The Treasure Box (The Grace Series Book 2)

by Mark Romang

  Ross turned and looked at Rafter. Alarm blazed in his pale blue eyes. “Your dog ate it?”

  Rafter nodded. He bent down and tickled Rosie’s ears. Her tail thumped. Slobber dripped in long strands onto the floor. “Rosie still hasn’t outgrown her puppy stage. She likes to chew, and for some reason her favorite thing to chew is paint canvases.”

  Ross pointed toward the Bertocchi piece on the table. “She better not chew up the Bertocchi. You can kiss your fifty-thousand dollar payday goodbye if that happens. And I won’t get my ten percent finder’s fee for getting you the work.”

  “Don’t worry, Ross. I always hang it up on the wall so Rosie can’t get at it.”

  Ross looked down at the Newfoundland with disdain. “Why would you keep this drooling beast if she chews up your livelihood?”

  “Rosie was a gift. Annie gave her to me.”

  Ross nodded. “I understand. That explains things. So how is your dear wife doing?”

  Rafter sighed. “I think she’s still depressed about the miscarriage. And bitterness toward God is strangling her happiness. I have to be careful around her and treat her with kid gloves.”

  “She may never get over it, Jon. What could be worse than a late-term miscarriage?” Ross ambled a few feet away and stared at a shrouded canvas hanging from the wall. “Okay, what gives with the mystery painting?”

  Rafter pulled the covering off the painting, allowing Cameron to see it.

  In the painting a mother held a newborn baby. The baby slept peacefully, oblivious to its mother’s adoring gaze. Ross studied it for several minutes. “It’s exquisite. The mother’s love for the baby is palpable. This may very well be the modern day equivalent of the Mona Lisa,” Ross gushed in a rapturous tone. “I can tell that the mother is Annie? You painted this for her?”

  Rafter nodded. “I painted it in secret. I was going to surprise Annie with it. But then the miscarriage happened and I never showed it to her.”

  Ross turned to face him. “Jon, your talent continually amazes me. I really believe you were born 500 years too late. You could’ve been considered one of the Renaissance masters, your name immortalized in history books.”

  Rafter blinked at his friend’s praise. I can never be famous, he thought. Things have been put in place so that never happens.

  “I would very much like to hang this piece in my gallery,” Ross said. “Can I borrow it? I promise I won’t sell it.”

  Rafter dragged a hand through his wavy hair, hair that was graying faster than he liked. “No, Cam, this painting is personal to me. I think I need to keep it here. I’m sure Annie will be a mother some day soon.”

  Rafter walked over towards the middle of his studio. His studio had once been a carriage house long years ago. At some point in time it had then been turned into a detached garage. A year ago Rafter finished converting it into an art studio. He pointed up to a different painting. “I recently finished this one. You can take it instead.”

  Ross joined him in front of the painting. He took off his glasses and chewed on one stem. “It’s gorgeous. Who is the kid in the painting?”

  Rafter made a face. “It’s Jesus. Mary and Joseph accidently left him behind in Jerusalem after celebrating the Passover. And when they realized Jesus was missing they turned around and went looking for him. They found him in the temple courts asking the teachers questions.”

  Ross slid his glasses back onto his nose. “I told you I don’t know much about the Bible.”

  “Well, in order to fully appreciate Renaissance art you might need to brush up on the stories behind the paintings and sculptures. And I got just the thing to help you, Cam.”

  Rafter went over to a cabinet. He reached inside and navigated his arm around paint supplies and pulled out an object. He brought it over and handed it to his friend.

  “It’s a book.”

  “It’s more than a book, Cam. It’s a Bible.” Its dimensions were about four inches by four inches, and encased in a hardwood cover and binding, the small Bible measured a little over three inches thick. A rosewood stain, remarkably void of scratches, protected the wooden cover. A tiny brass latch, still in working condition sealed it shut.

  “Where did you find this, Jon? It looks really old. And it’s in superb condition.”

  “I discovered it at a garage sale.”

  “And why do you want me to have it?”

  Rafter shrugged, feigning indifference. “I know how you love antiques. And your birthday is coming up. I thought you might like it.”

