Chapter 6 - The Crayon Drawing
The older of the two police officers, a sergeant with gray at his temples and a name plate reading Miller, stepped into the office and rested his hand near his belt. His eyes swept from my mud-stained boots to the splintered wooden cabinet door of the safe, and finally to the silver locket still clutched in my hand.
“Sir, keep your hands where I can see them and set the jewelry on the desk,” Sergeant Miller said, his voice firm and professional.
“Officer, wait—” Sophie started, stepping toward me.
“It’s okay, Soph. Stay right by the chair,” I said gently. Carefully, I placed the locket and the recipe card onto the blotter, keeping my hands open and visible. “Sergeant, my name is Daniel Mercer. I own this building, and I’m the CEO of Hearthstone Hospitality Group.”
Behind the officers, Mr. Sterling frowned deeply, looking from me to Arthur. “Arthur? You told me Daniel Mercer was in Seattle finalizing the divestiture paperwork via courier.”
Everyone in the doorway looked at Arthur.
This was the moment. All Arthur had to do was tell the truth, and the lie would end. I watched his face, waiting for the shred of decency I had believed in for twenty years to surface.
Claire looked at her brother, her eyes wide and pleading. “Arthur, tell the officers how he forced his way up here and threatened you.”
Arthur looked at the splintered safe cabinet, then at the blue Sterling contracts on the desk—contracts that carried my forged signature. If he admitted who I was right now in front of two police officers and the buyer he was defrauding, he wouldn't just go to prison for the charity theft; he would be arrested on the spot for felony wire fraud and forgery.
Arthur swallowed hard and looked away from Sophie’s eyes.
“I don’t know why he’s claiming to be Mr. Mercer, Sergeant,” Arthur said, his voice hollow. “His name is Daniel Miller. He did some framing work on our patio last month. When I came upstairs to get these contracts for Mr. Sterling, I found him going through the safe.”
The betrayal didn't even hurt this time; it just left a cold, clear focus in my mind.
“Do you have identification on you, sir?” Sergeant Miller asked me.
I reached slowly toward my back pocket, then stopped. My stomach dropped.
When I had been walking the muddy foundation trenches at the Columbus construction site at four o’clock, I had left my leather wallet and driver’s license locked in the center console of my truck so they wouldn't get soaked in the rain. All I had brought inside my canvas jacket pocket was a folded money clip with two hundred-dollar bills and my truck keys.
“My wallet is in my F-150 in the parking lot,” I said evenly. “If one of you walks out there with me, I can show you my driver’s license, my corporate ID, and the registration.”
“See?” Claire scoffed, folding her arms. “Convenient. And that silver locket on the desk was left to me by my grandmother. He took it right out of my binder downstairs and ran up here when security tried to stop him.”
The younger officer stepped forward with a pair of handcuffs. “Sir, until we verify who you are outside, I’m going to have to detain you for breaking and entering.”
“No!” Sophie cried out, grabbing my coat pocket. “Don’t put those on my dad! That lady is lying! That’s my mom’s locket!”
Sergeant Miller paused, looking down at Sophie. He had the weathered face of a man who had seen plenty of liars on night shifts, and something in Sophie’s terrified, honest voice made him hesitate.
“Sergeant,” I said calmly. “Don’t take my word for it, and don’t walk to my truck yet. Ask Ms. Whitmore to tell you how to open her grandmother’s locket. Better yet, ask her what is engraved inside the clasp.”
The room went quiet. Mr. Sterling adjusted his glasses, suddenly looking very interested.
“I don’t have to prove anything to a thief,” Claire snapped, her cheeks blotching red. “The clasp has been broken for years. It doesn't open.”
“Yes, it does,” Sophie said clearly. She held up her rolled-up children’s menu—the drawing of the purple-and-blue turtle. She unrolled it and pointed to the corner of the paper, where she had doodled a tiny star with a circle around it while we were waiting for our food. “Mom taught me when I was six. You push the middle of the compass star down with your fingernail and slide the side toward the left. And inside it says Always Home — D & R for Daniel and Rebecca, and there’s a picture of me in my yellow pajamas when I had only four teeth!”
Sergeant Miller looked slowly from Sophie to Claire.
Keeping one eye on me, the sergeant picked up the closed silver locket from the desk. With his thumb, he pressed the center of the compass rose and slid the catch to the left.
Click.
The locket sprung open in the policeman’s palm.
Sergeant Miller looked down at the tiny photograph inside, then looked over at Sophie’s face. Even six years older, the crooked little smile and the dark brown eyes were unmistakable. Then he tilted the silver edge toward the desk lamp to read the microscopic engraving inside the rim.
“Always Home,” Sergeant Miller read aloud. “D and R.”
He looked up at Claire, his expression hardening into stone. “Care to tell me why this man’s daughter is inside your grandmother’s locket, ma’am?”
Claire’s mouth worked silently, no sound coming out. She looked wildly at Arthur for help.
Before Arthur could speak, the office door pushed wider. Marcus, the young security guard from downstairs, stood in the hallway holding a framed eight-by-ten photograph he had pulled off the stack by the radiator in the anteroom.
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“Excuse me, Sergeant,” Marcus said, breathless. “I heard Ms. Whitmore call 911 from the host stand, and it didn't sit right with me. When I started working here six months ago, they told me to take down the old photos in the hallway. This was the one from the lobby.”
Marcus turned the frame around. It was the photo taken on Bellweather House’s opening night ten years ago: me in a tuxedo, Rebecca in an emerald dress wearing that exact silver locket around her neck, and a younger Arthur Vance standing right beside us with his arm around my shoulder.
