I was about ready to chalk up his statement to mere excitement when he interrupted my thoughts by pointing to the letter with his gloved hand.
“Look at that,” he demanded, then pointed to another spot, then another. “Look at those wrinkles. Here’s where the paper was folded and put into the envelope. You can tell that these are the primary folds because of the dirt that gathered on their outer spines. But if you look here… And here, you can see that this letter has been folded before, in a smaller square. See?”
He pushed the magnifying glass towards me, but I didn’t need it to see what he was talking about.
“I see it,” I mumbled and he went on before I could ask what it meant.
“And here, on this line. The ink is just a shade different color than the one before it. Also, the writing is a little different. Here, where he writes ‘Long today and I am exhausted by hours’, his hand is firm, his lettering is clear and solid. He isn’t tired, not like he is here, where he writes ‘We shall meet Johnny Rebel any day’. There his hand shakes, wavering a little on the ‘H’ and ‘N’, and here, where the pen went through the paper. And it changes again down below, but that’s at the PS, were one would expect a change, so that’s not out of the ordinary. Except for the obvious question that it should and has raised: why did he feel it necessary to add that line? Usually postscripts were written on the envelope and they were direct messages, like, ‘Tell Uncle Ben that I am sending the books’, or something like that, not this - which can only be described as a poetic afterthought.” He tapped the page. “This was one of the reasons why I thought there was a message in this letter. Putting aside the clumsy wording, which seems to announce ‘Here is a clue!’ The fact that it was put in after the main body of the letter suggests that Alexander wanted special emphasis on this line.”
“Which would confirm the treasure hunter’s theory,” I said. “That he wanted his mother to look at the hymnal and find the lines that point to the fields. But those fields have been gone over with a fine tooth comb, and not even a coin has been found. So where does that leave you?”
Pinching the letter delicately in his fingers, he lifted it up and dangled the envelope next to it.
“It leads me to the source,” he said, and the gleam in his eyes grew stronger. “Look at these both, Warwick, and tell me what it is that you see.”
I studied them for a moment before shrugging impatiently. I was annoyed by these guessing games, perhaps embarrassed by my lack of observation. My tone was sharp when I said, “I see an envelope and a matching letter. Nothing more. What else is there to see?”
Randall dropped them back on the counter and pointed to the deep lines on the envelope. “You have to know where to look. See these creases?”
“Yes.”
“They correspond to the secondary creases in the letter, meaning that this envelope was folded with the letter in it. Perfectly normal - and that in itself means nothing, before you ask. So, the primary folds in the letter were to fit it in the envelope, the secondary ones were made after the letter was in the envelope, presumably sealed. But how do we explain the third set of folds?”
I frowned and looked closer. Yes, the third set of folds, weaker and much less noticeable than the others, were there. Now I was really confused.
“I don’t know,” I confessed. “But does it really matter?”
“Of course it matters, Warwick. I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t think so, just as I have chosen to ignore the coffee stain in the corner, here. They matter because if you add this to the changes in the writing, you draw one unmistakable conclusion: that this brief, rather unimaginative letter was carefully written over a period of time. And that indicates that I was right, that there is more to this than meets the eye. I wonder if this is what our rivals knew when they decided to start poking around here…”
“But…” I protested, but he wasn’t listening any more. The chattering laughter from the living room had grown louder, and the women were heading for the kitchen.
He swiftly placed the letter back into its packaging, along with the envelope, then put his finger to his lips with a significant look towards the hallway, and darted out before I could comment. I heard him hastily greet the ladies before the office door slammed shut.
Darlene came into the kitchen first, looking bemused.
“He looks very happy,” she said. “What did you do, give him the keys to the Smithsonian?”
“You’ve got me,” I said, shrugging. “The man is weird.”
I kept his revelation - which didn’t seem like much to me - to myself, puzzling over his excitement. What difference did it make if Alexander took a few days to write the letter? Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was a slow writer. Perhaps he was uncomfortable writing, and it took him a while to write what would be for most men of the age a momentary chore.
That might be the answer – but the easy dismissal didn’t sit with me as well as it used to.
Lindsay, Darlene, and Jacob stayed for a hastily put together supper. I joined them after chores and even had time to enjoy coffee with them, thanks to a last minute lesson cancellation.
Jacob offered to drive Lindsay home, something that delighted not only her, but the matchmaking Darlene and Aunt Susanna as well. As she waited for him to bring the car around, Lindsay saw me bringing a stack of paperwork out of the office to sort on the kitchen counter.
“You can start leaving that for me now,” she reminded me, and when I started protesting, she put her hands on her hips. “You want me to earn my paycheck, right? Besides, you’ve got detective work to do.”
I laughed as Jacob came back in, insisting that he carry Lindsay’s backpack for her.
“Don’t forget your bicycle,” I said as they turned to go.
He blinked at me, confused. “Bicycle?”
I began to despair about the future of our country. “The one Aunt Susanna gave you?” I hinted, and when his confusion seemed to deepen, I added, “The one you were working on outside?”
