by Lynn Cahoon
“I guess I’ll have to see what he sends me and wait for the DNA tests before I do anything or make any decisions.” The room felt chilly, like the temperature had dropped ten degrees.
Greg walked the few steps to my chair. He reached for my hand and pulled me to a standing position. “Let’s head to Lille’s and get some dinner. You look beat.”
I was too tired to fight, and my stomach was growling at the thought of a plate covered with mashed potatoes and gravy. I didn’t even care what meat came with it. Maybe some food would help knock me out of the slump that my conversation with Henry Williams had caused. I hadn’t asked Greg what he had found out about the art gallery selling Miss Emily’s paintings. Which reminded me, I had never got to the shed for the ocean seascape I wanted for the office. “Can you help me with something first?”
“As long as it’s not more shopping. I’m starving.”
“I need you to come out to the shed with me. I’ll just be a minute, but I’d feel better if we moved the rest of Miss Emily’s paintings into the house where I can keep an eye on them.”
“Not a bad idea.” Greg pointed to the door. “After you.”
We headed out the kitchen door. The backyard was quiet; the setting sun had sent the chirping birds in search of their nests. Plenty of light played in the open areas but the shed would be dark and gloomy. I’d grabbed a couple of flashlights and the shed keys from the kitchen cabinet. I handed a flashlight to Greg.
“How many paintings are still out there?” Greg played with the flashlight, twirling it in his hands.
“Maybe twenty? I haven’t ventured up into the loft yet.”
“Did I mention I was hungry?” Greg growled.
“It shouldn’t take very long.” I glanced over at him. Ever since the phone call, Greg had seemed distant. “I’ll buy dinner?”
“Let’s just get this done.” Greg grabbed the keys from me and unlocked the door. He turned on the flashlight and slowly lit up the entire room, moving from one side to the other. “You head up to the loft and make sure there’s no more canvases stuffed up there. I’ll stack these together and start taking them up to the porch.”
I walked through the shed room to the loft ladder. I switched on my flashlight and started to climb up the steps, my hands gripping the straight ladder rungs tightly, or as tightly as I could with the flashlight in one hand. “A gentleman would have offered to do this for me …” I mumbled under my breath. It was official—heights scared the crap out of me. I didn’t even like riding the little roller coasters at the pier.
One step, both feet, two steps, both feet, this would take a while. I was about halfway up when Greg came back into the shed after his first trip back to the porch with an arm full of paintings.
“You still haven’t gotten up there yet?” Now I heard humor in his voice, which just ticked me off.
“Nothing wrong with taking things slow,” I called back, taking another step up as proof I would make it.
“Again, I say, I’m hungry,” Greg called out as he picked up more paintings and headed back out the door.
“Whatever,” I mumbled and took another step. Two more and I’d be able to see the loft’s content. I took the stairs quicker and stopped. I could see. I shone the flashlight over the dusty floor to check for more paintings. No reason to keep going if the loft was empty.
Dust and, ugh, a dead mouse, littered the floor. Then the light found a trunk tucked in the back under the small spyglass window straight ahead. I scanned the rest of the loft, but there was nothing there except the trunk. I could have stopped and gone back down to the safe floor, putting Check the trunk out on my list, but then I’d have to climb this stupid ladder again. I might as well finish the job now.
I put the flashlight down on the floor and pulled my body up the last few steps. I sat down on the floor and swung my legs around, scooting away from the edge. My legs were going to be filthy from this dust. Grabbing the flashlight, I headed to the trunk. It was one of those old steamer trunks that I saw at the local antiques stores for hundreds of dollars, but this one seemed to be in better shape. I’d have to have Greg bring it down. I’d put the antique dealer off from his original appointment. Maybe he’d be interested in this, too.
I opened the trunk. Brightly colored clothes, a children’s pirate hat, plastic swords—this must have been Bob’s dress-up trunk. I wondered if Miss Emily had even remembered it was here. She would have gotten a kick out of the old toys. I pulled out one of the vests, gold and purple. I jumped as I heard a footstep on the floor behind me.
