by Suzi Weinert
“I’m not surprised. That active imagination of yours blossomed when you were little, and it’s been fertile ever since. Why, I remember reading the Uncle Wiggly books to you then. Know what you said?” Jennifer shook her head. “You said if this rabbit gentleman went out each day looking for an adventure, so could you. And then the Oz series. In those pre-television days, the Oz books were like today’s “Star Wars” or Hobbits. Their world fascinated you. You loved thinking out-of-the-box.”
Jennifer smiled, remembering the books but not their impact on her thinking.
“And I think your grandmother encouraged this. Drawing from her Irish side, she told you she couldn’t prove leprechauns or gnomes or fairies exist, but nobody proved they didn’t. So you had one foot in the real world and the other in an imaginary world.”
Jen laughed along with her mom. “Your mother was quite a gal, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, dear, she was. Oh,” she waved a piece of paper, “by the way, I found it last night.”
“Found what?”
“The names of local Civil War Club members who might want Dad’s books.” She passed the list to her daughter.
“Great, Mom.” And, Jennifer thought, not just for the practical purpose of fielding the books but also the memory function it proved her mom still had. Understanding her mother’s capabilities played into the care level of senior housing they needed to choose in McLean.
“So what’s doing today?”
“How about getting a duplicate list of stolen goods, along with photos from your inventory, to the insurance rep today? I made a copy for them, one for Deputy Goodwin and one for you.” Her mother nodded. “Then, we can finish up the downstairs move-or-sell, donate-or-toss list and maybe interview estate sale companies or real estate agents. Oh, and today we see your doctor.”
“A busy time then. Good, Jen. Let’s eat breakfast, get dressed and start.”
Though buoyed by her mother’s morning energy, Jennifer mustn’t discount her age, her drug overdose or the anxiety endured with Max and his accomplice—any of which might cause lingering implications for her mother.
“And I have another idea,” Jennifer began, but her mother interrupted her.
“Uh-oh.”
Jennifer looked up sharply, disarmed at her mother’s smile. “That’s what Jason says when I mention a new idea. What’s going on?”
“Well, dear, your ideas can seem unusual because you think about so many things at once.”
Unsure what this meant, Jennifer continued. “My idea is inviting Becca here to photograph Dad’s certificates and inside your house. She just graduated from college, hasn’t found a job yet, is talented with a camera and if she’ll come this weekend to do photography, it frees you and me for other tasks. What do you think?”
“Let’s invite her. Always fun to see Becca.”
Jennifer dialed her daughter’s cell number to explain the plan.
Becca responded enthusiastically. “Mom, I’d love to help. But isn’t Florida full of snakes? You know I freak out around snakes.”
“Not to worry, hon. Grammy’s neighborhood isn’t the Everglades. You’ll be fine. So glad you can come. Remember, use the Ft. Myers airport. Just let me know when to pick you up.”
Next, she dialed the phone number of the first name on the Civil War study group list.
“Hello, is this Mr. Birdsong…? Okay. Do you remember Bill and Fran Ryerson from your Civil War group…? Good. Well, I’m their daughter. I’ve come to Florida to help my mother downsize to move to Virginia near me…. Yes, a big job is right. I’m calling because she thought you, or others in your club, might have interest in Dad’s Civil War book collection…. You do? Great. Would you like to come to see them…? Yes, this morning’s fine. You live in the area…? Fifteen minutes…? Good. Need the address…? All right. See you shortly.”
“Would you like to keep some of the Mosby books, Jen?” Her mother pointed at several volumes.
“Yes. Because they were Dad’s and because that part of the Civil War interests me.”
“This brings up something we haven’t discussed. Would others in our family want some of my things before we sell them?”
“How did I overlook such an important idea? My apology, Mom. You’re absolutely right. Shall we e-mail Becca’s pictures to the family?”
“Let’s do it. Then I’ll get to see some of my things in their houses when I visit. Why don’t we start with you? Please pick from anything I won’t take for my apartment.”
