“Love letters,” Julie said. “So romantic.”
I lifted the Bible, gauging its weight.
“The Bible is heavy,” I said as I recorded it, “a quarto volume, bound in black leather with gilt lettering.” I fanned the pages. “The leather is worn and rubbed, the pages heavily foxed.” I opened it. “There are two family-tree graphics printed on the inside front cover, both completed in ink. One is labeled ‘Collins,’ the other ‘Wilson.’” I set the Bible aside. “Let’s see what else is in the trunk.” I leaned in to see. “Wow.” I stared at what seemed to be a jewel- or faux-gem-encrusted silver-colored box featuring a black cat design with extensive gold metal inlays.
I strained to lift it out. Tom hurried over to help. Together we placed it on the counter next to the Bible.
The red and green stones winked as they caught the light, and Julie inhaled sharply.
“Whoa,” Tom said in the kind of hushed tone you use in church. “Are those real?”
I leaned closer, assessing the glints and prisms refracting under the dim light. The stones were embedded next to thin lines of what looked like gold, forming a complex squared-off geometric pattern, a kind of maze or labyrinth. In the center was a black cat about eighteen inches tall, embellished with gold earrings. It had cerulean eyebrows, glittering green eyes, and brick-red lips. It sat in profile, sleek and proud, its chin raised. Certainly the motif evoked ancient Egypt, but reproductions and counterfeits were common, and reflected light glinted off faux jewels, gold plate, and nickel in much the same way as it did on genuine jewels, 18- or 24-karat gold, and sterling silver.
“Maybe,” I said.
“It must be worth a fortune.”
“Only if it’s real. Let’s continue. Tom, please measure the box.”
“Twenty-four … by twelve … by twelve.”
“Thank you. I’m pegging the box and contents at around thirty pounds, the same as the trunk.”
“What do you think is inside?” Julie asked.
“Let’s see.”
I adjusted the view so the camera took in the entire box.
As I reached for the latch, Julie stepped closer, her eyes fixed on it as if she were certain she’d find the fountain of youth. I raised the lid.
The three of us leaned in, staring at a supine statue of a seated cat snuggled on a cushy black velvet pillow. The cat appeared to be made of basalt-colored metal with what looked like silver inlays and a gold nose ring. I lifted it out and set it next to the box.
“It’s a cat,” Tom said in the tone a teenager uses when he discovers his birthday present is a boring educational toy, not the shoot-’em-up video game he’d requested.
Julie touched his arm. “That’s what Stacy said … a pretty box and an ugly cat.”
“It looks scaggy,” Tom agreed.
He called out the measurements: eighteen inches high, eight inches wide, and ten inches long.
I turned the box so it rested on its side and used my flashlight to seek out a maker’s mark or stamp on the bottom, but it was unembellished. I recorded all sides of the box and cat, then set the box right-ways up and placed the cat back on its pillow.
I took the phone off the tripod and stepped closer to the trunk to capture images of the inside. “Inside the trunk, running the length of all four sides, is a series of thin ridges, which I presume were intended to support shelves. The shelves appear to be missing.”
I stopped recording. “That’s it,” I said. I replaced everything in the trunk and closed the lid. I turned to Tom. “Did you finish upstairs?”
“Yeah, there’s nothing.”
“No surprise, but it had to be done. Now we measure.”
Julie insisted she wanted to help, which speeded up the process. She and Tom worked the tape measure. I took notes and sketched out floor plans. Ty and I had already recorded videos, but from past experience, I knew my drawings would tickle my memory about the many quirky elements that gave the house its charm more than a video. Midway through, two of my employees arrived, packed up the trunk, and wheeled it away.
When we finished the measuring, I walked Tom and Julie out.
Tom paused halfway down the porch steps. “I just can’t believe Maudie forgot the trunk. She must be in worse shape than I realized.”
Tom had a point, a sad one. No woman would desert a family Bible, a sheaf of love letters, or a cherished box. But I also knew how overwhelming moving could be even during the best of times.
“Don’t underrate how disorienting the whole process has been,” I said. “Moving out of a house this size that had been in the family for a hundred and fifty years, well, I’m amazed she didn’t forget more things.”
“True … still … this trunk … that’s a heck of a thing to forget.”
He was right. If the cat was an original Egyptian artifact, the jewels adorning the presentation box were genuine, and the objects had clear provenance, documenting the box’s ownership from creation in ancient Egypt to the present, it might be worth a king’s ransom. Of course, the odds that we could locate such records were almost nil, even if they had ever existed, which in itself was a long shot.
I worked at harnessing the power of optimism, but the truth was that when it came to understanding the dark side of human interactions, I was fully as cynical as Tom, so I couldn’t help but wonder whether Celia and Stacy were determined to get their hands on the trunk because they wanted to help their aunt, as they said, or because they wanted to help themselves.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ned Murphy, Prescott’s go-to locksmith for new hardware and vintage skeleton keys, and our primary source for antique fittings, didn’t arrive until after two. By the time he was done outfitting the five doors—front, back, side, shed, and Bilco—with new locks, and I’d followed him to his store, Murphy’s Hardware, to have copies made, it was nearly four.
