“This priceless treasure isn’t going into some evidence locker!” Harold cried. “Are you crazy?”
Watching him, something about his demeanor bothered me. It wasn’t his words, because he was obviously correct. You couldn’t store a priceless ancient artifact at a police station—and Ortiz knew it too. That wasn’t what she was saying.
There was just something about his energy, his agitation level, his over-the-top arrogance that felt off somehow. Finally, I realized what it was: his eyes. In an instant, I recognized something all too familiar, a look I used to call, back in my drug days, “the sweet almost.” In rehab, they referred to it as “the anticipatory surge of dopamine.” Either way, I knew it when I saw it.
And I was seeing it now in Harold. His eyes had the look of a junkie just before a fix—the heroin user as he’s thumping for a vein, or the meth head as she heats the pipe. It was the look some had while watching the ball spin at a roulette table or unwrapping a chocolate bar or stepping into a shopping mall. It was the crazed gleam of addiction, plain and simple.
But addiction to what?
To viewing precious artifacts?
To touching them?
To restoring them?
Whatever it was, Harold Underwood needed something in this moment no less strongly than any addict needed his next high. The display was unsettling, especially considering that he was only here as a consultant. It wasn’t as though the item in question was going to end up as a part of his own collection.
It struck me that maybe I was making this more complicated than it needed to be. As their argument dragged on, I turned my attention to Renee and gestured toward the door. Eyes narrowing, she nodded in return.
“So what’s up with him?” I asked as I stepped into the hot, muggy afternoon air and pulled the door closed behind me.
“I don’t know. I guess he’s just excited.”
“That’s not excited. That’s frantic.”
“I’m sure he’ll calm down once we’re in the lab, where things are more controlled.”
“I don’t know, Renee. I have to be honest. His behavior in there right now? He’s exhibiting all the signs of an addict.”
“What?” she cried with a laugh. “Yeah, right.”
I put a hand on her arm and looked her in the eye. “I’m not kidding. I think Harold’s using, and he’s right on the verge of his next hit. Whatever he’s on, he’s about to be impaired. I don’t want that man walking out of here with the manuscript.”
Renee studied me for a long moment. “All right. I don’t see it, and I don’t want to believe it, but I trust you. What do you think we should do?”
My heart gave a thud at my cousin’s words. I trust you. Who could have guessed I would ever hear her say that?
“Just follow my lead.”
As we stepped back inside, it was obvious the situation had escalated.
“Fine!” Harold snapped, his face red with anger. “If that’s how you want to handle it, then I don’t want anything to do with this. I’m out of here.”
With that, he stepped around to the back of the case, swung open the door, and reached inside. We could hear Velcro crackling free as he seemed to be undoing the straps he’d used to secure the bundle, followed by the sound of rustling fabric. Finally, with far less careful movements than before, he pulled out not the package but the contents from inside it, a bound stack of tattered and disintegrated parchment pages.
The illuminated manuscript.
Renee and Blake both cried out, but he just ignored them, set the ancient book on the table, and slammed the door of the case shut again.
“Let me know how things turn out,” he snapped. “Or maybe I should say, let me know how badly you manage to ruin your priceless little treasure.”
With that, he picked up the carrier, grabbed his other things, and headed for the door. I made a point of getting in his way as he tried to brush past. He hesitated for a moment, gave me a glare, and then sidestepped around me and kept walking.
Once he was gone, we gave a collective exhale, looking around at each other as if to say, What just happened here? Then everyone started talking at once—everyone except me. My mind was too busy trying to understand something.
The issue, again, was Harold’s eyes. As he’d tried to get past me just now, I could clearly see that there’d been a change. The crazed look of an addict prior to a hit had been replaced with the satisfied, hopped-up gleam of the active user. Whatever drug he’d been craving before, he’d somehow managed to get it.
“Did he ever leave this room while he was here?” I asked.
They all looked at me as if I were nuts, but Blake and Ortiz both answered no. Then they went back to what they were doing, trying to find an expert who could take Harold’s place so that the matter could proceed.
As Blake studied his iPad and Ortiz tapped at her phone, I moved over to the table to get a closer look at the manuscript. I peered at it, thinking, until I figured out what Harold’s “fix” must have been: the real manuscript.
This one was a fake.
“What’s wrong?” Renee stepped closer.
I looked up at her, my eyes wide. “You took pictures of the bundle earlier, once it was in the cooler, right?
She nodded.
“Did you text any of those photos to Harold before he got here?”
“Yeah, he said he needed as many as I had, plus the approximate dimensions and weight and stuff, so he’d be sure to bring the right equipment.”
Meeting my cousin’s eyes, I said, “I’m afraid equipment had nothing to do with it.”
Rising, I cleared my throat and addressed the group. “Um, people? Big news. This isn’t the manuscript. It’s a fake. Harold pulled a switch on us. The real manuscript walked out that door in his carrying case.”
Of course, the room erupted into pandemonium, Blake readying to go tackle Harold, Ortiz stopping him and whipping out her radio, Renee trying to figure out how he had pulled it off. Before they could panic too much, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a set of car keys, which I dangled from one finger.
