Remi held up the program. “The sort that’s forced to sell off cars at auction.”
“Since he’s not here now, it’s a moot point. Let’s just enjoy the day.”
They strolled across the grass, taking their time to appreciate the vehicles on display. Remi stopped to admire a row of classic sports cars, in every hue of the rainbow. “It just goes to show that museums aren’t the only places that house fine art.”
“These just happen to be on wheels,” Sam said. “Look at that motor. Now that’s a work of art . . . 630-liter engine—”
“Designed by Dr. Ferdinand Porsche,” Remi continued.
“Stop stealing my thunder.”
Sam was stepping aside for a photographer, who was trying to set up a shot of the vehicle with the Pacific Ocean in the background, when Remi tapped him on the shoulder. “Isn’t that Clive Cussler’s car? The one he finished restoring in 2010?”
“Sure looks like it.” They walked over to the sea foam green car, and Sam read the placard aloud. “1948 Delahaye Type 135 Cabriolet . . . I definitely like the color change. And the saddle brown leather interior works perfectly. The details . . .” He circled the car. “The Art Deco detail. That is Art Deco detail, isn’t it?”
“Okay, Sam, you can stop salivating. You’re like a kid in a candy shop.”
“Who wouldn’t be? Every year we come, there’s always something new.”
“I have to admit, it wouldn’t be August without a trip to Pebble Beach.”
Sam looked at his wife, about to comment on how fortunate they were that Clive always had guest passes waiting for them, when someone near the champagne and refreshment tent caught his eye. A dark-haired man about Sam’s age, mid-thirties—far too young to be the missing Viscount—watching every move the two of them made.
Considering how many people were around, Sam found the man’s interest odd. “How about a quick glass of champagne?” he asked.
“Before lunch? A bit of an early start to our day.”
“Yes, well, in this case,” he said, taking her arm in his, “we’ll need a prop to find out why we seem to be so interesting.”
“Intrigue. How fun. Who’re we interested in?”
“There’s a man wearing a yellow shirt with a green sweater tied around his shoulders at the far left corner of the champagne tent.”
“Yellow? Green?” She gave a casual glance in that direction. “Really. If you’re going to spy, why would anyone want to wear a color combination like that?”
Sam pretended interest in the 1937 Delahaye on their left as they strolled toward the tent. “Maybe he’s trying not to look the part of a spy. Or,” he said, leaning down close to her, “he’s simply entranced by your beauty and can’t take his eyes off you.”
“Hmm. Highly unlikely. The latter, in case you’re wondering. Too many far more striking women around here for me to be the center of attention, don’t you think?”
“Not in the least,” he said, glancing over at his wife. Remi had chosen a Dolce & Gabanna late-summer afternoon dress, in navy blue with white polka dots, with an off-the-shoulder neckline, and gathered sleeves that dropped to her elbows. The three-tiered gathered skirt was mid-calf, and the slightest breeze moved the delicate cotton voile. Perfectly polished red toenails peeked from her white Valentino sandals. Her straw hat matched a shoulder bag just big enough to hold the essentials: lipstick, comb, driver’s license, credit card, cell phone, a 9mm Sig Sauer micro-compact handgun, and a concealed-carry permit. “You’re a knockout, Remi. Always were, always will be.”
“Very wise answer, Fargo.” She gave him a dazzling smile, then turned her attention to the champagne tent. “We know he can’t be a spy spy.”
“A what?”
“Government intrigue and world conspiracy. More international jewel thief, dressed like that, wouldn’t you say?”
No doubt she was thinking about their last escapade, which sent them to South America searching for the lost Romanov jewels. “Unless he’s interested in your wedding ring, he’s going to be sadly disappointed.”
The way the man was watching them from behind one of the corners of the tent told Sam that he was definitely interested in something about them. He and Remi approached the table where a young woman in a crisp white shirt and black vest was pouring champagne into flutes. Sam picked up two, handing one to Remi. “You take the left, I’ll take the right.”
She lifted her glass and took a sip. “See you on the other side.”
Sam watched as his wife expertly weaved her way through the guests, waiting until she was halfway across the tent before making his way in the opposite direction, toward the man, who suddenly found his attention divided between them. When Remi raised her glass in a toast, Sam did the same, and the two closed in.
Their target, apparently, hadn’t realized they were zeroing in on him until they were just a few feet away. Sam walked up, clapped him on the back. “Wow. Didn’t expect to see you here. Did you, Remi?”
“Not in the least. The people we run into at Pebble Beach, it just amazes me at times.”
The man’s blue eyes widened as he looked from Sam to Remi in disbelief. “It’s you!”
Considering that Sam expected him to deny, to at least pretend, he hadn’t been watching them, his statement came as a surprise. “How do you know us?”
“Of course, I don’t know you,” he said, with a strong British accent. “Not personally. You really do look just like your photographs. What luck to run into you straightaway.”
“Lucky, indeed,” Sam said, wondering what sort of game this guy was playing. “Didn’t quite catch your name.”
“Forgive me. I’m Oliver Payton. But you’ll be wanting to talk to my uncle, Albert. Please wait while I fetch him?”
