The Pickle Boat House

by Louise Gorday

  Jean looked up the ladder and shook her head. “Really, Van, I don’t think I can. The last time I went up I came down a whole lot faster.”

  “Close your eyes and don’t look down. Come on, Jean. I really need you right now. Please? Just two steps.”

  Jean grimaced and put her foot on the bottom rung. “Only for you, Van.” Slowly, with her eyes closed, face taut with fear, she inched her way up until she could steady Van. Between the two of them, they wiggled and jiggled the two boxes until they were down and sitting safely on the living room floor.

  “Why would anyone put boxes up there where no one could find them?” Jean asked, opening the bigger cardboard box.

  I don’t think they wanted them found. Maybe whatever’s in here is too important to share with just anyone.”

  “Let’s try this again. Anything that talks about land in Nevis, pull it. Set it aside. We can decide later if it’s going to do us any good.”

  Jean rolled her eyes and pulled open the first notebook. And the second and the third, right on down through the box, without so much as a second glance at most of the documents: shipping invoices, indentures, births, death reports. In the end, she dumped the last one back into the box. “Sorry, Van, nothing here except lots of dead people.”

  “I know,” she sighed. “I had such high hopes—make that one last hope.” She pulled the last few loose papers out of the bottom of the box, preparing to shove them into the last ledger, when the name “Hardy” caught her eye.

  “Stop. Hardy document.” She scanned down the page. “Court proceeding, delinquent tax payment. This is a judgment against Coleman Hardy (alias Harwell). ‘Given failure to pay taxes assessed against the property called Nevis Landing, cited in previous tax assessment … property seized to be sold for payment of taxes in arrears … title to the old property transfers to the purchaser at the time of sale … right of ownership to revert at any time within sixty days to former owner provided former owner pays purchase price …’” Van sat back on her haunches. “Coleman Hardy lost ownership of Nevis for failure to pay taxes? This is a miracle.”

  She pulled a small hard-bound book from the bottom of the box. A title was written in neat capitals across the top: “Hardy and Affiliated Families, 1679 to Present. Presented to Alfred Hardy on the occasion of his eightieth birthday, by his loving daughter, Betsey Seagle.” Van flipped through the book and found an index in the back. Running her finger down the page, she stopped at an entry for Coleman Harwell (alias Hardy). “Jean, there’s a whole section on Coleman Hardy in here. Wow, look at the family trees.” Van stopped and glanced at Jean. “This is awesome!”

  “Aw,” said Jean, sticking her finger between the last page and the cover. They used cute little kid drawings of Nevis for the end papers. It’s a map. Look.”

  “Jean, that’s not a kid’s pictures. It’s a survey map … signed by G. Washington? Dated 1785? Get out! These are signed by George Washington! “Not only did he sleep here, he surveyed the place!” She flipped to the endpaper at the front of the book. This one’s not a map; it’s like a pictograph … a drawing of houses … some notes on the bottom.”

  “This couldn’t be Nevis, could it?”

  “It’s hard to tell. I thought the pickle boat house was one of the older houses in town. The houses on Main Street don’t look old, but then again, colonial Williamsburg hid in plain sight for over a century. We need something to compare.”

  “Don’t you have any old pictures in the museum?”

  “No. Nothing that would show an area this broad. Just references to the town that I used to make the model in the museum. The model … Jean, you’re brilliant!” Van squealed, lunging at Jean and giving her a big bear hug. “HYA can’t tear down or hide in a historic town, especially one surveyed by the father of our country! Come on. Let’s check the model. I can’t wait to see the look on Ryan’s face.”

  When they got back to the Phoenix, Ryan was in his office, brooding about Richard and Hector.

  “Ryan, we need to talk. Now,” said Van, bouncing with excitement. “We found something that’s going to save Nevis.” She handed him the court document. “It looks like Coleman Hardy may not have been able to hold on to his Nevis property. He had tax problems. This says the property was seized and sold for nonpayment of taxes. I skimmed parts of the book. It discusses him losing his fortune shortly after he inherited it. If we can find documents verifying that various parcels were subsequently sold and not reclaimed by Coleman, we can make it very difficult for HYA to make an offer to a single descendant.”

