The Secret Heirloom
By court order, a legal notice was posted on the back page of the Blackbird Times and ran for two weeks in the waning days of August.
To the man who styles himself The Stranger
Your attendance is requested to settle the disposition of RJ Valentine’s estate. Please be present in Town Square as the sun sets on Tuesday, September 1, to avoid forfeiture of inheritance.
— Hamilton Webb, Esq.
Jenny Valentine never saw it. They don’t deliver newspapers in jail.
Heavy footfalls thudded in the hall, getting closer. Keys jangled, and a satisfying metal clank! signaled the opening of her cell door. Jenny lay on the cell’s lone amenity, a steel slab, and stared at the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge her visitor. Sheriff Lockhart had already tricked her twice before.
A soft package dropped onto her stomach, forcing all the air out of her lungs.
She gasped. “Asshole!”
“Get dressed,” said the sheriff.
Jenny glanced down at the form-fitting orange coverall she’d been stuck in for the past two weeks. A custom order, extra small, just for her. The package in her lap was a plastic bag, stuffed with the outfit she’d been wearing when he arrested her at San Francisco International Airport.
“For real?” she asked.
He tossed a second item into her lap: a copy of the Blackbird Times, with a want ad circled on the back page. Jenny read the text, skimming back and forth over the words, evaluating every angle of Mr. Webb’s notice. She glanced at her bare wrist, scowled, and finally turned to the sheriff.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“You’ve got 20 minutes,” said Lockhart.
Jenny scrambled to her feet, taking the newspaper and evidence bag, and let Lockhart guide her to a stall with a privacy curtain where she could change. The bastards hadn’t even folded her clothes. Her blue jeans looked like they were ironed with a rock.
“Charges dropped?” she asked, pulling on her favorite black top with the three-quarter-length sleeves.
“I wanted obstruction, for planting that bogus murder weapon on Valerie Valentine.” Lockhart’s voice came from the other side of the curtain.
“But you can’t prove it,” said Jenny. “Because I was locked up in here when it would have happened.”
“I’m more interested in how you got your hands on some of RJ’s blood,” said Lockhart. “Maybe the same way you beat that BAC test?”
Jenny stepped out of the stall in her rumpled clothes, ignoring his questions. “That haunts you, doesn’t it? Good. So the charges are dropped.”
“Nope. The JCO’s got you for criminal mischief—for setting Val up to get arrested at the storage facility.”
“Oh, come on! That wasn’t even me, that was Penny and Drew!”
“Your buddy Drew dropped a dime on you,” said Lockhart. “Can’t imagine why. To make a tedious legal story short, you’re on house arrest with an ankle monitor for 60 days. After this thing in Town Square, you can only leave home to go to school. And you gotta pay a $3,000 fine.”
At any other time in the past year, three grand would have been couch cushion money for Jenny, who had inherited her father RJ Valentine’s $272 million publishing fortune for solving his murder. Except now, with the case against Val tossed, ownership of RJ’s estate reverted to escrow, making Jenny a broke-ass teenager again. Mr. Webb had always said that there was a secret contingency in the will if the solution to RJ’s murder was voided. This meeting in Town Square must be the contingency.
Lockhart handed her a smaller bag containing her locket, her red diamond ring—you’re not selling that!—$50 in Euros, her watch, her iPhone, and a stolen poker chip from Schloss Schwarzwald.
“Is Shelly here?” Jenny asked. “Is she pissed?”
Lockhart nodded “yes” to both and pointed toward the station’s lobby, where her aunt waited beyond the heavy glass door blocking her exit.
“It was a nice try, Lockhart!” said Jenny, raising her voice. “But they haven’t built a cage that could hold Trouble yet!”
She sauntered out, slipping on her locket from the evidence bag—and tripped over her shoelace. She stumbled and slammed headlong into the glass door. “Ow, fuck!”
“Lemme get that,” said Lockhart.
He reached under the counter. The door unlocked with a loud BZZZ! Jenny exited into the lobby and leveled a glare at her aunt. She’d hardly noticed Shelly’s new look at the airport. Fashionable blonde highlights, sun-kissed bronze skin, lipstick in a lustier shade of red than the old Shelly would ever dare wear—oh, it was clear some people were enjoying the end of summer vacation.
“Two weeks!” Jenny shouted. “What the hell!?”
“It ought to be longer,” said Shelly. “I’m not sensing a lot of contrition here. You were supposed to be ruminating on what you’ve done.”
“Ruminate my balls!”