“What’s that?” Greg’s voice came from behind the gleam of the flashlight.
“Bob’s pirate chest. Miss Emily told me how he loved to play pirate.” I thought back to our conversation late last summer on the front porch, sipping a glass of tea and watching the sunset over the ocean. Somehow going through the junk in the pirate dress-up chest made me miss her even more. There would be no more peaceful evenings sipping tea and chatting about the day’s activities. My chest hurt as I held the child’s vest that Miss Emily had sewn for her son.
Greg knelt beside me. “This is cool. I would have loved to have had a pirate’s chest as a kid.” He dug through the chest. “Look, there are even fake gold coins for your buried treasure.” He pulled out a coin and shone the flashlight toward it. “This is pretty heavy.”
“Toys were better made in the sixties.” I dusted off my pants. “Any chance I could get you to move the chest down to the shed floor?”
“Planning on getting on your pirate groove?”
“No, I’m planning on getting an antiques dealer over here to look at some of this stuff I don’t need.” I thought about the ladder. “I’d rather not have to come up here again.”
“Chicken.” He closed the trunk, lifting it to test the weight. “I should be able to move this down if you help me.”
“Maybe I can get a couple of the construction guys to move it tomorrow.” I didn’t know how I would get down the ladder myself. How would I help him move a trunk?
“Don’t freak out, it will be easy. I just need you to slide the trunk down to me when I get farther down the ladder.” He picked the trunk up and moved it to the side of the ladder. “Now let me get down and you’ll just slide the trunk over the edge.”
This was not going to turn out well. I knew it. But Greg had been forewarned. If he thought he was strong enough to move the trunk with what little help I would provide, let the man prove it. I watched as he disappeared down to the bottom floor.
“Okay, now just slide the trunk over the edge a few inches.”
I pushed the trunk slowly over the edge, holding on to the handle. I hoped it wouldn’t drag me over the side with it.
“Stop right there,” Greg called from below.
The trunk teetered halfway over the edge. I leaned over and could see Greg standing below, reaching up his arms, but the chest remained just out of reach. He stepped over to the ladder and went up a step. This time his fingers just brushed the edge of the trunk.
“Now tilt it up on your end so I can grab this end.”
Really a bad idea, I thought but I followed directions, leaning back so I could counter the trunk’s slide with my weight. Or so I thought. I tilted the trunk up and heard Greg’s whispered “Gotcha,” before the trunk started sliding.
I tried to hold it back and fell backward on my butt. The trunk’s handle slipped through my fingers. I hoped Greg wouldn’t be flat on the ground under the trunk when I made my slow descent from the loft.
“I lost it,” I called down, leaning forward to see what damage I’d caused. I heard the trunk hit the floor with a bang. “Greg, are you okay?” No answer.
I scooted forward to see over the edge, my heart beating hard in my chest. He had to be dead, I’d killed him, and I knew it. Peeking over the edge, Greg kneeled by the trunk, very much alive.
“Greg?”
He glanced up at me, a grin covering his face. “Get down here. You’ve gott
a see this.”
“See what?” The trunk might be broken, but at least I didn’t hurt him. Or maybe I had hit his head with the falling trunk. I couldn’t be sure.
Greg held up his cupped hands full of the play pirate gold from the chest. “This.”
I didn’t understand why he would get so excited about some old painted coins, but I ungracefully made my way down the ladder. Not a pretty sight, but Greg wasn’t watching me anyway. When I finally hit the floor, his attention focused on the gold coins in his hands.
I grabbed one and glanced at it. “So, what’s so exciting?” I turned the coin over and saw a portrait of a long-dead king. “Boy, these look real.”
Greg grinned at me. “I think they are.”
“Are what?” I said crossly. Dirty and hungry, I was tired of playing games. I brushed the dirt off my sundress and my knees.
“Jill, I think this is the treasure hidden at the mission.”
“The Aztec gold? I thought you said the history didn’t match the rumors.”
