If I stay in the house, I will feel more ‘at home’ than I do at the hotel, she reasoned. I can take my time and think things through. No need to rush. No pressure.
The more she thought on it, the better the decision fit. Even the expense of opening the house faded. She had to keep reminding herself that she had money now. Plenty of money, Clover had insisted. Plenty of money to open the house and make it livable again.
But I can’t—I won’t!—allow the money to change me, she promised herself. I will not be rash or impulsive with it. That would feel . . . wrong. Selfish.
Not for the first time, Kari wished the inheritance had been minor, enough to help her through until she could get back on her feet, but nothing more. She felt the weight of all the holdings Clive had listed during the reading of Peter Granger’s will growing heavier by the day and felt nearly crushed by the impending responsibility Clover had hinted at.
I can stay in the house for now, she decided, but I swear I will not become the stereotype nouveau riche, crazed with spending and ostentation.
With that decision made, Kari decided to return to the house when she finished her late breakfast. After the meeting yesterday, Oskar had taken her to the bank to open a new checking account and apply for a credit card.
Oskar’s whispered message to one of the account managers brought the bank manager running. He introduced himself and personally assisted Kari. She shivered as she recalled the transfer form Oskar filled out and the balance the bank manager penciled on the top line of her check register. He also handed her several hundred dollars in twenties. Kari had tucked them into her wallet, trying to shake the sense of unreality.
Afterwards, Oskar had taken her to a car rental office where he’d signed for a car for her. Of all things, it was another white vehicle, as unexciting and blasé as the Reliant parked at the Esquibels’ in Albuquerque.
Someday I’m going to have a nice car, one that I personally select, Kari promised herself, warming to the idea. Nothing outlandish. Just nice—and not white! A car, after all, is something I need, not something I just want.
As Oskar had bid her goodbye yesterday, he had pressed a ring of keys into Kari’s hand. “Every key you need for your house should be on this ring,” he assured her. “I understand the Bodeens have replaced the dust covers on the furniture, but you may move them if you wish.”
For your house. She shook her head just thinking those words again.
As she had passed through the parlor, living room, and dining room yesterday, she’d seen that Oskar had been correct: The Bodeens had re-covered the furniture but they had not taken the carpets and paintings back to their attic storeroom. Then Kari had spent the rest of that day wandering “her” house, making notes and noodling ideas.
She had been over the entire house, including the attic, but she had not yet explored the garden in the back or seen the inside of the old garage. This she would do today.
Kari paid for her coffee and beignets and walked back to the hotel. The valet brought her rental around and she set off for the house, fairly confident she could find her way back to it.
After only one wrong turn, Kari arrived. She parked in the driveway but near the front of the house. Before she used the key Oskar had identified as belonging to the door, she rehearsed to herself how to disarm the alarm. Then she was inside.
The house was growing familiar to her and she went straight back toward the kitchen. There Kari rummaged in the broom closet for a flashlight Oskar had told her she would find. With it in hand, she unlocked the back door and stepped onto the screened and covered porch.
Toller Bodeen (who names their child Toller, for heaven’s sake!) kept the grounds beautifully pristine. Kari was entranced by the aged trees, their gnarled old trunks dripping Spanish moss. She spied the roof of Toller Bodeen’s cabin peeking through the branches.
On the side of the house nearest the kitchen, at the end of the long cobbled driveway, sat the garage. It was detached, as was customary around the time the house was built, and sat far back on the lot.
The garage, like the house, had been built of chiseled stone mortared together. As she circled around its outside, it became apparent to Kari that someone had taken pains to see that the building was secure: The garage’s automobile door was newer, quite strong, and locked from inside. The lone window at the back of the building had a sturdy grate bolted over it. The garage’s side entrance was protected by a barred, steel security door set in a steel frame. A heavy deadbolt kept the security door locked. Kari had rattled every entrance.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
The voice took Kari by surprise, and she stood up, feeling guilty, to see who spoke to her.
