by Karen White
Jack gave me a slow, warm grin. “What a shame.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.” I grinned back, sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow.
“Oh, speaking of Marc Longo,” Yvonne said, her tone bitter enough that if she’d been anyone else I’d have expected her to spit on the ground at the mention of his name, “I’ve been doing more research about the Vanderhorsts and Gallen Hall in particular, trying to see if there was anything else that might help you find what you’re looking for. I haven’t had time to photocopy and e-mail you this yet because I had my appointment at the beauty parlor today and time got away from me.” She patted her shining helmet of hair.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I couldn’t stop thinking about that note from the marquis to the Swamp Fox, and the rumors of a treasure from the French king to the Americans that was never found. I haven’t even been able to find anything definitive that would clarify what the treasure actually was. However . . .” She closed her mouth, and her cheeks puffed out slightly as if they were finding it hard to contain the secret.
“Yes?” I prompted, afraid Jack might lose his mind if he had to drag out every word.
“So I decided to focus my search on specific treasurelike words, like jewels, gold, and metal.”
Once again, her cheeks filled with anticipation, and even I had a hard time restraining myself from shaking her a little to get the words to pop out of her mouth. “And?” I prompted.
“And,” she said, drawing out the word in a way that would make any Charlestonian proud, “I happened to get a hit on something very unexpected. It might not mean anything, but then again, since there’s no such thing as coincidence, it might.” She winked at Jack. “I found an article in an ancient Charleston architecture text that focused on the various craftsmen and metalworks in and around the city. We do have the most beautiful iron gates and fences, don’t we?”
We all nodded, but I could see the tic starting in Jack’s jaw. “Anyway, I saw mention of a Samuel Vanderhorst, a respected metalworker in the city around the end of the eighteenth century. The name popped out at me, of course, so I did a little digging and found a small biography of him in the antiquated volume that also mentioned Elizabeth Grosvenor.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have missed it the first time I went through the book, except he didn’t have his own listing, because . . .” She paused but quickly continued when she spotted the manic look in Jack’s eyes. “Because Samuel was a freedman and former slave on the plantation and therefore was mentioned only briefly, his name tucked in amongst about twenty other craftsmen on the plantation. His owners freed him when they discovered what a gift he had for metalworking. All the gates and fences at the plantation, including the cemetery, were designed and made by him. I might not have taken note of his name and occupation, except that the listing mentioned that he also made jewelry.” She raised her eyebrows and I fully expected her to waggle them for effect, but she didn’t. “Aren’t you going to ask me what keyword I used in my search that ended up on the listing?”
With a tight smile, Jack said, “Yes, please. I don’t think I can take any more suspense.”
“Pinchbeck! After the Revolution, Samuel left the plantation and set up shop in Charleston, where most of his work involved forging gates and fences in and around the city. But in his spare time, he also made costume jewelry for less affluent clients, most of it with pinchbeck.”
Jack and I stared at each other. “The brooch,” we said simultaneously.
“It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility that he made the peacock brooch Eliza Grosvenor is wearing in her portrait at Gallen Hall,” Jack finished.
“Does that help?” Yvonne asked.
“I hope so,” Jack said. “I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s a piece of the puzzle. I’m just not sure yet where it fits.” He looked up at Harold. “Is it all right if I hug Yvonne?”
“Go right ahead. I think she’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
Jack hugged the older woman and kissed her on the cheek. “Have I told you lately how wonderful you are?”
“Now, hush, Jack. Harold can hear you,” Yvonne said, giggling.
We all laughed, then said our good-byes, with Yvonne promising that she’d e-mail the photocopies of what she’d discovered.
As Jack and I walked across the lobby to join our group, I looked around to make sure no could hear, then said, “Rebecca just told me that Marc is looking for one of the papers we found in the box Anthony gave us. It’s a drawing, and apparently Marc has one that matches it—it’s the one copied by Joseph Longo at the Vanderhorst house. All Rebecca knows is that Marc believes they’re connected. Do you think he has any idea what he’s looking for?”
