Wilde One

by Jannine Gallant

  Up near the pillows, Rocky stretched and moaned then stuck all four feet straight up in the air.

  “What sucks?”

  He turned his attention back to Ainslee. “There aren’t any numbers in the pictures. I’ve stared at them so long my eyeballs hurt.”

  She frowned as she padded across the carpet on bare feet to stand next to him. “Maybe we need to use one of the earlier clues. Either the post office box number or the safety deposit box. I remember mine was 1692, the year the witches were hung in Salem.”

  He leaned in closer. God, she smelled like some kind of flower. With an effort, he forced his wandering attention back to the conversation. “Uh, mine was 1775, the year of Paul Revere’s ride. The combination to the lock has to be information we all have.”

  “You’re right.” When she sat on the edge of the bed, her robe drooped open, revealing even more smooth thigh. She absently straightened it with a jerk.

  He tore his gaze away and forced himself to think. “The original letters Victor sent us were all the same, weren’t they?”

  “I’m pretty sure they were. Let’s look at them again.” She hopped up, searched through her purse then waved an envelope. “I have mine here.”

  “Hey, the postmark is a date. Maybe—”

  “Can’t be. The letters were mailed after Victor died, so there’s no way he could have set the lock to correspond to the correct date unless he told someone to pull the plug at a specific time.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.” Griff read over her shoulder after sliding an arm around her waist. “Why couldn’t the old bastard have typed these notes? His writing is atrocious.”

  “He was in his nineties. Give him a break.”

  “How the hell did he plant all the clues if he was old and sick? I can’t picture a dying man digging up that rosebush to bury the treasure.”

  “He must have paid someone he trusted to do it. Maybe an employee. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure.” She flipped over the single sheet. “Basically, he just talks about his buddies, how they found the treasure, and his intention of passing it along to one of their descendants. He doesn’t mention any numbers.”

  “Maybe the combination corresponds to the year they uncovered the Nazi hoard? Had to be in the early forties.”

  Ainslee glanced up. “It’s worth a try.”

  Griff walked over to the table and spun the tumblers, giving the hasp a jerk each time he stopped. “Nope, that’s not right. I tried each year of the war.”

  She dropped back down on the edge of the mattress. “What about their squad number. Do squads even have numbers?”

  “I don’t have a clue.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, we’re making this too complicated. The pictures must contain the answer. There are five footprints in the sand. One of the numbers could be five. Or maybe we need to go back to the apartment building to check the address.”

  “There were brass numbers above the front door. Nineteen fifty-three.”

  Griff turned and stared. “You knew that all along? Why didn’t you say so earlier?” He spun the numbers on the lock again. Nothing clicked. “Shit. I was positive that would work.”

  “How about the year Victor was born. We could look it up online.” Her robe parted when she scooted off the bed.

  Griff’s vision glazed. She wasn’t wearing anything under the robe.

  “I have a better idea.” He scooped up the photos and dropped them next to the box then turned back to the bed. “Move it, Rocky.”

  “Oh, my God, look.” Ainslee pointed at the messy stack.

  “What?”

  “There’s a little squiggle in the corner on the back of that picture.” She picked up the taped together photo. “Victor’s crappy writing makes it hard to read, but I think it might be a two. Do any of the others have marks?” She flipped over the rest of the pictures.

  “There’s a little wavy line on this one.” Griff reach past her to point, taking another intoxicating whiff of her lotion or whatever was making her smell so good. He cleared his throat. “Possibly a one or a seven.”

  “I think the little hook on the top makes it a seven.” She held up a third photo. “That squiggle has to be an eight.”

  “Nothing on this one.” Griff set the picture of Lombard Street back on the table.

  “This one either.” Ainslee dropped the Transamerica Pyramid and raised the final photo. “I don’t…wait. There’s an ink smudge in the top corner. We must have gotten it wet. I can’t read it.”

  “Are you kidding me! Without knowing the order, we could spend all night trying different combos if we don’t have all four numbers.”

