The Gold Pawn

by L. A. Chandlar

  CHAPTER 37

  The next day, Mr. Kirkland and Aunt Evelyn made their way home just before lunchtime. We ate sandwiches from the day before, then I took them all on an adventure around the house. I told them about my childhood game with my dad appearing out of nowhere when I played the piano (much to my horror, they wanted me to play “Für Elise”—I said no). I spied the box of chocolates that I had placed on top of the piano that morning. And it hit me.

  “You have got to be kidding,” I said, my hands on my hips.

  “What, Lane?” asked Aunt Evelyn.

  “So my parents’ names and my birth name was Lorian, right? And then they changed it to blend in and become more anonymous,” I said.

  They all nodded. “They picked the name Sanders because of the chocolate, didn’t they?” I stated, knowing it was true without even asking.

  Mr. Kirkland started to truly guffaw, his arms wrapped around his stomach. “Hah! Hah! Hah! Matthew never told me, but you have to be right. It never dawned on me!”

  Aunt Evelyn thought it was funny, but Mr. Kirkland’s amusement knew no bounds. She looked at him with a grin and a little consternation. Finn just shook his head, silently laughing.

  Wiping a tear, Mr. Kirkland said rather breathlessly, “Those two. They always had a box of chocolates lying around and at least three, three, I tell ya, bottles of hot fudge in the pantry. You should have seen Charlotte’s panicked eyes whenever they opened the last bottle. They’d run down to Detroit to the Sanders Soda Shoppe the very next day! Hah! I have no idea why I never put two and two together about their name. Oh, Lane. They were just as incorrigible as you.”

  I was laughing, perhaps more at Mr. Kirkland’s reaction than anything. But inside, a satisfied feeling warmed my spirit. It was moments like this, these rare and sweet times, where I felt a powerful bond with my parents. That our stories were definitely entwined in a way that death couldn’t separate. Even the fake name, which Evelyn informed me was a fully legal name change so I was still indeed Lane Sanders, had a link to something I loved dearly. My Sanders hot fudge. And that made everything all right.

  I smiled and sighed happily. Finn looked at me and shared a knowing smile. “You would have picked that name, too.” he said.

  “Pfft. No question.”

  “Of course you would,” he snickered.

  With a flourish, I showed them the hidden door that led to my dad’s special room. Mr. Kirkland had of course been down there, but Finn and Evelyn loved the secret passage with stone spiral steps leading down to the game room. The game room took on a whole new life as Mr. Kirkland regaled us with stories of the many, many hours that he and my father spent down there.

  I challenged Mr. Kirkland to find the secret room with the safe, but he declined, having thoroughly looked for it himself many times.

  “Here’s the door and the button is up here,” I said, showing him the button I found above the portrait of me as a little girl.

  “That rascal,” he exclaimed. Turns out, my dad made the button so small a man would have to use his pinky to depress it. A larger finger wouldn’t do the trick; it would float right over the minuscule depression. A woman would have naturally found it easier, and a man would be given fits trying to find it. Like it clearly had given Mr. Kirkland.

  I opened the door with a big grin. They all stepped in and regarded the copious amounts of alcohol my father had stored up. All their eyes grew large with surprise.

  Finn eloquently said, “Whoa.”

  They got distracted looking at all the booze and wine, obviously amused at my dad’s almost greedy collection. I went over to the safe behind the false electrical box and showed them that as well, although it was now empty. He had been surprised up to this point, but now Mr. Kirkland looked infinitely self-satisfied and I wondered what he had up his sleeve.

  “Okay, Lane, you discovered far more than I ever did. But did you know about this? Matthew and I always used this trick.” He looked closely at all the walls of the inside of the safe, took out a playing card he had in his pocket, and slipped it in the back right groove in the corner.

  “Okay, you got me,” I declared.

  He carefully pulled at the card, and sure enough, there was a false side in the safe. But then, as he revealed what was behind it, even he was surprised. We crowded around him. In his large capable hands, he held a small photograph with three men sitting casually on a park bench overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge: my father, Louie Venetti, and . . . Mr. Hambro.

