“This morning, after I brought him the newspaper. Sort of cryptic, if you ask me. He told me “Give it to Dee Parker when she comes by to see me this afternoon.” And just when I’m wondering why he doesn’t do it himself, he slipped me twenty bucks.”
“He paid money for you to give it to me?”
“He paid me to keep quiet about all his lists. Twenty dollars each so I wouldn’t hand them over to the psychiatric department for screening. Not much in this economy, but I did it mostly as a favor because of his phobia.”
“What phobia?”
“Always worrying they won’t let him have what’s on them. Which they wouldn’t. Cigars and good whiskey are definitely not OK around here. But in my opinion? A man that old ought to be able to smoke or drink anything he wants, if it makes him feel better. He isn’t going to live long enough for it to kill him anyway.”
“So it was a favor, but you still took the money.”
“Hey, this job only pays minimum wage. But where he got all that money we’ll never know, because they don’t let the patients keep any. Especially on this floor. He was a crafty one, though. This was the first time he ever asked me to deliver one of those lists to somebody. That’s probably why he gave me the extra. Then—not two hours later—his heart stopped. Spooky. It was almost like he knew it was going to happen.”
Slow apprehension crept over Dee at the words, accentuated by the vibration beneath their feet as the elevator lumbered its way back down. As long as the aide was giving up information, she’d better continue to press. “What exactly went on back there—do you know?”
The girl shook her head and a fresh waft of jasmine released itself from the straight dark hair. “Beats me. I’m never allowed in the rooms during an emergency. Half of them on that floor I can’t go into at all.”
They finally stopped, and as Dee stepped out, she noticed open-toed sandals instead of the more common, comfort support shoes people who spent most of the day on their feet normally wore. And lavender-painted toenails.
“Jennifer, wasn’t it?” She turned back for another look before the doors closed.
The expression she caught on the girl’s face was one of irritation, but it dissolved quickly into a well-practiced smile.
“Well, thanks for everything, Jennifer.”
Once inside her own little red car, Dee snatched off her hat and tossed it onto the back seat, letting loose a cascade of honey-colored curls. She retrieved the envelope from her purse, glanced once around the nearby cars in the crowded parking lot to ensure no one had followed her, and tore it open.
It was Peterson’s handwriting, all right, but what she saw made her gasp in disbelief and cast another cautious glance around…
Box 127
It’s all yours.
Nels.
“The wealth of the wicked is laid up for the just…”
Her heart began to pound. Something had definitely gone wrong, and he’d seen it coming. But why hadn’t he called her? That’s what the emergency cell phone she gave him was for. She would have been here within an hour—with police. This was so shocking and final. Had he sacrificed himself? All hers? She had only known the man a few weeks. He couldn’t possibly mean that.
But what if he did?
The thought gave her an eerie, tingly sensation all over. All of everything? Why, if that was true…she could be wealthy beyond…of course, she shouldn’t take it. Couldn’t even think about it, because…because…well, because why? “The wealth of the wicked is laid up for the just…” was a verse of Scripture. She wasn’t exactly sure where in the Bible it was, but she recognized it just the same. Maybe the Lord was trying to tell her something. Only it didn’t feel quite right, somehow.
Then again, everything had felt strange today. So incredibly sad. Lonely, old Peterson…dead. Well. What now? She would have to look into his cause of death. Personal involvement aside, it was her job to look into it. Any good reporter would. She’d bet money Nellie Bly would have done so. That woman was fearless. Especially where any foul play was going on. Well, there was definitely more than a little of it going on here.
Didn’t necessarily mean she was going to accept anything.
3
Tempted
“If there is anyone who can ferret out a mystery it is a reporter.” ~ Nellie Bly
As Dee groped for logical reasons why she should let Peterson’s whole sordid secret die right along with him she began thinking about what kind of good his money, if it existed at all, could accomplish.
Hadn’t she been praying for answers? More importantly, hadn’t she been praying all her life to be able to do big things? And now that the opportunity was here, was she going to say, “Excuse me, God, but I didn’t mean this big?”
This was big.
Her missionary father always said it took integrity to handle large amounts of money. Well, she was the daughter of integrity. Not once had she ever known him to be tempted by the tremendous sums of money that passed through his hands. Though their own lifestyle was extremely modest, her father had made them feel rich in other things. The kind of things she still valued more than money.
Surely, then, if the Lord moved someone into a position like this, it could only mean one thing. This could very well be her “Divine assignment.” The one she had been waiting all her life for.
Divine assignment or a deadly detour.
The only way to find out which one, was to proceed with caution. Wait for a confirmation. Because (to be honest) at the moment the situation seemed more like a temptation in the wilderness than promotion to a higher calling. Not to mention she couldn’t exactly picture herself standing up in the middle of the church congregation to announce she felt led to quit work and spend the rest of her life wealthy beyond belief. Funded by an ex-criminal.
