“I need help,” he said, before hello even.

Ben and I both straightened. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

He scratched the corner of his mustache, an uncharacteristic nervous gesture. “Really it’s Amelia who needs help. Or thinks she does. We do, I mean.” He winced, and I gaped. Cormac, tongue-tied and awkward? Something really was wrong. “Amelia thinks you can help,” he said finally.

I raised my brow and waited some more. Scowling, he ducked his gaze, and if he looked like he was having an argument with himself, he probably was. My curiosity boiled.

“You want to explain?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I say we just break into the place—”

“Maybe from the beginning?”

“You want something to drink first?” Ben said.

“Yeah, I think I do.”

Ben went to get him a beer, and by the time he got back, he’d figured out how to tell the story.

“I spent most of yesterday in libraries,” he said. “Looking up genealogies, family histories. Amelia tracked down her family—her brother and his descendants. They’ve still got land and money, her couple of greats grand-nephew owns the house where she grew up, the one she was living in before she left.” Before she set out on the travels and adventures that took her around the world and eventually to Colorado, where she’d been wrongfully executed for murder.

He continued, “She hid some things in the house. Journals, odds and ends. She wants to try to get them back.”

“You can’t exactly walk up to some guy’s door, knock, and ask to go searching for his dead great-aunt’s lost journals,” I said.

“I can’t.” He pointed at his scowling face and rough appearance, then pointed at me. “You might be able to.”

I huffed. “Oh, come on! You can’t expect me to try to sell that story to a total stranger.”

“That’s what I think—but for some reason she doesn’t want me breaking in and grabbing the stuff.”

“No breaking and entering,” Ben said. “Especially not in a foreign country, not while you’re still on parole. Not ever.” Ben glared, and Cormac actually lowered his gaze, chagrined.

I started to ask why they didn’t just write a letter or make a phone call explaining the situation, then realized—who would believe that? The nephew might not believe someone telling him this in person, but he wouldn’t be able to ignore the plea, like tossing a letter in the trash.

The story was far-fetched, unlikely. I sympathized.

“Are you sure she isn’t trying to get part of her old life back?” I said.

Cormac pursed his lips, engaging in another of their silent, internal discussions. He tilted his head and said, “Wouldn’t you?”

I glared across the table at him. At them. I was going to get roped into this, wasn’t I? They weren’t just playing on my sympathy, they were playing on my curiosity. I’d chase the story. It might have been crazy and misguided. It might even have been sad, another reason to pity the tragic woman who’d attached herself to Cormac. But it also couldn’t hurt to try. What was the worst that could happen? The British equivalent of a restraining order? I knew better than to ask that question.

“Ben?” I said, glancing over.

He shrugged. “It never hurts to ask. But if he says no and kicks us out, are you going to be okay with that?”

“We just have to make sure he doesn’t say no.”

Cormac slid over a piece of paper with a name and phone number written on it. What could I do but pick it up? He watched, his hunter’s gaze cool and steady, as I pulled out my phone and dialed the number, writing a quick script in my head.

After only a couple of rings, the other end of the line picked up and a female voice answered. “Nicholas Parker’s office.”

I glanced at Cormac, thinking I maybe should have gotten a little more information about Nicholas Parker, apart from the belief that he was Amelia’s great-great-grandnephew, before calling. Oh well. “Hi, may I speak to Mr. Parker, please?”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“My name’s Kitty Norville, I have some information for him.” Maybe that would be enough. I didn’t even know what kind of office Parker had. Doctor? Lawyer? Stockbroker? Hairdresser? Lawyer, I bet.

“One moment, please.”

Waiting, I imagined what kind of indignant conversation Nicholas Parker and his secretary were having. Kitty who?

Then a male voice came on. “This is Nicholas Parker.” Tenor, BBC British, the kind of voice that narrated nature documentaries, that automatically inspired confidence in a backwoods American. Surely I’d be able to explain the situation to him.

My script kicked in. “Hi, I’m Kitty Norville, I host a radio show and I’m tracking down a story you might be able to help me with.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you. You’ve been in the news recently, I think.”

Right. Now, was that a good thing or a bad thing? “I have some information about a distant relative of yours, a great-aunt, I think. Amelia Parker?”

“Yes. She’s a bit of a family legend, came to an awful end in America if I remember right. Something of a scandal. I only know the family stories. I don’t even know if any of them are true.”

I took a deep breath. “What would you say if I told you I have a message for you from her?”

I expected the long pause. The question was, would there be a click of him hanging up at the end of it. But no, he answered. “I’d say I thought it was a bit odd.”

British understatement, gotta love it.

“She died, but that wasn’t the end of it. If you’ve heard of me then you know I deal with some pretty crazy stories, and this one’s a doozy. Can we meet in person?”

“I’m really not sure what to say, Ms. Norville. If you have some artifact that belonged to her, surely you can send it—”

“I said I have a message from her. I’d really like to talk to you about it. I can come to your office.” A nice, familiar, public place. That should have been comforting.

He sounded subdued, nervous. Of course he did. “I suppose I have a few minutes to spare this afternoon.”

“That’s all I need,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. He gave me the address and a time, and I promised to be there before hanging up.