  She dropped the picture and smiled. “We’re idiots. Complete morons.” She ran to her suitcase and knelt to pull out an envelope. “We have another set.”

  “Of course we do.” He rolled his eyes. “Good thing we hooked up. Look on the back of the Golden Gate Bridge picture.”

  Ainslee shuffled through the taped together photos then flipped one over. “It’s just a little circle. A zero. Zero, two, seven and eight are our numbers.”

  “I’ll start trying different combinations.”

  Ainslee turned all the pictures over. “Try zero, eight, seven, two in that sequence first. It’s the order we used the pictures to find the treasure. Bridge, house, tree, footprints.”

  His hand shook as he forced the rusty tumblers to move. A click sounded, and the lock fell open. “We did it.”

  Eyes wide, she gripped the edge of the table. “I’m almost afraid to look inside. What if it’s a bunch of rocks?”

  “Only one way to find out.” He pulled off the lock, flipped the stiff latch and lifted the lid. Metal scraped metal with an earsplitting shriek. His heart pounded so hard he thought he might pass out. “Now we know why the box was so heavy.”

  “Gold?” Her voice squeaked.

  “Just one bar.” He lifted it out of the box with both hands to turn it over. “But it must weigh close to fifteen pounds. No mint mark, so this isn’t government issue. Looks to me like someone melted down all their valuable possessions, maybe to make their wealth more portable if they needed to escape with it during the war.”

  “Or the Nazis wanted to make stolen property easier to stockpile. What a shame. That brick may once have been an intricate candelabra or a tea service or a beautiful statue.”

  “I wonder what’s in the pouch.” He pulled out a small leather bag and untied the string holding it closed. A necklace and earrings slid into his palm. Diamonds and sapphires sparkled. At least he assumed the glittering crystal and deep blue stones were diamonds and sapphires.

  “Stunning.” Ainslee’s breath came fast near his ear. She touched the largest stone in the necklace’s setting with one finger. “This sure didn’t come out of a clearance bin at a five and dime.”

  “I guess the jewelry could be fake. The bar could be a metal alloy mixed with gold, but I doubt it. I wonder what’s wrapped in the butcher paper. Looks like a picture frame. Do you want to do the honors?” He handed her the flat object, eight inches square by his estimation.

  Her fingers trembled as she carefully unwrapped it. An engraved frame in some type of dark wood encased a painting of a misty sunrise over a field of blue flowers.

  Staring at it, she let out a sigh. “So pretty.”

  “I don’t see a signature.”

  “The style reminds me of Monet.” Ainslee glanced up, eyes filled with wonder. “Do you think this could be an unknown masterpiece?”

  “I wouldn’t get my hopes up, but it really is beautiful.”

  “I love it. Is that everything in the box?”

  “There’s a folded piece of paper at the bottom.” He pulled it out. “Another letter from Victor.”

  “What does it say?” She laid the painting on the bed, well away from the sprawled dog.

  “I’ll let you decipher his writing.” He handed her the sheet of n
otebook paper.

  Ainslee cleared her throat. “Congratulations to the deserving winner. I may not rest in peace, but I’ll go to my grave knowing I did my best to make up for my youthful greed. Not that anything will ever compensate for my acts. Enjoy the spoils of your victory. Gold and jewels are easily spent, but I hope the painting will live on in your heart as it did in mine all these years. Victor.” She glanced up. “Interesting. What do you suppose he did that was so awful he still harbored a bad case of guilt on his death bed?”

  “Murder? Maybe there’s a reason our great-grandfathers never made it home alive.”

  “Two of his buddies did. Parnell and Marietta’s grandfathers came back from the war, married then had kids.”

  Griff walked over to study the painting. “But neither lived a long, fruitful life. Didn’t Speed die in a fire? Sounds pretty suspicious to me.”

  Ainslee nodded. “And Thomas Washington got hit by a truck. I’m beginning to think you were right all along about Victor not being such a good guy.”

