by Barbara Best
“Well, when I originally found the box I had no idea the key was in there. When I discovered the secret compartment, it made things a lot more interesting. I’ll never forget Jane’s face when I showed her where that key was hidden. Priceless!”
Bryce remembers Jane’s excitement over the jewelry box. She really got high on antiques. They were such a big thing in her life and Jane’s enthusiasm over it was contagious. He always loved seeing her happy.
“I bought the box at an estate sale. But the funny thing is, I don’t think it was actually part of the estate. Maybe the lady heard about the sale and figured it was as good a place as any to set up. You see more of that these days — handbags, boiled peanuts, firewood, honey, crafts, you name it — people selling stuff on the side of the road trying to scratch out a living. Just doing what they can to make ends meet. The back gate of the truck was open and parked in the shade of an old oak tree, just outside the heavy black iron fencing that bordered the property.”
“I couldn’t help but notice the woman leaning against the tailgate, because she was quite a looker if you know what I mean. It was hard not to stare. These eyes of mine may be getting older, but I still got ‘em.” Art chuckles and continues cheerfully, “Well, sir, when that good lookin’ woman motioned me over, let’s say I couldn’t resist. I got out of line.”
Bryce can hear the top of a can pop and Art taking a couple of swallows.
Art sets his beer down on the counter and laughs again. “Anyway, I’m always picking and some of my greatest finds have been in the weirdest places. Don’t ever rule anything out, I say. So I start going through the few things she had laid out when the box caught my eye.”
Scratching the day’s stubble on his cheek, Art rubs his fingers back and forth over his mouth and runs his hand down his neck. “I won’t ever forget that woman. She wanted to know why I wanted the box. She said she could see I was married and asked if I had a daughter. I thought that was kind of strange and told her so, jokingly. She said the jewelry box meant something to her and she wanted a good home for it. Well, I sort of understand that kind of talk, so I told her I thought I might give it to my daughter for her birthday.”
“Well, sir,” Art gives a big sigh. “I ended up paying top dollar for that box! Something I don’t normally do. But you see, when I tried to haggle, it suddenly became very hard to understand a thing the woman said. Petty convenient, huh. She had some kind of thick accent. Sounded gypsy. Romany.
Now, that rings a bell. Bryce instantly recalls the unidentified caller and maintenance guy at Fort Pulaski with the heavy accent, but decides not to interrupt.
Art continues, “Come to think of it, she even looked like a gypsy with that curtain of thick raven black hair and glittering eyes that I swear could see into a man’s soul. As I was walking away she told me there was a secret compartment. My daughter was meant to have it . . . or something to that effect. Yep, I’m surprised she didn’t try to sell me a magic amulet to ward off the evil eye. I probably would have bought that too.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
“Hold on just a second. Give me a chance to get over the shock, will you?” What in the hell am I supposed to do now?
Jane had decided to wear it to the event, but the ring had grown snug over the years and her fingers tended to swell at night. So, she put her antique lover’s eye in her jewelry box at Fort Pulaski right before she took that unlucky walk with Sophie. Now, surprise of all surprises, here it is in her hand!
Jane absent-mindedly traces the tiny pearls that line the detailed eye painted on its ivory centerpiece. How many times is she going to be scared out of her wits? How many unexpected bombshells are going to be dropped on her head? This is completely crazy to the point of making her mad. What is going on and who is doing this to her!
“Well, I’m waiting.” Matthew intends to keep the momentum of their discussion moving forward. He wants the truth from Jane and thinks it better not to give her too much time to plot and ponder. She is a master at eluding questions she chooses not to answer.
Maybe it would be better if he didn’t strut about like a cock ready for a fight. Perhaps a more subdued approach is in order at this point. Matthew pulls the other wingback chair around to face Jane and settles in. I have hit the mark. There is no use bullying the poor woman unnecessarily.
“This is no accident.” Jane mumbles.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said this is no accident. The box and the ring are both mine.” Jane adores her ring and seeing it again is one of those ahhh . . . moments. It gives her a great amount of comfort. She turns the ring around in her fingers, “It’s kind of hard to see in this light, but if you look carefully, you can make out the worn letters engraved on the band. It says J-A-N-E. It’s mine, for sure,” she concedes without going into further detail.