“Right here,” Sam said.
He and Remi watched the man walk off, Remi saying, “Our missing Viscount’s nephew?”
“Apparently. Assuming the man really is a viscount.”
“Your mother seems to think so.”
“She’s not nearly as jaded as I am. Besides, how is it I’ve never heard about him until now?”
Remi gave him a sidelong glance. “Lack of interest in your extended family tree?”
“Only because the branches seem to multiply every time we turn around.”
“Do I detect the slightest bit of cynicism? Don’t answer that.” She nodded to Sam’s left, where Oliver was helping a white-haired man down the slope of rough grass onto a cart path. “Our Viscount and his nephew are back.”
When they reached the champagne tent, the Viscount brushed Oliver’s hand from his arm. “I’m old, not an invalid.”
Oliver gave a hesitant smile, clearing his throat. “My uncle, Albert Payton, Viscount Wellswick. This is Sam Fargo and his wife, Remi. They’re here about the car.”
The old man grumbled something under his breath about the car being his, turning an accusing glare in Sam’s direction. Suddenly his expression softened. “You look just like Eunice.”
The last person Sam had ever heard calling his mother by that name was a clerk at the DMV when she’d let her driver’s license expire. She’d always hated the name, instead going by Libby, a diminutive of Elizabeth, her middle name. “She mentioned you were here about a car?”
Albert nodded. “I— Yes. That you might be interested in the prototype of the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. I— I don’t have a lot of money. I’m not sure the show’s the best place for it. But I have a few good ideas on where someone might hide a classic car. I know they’re far-fetched, but if you’d only hear me out . . .”
Sam and Remi exchanged glances. No doubt a swindle about to happen, and not a very good one. When it came to cons, Sam liked to let them think they had the upper hand—the better to keep them off guard. “You have a card? I’ll look into the matter and get back to you.”
&
nbsp; The man’s face fell as he patted his pockets. Either he was an extremely good actor or he’d pinned a lot of hope on that odd speech he’d just given. “No.”
“I have a mobile,” Oliver said. “Will that do?”
“Of course. Remi?”
She handed Sam her flute, then took her cell phone out, entering the number that Oliver recited to her.
“We’ll be in touch,” Sam said, placing both glasses on a nearby table.
He and Remi walked off, Remi asking, “What do you suppose his game was?”
“I’m not sure that he even knows.” Sam checked the program Remi still held, something about it spurring his memory. “Didn’t we read a recent article in Sports Car Market about a viscount selling off a number of classic cars?”
“The same man: Albert Payton,” Remi said. While Sam’s memory was sharp, his wife had near-photographic memory for anything she read. It amazed him how she was able to recall the tiniest details. “Downsizing in an attempt to save the family estate. But I don’t recall reading that they were selling a prototype Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. You don’t think he was talking about the one that was stolen back in 1906? Of the first ever forty-fifty?”
They both stopped in their tracks.
Sam looked at Remi. “We need to find that man.”
But when they turned back toward the champagne tent, he and his nephew were gone.
2
It took Sam and Remi a few minutes to find the Viscount and his nephew in the crowd. They’d moved to the other side of the champagne tent, both men looking out toward the ocean.
“I don’t think they’re interested,” the younger man, Oliver, said.
“They just want to think about it. They . . .” His shoulders fell. “All those families. What do I tell them?”
Oliver put his arm around his uncle. “We’ll think of something. I promise.”
Remi elbowed Sam.
He cleared his throat, giving both men time to compose themselves. “Mr. Payton?”
The two men turned, Oliver looking surprised, his uncle looking confused.
“A few more questions.” Sam was about to ask why they’d contacted his mother, of all people, when that feeling of being watched hit him a second time. He scanned the crowd, catching sight of a broad-shouldered man with a military buzz cut. The man’s gaze slid past Sam as though searching for someone else, waving as he walked in that direction. When Sam turned to see who he was waving to and found no one, he looked back, discovering the man had disappeared into the crowd.
While it was highly possible the matter was all very innocent, something told Sam that Oliver and his uncle had been the focus of attention. Clearly, they needed to learn more from them, but not out here in the open. “Let’s find somewhere quiet, where we can talk.”
“Lunch,” Remi said. “I’m starved. Assuming we can get in anywhere.”
“I’ll call the hotel,” Sam said. Getting into any of the restaurants on the Peninsula was almost impossible during the Concours d’Elegance. As always, Sam and Remi were staying at the Inn at Spanish Bay, and that certainly helped when last-minute reservations were needed. He called the concierge desk, glad when Kimberley answered the phone. “Sam Fargo,” he said, having to move aside when a man who was intently reading his program almost bumped into him. “Any chance you can find us a table for lunch? Party of four?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem, Mr. Fargo. I’ll just confirm with the restaurant. Please hold.”
Sam’s eye caught the man who’d nearly run into him as he walked quickly away, suddenly with purpose. The moment he met up with Mr. Buzz Cut, the same person who’d been watching them earlier, Sam realized it’d been no accident. They or the Paytons were being followed. “Why don’t we start wandering toward the shuttle,” Sam said to Remi, eager to lose their tail, wondering if there were any more out there.
