by Loretta Ross
Death squirmed. “Not exactly seeing her, I don’t think. We’ve been hanging out a lot. She’s a nice girl.”
“But?”
“Man, my life is so screwed up right now, I’m just not in a position to be courting a lady.”
“Courting a lady?” Roy scoffed. “Listen to him, Sam! He sounds older than we are!”
“Screwed up how?” Sam asked.
“Oh, you know. I got kicked out of the Marines, don’t really have a steady job. I’m living on what I can make as a bounty hunter, and let me tell you, it ain’t much.”
“Right, so first of all, you didn’t get ‘kicked out of the Marines.’ You got a medical discharge, and a couple of medals from the way I hear it. And you should be getting disability. They’re not screwing you around on that are they?”
“Not … exactly. See, when I first got hurt I was reported KIA. I’m just having a little trouble convincing the paymaster that I’m not really dead. I should get something eventually, and that’ll help a lot. Maybe then I’ll be more set to chase girls.”
“Ah, I see,” Sam said. “So what you’re saying is, you want to get your life in order, and then you’ll be ready to ask someone to share it with you. Is that right?”
“Yes! Exactly!”
“Uh huh.” Sam took off his ever-present fedora and smacked Death on the head with it, hard.
“Yowch! What was that for?”
“You’ve got it backwards. First you get the girl, then you build your life together.”
Roy was cackling. “My brother: Dear Sammy. We’ve got to set this old man up with his own advice column! He’s right though. If you like Wren and she likes you, don’t go waiting around on account of pride. Even if it means letting her take care of you a little bit now, that’s okay. Women love that sort of thing. Then later, when the situation’s reversed, you can take care of her.”
“I just don’t want to be the kind of man who sponges off a woman.”
“And I’m not saying you should be. Just that it’s okay to lean on someone a little bit until you can get back on your feet.” Roy looked him over, considering. “Just how messed up are your lungs, anyway?”
“Wren said he passed out on her the other day,” the grandson who didn’t want to be engaged offered. The other men all snickered and the kid turned red. “I don’t mean he passed out on her, I just mean that he passed out … on her.”
“Though that is yet another area of concern,” Death offered with wry humor.
“See, now? You can’t be thinking that way,” Roy scolded. “You’ll just psych yourself out. Just figure on being creative. If you can’t do pushups, you let her do pushups.”
“Now, let me get this straight,” Death said. “Are you guys playing matchmaker here? ’Cause I thought that was women’s work.”
“Well, somebody’s gotta do it. You sure don’t seem to be making any progress on your own.”
“Maybe we’re just old-fashioned. Nothing wrong with taking things slow, y’know.”
“Oh, sure. You think that now. Young people always think they’ve got forever, but you’re not gonna believe how fast old sneaks up on you. One morning you wake up and look in the mirror and it’s like, ‘whoa! I’ve got wrinkles? What happened to all my hair?’”
“Hsst!” one of the sons warned. “The women are coming!”
“Quick! Everybody look innocent!”
“Roy Keystone,” Leona said, “you wouldn’t look innocent with wings and a halo. Are you boys about ready to go?”
Death grinned at her and gave a silent sigh of relief.
“No,” Roy said, surly like a little boy, “but somehow I don’t think that’s going to save us.”
“You think right,” his wife agreed. She turned to Death. “Are you finding anything?”
“No, not so far.”
“Do you really think Mrs. Fairchild might’ve dropped the jewels in the well?”
Death shrugged. “It’s the best way I can think of to keep them from ever being found, but I don’t really know. I never met her, you know. What do you think?”
“I suppose she might have,” Leona acknowledged. “I doubt it though. If she knew what they were she had to know how valuable they were, and I can’t see her just pitching them down the well. Plus, I suspect there was at least a little part of her that thought they should be found and Declan should be punished. She just didn’t want to be the instrument of that punishment.”
“Are you going to stay out here when we’re gone?”
Death heard the worry in Roy’s voice and understood.
“No, I think maybe we’ll give this up for now and go search inside some more. Probably better not to be out in the open with just the two of us here.”
“Why’s that?” the grandson asked.
“Missing jewels. Dead bodies. People shooting at them. Any of this ringing a bell?” Roy nudged Sam. “This kid one of yours or one of mine?”
“Damned if I know.”
“You’re both very funny,” Leona said. “Now, everyone, if you will, please begin to make your way to the vehicles in an orderly manner. And I do remember Mary Beth’s Christening and I will be doing a head count. I’m looking at you, Matthew.”
“Gotta give the boy credit,” Sam said. “That was one hell of a hiding place.”
As the Keystones made their reluctant exit, Death reeled in his line one last time and went to stand with Wren, who watched from the verandah, waving goodbye.
“I know the Keystones are like family to you. I sure don’t want to keep you from whatever wedding it is they’re going to, if you want to go.”
“Cousin Collette’s wedding,” she said, “and nobody wants to go, but I’m not really related by blood or marriage, so I have an out. Collette’s a hag and her boyfriend—sorry, fiancé—is a weasel. They have this odd, dysfunctional relationship where they’re either throwing things at each other, things like knives and bricks and hot skillets full of food, or they’re telling everyone in great and unwanted detail about their sex lives. They’re only getting married to have a big party and force their families to bring them things.”