“Oh! That one!” He looked relieved. “That isn’t mine. The professor asked me to clean it up for him.”
“The professor?”
“Yeah. He said he wanted to start riding in the mornings. Well, see you tomorrow.”
“Later, Boss!” Lindsay chirped, and they left me balancing a pile of pages on the stairwell, wondering what on earth would inspire Aunt Susanna to surrender Uncle Michael’s bike to the professor.
I didn’t have a chance to ask Gregory himself. He stayed in his office way past the wee hours of the morning, long after I’d given up on the paperwork and gone to bed.
***
The bicycle was gone when I returned from my run the next morning, drenched in sweat but grimly triumphant. I’d found no hole, but as I showered, I began to worry again. Just because I didn’t find it didn’t mean the diggers hadn’t been there last night; and until I was sure, how could I allow the riders to use the trails?
On the other hand, how could I close them without arousing suspicions?
For the second time in two days, I found myself desperate to talk to Randall. But when I went back into the kitchen, there was only Aunt Susanna, pouring herself a cup of coffee while Trusty attacked her breakfast in the corner.
“Good morning!” Aunt Susanna greeted me as I entered. “Isn’t it a beautiful day today?”
It was, but I hadn’t noticed until that moment.
“Have you seen the professor?” I asked, tossing my purse on the counter and checking my watch. I barely had enough time to make a cup of coffee to go before I left. My haste, added to my anxiety, put enough stress in my voice for Aunt Susanna to take notice, her head tilting with curiosity.
“I haven’t seen him,” she said. “Something wrong?”
I’d already decided not to tell her about the new onslaught of holes and she seemed satisfied with my explanation: “I gave him the letter last night and I was just curious if he found anything, that’s all.”
“Ooh!” she said, perking up. “Now things will really start happening.”
As I made my coffee, the back door opened and to my surprise, Randall came in, flushed, sweaty, dust-stained, and glowing with the after-effects of a good workout. He nodded to us.
“Fine morning for a ride,” he said, wiping his forehead breathlessly.
“Did the bike work well for you?” Aunt Susanna asked. “It’s been such a long time since anyone rode it.”
“Oh, it worked like a dream,” he said, and looked at me as he continued. “I covered more than half of the trails this morning alone.”
Aunt Susanna was every bit as pleased as I was flabbergasted, and when he left to clean up, I asked her about the bicycle.
“He asked if we had one,” she explained with a shrug. “He said he needed to get some exercise in the mornings if he was going to maintain his health while writing this book. I remembered Michael’s and thought it might as well not go to waste. I must say, though, I didn’t take him for a bicyclist.”
“I don’t think he is,” I said.
I kissed her goodbye as I left. As I turned on my car, my cell phone vibrated with a text. It was from Randall.
Covered the other end of the trails. No holes today. Together, we can cover them all each day and keep track of our rival’s progress.
Together. My partner and me. An enormous, crushing weight rolled off my shoulders.
Together.
My reply was pathetically brief: Thank you.
It was all I could think to say.
Letter:
From Alexander Chase to his mother, circa 1862
Dearest Mother,
We wait for our marching orders and the dreary weather continues. I can hardly write for fear that the rain will dampen the paper and render it too soft for my pen. It seems the only soft thing in this harsh world. I do not mean to be morbid, but I look around at this sea of men and realize that I am the oldest among them, and this saddens me. I have had experiences, I have made my mistakes, and lived a life that was less than what it could have been. For me to offer my life in the service of this nation seems only a fitting end to my story.
Do not take this to mean that I am ready to die, for I am not. I have plans, some of which you know, others which must remain with me for the present, that render life too sweet to consider its termination. But if it is my lot to fall on the fields of battle, they can at least say that I have had my time and used it. You cannot say the same of James or Timothy – they have hardly started to shave.
The promise of the nation is marching off to battle, not in some foreign country, not against a hostile alien, but against our own kind, men whose ancestors threw off the shackles of white slavery and joined us in the common cause.
Now we are fighting each other. We are a divided nation, with half determined to permanently sever the bonds that tether us, and the other half trying to maintain them. But, how much more divided will we be once the blood of our sons stains the grassy knolls? When we leave behind a generation of widows and orphans? When we have churned up the ground, burnt the towns, and ravaged each other’s fields? We say that we are fighting to free the slaves and to save the union. The one we may, indeed, achieve - indeed, I hope and pray that we might, that some good may come out of this war. But union, true brotherhood, is not to be bought, even at so dear a price.
I fear for my fellow soldiers, these boys with whom I work and train. I fear for myself and for those I hold dearest. I fear for those who live in the towns we have yet to invade, Americans in all but proclamation.
But when by myself, I fear most of all for our union. Others fought dearly for its creation – we fight equally against its destruction, but in fighting, are we not just digging a deeper crevasse to separate ourselves….?