Jennifer strolled through several rooms, wondering what she might use. Then the doorbell rang.
CHAPTER 26
“Hello again, Frances.” He hugged her before turning to shake Jennifer’s hand. “I’m John Birdsong.”
“Welcome. So glad you could come over.”
“Thanks for inviting me. I comb estate sales for books like these, which I’ll share with the other Civil War Study Club members. Thanks for offering Bill’s books to us, Frances.”
Jennifer showed him into the living room. “May we offer you some coffee while you look through them and maybe also ask you some Civil War questions?”
“Well, yes to both. I’m not an expert but for sure a hooked amateur.”
“I remember the group fondly,” Frances reminisced. “Is it still the same size?”
“No, we’ve nearly doubled our membership, but not everybody gets to meetings. We average ten to fifteen and now we meet at restaurants for lunch where it’s a combination CWSG and ROMEO.” At their puzzled expressions, he amplified, “Civil War Study Group and Retired Old Men Eating Out.”
They laughed. Then Jennifer asked, “First question: what’s your impression of Jubal Early?”
Birdsong stalled. “Remember, we’re amateurs, not experts, and our own backgrounds influence our reactions to famous Civil War names and events. We each have personal opinions and don’t always agree, but the consensus among us labels Jubal Early an odd duck, a wild card and not in a good way. Many of us had military experience and agree we wouldn’t enjoy serving with him, certainly not as a subordinate. And Lee actually fired him for incompetence in l865. His dismissal is worded in flowery terms, but basically Lee sacked him for cause.”
“Has your group any favorites?”
“Another tough question and again, personal opinions.” He chuckled. “But I think we all consider General Robert E. Lee a qualified military leader for the South and also a thoughtful tactician. He was a leader who respected and cared about his troops, and a gentleman by temperament and training. We’d have thought it an honor to serve under Lee, even though he lost the war.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well, it’s hard not to like Mosby. He epitomizes every boy’s dream—daring, imaginative, intelligent, clever, incredibly successful and also mysterious. His men emerged as if by magic from the countryside, where folks hid them, and they melted away invisibly after raids. His unit’s plumed hats branded their uniqueness. And Mosby’s men loved him—not only from pride at their stunning military successes but because this leader had enlisted as a private. They felt he understood them better than other officers did. Like Jubal Early, you might call Mosby a wild card, but this time in a good way.”
“What about Mosby’s treasure?”
Birdsong smiled. “One of the legends. If it existed, and that’s the big ‘if,’ Mosby had the means, motive and opportunity to capture it from Stoughton. But he mentioned no treasure in his personal Civil War memoirs, and he later died virtually penniless. You could argue if he had it and buried it, maybe he tried to find it again but couldn’t. Valuables still turn up occasionally where they were buried in yards by frightened Civil War families in fear of marauding troops or looting carpetbaggers. With rezoning and subsequent building on old farms and plantations, today excavation machinery sometimes unearths just such family treasures.”
“Like General Stoughton’s stolen ‘heirlooms’?”
“Yes. But do you know something else Mosby
achieved with Stoughton’s capture?” They shook their heads and John grinned. “When President Lincoln heard about the Fairfax Courthouse raid and Stoughton had become a Rebel prisoner, he reportedly said, “I don’t mind the loss of a general as much as the horses. I can make a new general in five minutes, but I can’t make horses and they cost $125 a piece.”
“Another salute to Mosby’s genius?” Frances asked. Birdsong nodded.
Jennifer touched their visitor’s arm. “How did you get hooked on the Civil War?”
“Well, a couple of ways. My family lived in Virginia since the 1600s, and my ancestors fought in the Revolution and the Mexican Wars—as patriots, not as a military-minded family. My great-great grandfather fought only briefly in the Civil War because he ran a farm and had a big family. But his bachelor brother, Raiford Birdsong, rode with Mosby’s Raiders. Interesting guy: although a tough soldier, they say he wrote poignant poems. In our group’s study of ‘The War’ we learned many war songs started as poems written by soldiers and along the way were given a tune by a harmonica player beside a campfire.”