Now, it’s Matthew’s turn to be taken aback. “Yours! But how?” He wonders what gentleman has offered his portrait in this most intimate of gifts. The suggestion of masculinity, the piercing brown eye set under a sturdy brow. Is she spoken for?
“You’re asking me how? I have no idea how!” That’s an understatement. “This stuff is really freaking me out. All I know is Mary and I went to Madame Néve’s just for kicks.” Jane is frustrated, but cautious not to say it was Mary’s idea. And she doesn’t mention the money either. She is beginning to get the feeling she might need it.
“Madame Néve was all carnie-like with tons of drama, even the accent. It was all a fake, a real put-on. She took me into a room and did the whole fortune-telling gig and when she was finished, we left. No harm done. Although, it was a bit creepy and I did get some really weird vibes. But that’s not all I got. Right when Mary and I were leaving, Angel comes running out to the carriage, hell bent on tossing the jewelry box, MY jewelry box, into my lap. A total shocker! I only passed out over it. Which is kind of weird for me too. Even though it turns out I was sick as hell.” Jane takes in air. She had just said a mouthful.
Matthew is perturbed, “I would think you could at least try to sound a little more refined, Miss Peterson. Such raw dialect assails one’s senses and may not be received well in mixed company. It may give the impression you are unconventional. Or daft.” Matthew is impatient and worried about the impression Jane will make on anyone who questions her. He is hoping she won’t be questioned and will do everything he can to deflect this possibility. At the moment, he is not so sure he will be successful.
Jane changes her tone. “Look, I of all people know how upsetting this is. None of you deserve the trouble this has brought you. I can’t explain what’s happened. I am innocent in all this if you can find it in your heart to believe me.
“And you don’t have to be so formal with me. I get your point . . . Matthew. This is serious.” Jane casts her eyes down at the ring and slides it onto the third finger of her right hand where she likes to wear it. It makes her feel lonely and sad. “It was a gift from my dad,” she says miserably.
“Your father? What a strange gift for a father to give to his daughter.” Matthew says skeptically. He is reminded they know nothing about this woman and hears his mother’s gentle warnings in his head.
“Yes. My father.” Jane notices doubt in Matthew’s manner. “And I really don’t want to talk about it other than, I don’t suppose anyone else saw my name inside the band. Like this guy Tucker that’s been on my tail.” Jane really wants to say ass, but decides to sensor her language.
Matthew tries to ignore Jane’s persistent crudeness, but she does bring up a curious point and adds, “If Captain Tucker discovered the engraving in the band, there was nothing mentioned to me. Let us hope he did not.” He leans forward, “Please, Jane, you must tell me how I can help you. This is most serious. They know about the box. And they found the ring, YOUR ring, on a runaway. What does that lead us to believe? Perchance it was stolen then.”
“Yes, maybe . . . what am I saying! I mean no. No, absolutely not!” All this is confusing as hell. �
�Look, there is a chance Angel could have found the ring in the box, but I would like to believe it was given to her.” Jane’s thought is if Angel were all about stealing a ring, she would have taken the money too. “Whatever the case, please don’t blame her. It could get her into big trouble and I don’t want that on my conscience. No one should want that. I wish I had more answers for you, but lately I’ve been stuck with questions only. I don’t know how Madame Néve, or whatever her name is, got my jewelry box. Or, how Angel ended up with this ring.”
Jane watches Matthew stretch out in his chair, leaning his elbow against one of the overstuffed arms in thoughtful repose, tapping his finger against his lower lip. To her, he is more like a cat that has just caught its prey and is playing with it. One sharp pointy claw pinning her tail to the floor, and oh, she can twist and squirm as much as she likes, but it’s all for not.
“Look, what more do you want.” There is another long, uncomfortable pause. Jane really is squirming. She knows it and he can probably tell it too. Damn him for being so smug. Her temples are throbbing and she just can’t get herself to say anything more. On a scale of one to ten, she’s about an eight and a half on fear factor, and it’s rising.