  Ryan ran his finger down the page, backtracking occasionally, all the while muttering under his breath.” Suddenly he looked up and grinned at Van. “Life is so good,” said Ryan, nodding as an exuberant smile spread across his face. “Peggy appears to be firmly in our corner. I’ll get her to comb the land records to see if the land was sold—whether Hardy was able to reclaim any of it. It’s not exactly her area of expertise, but she has the patience and skill to look through a lot of records quickly.”

  “Ryan, it gets better. As I suspected, Mrs. Morgan’s boxes were full of worthless musings. But when we were at the house, part of my bedroom ceiling collapsed. There’s a hole in my roof, probably from the derecho. Half my upstairs ceiling has collapsed and there were boxes hidden up in the rafters. Good boxes! Besides the tax document, there was also this family genealogy book with Coleman Hardy in it. Open it up and check out the end papers.”

  Ryan studied the book for a few moments, then looked up at her. “No way! George Washington? This is real?”

  “Right time frame. Hidden away in someone’s attic? Could be authentic. Flip to the end paper in the front. It’s a pictograph. These colonial houses pictured here may still be on Main Street. The model at the museum shows turn-of-the-century buildings in the same location—a similar block of structures. It’ll take more digging by somebody that knows what they’re doing. False fronts, additions—all kinds of architectural changes can mask older structures. I’ll contact someone I know down at the Smithsonian. If we can designate this area as historic, HYA is screwed.

  “Okay,” said Jean, but I still don’t understand why they hid and left them.”

  “Guess we’ll never know. Perhaps they weren’t even supposed to be hidden—just tucked away for safekeeping. My granddad died suddenly out on the bay. Maybe he never got a chance to tell anyone else. I doubt my grandmother got involved in his business dealings. Granddad was very respected in the community. Maybe he was a keeper of the flame.”

  “Maybe he knew he’d have a granddaughter who cared,” said Ryan, giving Van a hug. “You’re probably more like your grandfather than you know.”

  “That would be nice,” said Van, beaming. With a whoop, she threw her arms around Ryan’s neck and pulled an embarrassed Jean into their embrace. “We’ve won, Ryan! Now they’ll have to leave us alone!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A WHISPER BY NIGHT

  “More flowers. When is this all going to end?” Jean asked as she hurried across the room with yet another vase. Ever since opening night, flower arrangements had been trickling in from well-wishers. This one was uncommonly elaborate, made entirely of white: bell flowers, delphiniums, lilies of the valley, white roses and orchids. A small flock of black origami cranes fluttered in among the petals in stark contrast to the white. And at the top of the entire arrangement perched a crane-shaped card, gleaming black as hematite.

  “Your choice. Go to it, Jean,” said Ryan, waving his arm around the room. But as she passed him by, his demeanor changed immediately. “Wait, come back,” he said, his hand darting out to grab the arrangement.

  “Oops … hang on. Damn, Ryan, I’m gonna drop it!” Only Ryan’s quick reflexes kept it from crashing to the floor.

  “When did this come in?” he said, lifting the arrangement out of Jean’s hands. “Who brought it?”

  “Harpers delivered it just a minute ago. No sender, unless it’s in the card. Problem
, Ryan?”

  “Jeesh, I’m sorry Jean. I didn’t mean to rip your arm off. This is spectacular. Let me have it. I think I’m going to put it in my office until I find out who sent it. Be right back.”

  Jean frowned and shot a sidelong glance at Van, who merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

  Ryan wasted no time in getting back into his office and locking the door behind him. He set the arrangement in the center of his desk and then backed up until he hit the filing cabinet behind him. Origami cranes. HYA was calling. He ran the back of his hand across his brow and exhaled deeply. Slowly he walked forward and drew the card from the center of the arrangement. It read “Would like the pleasure of a meeting with you at the Phoenix tonight at nine o’clock. Looking forward to discussing present and future success.” He looked at his watch. It was almost eight.