“You’re gonna be 18 before you know it, Valentine,” said Lockhart. “And then all of this”—he gestured with the ankle monitor device he was holding to encompass the entire police station—“gets a whole lot less like your dad’s goofy books. So you might want to try developing a sense of personal responsibility. A lot of people are dead because of you.”
“That’s not true!” said Jenny. “I didn’t kill Lance or Mr. White. Arty Porter did!”
The sheriff tensed. Shelly grimaced at Jenny.
“What?”
“You’re behind the times,” said Lockhart. “Arturo Porter is dead.”
“Oh. Damn.”
You as good as killed Mr. Porter by catching him, said her inner Jenny voice.
I didn’t! her inner Trouble voice shouted back.
“How did he die?”
“Officially? Suicide,” said Lockhart. “Stabbed himself in the chest up at the hot springs.”
“Why ‘officially’?”
“It’s an election year,” he replied. “Mayor Villanova is of the opinion that people don’t want to hear about the Stranger anymore. So Arty Porter was the Stranger, and the Stranger is dead. Case closed. Hold still.”
He crouched at her feet, fastening the slim device to Jenny’s ankle. She pitched her gaze to the ceiling, trying her hardest to stay calm.
“Yes, hang your bell on Trouble. Guess I’ll be missing Homecoming again!”
At her feet, an electronic beep chimed from her new ankle accessory. Lockhart stood up, his hand casually finding the small of Shelly’s back.
“Where’s my… uh, cousin?” Jenny asked.
“Kazumi’s made a friend in town,” said Shelly, using the name her sister Eliza adopted for her disguise as a distant cousin from Okinawa. “Tomorrow’s the first day of school, and I didn’t think she needed to be here for this.”
“I’m not sure that’s really for you to decide,” said Jenny carefully, keeping her voice low as Lockhart opened the door to the station for them.
“She didn’t want to come,” Shelly muttered through her teeth. “And I don’t blame her, after what you put her through.”
“Okay, but you’ve only heard her side—”
“Chop chop, kiddo,” said Lockhart. “Let’s go find out how your dad’s gonna make all our lives worse.”
Jenny followed in a daze, rubbing the Ace of Clubs tattoo on her wrist. Eliza didn’t want to come? But the game was still afoot. Weren’t they in this together?
* * *
The air outside was sweltering, even under the canopy of oak trees which kept the park in Town Square shielded from the sun. Smoke from a wildfire in the foothills had turned the sky a sickly shade of orange-brown, and Jenny’s throat was already feeling scratchy. Lockhart finally fucked off to usher some onlookers away, giving Jenny a moment alone with her aunt. They sat on the wooden bench Jenny donated last Valentine’s Day.
“How is Drew?” Jenny asked.
“Not great, Jenny,” said Shelly. “I suspect he regrets the day you ever darkened his door.”
Jenny ran her thumb over the smooth grooves in the wood where fans had carved their initials.
DP
Is that you, Drew?
AAA
ML
DEB + TV
PG
LKO + RJV
“I have been ruminating, you know,” said Jenny. “A lot. Don’t tell, it’ll ruin my reputation.”
Shelly tilted her head to challenge the very notion. “And what, pray tell, has passed between those ears?”
“She’s always 11 in the books,” Jenny said.
Her voice caught—must be the toxic air. Jenny covered her mouth in a coughing fit.
By she, they both knew Jenny meant her fictional counterpart. Trouble, the World’s Greatest Girl Detective. Star of a dozen junior readers mystery novels that made their author, RJ Valentine, a household name, then a multi-millionaire, then a murder victim. Trouble was Dad’s tribute to the daughter he couldn’t be there for. A precocious little scamp of a girl who never had to grow up, eternally solving mysteries in the idyllic yet stupidly crime-ridden Blackbird Springs of RJ’s imagination.
“Dad wrote Trouble Eight Days a Week when I was 11, and nothing since,” she said. “Like, that was my guide to life, and I was about to age past her. Maybe he was trying to figure out who an older Trouble would be.”
“I can’t even begin to articulate the many horrifying things in what you just said,” said Shelly.
“That’s ’cause you’re a hater. The point is, I think she’d be smarter,” said Jenny. “Well, not just smarter, but like… steadier. The recklessness would be for show, and she’d always be two steps ahead.
“And people would appreciate her…”
She coughed again, choking on the foul air—and her lingering bitterness.
“That’s a nice thought,” said Shelly. “Has it ever occurred to you that you don’t have to model your life after a fictional character your deadbeat dad created to make himself feel better?”
“See? Hater,” said Jenny. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve aged out. I’m a senior now. This is gonna be my year, just watch.”
