A Sparkle of Silver

by Liz Johnson

  He sucked in a sharp breath, but Millie didn’t give him time to digest the information. This wasn’t a performance with perfectly delivered lines.

  “I asked her who her dad was, and she laughed a little. It definitely wasn’t Henry, the man Ruth married. But Grandma Joy didn’t seem to know. She kept saying that there was more than treasure buried at the Chateau. She said the truth would be there too.”

  “And that’s when she told you about the diary.” He didn’t actually ask a question, but she nodded anyway.

  “Grandma Joy was born in April of 1930, so it doesn’t take much math to put it together. Ruth must have been with Joy’s father that summer, the summer she was at the Chateau.”

  He crossed his arms and took a step back. “And you hoped it was Devereaux?”

  “No!” She shook her head hard. “I mean, I do. But I didn’t even know he was there that summer until after Grandma Joy told me about the diary. I had no idea who it might be. But I knew there were wealthy guests at the estate.”

  “And now that you have letters to her from Claude Devereaux, filled with bad poetry and offering a role in one of his upcoming radio productions?”

  “What?” She jumped to her feet and reached for the letter he’d only skimmed. “He was going to give her a job?”

  Letting go of the slip of paper, he watched as her eyes devoured every word, every detail. “What does her diary actually say? How close was their relationship?”

  She looked back up, and even in the gray room, he could see the pink flames licking at her neck.

  “Close. He . . . he’s the one who pulled her into that alcove to kiss her.”

  Naturally. He knew that had been a romantic rendezvous. He just hadn’t guessed that it involved a poor girl from central Georgia and a man whose family could swim in their millions a la Scrooge McDuck.

  “That one kiss—that’s a pretty thin connection. And a big leap to having a child out of wedlock.”

  She cringed, but she had to know.

  “Devereaux never married a woman named Ruth. He managed to keep his radio empire afloat during the Depression, and then he married a Rockefeller cousin. That’s historical fact.”

  He should punch himself. Not for telling the truth but for enjoying it quite so much. He hated that he took even an ounce of pleasure in watching the light in her eyes dim.

  “I know they weren’t married.” A muscle in her jaw jumped, and she wrapped her arms around her middle, beginning to collapse on herself. “I know I’m not a legitimate heir. Ruth would have clung to that name for her whole life. There’s no way Joy would have become a Jefferson if she didn’t have to be.”

  “Then why put everything on the line looking for that connection?”

  “Because even being an illegitimate heir might be enough to provide for my grandma.”

  And there it was. The whole truth. Everything she’d done had been for Joy—just like the note on her fridge said. For Joy, who had put her life on hold to care for a little girl. It was Millie’s turn to repay the sacrifice.

  And God help him, he wanted to help her. He had plenty of other wrongs to right and no time to waste on a ridiculous chase—first a treasure they had no claim to, and now a heritage that she couldn’t rightfully call her own. Apparently it didn’t matter.

  “Let’s get the letters.” He snatched them out of her hand and shoved them back in the box. He slammed the lid back on it, not really sure if he was angrier with her for keeping all of this from him for so long, or with himself for so quickly deciding he’d let it go. He wanted to hold on to at least a glimmer of annoyance. After all, he’d managed to despise his mother for years.

  So why was Millie so different? She hadn’t exactly lied to him. Neither had his mother.

  Still, Millie should have told him what she was really after. She should have let him decide if he wanted to be caught up in all of that.

  Millie looked from the box in his arms to his face and back again as he stood. “What? What are you doing?”

  “Sam said we could take them. They might have information about Ruth and Claude, right?” He nearly spit the words over his shoulder as he marched a winding path through the attic.

  “Y’all doing okay up there?”

  Speaking of Sam, there she was. Within earshot, and probably curious to boot why two strangers had spent more than an hour in her attic.

  “We’re on our way down,” he called, moving to the top of the ladder. Turning back to Millie, he lowered his voice. “This time we’re going to split up the reading responsibilities, and you’re going to tell me everything.”

  “So you’re still with me?”

  Narrowing his gaze on her, he adjusted the box in his arms before letting out a soft sigh. “I’ve done some stupid things in my life, and this may be one of them, but I’m with you until we find that treasure.”

  August 12, 1929

  My dearest Ruth,

  I have been distraught without you this past week. Atlanta holds no comparison to your beauty, and I long to return to the Chateau, to your side. I yearn to hold you in my arms once again, to press my lips to yours.

  I know you would tell me not to say such things, but I must. For I feel them so fully that I fear they will consume me mind, body, and soul. I hope that they do.

  As I walked from the studio to my hotel room tonight, I saw a star in the heavens that could only offer a fraction of your beauty. I sat on a park bench to stare at it but managed only to think of you. These lines came to my mind.

  How I miss her skin so fair

  And silken hair.

  She is brighter than the moon,

  Her song lovelier than the loon.

  I am hers,

  Like the cat that purrs.

  She has the sweetest kiss,

  It is she that I miss.