“Sorry, ma’am. Din’t mean t’ startle you. I’m Toller. You must be Miz Hillyer?”
The man was medium sized, thin, with black hair and a permanently sunburned face. Kari could scarcely see his eyes, creased as they were, but his mouth was pleasant and welcoming.
“Yes. I am.” She wiped her hand on her jeans and held it out.
“I’d shake with ya, but my hands are filthy, ma’am.” He apologized and held his hands out for her to see. “Been workin’ over that flower bed just there.” Toller nodded and Kari looked where he pointed.
“Well, please don’t let me interrupt you,” Kari replied. “I’m just looking around, getting familiar with the place.”
The man nodded and offered, “Anytime ya’d like me t’ show you th’ grounds, ya just holler, hear?”
“Yes; thank you.” As Toller strode across the lawn, Kari tripped up the back porch and into the kitchen where she dug in her handbag for the set of keys Clover had given her. She grasped them and returned to the side door to the garage.
Kari tried several keys until she found the one that fit the deadbolt. Once the barred door opened, she found that the same key fit the deadbolt on the wood interior door.
She switched on the flashlight she’d found in the kitchen and pointed the beam inside. The interior was dim and dust motes floated in the flashlight beam, but the garage wasn’t as dirty as she had expected it to be. It, too, bore the look of regular cleanings.
Kari’s mouth formed an “o” as the beam fell upon an automobile parked inside. Clover had said nothing about a car! The car was set on blocks and completely enclosed in a custom-fit canvas cover that molded to the car like a glove. Kari’s eyes roamed hungrily over the shape of the car, sucking in her breath when she spied two large fins at the rear—two very distinctive fins.
“Classic . . .” Kari murmured, growing excited. She dropped the key ring on a tool bench and worked her way around the car until she found a way to loosen the cover in front. She slid the canvas up and back until the grill was exposed. The Cadillac chevron and emblem shone dully but the glossy red paint glimmered in the glow of the flashlight.
“Cadillac! Candy-apple red.” Kari was beside herself. She had to see more. When she found the “Coupe de Ville” letters and emblem on the side, she was ecstatic.
Kari knew next to nothing about cars, but she shivered with excitement at the thought of owning such a fine vintage auto. I must call Clover this afternoon and find out if the car can actually be driven, Kari promised herself.
She recalled the nondescript white Chevy sitting in the driveway and her equally humdrum Reliant in Albuquerque, sniffed with disdain, and then chuckled. Why, I’m a car snob! she laughed. Taking care not to scratch the finish, she tugged the car’s cover back into place.
Nothing else of interest caught her eye in the garage. She opened a tall closet at the end of the building and looked over the usual collection of yard and garden tools. They had not been used in quite some time and were finely furred with rust.
Mr. Bodeen must store the tools he uses elsewhere. Kari closed the closet and moved the beam around the interior once more.
Then she pointed the flashlight up. Instead of rafters, she saw a crudely finished ceiling and the dangling, knotted end of a rope. Training the
light on the rope, she realized it was attached to a long trapdoor.
I wonder if anything is up there, Kari mused. She had been more than a twinge disappointed in the house’s attic. The special room Clover alluded to was built to keep the room at an ideal temperature and humidity for storing carpets, paintings, books, and other perishable items. The storage room took up half of the attic’s available space.
The rest of the attic contained none of the mysterious clutter of trunks and antiquities Kari’s imagination had conjured, only neatly stacked boxes and a few extra dining chairs. Altogether disappointing.
Kari pulled on the rope. The long trap door was hinged. With a creak—and a cloud of dust—it swung down to the garage floor. Built onto the inside of the door was a ladder, set at an angle like a mini staircase.
Kari stared up the ladder. Dim light shone down through the trap door’s opening. She itched to see what was up there but the dirt . . .
