Lance lifted the boy to see the initials. “Oh, wow, cool, wait until I show my friends! We never seen that before!” Mission accomplished, Lance put him back on the ground. Adam was just about finished and nodded to Lance that it was all right. “I’m going to go get Tony!”
The men watched the boy run off across the foot bridge and down the street. He seemed so excited to show his friends something new that hopefully he would forget about the hole. As Adam tamped the weeds back in place, he hoped they were long gone if Timmy did remember.
They folded the shovel and stashed it and the long, gray plastic tube under Lance’s jacket. Both dirt-stained and sweaty, they hoped they could get up to their suite without too much notice or any questions. Excited with their discovery, Lance still drove sedately through town. “What do we do with the shovel?”
“Take it back for a refund? I think the clerk would do it for you,” he batted his eyes.
As usual, Lance ignored him. “I think we should dump it in case Timmy tells his parents someone was digging up Walt’s tree.”
Adam glanced at the sky. It was late afternoon now. He figured it was dinnertime for Timmy and his friends and they’d be too busy to tell anyone anything. “You might be right. Maybe there’s a dumpster behind these stores.”
Lance drove around the block until they found a city dumpster. Adam tossed in the shovel, trying not to make too much noise. Other than a cat he disturbed, no one seemed to be around. Lance drove back to the Bed and Breakfast. Beating off as much dust as they could, they went inside. The front desk was busy with another guest as they took the stairs to their suite.
Closing the cheery curtains in the front window, they set the capsule on the kitchen table. It was about a foot long and six inches around. They didn’t know for sure exactly how long it had been buried in that field. It had to have been before 1966—assuming Walt himself put it there—so it had to have been in the ground at least thirty-six years. The scratches on the plastic must have been from the dirt going in and coming out. There were no dents, no ravages from time. One end had a cap screwed on. Adam tried the lid and found it wouldn’t budge. He gently tapped it on the edge of the kitchen table, the way he would try to loosen the lid off a pickle jar. Even then, it took all of Adam’s strength to weaken the hold on the cap. They found it had been sealed with double neoprene seals, so everything inside was well protected from the elements.
They found they were both holding their breath as the cap came off. Adam tilted the case and a piece of wood fell out into Lance’s waiting hands. They looked at the size of the case and the small piece of wood, and looked at each other. “Is that it?” Lance was the one to voice their question.
Adam shrugged and tilted the case again and was rewarded with a soft scraping noise inside. Peering in, they found some paper loosely rolled to fit the sides snugly. Reaching in, Adam could feel the texture of parchment paper and lightly eased the edge towards the lip of the capsule. Before he could grasp the edge, Lance suggested he wash the dirt off his hands first. “You never know.”
With the majority of the dirt was left on a dishtowel, he eased the paper out of its resting place. Lance did the honors of unrolling the red-bordered sheets. There were two of them rolled together, eleven inches wide by about seventeen inches long. At the top of the sheets was a highly-detailed picture of a steam train—much like the one sitting in Ripley Park—a coal car and passenger cars. A woman passenger was holding her hat against the onrushing wind of the train. In the background, a mid-1920’s car was seen parked near the wooden terminal. The writing covering the entire page was flowery with the words Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad Company in bold, shaded letters. They were stock certificates proclaiming ten shares each, numbered, signed and embossed. The paper had that unusual quality Lance had only seen—and felt—in old historical documents.
With Adam peering over his shoulder, Lance looked the papers over since he had more experience in that area than Adam. His eyes were wide when he finished his examination. “Congratulations, buddy. We are now shareholders in the railroad!”
They high-fived each other.
“Thank you, Walt!”
Lance stopped in mid-salute with a sobering thought. “What if someone comes looking for whoever dug up the ground around the tree?”
Suddenly deflated, Adam sunk into the floral chair. “That’s a possibility. That kid could tell his parents. This is a small town. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to find two strangers who bought a shovel this morning.”
“Think we should get out of here?”
Adam nodded. His elation was turning into paranoia—just like it had done when he found Walt’s diary in Disneyland. Someone could burst in here at any minute and demand to know what they were doing out at the Dreaming Tree. “We’re paid up through the night, though, aren’t we?”