Across the street, little Alicia Aaron—one of the six surviving heirs in Dad’s mystery game—was limping up to join them. She didn’t look half bad, in an undead sex crime victim sort of way, with her pentagram choker, crimson-red hair, and prosthetic leg. Alicia waved to Sheriff Lockhart.
What is it with those two?
“Shouldn’t this criminal be in jail?” shouted Val behind them. “Do I need to call the judge again, Blake?”
They turned to see Valerie Valentine, the dreaded widow, power-strutting over the park grass in four-inch heels, an evil iced latte dripping condensation in her hand. At her side was that new guy from the class trip, Nilay Nagra.
“Wassup Trouble!” said Nilay.
“She’s still a minor, Val,” said Lockhart. “I can’t keep her in jail forever.”
“But she framed me!”
“Prove it!” said Jenny. “Better yet, watch your ass, Val, because—”
“Jenny, keep your damn mouth shut!” Aunt Shelly bit out in Japanese as her phone began to ring.
“Oh, excuse me?” said Val. “English only, please. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I told her to keep her damn mouth shut,” said Shelly. “And that goes for you, too, Valerie.”
Her aunt and Val exchanged sneering glares before Shelly stepped away to answer her phone.
“Why are you here, Nails?” Jenny asked Nilay.
“Mrs. Valentine heard about my little deduction with those thieves at the castle,” said Nilay, flashing a shit-eating grin. “If RJ’s game is back on, you can’t go wrong with a Boy Detective on the payroll.”
“Your little deduction?!” Jenny said. “I was way ahead of you! If I hadn’t disabled their guns—”
“Who says I wasn’t accounting for that?” Nilay replied. “The way I see it—”
“Cork it, Nilay,” said Val. “What’s the deal, Blake? Didn’t the original will say we only had a hundred days to solve the mystery? Shouldn’t the money automatically go to the Valentine Foundation now?”
“There’s some kind of contingency, Mrs. Valentine,” said Alicia. “Mr. Webb won’t say what, though. At least not to me.”
“Even my lawyers couldn’t get that part of the will unsealed,” said Val. “It’s nearly sundown, where the hell is Hamilton? He’s late!”
“I still have three minutes,” said Hamilton Webb.
“Jesus, you gave me a heart attack!” said Jenny, jumping half out of her seat.
Mr. Webb had a talent for materializing where you least expected him. The tall man with a hawkish nose was the executor of RJ Valentine’s will. Just like at the first will reading, he was carrying a bulky leather briefcase.
“Are you sure you can’t be my lawyer anymore, Mr. Webb?” Jenny whined.
“I’m not even sure if I can be my lawyer anymore,” said Mr. Webb. “I already had to recuse myself from the charity you wanted to start and—well, your aunt can explain it. Suffice it to say, the estate is whole, the Trouble Foundation is kaput, you’re broke, and Lance Ashcroft’s parents added a few zeros to their bank account balance in place of a son. But let’s leave that to the litigators, we’re here to talk about the game.”
He grinned tightly behind horn-rimmed glasses, his perfect incisors gleaming golden in the sunset.
“—no, Ma, it’s not the same WiFi network anymore!” said Shelly, her voice rising as she dealt with her phone call. “No, it’s called ‘Onishi House’! The password is ‘Peggy Olson’! No spaces or caps… You don’t see ‘Onishi House’!?” She covered the receiver with her palm and let out an aggrieved sigh. “Blake, I need to deal with this. Can you get her home?”
“You didn’t want me to just lock her up again?” said Lockhart.
“Don’t tempt me,” said Shelly, giving the sheriff an indecent smirk.
Disgusting.
As Shelly left the park, she passed another arriving heir: statuesque Yvonne Griffin, whose Blackbird Times office was right down the street.
“You do all read the paper!” She grinned. “I’m touched.”
“Let’s see,” said Mr. Webb. “We’re just missing—”
The rev of an engine and screeching tires interrupted him. They all turned to witness an open-top jeep making a tight right off of Broadway and parking in a disabled spot, right in front of the old town hall.
“Ah, there we are,” said Mr. Webb.
The driver was the only guy in Blackbird Springs with the gall to illegally park right in front of the sheriff: his muscle-bound son Mason Lockhart. And swinging out of the passenger seat was Jenny’s half-brother, Jack Valentine. Tall like his father RJ, and brooding like only a spoiled, handsome teenager could be. Jack scowled at the sight of them all and moved around to the back seat to help someone out.
“Junior, I told you not to bring her!” cried Val. “And letting him drive her?!”
