Special of the Day

by Elaine Fox

  Steve stopped, glad P.B. had brought the matter up directly but distracted by the presence of a large hole at the base of the stairs. He knew why that hole was there, but who else would?

  He tried to focus on P.B. “From the way you took that damn bet so seriously I figured you thought I was. Besides, it was something that just happened, kind of by accident. I wasn’t trying to go behind your back.”

  P.B. shook his head. “Well, you could have told me you were successful anyway. Now what am I gonna do with these damn symphony tickets? Nobody I know’s gonna wanna go listen to that shit.”

  Steve chuckled and after a second P.B. joined him.

  Steve studied the hole, then cast his gaze around the basement. Chinks of wall were missing, which made no historical sense, but another hole at the bottom of the unused stairs to the outside trapdoor caught his eye. Those steps were too recent to be of interest to any historian, but the only logical reason to dig there was the historical one.

  “This is some kind of mess, huh?” Steve said. “What do you think they were doing down here?”

  P.B. shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe looking for drug money.”

  Steve had nothing to say to that. It didn’t seem likely, but sounded like a typical cop suspicion.

  He looked hard at P.B.

  P.B. noticed the look. “What?”

  Steve hesitated. “You shouldn’t have told her about that bet, Peeb. She didn’t deserve to have her feelings hurt like that.”

  P.B. shrugged and kicked a broken brick across the dirt floor. “I know. I feel a little bad about that. But still, she was stepping out on me. You know, in a way.”

  Which is why she told you she didn’t want to go to the damn symphony, Steve thought, but he didn’t say it. It was enough that P.B. admitted to feeling some guilt.

  “So…” Steve moved back across the cellar toward P.B., holding out a hand. “Should we let bygones be bygones and all that?”

  P.B. laughed and slap-grabbed Steve’s hand. “Done. It’d take more than just some chick to undo our friendship, right? Hell, I’ve known you longer than I’ve known anybody, except my parents.”

  “And they have to keep in touch with you,” Steve said with a grin.

  It took P.B. a minute, then he punched Steve in the arm. “So tell me about what you found at the library. You seemed pretty stoked when you came in. Good news?”

  Steve couldn’t help smiling. It had to be a conscious decision but he let go of his anger toward P.B. Hanging onto it would have been a little like kicking a dog, then being mad at it for biting you. “The best.”

  In the interest of laying this rocky patch between them to rest, Steve told him about what amounted to his best day of research yet. Because today, he had found what he’d been looking for. A letter from Portner Jefferson Curtis to a Mr. Stanhope in May 1826, following up an apparent face-to-face meeting, further clarifying the terms of his will to include an object that “has been kept under lock and key,” and would be kept “likewise sequestered until such time as the Notable Author, Mr. Jefferson, who is known to be ailing, has left this earthly plane, or I have done so.”

  Furthermore, he stated that this object “has been seen by none other than” himself for years, and that it was hidden, “quite cleverly”, within his abode until such time as Mr. Stanhope had need of executing Portner’s will.

  This letter might have been enough to prove Steve’s theory—or at least fuel it for the purposes of his book—but with the object in question undefined, Steve dug further. In a batch of letters he’d copied some months ago, Steve, remembering the name Stanhope, found a letter from June 1826 from one Mortimer Stanhope to Portner Jefferson Curtis of Alexandria, Virginia, declaring that Portner would be best advised to place what he suspected was “a document of significant historical merit” with the appropriate authorities at the Department of State. The Department of State was created by the Constitution and was supposed to keep “the custody and charge of all records, books and papers” of importance to the new Republic.

  If that didn’t strongly suggest that Portner’s “object” could very well be Jefferson’s “fair copy,” Steve didn’t know what would.

  In addition, Stanhope wondered why Portner would want to keep something that could not “morally have been acquired, and therefore could not be honorably displayed nor employed for any profitable purpose.”