She returned to the kitchen and gathered a whisk broom, some work gloves, and a clean dusting cloth before sprinting back to the garage. “Here goes nothing.” She folded the dust cloth into a triangle and covered her hair with it, pulled on the gloves, grabbed the small broom and the flashlight, and climbed the ladder to the garage’s attic—which, by the looks of it, hadn’t been swept in a while. She knocked down a couple of cobwebs before she dared stick her head into the attic space.
Using the flashlight, she scanned around the low room. The pitched roof wasn’t insulated or finished; its bare boards over the pitched rafters formed the ceiling, but the roof seemed in good shape. Kari noticed where a workman had patched a leak at one time.
At the end of the attic was a single window set in the stone wall. It was round with panes like pie slices. As dusty as the window was, quite a lot of afternoon light shone into the small attic, and Kari could see that the room was empty with the exception of some old luggage and antique chests or trunks.
The trunks were as alluring as a treasure map. Maybe I’ll find some fun old clothes, she grinned.
She climbed into the attic room and made for the trunks. Kari, wary of spiders or other creepy crawlers, was glad she was wearing gloves, jeans, and boots.
The suitcases were empty; the two trunks were both locked. Kari remembered the set of keys Clover had given her. They were on the workbench, below. She clambered down the ladder, snagged the key ring, and climbed back up, and carefully looked over the collection of keys.
“Yes! Some of these keys have to fit these trunks!” she laughed aloud. Before long she had unlocked the two chests.
The first trunk was empty and smelled of mothballs, but she hit pay dirt in the second trunk, the one with a domed lid. As she opened it, the scent of lavender mixed with expensive perfume wafted upwards. She inhaled deeply, reveling in the intertwined fragrances.
The trunk had a deep tray insert that rested on narrow rails attached to the inside walls of the trunk. She studied the removable tray for a moment. Then, with utmost care, she unfolded the top layer of tissue paper between her and whatever was packed inside.
As she folded the tissue back, the sheets broke and crumbled, but underneath them she spied several beautiful old gowns, each folded inside its own layers of tissue paper. Kari’s heart quickened and she exhaled, anticipating the fun ahead.
I can’t take these out with nowhere clean to lay them, Kari realized. But wasn’t there a stack of— She scooted down the ladder, this time leaving the garage and taking the steps to the kitchen two at a time. In the dining room she grabbed a dust cover from the stack left folded on one of the dining chairs. She took the cloth outside, shook it for good measure, and raced back to the garage.
Kari spread the long dust cover on the attic floor and turned back to the tissue-wrapped dresses in the trunk. Just like the top layer, the paper crumbled when she lifted out the dresses, but the gowns were in wonderful shape. She laid each dress carefully on the dust cloth, reveling in their full-length display.
Alicia wasn’t very tall, she observed, noting the length of the dresses. I must have gotten my height from Daddy’s daddy, Willis. Willis Granger.
When the tray was empty, she lifted it out and placed it on the dust cloth also. In the depths of the trunk she found neatly arranged boxes. She lifted every box out and examined its contents, finding three exquisite hats, two pair of evening shoes, and an assortment of beaded handbags, each one a work of art. Kari was thrilled.
As she opened the handbags, she was rewarded with elegant, elbow-length gloves with pearl buttons at the wrists, tiny cut-glass perfume bottles, and a gold-plated compact with the name “Alicia” engraved on its cover.
Alicia Granger, Kari marveled. My grandmother. These are her dresses and handbags—placed here after her death? Suddenly, the treasure Kari was unearthing took on dearer meaning.
Lastly, at the bottom of the trunk and in a corner, was tucked a fabric-covered item. Kari lifted the item out—it was a long scarf, tied about some sort of box.
The scarf was a diaphanous woven silk, purple and red, shot with gold and silver threads. “Priceless,” Kari murmured, holding an end of the fabric to the light, marveling as it shimmered.
Taking pains not to snag or tear the scarf, Kari undid the two knots. Within the scarf’s folds she discovered a carved cedar box—a miniature hope chest—perhaps only eight by ten inches and five inches deep.