Stepping gingerly out with a hand from Jack was Val’s identical twin—or, rather, the younger, meaner, alcoholic version of her. Val’s daughter from her first marriage, Victoria Valentine.
“She’s very persistent, you know,” said Jack, faking an insouciant yawn. “Not sure where she could have gotten that from, Mother.”
“You need to be resting, Tori,” said Val, a hint of real emotion slipping past her cunty facade. “The doctor said so.”
Tori regarded her mother behind dark sunglasses, leaning on Jack as they walked to the park bench. Her skin was wan and sickly, and her gait unsteady. She wore a surgical mask to protect herself from the foul air.
It was the first time Jenny had seen Tori since she’d awoken from the coma the Stranger put her in on Valentine’s Day. Since she’d awoken, changed her testimony, and helped destroy Jenny’s frame job on Val.
“Shouldn’t you be in jail?” asked Mason, walking over to Jenny. “I pictured you trading cigarettes for tampons with some 400-pound lesbian named Bertha.”
“Shouldn’t you be in college?” Jenny replied. “I pictured you getting paddled in a frat house basement by some date rapist named Chet.”
“We’re on the quarter system,” he replied. “And Chet’s a good guy, that girl’s a liar.”
He winked, and Jenny smiled for the first time in two weeks. Mason was an absolute clod and a tool, but he was one of the few people in the world who knew about her secret twin sister, and he’d shown shocking loyalty so far by not telling anyone. Even now, when they couldn’t pay him for his silence any longer.
“No Kazumi today?” Jack asked.
Speaking of Danger. Jack almost seemed disappointed. Since when did he care about her fake cousin? Someone’s watch beeped. To the west, in the smoky haze, the sun dipped below the horizon.
“Wonderbar!” said Mr. Webb, clapping his hands. “Let’s get started.”
He set the briefcase on the bench and popped the clasps. It was empty, except for an envelope and a digital recorder. With a twitch of his fingers, a letter opener appeared in Webb’s hand. He sliced through the envelope seal, slid something small and golden from it into his palm, and took out a single page of creamy Valentine Manor stationery.
“Addendum!” Mr. Webb announced, reading the letter. “I, Jonathan Valentine, being of sound mind and body, etcetera etcetera, include these additional instructions, to be followed if the first accepted solution to my murder should prove false. Mr. Webb shall now play the audio from the included recorder.”
He tossed the letter back into his briefcase and took up the digital recorder.
“You may want to scoot in,” said Mr. Webb. “I’m not sure how loud this thing can get.”
The other heirs leaned closer, surrounding Jenny and the lawyer. Tori coughed. Blake wiped beads of sweat from his brow and flicked his hand. Mr. Webb pressed a button on the device, and RJ Valentine spoke from beyond the grave once more.
“Greetings, mystery lovers! I’m recording this on the off chance—off, though hardly unlikely—that the first person to solve my murder gets it wrong. Hey, it happens. No good mystery is complete without a red herring or two. Heheh. If you solved it on the first try, frankly, I’d be a little disappointed. Since one of you struck out, it’s time I splashed the pot. I’m naming one more heir: my killer! Obviously!
“To the man who styles himself the Stranger. To the one whose increasingly threatening notes have haunted me these past months, I leave this arcade token, and invite you to insert coin and join the game!”
Mr. Webb revealed the golden object he’d palmed: it was, indeed, an arcade token, about the size of a quarter. Everyone leaned even closer. Something brushed Jenny’s hip. The token was embossed with the pixelated outline of a video game coin on one side. Mr. Webb flipped it over to show the words No Cash Value stamped on the other.
“How are you supposed to give it to his killer?” asked Yvonne.
“Webb, take the game token and set it on the rim of the birdbath in the southwest corner of Town Square,” said RJ on the recorder.
Everyone looked to Jenny’s right. Only a handful of paces away, the old copper birdbath sat to one side of the cobblestone path that circled the park. Mr. Webb walked over and placed the coin on the edge of the basin. The burnished rim glowed golden brown in the sunset. Webb turned back and smiled expectantly, leaning on the birdbath with his left hand, daring anyone to approach.
“Not bad, eh?” said RJ. “I love you all, and I’m so sorry I can’t be there to see how it all comes out. These are my final words on the matter. I swear! Maybe! Happy hunting, detectives!”
Everyone stared at the game token, faces full of consternation and befuddlement. Would anyone dare try to pick it up?
“Now what?” asked Alicia Aaron.
Somewhere overhead, Jenny thought she heard a sharp metal clink!
“Game on, Trouble,” RJ added.