“Don’t hold back, Wren. Tell me what you really think.”
Wren made a face, smacked his arm, and went inside. Death followed her. “Wait up a second. I’m probably being paranoid, but I’d feel better if we went through the whole house to make sure we’re alone, and check that all the windows and doors are secure.”
They circled the ground floor first, making sure everything was locked up and secure. Death had to resist the urge to clear the place, room by room, as he would have searching for insurgents in Afghanistan.
“I feel like we should be kicking doors open and yelling ‘clear,’” Wren said, and he wondered if she was reading his mind.
“You wouldn’t want to be kicking this door down,” he observed, checking out a dark pantry with a single, tiny window. “These shelves don’t look too sturdy, hit them with the door and you’d wind up with—” he peered at the nearest label “— strawberry jam all over the floor.”
“Oh! Mrs. Fairchild’s strawberry jam! This was so good. She always brought it to bake sales and such. She loved to garden and make preserves, but she lived all alone and couldn’t use very much. She gave a lot of fresh produce away all summer, but she also canned things all during the growing season, pickles and relishes and jams and jellies and canned fruits and vegetables. Then, every year at Christmas, she’d donate all of it to the Food Bank, to help feed the poor. There was even a bit in her will saying that anything left in her pantry was supposed to go to them, but Declan tied the estate up so long, they decided it probably wasn’t safe to eat anymore.”
“That’s too bad. She sounds like a nice lady.”
“I think she was. I didn’t really know her very well.”
“And it’s especially a shame about the strawberry jam.” Death looked down at Wren and allowed himself a tiny leer. “I can think of good uses for strawberry jam.”<
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_____
After checking the bedrooms on the second floor and the crowded attic, they wound up back in the parlor, or, as Wren had come to think of it, the Naked Dead Guy Room. Death took a second to replace the riser over the opening to the hidden compartment, then climbed the spiral stair with complete unconcern. Wren hovered near the bottom of the steps and tried not to touch anything that Naked Dead Guy might have come into contact with.
“You coming?” Death called over his shoulder. “The view from the cupola ought to be something.”
“That’s okay. I’ll just stay down here and watch your backside.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“Back. I’ll stay down here and watch your back.”
He grinned down at her. “Miss Morgan, I think your Freudian slip is showing.”
She felt her face flame, but lifted her chin defiantly. “Maybe I just think your backside is worth watching.”
He turned away and waggled his butt at her teasingly. She grinned at him, but then grew serious.
“Death?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fall down the stairs and break your neck, okay?”
Glancing back, he winked at her reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I have the grace of a cat.”
“Uh huh. Thomas is about as graceful as a drunken hippo.”
Death laughed softly, but made short work of lifting the trap door and checking the cupola for intruders. When he had closed and bolted the door again he came down the stairs with exaggerated care. “So, are you ready to find some jewels?”
“Where do you want to start?”
“How about right here?”
“In the Naked Dead Guy Room?” she asked in dismay.
“The parlor. It’s called a ‘parlor’.”
“Right. The Naked Dead Guy Parlor. Why do you want to start here?”
“It’s an odd-shaped room. I thought there might be some kind of secret hiding place built into the walls or floor here.”
“I thought you discounted secret hiding places.”
“For the Civil War jewels. Because if they had been in one, Carolina’s husband would have found them. But there could still be a secret hiding place. If there is, it stands to reason that Mrs. Fairchild would have known about it and that could be where she hid the jewel robbery jewels.”
“Oh.” She looked down. “That makes sense.”
Death turned and gave her a penetrating look. “You don’t have to stay in here with me if you don’t want to,” he told her kindly. “Just keep away from the windows and shout if you need anything.”
She left him crawling across the parlor floor, rapping on the floorboards every few inches, and wandered around the hall. The open library door caught her attention and she drifted inside. It was more a library in name than in fact. The bookcases alone were probably worth more than everything she owned, but there were more books in her own collection. The massive desk sitting in front of the locked French doors was drool-worthy, though. She looked at it longingly, remembering Death’s warning about avoiding windows. A French door, though, she reasoned, was not technically a window. Plus, it was covered with a wooden blind, so it wasn’t like anyone could see her through it.
She tiptoed over to the desk and gingerly settled herself in the plush, modern office chair behind it. “I am Ava Fairchild and I am going to hide these jewels,” she told herself, trying to imagine herself in the older woman’s shoes. “Where shall I put them to keep them safe?” She looked first around the room, then down at the desk itself. The desk top was four feet wide by seven feet long, fashioned from a single slab of walnut. It was as big as a coffin, she thought, and then tried not to wonder if it had ever been used to lay out the dead.
There were seven drawers, three down each side and one long, shallow one in the middle. Wren pulled them open one at a time, finding only a handful of random office supplies. She hadn’t really expected to find the jewels just sitting in the desk drawer, but she knew enough about antique furniture to know there was a chance of a secret compartment.
