With a happy sigh, I wended my way through display tables, turned the hand-lettered wooden sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and went back to get ready for the morning’s business.
* * *
• • •
THAT afternoon a little before two o’clock, a growing crowd of people milled around the edges of Library Park, chatting in pairs and groups or helping themselves to the catered refreshments from the Kneadful Things Bakery on the long table at the back. Clouds scudded across the sky overhead, and the air grew chilly each time the sun tucked behind a white puff. Rain was unlikely, but there were light jackets and sweaters all around.
Some of the Greenstockings had arrived early to help arrange the rows of folding chairs on the grass, a few of which were already occupied. Eureka was bustling around, making sure everything was just so, accompanied by Maria, whose typical calm offered balance to the professor’s high energy.
I spied a lot of people I knew, but there were also a few unfamiliar faces in the crowd. There was a reporter whose press pass said she was from the Sacramento Bee, as well as a guy I recognized from our own Poppyville Picayune. Three or four historians from academic institutions had come, interested in seeing what might be found in the time capsule since there hadn’t been many discovered in the West. There was even an anthropologist in attendance. However, it looked like Felicity’s hope of national news coverage was not to be fulfilled.
Perhaps I should have felt upset about that, as a good Greenstocking interested in boosting tourist trade to Poppyville, but instead I found myself almost glad. Upon reflection, I realized I felt quite proprietary toward the quaint butter churn and its mysterious contents.
To one side, Chief Gibbon chatted with my friend Detective Lupe Garcia and a uniformed officer who was there to provide nominal security. Off duty, Lupe wore dark jeans and a black T-shirt, and her dark hair brushed the shoulders of her leather jacket as she laughed at something her boss said. The chief was pushing fifty-five, though his black hair, combed straight back from his brow, showed not a single gray. He was medium height and wiry, with bushy eyebrows that arched over dark crow eyes. I wondered what he thought of his wife’s newest caprine addition to their property.
Larken Meadows, my half brother Colby’s girlfriend, waved to me from the other side of the seating area. Colby was on an extended camping trip in his Westfalia van, while Larken worked to develop their new property outside of town into a self-sustaining mini-farm. Theirs was a relationship of compromises, but they were happy, and that was all I cared about.
I waved back as a movement to my left caught my eye. I turned to see “Bongo” Pete Grimly, the homeless man who camped down by the river by Gessie’s stables, hanging at the edge of the crowd. He was an odd duck, shy and poetic and not entirely in touch with reality, but along with a few other homeless souls, the people of Poppyville took care of him as best we could. As I watched, Gessie filled a plate from the food table and handed it to him.
A tall figure with sandy blond hair and a scowl came up beside her, frowned briefly at Pete, then kept going. It was the other detective on the force, Max Lang, who strode through the park as if he owned the place. Trotting behind him was his best friend, Harris Madigan.
Whom I’d once been married to.
Astrid walked up then, and I happily turned away from them. “Where have you been?” I asked.
She’d exchanged Hector for a canine companion—this time a timid-eyed greyhound that leaned against her leg as if she were a lifeline. “Checking on Ruthie here. I’m watching her today while her owner is out of town, and she didn’t want to be left alone. She gets nervous.”
“Ah.” I looked down to where my corgi was sit-staying like a trouper. “Dash, this is Ruthie. Ruthie, Dash.”
He grinned and glanced at me. At my nod, he got up and went over to the greyhound, his behind waggling gently as they touched noses.
Felicity caught my eye, held up her wrist, and pointed to her watch. I nodded and passed on the same gesture to Gessie and Thea.
The ceremony was about to begin.
“Who’s that?” Astrid asked in a low voice.
Her tone made me look toward where she’d subtly pointed with her chin. A man who appeared to be in his late thirties stood by himself about forty feet away, hands clasped behind his back and a bemused expression on his face as he surveyed the crowd. He was tall and slender, with long lashes and a Eurasian cast to his features. His good looks were exactly the kind that my friend was attracted to—handsome with a delicate edge.
“No idea,” I said, about to make a teasing comment, when something made me stop. What was it about the guy that set off my internal alarm? Not the big, clanging alarm that said run! or fight! but the smaller, subtler one that I’d nonetheless learned it was wise to heed.
“Keep your hands off him,” she said with a grin. “He’s mine.”
“You might want to tell him that.”
“Oh, I’m planning to, believe me.” She sounded sure of herself.
Felicity made her way over to the mayor and shook his hand, then went behind the podium and began adjusting the microphone.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.” Her voice echoed from the microphone, and she turned it down a bit before continuing. “Could we all find our seats? We’re about to begin.”
CHAPTER 3
ASTRID and I led our dogs over to the first row, where the members of the Greenstockings would sit. Dash plopped down on the grass in front of me, and Ruthie sat right by my friend’s leg, still leaning against her.
Eureka slid onto the seat next to me. “Whew! I’m so glad we got everything arranged inside so folks can check out the museum after we find out what’s in that dang butter churn. I’m thinking of this as a kind of grand opening for Heritage House, you know?”
