Treasure Me

by Christine Nolfi

  Birdie raised her hands in an act of surrender. “Like I’ve said before, I don’t argue with old ladies who’re packin’.”

  “Smart of you, too.” Softening, Theodora glanced across the seat. Birdie was examining her cuticles as if they unlocked the mysteries of the universe. “Is it true what you told Meade? You don’t have kin nearby?”

  “Kin. You mean family?” Birdie shrugged, the nasty show of disinterest she did with her shoulders. Theodora wasn’t fooled. The child looked beaten down, about a hair’s breath from tears even if she was good at holding them in. “I’m better off by myself. Family can be a real hassle.”

  “Not always. Not when your people love you.”

  “Mine don’t.” Birdie stared at her fiercely before looking away.

  When she tried to add something but the words wouldn’t come, Theodora said, “The cavalry has arrived. Consider me family. You’re spending the night at my house.”

  * * *

  Computer monitors blinked and keyboards clacked in the busy newsroom of the Akron Register.

  Standing before the City Editor’s desk with a feeling of hopelessness grinding down his shoulders, Hugh looked out at the humming room with a sense of longing. He’d miss the people and the general chaos of the place.

  After meeting with Anthony last week he’d driven around for hours, finally ending up at his digs in Akron. In a truly undignified show, he’d spent days ignoring Birdie’s calls and drinking too much beer, watching the tube and sleeping in late. None of it constituted R & R. In a state of exhaustion, he’d finally shown up at the Register to fight for his job.

  Once he explained the Perini story was a no-go, Bud said, “I wish I had better news for you.” The bastard almost looked sincere. “I don’t want to cut you loose but I’m feeling pressure from upstairs. You’ve missed too many deadlines. Now the Perini story is a bust. My hands are tied.”

  “They wouldn’t be if I’d come back with the dirt. Is that it? Anthony should be skimming thousands from the websites, not putting together a foundation to help kids with cancer?” Hugh was unable to halt the sarcasm seeping into his voice. “True, good news doesn’t grab headlines like avarice and gore but I can stay in Liberty and write about the foundation.”

  “Since when are you interested in reporting on the good side of humanity? You don’t think there is a good side to humanity.”

  “Maybe I’m seeing things differently now.”

  An image of Birdie spilled before his eyesight, the excitement and sheer joy on her face when they discovered the key in the storeroom. The way she fought back when he battled with her at the festival. She didn’t believe she could put her life straight but damn it, she tried. She tried because in the deepest part of her heart, at her essence, she was an optimist. Her life was harrowing and harsh, yet she found an inner reserve of goodness that had allowed her to make friends in Liberty. She tried to appeal to her higher angels.

  Hope.

  Was that what set her apart? She was cocky and irritating and rude, but underneath it all, she possessed enough hope to rise above her lousy lot in life.

  Pulling from his thoughts, Hugh said, “A feature about the foundation won’t carry the front page but it is news. Why not give it a shot?”

  Bud stared at him with a jaundiced eye. “You want to drive back up to Liberty? Why? A guy like you can’t see the good stuff in life even if it hits him like a two-by-four.”

  “You’d be surprised by what I can do.” Hugh grappled with his self-doubt, which was mixing with rising anger. What right did an editor from a second-rate newspaper have to tell him what he was capable of? “I’m writing the story. If you’re cutting me loose, I’ll sell it to a magazine.”

  “Good luck.” Bud jerked his chin toward the newsroom. “If I want fluff, I’ll send Ralston out to Liberty. The story’s dead, pal.”

  “How is our boy?” Looking across the newsroom he peered over the heads of journalists to the desk where he’d worked the last five years. Ralston sat with a Starbucks in one hand and the telephone in the other. “He almost looks like a real journalist. Did the ad department send you flowers when you gave him my job?”

  “You brought this on yourself. Ralston thinks he can handle investigative journalism.”

  “Cut the bullshit. You’re buttering up his father. If daddy’s furniture chain pours enough ad dollars into this dump, you might turn the Register into a real newspaper.”

  “Out.” Swinging from his chair, Bud jabbed a finger toward the door. “Clear out your desk and see Cummings. Good guy that I am, I had him cut you a check even though I officially canned your ass before you went to Liberty.”