Jack stopped walking and met my gaze. “I doubt it. The only thing I do know is that Marc doesn’t know anything more than we do—yet. Meaning we’re probably still a few steps ahead of him. I think the brooch is important—you said that Eliza wanted you to notice it. Regardless, we need to find it before Marc does. Remember how Anthony said that Marc had used a metal detector on the floor of the mausoleum? A metal detector can’t detect pinchbeck—it’s made of copper and zinc, which are both nonferrous metals.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that there’d have to be a heck of a lot of it to be detected with a metal detector. And the amount of pinchbeck used in a brooch wouldn’t be enough. It also means that Marc doesn’t know what he’s looking for.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “Do you think you could ask Eliza about her brooch?”
“You know it doesn’t work that way . . .” I began.
“I know. But I thought you could maybe try, see where it goes. I’m sure Jayne would love to help, too.”
I swallowed. “Sure,” I said. “Because Jayne’s always happy to help.”
Jack gave me an odd look.
“She is,” I said, squirming under his gaze. “That’s a good thing, right? And don’t say what you’re thinking.”
Jack held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” I began walking toward the group, my pace quickening as I spotted the young Charleston dancer moving toward me from the other side of the room, her bruised and bloody mouth open as if she were trying to speak.
“Come on,” I said, sliding my arm into Jayne’s. “Let’s go—we’re missing out on some Christmas shopping.” I hurried toward the exit without turning back, feeling the disappointed gaze of the dead woman following me out the door.
CHAPTER 22
The high heel of my shoe got stuck for the third time in the dirt courtyard of the Aiken-Rhett House museum as I moved among the various wreath-decorating stations set up inside the carriage house and around the courtyard. As I twisted my foot back and forth to remove it from the rocky soil, I looked up to see Sophie standing by the coffee and doughnut table watching me before dipping her head and staring pointedly at her own Birkenstock-clad feet.
I hobbled toward her, intent on diving into the box of doughnuts on the table in front of her; I had ordered them from Glazed, making sure there were plenty of my favorite flavors, the Purple Goat and tiramisu. I’d already placed two in a napkin and hidden them inside my purse beneath the table.
“Sure,” I said, “you might be more comfortable, but at least I don’t have to worry about being mistaken for someone needing a handout. You should probably put a glass jar in front of you—you can always give the proceeds to Ashley Hall.” I eyed her mom jeans with the tapered ankles and high waist circa 1990, the turtleneck with tiny whales all over it that was definitely a nineteen eighties holdover but had been subjected to Sophie’s tie-dyeing obsession, and the leather-fringed vest that was more circa eighteen eighty.
When Sophie had told me her parents were downsizing and her mother was sending her a bunch of clothes from her closet, I’d tried to prepare myself. But the s
heer scope of Sophie’s windfall had been worse than I’d thought. I’d tried to tell my friend that just because her mother had given her all those clothes didn’t mean she actually had to wear them, but Sophie was as dedicated to reusing and repurposing everything as she was to restoring old homes. Unfortunately.
“It’s a nice turnout,” I said, looking around at the groups of people standing at each wreath-making station. I leaned down and reached beneath the red-draped table. “Thank goodness for the good weather—maybe we’ll raise enough money today that we can skip the progressive dinner.”
Sophie blew out of her face a strand of green-streaked hair that had slipped from its braid. “Right. And that would happen just after they canceled Christmas.”
I pulled out a small shopping bag from Sugar Snap Pea and handed it to Sophie. “Against my better judgment, I bought this for Skye. I was in the store looking for yet another replacement for Sarah’s favorite book, If I Were a Lamb—JJ keeps tearing off the covers—and I saw these and had to get them.”
Sophie opened the bag and peered inside. With a happy exclamation, she pulled out a small yellow knit cap with peace signs stamped all over it in neon colors. “I have one just like this!” she said.
“I know. But I thought it would look cute on Skye anyway.”