Before driving back to my office, I indulged myself with a little daydream, picturing Mrs. Wilson’s expression when she saw that everything inside her trunk was safe and sound. I smiled all the way back to work. I love being the bearer of good news.
* * *
In summer, dusk doesn’t settle over New Hampshire until after eight, and the sun was still high above the trees that ringed my property as I turned into the parking lot around five.
I stepped out of my car, my mind a million miles away, thinking about Ty, hoping his work was going well, considering whether I felt like making Dijon maple chicken for dinner, and brooding about my best friend, Zoë. Her daughter, Emma, was gung ho for the marines, eager to sign up. Zoë, terrified at the prospect of her being deployed to a war zone, was doing everything she could to stop her, causing Emma to feel diminished and disrespected. I understood both sides, which didn’t help anyone. Communication had gotten so rocky, I was worried there would be a breach, which was the last thing either one of them wanted. I wished there was something I could do to help.
“Josie!”
I froze, wrenched out of my reverie, then looked every which way, trying to see who’d called my name.
It was Celia. She popped up from the bench over by the willow tree where she and Doug had been sitting and walked quickly toward me. Doug followed more slowly.
“Hello!” I called.
“You found Aunt Maudie’s trunk,” she said, smiling.
I was taken aback. Had Tom spilled the beans? Or Lainy, the receptionist at Belle Vista? It didn’t matter, I supposed, since I hadn’t asked anyone to keep the find secret because this wasn’t business. Still, I was disappointed. The good news was mine to share, or should have been.
“Yes, it’s true!” I told Celia. “I’m excited! I already have a call in to your aunt.”
“Tom said you brought it here.”
“That’s right.”
“What a relief! Thank you.”
She reached out to Doug. He grasped her hand and squeezed.
“Where did you find it?” he asked.
I told them, adding, “You
can imagine my surprise!”
Celia pressed the hand Doug wasn’t holding against her chest. “It’s just wonderful. I can’t tell you how grateful we are.” She gave the building a quick once-over. “Do you have a loading dock?”
“In the back. Why?”
“If we can drive up, it’ll be easier to load the trunk into our car.”
“Oh, wow. I’m sorry, but I can’t release it to you.”
“What?” Her brows drew together. “Why not?”
“I can only release an object to its owner.”
Celia smiled as if she were about to clear up a silly little misunderstanding. “We’ll bring it to Aunt Maudie. That’s not a problem.”
“I’m sorry.”
Celia stiffened all over. She looked at Doug helplessly for a moment, then turned back to face me. “But I told you—Stacy and I only want to help Aunt Maudie.”
“Surely you can understand that it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to hand over one person’s possessions to another person without permission.”
Celia’s mouth opened, then closed as she wrestled with how to get me to change my mind. When she spoke, her tone was calm and patient, as if she were explaining an unpleasant, complex concept to a four-year-old. “I think I haven’t been clear. Aunt Maudie is losing what they call executive function—the ability to make smart decisions. She cherishes her independence, and we certainly respect that. But how can you doubt … I mean … she left the trunk in a dumbwaiter, for God’s sake, which is bad enough, but then she forgot where she put it.” Her eyes searched mine for signs of acquiescence. After a few seconds, she added, “We’re simply trying to protect her.”
“I understand, but unless you have power of attorney, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Oh, God … Doug?”
He patted her shoulder, his eyes on my face. “Maudie refuses to discuss it. We thought it would be mandatory when she entered assisted living, but it isn’t, not in the independent wing.” He paused, and when I didn’t speak, he asked, “What happens now?”
“When I speak to Mrs. Wilson, I’ll ask her when and where she’d like me to deliver the trunk. At no charge, needless to say.”
“It’s not fair,” Celia mumbled. “It’s just not fair. You need to listen. You need to give us the trunk.”
“This is between you and her,” I said, growing increasingly uncomfortable by the second. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“Come on, hon,” Doug said, reaching for Celia’s arm. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t patronize me!”
She shoved him, the heel of her hand catching him midchest. He tottered, his eyes flying open.
Celia pressed her fingertips against her cheeks. “Oh, God, what have I done? I’m sorry.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Forgive me … I’m not myself.”
She turned and stood for a moment, then took a dozen steps toward the bench before angling off into a row of cars. Her pace slowed, and she shuffled toward their vehicle.
Doug and I watched her lumbering progress.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine. It was nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing.”
Doug kept his eyes on Celia as he rubbed his chest. “She’s completely stressed out. I got laid off almost two months ago.”
“I had a feeling something was bothering her that went deeper than a missing trunk.”
“She’s scared, and who can blame her? I was a truck dispatcher for a small dairy, and they replaced me with an app.” He snuffled, an unhappy self-deprecating sound. “Can you believe it? An app.”
“You don’t need to explain, Doug.”
He met my eyes. “I have an interview this Friday at Jestran’s. Do you know them? They’re the largest home heating oil company in New Hampshire, and they need an experienced dispatcher.” He lifted his chin. “We’re going to be fine.”
We both turned at the sound of a car door shutting. Celia sat in the front passenger seat. After a moment, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest.