  “I bet he had plenty to do with our great-grandfathers’ deaths, too. He could have orchestrated some sort of ambush.”

  She rubbed her arms and shivered. “That’s horrible.”

  “If it’s true, I hope the old bastard is roasting in hell.” He fisted his hands on his hips. “All for a bar of gold he never spent, some jewelry and a painting with no signature. I guess we’d better have the artwork appraised.”

  She let out a long, shuddering breath. “Even if only the gold and jewels are valuable, my little nest egg just got a whole lot bigger.”

  “Ostrich sized. The bar alone must have close to three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of gold in it.”

  Ainslee’s jaw sagged. “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope.” He lifted the painting and propped it up against the wall on top of the dresser. “In my line of business, it pays to know the value of precious metals. We aren’t millionaires or anything. The stones in the necklace and earrings are valuable, but we aren’t talking the Hope Diamond here. Still, this was certainly a profitable couple of weeks’ work.”

  “Unless the painting really is by Monet.”

  He grinned. “That would tip us into the mega-wealthy category.”

  “I could buy a cute little cottage with an ocean view instead of renting an apartment somewhere with a bunch of neighbors crowding around me.” She let out a sigh. “After five years in New York, breathing room would be heaven.”

  He squeezed her shoulders through the fuzzy robe. “Don’t count it out. Even if the painting isn’t a masterpiece, with your share of the gold, you can afford something a lot nicer than an apartment.”

  “I can, can’t I?” She glanced up at him and grinned. “Sweet.”

  “Ains?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are we finished discussing the treasure and Victor and the possibility of murder, at least for tonight?”

  “I suppose so. Why? Did you have something else in mind?”

  Looping his arms around her waist, he pulled her back against his burgeoning need and ran his lips along the side of her neck, tasting sweet-scented skin through the damp curls. “I might.”

  “Can it wait a moment or two, until I dry my hair? Otherwise it’ll be an unholy mess in the morning.”

  His grip tightened. “I may have enough self-control to manage that, if you don’t take too long.”

  “Five minutes.” She spun out of his arms, raised on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips then bolted into the bathroom. A few seconds later the whir of a blow dryer hummed through the door.

  Griff toed off his shoes, chucked his pants and boxers, whipped his shirt over his head then flipped back the comforter. Or tried. It pulled tight beneath Rocky’s minimal weight. “Off the bed.”

  The dog growled.

  “I mean it.”

  Lifting his nose in the air, the mutt moved slowly to the foot of the bed before settling into a ball. He stared up at Griff with brown eyes, daring him to protest.

  “Whatever.” He slid under the covers then reached for the remote on the nightstand to turn on the TV. Flipping through the channels as the blow dryer whirred, he paused on a local news station.

  A reporter stood outside the UCSF Medical Center. Her platinum blond hair was sprayed into elaborate puffs despite the damp, low hanging fog, and blue eyes were wide with excitement. “This is Lola Hightower with a late breaking news story. Legendary basketball star, Parnell Jones, was rushed to the hospital behind me after becoming the latest victim of a mugging turned violent. According to a police source, Mr. Jones was attacked in the Richmond District by an unknown assailant. A witness reported seeing a Caucasian male of medium height wearing a black leather jacket and a knit hat strike down Mr. Jones before fleeing the scene carrying a small duffle bag. A hunt for his attacker is ongoing. So far, there’s been no word from the hospital spokesperson as to the basketball legend’s condition. We haven’t yet been able to verify why Mr. Jones is here in San Francisco, but we’ll bring you follow-up details just as soon as we know more. Back to you, Hal.”

  The screen flashed to a suave, older man in a newsroom who again promised to provide viewers with more information as it was made available.

  “Holy shit!” Griff sprang out of the bed and crossed the room to throw open the bathroom door. “Someone attacked Parnell.”