  “Oh my,” said Aunt Evelyn.

  CHAPTER 38

  With the photograph of my father, Venetti, and most shockingly, Mr. Hambro, the pressing issues back in New York City were most definitely linked to Rochester. Ever since Hambro received a red envelope, we’d known he’d been involved in the Red Scroll business. Of course. But it had never occurred to me that my father and mother might have known him and worked with him. It had always seemed like they were in a different world than me. But really, we were all connected. And so was this whole Red Scroll business.

  We only had a couple of days left, so I decided to visit my new friends and took a walk to both the barbershop and Father MacQueen’s church. Benson, Fred, and Jasper and I had a great laugh and promises were made to keep in touch. I walked over to the quaint little Episcopal parish and sat on the bench that Father MacQueen and I sat on just the day before, but already felt like weeks ago.

  I enjoyed the sunlight warming my face while I took a moment to reflect. It was cold out, but the sun made everything cheery. Father MacQueen opened the door and peeked around the corner.

  “Lane! Good to see you!”

  I smiled up at his hulking frame, his open and honest face. His eyes were a melting, chocolate brown and utterly friendly. Little John in the flesh.

  “Have a seat,” I said as I patted the bench next to me. “Pretty exciting day yesterday, huh?”

  “Oh yeah. You could say that again, little lady.” He chuckled a silent laugh.

  “So . . . how . . . How did you know that there was trouble brewing, that you should just take a little stroll with your loaded shotgun?” I asked incredulously. He had been the key to our victory yesterday, swinging the advantage to our side by his imposing presence and enormous shotgun.

  “Well, Lane, after we talked I was planning on practicing as I told you. But I got to thinking about you, and being one of the town’s reverends I know a lot of what is going on. I had heard about the scuffle by the funeral home and knew that there were some folks about the place that were up to no good. And I do know about your past, lass, and your parents. I’m so sorry that you had to deal with that tremendous loss. It is a hard, hard road.” I appreciated his honesty instead of beating around the bush. He continued on, “And after we got to talking about darkness and the feelings you were having, I got to worrying about you. It seemed like something was brewing, so I headed down to talk with the barbershop lads. I figured taking a little ammunition couldn’t hurt either. Just in case.” He gave me a sidelong glance and grin that reminded me again that he had a very good time yesterday. I smirked back at him and he landed one more statement. “And, Lane, lastly . . . I get the feeling that trouble follows you around a bit.”

  “Hey!” I exclaimed indignantly, laughing. But what could I say? He was right.

  “Anyway, it was good to meet Finn. I like him. Did he help you figure out some of that darkness you were struggling with?”

  “Yes,” I said as I smiled thoughtfully. “He did.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  After more promises of keeping in touch and one enormous rib-cracking hug, I walked back to the house. I strolled, taking my time, thinking about my new friends, the whereabouts of Tucker, the alarming photograph of my father, Louie Venetti, and Mr. Hambro. . . And then a thought occurred to me, that with all the ruckus of the past couple days, I hadn’t finished looking around my father’s study. And knowing my parents, as I was beginning to form a better picture of them as the adults tha
t they were versus merely the memories of my ten-year-old mind, I knew I needed to leave no stone unturned.

  When I got back, the house was empty and silent. I called around with no reply, then saw a note on the kitchen table. Evelyn and Kirkland were out to lunch, Finn went for a walk down by the sledding hill and said to join him if I got back soon. I figured I could put aside the search for a little while. Some lighthearted fun sounded wonderful.

  I put on my snow boots and gear and walked down the street toward the big hill. Even from a couple of blocks away, I could hear the din of laughter and yells and whoops from little kids enjoying themselves. As I got to the hill, Finn was, of course, in the middle of the throng of excited boys. They had been working with my sling shot and added to the mix a couple of pumpkins that had been left over from the fall harvest. They made a wonderfully messy explosion. The boys were almost to the top of the hill, about to come down when they saw me.

  They yelled and waved and cheered me up the hill to join them.