  He put the card back in the flowers. It had been a pipe dream to think that he could shake free of HYA. He had been reckless and scattered in his negotiations, accepting Hector Senior’s agreement at face value. What a mistake. A whisper by night and a shadow by day—HYA operated without a face. He didn’t even know the price for walking away. He could only hope that it would be quick and relatively painless. Could he, in good conscience, answer? Circling around the desk, he unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled out the little five-shot revolver, checked that it was loaded, and put it in his pants pocket. One thing he was sure about: he would not be used and discarded as Earl had been. He relocked the drawer and returned to the public area of the tavern.

  “Everything all right, Ryan?”

  “Everything’s just ducky, Van.” He came up beside her and hugged her tightly. “I was just in my counting house, counting all my money. I’ve decided to close early tonight. We’ve done that well. Lock the door, Marla,” he shouted across the room. “Everyone can start cleaning up. I expect this place to be deserted by eight thirty. No arguments. Go, get with it!”

  Ryan didn’t have to tell the staff twice. Even Marla was moving at double time. By eight forty-five, the last of the customers had been politely ushered out the door, and the place was empty except for Ryan, Van, and Jean.

  Ryan put his arms around Van and Jean and started walking them toward the door. “Ladies, I have a little bit of paperwork to attend to,” he said. “Would you like me to drive you home?”

  Van ducked under his arm and pulled him away from Jean. “No, I think we’re going to walk home. It’s a beautiful evening.” She hugged him lightly and pecked his lips. “You go ahead and finish. Stop by when you’re done?”

  “Sure, as long as you go right home so I don’t have to worry about you.”

  “We promise, but we can’t leave until we find Jean’s purse. We’ve searched everywhere but the storeroom and the ladies’ room.” Van shot Jean a warning look. “Would you check in the back while we check the restroom? Then we’ll be out of your hair. Come on,” she said, grabbing Jean by the sleeve and pulling her toward the restroom.

  Ryan’s heart began to beat a little faster, but he kept a calm exterior. He hurried to the stockroom to find the purse and get Van and Jean out of the tavern.

  *

  As soon as Ryan was out of view Van changed course and headed for his office.

  “What’s going on?” Jean said. “You know I never carry a purse. Stop right here and clue me in.”

  “Shh! Whisper! Call it women’s intuition. I want to stay behind, but I need Ryan to think I’ve left … Leave without me. When you get to the door yell back that we have the purse and we’re leaving. Then vamoose so that if he looks out the door he won’t see you without me.”

  “Van, what are you up to? Whatever it is, I don’t like it. There’s ‘trouble’ written all over your face.”

  Van couldn’t disagree, and at any rate, she didn’t have time to. She gave Jean a friendly shove in the right direction and disappeared into Ryan’s office. Dead center in the middle of the desk sat the flower arrangement. She snatched the card from the center and began reading. It didn’t seem threatening. Her stomach knotted as she realized there was more here than met the eye. As she stood facing the cabinets lining the wall, she hatched a plan. She couldn’t let Ryan face this alone. There was only one way to find out what was going on. Van put the card back where she had found it, and hurried to the office door to listen for Ryan. Nothing. Quietly closing the door, she turned her attention back to the tallest of the cabinets. It was empty except for an unopened package of tablecloths on the top shelf. She ripped open the package, pulled one out, and threw the rest back on the shelf. Billowing the cloth out, she covered herself with it from head to foot and slowly began to pull herself and the tablecloth back, one shoulder at a time, into the cabinet. The cabinet door swung back toward her to close but bounced back off her hip. “Oh, God,” she prayed, “make me fit. I’ll diet on Monday, I promise!” She pictured herself thin, wriggled back once more, and kept still as the door swung back toward the magnetic latch. Click. Van exhaled slowly, then inhaled. The latch held. She silently began reciting every car name she knew, beginning with “A.”

  After a seeming eternity, she could hear voices, which grew loud enough for her to identify as Ryan’s and Hector Junior’s, followed by other footsteps. They entered the room, and the door closed quickly behind them.

  “Why are you here?” Ryan said. “Our understanding was clear. I’m done with HYA.”

  “As soon as you’ve done this little favor, as you promised,” said Hector.

