Treasure Me

by Christine Nolfi

  The dining room was nearly empty. Birdie leaned against the counter to watch.

  Approaching, Delia said, “The brat terrorizing Ethel Lynn? Her name is Flame Sanson.” The old guy Delia had been arguing with headed for the door. She flipped him the bird then resumed the conversation, unfazed. “Don’t you love it? The kid is a redhead and her name is Flame. People are sickos when it comes to naming their children.”

  “Maybe we should rescue Ethel Lynn,” Birdie said as the kid grabbed more ammo from a table.

  “I hate to bug her mother. Mrs. Sanson tips like Midas. She probably thinks Ethel Lynn is babysitting the monster.”

  Pity for the old woman sent Birdie into the dining room. Grabbing the last of the sugar from the kid, she created enough of a diversion to allow Ethel Lynn to stumble away on her plum pumps. Mrs. Sanson’s leather bag was slung on the back of her chair. If the woman tipped like Midas, she probably carried a stack of bills in her wallet.

  But first, there was the issue of locating the Hope Diamond. A jewel beyond compare stitched tight. With red, blue and white. Maybe the jewel was stashed in one of the patriotic decorations festooned throughout the restaurant. The only way to find out? Check every one.

  During the lunch shift, Birdie sidled up beside the large American flag tacked on the wall and padded her fingertips across the dusty fabric. She found nothing, so she worked her way through the rugs on the floor, dropping spoons and forks and checking underneath. Nada. The painting of George Washington astride a white horse was also a bust. So were the pilgrim figurines on the wall behind table three.

  Depressed, she kept busy until the place cleared out after lunch. The gem was nowhere to be found. She’d have to risk breaking into The Second Chance tonight. The dining room merited a more thorough search. If Hugh followed her, as he’d done during the last break-in, she’d be hard pressed to come up with a believable explanation.

  Just as worrisome, she hadn’t lifted cash from any of the customers except wealthy Mrs. Sanson. She’d meant to work the entire room but lost the desire. Something about the small town was infecting her with a bad case of ethics. Maybe the holiday decorations going up in Liberty Square were getting to her, the evergreen garlands draped around windows at the courthouse and the pretty wreaths going up on storefronts. With Thanksgiving was only a few days away an air of expectancy had crept into the town. The holiday spirit shone bright on pedestrian’s faces as they peered into shop windows and bustled down the street with boxes and bags.

  If she weren’t flinty with the desire to snatch the Hope Diamond it would’ve been enough to make her go squishy inside.

  Tugging down her skirt, she wandered toward Delia and Ethel Lynn. The two women stood before the picture window discussing the holiday decorations they planned to put up in the restaurant. They mentioned the storeroom where the decorations were stored. Birdie’s heartbeat leapt into a gallop. Maybe the diamond wasn’t hidden in the dining room after all.

  She joined them by the window. “Did you say there’s a storeroom?” she asked in what she hoped was a casual voice. “I’ve never seen it.”

  Delia nodded toward the kitchen. “You pass it when you go upstairs to your apartment. The door at the end of the hall?”

  She’d assumed the door led to a closet for mops and cleaning supplies. “There’s a room back there?”

  Ethel Lynn waved her scrawny arms. “Hells bells, we could park a Mack truck in there. The room is huge.”

  This got Birdie’s complete attention. “What’s inside?”

  Fluttering with excitement, Ethel Lynn stumbled back into the wall. “Why there’s a treasure trove of history in the storeroom. Just like a museum!” She got her footing by grabbing onto the patriotic bunting draped around the window. When she’d steadied herself, she added, “My heavens, where do you think we keep the extra furniture and whatnots? This fine establishment opened during the Civil War. Many of the antiques are still tucked away in the storeroom.”

  When Ethel Lynn fluttered again, Birdie’s attention shot to the patriotic bunting. The drapery swished back and forth, sending forth a loud thump. Something was banging against the wall every time Ethel Lynn batted her arms and struck the fabric. It was down low, inside the hem, jogging back and forth a few inches behind Ethel Lynn’s ankles. Another distinctive thump and Birdie’s heart nearly shot from her chest.