  I am very busy at the studio here. There is much to be done to launch the new production. My friend Orson warned me of such things, but I foolishly thought that I could spend most of my summer at the Chateau and trust my staff to have everything in place. They are working hard, but they do not have my vision. I suppose that is why I am in charge. Also, it is because I have put up the money to get the production begun.

  We are nearly ready, and I wish I had a woman of your talents on set. But the others are under contract, and there is nothing to be done until the next production, or until the writers write a new character. She will be lovely and have the sweetest smile in the world. Would you like that, my dear?

  I will be back to the Chateau soon, and you will be the first person I seek out. When I do, I hope to have good news and an important question to ask you.

  Yours completely,

  Claude D.

  August 12, 1929

  Miss Holiday,

  Perhaps my letter is no less improper than taking you on a picnic or walking with you around the house, but I must check on you. Since we discovered Miss Abernathy under that tree, you have not been yourself. Your smile is a mere ghost of what it can be. You seem quite unwell.

  It would be an honor to offer my services to you. I know of a distraction that might take your mind off the shock of what you saw. You need only call on me.

  George

  August 14, 1929

  Miss Holiday,

  Your thanks is not required. I only wish to see your joy restored, and I knew that a trip to the southern creek and the opportunity to put your feet in the water there might help you find a moment of peace, as it has for me. There is such a restorative quality in the sound of the water bubbling back out to the sea.

  I am ever your friend. And as your friend, I must tell you the truth. You asked me on our walk down to the beach what I think of Mr. Devereaux. You must know that we see very different sides of him.

  Quite honestly, I neither like nor trust the man. He is too polished among your people and quite the opposite among the staff. The maids talk of him wandering below stairs after having far too much to drink. I have no proof of it, but
I believe that Jenny might have been accused and dismissed for reasons completely unrelated to the things stolen in the big house.

  This is no indictment on you or anyone else in the house. But I cannot in good conscience encourage you to continue a relationship with him.

  I remain ever yours.

  G

  thirteen

  Jumper! Jumper! He’s coming over the south fence. This is not a drill. All hands to the south lawn.”

  Ben clenched his jaw until he thought his teeth might crack, but he still managed to run. Pressing his walkie-talkie to his cheek, he responded to the call from the security office. “I’m on my way.” He was panting already, his chest heaving just to snatch a breath from the evening air. Or maybe it was the sudden thundering in his chest that kept his lungs from doing their job.

  He wasn’t supposed to do this. He was a historian, a reader of books, a studier of the past. He was not a chaser of kids who thought it would be a good idea to trespass on private museum property ten minutes before closing time.

  The house was ablaze in all of its nighttime glory, golden lights lending their glow to the monstrous silhouette. The arches of the front portico were filled with potted palm trees, and he fell off the cement path in an attempt to dodge one.

  The final tour of the night was just wrapping up, and the entrance had long since been abandoned. If the jumper was headed his way, he hadn’t made it very far.

  As he rounded the last corner of the building and turned into the south lawn with its palms blowing in the wind, he spotted the lone figure. While he was little more than a shadow, one thing was clear. This wasn’t a kid. This was a fully grown man—all five and a half feet of his height and nearly that much around his middle.

  The man swung a long metal rod from his hand, and for a moment Ben thought it was a cane. But that would have been some feat to climb the wall—even with the aid of a ladder—and need help to walk. Then the man swooped the rod along the grass in rotating circles, and Ben’s stomach clenched.

  It was a metal detector. This man was looking for something buried on the grounds.

  The man looked up, straight at Ben, and he swore a single word that fully expressed the situation. He looked as surprised to see Ben as he was to be seen.

  “Well, I figured you’d all be gone by now.” There was a note of disappointment in the man’s words, and Ben knew how he felt. He’d taken this job in part because the pay was relatively good and in part because they’d promised him that no one had tried to break into the Chateau in twenty years. It was revered and respected by the locals, and no one was interested in defacing the property or barging into the grounds.

  It didn’t hurt that most of the locals were senior citizens, their hooligan years long since gone. And the visiting youngsters looking to carouse on their spring breaks could find better bars and more trouble in Brunswick on the mainland.

  Even this time of year, the island was filled with tourist families who didn’t trouble the locals much. Which made what he was seeing at the moment a little hard to believe.

  The man had to be at least sixty, and his hair was more silver than black. It reflected the moon as he hung his head and jammed the toe of his black sandal into the ground.

  “I thought your last tour was at eight.” His tone suggested that Ben had personally lied to him.

  Ben nodded slowly, shining his flashlight toward the man’s metal detector, which was still moving in smooth circles. “It is. It begins at eight and lasts an hour.”

  The man looked at his watch and swore again. The realization of his poor timing visibly dawned on him.

  “Can I ask what you’re doing here, Mr. . . .”

  “Fazetti. Milo Fazetti.” He shrugged. “I heard there might be something worth finding here. Thought since I was close by, I might beat the rush.”

  Ben froze, everything inside him screaming that he had to be mistaken. He had to have misunderstood. There was no way that Milo Fazetti—of the loud Hawaiian print and socks with sandals—knew about the treasure. He couldn’t possibly have heard about Ruth’s prize. The one that no one had looked for in almost ninety years. Ben had searched the treasure-hunting websites just weeks before. There hadn’t even been rumors of sparkling silver at the Chateau.