I smiled. “You’ve worked your tail off. We’d never have been able to do it without you.”
“Oh, pshaw.” She blushed a little, and I knew she was pleased.
A man walking between us and the podium paused by her chair. “Eureka,” he said to her. “There you are.” His voice was silky smooth. His eyes were gray, a dark reflection of his mane of white hair that fell a few inches below his ears.
“Odell!” She smiled. “I’m so glad you were able to come see what’s in our little time capsule.”
I watched them, frankly curious. Sitting like we were, I could hardly be accused of eavesdropping.
“That and to see you, my dear. How’s your book coming along?” the man asked.
She beamed. “I want to talk to you about it! Will you be in town long?”
“A few days. Perhaps you’ll allow me to take you out to dinner? We can reminisce about the old days.”
“Not that old. And yes, dinner sounds delightful,” she murmured, holding the man’s gaze.
He broke eye contact after a few seconds and turned to Astrid and me. Holding out his hand, he said, “Hello. I’m Odell Radcliffe, an old colleague of Eureka’s from Berkeley.”
We shook his hand and introduced ourselves.
Fingers tugged at Odell’s sleeve. He stepped aside to reveal a young woman who looked to be in her midtwenties. She had wispy hair the color of seasoned oak, and behind the thick lenses of her frameless glasses, her hazel eyes looked too big for her face. She hugged herself as if chilly in her cotton shirtwaist dress.
“My daughter, Haley,” he said.
“Hi.” Her voice was as wispy as her hair.
“Hello,” I said with a smile.
She bit her lip and offered Astrid and me a tentative smile of her own, then looked at Eureka. “Nice to see you.”
“How have you been, dear?” Eureka asked, but Felicity tapped the microphone before the young woman could reply. The Radcliffes nodded to us and went to find seats as the murmurs of conversation faded to silence.
“Welcome to the op
ening of Poppyville’s historic Heritage House,” Felicity said with a broad smile. “First off, I want to extend sincere thanks to everyone who made this possible.” She went on to list everyone who had been involved. When she was finished, she waited for the applause to fade.
Enough already. Let’s see what’s in that butter churn.
“Now, you all may have heard a little something about an extra-special element to this first day that Heritage House is open. In the process of sifting through the items that eventually went on display inside, we ran across what appears to be a time capsule.”
She leaned forward conspiratorially. “At least that’s what we think it is, because we haven’t looked inside yet. But that’s about to change! Mayor Ward?” She stepped back and handed him the microphone.
“Thank you.” The mayor scanned the crowd with smiling brown eyes that matched his movie-star hair. “I think Ms. Donovan covered everything, so I’ll save the speeches for my campaign next year. What do you say we get down to the business of seeing what the enterprising folks of Poppyville left us back in the day?” He grinned. “Let’s just hope this goes better than when Geraldo Rivera opened Al Capone’s vault.”
The uniformed policeman who had been talking to Chief Gibbon earlier stepped to the podium with a small hammer and chisel in his hands. He bent to carefully loosen the wax around the top of the churn. After a few taps, he straightened with a puzzled expression. Leaning over, he said something to the mayor, then went to join Felicity.
The mayor flashed the onlookers a smile and said, “Officer Danielson made short work of the wax seal on our butter churn here. Shall we have a look?”
With a flourish, he pulled off the wooden lid. Murmurs ran through the crowd, and my own heart stuttered. Very slowly, he reached in and extracted the first item. I craned my neck to see. He held a piece of thick paper between his thumb and forefinger.
After a quick glance, Mayor Ward held it over his head like a boxing champion. “Everyone, this is a menu from our very own Hotel California! There was no Empire Room in the hotel back then, just the busy hotel dining room. Ms. Donovan here is the current manager of the hotel, so I’ll give her the first look.” He held out the menu.
With a nod, Felicity stepped forward, glanced at it, then placed it on the table next to the podium.
I took a deep breath as the mayor reached into the time capsule again and pulled out a smaller piece of paper. He frowned as he scanned it, then turned it over. Then his face cleared, and he looked up.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this appears to be a page from some kind of diary.”
I heard Eureka’s intake of breath beside me. No doubt a diary would be helpful to her book project.
“It relates the writer’s activities on a Sunday morning.” He laughed as he placed it on the table beside the podium. “Apparently, Sunday was laundry day. It must have been included to show some of the mundane aspects of mining life.”
I looked around to see the reporters scribbling in their notebooks. One of the history professors was typing on an electronic notepad. The cute guy Astrid had been drawn to stood to one side with his arms crossed, avidly watching the proceedings. Professor Radcliffe looked on serenely, his hands folded in his lap as his daughter typed on her phone with her thumbs, lower lip clamped between her teeth. She was probably bored to death and texting with her friends.
“And here we have a claims map.” The mayor held up another piece of paper with a wink. “That should come in handy for modern gold hunters, don’t you think? Who knows how many of those old claims weren’t completely played out?” He tipped his head to the side and peered at the map. “Looks like a couple are up there by Clary Springs.”
