“Think he’ll ever get around to the treasure?”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “I thought you didn’t believe in the treasure.”
“I don’t, but I’m going to hold him to it. Where did you put the mail?”
“On your desk.”
I stopped and rubbed my neck. I really, really didn’t want to go into the office. I didn’t want to see how he’d rearranged things, I didn’t want to be interrogated, and I didn’t want to talk to Randall unless it was absolutely necessary. But the bills needed to be paid.
Maybe I could put it off another day. It was late after all…
“I think the mortgage bill was in the pile today,” Aunt Susanna said. “And some checks. I sorted them for you.”
So much for putting it off. If there was one thing our account needed, it was an influx of cash and we didn’t need another late-payment penalty. I sighed, poured myself another cup of coffee. “I’ll take care of it. See you later.”
“I’m going to bed,” she announced. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I waved distractedly and went into the hallway.
The office door was shut and I paused for a moment, debating whether I should knock or not. Then I remembered that this was my house and that he was the intruder, and I opened the door with an air of authority.
Professor Randall was sitting in the soft glow of the floor lamp in my uncle’s old soft chair, a cup of cooling tea and a plate with the neglected remains of a sandwich on the table at his elbow. He was frowning in concentration at the book that lay in his lap and didn’t look up.
My dog Trusty was laying on his feet. Her ears twitched at my arrival and she lifted her head to acknowledge me before settling back down on her paws, looking like the devoted best friend sitting at her master’s feet. It felt like a betrayal, and one that I hadn’t been expecting.
The professor didn’t look up until I shut the door behind me. The sound startled him, and he blinked at me through his oversized glasses.
“Oh, you’re back,” he sighed, and arched his back stiffly as he consulted his silver-plated watch. “Is it that late already?”
“Don’t let me interrupt your reading,” I said. “I’m just doing some deskwork.” I took a step or two inside, then stopped. “If I can find the desk, that is.”
I hadn’t been in the room since the morning of Jacob’s arrival, nearly a week ago. The place seemed awash in papers, files, and books. The professor’s desk was buried under and behind piles of books, files, and boxes. Uncle Michael’s shelves had been ransacked and rearranged, the genealogical books piled on their sides rather than in neat lines. Sticky notes in scrawling pen were scattered around, and charts were draped over filing cabinets or tacked to cork boards leaning against the shelves. His computer sat next to a small, sleek printer, loaded down with printed pages.
My desk, as promised, had been left untouched. I had to step around piles to get to it, but the surface was free from Randall’s research, and the two small piles of mail sat in the tray. As much as I didn’t like paperwork in principle, I was glad to do something that was organized, quiet, and routine. Some of that comfort was taken away by the knowledge that I’d be working under the professor’s scrutiny.
It wasn’t until he sighed again and rubbed his eyes that I realized that I’d actually awakened him. The glasses had disguised the fact that he’d been sleeping, which explained Trusty’s calm demeanor.
“Sorry I woke you,” I lied, smirking as I started up the computer. Then I thought, What are you trying to do, start a conversation?
“Not to worry,” he said, getting up slowly. “I should be packing up anyway. Time for bed.”
I grunted and focused on my computer screen and the small, but intimidating, stack of bills piled up by my keyboard. I studiously avoided watching him move about quietly, but I kept my dog in the corner of my eye.
Trusty jumped up at his movement, stretched, and watched him with a cocked head. She glanced at me, glanced at him, and took a moment to consider before trotting over to lay down on her bed next to my chair. When she’d settled in, she looked up at me with an adoring expression.
“Traitor,” I whispered, and bent down to scratch her behind the ears. She leaned into my hand and licked my arm as I withdrew it, and the little kindness was like a balm.
My computer up and running, I started going through the bills and checks, working as fast as I could without looking like I was rushing. The repetitive nature of the work soothed me, even if the bills were still terrifyingly large. I printed and emailed invoices, applied payments, and worked through about half of the load before I realized that the professor hadn’t left yet.
I looked up and saw that he was sitting behind his desk, frowning as he turned the aged pages of a little book. It took me a second to recognize it as the diary I’d given him earlier.
He caught my stare, then gestured to the book. “Hard to tear myself away.”
I nodded and suddenly Trusty jumped up and yapped. I gasped, my heart pounding, and turned to find the dog was standing at the window, with her tail low and her ears up and twitching. Gone was her sleepy, comfortable nightly nature: she was rigid, her expression alert. It was so unlike her that it took me a second before I went and looked out the window myself.
The office is in the back of the house, looking over the “new” stables – new being a relative term, as they were built in 1968 – and the trail that runs along the perimeter of our land. The house sits at the farthest western edge of the property, next to the wooded lands that belongs to our neighbor. It’s a pretty spot, with frequent late night and early morning visits by raccoons, moose, or deer, but Trusty knew these scents and rarely reacted like this. In any case, there was nothing to see there now.
“What’s your problem?” I asked her softly.
The dog looked at me, then out the window again. Her tail started moving slowly, so I turned, shaking my head, to see Professor Randall leaning back in his chair. His arms were folded as he studied the two of us.