Her poor mother would faint. She had a hard enough time thinking anything good could come out of a decent Christian woman taking a reporter job like this in the first place. And why couldn’t she be like her brothers and do missionary work—that was exciting wasn’t it? Not enough, obviously, since she had been doing that since she was fifteen. Which would always lead to the where-had-she-gone-wrong discussion, and the why-can’t-you-settle-down-and-get-married sequel.
No, she couldn’t discuss this with her parents yet. They simply wouldn’t understand.
Instead, she would wait until the right thing to do became clear to her. And she would do nothing in a hurry, either. This was a time to proceed with caution and find out what these warning signals going off in her spirit really were.
There was every possibility that Nelson Peterson was as loony as everyone said he was. What then? Maybe he hadn’t meant a word about repenting of his sins and turning over a new leaf that day they had prayed together. After all, a person had to do something very serious to get themselves committed to a mental institution in the first place. So something was definitely off here.
Maybe even way off. Which meant the secret had to be kept long enough to prove its validity. One way or the other.
She wasn’t an investigative journalist for nothing. She would keep doing her job the best way she knew how, until she eventually got to the truth of it all. For poor old Peterson, if nothing else. And for her own peace of mind, too. Yes, she felt a little better now. Bottom line? Nothing hasty.
Dee took a deep breath to calm down, slipped the key into the ignition, and started the engine. She backed out of the parking space with a firm new resolve, drove past tiny islands of manicured lawn with dwarfed trees, and headed toward the gated exit. Thank heavens it was Friday. She could pray and mull this thing over all weekend, if she had to. All weekend…
But couldn’t a person get to that little town on the Oregon coast and back in a weekend? That’s what Nels had told her. And that’s all it would take for her to figure this thing out. The treasure was either there or it wasn’t. If it wasn’t, all speculation would be over. Back to Monday morning, as usual. Finished. But if it was there…well,
there would be plenty of time to think about that if the time came.
That Pandora’s “box” had not been disturbed for well over five years, so it certainly didn’t need to be opened within the next five minutes. That’s saying she could even open it at all. There was still every possibility that Nelson Peterson was the champion liar of the century, too.
But what if he wasn’t?
She better leave tomorrow morning. She might even see if her friend, Marion, could come along to keep her company on the long drive. Not to mention there was safety in numbers. She needed a good excuse to get out of that dingy basement apartment of hers anyway.
Brooding was not good for anybody, no matter what kind of terrible experiences they had gone through. As a matter of fact, a “mission” like this might be just the ticket to snap her out of that despondency that moved in on her like a cloud this time of year, since her husband had died of a heart attack on the first day of an anniversary cruise.
And maybe Dee just wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’d pack some things and show up on Marion’s doorstep tomorrow morning ready for a drive to the coast.
By the time she pulled into the narrow garage next to her condo, she had made up her mind. She went in through the back entrance as the garage door was closing behind her and was met by the soothing strains of a Mozart concerto. The kitchen lights and stereo were hooked up to a switch that coincided with her garage door opener. Having been raised in a constant crowd of people, she found it so much more pleasant to come home to lights and music rather than dark emptiness. One had to make the best of living alone.
Kicking off the fancy heels she had bought expressly for visiting days at Wyngate (if one was going to play the role of a charity-minded member of the upper class, they should at least dress the part), she breezed through the kitchen and automatically turned the burner on under a shiny copper teakettle as she passed it. Then she went straight for the hall closet on the other side of the living room to get a duffel bag off the top shelf. Too high to reach without standing on a chair, though. So back she went to drag one over from the dining area.
All before she noticed the man in the room.
“Hello, Dee,” he said sheepishly from the doorway of her study. “I’m afraid you caught me snooping.”
“Why—Scotty! What on earth?”
Her friend and co-worker who seldom had a black curl out of place (or came to work in anything less than some expensive name-brand suit) looked unusually rumpled at the moment. No tie or jacket. His yellow shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and the sleeves rolled up. He avoided her accusing glare and sat down heavily on her suede couch.
“Well? This better be good!” She watched him take a folded handkerchief from his pocket and dab at a few beads of sweat on his forehead.
“It isn’t.” He still didn’t look at her. “I know you’ve been onto something bigger than Peterson’s legendary fortune, that’s all. I wanted to find out what.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Simple as that.”
“So why couldn’t you just ask me?” Dee moved over to the stereo and turned it down.
He sat forward to pick up a copy of National Geographic that was lying on the coffee table in front of him and then thumped it down again. “I put you onto the biggest scoop of the year and you don’t even confide in me! Why can’t you confide in me?”
“Confide in you…on the basis of what? You can’t confide in someone who has no scruples about doing something illegal just to get information from people. You broke and entered, for heaven’s sake! Of all the unethical—”
“Well, it’s hardly breaking and entering when someone gives you their key.” The look he turned on her then reminded her of a whining child, accentuated by the too perfect black curls above luminous eyes and the boyishly smooth skin. “I thought we had an understanding.”
“What, because I let you stay here when you were having your house painted while I was on vacation last summer? I was just being polite.” She would have laughed at the absurdity except that he looked dead serious. “I distinctly remember you giving the key back.”