“It’s not Aztec gold, it’s Spanish coins—sent from the crown to assure that California would be taken for the king. There was a theory, rumor mostly, that the missions were used as staging grounds for the military’s attacks on the natives.” He fingered the coins.
“Are you sure?” I kneeled down beside him, unwilling to touch the coins. It might have been superstition, but I didn’t believe in found money. And my life had been blessed with way too many gifts lately. I remembered a story I’d read in freshman English about the gifts of the monkey’s paw and the consequences for asking for your desire. Now I lived the legend, one of my friends dead and the other missing, even though I hadn’t asked for the money. Adding in more wealth to the mix might just trigger another tragedy.
“Well, as sure as I can be.” Greg grabbed his handkerchief from his pocket. “Do you mind if I take a few of these? I’ll run to the university tomorrow and see what my old professor thinks.” He grabbed up the coins and put them in the middle of the white linen square. Separating out two, he tied a knot in the cloth and slid them in his front pocket.
“Do you think Miss Emily knew they were here?” The trunk seemed to have a fake bottom that had broken when it dropped to the floor.
“I’m pretty sure Bob knew. I’m sure when he told his mom she just racked it up to an active imagination. Most of these pirate clothes are hand-sewn. She probably just thought he was playing with her.” Greg scooted the chest over to the side of the room. “I bet if we had someone date this chest it would bring us back to the mission again.”
“All roads lead to that damn wall in my backyard.” My stomach growled. “Can we go eat now?” I needed to leave all the mystery behind for a while. I wanted fat. Fried fish, fried mushrooms, fried anything. And a beer.
“Let’s drop these off in the house and move the paintings inside, then we can go.” He ran into my shoulder as we were walking. “You’re buying, right?”
“I guess I can, why?”
“If I’m right, the offer that creep Ammond made you on the house is chump change compared to your new net worth.” Greg locked the shed as we left. “And I’m just a poor city employee.”
Visions of the monkey’s paw scratching at the kitchen door shook me to the core. This was not good. Not good at all.
Chapter 17
I’d barely slept. I dreamed of pirates chasing Amy and monks in full black robes with ropes tied around their waists running around my backyard. I woke to the sound of the construction guys nailing on the new siding at 5 a.m. Who works at five in the morning? Bleary-eyed, I grabbed another sundress and headed to the bathroom for a quick shower. I needed to do some laundry today, otherwise I’d be down to a little black date dress or the blue business suit I saved for bank meetings—neither of which was suitable for painting the living room. Right after one or two pots of coffee.
I had just sat down at the kitchen table, one load of laundry in the washer, and my third cup of coffee in front of me, when I heard a knock at the door. I peeked out the window to see Kevin.
“Good news,” he said as I opened the door. He walked inside the kitchen and pointed to my coffee. “Got any more in the pot?”
“Sure, cups are over there.” I sat back down at the table. I didn’t think this was going to be a quick conversation.
“The commission called me back, and they’ll be out here this morning to evaluate the site. They said they couldn’t reach you.” Kevin pulled out a chair and turned it backward toward the table. He leaned into the back of the chair and set his coffee on the table. “I’m meeting the guy in a few minutes. Want to come watch?”
I glanced at my phone, sure enough, three missed calls from yesterday. I considered my to-do list. Even without the laundry, I had furniture being delivered, and I didn’t even have a path cleared through the living room yet. And standing around watching some guy look at a rock wall wasn’t what I wanted to do. “Just tell me the results. I’ve got a lot to get done.” Too bad Kevin couldn’t help me with my list. “Hey, you don’t have a guy who can help me move some furniture for a few hours today, do you?”
“I bet Todd does. Hold on, I’ll ask.” When Kevin returned, he had a tall teenager with him.
“Derek, this is Jill. Help her out today, okay?” Kevin slapped the kid on the back. “I’m going to check out by the wall before the commission guy gets here.” He swallowed the remainder of his coffee in two gulps and put the cup in the sink. Someone had trained him well.