“She’s done that a few times before,” he said.
“She did?” I lowered myself into the chair, biting my lip. “That’s not like her. Must be a coyote or something.”
Then Trusty relaxed and turned away from the window with a yawn. She settled herself into the pile of blankets with a contented expression, and I couldn’t help but stroke her head affectionately again.
“Dumb dog,” I mumbled, and she looked up at me with an innocent expression. “Was there a cat out back?”
“There was a flashlight last night,” Randall said, and when I looked up at him, he continued. “I guess it wasn’t you, then?”
“No,” I said, as steadily as I could with a heart that threatened to pound through my chest. “No, it wasn’t me. You saw a flashlight in the back? Where? When?”
“Along the trail, last night around ten. I thought it had to be you or one of the riders.”
“It wasn’t,” I stated firmly. “We have a strict curfew – no horses out after nine-thirty. I wish you had told me, professor. I need to know when we have prowlers.”
He sighed in exasperation. “I’m new here. I don’t know who goes about or when. Where are you going?” he demanded.
I had gotten to my feet, reaching for my barn coat with hands that shook despite my telling myself that I wasn’t afraid. Blood was pounding in my head, and I honestly couldn’t tell you whether I was more angry or scared. It didn’t matter – the effects were about the same.
“I’m going to check it out,” I snapped.
My voice sliced through the air, and Randall flinched, his mouth setting in unusual firmness.
“If Trusty is any guide, they’re gone,” he said.
“I’m going to check it out,” I repeated firmly. “No need to trouble yourself.”
Not that you offered.
I rushed out of the office and out the back porch, grabbing the baseball bat we kept by the back door. It’s not a terribly effec
tive weapon, but it gave me more confidence stepping out into the night by myself. I hadn’t realized that Trusty was following me until the porch door bumped off her body before shutting. She yapped, and I hushed her, and we stood silently, scanning the night-shrouded backyard.
Silence settled over us like a heavy blanket, and the lights from the porch and the stables made the inky blackness of the surrounding woods seem even more ominous. As my heart calmed and slowed, I picked up other sounds: crickets chirping, tree frogs croaking, horses whickering. I could hear Trusty’s heavy breathing, and the almost silent slap of her tail hitting my leg. In a distance, a car rushed by on the road running in front of the house. But there was nothing else - no light, no sound, no movement, nothing. I might have been alone on the edge of the world, for all my senses could tell me. And that terrified me.
I went down the porch steps and stood on the shadowed back lawn, listening, but too frightened to venture further. When Trusty began to sniff around the neglected weed patch, looking for a place to do her nightly business, I realized that we were indeed alone out here and began to relax.
Until the backdoor slammed again, making me jump six inches.
“Find anyone?” Randall asked.
“No,” I snapped.
If there had been someone out there, they were gone, further down the path than I cared to go at night with just a baseball bat and a dog. Making a mental note to check out that path during my morning run, I went back up onto the porch with Trusty, brushing past Randall to go into the kitchen.
As was her normal practice, Aunt Susanna had left on the lights over the counter. What wasn’t her normal practice was the plastic-wrapped plate of cookies and the note she’d left under the lights. I picked up the note and read it:
Professor – I know you’re working late tonight and didn’t have time to eat much, so I made these for you. They’re hearty and filling. I’ll make corn chowder tomorrow night. I hope you can make it to dinner. – Susanna.
My stomach growled suddenly – my quickly consumed dinner hadn’t been enough, apparently, and the cookies were tempting. But they weren’t for me. I tapped the note to my lips, wondering what we had in the cabinets.
I was avoiding thinking about the incident outside. There wasn’t anything I could do about it, now that the trespassers were gone. Dwelling on the fact that there were people merely yards from the house would only make it that much harder to go to sleep tonight. I wished, as I had many times, that we had an alarm system.
“One more thing to add to the wish list, I guess,” I said to Trusty, who was looking at me expectantly.
I knelt and got a biscuit out of the cabinet for her. The door clicked shut behind me and I held the note up over my shoulder. “It’s for you.”
Randall plucked it out of my fingers and walked around the bar so that he was facing me when I got back up. I rummaged through the cabinet until I found a box of crackers. When I faced him again, he was staring at the plate of cookies, frowning.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
He cocked his head at me and placed both hands on the counter before asking, “What were you planning to do out there? With that baseball bat, I mean.”
He nodded to the corner where it was propped. I shrugged.
“I guess I was hoping to catch me a treasure hunter,” I said, and popped a cracker in my mouth. “They’re in season, you know.”
I gagged. The cracker was so stale it was inedible, and I stumbled toward the trash can. The box followed the remains of the cracker and, when I stood up straight again, the professor was watching me with an expression of distaste.
“I haven’t seen those crackers in that box design since the nineties,” he said.
“Now you tell me,” I growled, and went to the sink for water. When I came back, he slid the plate over to me.
“Help yourself,” he said.