“Thank you!” she said, taking me by surprise and hugging me. “I’ve always known you’re not the curmudgeon you pretend to be.”
“Humph.” I looked across the courtyard to where Veronica was at the orange-and-clove station, helping customers attach the fruit to their boxwood wreath frames before they moved on to the holly-berry station.
“Aren’t you supposed to be helping Veronica?” Sophie asked, pouring coffee from an industrial percolator into a recyclable paper cup for a customer.
“I was, but then she said she could handle it by herself, so she sent me to Jayne, who’s at the ribbon station, and she said the same thing. So I came over here to see if you needed any help.”
We looked over at the growing lines in front of Veronica’s and Jayne’s stations, where it was obvious they needed another pair of hands. Sophie faced me. “You were reorganizing all their supplies, weren’t you?” She looked pointedly at the stack of cups I’d picked up and was placing on the opposite side of the table.
“Maybe,” I said slowly. “Is there something here I can help you with?”
“Sure. Why don’t you organize the sugar packets in the little basket by expiration dates printed in tiny writing on the back of each pouch, oldest in front?”
I would be lying if I said the thought didn’t excite me. I replaced the cups and reached for the sugar. “All right,” I said. “Although it looks like my talents could be used elsewhere.” I indicated the growing lines now spilling out into the courtyard.
I looked at the milling crowd, wishing Rebecca would hurry up and get here so I could ask her more about the drawing Marc had. I’d told Jack what Rebecca had told me the previous evening, and we’d gone through the papers from the archives after we’d returned from the Shop and Stroll, eventually finding the photocopied page of what Rebecca had described as lines and scrolls. It meant nothing to us, and I’m sure Marc had reached the same conclusion about his drawing. But we needed to see it, just in case it did mean something. All I needed to do was to make Rebecca show it to me.
“Dr. Wallen-Arasi?”
Sophie and I looked up to see Meghan Black standing in front of us. I might not have recognized her out of context, except she wore her usual pearls and Burberry quilted jacket, her hair in a high ponytail. She didn’t have on the cute earmuffs, but I recognized the J.Crew pants and flats from a recent shopping expedition with Nola.
“Meghan!” I said. “Good to see you out of the cistern. I was starting to think you were only three feet tall. Here to make a wreath or two?”
“I might—I live in a carriage house on Rutledge and the door isn’t visible from the street, but I bet my mom in Atlanta would like one. I’m actually here because Nola mentioned this is where I could find both of you this morning.” She looked around for a moment, then stepped a little closer. “Is Mrs. Longo here?”
I shook my head. “My cousin won’t be here for at least another hour. She said her husband came home late last night and woke her up, and it took her a while to get back to sleep. She’s exhausted.” I forced my expression to remain neutral as I recalled the two trips to the nursery I’d made the previous night, one because JJ’s whisk had fallen through the slats of his crib, and the second one because Sarah was babbling so loudly I thought someone was in her room. She’d settled down by the time I’d reached her, the sweet smell of roses telling me it had been Louisa. The third time, Jack had gone and I’d fallen back asleep immediately so I had no idea who or what had caused the interruption to my sleep, and at that point I’d ceased to care.
Meghan nodded, her brown eyes wide. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure she should hear this.” She leaned in a little closer. “I found something in the cistern yesterday that I thought you both might want to see. That film guy and Mr. Longo were hanging around a lot, asking questions and requesting that if we find anything we show it to them first. Please don’t take offense, but I’m not sure I’d want them around anything fragile or historically important. I don’t think they appreciate the importance of old things, you know?”
Sophie and I nodded emphatically. I’d liked Meghan from the moment I’d first met her, and now I understood why. “We couldn’t agree more,” I said, peering at the Anthropologie shopping bag she held in her hand, balls of newspaper shoved inside and around a newspaper-wrapped object. “What did you find?”
Glancing around one more time, she placed the bag on the ground next to her, then took out the newspaper-wrapped package before placing it on an empty corner of the refreshment table. It was rectangular, but thinner than a brick, and seemed lightweight. “It’s not super fragile, but it’s old, so be careful when you open it.” She slid it toward Sophie.