  Ross shook his head and handed the small Bible back to Rafter. “I can’t accept it, Jon. I know there’s an ulterior motive behind it. You want to convert me to your beliefs.”

  “Cam, I can feel it in my bones that heaven contains magnificent artwork. Some of the masters are there, painting as we speak. I’d like to view their heavenly artwork with you someday.”

  “I assure you, Jesus doesn’t approve of my hedonistic lifestyle. We’re incompatible. You may look at me and see a well-dressed nerd. But behind the tweed jacket and bowtie and Harry Potter glasses is a man full of ugly vices,” Ross confessed.

  “That makes you a perfect candidate to be friends with Jesus. When he walked on earth he often hung out with rich men and prostitutes, as well as misfits, outcasts, lepers and the destitute. And he tended to shy away from people who thought they were faultless.”

  “You make Jesus sound like a party animal,” Ross said.

  Rafter grinned. “He sort of was. He caused a stir wherever he went. Jesus performed his first miracle at a wedding feast when he turned water into wine. And then he really shook things up when he caused the sun to stop shining and the earth to quake on the first Good Friday.”

  Ross sighed. “You keep it. I would just sell it to make a buck. But I would like to take the painting you just showed me and hang it in my gallery.”

  Rafter placed the wooden Bible into a chest pocket on his long-sleeved painter’s shirt. “Sure, take it, Cam. I hope visitors to your gallery will like it.”

  Ross removed the painting from a hook on the wall and headed for the door. “Forgive me for my abrupt departure, Jon, but I have to run. I have a meeting with another dealer in New Orleans. Let me know when you finish the Bertocchi. I’ll drive down and get it.”

  “Okay. I promise I will.” After his friend left the studio, Rafter placed a Sinatra CD into a portable stereo player and plopped back down onto his stool. As Frank began to croon Summer Wind, Rafter dabbed his tiny scalpel into the tinted varnish on his palette, and then bent his head down to the microscope. Finding the spot where he’d left off, he made more dots on Delilah’s nose.

  He’d barely been at it more than a few minutes when he heard the door open again. “It’s Grand Central Station around here, Rosie. I can’t get a thing done,” he muttered to the dog lying faithfully nearby.

  Rafter felt an insistent tap on his shoulder. He looked up from the microscope and saw Annie standing there. A concerned look darkened his wife’s face. “Hey, Babe, is there something wrong? You look worried.”

  Annie nodded her head. “Our guests are strange this time, Jon. They’re like the guests from hell. I think we need to refund their money and ask them to leave.”

  “Are these the two couples that rented out every room for the next two nights?”

  “They are.”

  “What are they doing that’s bothering you?”

  “They’re making all sorts of racket. I’m hearing electronic beeps every few minutes. And I thought I heard a drill, and maybe even a saw. When they arrived they didn’t bring in suitcases, just giant duffels.”

  “They do sound rather odd.”

  “Jon, I think they’re more than odd, I think they’re criminal. I recognize one of them. He showed up several days ago and asked if he could relic hunt on our grounds with his metal detector. I turned him down.” Annie started pacing. “We have to do something. They’re tearing up our house.”

  Rafter set his scalpe
l down on his palette and stood up. “Okay, let’s go talk to them.”

  At the door, Rafter stopped. He turned and hustled back to his work table. He picked up the Bertocchi painting and hung it on the wall where Cameron had removed the Jesus painting for his gallery. And then he left his art studio, shutting the door behind him, and ran after Annie.

  Chapter 5

  Holding two WG D18 Hand Held Metal Scanners in a V-shape, Arcadias stood in the Rose Room—an upstairs bedroom—and dragged the scanners along the lath and plaster wall. The scanners Arcadias operated were often used in prisons to find small metallic objects hidden by prisoners, either on their bodies or in their cells. The scanners were lightweight and easy to use. But best of all they were powerful and accurate.

  Arcadias admired the home as he worked. Ornate woodwork filled the home, as did antique furniture. Brass chandeliers hung throughout the house. Jaw-dropping artwork covered the plaster walls: some paintings, but mostly murals. Frescoes covered high ceilings. Arcadias felt like he was in an art gallery dedicated to the Renaissance period. A mural of a lush garden filled with rose bushes covered the walls in the room he worked.