  Ainslee turned off the blow dryer. Slowly she raised her lowered gaze to meet his. Color bloomed in her cheeks. “I thought you said you had willpower.”

  “Huh?” He glanced down. His package hung in unimpressive fashion but twitched to life when Ainslee continued to stare. “Sorry, I forgot I didn’t have on any clothes. Did you hear what I said?”

  She shook her head. “Um, no, the dryer…” Her voice trailed off. “Was it important?”

  “Hell, yes, it’s important. Someone attacked Parnell.” He tugged on her arm. “Are you finished in here? Your hair looks dry enough to me.”

  “Yes.” She followed him back into the bedroom. “Parnell Jones? What happened to him?”

  “The reporter from the local news called it a mugging gone wrong—in the Richmond District. The suspect fled with a duffle bag.” He waved a hand. “What do you want to bet the creep who was checking up on us was cruising the neighborhood, saw Parnell on the street with a bag and smashed him over the head, intending to steal the treasure?”

  Ainslee dropped onto the foot of the bed next to the dog. “Uh, can you put some pants on? I can’t focus with…just put some pants on.”

  He grinned and grabbed his boxers off the floor. “Didn’t mean to distract you.”

  “What happened to Parnell? Was he hurt?”

  “He’s in the hospital.”

  Her eyes widened, and her mouth drew down with concern. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “The hospital hasn’t released a statement on his condition yet.”

  “I don’t get it. If the man who was looking for us believed we’d found the treasure, why would he attack Parnell?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know for sure we’re the ones who have it.” Griff sat beside her on the bed. “The yard behind the apartments was dark, and we must have sprinted around the corner before he reached the street. He probably didn’t see us. He knew the treasure had been dug up, but not who did the digging.”

  “So, we lost him zigzagging through the neighborhood.” She frowned. “He kept searching, not for us in particular, but for any of the participants in the contest.”

  Griff scooted closer when the dog stretched out and kicked him, then lost his train of thought as their thighs pressed together. “Uh, exactly. He saw the SUV parked nearby and checked the bed and breakfast, but Doris turned him away.”

  “So he ended up on the street again and happened to run across Parnell carrying a bag, took a chance he had the treasure and grabbed it.”

  “Makes sense.” Griff absently fingered one of her soft curls w
hen it brushed his hand. “There is the possibility the man who hit Parnell wasn’t the one at the apartment. The person in the yard could have been Morris. Not Marietta, though. The voice we heard yelling those obscenities belonged to a man.”

  “You’re right. Heck, it could even have been Parnell.” Ainslee flipped the curl he’d been playing with over her shoulder. “After we beat him to the treasure, maybe he was walking back to wherever he’d parked his motor home when the assailant hit him.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “The problem is, all this is speculation. We don’t know what really happened.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “But we do know this man is dangerous. He’s stalking all of us, and he’s willing to take risks.”

  “There’s a simple solution.” He cast a longing glance behind them at the bed and sighed.

  “There is?”

  “Yep, we disappear. Once we’re out of the city, he won’t know where we’ve gone. No more clues to follow. No more trail leading to a common destination. We vanish.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to get up early…”

  Griff shook his head. “I imagine he’ll expect that and be watching since he knows where we’re parked. Much as I hate the idea of ditching our room with a view, we need to leave now. Tonight.”

  Her gaze met his. “We can’t run forever.”

  “We don’t have to. Once we sell that gold brick and turn over the painting and jewelry for appraisal, he won’t have any reason to come after us. The game will be over. Right now he still believes he has a chance of recovering the treasure without getting caught.”

  Ainslee rose slowly to her feet. “If the man who shot at us and attacked Parnell isn’t one of the others in the race, then who is he?”

  Griff shrugged. “If Parnell got a good look at the guy, the police will put out a description and hopefully arrest him for assault. Honestly, I don’t care who he is just as long as he leaves us alone.” Standing, he pulled her into his arms for a long, hard hug. “I only care that you’ll be out of harm’s way. Right now, your safety is all that matters.”