“I’m sure he hasn’t gotten too far without these.”
“What?” Renee cried. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because Harold’s an addict, and by the time he left this room, he’d gotten his fix. It was plain as day on his face.” With a mischievous grin, I added, “What can I say? Friends don’t let friends drive while intoxicated.”
Ortiz and Blake both took off out the door in hot pursuit of Harold, who was probably still standing at his car, digging through his bags and pockets in a desperate search for the keys he just knew were there somewhere.
I was about to follow when Renee grabbed a pen and some paper from the kitchen drawer and started madly sketching.
“I know how he did it,” she said finally, looking at me. “I’ve been to his lab and have seen the stacks of old documents that have accumulated there, too ruined by time to be of any real value but still too important to destroy. There must be hundreds of them. Once I called him and sent the info, all Harold had to do was dig through those piles until he found a document that could pass as an ancient Hebrew illuminated manuscript and then hide it in the bottom of his carrier. Remember how he insisted we all stand on that side of the table? That’s because he didn’t want us to see into the carrier and realize that there was already something in there.”
She flipped around her drawing and pointed as she explained. “He slipped the tray with the real bundle into the track and secured it inside, but then when he gave the bundle back to us, he pulled out the fake one from underneath.” Her expression grave, she added, “He probably didn’t having anything on hand similar to the tar-coated canvas, so that’s why he pretended to unwrap it first before he pulled it back out minus the covering. He argued with Ortiz on purpose, specifically so that he could leave the wrong one behind and storm out of here with the real bundle, unbeknownst to anyone but him.”
The two of us
went to see what was happening, and my mind raced as we walked. I thought of Aunt Cissy’s words from earlier in the summer, about how some people wanted to own a piece of history whether they could share it with others or not. Was that Harold’s driving need, to own pieces of history? To possess them, even if in secret?
Suddenly, I thought of his brother, the criminal, the artist talented enough to engrave plates used for manufacturing money. But money wasn’t the only thing that could be counterfeited. Documents of all kinds—letters and journals and pamphlets and so much more—could be re-created convincingly if someone knew what they were doing.
What if, I wondered, Harold occasionally used his credentials to get people to hand over their most precious antique documents for authentication? Then, while the items were in his possession, his talented brother would create exact copies, counterfeit versions, and that’s what Harold gave back to the owners when he was done, along with his authentication.
It could work. As long as the owner didn’t seek a second opinion, they might go years without realizing they’d been duped. And in the meantime, Harold could slowly amass a collection of authentic, priceless, diaspora-related materials to love and treasure and possess—even if he had to keep it secret, even if it was something he could never share.
From the look in his eyes earlier, it was obvious now that he had to have this manuscript in his possession, just like an addict—and that he might do anything to make that happen.
As we rounded the garage, I thought of his history, his childhood, and it was easy to see the origins of such an addiction—not that that excused it. But I did understand it. I knew what could happen to a person when they were emotionally wounded at a young age and how that might create a need to numb the pain. I’d found my relief in drugs.
Coming upon the scene now, I just knew that his relief came from secretly acquiring and hoarding the relics of diaspora. The man who’d been forcibly removed from his home as a child found solace as an adult in accumulating the irrefutable evidence of the same travesty having been visited upon others.
Harold Underwood hadn’t been an innocent pawn of his brother all those years ago. He’d been an active and willing participant, a criminal in his own right who’d been able to hide his nefarious activities under the veneer of a respected scholar. And it had worked too. The short, stout, balding little professor-type had seemed harmless and innocent to everyone—including the Secret Service. But there was nothing innocent about him.
That was obvious the moment we stepped past the garage and caught sight of the scene taking place in the driveway. Ortiz had Harold handcuffed and up against the car, her officers hovering at the ready nearby. On the lawn stood everyone who’d come out from the main house, though Danielle and Maddee gravitated back over to our side as soon as they saw us. We four stood there together, watching, astounded, as Dr. Harold Underwood was taken into police custody for the attempted theft of the priceless illuminated manuscript.
As Ortiz was walking him to the back of the police car, he glanced our way and then froze, sheer hatred radiating from his face.
“You stupid girls. If you just hadn’t come to the cabin that day, I—” He stopped short, catching himself, suddenly looking like the proverbial deer in the headlights.
In that instant, we knew, as did Ortiz. Eyes wide, she gripped the man more firmly and said, “Guess what, Harold? You just became our primary person of interest in the murder of Taavi Koenig.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Therese
A week later, after Therese and Michael declared their love for each other, the Union Army collected the Northern soldiers from River Pines and transferred them to Washington. Two weeks after that, the Huguenot Springs Hospital was able to take the rest of the Confederate soldiers.
