It wasn’t his fault. Melissa had been spilling tears across his apartment, in some sort of premenstrual funk over the sculpture she couldn’t finish. She blamed his vibes, claimed his energy was dark and repressive and his inability to commit thwarted her creative flow. He’d vacillated between consoling her and camping out in front of the tube to watch the Browns lose to the Steelers, with a six-pack at his elbow.
On the other side of the desk, Bud wasn’t buying. “You’ve got an addiction, pal. Now it’s cost you your job.”
Hugh glowered. “I’m not a heavy drinker. Not anymore.”
“I’m talking about women.”
He flinched. “Okay—you’re right. I need a twelve-step program.”
“You also need a job since you’re no longer employed by the Akron Register.” When Hugh grumbled a protest, Bud waved the words away. “Listen, I was excited when I hired you. I knew you’d been thrown off four other newspapers. I also knew you’d once been a fine investigative reporter, one of the best in the state. I even felt bad last summer when I gave you the Liberty gig. You’re a cold-hearted bastard, and writing cotton candy prose must’ve nearly killed you.”
Which was true. Writing an upbeat feature about the money raised to pay for a kid’s bone marrow transplant wasn’t exactly Hugh Schaeffer material. No one had been gunned down at close range or absconded with thousands of dollars of public money. There was no sexual impropriety in high office to report or juicy grist about a corporation dumping some toxic stew into Lake Erie.
But he’d taken the assignment without complaint because Bud wanted to punish him for missing yet another deadline. Not my fault. Hugh was between live-in lovers at the time. When he met Zoe, a vivacious personal trainer, he left the article on union corruption in limbo.
Dodging the thought, he stuffed his pride. It was time to grovel. “If you fire me, there isn’t a newspaper in Ohio that’ll put me on the payroll. Not with five strikes against me.” Nervous tension wound through his muscles—this would be the end of his career. What would he do? He’d be a failure, a has-been—he’d be pathetic. “I’ll do anything. Give me one more chance.”
At the desperation in Hugh’s voice, Bud lowered his brows. But the City Editor surprised him when his expression softened. “Maybe you should try therapy.”
“What?”
Bud slowly rubbed his chin. “Seriously, pal. Get a therapist. Talk about it.”
“Talk about…” A sense of foreboding crept into his blood.
The members only club of newspaper editors was so tight knit, it was nearly incestuous. Had Bud heard through the grapevine about Hugh’s involvement in the Trinity Investment scandal? Ancient history, but it was the kind of archeological dig that could bury a man for years.
Fourteen years had passed since he’d written the article that derailed his life. Had Bud learned the sordid details from a colleague? The article, written when Hugh was a rookie, brought him perilously close to his subject. Naïve and eager, he plunged into the murky world of celebrity when he was too young to comprehend the danger. Had he loved the celebrated philanthropist, Cat Seavers? Impossible to recall—the intervening years had washed away the particulars of his emotional state even if they hadn’t absolved him of his sickly remorse. Her death and the subsequent uproar nearly destroyed him. He sought absolution in drink and women. He survived, barely, and his journalistic style became edgier, more in-your-face.
When he couldn’t find his voice, Bud said, “What are you, two years away from forty? All you do is chase tail, which has me thinking you aren’t chasing so much as running.”
“I’m not running from anything,” Hugh replied with enough heat to nearly convince himself. But if the City Editor had been a goddamn mystic he couldn’t have been more accurate.
“Tell you what.” Bud turned toward his computer and navigated through the Internet. “Remember those websites for the Perini girl? The ones where people donated cash for her bone marrow transplant?”
“Of course.”
“They’re still up, bringing in money.”
“She had the operation months ago.” Hugh’s inner antenna went on alert. Why were people across the country still making donations? Blossom Perini was on the mend. “What’s her father doing with all the cash?”
“Gee, Hugh, I don’t know. Think he’s funneling greenbacks into a vacation condo?”
“Could be.”
“Lots of good people donated money for the girl’s medical expenses. A real shame if Anthony Perini misappropriated the funds.”