  “Hey, love, glad you made it!” said Finn, with a kiss to my cheek. One of the little boys made a that’s so disgusting face. I saw a toboggan and asked if I could use it. I turned around in time to see Finn as he picked up the damn runner sled, ran to the hill, dove, and landed on it smoothly, racing down the hill like a professional luger.

  “Show off,” I said. The boys were all sniggering but when I turned abruptly to them, they pretended to be suddenly consumed with getting their sleds prepped.

  We had a great time going up and down the hill, then Finn and I said good-bye and headed back to the house feeling reenergized and fatigued at the same time. As we neared the house we ran into Mr. Kirkland and Aunt Evelyn coming back from their errands.

  Evelyn said, “We made plans to take the train back day after tomorrow. But in the meantime, I have a friend I want you to meet. I phoned her and she invited us over for dinner tonight. How does that sound?”

  Finn nodded and I said, “That sounds wonderful. Which friend?”

  “My friend Mattie. We go way back. And I really want you to see her house, you’re just going to love it. They’re a little formal, so wear something nice.”

  A couple of hours later, after we had time to rest and then change into our dinner attire, we were on our way to Mattie’s house. It wasn’t very far, still right in the Rochester area, but out of town. We took Evelyn and Kirkland’s car. Mr. Kirkland had taken the keys into his possession and I don’t think he ever let them out of his sight. As far as he was concerned, Evelyn would never drive again. At least, not with him as a passenger.

  Finn and I sat in the back. I enjoyed the soft feel of my dark blue dress against my legs and the silky feel of my stockings. I crossed my legs and sat closely to Finn, intertwining my fingers with his. He looked smashing with his black suit, bright white dress shirt, black tie with a small indigo stripe, and matching pocket handkerchief. With his fedora, of course.

  Our car went up and down gently sloping hills and then turned onto what looked like a private road. We had to check in at a gate with a guard who asked our names and then allowed us entrance. I turned a quizzical look to Finn and he shrugged his shoulders. I caught Mr. Kirkland’s impish eyes in the rearview mirror. He winked at me.

  We rolled down a long drive, through the snow and wintry trees devoid of their leaves. I caught glimpses of golden lights, flickering in and out of the tree space. Our car turned to the right and then circled around to the left. In front of us was an enormous manor. Almost castle-like. There were turrets and a large stained glass window, about fifty chimneys poking out of the top of the long house, and I suddenly had the feeling we had been transported to Europe.

  “What the—Where are we Aunt Evelyn?”

  “I told you, Mattie’s house,” she said in a don’t be ridiculous tone of voice.

  I could feel Finn’s chuckle beside me. I should be used to Aunt Evelyn’s friends-in-all-places by this point.

  Mr. Kirkland said, “Welcome to Meadow Brook Hall.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Two men came out to open our doors for us. Mr. Kirkland handed one of them the keys. I looked way up to the top of the English manor house and then off to the left where another long, low building stood where the carriages, cars, and horses were kept. We went up to the front door, which another servant opened. She took our coats and hats and then we walked in.

  We came into a foyer of magnificent proportions, with dark woodwork on every wall and an intricately cut ceiling, rich floors with oriental carpets placed about, and glistening windows looking out at snow-covered fields glowing white in the moonlight. My eyes couldn’t take it all in; I’d already noticed a Rembrandt in the corner and several striking bronze sculptures. I had to fight the urge to start running over to everything at once to touch the fabrics, to let my fingers absorb this moment rich in sensory overload.

  A very tall man and a very petite woman both probably in their fifties walked over toward us. The man had a friendly, open smile and the woman looked nice, but definitely more formal, more guarded. In a motion that seemed rehearsed, yet with a genuine smile, she held out her hands to her obviously dear friend, Aunt Evelyn.

  “Mattie my dear! So good to see you,” exclaimed Aunt Evelyn as she took her hands and then embraced the woman who came up to Evelyn’s shoulder in height. I had to put a hand up to my mouth to hide my smile as I saw a fleeting look of long-suffering flash across Mattie’s face. Aunt Evelyn had pet names for all her friends, and I always wondered if they were on board with those names. In this particular case, I knew Mattie was not thrilled. But of course, love for Aunt Evelyn won out.