Lance was already in his room gathering up his clothes. “I don’t care. We’ll head back to Kansas City and find a place to stay. It’s only a two hour drive. We’ll have dinner once we get there.”
Thinking ahead to the airline and the gray capsule, Adam asked, “What do we do with this case? Would it be searched at the airport?”
“Probably. Just make sure it is empty and we’ll dump it somewhere in Kansas City. What do you think that wood block is?”
Adam shrugged. “I don’t know. Could it be another clue? Did you look at it?”
They picked up the neglected piece of wood. It looked like it was broken off from something bigger. It had the number 1127 embedded on it.
“Toss it in your bag. It has to be a clue of some kind. Kinda vague.… You packed?”
Lance nodded and looked around the room. He would have loved to stay and explore more of the town tomorrow. He bet he could have talked their way into that new museum that was about a month away from being open. Oh, well, nothing could be done. They both felt it best to put some distance between themselves and those holes they had dug. He glanced down at his messy shirt. “I’d like to take a shower. No, let’s just get on the road. I’ll talk to the front desk.”
They regretfully shut the door and headed to their rental car. On the way back to Kansas City, they decided to put all metal items into Lance’s carry-on for Security at the airport to go through. The paper and wood in Adam’s gym bag would go through the X-ray machine without any problem. There was no need for anyone to even see the stock certificates. They felt they were home clear.
Now all they had to do was find out what in the world—and where in the world—the number 1127 stood for.
“What do you mean we have to go back to Missouri??”
Adam wondered why the sleek, black Mercedes had pulled up in front of his bathroom remodel job in the Anaheim Hills. Setting down the blueprints he was going over with his foreman, Scott, he watched Lance amble over, saying hi to his workmen, calling several of them by name. Lance picked his way around the lumber scraps and power cords. A Skill saw whined in the background as a two-by-four was sized for a wall. After shaking hands with Lance, Scott headed inside the house, leaving Adam and Lance standing over the blueprints rolled up on the impromptu table made of two saw horses and a four-by-six piece of plywood.
When he received no answer to his first question, Adam had a second. “What did we miss in Missouri?”
Before Lance could elaborate, the homeowner, Mrs. Anderson, came around from the back of her house. Wrapped in a silky, transparent sarong, she had just taken a dip in her pool. She looked Lance over appreciatively. “I thought I heard a Mercedes,” she purred. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Adam?”
With his special grin, Lance leaned across Adam, pushing him back. “How do you do? I’m Mr. Brentwood, Adam’s lawyer. My friends call me Lance.” He ignored Adam’s muffled choke as he extended his hand.
Adam ceased to exist. Grasping his outstretched hand, Mrs. Anderson gave Lance another slower look over. “His lawyer? Well, I might just have to sue him.” Still holding his hand firmly, she g
ave him a wink and a chuckle. The soft clinking of the gold and platinum bangles on her wrist blended with the sound of her feminine voice.
Lance knew he would probably have to break his wrist to get his hand back at that moment. He smiled at the fifty-something who was trying desperately to look forty-something while wishing she was thirty-something. “Oh, you don’t want to do that. My boy Adam here is a fine contractor. You have a lovely home, Mrs...?”
“Just call me Rose. May I show you around? I don’t think Adam would mind if I steal you away.” Without a word or glance at Adam, she tucked her arm through Lance’s and led him off.
Mutely, Adam stood where he was, unable to tear his eyes away. They wandered toward the back of the house, Mrs. Anderson chatting amicably to Lance, a death grip still on his arm. Scott came back to Adam, grinning and obviously amused, as Rose and Lance meandered around the corner. Scott turned to Adam. “Rose, is it? You haven’t been able to call her anything but Mrs. Anderson for the two months we’ve been working here. Didn’t know Lance was your lawyer. Jacobs might be interested to hear that.” He was trying very hard not to laugh. He wasn’t sure he would be able to stop.