What do they do to people that have a story like hers? The real story Jane has kept cooped up inside so long. Tessie, poor soul, didn’t take it so well. Even though Tessie’s keen sixth sense — the sight, they call it — had made her suspicious, the truth, once out had left Jane feeling totally guilty for dumping it on her like that. Words she can never take back. Words that only put another burden on both of them. In what way could it have helped? The answer of course is, no way.
So, what if she were to breach her silence on the matter once more and spill her guts to these innocents. These people, who think they have a sense of their world, have faith in the constancy of time and space, of God and creation, and understand their place in it. How will they react? How will it go for her? Will it be like poor Mary’s daughter, who is secretly shipped off somewhere overseas for an early version of rehab?
No. In Margaret’s case, she has a wealthy mother to care for her. In Jane’s case, it would most likely be off to a sanitarium somewhere, confined to a padded cell, and subjected to torturous nineteenth century experiments and cruel remedies for people who are delusional. That’s a great thought.
“Perhaps you would like me to seek out your diary. Clara said you spend a considerable amount of time devoted to it.” Matthew casually tightens the noose, determined to get this matter settled once and for all. He will have no secrets.
“Are you kidding me? I’ll burn it first!” Jane sees red and makes to leave the library. That’s it! I’ve had enough!
Matthew is up and has Jane by the arm before she can get to the door.
“Let go of me!” Jane seethes through clenched teeth. The pressure on her tightens as she thrusts herself away from her captor. The crackle of energy arcs between the two, startling and acute.
Matthew reacts and counters with both arms to stop Jane from hurting herself. He can’t believe the woman’s strength.
When he is satisfied he has Jane in a most inappropriate vice, “I would strongly advise you not to make . . . a . . . scene.” Matthew rasps into Jane’s ear. He is really not sure he can hold her. Why is she so damnably persistent in her struggle . . . and why is she so . . . blasted . . . strong! “I have you. You are not going anywhere until you calm down.”
“Let go, you jerk!” Jane makes to slip down, limp to the floor and out of Matthew’s hold. It loosens his grip, but when she wrenches to free herself, she accidentally catches the corner of the rug with the small heel of her shoe. This slams her sideways into Matthew and the two topple over.
Matthew does what he can to break Jane’s fall which leaves him on the floor with a loud thump, flat on his back and looking up into the face of the most heated, fiery red, bedazzling green-eyed beauty he’s ever seen.
Oof! Jane gulps, coughs and pushes up with her hands on either side of Matthew’s head. Her hair is out of its pins and all over the place. What’s more Jane suddenly realizes she is straddling the poor guy. Ohmigod, hilarious! Jane’s pent up nerves release in the form of a tee-he. Then giggles, that burst into peals of laughter, which fall upon the stunned face of the man on the floor beneath her.
This makes Jane laugh even more. So much that Matthew begins to laugh too and the two of them eventually end up in uncontrollable side splitting howls. Jane grabs her side, “Ohhhh! That’s . . . toooo . . . funny!” She giggles, trying hard to put an end to the rolling spasms.
Finally, with much sputtering, Jane is able to gain some equanimity. Rubbing the corners of her eyes with her knuckles, she takes a deep breath, twists her loosened hair back behind her ears and moves to get up.
The minute Jane stops laughing, Matthew grows solemn, averts his eyes and lays very still, trying to give Jane the space and time to make suitable adjustments.
Jane stands, shakes out her skirt, straightens her sleeves and checks the buttons on her dress. When she is sure she is decent, she bends and extends her hand down to help Matthew up. His hair is a mess, his clothes crumpled, but his expression is one of awe, all alight and exhilarated.
Matthew smiles charmingly, and happily takes the warm hand that is offered him.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
The flickering light from the Dell computer monitor reflects images onto the attendant’s glasses behind the counter. Savannah Central Self Storage is one of the bigger facilities in the area and has a large customer base. It takes a few clicks through a number of folders and a quick search to find where Art Peterson’s authorization was saved.