  “Lane Sanders and Finn Brodie . . . please meet my dear friend Mrs. Matilda Wilson and her husband, Mr. Alfred Wilson.” We shook hands. They were already familiar with Mr. Kirkland and shook his hand in a warm welcome. I was racking my brain to figure out who Mrs. Wilson was, who they were in society, because clearly, they were of importance.

  They ushered us in, passing by a ten-foot-wide fireplace toward the expansive parlor with another vast fireplace at the end. Windows lined the beautiful walls of English oak with a mahogany Steinway underneath. They had been preparing for Christmas as holiday decorations were placed about with precision. Finn said in a low voice that he could fit about four of his apartments in the parlor.

  Mrs. Wilson obviously ran a tight ship, yet it was a colorful one in which each piece of furniture and decoration had been selected with an exquisite taste for history, design, but also sentiment. Each piece was meaningful and she told us a little about a few select items. We all chatted and a drink cart was wheeled in by a servant to offer some refreshments. I could scarcely speak for looking around and enjoying the gorgeous atmosphere.

  Finally, Mrs. Wilson had mercy on me and asked, “Lane dear, would you like a tour?” Her eyes were serious, but a ghost of a smile pulled at her mouth, clearly gratified that I was enjoying and appreciating their home. Mr. Wilson offered to stay with Evelyn and Kirkland as they were already very familiar with their grand house, but Finn and I followed Mrs. Wilson.

  Her small frame took on the capable stance of a skilled tour guide. She had clearly done this hundreds of times.

  “Finn and Lane, I would normally have more to show you, but officially we have not opened the house since we closed it up in 1931 to save on oil. But for the holidays, I open up most of this main floor for special guests. I hope to open the whole house for good next year some time. As there are about a hundred rooms, it’s no small task. Here is one of my favorite rooms, the Sun Porch.”

  The porch was just off the parlor and I craved with all my heart to read in there for hours on end with the sun pouring in the curving windows, reclining on a chaise longue. Mrs. Wilson rattled off various things about the pieces in the room that were from Jerusalem, Spain, and Italy. Then we went back through the parlor to the library. It was there in the incredible woodwork, crafted to look like folds of linen, where a dignified portrait of a man was put in a place of
prominence, that I figured out who Mrs. Wilson was. The portrait was of John F. Dodge. Matilda was one of the Dodge heirs.

  I quickly pulled the incredible story back to mind. She and her sister had married the Dodge Brothers, John and Horace Dodge. But then at the 1920 New York Auto Show, Horace contracted pneumonia. John rushed to his side and then he, too, contracted pneumonia almost immediately. He died just ten days later. Horace lingered for a few months more and then he died as well. The two wives inherited the entire fortune, estimated to be worth something like sixty million at their deaths. But they didn’t sell right away. Five years later, they finally sold the Dodge Company—for just under one hundred and fifty million, the largest transaction in history. I remembered reading an article about that sale. Mrs. Matilda Dodge—now Wilson—had quite an indomitable spirit.

  We then walked back through the hall where we had entered and my breath whooshed out of me as I saw the staircase of the Great Hall in its full grandeur. Wide and in two flights, it worked its way up to the second floor, with an enormous stained glass window on the landing. The railings were of intricately cut cherry and the tapestries looked like they would have been right at home in a sixteenth-century castle. It was beautiful. The bedrooms were closed upstairs, the entire family having moved to the farmhouse on the property. The two Dodge children, Frances and Daniel, who were now twenty-two and nineteen years old, had their suites off to one side upstairs, guest rooms in the middle, then down a long hallway Mr. and Mrs. Wilson’s bedrooms (the wealthy often had separate bedrooms), and the rooms of their two adopted children, Richard and Barbara, who were five and six years old.

  We walked down a long hallway called the Gallery and saw Mrs. Wilson’s study, called the Morning Room, feminine and efficient in the extreme. She ran a bank, several political organizations, and her farm and household with about twenty in-house staff.