“I got a duplicate.”
Dee felt a flush of anger at the admission and turned away to keep it to herself.
“Ahhh,” he crooned. “Tchaikovsky on a Friday afternoon. How appropriate.”
“It isn’t Tchaikovsky. That was a sneaking, disrespectful thing to do, Scotty—I won’t have it! And I want my key back.”
“I don’t blame you.” He reached into his pocket and tossed it onto the coffee table. “I’m ashamed of myself, and I apologize.”
The teakettle began to whistle, and as she started toward the kitchen, Dee could feel his eyes following. “You’re just sorry I came back early and found you here.” She shuffled through a basket of tea bags and dropped one into a cup without bothering to read what kind it was. “You want to know why I came back early, Scott?”
“A minute ago it was Scotty. I already told you I was ashamed of myself. Doesn’t that merit me at least a little of that soul-cleansing forgiveness you dole out to everyone else?” Now his tone was sarcastic. “We all go a little crazy over the yearly office competitions. You won it two years in a row. Maybe I want another turn at one of those travel cruises they hand out.”
She returned to the kitchen doorway and stared at him. “I thought you didn’t like boats,” she said carefully. “Besides, you tossed me Wyngate because…how did you put it? You were too busy with that high-profile criminal trial to take time for any “local human interest” story. Or did you expect me to do all the footwork, so you could—”
“I couldn’t get close enough to that old man to do any footwork!” he snapped suddenly. “Did he tell you anything or didn’t he? He’s fallen under that spell of yours, I know that much. What are you waiting for? Just ask him to—”
“He died a couple hours ago, Scott. And let me tell you something, I—”
For the briefest moment he looked utterly stricken. But he recovered so quick, Dee thought she must have misread the response.
“Do you know what that means? These are dangerous people you’re fooling with! You can’t waltz in and take down the whole lot of them with one old man’s confession and a desperate prayer!”
“Scott Evans, you’ve been reading my files!”
“It was an act, don’t you see that? He was desperate, and the coward was trying to use you to get him out of that asylum.”
“It is not cowardly to want out of a desperate situation. Just wait till it happens to you someday.”
“I don’t let things like that happen to me. I look out for myself.”
“Nobody can take care of themselves all the time, that’s the point.”
“You can if you look far enough ahead. And what I see ahead now…” He rose to pace the floor. “Is you’ve got to kill that story.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. It’s too risky to turn any of that stuff in.”
“I already did.”
He stopped suddenly, swore, and turned around to glare at her. “Why couldn’t you just mind your own business and stick with the missing fortune angle?”
“Maybe because I was raised to speak up whenever I see things going on that aren’t right. We’re reporters, Scott, remember? And, like you’ve been telling me for the last five years, investigation is part of the job.”
“You were supposed to investigate diamonds! Not some farfetched allegations of a smuggling ring for donor organs!”
“They aren’t farfetched.”
“Your only way out now, is to say it was just some old man’s demented delusion. Better yet, don’t say anything. When did you turn it in?”
“This afternoon before I left the office. Devlin hasn’t read it yet, or I’d have heard from him by now.”
“Maybe there’s still time to go get it back, then.”
“I doubt it.” Dee didn’t mention she had already told everything to the police. “Devlin said he was goin
g to run the first segment Friday and the other two the following weekends.”
“Well, if he does, you’ve killed us both!”
“What?” She closed her eyes and shook her head at this new absurdity.
“I hate it when you do that.” It was a chilling tone, and in all the years they had worked together, she had never heard him talk like that.
“Then you mind your business for a change. Nobody knows you gave me the lead, I didn’t mention it to anybody. If there’s trouble, it’ll be my trouble. This is the first significant story I’ve covered since I came to the Columbia Herald! I can’t kill it. It’s too important. A lot more important than just entertaining the public with a speculative account of where some lonely old man hid some jewels.”
“Not just jewels. Stolen off some Russian royalty and they’re worth millions now. Anyone who could legally claim them is dead.” He returned to the couch and picked up the suit jacket he must have folded neatly and laid over the arm earlier.
Dee watched him put it on. “A man’s entitled to do what he wants with what belongs to him, Scott. No matter how old he is or where it is in the world.”
“Is that what he told you? That they belonged to him? You probably fell for that ‘get me out of here and I’ll share it with you’ stuff, too.”
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have turned the story in.”
Scott walked to the door. “In my opinion?” He opened it and turned back to her for a moment. “That’s exactly what the self-righteous, uncompromising, D.J. Parker would do.” He started across the porch.
In my opinion. She had already heard that phrase once today. “Don’t you dare try to talk Devlin out of this!” she warned. “Do you hear me, Scott? Because you don’t know half what I’d do if—”
“Yeah, my mistake was in only knowing half.” He crossed her short stretch of lawn. His car was parked nearly a block away. “Last thing I need to worry about, right now, is you sticking my neck out for me.”
The Pandora Box Page 2