  “Well thanks a helluva a lot,” Hugh said, reeling. The payroll department had written his last paycheck before he’d arrived to plead his case? No judge, no jury—Bud had already decided to cut him loose.

  Furious, he stalked from the office. Reaching the desk he thought of as his own, he discovered Ralston making eye contact with a blushing Sarah Blake, the paper’s movie critic, two desks away.

  Coming up from behind, Hugh pleased himself by startling the big oaf. “Keep away from Sarah. Her boyfriend is into kickboxing.”

  Ralston stumbled to his feet. “Hugh. I didn’t know you’d be in.”

  “I’m collecting my stuff.”

  “You’re fired?” A hint of glee marked Ralston’s voice. “Bad break, man. I’m sorry.”

  Hugh resisted the urge to shove him out of the way. “Sure you are.”

  Pausing, he noticed Fatman’s name and number scrawled on a slip of paper in Ralston’s bold hand. It was a stunning breach of ethics. No journalist used a colleague’s source without permission. A contact of Fatman’s caliber was guarded like a state secret.

  Then he thought of something else, and the ramifications sucker punched him in the gut.

  Fatman had dug up a landfill on Birdie and her family. If Ralston ever learned about it, he wouldn’t think twice. He’d write about her. A real charmer about how a pretty thief was preying on unsuspecting folks in small towns.

  Rage bolted through him. “Where did you get this name?” He snatched up the paper.

  “I took Fatman’s call on Tuesday.” Ralston shrugged. “He was looking for you.”

  Perfect. Fatman probably called with more information on Birdie. Hugh mentally flailed himself. He wasn’t merely dodging Birdie’s calls. He’d inadvertently missed a few from the PI.

  “I didn’t give you permission to use one of my sources. Do your own legwork, pal.”

  “If you’ve been bagged, why do you care?”

  Hugh went nose to nose with the bastard. “I care,” he growled. “Why the hell do you need Fatman’s expertise?”

  “I got his take on the UAW strike.”

  “Since when does the UAW rate a piece in the Features section?”

  “Piss off, Hugh. It’s hard news, and I needed Fatman’s help.”

  Hugh prayed Ralston was telling truth. He couldn’t ask Fatman what they’d discussed. The PI was clever and resourceful, but honest? In his vernacular, the word didn’t exist.

  “Stay away from him. He’s my source.”

  For a long moment, Ralston stared at him. Then in a surprisingly strong voice, he said “I don’t take orders from you, pal.” He stepped forward. “Bud’s fired your ass. So Fatman isn’t your source. Not anymore. He’s mine.”

  Hugh froze. He didn’t have any leverage and Ralston knew it. If he was off the paper, there was no stopping Fatman from changing allegiance. The PI was always hungry for cash. And in the final analysis, Hugh was responsible for the mess. He’d asked Fatman to poke around in Birdie’s background. The goods would go up on the auction block if he didn’t think of something, and fast.

  “Bud hasn’t fired me so Fatman is off limits,” he said, grabbing the big oaf by the shoulders and shoving him against the desk. The computer twitched and Ralston’s cactus joggled. “Get your trash off my desk now. I don’t share my territory
.”

  “But you said—”

  Ralston never got the chance to finish the thought. Hugh drove his fist into the man’s face with all the force of his fury. Ralston spun backwards, meeting the floor with a thud and bringing the newsroom to a standstill.

  Seething, Hugh cleared a wide path through the newsroom. Losing his job after years of work for the Register was bad enough. Somehow, he’d manage. But now Birdie’s privacy was at stake. It would only be a matter of time before Fatman invited Ralston to the hunting lodge. They’d talk, drink too much—Hugh would enter the conversation. And Ralston, curious, would quiz the PI on what Hugh had been working on. Birdie would come up.

  That was one reason for what he was about to do. The other one undermined what little dignity he had left.

  By writing about the rubies, he’d stop her from searching for them. No rubies, no reason to leave Ohio. There’d be time to talk her into staying, time enough to build a relationship—assuming he found a way to gain her forgiveness. After her treasure hunt graced the front page, the odds weren’t good.