“With Aunt Maudie moving into a retirement community and selling the house and all,” Doug continued, “well, it’s the end of an era, and Celia feels it. Anyway, thanks for understanding.”
As Doug walked to join Celia, I replayed our conversation. He’d thanked me for understanding, but I didn’t understand, on lots of levels.
* * *
Prescott’s newest cat was black as night with a sheen like coal and an adorable white triangle on her breastbone. That’s why I’d named her Angela—angels wear white. She didn’t like to curl up in my lap like Hank. She preferred being cuddled like a baby, and just now she was dozing, cradled in my left arm. I sat at my desk, staring out my window past the old maple tree, over the church steeple, wondering if I could trust Tom.
I picked up the shed key earmarked for him, grasping it by the ring. I’d chosen silver metal discs with cardboard centers. I’d written “J&T” on it: Josie and Ty. Not that I had any reason to worry, but I was a cautious woman, and I didn’t want to put our last names on a key that might be available to random strangers, making it easy for them to locate our property.
I wanted to trust Tom. I had to if he was going to work for us, and after all, I hadn’t asked him to keep quiet about my locating Maudie Wilson’s trunk, so it wasn’t like he’d done something wrong. The fact remained, however, that he’d been pretty darn quick to pass along the news.
When in doubt, my dad had taught me, tell the truth. It disarms people in a way nothing else can.
I dialed Tom’s number and got him. After a little small talk—innocuous chat about the weather, not gossip—I eased into the reason for my call.
“Celia was here at my office when I got back,” I said. “She said you told her I found Mrs. Wilson’s trunk.”
“Yes—she was super jazzed about it.”
“Why did you tell her?”
“Huh?” I could hear him breathing. “Oh, jeez. I didn’t think … I mean, it didn’t occur to me that it was a secret.”
“I don’t mean to make a big deal about it, Tom, it’s just that it was my news to share, you know?”
“I can see that. Do you want me to call Celia and apologize, tell her it wasn’t my place?”
I was touched by his offer. “No, that’s all right. Just in the future, I’d appreciate it if you don’t pass along any information you garner while working for me.”
“You got it.”
“Thanks. One more thing … I had the locks changed today, so I need to get you the new shed key.”
“I can stop by tomorrow afternoon after I drop Julie at her nanny job.”
“I thought she worked at the diner.”
“She does that, too. She works a couple of shifts at the diner and two evenings a week as a nanny to make her half of the rent.”
“And she’s full-time at school. That’s tough.”
“We feel pretty lucky, all things considered.”
“That’s a good attitude.”
He laughed. “When you hit bottom, there’s no place to go but up. I’m joking. We’re a long way from bottom. We’re doing fine.”
Tom was a good guy. I felt it every time I talked to him. I hoped he was sincere about keeping quiet in the future, but I was skeptical. To some people, sharing the skinny was like breathing, as essential as air. I was taking it on faith that Tom wasn’t one of those people. I made a mental note to talk to Ty about whether we should get him to sign a nondisclosure agreement, routine for Prescott’s employees, but nothing we’d ever done in our personal lives. Even thinking about it felt pretentious, as if we were celebrities at risk of a staff member writing an embarrassing tell-all exposé, or the über-rich, vulnerable to blackmail. Still, if it had to be done, we’d do it.
Ten minutes later, while I was reading my accountant’s latest report, confirming that we were on track to earn higher profits than projected, Stacy called.
I heard her say
, “Hello, this is Stacy,” but the rest of the sentence was lost amid a jangle of laughter and clinking. It sounded like she was at a party.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear that last bit.” More laughter. More clinking. More lost words. “Should you call back when you’re in a quieter place?”
Stacy must have cupped the phone, because her chuckle came through loud and clear.
“I’m in the Blue Dolphin lounge,” she said, “so it will never be quiet! Come on down and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Thanks, but I’ll have to pass.”
“Hold on for a sec, then. I need to talk to you. I’ll step outside.”
While I waited, I drummed a staccato beat on my desk.
“Are you still there?” Stacy asked a minute later. “I’m outside—can you hear me better?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I understand you found the trunk. Fantasmic! Is it in good shape?”
“It seems to be, although I never saw it before, so I have nothing to compare it to.”
“Celia told me she was going to pick it up. Has she been there yet?”
I repeated what I’d told Celia, that I only released objects to their owners.
“Oh, pooh! Don’t be a stickler. Aunt Maudie is in rough shape.”
I was struck by the irony. At the Gingerbread House, Stacy had implied I might be so ethically lax as to steal her aunt’s trunk. Now she was asking me to cross a clear ethical line.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
There was a lengthy pause, ripe with tension. “Neither Celia nor I will allow Aunt Maudie to be victimized.”
I was growing a little weary of Stacy’s confrontational communication style, especially since I knew it was optional. I guessed she reserved her buttery-sweet voice for business.
“As I told Celia, unless someone shows me a power of attorney, my hands are tied.”
“Have you spoken to Aunt Maudie?” she asked, her tone clipped.
“Not yet.”
“Thanks for nothing,” she said, and hung up.
Hidden Treasure Page 3