  Not only did this imply that the document in question had been stolen, but it also seemed to confirm that the draft was still in Portner’s possession when he died less than a year after receipt of Mr. Stanhope’s letter, and only three months after Jefferson himself had died.

  It also confirmed that the draft had at one time been hidden somewhere within this very house. Meaning there was at least a chance that it was still here, in some form or other—most probably in a pile of decomposing parchment.

  P.B. listened to this story in silence, feigning, Steve was certain, what little interest showed on his face. At the end of Steve’s monologue, P.B. frowned, nodded, said, “Cool,” then said he had to go.

  Steve could only chuckle at himself. He was so excited about his find he’d had to tell somebody. That it was the last person on earth who would be interested served him right. He should choose his audiences more wisely.

  The two of them left the basement and headed in their separate directions.

  Roxanne was not in the kitchen when Steve passed through it again, though judging by her workspace she was obviously in the middle of something, and he wondered if she was avoiding him or P.B. Probably both, he thought, though she could hardly avoid him for long. He’d be back at work in a few short hours.

  Climbing the three flights of stairs to his apartment, Steve thought about the hole at the bottom of the steps in the basement. Was it just coincidence that it was “under the first step” of both cellar staircases? He didn’t see how it could be. But how many people knew about that will who didn’t also know that the steps had already been investigated? Including, Steve believed, the cellar stairs, and not so very long ago either. Within the last fifty years, he was fairly certain.

  Of course, there’d also been a hole at the bottom of the trapdoor stairs, which, as any decent historian knew, were built in the late 1800s, long after Portner’s death, when the house had been owned by a grain merchant and the basement used for storage. So maybe the holes were for something else.

  Steve reached the top of the staircase and turned left toward his apartment door, where he was greeted by the sight of a large cardboard box. On top of the box, written with a black marker in block letters was his name and address.

  There was no return address. There was not even a postmark or any postage.

  Steve fished his keys out of his pocket and slid one into the door lock, looking askance at the carton. When he got the door open, he pushed the box inside with one foot and put his backpack on the floor. He took off his coat, then dragged the box into the living room to examine it.

  The cardboard had obviously been ripped open at some point and taped back up. But after a minute of trying to wriggle his fingers under the new packing tape, he still couldn’t open it. He went to the kitchen to get a knife, wondering if he should call Homeland Security and report a suspicious package.

  Could this have anything to do with the break-in? Some message the intruders left behind?

  But that was ridiculous. For one thing, the box would have been here this morning, and he certainly wouldn’t have missed it when he left for the library.

  Or would he have? He’d been pretty distracted most of the day. Up until he’d found Portner’s letter, in fact.

  He stuck the knife under one flap and cut through the tape. First one side, then the other, then across the top. Then he pulled back the flaps.

  With an oof as if he’d been punched in the stomach, he dropped the flaps and jerked away.

  He stepped back so fast he tripped over his backpack and landed flat on his ass against the coffee table.
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br />   Heart pounding wildly in his chest, he took a deep breath.

  They couldn’t be real.

  He sat on the floor, watching the box with wary eyes, waiting for one of them to poke its pointy head out the top and come slithering over the side. The rest of them would follow and before he knew it—

  This was stupid. They couldn’t possibly be real.

  He stood up and shook off his fear as if an imaginary audience were watching. Then he reached out the hand containing the knife. His palms were wet and sweat prickled along his scalp. With the tip of the blade, he pulled the cardboard flap back again.

  From as far a distance as possible, he peered into the box. Then he exhaled, sagging in relief, despite the imaginary audience.

  They were fake.

  It was a box full of fake snakes. Who in God’s name would do this? How many people knew he hated snakes?

  That was easy. Everyone, Steve thought. He wasn’t shy about his phobia, figuring the more people who knew, the less likely it would be he’d end up in a situation with snakes.

  He kicked the carton and they jiggled like they were alive. He felt a little sick to his stomach. There had to be hundreds of them. Big, small, fat, thick, black, green, brown and speckled. He kicked the box again and watched them quiver.