Oblivious to Scott’s amusement, Adam just shook his head. “He isn’t. I don’t know how he got her purring like a kitten. Well, I guess I do.” He gave a dry laugh as he turned his attention back to work. “Oh well, as long as he keeps her off our backs, we might actually get something accomplished today. She didn’t mention any other new revelation she had about the design of the bathroom, did she?”
“Nope, not yet. What did you tell her about the glass block window she wanted?” Scott knew the design was impractical for both the room and the house. They would have to redesign the whole room around the window, repositioning the Jacuzzi tub and the three-sided glass shower. It could be done. It just wouldn’t look right for the house.
Adam gave a sly grin. “Twenty-three thousand dollars and a four week delay.”
“Ooh, good one! What did she say?”
“She wanted to think about it. I wish she’d quit looking through those celebrity home magazines.” With a sigh, Adam reminded himself it was part of the job. Part Fashion Designer. Part Contractor. Part Listening Ear. Part Babysitter. Part Troubleshooter.
Scott cleared his throat. “Speaking of delays….”
Eyes closed, Adam groaned. “What happened?”
“You know that special beam you ordered for the ceiling?”
Adam just stared at him. Twenty-four foot Distressed beam. It had taken two weeks for it to come in.
“Ben cut it short.”
Adam swallowed his curse. ‘Measure twice. Cut once. Measure twice. Cut once.’ He drilled that into every man he hired. And, if they were worth their tool belt, they already knew it.
“It might fit a gazebo.” Scott tried to be helpful. “Don’t know if we have one coming up, though….”
“Call the lumber mill.”
“Already did. Two more weeks for them to bring another one in.”
“What’s Ben doing now?”
Scott chuckled. “Besides hiding from you? I put him shoring up the floor. Not too much he can screw up there.”
“Wouldn’t be too sure on that.” Adam was still mumbling to himself as he headed inside to find Ben.
The sound of laughter came through the missing bathroom windows. Adam didn’t know why he was surprised to see a swimsuit-clad Lance floating on an umbrella-shaded raft, drink in hand. Mrs. Anderson—he wouldn’t dare call her Rose—was floating next to him on an identical raft. The fountain had been turned on in the middle of the pool. The swimmers had just drifted through the fine mist of spray spritzing out of the top of the fountain and apparently found it vastly amusing
Looking at the two, Adam suddenly remembered what Lance had told him when he arrived. “We have to go back to Missouri.” It had to be the clue 1127. Adam had had no time to look into the meaning. After they got back from Marceline late Friday, he had come here Saturday to work all day by himself, and then spent Sunday running estimates on what Mrs. Anderson wanted changed. A quick trip to the grocery store and the weekend was gone. He hadn’t even thought about the stock certificates they had found. Apparently Lance had been busy. That was good. If he found the meaning of the clue, Adam would let him have his dip in the pool. Maybe if Lance showed up every day, he might actually get the job finished and signed off.…
“We’re invited to a barbecue tonight. Well, I was invited.… I insisted you come, too.”
Keep calm, Adam told himself. Keep calm. Deep breath. “We, and I mean you, are not going to Mrs. Anderson’s for a barbecue tonight or any other night, Lance. I think you know there is no Mr. Anderson. Yet.” His mumble was hidden by a cough into his hand. “It’s not appropriate.”
Lance waved off his objections. “I told her there was some wording in your contract….”
“You what!?” Adam exploded out of his desk chair and stormed over to the sofa where Lance was currently lounging. “Might I remind you that you are not a lawyer? I’ve been tap dancing around that woman for two months now. Keep out of my business!”
Again he was waved off. Lance put his feet up on the coffee table, nudging aside the reference books Adam had neglected. “Now, now. I just pulled a random line out of the contract—which is very well-written, I might add—and told her how much of a tremendous benefit it was to have you as her contractor. She was very appreciative.” He took an appreciative sip of the aged Scotch he had found hidden in the back of Adam’s kitchen cabinet.
“Don’t want to hear it. Don’t want to hear it.” Adam had to calm himself and grabbed the drink from Lance’s hand. After a swallow, he turned back to the matter at hand. “So, did you or didn’t you bring up a hornet’s nest with my contract?”