  The historical mansion displayed many treasures, every room a feast for the eyes. But only one treasure called his name. And Arcadias intended to find it.

  So far the scanners hadn’t emitted a pulse in the Rose Room, except for when he got too close to a gilded-framed painting hanging by a nail. He could only assume nails were a scarcity when the original owner built the home back in the early nineteenth century, using a half timber frame construction. All the trim work he’d examined so far was constructed with wooden pegs instead of nails.

  Arcadias’ trusty Fisher F75 lay in a corner. He’d already scanned the room’s floor, finding nothing. The wooden floor planks were also fastened together with wooden pegs, for which he was glad. Nails gave off false hits. From what he could tell, the same flooring ran throughout the house. He would eventually have to go over the entire floor, but would wait until the owners turned in for the night.

  Outside the house, his brother Damien hunted the backyard with a traditional metal detector. Originally he planned to hunt for the treasure alone. But the house and grounds were simply too big to go it alone. So he enlisted the help of Damien and his girlfriend Colette, as well as his own on-and-off-again girlfriend, Iris.

  At first Colette and Iris thought they were being treated to a romantic getaway. But now that they were here, Arcadias put them to work. They worked as a team and searched one of the other six bedrooms, using scanners like his along the walls.

  A large, antique canopy bed filled the Rose Room. Sheer curtains hung from the bed’s wooden frame and fluttered in the afternoon breeze coming through a window.

  Pushing aside the canopy curtains, Arcadias climbed onto the bed and scanned the wall behind the headboard. It didn’t take long for his scanners to pulse stridently. Arcadias pulled a carpenter’s pencil from his tool belt and marked the location. He then hopped off the bed and grabbed his cordless drill equipped with a hole-cutter bit.

  He climbed atop the bed once more and drilled the spot on the wall he’d marked. Plaster dust showered onto the pillows and comforter. His heart thumped as he peered inside the cavity. His headlamp spotlighted the wall’s interior.

  But he saw only electrical wiring and Bousillage—a Spanish moss and mud mixture used to insulate houses during the antebellum period—and nothing else. Arcadias moved on. No time to pout. Keep moving, he told himself.

  Arcadias moved to the next wall. He started his scan up high near the crown molding and worked his way down, methodically working a search grid. He was halfway across the wall when Damien’s voice came across his Motorola two-way radio.

  Arcadias pulled the Motorola from his tool belt. He pushed the talk button. “Please repeat what you just said, Damien.”

  “The owners are headed your way, Arcadias. And they look mad.”

  Arcadias pushed the talk button once more on the Motorola. “You better stop what you’re doing and come inside. I’ll need your help with them.”

  “Be there in a bit, brother.”

  Arcadias switched channels on his radio and then hit the talk button again. “Iris, stop your scanning immediately. Tell Colette the same. Turn up the TV or turn on the shower and lock your door. The owners are coming.”

  Arcadias switched the channel back to his brother’s frequency and put the two-way radio back into his tool belt. He took off the bulky belt and slid it under the canopy bed along with his metal detector and scanners. He then bent down and peeled his pant leg up high enough he could reach inside his boot. He pulled out a Glock 17 side arm. He slid a clip into the bottom of the grip and pulled back the slide.

  Arcadias slid the Glock into his waistband at the small of his back. He opened the bedroom door a crack and then sat down in an overstuffed chair. He grabbed a paperback from a nearby bookcase—appropriately entitled Treasure Island—and pretended to read.

  He heard people thumping up the stairs, could hear anger in their footfalls. A confrontation loomed like storm clouds in the hurricane season. Stay calm, Arcadias. Use your charm, he told himself.

  In this portion of the house hallways didn’t exist. Upstairs bedrooms connected to each other through entry and exit doors. Each bedroom had three doors in it, one of which opened to the outside gallery. The stairs ended at a small landing. One had the choice of entering a room to their left or right.