They didn’t have to walk far. Kimberley got back to him, said she’d secured a table at the Taproom, one of the restaurants at the Lodge.
Drinks ordered, Sam eyed their two guests. “My mother was a bit vague about why you needed to meet with us. If you wouldn’t mind filling us in . . . ?”
The old man leaned toward his nephew. “Were we looking for him?”
“Yes,” Oliver said. “The car, remember?”
“Quite right.” Albert nodded, his attention on Sam. “We thought you’d be the perfect benefactor for my car.”
Perfect benefactor, Sam decided, was an odd choice of words. “This Silver Ghost prototype that you mentioned?”
“The same.”
“Exactly how are you and my mother related?”
“Do I know your mother?”
Oliver smiled at his uncle. “Second cousins, isn’t it?”
“Ah, Cousin Eunice.”
Interesting, since Sam’s mother had never mentioned this side of her family to him until this requested meeting suddenly came up. “She told me something about a loan,” Sam said, trying to get them back on track. “What is it you need the money for?”
“The short version is,” Oliver said, “that we’ve lost everything and we’re looking for a loan before they repossess our land and home. We’ve tried to sell off what we can to get by, but so many make their living off the land they rent from us, entire families—generations, even—we’re hesitant to make a deal that might displace them.”
While Oliver spoke, Sam’s attention shifted to the door, wondering if the prototype of the Silver Ghost had anything to do with the men he’d seen following them. At the moment, it appeared they’d made it to the restaurant without being tailed. Still, he wasn’t about to take chances and he kept watch while they ate.
Remi did an admirable job keeping the conversation focused during the meal, the better to evaluate Albert Payton and his nephew. “They couldn’t rent from the new owners?” Remi asked, as the waiter arrived to clear the table.
Oliver gave a tight smile, avoiding any look from his uncle. “The one and only offer on the land that we’ve seen, well, they’ve refused to guarantee that they wouldn’t evict.”
Albert gave a firm nod. “We are not selling.”
“The thing is,” Oliver said, “I don’t know how we got to this point. One day we were fine, the next everything was lost. I—” He looked at his uncle, then back at Sam. “I blame myself. I should’ve taken over the books sooner. I’m still trying to make sense of it all.”
“Framed,” his uncle said, nodding. “They’re trying to take everything from me. Everything.”
“You don’t know that,” Oliver said.
“Don’t I?” He looked at Sam, his eyes lucid, sharp. “I’ll tell you exactly who it is. And why.”
3
The waiter placed a leather folder with the check in it next to Sam.
Albert watched as the waiter retreated, then looked at Sam. “I— What was I saying?”
“Someone framed you.”
He nodded. Whatever thought he’d been about to utter, though, was lost. The older man’s memory problems seemed real. That didn’t eliminate the possibility, however, that the younger man, no matter how sincere he appeared, was taking advantage of his uncle or attempting to take advantage of them. Sam directed his attention to Oliver. “What is it that you’re hoping we can do? Or what is it that my mother suggested we do?”
“She said you might be interested in using the car for collateral. For a loan.”
“My mother said that?”
Oliver shifted in his seat, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Just enough to help me get his estate back in the black and keep our tenants from being evicted. I’m sure that if I can figure out what went wrong, whatever it was that started this tailspin, we can recover.”
“Quite my fault,” Albert said, looking at his nephew for confirmation.
Oliver reached out and clasped his uncle?
??s hand. “He’s been a good landlord. I don’t think these families could make it if we sold and they had to pay rent at full value. I—” He looked at his uncle, then back at Sam. “As I said, I blame myself.”
“Framed,” his uncle said again. But any revelations about who was behind it, if anyone, weren’t forthcoming.
Sam tucked his credit card into the leather folder, handing it to the waiter as he approached. “It sounds complicated.”
“I quite understand if you don’t believe us,” Oliver said. “Sometimes I’m not even sure what’s going on. I know Uncle Albert believes someone else is responsible. And I believe him. I’ve burned through my sabbatical time and the last of my savings. And since I’m out of funds, I have to go back to work. I— I don’t know how else to help him or learn what really happened.”
Remi reached over, laying her hand on Oliver’s arm. “If what he’s saying is true, that someone else is behind this, you should call the police.”
“My wife is right,” Sam said. “It’s really not something we do.”
“You hunt treasure, don’t you?”
“That’s different.”
“How? The actual Silver Ghost is worth fifty million, if not more. Surely the Gray Ghost has to have a similar value.”
“That certainly is the question,” Sam said. “Where’s it been all this time?”
“During World War Two, it was stored away due to the bombing. There it sat, until we were forced to start liquidating. But no one really knew its worth. We’d sold off at least a dozen classic cars by the time we came across the Gray Ghost under its dustcover in the barn. When we realized what we had, we contacted Rolls-Royce, hoping to get an idea of the vehicle’s worth.”
“Did they give an approximate value?” Sam asked.
“That’s just it. They said they couldn’t place a value, since it was only the prototype.”
“Only?” Remi said, her brows rising.
“My thoughts exactly. But, then, they offered to buy it, saying they’d send someone out to take a look and give an estimate.”