  A fleeting image of her swept through his mind and his heart seized. No choice here. He’d write about her treasure hunt or Ralston would write about her. Either way, her secrets were about to meet the glaring limelight.

  He strode through the newsroom on autopilot, forcing his thoughts away from her. It was easier to focus on Ralston growing rock formations out of the desk where Hugh had interviewed mob bosses and captains of industry, uncovering scams and putting corrupt politicians in the spotlight. I can protect her if I save my job.

  He’d barely come to a scudding halt before the City Editor’s desk when Bud’s mouth curled. Hugh cut him off.

  “There’s buried treasure in Liberty,” he said.

  Bud looked at him like he’d grown a tail. “What? Like in a pirate movie?” He pointed toward the door. “Leave.”

  “I’m serious. There are rubies hidden in Liberty.”

  Queasy, he rattled off everything he knew. How Justice Postell hid the rubies during the Civil War. The clues Birdie had found in The Second Chance Grill. Then he went for the jugular—Birdie’s, and his own.

  Guilt seeped under his skin, but he hurried on. “There’s a key with a ruby in it—I’ve seen it.”

  “What does it unlock?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Probably a safe, with the rubies inside.”

  “And this Birdie—what’s she like?”

  “Just a woman who found the clues.”

  Bud leaned across the desk. “You aren’t sleeping with her, are you?” When Hugh reddened, a foul retort on his lips, the City Editor waved him off, asking, “How much are the gems worth?”

  “Six figures, I’d guess.” Remorse welled up, nearly shattering his heart. Steadying himself, he added, “Birdie says they were owned by one of her ancestors, a Rhett Butler type from South Carolina. I think she knows what she’s talking about.”

  “If she does, that would be some story.”

  “She’s close to finding the gems. I’ll be there when she does.” He paused for effect, relishing how Bud hung on every word. “If you’re not interested, I’ll take the story elsewhere.”

  “No, no—I want it!” Bud shot from his chair. He bellowed across the newsroom. When Ralston neared, Bud said, “Get your stuff off Hugh’s desk. It’s the sacred territory of this paper’s finest investigative reporter. You’ve got a desk in Features—use it.”

  Ralston flapped his gums like a fish out of water. After he sulked off, Bud swung back around. He was glowing like a goddamn holiday wreath and Hugh reveled in an involuntary spurt of self-congratulation.

  It was snuffed out by a growing sense of doom.

  Chapter 20

  Arguing with Theodora about where to spend the night wasn’t much of a plan.

  Privately Birdie didn’t relish the thought of being alone, not after learning her mother had conned the sweet-looking Landon Williams. His ancestor, Henry Williams, was the abolitionist who’d helped Justice open the restaurant after she arrived in Ohio. So Landon came from good stock. Probably Meade was nice too, if she didn’t have reason to hate you because your mother had taken her father for all he was worth.

  Her pulse rattling in her ears, Birdie stared out the passenger window of the Cadillac. What if she ran into Landon at the restaurant? She had no memory of him. She’d been young when her mother arrived in Liberty to shake him down. If he walked into The Second Chance, would he take one look and remember her as the child he must have known?

  Or worse, what if Meade found out? A woman so powerful made for a lethal enemy.

  Worried, she rubbed her arms. Yeah, she was glad for the invitation to bunk at Theodora’s place tonight.

  There were other reasons to skip a night alone. With Hugh incommunicado—he still wasn’t answering his cell—she doubted he was back at the apartment. Besides, Finney was probably livid. Birdie hadn’t returned to work as promised after taking off with Theodora.

  Waiting until morning to deal with the cook’s wrath was a good plan.

  The Cadillac rumbled past Liberty Square. Birdie caught a glimpse of The Second Chance behind a speckling of falling snow. The place was aglow with light. Pretty Mrs. Daniels was framed in the picture window with a mountain of shopping bags at her feet and her adoring husband, Garrett, seated to her left. They were holding hands, grinning as their third-grader, Tilly, spun in a circle in a red velvet dress. The Liberty Elementary School holiday concert would be held next week and Tilly had captured a lead role. Birdie enjoyed the Daniels family, especially when Tilly clambered onto a chair, her ice cream sundae forgotten, and burst into song. The kid was a perfect-pitch soprano and the other diners always rewarded her efforts with hearty applause. At those moments, the restaurant seemed more like a private gathering, as if all the diners were family with Tilly a precocious delight, and Birdie, a distant relation, was able to warm herself in the room’s easy affection and good cheer.