  Then he noticed the envelope.

  He hated to admit it even to himself, but with his adrenaline still pumping he didn’t even like reaching into the box to retrieve the envelope, despite knowing they were fake.

  What if some smart aleck had put one real one into the mix?

  That’s what he would have done, if he were trying to scare the shit out of someone.

  He plucked out the envelope with two fingers and backed away to sit on the couch. With the knife, he sliced the top and pulled out the note.

  It was one white sheet of paper, folded in half, upon which was written:

  Don’t mess with things you can’t handle.

  —R.

  Roxanne?

  Roxanne had done this?

  A chuckle started low in his gut. Then it rose until it was an outright laugh.

  He could kill her, he thought. She’d given him the scare of a decade. And yet he had to laugh. It was so perfect. He couldn’t remember the last time his heart had pounded that fast from fright.

  He shook his head in wonder. Unpredictable. And he thought he’d liked that. He chuckled again.

  If he could handle a box full of snakes, he could certainly handle Roxanne Rayeaux, he thought with a smile.

  He dropped the note to his lap and gazed at the carton of serpents. A fitting gift in so many ways…one that deserved an appropriate thank you.

  So what, he speculated with a small evil smile, would scare her?

  Roxanne barely got her prep work done on time, what with the confusion accompanying the break-in, but by the time the restaurant opened she was equipped to handle the crowd.

  She couldn’t say she felt particularly safe knowing the police—specifically, P.B.—were on the case, but she had at least come to the conclusion that whoever was doing this was intent on something other than money. For some reason that made it more bearable.

  Rita pushed through the double doors. “Roxanne, Steve needs you at the bar.”

  It was early, so she hadn’t any desserts going out yet. But this was the night the reservation book was full and she was anticipating another hectic evening.

  “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know. Got something on his mind, though.” She pushed back out the doors with a trayful of appetizers.

  Roxanne could swear Rita was smirking.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Roxanne followed her through the swinging doors and stopped, caught by unexpected laughter at the sight of Steve behind the bar.

  He wore a long, green rubber snake on his head like a turban, and another around his waist like a belt. He was talking to an older, white-haired man at the bar—a guy who was here a lot, she noticed—who seemed to be admiring the outfit, based on Steve’s pirouette to show off the hat.

  In the middle of his spin he saw Roxanne and stopped, spreading his hands wide.

  “I see you received my gift.” She leaned on the service bar, unable to quell her smile. “And decided to…wear it to work?”

  “Hey, the ladies love me in rubber.” He grinned.

  Despite herself, she guffawed.

  “And there’s more where this came from.” He took the turban off and put it under one arm like a helmet. “I took a bunch of these babies to the shoe repair guy down the street. Always wanted me a pair of snakeskin boots,” he said, the last in a pretty good imitation of John Wayne.

  “I’m glad you like them so much. I have to say, I wasn’t sure how they’d be received.”

  He sauntered toward her, his eyes laughing and his lips quirked in a half smile she found decidedly seductive, and put the turban on one side of the bar. Then he leaned over and put his elbows on the service bar across from her. Leaning over as they both were, his face was close to hers. Her folded hands were near enough to touch his and a zip of desire coursed through her center at the thought of doing it.

  The devil was still in his smile when he asked, “What ever inspired you to give me such a gift, darlin’?”

  His voice was low with proximity, his eyes captivating. She could see the smile playing on his lips and wondered what he’d do if she inched forward and planted hers on them.

  Actually, she knew exactly what he’d do, and she knew that it was something she would be foolish to invite again. Much as she liked to think about it.

  She tilted her head and spoke in her best Southern drawl. “It was like this, sugar. I had a hundred dollars just burnin’ a big ol’ hole in my li’l ol’ pocket. So when I saw these charmin’ fellas in the shop window, I just knew I had to get ’em for you.”