  Voices floated toward him from the landing. The Rose Room was the first bedroom available to the right of the landing. Arcadias heard a man and a woman. He recognized the woman’s voice. It was Annie, the owner. Arcadias assumed the man accompanying her was Jon, her husband.

  A harsh series of raps sounded on the door. Arcadias took a deep breath and then exhaled. He set the paperback down and stood up. He took two steps and answered the door.

  Jon and Annie Rafter faced him. Arcadias took a brief second or two to assess his foes. Annie was a strikingly beautiful woman in her mid-thirties. Caramel-colored hair and sapphire eyes made her pleasant to look at. She appeared fit and healthy. Long legs and toned arms gave her an athletic appearance. She’s probably a runner, he thought.

  Jon stood about six feet tall. A handsome man in his early forties, Rafter’s graying hair made him look a little like George Clooney. He also appeared lean and fit. And if Arcadias could sum the man up in one word it would be: dangerous.

  Jon Rafter was indeed an oxymoron. He gave the impression of being humble and meek. Yet Arcadias knew it was only a façade. Rafter was more than just an artist. Arcadias could look into Rafter’s eyes and see there was much more to the man than just paint and brushes. The eyes were windows into a person’s soul. And Rafter’s hazel eyes belied a quiet strength and courage few others possessed.

  While planning this recovery expedition, Arcadias studied up on Jon Rafter. He had to know what he was up against. And he came across an old newspaper article of the man’s heroic exploits in the Atchafalaya Basin.

  Without any support from law enforcement, Rafter singlehandedly took out the Boudreaux clan—hardened criminals—and saved Annie and a little girl named Gabby Witherspoon from their clutches. And he performed his heroic deed during the worst hurricane to ever hit Louisiana shores.

  Be careful of this one, a voice said in Arcadias’ mind.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Charbonneau, but we’re going to have to ask you and your friends to leave. Your money will be refunded,” Jon Rafter said firmly.

  Arcadias put on a bewildered face. “I don’t understand. We just arrived not long ago.”

  “We have a behavior clause in the contract you signed. Your behavior thus far breaches the contract,” Annie said.

  “What have we done to warrant our dismissal?”

  “Your brother is scanning our backyard with a metal detector. I explicitly turned down your own request to relic hunt our grounds several days ago.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Da
mien wasn’t aware of your wishes. I’ll go tell him to stop.”

  Jon Rafter shook his head. “Annie says she’s hearing electronic beeps, and maybe even saws. I see a cordless drill lying on the bed. And I also see a large hole in the wall. Most people would call that vandalism.” Rafter took a step forward. “Gather up your stuff and leave, Mr. Charbonneau. A refund will be placed back onto your credit card. If you don’t leave peaceably, I’ll have the local police escort you off the premises.”

  Arcadias reached behind his back and pulled the Glock from his waistband. He leveled the gun at Jon Rafter. “I’m afraid I can’t agree to your terms. I paid for two nights. We’ll leave after that.”

  Arcadias watched Annie’s pretty eyes grow large. But the surprise only lasted a second before anger replaced it.

  “What is it you want?”

  “Your house holds a secret. I know what the secret is. Your property, and perhaps even your house, has been guarding a historical item for nearly two centuries. I intend to find this item over the next several hours. I wish you no harm. I am a lover of history, and I appreciate the beauty of your historical home. Rest assured, should I find the item I’m seeking, I will leave you with funds to repair any damage the home sustains.”

  “You’ll never get away with this.”

  Arcadias shrugged. “I need you to give me your cellphones. Please comply without resisting.” He watched Jon and Annie pull smart phones from their pockets. “Now, toss them into the room behind me.”

  They obeyed. The phones clattered onto the hardwood floor.

  Damien sidled up behind the Rafters. He looked questioningly at the Glock in Arcadias’ hand. “I thought guns were a last resort.”

  “They were going to the police. I had to persuade them not to,” Arcadias said calmly. He looked at Jon and Annie. The man and wife didn’t look fearful at all, just spitting mad. Arcadias turned his attention back to Damien. “Do you have any ideas where we can put them? It needs to be someplace where they’ll be out of our way, and where we won’t have to worry about them getting loose.”