Kari picked it up. What will be inside? she queried herself. More finery? Precious jewelry? A bundle of old love letters written between Alicia and Willis Granger?
But the box was locked. The box’s brass hasp was folded over its corresponding staple and was secured by a tiny brass padlock.
A simple paper seal was glued all the way around the box—encompassing it. The year 1957 was scrawled large in faded ink across the seal. Kari puzzled over the box for a moment.
Odd. This box was sealed in 1957? She stared at the dresses and handbags. It was a moment before she realized why she was puzzled.
Because Alicia Granger had died in 1927 and, presumably—because of the fragile condition of the tissue paper—these wonderful dresses had been packed away not long after her death.
Did someone put this box at the bottom of this trunk long after these dresses and bags were packed away? She frowned, still puzzling over it. It would have been simple to lift the tray out of the trunk, place the box at the bottom of the trunk under the boxed hats and handbags, and replace the tray without disturbing the dresses packed in the tray.
The import of the carved cedar box finally dawned on her: Why, someone deliberately hid this box here. Someone locked it, sealed it, and put a date on it. Then they hid it at the bottom of this trunk. But whatever for?
The seal read 1957. Kari thought she had heard the year 1957 spoken recently, but she couldn’t put her finger on where or when. When did I hear the year 1957 lately?
The mystery only made Kari want to open the box more.
Fumbling with the key ring, Kari looked for a key to match the tiny lock—there was none, of course. Such a small key would not have fit on the much larger ring.
She sat back on her heels to think. She glanced at the trunk, now empty. Not knowing why, she leaned over the trunk and felt along its inside walls. Nothing.
She examined the inside of trunk’s domed lid. Nothing.
Then she ran her hand along the inside of the lip of the trunk’s lid—the lip she could not see because the lid was open and the front of the lip was facing down.
That’s when she felt something, something stuck. It felt like a little envelope, perhaps only one inch by two inches, attached to the inside wall of the lip.
She tugged at a corner of the envelope, but it was stuck—glued—quite securely. Kari grabbed the key ring and slid one of the keys under the envelope. It popped free.
It was as though she knew what she would find. When she lifted the folded flap of the little manila envelope and turned it over, a miniscule key plopped into her hand. She fit it into th
e lock and turned it.
With a click, the lock separated. She pulled it off and was able to easily lift the box’s hasp from the staple. All that remained was to break the seal around the box. Kari hesitated, unsure of doing just that.
She swallowed and looked about the attic again. This is mine. All of this is mine, she reminded herself. It is all right for me to open this, because it is mine.
She used a longer, sturdier key to slice through the paper seal and eased open the box lid. The inside of the box was dry and dust-free, smelling of aged cedar oil. Lying in the box was only a cloth bag with a drawstring closure. She lifted the bag out.
She couldn’t stop thinking that someone had taken care to hide the box and its contents. With trembling fingers she loosened the drawstring tie, opened its mouth, and drew out its contents onto a corner of the dust cloth.
First her fingers encountered and pulled out a thick envelope, the lettering on it so faint that Kari could not make it out. She turned it over—it was sealed, with more faded writing across the seal—and set it aside. She reached into the cloth bag again and drew out a small book. The book’s faded leather cover was chipped and cracked and its pages rustled as Kari placed it on the cloth and stared at it.
No jewels or finery. No love letters tied in a ribbon.
Kari picked up the book, hoping not to break the spine as she eased it open, but the spine retained some of its suppleness. She turned to the first page. The ink was still bright, and she easily read the finely penned words,
Rose Thoresen
My Journal
~~**~~
Chapter 9
In the fading afternoon light Kari turned that first page and read, Journal Entry, April 25, 1909. The date stunned her. 1909! Eighty-two years ago! Kari turned her eyes back to the yellow-edged page. In a small, flowing script, Kari read,
Journal Entry, April 25, 1909
Lost Are Found (A Prairie Heritage, Book 6) Page 10