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “HYA is anticipating a steady income to be generated from some current and future business activities in Nevis. We need to be able to move and deposit money that—”

  “You want me to launder your dirty drug money through the Phoenix?”

  Hector laughed. “You’re a bright boy. I knew I wouldn’t have to explain it. Consider it a tribute to Earl. The sums won’t be too large for you to handle.”

  It was Ryan’s turn to laugh. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Even if I wanted to do that, there is no way this place will even come close to turning a small profit, let alone bring in the kind of money you’ll want me to handle. The feds will be on my doorstep bright and early the morning after I make the first deposit.”

  “See, the thing is, it doesn’t have to be all at once. Small-sum deposits will do.”

  “No way,” said Ryan, shaking his head as he began to pace along the row of cabinets. “I’d be depositing for you until I was old and gray. There must be another way, another business with bigger profit margins. This doesn’t even make good business sense.”

  “What doesn’t make sense is you thinking you could screw over the company and just walk away.” Hector stopped and smiled at Ryan. “I thought you might want to know that Richard Hardy and I had a very fruitful conversation. He is now a very rich man.”

  “How much richer?”

  “He’s a happy millionaire now.”

  Ryan couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. “You gave Richard Hardy a million dollars? For what? What could the man possibly do for you that would be worth that kind of money?”

  Hector stood silent, gloating.

  Ryan exploded with laughter. “Hell, you tried to buy Nevis, didn’t you, for one million dollars? Damn, you’re funny! That much money for land he doesn’t even own.”

  “Actually, it was six,” Hector admitted with a laugh. Then he grew serious again. “But I’m not stupid enough to give that old boozer all his money at once. There was an initial million-dollar deposit.” Hector’s expression suddenly froze, as if he had finally processed Ryan’s words. “Doesn’t own?” he repeated.

  “Hell, no. Hardy’s ancestors lost control of the land in Nevis long ago for nonpayment of taxes. Come, now, you didn’t know that? Your research skills are slipping, my man. You know better than to take all these things at face value.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Nope, got documentation to prove it.” Ryan walked over to his desk a
nd flipped open a yellow folder. “Copy of the court proceedings,” he said handing Hector the top sheet of paper. “The originals are locked up in a safe place. HYA needs to take its dog-and-pony show somewhere else—there’s no profit here.”

  “That son of a bitch,” said Hector, and he picked up a nearby chair and hurled it into the opposite wall, where one leg broke through the drywall and stuck. Inhaling deeply, he glared at Ryan as he tried to regain some self-control. “So obviously, that brings us to a second piece of business. Richard Hardy owes me money. I’ll need you to get it back from him.”

  “Me? Why can’t you do that yourself? Oh, that’s right, you’ve already been closely associated with one murder in Nevis. Anything less than choirboy behavior on your part would invite additional, unwelcome scrutiny. Not to mention that you have already been seen at the Phoenix, with the victim. Sorry, Mr. Hardy and I are not on the best of terms.”

  Hector laughed. “Can you blame the man? You’ve been banging his wife. You don’t respect anyone’s relationship.” Hector sat down on the edge the desk. “Here’s the deal: I want that money back—all of it. Either you get it back for me or I’ll take the old man for a ride and shake him down where nobody’s gonna find him. What’s your girlfriend gonna think when she finds out you could have saved him and didn’t?”

  “Sorry, Hector, you’re on your own. If you’re smart enough to give a man a million dollars for land he doesn’t even own, then you’re smart enough to talk him into giving it back.”

  Hector slid off the desk and walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass of whiskey. Taking a couple of swigs, he addressed the two men standing silently behind him, who had accompanied him and Ryan into the room. “Nothing on the face, boys. We don’t need a walking billboard.”

  The larger of the two men grabbed Ryan by the shirtfront and slammed him up against the tallest cabinet, bending the handle down on the door. Van let out a gasp as she felt the cabinet shudder. Terrified, she squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, praying that the runaway thumping of her heart wouldn’t give her away. The door shuddered several more times, interspersed with Ryan’s grunts and groans as he tried in vain to fend off the violent attack. Even more alarming was the sudden stillness and silence that followed. She strained her ears to hear whether Ryan was even still breathing.