, and brought them back again… altered, scarred, but also impenetrably solid and newly complete. Something worth sacrificing everything for, because without it, ‘everything’ becomes ‘nothing.’ Injury and recovery, sickness and health. Bi liom i gconai. He smiled as the pattern clicked firmly into place. Yes, Brighid. I do know.

 Turning toward Hutch, he kept his gaze steady until their eyes firmly locked, hoping his expression might convey that what was to follow was not being done in jest. Without fanfare, Starsky centered the coin in his right hand and extended it, but just to the central divide of the car. An important point, this was not something to be merely handed off as a gift; rather an offering that must either be accepted or declined.

It took a moment for Hutch to fully grasp the significance of the gesture, the face so closely studying Starsky’s own aptly reflecting everything from curiosity to uncertainty, before eventually arriving at the threshold of understanding… a multitude of questions asked and answered without the utterance of a single word. With a smile that seemed to spring from a place deep within, Hutch reached for the box coin as deliberately as Starsky had extended it, drawing it tightly against his chest in mute acknowledgment. A mutual pledge. Not something they hadn’t said in one way or another for the better part of a decade – a promise spoken even before awareness of its existence had dawned – but it seemed more dearly appreciated now… harder won.

They chose to remain there in the warm silence for some time, held securely in the embrace of a love transcendent that sang in the shadows and danced in the silent spaces between the words.

Hutch 1 from VPC III by Julie Henderson

---

Author’s Note:

 As much as I would love to be able to give credit to the originator of the  “Cyprus” parable, I have no idea to whom it might belong. I made its acquaintance over twenty years ago when it was included (anonymously) in a newspaper article, and it’s been engraved on my heart ever since.

 To any speakers of Gaeilge out there, my apologies/or the lack of fadas (those little lines that sometimes appear over vowels). In the battle between accuracy and finding a method of formatting that wouldn’t cause some machine or other to self-destruct, the formatting won.

 E.M.

 Comments on this story can be sent to the author at: eire@tenforward.com