  Something was hidden inside the hem.

  From the kitchen, Finney yelled, “Ethel Lynn, have you been rearranging the walk-in cooler again? You’re a dead woman!”

  Delia grabbed the old bat by the sleeve. “Are you nuts? If you keep messing with Finney’s kitchen, she’ll pound you.”

  “I merely alphabetized our supplies. It’s easier to find the capers if they cozy up with the cabbage.”

  “Yeah, and it puts Finney on the rampage. She turns into a wild boar and I’m scared shitless.” Delia regarded Birdie. “Watch the dining room until we get back. We’ve got to soothe the savage beast.”

  Too excited for speech, Birdie jerked her head up and down. The women hurried to the kitchen in a flurry of snappish comments from Delia and near weeping from Ethel Lynn.

  The moment they were gone she scanned the dining room. At table four a man in a suit shouted into his cell. All the barstools at the counter were empty.

  She dropped to her knees. Quickly she felt along the hem of the bunting. And nearly blacked out with the thrill of discovery when her fingers bumped into the hard, square shape sewn into the corner of the hem.

  Chapter 8

  Working quickly, Birdie tugged apart the threads at the corner of the hem. A small metal box slipped out of the bunting and clattered to the floor. Cringing at the noise, she snatched it up and stumbled to her feet. The businessman at table four was still barking into his phone. Relief spilled through her.

  Facing away from him, she turned the box over in her hand. The thin wedge of silver bore a swirling design of roses etched into the tight-fitting lid. Was it an earring box? It looked fancy and feminine, the sort of item a woman from an earlier era might keep in her purse.

  With care, she pried off the lid. Her heart bounded at the sight of the embroidered cloth inside. Delicate loops of thread artfully rendered the two lines of poetry. Another clue!

  Brick by brick, my love

  My life built alone, without you—

  Her exhilaration waned. Sadness curled through each word.

  This wasn’t merely a clue. The lines of poetry were something more, a first glimpse into a broken heart. Had Justice embroidered the fabric with the stitches of her sorrow? The fabric had been worked with unmistakable passion. Was this proof positive of her love for Lucas, the beloved she’d left behind in South Carolina?

  Gently, Birdie placed the cloth inside the box and closed the lid. She slipped the box into the pocket of her apron and returned to the counter. From somewhere inside the kitchen, Ethel Lynn made a series of sputtering noises. Finney shouted.

  Brick by brick, my love. Birdie wandered over to the cash register, where the portrait of Justice hung on the wall. Was it even possible to solve a riddle about bricks? The building housing The Second Chance Grill was built of bricks, thousands of them. If the diamond was hidden behind one, she could hunt from now until doomsday and never find it.

  My life built alone, without you. There was real sorrow in the poem. The sorrow of lovers forced to build lives separate from each other? Perhaps Justice had loved Lucas deeply. The passage north was surely filled with hardship for a former slave. If the stories in Birdie’s family were true and the freedwoman was pregnant during the journey, if she was overwhelmed with grief for the man she’d left behind, how had she found the courage to build a new life in Ohio?

  Until now, Birdie had only thought of the hidden treasure as a means to vault her into a new life where she’d live quietly and carefully—and legally. No more picking pockets or running from state to state evading the law. She’d free herself from a painful and ugly past. S
he hadn’t viewed the treasure for what it was—a symbol of devotion between a man and a woman torn apart by the harsh boundaries of the society in which they’d lived.

  Shame brought her head up. She’d only thought of her own gain. An old habit, she’d learned little else over the years.

  She’d grown up watching her mother use men then discard them at whim. And she’d experienced her own dead-end affairs. The tenuous concord between men and women, the passion and the lies—she came of age determined never to fall prey to love. Even the spontaneous and fleeting affection she’d shown Hugh was meant to comfort, not inflame. A moment in his arms hadn’t altered her pessimism toward relationships.