Hugh’s brain whirled. “He could be doing anything—investing, buying cars—I’ll bet he’s already put thousands in his 401k, the bastard.”
“You tell me.”
“Okay, I will.” It might take a few weeks to uncover the scam, but if it put him back in Bud’s good graces, what the hell.
“But don’t tell me on my dime because you’re fired. You want to do some digging? Do it without an expense account from the Akron Register.”
Stunned, he let out a gargled laugh. “You’re telling me to spend a few weeks in Liberty without a paycheck or an expense account? Are you shitting me?” How much did he have in his checking account—a thousand dollars? Saving for a rainy day had never been his style. “If you want me to jump through hoops, I will. But not without greenbacks to make the gymnastics palatable.”
“Then forget it. I’m cutting you loose.”
The irritation churning Hugh’s gut mixed with fury. “That’s it? I’m fired unless I dig up dirt without pay?” Which wasn’t the worst of it. Liberty was a time warp from the 1950s. They rolled up the sidewalks and turned out the lights at 9:00 P.M. No nightlife, nothing. “You think I’m so desperate I’d consider it?”
Bud picked up a pen and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger with galling disinterest. “I have work to do.” He turned back to his computer. “And stay away from women while you’re in Liberty. Who knows? You might produce decent copy if you give your gonads a rest.”
“What sort of asshole demands work without pay?”
“Watch it—”
Hugh placed his palms on the desk. “I won’t do it.” Scowling, he leaned close. “You got it, Bud? The answer is no.”
Chapter 2
Shivering on the cobblestone walk outside The Second Chance Grill, Birdie took stock of the small town.
Liberty Square was stirring to life beneath a slate colored sky. Bands of gold poked through the clouds to illuminate a scene from a bygone era, the brick buildings iced with snow and the cobblestone walks gleaming and wet, as if each shop owner on the Square had hurried out in the dawn chill with a broom and good cheer to sweep the place clean. In the window of the florist shop, bouquets of yellow daisies and shell pink carnations framed a poster from the local Girl Scouts for the father and daughter Princess Ball, to be held on Saturday night at the United Methodist Church. Cars drove by slowly to avoid the pedestrians dashing across the street, a few women with their children bundled nicely in heavy coats and thick scarves, and three elderly men with their bristled cheeks glowing in the frigid breeze. In the center green, business types in long coats streamed into the brick courthouse anchoring the north end of the Square.
An unsettling déjà vu gripped Birdie. This was her first time in Liberty… and yet it wasn’t. She felt as if she’d been here long ago, the memory nearly a dream. The storefronts hemming in the large rectangle of the center green, the imposing brick courthouse—it was all intensely familiar. As was the restaurant with patriotic bunting festooned in the picture window, the door attractively painted Wedgwood blue.
Had she visited Liberty during her long-ago childhood? Uneasy, Birdie silently ticked off the elementary schools she’d attended, the entire depressing list. None were in Ohio.
Shrugging off the sensation, she entered the restaurant. Many of the tables were occupied: more business types, a few women with kids and several elderly couples. The counter’s barstools were filled, and a
waitress with a bad dye job dashed from one customer to the next.
Where was the picture of Justice? Birdie scanned the cluttered walls. The restaurant was like a museum of Americana, with pewter sconces competing for wall space with gilt-framed portraits and paintings of Colonial America. To her left, a businessman rose from his table and strode out, leaving his half-eaten omelet and his toast untouched. Birdie slipped into his seat. Snatching up the toast she ate quickly, her gaze bounding across the museum of artifacts on the walls. An odd feeling tugged again and she whirled, as if to catch someone watching her.
No one noticed her… and the portrait of Justice was nowhere in sight.
The feeling of being watched wouldn’t abate and she hurried back out with the last of the man’s toast. It was early enough to wander around Liberty without drawing stares so she strode to the back of the building. The alley lay silent beneath the soft-falling snow.