“I don’t have gloves.”
Meghan smiled. “I always carry extras.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a clear surgical pair.
Sophie snapped them on her hands, then began to unfurl the newspaper while Meghan and I played lookout. Two older women approached and I poured coffee for them without charging them just to make them leave faster.
“Oh.” Sophie’s head was bent over the paper and I joined her to peer into the opening.
“I know, right?” Meghan said. “It’s amazing that it’s so well preserved. Probably because it’s made of mahogany, which is naturally bug and moisture resistant, but also because it found its way inside a leather traveling bag with a wad of what we think might have been a fabric coated with linseed oil that made it partially waterproof. It’s what floor mats were originally made of, and it’s just our luck that one may have been discarded around the same time this ended up in the cistern. It’s amazing what really old garbage we can salvage because it was accidentally thrown away with something that worked to preserve it.” She sounded as excited as I imagined a bride would when discovering the perfect wedding dress.
A small slab of wood, about the size of my car’s rearview mirror, lay in the middle of the newspaper. One side was finished in the remains of a dark stain, the wood dull and split from years of being buried. Sophie flipped it over, the wood lighter and unstained on this side, and in worse condition without the protection of the stain and varnish of the front. On one of the short sides, a mottled brass square that might have been a hinge hung precariously to its spot near the top, two small nail holes near the bottom showing where a second hinge might have been. “It looks like a tiny door,” I said.
Meghan nodded. “That’s what I thought, too. I brushed it clean before wrapping it so Dr. Wallen-Arasi could have a better look. It’s so different from all the pottery fragments and animal bones that I thought it was
unusual enough to make sure I brought it to your attention.”
“Nice work, Meghan,” Sophie said, making the young woman’s cheeks pinken. Sophie leaned a little closer. “What’s this?”
I wasn’t wearing my glasses—no surprise there—and when I squinted it appeared that there was just a dark smudge of dirt in the corner.
“I saw that, too,” Meghan said. “So after I got it cleaned up, I got out my magnifying glass and took a look. It’s a carving of a peacock. With its tail feathers opened. I have no idea what it might mean.”
Sophie and I met each other’s gaze. “It probably means that whatever piece of furniture this came from—and I’m assuming it’s part of a piece of furniture because of the fine wood—was made at Gallen Hall Plantation.” Sophie ran her finger over a small indentation at the top corner, her finger fitting neatly into the space. “I’m thinking this might have been one of those hidden doors we find all the time inside old desks and dressers. This door would have been flush against the back or side of a drawer opening and could be opened with a single finger.” She flipped it over in her hands again. “This would have been a fairly small place to hide things. Most likely letters or documents.” She glanced briefly at me. “Definitely something small.”
“So not gold bricks?” Meghan asked.
“Definitely not.” Sophie shook her head. “What makes you ask that?”
“Several times Marc Longo has come out to the cistern to check our progress, asking us whether or not we’ve used metal detectors to find anything metal.” Meghan rolled her eyes. “Like we don’t have better equipment than that.” She held up a foot, now without a cast, to remind us of the XRF machine that had fallen on it earlier in the year. “The thing is, I overheard him saying something to that producer guy. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but you know how loudly he talks.”
I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“Anyway, I was in the dining room and Mr. Kobylt was showing me the repairs he was doing to the floor in there, and Mr. Longo was telling the producer guy something about how he was sure the Confederate gold was on Vanderhorst property.” Meghan rolled her eyes again. “Which is kind of ridiculous, really. There has been so much research on the subject and the conclusion is that the bulk of it was stolen from federal troops in 1865 by unknown persons and disbursed.” With an insider grin, she said, “And we’ve all read about the Confederate diamonds found in your grandfather clock, Mrs. Trenholm. They’re all accounted for, so I guess Mr. Longo just wants to believe that the gold must be there, too.” She tilted her head in question. “They are all accounted for, right?”