“No, no. She was sighing with relief that she is so well protected. She might even want you do redo her kitchen next.”
“Hope you’re not expecting a finder’s fee for that little gem.” He didn’t know if Lance was a blessing or a curse. Time would tell.
“My treat.” Lance gave a magnanimous gesture with the Scotch glass.
“I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell you not to go around telling people you’re my lawyer—or anyone else’s for that matter, would it?”
“Only in special cases. So, the barbecue is really out? Rose will be so disappointed.” Lance casually flipped through a remodel magazine that Adam subscribed to. He held up a page showing an all-chrome and glass kitchen. “Think this would look good in Rose’s house?”
Adam glanced at the picture. “Only if she never planned on actually doing any cooking in there.”
Lance gave a laugh and finished thumbing through the magazine. “Well, she did say she had something cooking. Not sure if she meant in the kitchen or not….” He drifted off as he looked around Adam’s apartment that had been new in the early ‘70’s, wondering out loud why a contractor with Adam’s ability lived in a green-shag-carpet wonder like this.
“Give me time.” Adam heaved a frustrated sigh. He had wondered that, too, on many occasions. There had been plans once to build his own home. Had the blueprints designed in his head. Two-story Country French. Four bedrooms. Three baths. Formal dining room. Huge playroom in the loft for the pool table and a jukebox. Oak kitchen. Covered patio stretching the length of the house out back. He even had picked out the lot. He had picked out the woman too. But.…
“Want me to call Rose or do you want to do the honors?” Lance’s voice broke through his thoughts.
Glad to disrupt the direction his mind had taken, he snorted dismissively. “You made the plans. You break them.”
“I could go without you.”
“Ah, but you won’t.”
With a good-natured shrug, Lance pulled his cell phone out of his slacks and the phone number out of his shirt pocket. Truth be told, he didn’t mind canceling. Being friendly and gregarious, he liked the company of all women and found something interesting in eve
ryone he met. But, he hadn’t been born yesterday—as Adam liked to think. He knew trouble when he saw it. And Mrs. Rose Anderson was trouble with a capital T.
Even from across the room, Adam could hear the shrill of disappointment in the voice on the other end of the call. But, Lance being Lance managed to turn it around; she had ended the conversation being ‘so glad’ that he had called. “What were you doing on the job site anyway? Why didn’t you just call?” Adam suddenly remembered he never did get an explanation—something else that wasn’t too unusual for Lance.
“I was already in Anaheim so thought I’d stop by for a chat and tell you the news.”
“Just can’t keep away from Disneyland, huh?”
An odd look passed over Lance’s face that quickly dissipated. Wary? Suspicious? Adam wasn’t even sure he saw it, let alone analyze it. “Yeah, well, you know me.” Lance’s reply was a little too light, and he immediately turned the conversation to a different channel. “No, I wanted to tell you about our flight to Missouri this Wednesday.”
Calm. Calm. It would test even the Dalai Lama’s patience to be friends with Lance and not kill him. Shaking his head, Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot leave the job again so soon, Lance! I have responsibilities.”
“I could go without you.” Lance gave a shrug as if he didn’t care and then added something he knew Adam couldn’t resist. “But I think I need your expert skills on this one.”
Stifling the instant objection he was ready to voice, Adam realized he didn’t even know what Lance had found. Completely wrapped up in work and his frustrating customer, he hadn’t even asked. He dropped into the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. “Maybe you’d better tell me what you found.”
Already knowing Adam was going to object, Lance had just waited for him to mentally work it out himself. “That might be a good idea.” Lance picked up one of the books on the coffee table and thumbed through about a third of the book before handing it to Adam. There was a black and white picture of a large brick building in the center of the page. A smaller picture showed men in white shirts and black suspenders hunched over drafting tables, racks of paper stacked on the walls behind them. The caption proclaimed the ‘animators hard at work.’ The title of the chapter was “Laugh-O-Grams Era.”
Sometimes Dead Men DO Tell Tales! Page 8