The building was large, three stories in all. Through the windows above, a swath of darkness filled the second and third floors, as if they were rarely visited and largely forgotten, and she wondered if the upper floors held nothing but supplies for the restaurant. The safest place to break into a building was usually in back. She didn’t relish the thought of staying in the town any longer than necessary, and now was as good a time as any to check the place out. There was only one door, with an old-fashioned lock. She sorted through the pockets of her coat and found the two-inch file she kept on hand for this sort of occasion. The lock gave, and she dashed inside.
Noise from the restaurant’s kitchen carried down the hall, a burst of impatient conversation and the clatter of pots. She skirted away from the commotion and up the shadowed steps. The second floor’s narrow hallway led into a sea of black, the carpeting underfoot nothing more than waves of grey, and she stumbled forward in search of light. The corridor opened into a cozy reception area.
The walls carried the sharp scent of fresh paint. The seating arrangement appeared new. A big cutout in the opposite wall revealed a receptionist’s desk on the other side. Nearing, she peered inside. By the phone, a stack of business cards read, Dr. Mary Chance – Family Practice.
She recalled the contents of the newspaper article. The good doctor had inherited The Second Chance Grill and resided in Liberty for just a few months when she took up the cause of paying for Blossom Perini’s bone marrow transplant. Among the other antiques auctioned off then returned, the picture of a freedwoman had probably seemed insignificant. Wandering into the reception area, Birdie hoped that no one would notice when the portrait—and its hidden clue—disappeared altogether. Once she knew the portrait’s location, she’d break into the building at night and carry it off. Given all the stuff in the restaurant, the loss would surely go unnoticed.
Satisfied with her plan, she studied the pretty green carpet underfoot. Two examination rooms lay ahead, and both were neatly filled with sparkling medical instruments and gleaming jars of cotton balls. Even here, the scent of new paint was strong.
Medical care wasn’t something a drifter got much of, and she’d always been grateful for a hearty constitution. Life on the road meant head colds went untended and a sprained ankle was bound with tape stolen from the nearest drugstore. She frowned at the memories and the accompanying heartache. Even as a child she’d understood that complaining broke an unspoken rule. Her mother worked her scams from city to city, luring a man with her beauty, after which she’d take her ill-gotten gains and her kid and move on. Birdie saw the world as a kaleidoscope of people and events, a swirling mass of excitement that ended as quickly as it began.
She’d spent her childhood like a novice standing backstage in an adult play trying to learn the lines of her mother’s script. When brought onstage she was the adorable tot of a woman down on her luck and in need of a man’s protection. A certain type predictably fell for the trick, the sort of mark who joined civic groups and wore a conservative suit. There were always men to be had, innocent stooges with pathetically gallant natures.
Remembering those years feathered sadness across her heart. The child she’d been had bobbed her pigtails engagingly whenever the man called her sweet baby. She’d smiled, but her pleasure was never sincere, except for that one time when she was three or four years old, too young to understand the mistake of loving a man caught in her mother’s web.
She’d paid dearly for the error.
Paw Paw.
His name, the city where he’d lived, the lines composing his face—time had erased the particulars save the affectionate timbre of his voice. If she saw him on the street today she wouldn’t recognize him.
He must have been wealthy, because her mother had stayed in his city longer than usual while the temperature ground down to the single digits. Freezing rain hung from the fir trees like diamonds scattered amid the greenery and Birdie recalled a fever that left her dazed. Paw Paw, worried, took her to an emergency room where she was treated and released. He bundled her off to a house he must have rented on their behalf, the place so clean it looked new and the bed impossibly soft. He spent hours playing Go Fish with her while she recovered. The cards were made of a heavy stock easy for a child to handle and printed with vivid scenes of marine life Birdie found mesmerizing.
The cards, now worn a tired grey, were mere scraps of fleeting joy tucked inside her coat.
Drawing out of the troubling reverie, she left the office and retraced her steps down the stairwell.