Sadly, when Rabbi Elias Koenig returned from the fighting and finally came to retrieve his manuscript, Michael’s father had to tell him the bad news about Mr. Porter and how the fellow had taken advantage of his position as a handyman to raid the family’s safe, stealing several highly valuable items from inside, including the illuminated manuscript. The Talbots never even noticed anything was gone until the day the sheriff showed up, saying they’d caught a local criminal trying to sell a fancy ring someone recognized as having belonged to the Talbots. The sheriff managed to recover that plus a few other things that had been taken, but the manuscript had not been among them, and the fence denied ever having seen it or hearing anything about it. Thus, the illuminated manuscript that had already been stolen, sold, confiscated, bought, and brought all the way back home from France had now been stolen again.
The poor rabbi seemed heartbroken, though he didn’t blame the Talbots. “Clearly,” he said, “it is the will of HaShem that this book find a different home.”
In other sad news, they learned that Box Tree Male Academy had been destroyed by fire and that the cottage had been taken over by soldiers and then also burned. All those books and papers of Father’s that Mother insisted they leave behind were gone. However, Therese still had Rose O’Neal Greenhow’s memoir. Even though she didn’t agree with the woman’s loyalties, God had used the book to give Therese courage to do the right thing. It would forever be a reminder of the work Polly, Michael, and she had done. In light of their safety however, they wouldn’t ever share their own stories with others.
The first Saturday in June, Therese and Michael were married in a ceremony on the porch of the house at River Pines, where they would live, with only their families in attendance. Mother was thrilled to have Therese staying in Virginia, especially since her health had been declining since Warner passed. At first Therese believed it was grief, but soon after the wedding, as her cough grew worse, Polly diagnosed it as consumption.
By winter it was obvious Mother was dying. Therese and Polly did their best to care for her, but she joined Warner and Father on the other side in late February. But instead of being buried at River Pines, Mother had requested she be laid to rest beside Father in the churchyard cemetery. Therese found the gesture comforting. Mother seemed to have at last reconciled her fears. Love seemed to have won.
Therese had been fully embraced by the Talbot family, and she thanked God every day for their love and care. In April, Therese delivered her first baby, a girl. Michael insisted they name her Willa, in memory of Therese’s father.
Polly cared for Therese and the baby into the early summer but then left to work in the hospital in New York, the position secured for her by Ruth. Auntie Vera went with her and then continued on to Maine, to Aggie and Badan and their baby boy. Michael worked nearly every day with his father and brother, Lance, at the Talbot paper mill on the James, and eventually they would be able to give Old Joe a job there as well. For now, the former slave was busy working alongside a couple of hired hands and doing his best to try to turn River Pines around. But the needed work was more than they could possibly manage.
In mid-August, while fireflies flitted around on the edge of the woods, Therese and Michael strolled along the banks of the James River. Michael carried their baby girl in his arms as the trees of River Pines swayed in the slight breeze to the south of them. They talked about the estate and what should be done about it.
“The old house is falling apart,” Therese said, her right hand around the locket hanging from her neck, with the tintypes of her parents, and her other hand carrying a lantern. “Old Joe does his best, but the roof is leaking, and he found another crack in the foundation yesterday. And the hired hands can’t seem to get anything to grow. Soon the woods will take over the entire property. Maybe we should sell it.”
Michael shook his head. “No one local has the money to buy property right now. Besides, I don’t think it’s a bad thing if the woods do take over. We might as well use our own trees—the pines and firs and other softwoods—to help make paper. I’ll figure out the best way to manage and harvest them.”
“What about the house?” Although River Pines was the only home Therese had now, and
she definitely felt more comfortable on the property than she had as a child, she didn’t feel connected to it the way she had to Box Tree Male Academy. “Considering its history, shouldn’t we try to sell it?”
Michael shook his head. “Don’t you see? By staying, we’re redeeming this place. Bit by bit. Maybe someday we’ll build a new house, on a different part of the property altogether, or our children will. That will be our legacy.” He lifted the baby into the air. Willa giggled as he did. “Just as your father left you and me a legacy, we’ll leave one for our daughter and all of our future children. One of dignity and respect and faith, and, God willing, this property and the mill and the print shop.” He pulled the baby close. “And we’ll pray they’ll pass the same legacy down to their children and their children’s children.”
Therese thought of the Box Tree Male Academy and the joy it had brought her. She wanted that for her children and someday her grandchildren. She leaned her head against Michael’s shoulder and whispered, “Amen.”
She hadn’t yet told him another baby was on the way. That their legacy was already growing bigger, that her desire for a large family was one step closer. That in time, this new branch of the Talbot family would be as strong and sturdy as the branches that had come before.
She exhaled, putting the trauma of the war another small step behind her. Father used to say that faith wasn’t a fix. Instead, he explained, it “helps us acknowledge our Creator as we trust Him to guide us through both the good and the bad.” Funny how the good and the bad were often woven together. That was how her time in Richmond had seemed. She’d never endured such hardship, and yet she’d learned to draw on God’s strength. She’d been tested and found that courage meant simply doing the right thing. She vowed to continue living that way, speaking up for those without a voice as she created a legacy that would impact generations to come.
My Daughter's Legacy Page 38