“So, what do you want me to do?” Derek asked, looking around the kitchen filled with paintings that Greg and I had just brought in from the shed.
I had him move all the paintings into one of the spare bedrooms upstairs, and while he kept busy, I started marking boxes with Miss Emily’s china and other personal effects. The boxes would go into the shed, and when I finished, I’d call the antiques dealer over to give me some evaluations. No use making a plan now. There was plenty of room in the shed now that I’d moved out all of Miss Emily’s paintings.
Two hours later, the kitchen looked back to normal, and all the boxes were out of the living room. The study would be completed as soon as the furniture was delivered. Time to focus on the living room. I had Derek help me take measurements of the living room, the bathroom, and all the bedrooms upstairs. Derek took off to grab some lunch with the rest of the construction crew, and I sat down on the worn couch to make decisions on what living room furniture to keep. If I planned this right, I’d have the entire house cleared by the end of the day.
The doorbell rang. I slapped a stickie on the recliner, a sign to Derek to move it to the shed, and went to answer the door. This having-an-assistant thing was working out for me. I might have to keep Toby on once I reclaimed the coffee shop from Aunt Jackie … if I ever did.
I opened the door to a deliveryman in brown. At least it wasn’t another summons from the city. I signed for the envelope and walked back into the kitchen. I needed food.
I threw the envelope on the table, planning on getting to it after eating a sandwich or two. I ate my tuna on white over the sink watching the backyard. Kevin and the commission guy were finally done and coming up the grass, deep in conversation. I could see Kevin throwing his arms around. Either they’d determined the wall was just that, a wall, or Kevin was telling a story about looking for the pirate gold as a kid. I wasn’t sure which outcome I wanted. I mean, having a piece of history on your land is pretty intense and probably needs a lot of attention. I kind of liked the late-evening-barbeques and sitting-on-my-back-deck version of the future for this house. Especially if the version included a certain cute detective.
I brushed the crumbs off my face and headed out the kitchen door to meet them.
“So, what’s the verdict?” I asked as soon as the men were close enough to hear me.
“Frank, this is Jill Gardner, the home owner. Jill, Frank Gleason, the commission inspector.” Kevin did the formalities. “Frank was just going over the preliminar
y results with me.”
“Which are?” I waited for Frank to respond. He clearly spent a lot more time researching in a darkly lit library than outside in the real world. His pasty white skin jarred against the black suit he wore. Not a typical California outfit, even over at the college.
“Debatable,” Frank whined. “I’m not comfortable talking about my conclusions until I’m certain. I thought I made that clear.” He shot a look at Kevin that should have brought the man to his knees, but Kevin ignored it.
“He thinks the wall is part of the mission,” Kevin crowed.
“Now, I told you, I can’t be certain until we complete tests on the wall. I took soil samples and samples of the wall and grout to age the materials. It’s hard to tell, the wall’s been painted recently.” He glared at me.
“I don’t think Miss Emily’s painted anything around here in the last fifty years,” I responded.
“I didn’t say yesterday. The wall’s been painted in the last hundred or so years. Which makes it almost impossible to determine age without doing lab work.” The man peered at me through his round glasses and then back down at his notepad. “Who’s this Miss Emily? I thought you were the owner of record?”
“I am the owner of record. Miss Emily left the house to me.” I didn’t know why I felt I had to explain to this little bureaucrat. Be nice, my rational side said.
“Tragic.” The man kept writing on his notepad.
I wasn’t sure if he meant Miss Emily’s death or my inheritance. But if this man was the key to my stopping the council from condemning the property, I would have to at least pretend to be nice. “Mr. Gleason, can your office contact the city and put a hold on the condemnation proceedings? Or maybe write a letter?”
“We can’t say for sure if this is a historical site.” Frank glanced at the back of the yard, even though the wall wasn’t visible from where we stood. He paused and appeared to be weighing his next words. “However, I feel that there are ample questions on the origin of the wall, so my office could file a cease-and-desist order with the City of South Cove.”