  Her heart sinking, she found her attention straying back to the portrait. Justice appeared to regard her with haughty displeasure, her large, wide-set eyes filled with dark fire. Regret pricked Birdie. Was she waiting for Justice to miraculously come to life and issue a stern warning? The freedwoman had gone to great lengths to safeguard whatever Lucas had entrusted to her. The treasure had meant something to them both. Birdie wrapped her arms around herself, sticky with self-loathing.

  She had no right to the treasure.

  When did she ever stop to think about right and wrong? A good thief skimmed the surface like a dragonfly zooming above the murky pond of other lives, darting in to take whatever was coveted before flying off again. The consequences of her actions never mattered until now.

  The bell above the restaurant’s door jingled. Ignoring it, she grimaced. She felt sluggish with some new emotion, as if the simple act of standing before Justice was changing her internal chemistry. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the freedwoman was eyeing her with disdain.

  The clatter of pots shook her from her reverie. Through the pass-through window, Finney was growling at a whimpering Ethel Lynn. Delia leapt out of the way, allowing Ethel Lynn to flee toward the sink. The mayhem in the kitchen was accented by heavy footsteps approaching through the dining room.

  “Are you getting a dose of Justice?”

  The worrisome double meaning spun her around. The grating voice erupted from the throat of an old woman. Given the heavy thump of the woman’s gait, she expected to find a lady of substantial girth. What she discovered rooted before the counter was a petite, scrappy-looking crone wearing a Davy Crocket-style buckskin jacket oddly matched up with a felt hat. The hat sprouted silk roses. A few of the buds drooped over the old woman’s black, beady eyes.

  Their gazes connected and the woman’s mouth froze. Birdie wasn’t sure what to make of the surprise glinting in her expression. She appeared startled, as if the sight of a waitress dressed in a whore suit would turn her into a pillar of salt. Wary, Birdie edged away from the counter separating them.

  Just as quickly the old woman blotted the strong emotion from her eyes. Her ebony features became glass, like the sea before a typhoon.

  “Would you like a menu?” Birdie asked, too frightened to move toward the stack.

  “I’ve had lunch, you fool. It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

  No one called her a fool and got away with it. Let someone walk over you and they made it a habit. “I left my watch upstairs, which isn’t as bad as you leaving your manners at home. Pack them the next time you leave the house, Parsnip.”

  The woman slapped her buckskin satchel onto the counter. “What did you call me?”

  “Huh?” Birdie feigned confusion. Hell, the gnome was older than God. Playing with what little grey matter she had left might be fun. “I’m sorry—what did you say, Avocado?”

  “Are you messin’ with me?” The woman screwed her ridiculous hat further down on her brow. “I’m not much for vegetables but I can fricassee your hide if you don’t watch it.”

  Birdie offered a saccharine smile. “My apologies.” With flourish, she picked up a menu as if she were a game show host revealing the item behind door number two. “It’s sensational. You won’t believe what’s inside, Tomato.”

  “Stop sassing me. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”

  “What?” She widened her eyes in what she hoped was a fawnlike expression.

  The gnome blinked. Baring her false teeth, she patted her satchel. “I’ve got a .32 caliber. Don’t make me use it.”

  The threat drained the amusement from Birdie’s face, not to mention the blood from her head.

  Satisfied, the old woman settled onto a barstool. “Got anything else to say, ruffian?”

  “Checkmate?”

  “Game over is more like it.” She broke out a devilish grin. “The name’s Theodora Hendricks.” She jabbed a finger toward the coffee station. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Birdie sloshed coffee into a mug. Theodora Hendricks’ narrowed attention stuck on her like glue, sending waves of nervous tension racing across her skin. It was the sort of hard appraisal she received from the police on those rare instances when they suspected her of snitching wallets. The urge to flee nearly got the better of her.

  “Here you are.” She placed the mug on the counter. “Just wave your pistol if you need anything else.”

  When she started to move off, Theodora snapped her fingers. “Stay put. We’re not done talking.” She tapped the counter with one bony finger, and Birdie visualized a fairy tale witch and an oven. “Tell me your name.”