“Yes. I have the email right here.” The guy behind the counter prints out a copy of Art’s message and has Bryce sign it. “Okay, then. You’re good to go. Mr. Peterson gave you the passwords and the code for the keypad at the unit, right? It’s number 114. Straight down and turn to your left, the third strip of units, Building C.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
Bryce zips through the gate and finds his way to 114 painted in bright blue on the front. The code on the keypad works after a second try, the lock mechanism is disengaged, and the silver metal garage door rolls up easily with a clatter.
Bryce is glad he brought his hurricane lantern. The unit’s only light source would be from the doorway. He hangs the lantern on a hook up high, switches it up to the brightest setting and surveys the space. He shudders to think nothing may ever become of this stuff. Jane may never come back to claim it. It feels like a crypt, a tomb without the sarcophagus. The sooner he gets this done the better.
“Hey, what’s been going on in here?” Jane’s furniture, her teal green lamps, the old dinette table and chairs she used in the kitchen are stacked on one side, but out of kilter. The clear plastic tarp that covered them is tossed recklessly to one side as if removed and pulled back over as an afterthought.
On the left are a number of boxes neatly stacked across the front part of the unit, up on pallets to protect them from being right down on the concrete. But in the back, hidden behind, are boxes in disarray. Opened and tossed about. His first thought is maybe Jane’s folks started out with the best intentions, but gave up in a rush to put the bad experience behind them. Maybe Kay was in here since? Whoever it was they must have been in a hurry. It looks like there was an attempt to restack some of the stuff, although they didn’t do a very good job.
Okay, so where to start. Only a few of the bigger boxes are marked clothes, linens, drapes and such. The rest are not marked. So, start with the unmarked containers, I guess. Bryce pulls the clear tarp off the rest of the table and carefully pushes some of the smaller items aside to make room to lay things out and look through Jane’s things. The hair on his head prickles. Awkward and really eerie, but he’s here now. Might as well do this thing.
The first box has kitchen items, Jane’s Salad Chef As Seen On TV that she raved about, her Victorian style salt and pepper shakers she made a p
oint of saying were fake, her favorite notebook of recipes. Jane’s specialty was white chicken chili, which Bryce loves. It makes his mouth water just thinking about it. He reverently returns the items, closes the box and goes back out to his jeep to get the packing tape he remembered to bring to seal things up. He can at least leave things a little neater.
The next box he picks is more kitchen stuff and papers from, he thinks, Jane’s small desk. Not in this one.
Bryce decides to go to the other end of the stack. It’s a game of chance. He pulls out a box that has things from Jane’s bedroom. That’s a little closer. Jane’s makeup she kept in a fishing tackle box he always teased her about, and the hair dryer and flat iron from her vanity with the cords all tangled up.
Wrapped in a hand towel, Bryce finds a miniature old-fashioned frame. It’s actually two frames attached by a hinge, folded and latched shut. It has to be real with all the antiques Jane and her dad kept around. He opens it and is quite astonished to see his picture on one side and Jane’s on the other, both framed by an embossed double layer of gold tone mattes, tarnished with age.
“How cool is this.” Bryce didn’t know Jane had kept that picture of him. It was taken on a lark at a carnival when they were together a couple summers ago. You know, the places where you pick out a hokey outfit and dress up for an old rustic print, just for fun. He looks ridiculous in that faded, dusty old Johnny Reb uniform. Just clowning around kids stuff, but apparently Jane kept it. She would. The photo was made much smaller for this frame. It looks good next to Jane, who appears quite comfortable in her costume. He had been pretty impressed by the Civil War dress Jane worked so hard on. The photo doesn’t do it justice. She sent him this picture of her in color and must have made it into a sepia tone to match his in the frame.
Bryce holds the frame up under the light of his lantern and rubs his thumb across the brown burlap edging where the fabric has slowly been worn away. Jane stares up at him with a straight face. When he had commented to her why so solemn, she told him the look was true to the period, because taking someone’s pictures was a long, drawn out process. The exposure took several minutes. Then she shrugged and chuckled, who knows, maybe straight face was in vogue at the time.