She took the drawers out one by one, dumping each out and checking it for a false bottom, then laid them side by side along the top of the desk. The central drawer and five of the side drawers looked just as she would have expected, but the middle drawer on the right-hand side was a good six inches shorter than it should have been.
“Bingo,” she said softly, and knelt to peer into the cavity where it had been. A solid sheet of wood blocked off the end. If she’d not known the drawer was too short, it would have looked just like the space behind any of the other drawers. She reached in, barely able to touch it with the tips of her fingers, and tried prying it outwards with her fingernails, pushing it to one side and then the other and flipping it both up and down, but nothing worked.
Frustrated but not discouraged, she pulled out the chair and got down on all fours to crawl into the knee-hole. In the dim light, the wood seemed smooth and unbroken. She slid her hands across the section that should cover the secret compartment and could feel a fine line around what had to be a door. She pushed and tugged to no avail, until she lost her temper and slapped her hand down just outside the edge of the cover.
There was a tiny snick as a catch disengaged and a three-inch-square door popped open in her face.
ten
Holding her breath, Wren reached into the secret compartment and was mildly disappointed when her hand only encountered a stack of brittle paper. She pulled it out and felt around carefully to make sure there was nothing else in the hole, then she closed the little door and backed awkwardly out of the knee-hole.
Sitting back down at the desk, she returned all the drawers to their rightful places and dumped their contents back in haphazardly. Then she lay her find on the polished surface. It was a stack of paper, good quality but yellowed and obviously very old, tied with a faded silk ribbon that had probably once been pink or red. With exaggerated care, she eased the knot loose and spread the stack in front of her. The stack was made up of smaller bundles, each five or six sheets thick and folded once in the center. Letters, she realized, smoothing the top one carefully.
My darling Eustacia,
Wren frowned, trying to match the name to a member of the Campbell family. When she came up blank she carefully lifted the top sheets to peer at the bottom of the last page:
Thy doting husband, Obadiah
Obadiah. Obadiah Healy, of course. Wren shifted in her seat and tried to swallow her rising excitement. They might not be jewels, but two-hundred-year-old love letters from the famous artist could have real historical value. Turning back to the top sheet, she began to read.
My darling Eustacia,
I am sitting alone here in my room at the inn, watching a pink dogwood bloom outside the window and missing thee, as I ever do when sorry circumstances force us apart.
(“Aw,” Wren murmured.)
I have been touring the site of our new capitol and visiting with some of the statesmen who will be living and working here. It is an exciting time to be an American, watching the architects of buildings and the architects of nations as they labor together to take us forward into this new century.
(“Oh, wow!,” she whispered.)
Everyone is very optimistic for the future, in spite of the continuing difficulties with England. There is to be a national gallery, eventually, and I have been commissioned to provide several portraits for it, and also a number of landscapes showing Washington, D.C. before and after construction. I have also been invited to contribute my little pen-and-ink drawings to the newspaper that is to be established. I spoke with Mr. Monroe this morning and he was, in particular, very complimentary about Gentlemen Dancing.
(“Eh?”)
So, Dear Eustacia, all in all it has been a very profitable trip. I am increasingly anxious for it to be over, though, so that I might return to thine arms and to thy bed. For every night, and every spare moment during my waking hour, my thoughts return to t
he sweet, sweet vision of thee, lying naked before me, and my loins burn with the desire to feel thee once more writhing in ecstasy beneath me.
(“Oh, my!”)
Three days! Three days hence, my love, and I will be once more by thy side. If thou hast guests, pray send them away. Banish the servants and draw the drapes and wait for me on the stairs in thy best red gown. For I would sweep thee up and carry thee at once to our bedchamber. Or draw thee into the parlor and lay thee down before the fire. Or strip the silk from thy quivering flesh and take thee right there in the doorway, ripping the buttons loose with my teeth, letting my tongue taste the sweet honey of thy skin as thou archest against me in thine own desperate need.
Death stuck his head in the door. “What’s going on?”
Wren jumped. “Nothing!” It came out an octave too high. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Nothing.” Too low. “Nothing at all.”
“Huh. Three nothings. That’s gotta be something.” He wandered over behind her to look over her shoulder. “What are you reading?”
She slapped her hand flat over the old paper. “Nothing. Nothing. Letters. Old letters. Really old letters. They were in a drawer”
“Really?” He considered her, amused. “Really old letters about what?”
“Oh, you know.” She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop. “Dogwood, Washington, paintings, Britain. Things.”
“Uh huh.” He leaned in close, oh so close over her left shoulder, reached both arms around her, took her hands and pulled them back against her body, holding her close as he read aloud.
“And I would bind thine eyes, that thee may not see from whence comest thy next pleasure. Mayhap, my teeth will nip and tease the hard buds of thy full nipples, mine hands caress the peak of thy desire or mine eager mouth descend into the hot, moist valley of thy womanhood.
“Whoa! You’re reading porn?”
“It’s not porn!” Wren protested.
“What do you call it then?”
“It’s erotica.”
“And what, exactly, is erotica?”
She sighed. “Classy porn.”
“Mmm. Who wrote this?”