Chapter 22:
We worked out a schedule. I would run one end of the trails, Gregory would take the other; if either of us found a hole, we would text the other to see the location before we filled it.
The second part was his idea, because he was convinced that he could learn something about the diggers from the placement of their digs. That sounded plausible to me, and I was put out when he seemed surprised that I wanted to be called to view the holes he found.
“What’s wrong?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “It just doesn’t seem necessary. I mean, you’re not really an expert…”
“I’ve been tripping over these stupid things for three years straight. If that doesn’t make me an expert, I don’t know what does.”
Randall conceded the point and for the next few days, I ran and he biked the trails in the morning, often meeting in the middle and walking back together before working our several jobs during the day. He was still redrafting the project that he referred to as “that blasted book” and it was impacting what time he could spend researching, something that he lamented to me more than once as we filled holes together.
“Never collaborate, Warwick,” he told me once after a particularly grueling conference with his editor and co-writer. “It’ll be the death of you.”
“Aren’t we collaborating?” I asked innocently.
“No. We’re partners. That’s different.”
I didn’t ask how, and he offered no explanation.
Joe texted from the west coast and I continued to ask him about the weather, driving the conversation as far away from the holes as I could. I managed this with varying degrees of success when we were just texting; but it was harder when he called, because I hated lying to him. Fortunately, these calls were infrequent and short: he was extremely busy and recognized that I had things to do.
“I do miss you, Maddie,” he said one afternoon. “You just can’t get good lobster out here.”
“You are such a poser,” I laughed, “pretending that you like me just to have an excuse to go out for lobster.”
“Maddie,” he said, his voice husky. “I don’t have to pretend.”
I felt at times as though I was having an illicit relationship. I couldn’t talk about it with Aunt Susanna, Lindsay was more like my little sister than a close friend - and obviously I couldn’t speak to Gregory about it. In fact, if Joe called when Randall was within earshot, I let the call go to voicemail rather than risk him overhearing. It was a reaction I had with him alone.
Gregory would have had no reason to link us together, except for the photo of us at the Dig’s End party ten years ago in the office. He was studying it once when I came in to the office to get some papers. I was in such a hurry that I didn’t notice his interest until he asked, “You know Joseph Tremonti?”
Startled, I looked up and met his gaze, but the sun glinting on his glasses veiled his expression.
“He taught a summer class on the farm when I was in high school,” I said, then turned to my papers as though there was some urgent business with them. “Why, do you know him?”
“Oh, yes,” he said quietly. “I know Tremonti.”
I wouldn’t take the bait. I left him in contemplation, scooting out of the room and counting myself lucky to escape a more intense interrogation.
Still, I wondered. The academic world was small enough that the two men knowing each other wasn’t that much of a surprise. But the way Greg spoke made me wonder if they didn’t have a history together.
If they do, it’s probably best Gregory doesn’t know about my relationship with Joe. Nor Joe my relationship with Gregory.
Every morning, Gregory started on one end of the trails, and I on the other, but we always ended up walking back together. And since people can’t just walk each morning without making some conversation, we began to learn something about each other. I talked about the farm, my office job, my aunt, my uncle, and even a little bit about my personal family history. Gregory talked to me about his students, his job, his ‘pet’ research projects, and what drew him to history in the first place.
“Just knowing the names and the dates never seemed to be enough,” he told me. “These were people, not
statistics. They deserve to have their whole story told.”
I couldn’t help but agree.
He told me he was contacting other people to research aspects of the Chase/McInnis case, including that friend in the Charleston area who was employed in parks and recreation. One morning, as we walked back to the house after successfully filling another hole, he told me his friend was now looking into the official investigation of the McInnis robbery and lawsuit in the local records.
“The robbery report was filed three weeks after the event,” he said. “Three weeks, Madeleine! Simply ridiculous. There is something wrong there, so I’m having Charlie look into it.”
“What do you think he’ll find?” I asked.
“Not ‘he’,” he corrected. “‘She’. Charlene Schaeffer.”
“Old girlfriend?”
He grinned at me. “Jealous, Warwick?”
I punched his shoulder. “Shut up. What do you expect her to find?”
“I don’t know. But if there’s anything, Charlie will find it. She’s like a bloodhound once she’s caught the scent. For instance, she’s already found out why McInnis’ list-making spinster daughter wasn’t present at the lawsuit after the war.”
It had never occurred to me to ask that question. Of course, if Mary Anna McInnis was concerned enough about the household goods to write a painstaking inventory, it would follow that she would be the first to report the crime, then follow up with the lawsuit.
I felt rather foolish as I asked, “What happened to her?”
“She died,” he said matter-of-factly. “She went to live out the war with relatives in the country and caught a fever. She never saw the end of the war, nor the beginning of the lawsuit.”
“How sad,” I murmured. “And she was the one who filed the robbery report?”
“No. That was done by her father. According to what Charlie’s been able to find out, Mary Anna left to live in the country about a week before, but that date is suspect.”
Necessary Evil Page 21