  “Um… it’s Birdie.”

  “Birdie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your last name?”

  “Kaminsky.”

  “Sounds Polish.”

  “You want to make a joke?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Theodora’s narrowed gaze stayed put, even as she rifled around her satchel and withdrew a corncob pipe. Birdie might have laughed if her stomach wasn’t roiling with a queasy sort of trepidation.

  “You’re sure your last name is Kaminsky? You wouldn’t be lying, would you?”

  “Of course I’m sure, Br—” Birdie caught herself before Broccoli spilled out. Who knew if the Saturday night special was loaded? “Do you want to see my driver’s license?”

  “I do.”

  “I was joking.” When Theodora glared, Birdie hitched up her skirt and wiggled her wallet from its hiding place on her hip.

  “Funny place to keep your wallet. Come to think of it, why are you dressed like a painted lady? This is a farming community, not the big city.”

  “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” She flipped open her wallet and withdrew her driver’s license. “There. See? My last name is Kaminsky.”

  “Not Greyhart.” Dragging her nose to the counter, Theodora studied the license with ill-concealed disappointment.

  “Why would you think my name is Greyhart?”

  Shrugging off the question, the old woman planted her pipe between her weathered lips.

  Birdie returned the wallet to her hip. “You can’t smoke in here. It’s against the law.”

  “And I’ll bet you follow the law to the letter, now, don’t you?” The crone struck a match that seemed dull compared to the pugnacity sparking in her gaze. “You can’t stop me from smoking. Whenever and wherever I please.”

  “I guess not. At least not while you’re armed.”

  “Now you’re talking.” On a cackle, she blew a puff of smoke. Then she nodded toward the picture of Justice. “I noticed you taking an interest in one of this town’s founding mothers. You like the portrait?”

  “It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful.”

  “I do agree. You know, the portrait was lost in the storeroom. That fool, Ethel Lynn, packed it away the same year John Travolta wore those crazy white pants. Didn’t matter how much I threatened to skin her hide; she couldn’t recall where she’d put it. Finney dug out the portrait last summer.”

  It was no wonder that Birdie’s mother hadn’t found the portrait—and the slip of parchment hidden inside. She’d visited nearly every town named Liberty in the United States. She probably checked this town, too, but came up empty because a dotty old bag packed the
portrait away and promptly forget exactly where.

  “Her name was Justice Postell,” Theodora said, drawing her from her thoughts. “Quite a lady, if I don’t mind saying. She opened this restaurant right as The Civil War was coming to an end. First black, man or woman, to own a business in northern Ohio. When she retired, her son took over this establishment.”

  Justice did have a child. This tidbit of information was enough to replace the worry in Birdie’s veins with heady anticipation. She was still leery of Theodora—the old bag was armed—but the desire to learn more about the freedwoman won out.

  “I heard someone in here talking about Justice,” she lied. Theodora arched a brow and she quickly added, “They said Justice was pregnant when she moved here. She was an unwed mother. Right?”

  “Not exactly. Justice got hitched to the colored preacher’s son after she arrived in Liberty.”

  Her heart sank. Maybe the story wasn’t true. If Justice didn’t have a child with Lucas, Birdie wasn’t related to the freedwoman’s descendants after all.

  But her spirits immediately rose when Theodora added, “It was a kind of mercy, their marriage. Justice came to Ohio in a bad way. Nearly seven months pregnant. She left the baby’s father down in the Carolinas.”

  In South Carolina. A feverish excitement stole through her. It was foolish to think she’d earned a reward by learning she might be related to Justice. She wanted to be. She needed to know someone in her family hadn’t done time in the state pen or died in a barroom brawl. She yearned for a legacy that didn’t involve duping some mark out of his hard-earned cash.

  Her excitement must have been palpable because Theodora smiled. Leaning forward, she said, “Child, I don’t know why, but you look as happy as a flea at a dog show. Would you like to hear the whole story?”