“Do you have any of his poems?”
“No, all apparently lost over the years.” He glanced down at the book in his hand. “Let’s see. How else did I get hooked? In my youth, prowling the Virginia woods, I found brass uniform buttons, a canteen, spurs, bullets and so on. Just like kids who find arrowheads, I realized the last person who touched this was someone from the past—and in this case, someone who probably didn’t fare well or else why would these items lie in a forest? Touching the relics felt like a dead soldier communicated directly with me—a powerful experience. All those vibes from the past combined to grab me.”
His passion reminded her of her airplane seatmate, minus the drunken, sinister personality. “Do you miss living in Virginia?” Jen asked.
“Of course. Those were important chapters in my life. But Florida is the latest chapter and also good, though in a different way.”
After yesterday’s talk about this very thing, Jennifer winked at her mother, who smiled and nodded. Turning to Birdsong, she said, “It’s the book of you.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right. It is.”
“Do you have another few minutes? I’d appreciate your comments about something. Excuse me a minute while I get it.” Jen hustled upstairs to the bureau where she’d unpacked her suitcase, retrieved her printed copies of the cloth map, riddle and translation and hurried them back to the living room where John and Grammy chatted about mutual friends.
She explained the copies and how she found them. “Can you make any sense of this?”
Birdsong studied the papers. “I’m no expert, but this grabs my attention. They could be fakes, of course. On the other hand,…you may have uncovered something remarkable. The way I read this, it refers to the alleged valuables Mosby discovered when he captured Gen. Stoughton. But this implies for some reason, they were buried, dug up and buried again. A little hard to follow.”
Jennifer frowned. “Moving them in wartime meant risk, whereas burying them meant safety.”
“True,” Birdsong agreed. “The writer, who buried the treasure the second time, wanted southerners to find it and get it to Gen. Lee, but also to confuse northerners.”
“Well, it can’t go to Gen. Lee anymore, so if it’s found, where should it go now?”
“Why, to a museum for protection—even before information of the discovery is released to the public. This would fascinate qualified Civil War scholars, who’d want to research each piece in the treasure for its own unique story. And the find itself would constitute a new piece of American history. May I put out a few feelers without revealing too much? I’ll let you know if I learn something. May I have a copy of your copies?”
Jennifer smiled. “I’ll make them right now on Mom’s printer. And thanks, John.”
Hearing about the riddle and map for the first time, Frances looked at her daughter. “Jennifer, Jennifer. You’re always full of surprises. You haven’t changed since you were small.”
Birdsong took the papers from Jennifer. “Thanks for the books, ladies. Good to see you again, Fran. Good luck with your new adventure up north. And Jennifer, I plan to talk with you again soon about this.” He waved the copies in the air.
“One last question, please,” Jennifer spoke and Birdsong paused in the open doorway. “Can you explain why the South can’t let go of the Civil War?”
Birdsong pondered. “That’s a hard one. I think after fighting a war with all you’ve got for a cause you’re convinced is right, and then losing, forces you to admit the staggering toll in destruction of property and human life happened for nothing. War’s never pleasant, but winning’s better than losing. Converting such a devastating loss into something less ghastly makes the awful tragedy more bearable. This defense mechanism recast their role in the war from bitter loss to noble rebellion for a just, albeit ill-fated, cause. This double-think helped them rebound from the crippling catastrophe with some bit of pride, trading humiliation for honor. For many proud southerners who couldn’t stomach the truth, this allowed them enough ‘face’ to stand up, even to stand tall, and to carry on.”
Frances took John’s hand in her gnarled one. “I understand. Be positive even when it feels like your whole world is falling apart around you?”
Birdsong gave her hand a gentle, encouraging squeeze.
Jennifer blinked back tears.
CHAPTER 27
“Remind me, please, why we’re eating lunch at 11:30. What else is on today’s agenda? You’re so organized, Jen, whereas these days I feel somewhat confused.”