The reporters scribbled again at that, and I mentally congratulated Mayor Ward for giving them fodder that might attract tourists not only to try their hand at mining gold, but also to visit the local hot springs.
He added it to the other items on the nearby table and reached into the churn again. “And here we have a photograph of Corona Street.” He held that up, too.
From the front row, I could make out the classic Old West covered boardwalks on either side of the main street. They looked just like the ones that Poppyville still boasted, only some of the buildings now had been mere tents then, and the street itself was a muddy mess. Horses stood at the hitching posts, and piles of wooden barrels crowded the road.
My heartbeat had quieted, but that strange pull still emanated from the churn. Was there something inside that caused that slight vibration in the air? Or was it something about the churn itself? I sniffed the air but only smelled someone’s aftershave and more faintly the marigolds from a nearby garden.
The mayor pulled out an envelope. He slid out the contents, and grew very still. Licked his lips. Everyone watched, mirroring his sudden quiet. I found myself holding my breath.
Then Mayor Ward looked straight into my eyes and turned the photograph in his hand toward me. I blinked, then squinted. From where I sat fifteen feet away, I could see it was a portrait of a woman, black and white like the one of Main Street. She had long dark curls and a small face, and was wearing a modest, high-necked dress with a lace collar.
The scent of marigolds increased, filling the air and making me a little dizzy.
There aren’t any marigolds around here, a voice whispered in the back of my mind. They aren’t in bloom yet.
“Well, I’ll be,” the mayor said in a wondering tone. “This is a photograph of a woman who could be Elliana Allbright herself.” He pointed right at me. “Ellie, you’ll have to take a good look at this when we’re done. But for now, there are still a few more goodies in our time capsule!”
Astrid elbowed me. “How weird is that?”
I flashed her a questioning look, feeling the eyes of the crowd on the back of my head. I resisted the urge to turn around and somehow managed to keep my expression placid.
Was that what I’d been waiting for? Why would someone in an old picture look like me? If she really did. It was entirely possible the mayor, who was not known for his attention to detail, had simply conflated the similarities between two women with dark hair who had lived more than a century apart.
Then I saw the envelope it came in as he placed it on the table. It was slightly open to reveal ancient dried petals that I somehow knew had been from an orange marigold. The scent intensified again, which was impossible because there couldn’t be the slightest smidge of volatile essential oil left in that husk of a bloom.
To say the least, I was distracted when the mayor drew the next item from the churn and held it up.
It was a book—really a sheaf of paper, roughly stitched together and covered with writing and drawings. The hair on my arms flew to attention, and the colors in my peripheral vision brightened to neon. Everything around the strange volume suddenly seemed a little out of focus. My breath quickened, and I realized I was quietly panting.
Beside my foot, Dash perked his ears, and he looked up at me.
“Huh,” the mayor said, apparently baffled. “Can’t say that I know what this is. Heck, I don’t even know what language this is.” He looked over at Eureka. “Professor? Maybe you can help.”
She stood and hurried to the podium. Taking the proffered pages, she tenderly turned each one with a fingertip while her gaze flitted over the contents. After several seconds, she looked up with a perplexed expression.
“I just don’t know what this is. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She started to go on, but then stopped and shook her head. “I can’t understand why such a thing would be in a Poppyville time capsule from the gold rush. This vellum is quite old, much older than the other items.” Puzzlement deepened across her brow, and she shook her head again. “How very odd.” Gingerly, she placed the sheaf on the table next to the other items.
The mayor looked skeptical. “All right, then. Tell you what, Professor. We�
��ll just leave it to you to figure out what this is.”
Eureka gave a sharp nod. “Happy to try, Mayor.” She returned to her seat and nibbled on her thumbnail.
I sensed confusion and frustration as well as excitement, and a part of my brain absently concocted a perfume blend of ylang-ylang and lavender oils, with bergamot as the heart note.
Aching with a combination of curiosity and an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness toward the newly discovered book, I spoke in an undertone. “What’s wrong?”
Her response was barely audible. “That manuscript needs to be archived under glass. It shouldn’t be touched with bare hands.”
Astrid leaned over. “Why not?”
“The oil from human skin can harm old parchment like that,” Eureka murmured.
“You’re right. It does look a lot older than the other items,” I whispered. “Is it valuable?”
“Perhaps, to the right person. She shook her head, then stopped. “That language, though . . .”
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’ve no idea,” Eureka said, her voice still hushed. “It appears to be a combination of Greek and Cyrillic alphabets, but there are a few Latin letters as well. I made out an ‘X,’ and what I think are a ‘V’ and an ‘R.’”
Someone behind us made a hushing sound, and I looked up to see the mayor glaring at us like an irritated schoolteacher.
I gave him a weak smile.
He reached into the butter churn again. His gaze suddenly brightened, and he looked down at his own hand as he drew out the next find. Oohs and aahs erupted from the crowd when he held it up.
It was a misshapen gold nugget the size of an orange. I remembered Thea scoffing at the idea that the butter churn contained gold.
Marigolds for Malice Page 3