“Those are for you,” I pointed out, hoping I was able to keep the hurt out of my voice. Being infirmed, Aunt Susanna didn’t cook or bake much anymore. That she would start now for Randall rather than for me seemed unfair. But that wasn’t Randall’s fault, I reminded myself. Aunt Susanna had told me herself that he spent all his time in the office and only came out to make himself sandwiches. She would have mentioned if he demanded cookies.
Randall pushed the plate closer to me and took a stool. “Go ahead,” he said.
I did this time, pulling off the cover and grabbing the biggest cookie to jam into my mouth. I was hungry, yes; but more than that, I was frightened and the chocolate chips melting in my mouth were almost as soothing as Uncle Michael’s arm around my shoulder.
“Does this happen often?” Randall asked, and I shook my head.
“She doesn’t bake often – her hips and knees don’t allow her to stand for long periods of time,” I said, as soon as my mouth was clear.
“I didn’t mean those,” he said, with a dismissive gesture. “I meant the trespassers. How often are you actually bothered by them?”
I shrugged and took the stool opposite of his. “Depends on the time of year. Obviously, they can’t dig during the winter. Last summer they were tapering off – I had four, maybe five holes altogether. This year, though…” I shook my head and took another cookie. “This year, there’s been a lot.”
“Are you going to call the police?”
“What can they do? By the time I spot them, call the police, and wait for them to arrive, the night visitors are gone. Besides,” I swallowed hard, “we kind of have a reputation with the police in this town. They don’t welcome our calls.”
“Cried wolf one too many times?” he suggested.
I scowled. “You could hardly call it that, not when there were actually people in our backyard. It wasn’t my fault that they were quicker than the police.”
“Yes,” he said, thoughtfully. He was looking into the distance, absently crumbling my aunt’s note in his hand. “Yes, I can see that. Well, I guess it just makes it all the more imperative to put this thing to rest. Can you give me a tour of the property tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I asked surprised.
“It is Saturday. I presume you don’t have to work at the office on Saturdays.”
“No, but…”
“A tour is important,” he said firmly. “I’ve been reading Mary’s diary and she makes occasional references to specific areas of the farm. You were raised here and have the best the working knowledge of the land, aside from Susanna, who isn’t physically able to walk me around the place. If I’m to make any progress in this matter, I need to know the lay of the land myself.”
“Yes…” I said slowly, reviewing the morning’s appointments in my head. Of all the things I had to cram into my day, a walking tour of the grounds with Professor Randall seemed the least important. But he was right – even Lindsay didn’t know the land as well as I, and I might as well use the opportunity to check for recent digging. “All right, I’ll take you around. But I don’t have much time tomorrow. I have lessons all day and a… An appointment in the evening.”
I couldn’t bring myself to say “date” and if Randall noticed the slip, he gave no indication of it. Instead, he moved on to the next piece of business.
“And when can you bring me the original Chase letter?” he asked.
Going to the safety deposit box had slipped my mind completely, and I sighed as I remembered. “Good grief – I forgot. Well, it’ll have to wait until Monday now. The bank closes tomorrow at noon.”
Randall sighed too, sounding as put out as I felt. “That will hold things up, but I’ll make do.”
“You think the letter is really essential, then?” I asked. The cookie crumbled in my hand and showered pieces onto the clean counter. “What can you learn from the original that can’t be seen in the copy?”
“I won’t know that until I see it,” he said, with a light hint of condescension. Then he slapped the counter with his hand and leaned forward, his eyes flashing with an intensity that gave me
a start.
“There’s a message in that letter, Warwick. I know it and I can’t find it. Maybe it’s encoded in the lettering, or it’s hidden in the text, or it could be as simple as a stain in the background. I just don’t know, but it’s there, just out of my sight. Usually Civil War codes are so simple as to be insulting. This one – this one is trickier than you’d expect from a man of Alexander’s upbringing, that’s for sure.”
He leaned back into his chair and I frowned at him.
“If it’s so bloody difficult, then how can you be so sure that there is another message?” I asked.
The look he gave me was one of dismayed disbelief. “That’s as plain as the nose on your face.” When I didn’t respond, he straightened up again. “You mean, you didn’t see it?”
“You were just telling me that even you can’t see it,” I reminded him, annoyed. “Now you’re telling me that it’s as plain as the nose on your face?”
“The clue is, not the message. It’s right there, for all to see. My dear Madeleine, have you studied the Civil War at all? You still don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“No, I don’t,” I snapped. “I never claimed to be an expert in the Civil War, either, so quit acting like a pompous ass and tell me what on earth you’re talking about. A clue that’s not a message? What do you even mean?”
Randall reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumbled page, which he spread out on the counter. He slid it over to me and pointed to a line about half way down.
“Look there,” he said. “And tell me you don’t see it.”
I looked and saw Alexander’s letter, the text of which was practically burned into my mind: Marched Long today and I am exhausted by hours Of training and miserable Poe-like terrain. We shall meet Johnny Rebel any day and I am itching for the introduction…
“Practically poetry,” I said sardonically. “What of it?”
Randall looked at me in disbelief, again then sank back into his chair.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I wonder how you managed at all before I came.”
I glared at him. “Don’t make me throw the plate at you, Professor.”
Necessary Evil Page 15