“Today we see your regular doctor at one o’clock to be sure your recovery inside is as good as it looks outside.” She winked at her mom, “And also to resolve your medical records. Then we’ll pass your bank coming home from the doctor, if you want to empty your safe deposit box. For that, you’ll need your key. Do you know where it is?”
Her mother looked doubtful.
“If you tell me where to look, I’ll run upstairs to get it.”
“Maybe in one of my costume jewelry boxes in the closet? Maybe taped under my night table lamp? Maybe in the rose medallion bowl under the jade grapes?”
Uh-oh. Red flag about this weird filing system! “Okay,” Jennifer said doubtfully, “back soon.” She returned shortly, flourishing the key in the air.
“Where was it?” Grammy looked amazed.
“Taped under the vase of silk greenery.” She laid the key on the table.
“You…you said you have a safe. Is that where you’ll put whatever’s in the bank lock-box?” Frances nodded. “And where is the safe?”
“I’ll show you later, when we’re upstairs.”
“Also, Mom, at 3:00, 4:30 and 6:00 we interview three real estate agents to pick the one you like best. Or I can do it if you don’t want to. Then dinner out and early to bed. Sound okay?”
“I could never manage this without you, Jen.”
“By the way, I made myself a copy of the Civil War member list, so here’s yours. Do you keep it in a special place?”
“In Dad’s cuff link box. There’s a secret compartment in the bottom.”
Second red flag. “Have you or he…ah, filed or hidden things other places? Like maybe in the study?”
“Well, I don’t think so, but your Dad might have. He spent a lot of time alone in there…”
Jennifer made a mental note to check that room again. “If you’ve finished lunch, Mom, I’ll tidy up. We have thirty minutes before leaving for your appointment. If you’re dressed for the doctor visit, would you mind looking around? Maybe he tucked important papers into some of the books we stacked. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”
Five minutes later when she walked into the study, Jennifer gasped. Her mother sat in a chair with books in her lap and a circle of paper money on the floor around her.
“Oh, Jen. I had no idea. He must have hidden money in most of these books. We’ll
have to check every single one.” They each took a stack, letting the money flutter to the floor as the riffled pages yielded more. “We were married almost sixty years, thirty of them in this house. I thought I knew him so well, yet he never told me about this.”
Twenty minutes later, Jen said. “Time to visit your doctor. Let’s leave this as is until we return. Okay? I’ll get the lock-box key. Here’s a shopping bag for what you take out of it.”
* * * * *
“Hello to you, Marilyn. This is my daughter, Jennifer,” Frances said to the receptionist as they took seats in the doctor’s waiting room.
“Mom, are you sure you want me to come in when you talk to the doctor?”
“Yes. I don’t remember much from the hospital, and you’re my backup for remembering what he says today.”
A nurse recorded her blood pressure, temp and pulse. Then a pleasant looking man about Jennifer’s age bustled into the examining room. They exchanged introductions.
He smiled while his alert eyes concentrated on his patient. “How are you today, Frances?”
“Fine now, but I’ve jumped a few hurdles this past week. I’ve asked Jen to tell you about it since she witnessed what I mostly slept through.”
Jennifer described the call for help, the trip from Virginia, what she found at the house, her mother’s hospital stay, apparent recovery and hospital instruction to see her GP. She handed him a copy of the hospital record she’d requested. “Mom, would you like to tell Dr. Grantlan about your moving plan?”
“Well, I’ve lived independently about sixty-seven years and imagined I always would. Scams can happen to anyone at any age, but this one proved to me I’m not as sharp as I thought. At eighty-seven, I’m slowing down a little, as anyone would, but not passing my driving test dealt a blow. And then the burglary. Moving near family makes sense, and unlike some of my friends, I have a devoted daughter willing to take on her old mother.” She smiled at Jennifer. “She asked me to live with her, but I prefer living near her to stay independent as long as I can.”
