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wrap my arm around her shoulder. I’m soaked, hurting and still trying to wrap my head around everything that’s happened in the last two days, but I’m happy.
    â€œDo you think it’s okay?” Annabel asks.
    â€œI think so. It’s wrapped in a heavy blanket, and it’s survived worse.”
    â€œI suppose. Now Bill can advertise it as the museum piece that’s survived two shipwrecks.”
    â€œWhat made you recite Pi outside the shack?” I ask.
    â€œI needed to get him to turn around but not be on his guard, so I could throw the sand in his eyes. I find that reciting Pi tends to confuse people.”
    â€œNo kidding,” I say with a laugh. We look up as the sound of a helicopter rises above the crash of the surf. Its powerful light is sweeping the beach.
    â€œI guess Bill got your text,” I say.
    â€œTold you he would,” Annabel says and then leans over and kisses me.

Chapter Thirteen
    â€œI don’t think I’ll be able to adjust to life in Adelaide without these fries,” I say. We are sitting in the diner in Warrnambool—my new favorite place in my new favorite town.
    â€œI’ll mail you some every week,” Annabel says.
    â€œThanks,” I say, with as much sarcasm in my voice as I can muster. It’s been four days since the peacock theft, and Annabel and I have barely been out of each other’s company for more than a few hours in all that time. Our injuries are healing. Annabel can almost walk without a limp, and although it’ll be awhile before my fingernail grows back, both my finger and the cut on my palm are much better. “I’ll miss you,” I blurt out.
    â€œAnd I’ll miss you.” Annabel reaches over and squeezes my good hand. “But I’ve been working on Bill to take me with him next time he goes on a trip to Adelaide, and he says there’s always a job for you at the museum in the school holidays.”
    â€œNot the night shift.”
    â€œNo.” Annabel laughs.
    â€œDo you think all the fancy lawyers will get the millionaire collector off the hook?” I ask.
    â€œBillionaire, more like,” Annabel says. “Bill says the police told him the man’s name is Humphrey Battleford. Apparently, he comes from an old English family that can trace its ancestry, and money, back to Henry the Eighth. Battleford owns estates outside London, a mansion in California and houses all over the world, even one in Vancouver. Every room of every house is filled with valuable art. He travels the world buying antiques.”
    â€œAnd stealing them,” I add.
    â€œThe police suspect so, but Battleford’s clever. He never does the dirty work himself, and, as he said, he can afford the best lawyers. So, yeah, he’ll walk free.”
    Battleford had been arrested at the shack the night we found him, but he got out on bail the next day. There was very little hard evidence against him. His yacht was in international waters, so they couldn’t arrest the two guys who tried to take the peacock. Battleford was keeping silent while his lawyers claimed that he was simply caught in the middle when persons unknown decided to use the shack he was in to store the stolen goods. He even had all the correct paperwork for his pistol. “Money seems to have its advantages,” I remark.
    â€œIndeed,” Annabel agrees. “Bill also told me this morning that Battleford is offering to make a substantial donation to the museum if the charges go away. It might be best. It would mean Bill could afford to keep the security firm on.”
    â€œThat would be good,” I say. “Strangely, it’s Pete I feel most sorry for. Kelly seems to be free and clear.”
    â€œI think he is. And Pete will be okay too. One of Battleford’s lawyers is advising him. He’s claiming to have lost the key and gone out the back when the electricians went.”
    â€œThat’s