  She’d begun looking forward to her time spent at The Second Chance. Sure, she hated waiting tables even if the tips were getting larger with the holiday season in full swing. She didn’t plan to spend a lifetime taking orders and running miles. Even Delia talked of moving on once she figured out what she wanted to do with her life.

  She huffed a breath on the frosty white of the passenger window. She didn’t enjoy the job so much as the people. Finney expected to see her at work. Delia looked forward to gossiping. Ethel Lynn, who was so scatterbrained she probably had marbles rolling around in her head, calmed down once Birdie tied on an apron.

  In an unexpected way, she experienced a sense of welcome every time she arrived. For the first time in memory, her presence in a room mattered to someone. It mattered to the three women of The Second Chance.

  And Theodora makes four.

  Straightening, Birdie peered through the windshield. “We’re in the woods.” The branch of a fir tree smacked the side of the Cadillac, and she jumped. There was nothing to see but pines so thick they kept the falling snow from reaching the ground. “Hire a lumberjack, Theodora. Your place is buried in trees.”

  Looking pleased, Theodora made a sound with her nose. Snickety, snickety. “I like it this way. There’s lots of privacy and enough wildlife to feed a nation. It clears out a ways up.”

  “You live back in the woods?” In a hut, in a tree house? “Don’t you get scared out here, all by yourself?”

  “I require my solitude.”

  “I’d be scared shitless.”

  “Nonsense.” Theodora gave her satchel a pat. “I can take care of myself.”

  Up ahead, the trees parted like the curtains in an old-time cinema. Snow brushed the gentle clearing. The log cabin, cut into the side of the hill, was surprisingly large. The sturdy dwelling featured a wraparound porch.

  “Your house is big.” Taken aback, she leaned toward the windshield for a better look. “You live here alone?”

  “Since my husband died, a long time ago
.” Theodora parked in the garage and cut the engine. “Come inside. I’ll get supper on.”

  While she bustled around the kitchen, Birdie wandered through rooms cluttered with hunting gear and memorabilia. The walls were chock-full of photographs—family shots with Theodora proudly seated in the middle, older pictures of her as an attractive young woman. There were five children, all now in middle age—two sons with long legs they hadn’t inherited from their mother and a daughter who was younger than the rest.

  “That’s Belinda,” Theodora said, finding Birdie in the dining room holding a silver-framed portrait. “Ornery thing when she was small. Always into something. She still carries a compass in her purse, one of those gadgets they used to put in Cracker Jack boxes. Do they still make Cracker Jack? I wonder.”

  “She doesn’t look much older than Meade.”

  “Born the same year. Belinda just turned forty-one.”

  Which meant Theodora had been well into middle age before bringing her last child into the world. Birdie’s respect for her grew.

  Birdie’s own mother had never let her forget what a hassle it was to drag one kid around. And here Theodora had five children, all of whom had sprouted children themselves like so many wildflowers. There must be fifty people in her extended family, most black, some white, a petite Asian girl hanging on the arm of a young man who was probably a grandson.

  Birdie turned toward the long dining room table. Seated on a gold pedestal in the middle of the gleaming walnut expanse sat a… thing. A squat, furry animal that had experienced the misfortune of meeting up with a taxidermist.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  Mischief waltzed through the old woman’s gaze. “That’s Alice.”

  “No, it’s a rodent.”

  “She’s a groundhog.” Theodora gave the beast, which was as big as a terrier, a gentle stroke. “We started out as friends, but Alice upped the ante by digging around in my carrots. Soon enough, she was uprooting the tomatoes and taking bites out of the rhododendron. Oh, I warned her. But if a shot in the air won’t make a varmint listen, then a shot to the head will.” She patted the groundhog’s ear. “The taxidermist was pleased with my handiwork. I did this with a BB gun. Less mess that way.”