  But what other treasure could it be? Carl knew everything about the history of this island. And even he knew of only one rumored treasure—Ruth’s. The truth was that the Chateau had only hosted guests for two summers. It had closed quickly after the stock market crash. And after that there had been no one wealthy enough to leave any treasure of substance behind.

  They had to be looking for the same treasure. But how did Milo know about it?

  “Well, I’m afraid you beat the rush by a few hours too many. Would you mind coming with me? You’re trespassing on private property.”

  Milo shrugged. “If I buy a ticket, can I walk around the grounds?”

  “I’m afraid not. Our last tour of the day is coming to a close, and you’re about to be banned from this property for at least a year.”

  “A year?” Milo sounded like he’d been sentenced to life in prison. “Do you know how many yahoos will get here in the next year? I can’t wait a year.”

  Ben’s stomach sank, and his shoes suddenly felt heavier than cement. How many treasure-hunting yahoos could get there in a year? More than he and the Chateau’s crack security team of two retirees and a college kid could keep at bay, that was for sure. And there was no telling how fast the wave would approach. They might not have Ruth’s diary, but they would sure have the numbers to unearth something. And do it before he and Millie could.

  That would leave him and Millie right where they had been at the start. Broke and in need of at least one small miracle.

  God, if you’re waiting for me to ask, this is me asking. We could really use a miracle right about now.

  Millie paced the length of the corridor, her tennis shoes nearly silent on the concrete. She checked her watch again. Nine twenty-seven. They’d agreed on nine fifteen, and she’d arrived two minutes early.

  Ben still wasn’t here.

  He’d said there had been something interesting in a letter he’d read, one of them from Claude. He thought it pointed to a spot in the house. He thought it was worth checking for the other diary, and she had to agree.

  The trouble was, she didn’t know what the location was. And Ben was nowhere to be found. She texted him again and was greeted only by the call of an owl from its perch in a nearby tree.

  “Not helpful,” she mumbled as she traipsed the hall yet again, her insides winding tighter and tighter. The stucco arches gave her a view of the waves, their crests glowing white in the moonlight and orange in the reflection of the house. If only she could be as patient and serene as those waves.

  Not likely.

  Putting her hands to her hips, she blew her bangs out of her face and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. It was crispy from hair spray, and suddenly her scalp and shoulders itched from the three-inch coating they’d received at the start of the night. Her hair had stayed in place, the knot at her neck both graceful and rigid, and apparently so had her skin.

  Twitching for a shower, she looked at her watch again. Nine twenty-nine.

  Still no sign of him. Either he’d forgotten or he’d run into trouble or he’d set her up.

  But why would he set her up? To send her to a deserted hallway in order to keep her out of his hair? While he did what? Searched the spot where the diary might be?

  Her brain was filling in the answers to questions faster than she could ask them, and every single one was the worst possible scenario. Every single one sent her pulse racing and her head throbbing and her heart plummeting.

  Stupid treasure. Stupid Ben. Stupid her for trusting him.

  But he forgave you when you told him the truth about Devereaux.

  Stupid conscience for making sense.

  The nonsensical arguments worked much better for her. They kept her safe. Saf
e from relying on anyone else. Safe from trusting too much. Safe from being let down. Again.

  “Millie.”

  At first she thought the sound of her name had been only a mixture of birdcalls and waves against the beach. And then she heard the slapping of feet against the floor. Hurried and urgent, they raced toward her from behind.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  She spun on him, her fists at her sides and her tongue ready to slice. But something about the wildness of his hair—as though he’d been running his hands through it over and over again—and the wideness of his eyes spoke a different truth. He hadn’t stood her up. At least not on purpose.

  “We have a problem.”

  Her heart stopped, her breath vanishing with it. “What happened?” was all she could muster on the tail of her gasp.

  “There was a trespasser. Someone jumped the fence.”

  She shook her head. Why should that matter to them?

  “He had a metal detector. He’s after a treasure. And he’s not alone.”

  Seconds passed as his words sank in. Her knees gave out, and she slumped to the ground, her back pressed to the wall. Wrapping her arms around her bare legs, she tucked them under her chin and tried to process what he was saying. This wasn’t fiction. This was real life.

  Someone else knew about the Chateau’s secrets.

  He sagged down beside her, stretching out his legs and gasping for breath. It looked like he’d run a marathon.

  “What did he say—the kid who jumped the fence? How did he know?”

  Ben shook his head. “He’s no kid. He’s old enough to be my dad. And he’s not alone. There’s an article about the Chateau on a website for amateur treasure hunters. They don’t have a clue what they’re looking for, but they’re looking.”

  “They?”

  Ben shook his head and drummed his fingers against his knees. “He said he was the first.”

  The first of how many? How had word gotten on that site?

  The truth zapped her. She hadn’t told a soul. Which meant . . . She straightened up, forcing herself not to wave her finger in his face. “Who did you tell?”