  He laughed, a low, sexy laugh that she felt clear through her body.

  “So I guess I got that hundred dollars back, after all,” he said.

  She let her gaze linger on his. “Guess you did.”

  “Miss Roxanne, might I have a word?” The nasal tone and precise diction could belong to no one other than Sir Nigel, who was suddenly standing just next to her right hip.

  She hadn’t even noticed him approach.

  She straightened. “Certainly, Sir Nigel. What is it?”

  The tall man cast a disdainful glance at Steve, who stood up with a look of exaggerated affront.

  “Excuse me, I have many important duties to attend,” Steve said, with a bow at Roxanne.

  “I’ve just had word,” Sir Nigel said with some urgency tingeing his voice, “from an associate of mine at the Washington Post that Chez Soi is being discussed for an imminent review.”

  “By the Post?” Roxanne asked, pulse thrumming. “When?”

  “He couldn’t tell me, precisely. I don’t believe he knew, to be honest, but he wanted to give me the ‘heads up.’” Sir Nigel used the phrase stiffly, making Roxanne smile.

  “That’s fantastic. But—God. That means we really have to be on our toes. We haven’t even had time to work out all the new-business kinks yet. Have you told Monsieur Girmond?”

  Sir Nigel drew himself up imperiously. “Of course not. My duty was to inform you before anyone else. I shall apprise him instantly if you so desire.”

  Roxanne knew full well that wasn’t the only reason he hadn’t told the chef. Sir Nigel and M. Girmond had no conflict that she could sense, but they circled each other with wary politeness whenever interaction was called for. It could be just the age-old front-of-the-house/back-of-the-house contention, but she wasn’t sure.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell him.” Roxanne thought for a moment. “Sir Nigel, I know who the Post’s reviewer is, but not by sight. Is there any way we can find out what he looks like? It would be nice if we could know when he was here. Not that we’d cook any differently, of course, but we’d know to treat him with V.I.P. status.”

&n
bsp; “Of course,” Sir Nigel agreed with a smug smile. “Which is why it’s fortunate that I do indeed know what Mr. Richards looks like. I will be able to alert the crew the moment he steps through the door.”

  Roxanne beamed up at the man. He might be pompous and he might keep the waitstaff on their toes by being both annoying and frightening, but the man was a treasure.

  He gave her a short bow.

  “Oh, Sir Nigel, you are the best.” She reached up and gave him a quick hug, finding his tall frame surprisingly bony underneath his three-piece suit. She could swear she saw him blush.

  “It is part of my job, madam.”

  “And you are doing it excellently. Thank you.”

  He gave her another short bow when George blew by waving a check. “Got a soufflé order.”

  “Okay. Gotta go. I’ll tell Monsieur Girmond,” she said to Sir Nigel. With a quick glance over her shoulder at Steve, she pushed back through the swinging doors to the kitchen, fairly aglow with the knowledge that Steve had been looking at her, too.

  The following Monday, Roxanne returned from the grocery store—lugging four plastic bags in two aching hands up the tall flight of stairs and vowing to look into elevator costs—to find two boxes next to her door.

  She looked around as if someone might be watching her, then stopped trying to contain her smile. After placing her groceries on the floor, she opened the apartment door.

  The cat greeted her with an attempt to get out, and as Roxanne pushed him back inside with a foot he yowled and wound around her feet.

  “I know,” she said, picking up the bags to bring them to the kitchen island. “I just got you some food, and darting out the door isn’t going to get you any. You can just quit your bitchin’.”

  She quickly put away the frozen items, then opened a can of cat food and filled Cheeto’s dish.

  She went back to look at the boxes. They were plain brown cardboard with no writing and the flaps were folded together over-under, so they wouldn’t spring open.

  She nudged one, jerking slightly as it was much lighter than she’d anticipated. She dragged each of them into the apartment. Taped to one was an envelope with the letter R on it. Still smiling, she opened the note.