* * *
Settled on a plan, Birdie left the Square and found a small hardware store a few blocks away, where she bought a pen flashlight and extra batteries, and a bag of potato chips to hold her over. She was still stiff from the long bus ride and spent the next hour strolling the streets of pretty houses. There had to be a cheap motel somewhere, even in a town as small as this one, but she couldn’t find it. When her toes went numb inside her boots she started back up the hill to the Square. By the time she returned to The Second Chance Grill half of the breakfast customers had cleared out and she was able to grab a stool at the counter.
With renewed energy she surveyed the walls bursting with Americana, the large painting of George Washington astride a white horse, the brass sconces that might’ve been crafted in Williamsburg during the Colonial period. There was also a portrait of a man in a frock coat. Next up were a series of porcelain figurines she guessed were Pilgrims. Where was the portrait in the shadowbox frame? Frustrated, she slipped out the article from the Akron Register and examined the photo with painstaking interest, the heavy-set cook in the foreground and the portrait—it had to be of Justice—in the background. Had the photo been shot in the restaurant’s kitchen? Was the portrait, a key to untold riches, hanging by the stove or a sink full of dishes?
“Do you need a menu?”
Startled, Birdie swung back around. “Yeah. Great.” Stuffing the article back into her pocket, she gave the waitress, who looked about twenty years old, the once-over. “Nice hair.”
The waitress’s bubble gum-colored lips eased into a smile. “I was experimenting. Something went wrong.”
Way wrong. The young woman may have started on the highlighting highway toward blonde but she’d veered off on the lime green exit. Her close-cropped hair bore a definite green hue on top of the sunny yellow color. Then again, she was young enough to pull it off.
The waitress tipped her head to the side. “I’m Delia Molek. Are you new in town?”
Birdie hesitated. She didn’t have a story down yet. Was she visiting relatives? Just passing through? “Yeah, I just arrived,” she hedged. “My name’s Birdie Kaminsky.”
“Cute name. And don’t worry. All the publicity about Blossom has brought lots of newcomers to town. You aren’t alone. Liberty is growing for the first time in years.”
“Where’s the hotel?” Birdie peered over the heads of diners, and out the large picture window. “I didn’t see it on my way into town.”
Delia snorted. “Are you kidding?” She slapped a menu down in
front of Birdie, who’d suddenly lost her appetite. “If our population mini-boom keeps up, maybe we’ll get a movie theatre. But a hotel? I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Where do people stay?”
“With relatives, where else?” The waitress rolled her tongue inside her delightfully plump cheeks. “Don’t you know anyone around here?”
Since when was that a crime? Of course, Birdie usually scammed her way through cities. In a small town, a new face stood out. Cops in the sticks were best avoided and the neighbor next door might notice an afternoon burglary.
“I don’t have any relatives in Liberty.” The scent of bacon frying in the kitchen brought her hunger bounding back. After she ordered, she asked, “What about apartments? Is there a place I can rent by the week?”
“Mary’s place is available. It’s on the second floor, right above us. But I think she was hoping to rent by the month. If I were you, I’d grab it. There really isn’t anywhere else.”
She’d already canvassed Dr. Mary’s new office upstairs—the door in the hallway she’d passed must’ve led into the woman’s apartment. “Why is Mary renting her apartment?”
“She got hitched to Blossom’s dad. Real spur of the moment.”
“How much is the monthly rent?” After Delia told her, Birdie frowned. “That seems awfully steep.”
“Trust me—there’s nowhere else.”
Which was a hassle since Birdie had no idea how long she’d be staying. She still had to locate the portrait of Justice. According to family legend, there was a clue attached to the picture, which led to the mysterious treasure. Of course, it might all be a tall tale. She might spend time in Liberty spinning her wheels for nothing.
While she ruminated, Delia returned with a plate of eggs, sunny side up, bacon, and a side of wheat toast. After the waitress poured coffee, she said, “So. Do you want to check out the apartment?”
“I don’t need a tour of the place.” Like it or not, she’d have to pay a month’s rent. “I’ll move in right after I finish breakfast.”
Treasure Me Page 2
