Maybe old Victor had been more than a little crazy, but something about a green monster niggled at the back of her mind. Not fangs and claws and scales but…the recollection slipped away. She’d remember if she didn’t think too hard about it and focused on something else. Liberty’s path. Sounded historic. She typed it in. A non-profit organization in Texas came up. What did that have to do with green monsters? Nothing.
“Think, Ainslee.” She frowned and typed liberty into the online thesaurus, then scanned the list of words. Freedom. The word bounced around her brain, searching for a connection. Freedom. Path. The Underground Railroad had been called the path to freedom. Was the green monster slavery? Wait a minute…
She jumped to her feet, fist-pumped the air and let out a hoot. A woman walking back from the restroom stared then hurried toward her parked car.
A sheepish grin slipped out as Ainslee reclaimed her seat. If liberty equaled freedom, then a path could be a trail. The Freedom Trail ran through Boston, and the green monster…the memory clicked. Fenway Park, home to the Red Sox. Their baseball stadium’s outfield wall was called the Green Monster. With difficulty, she controlled the urge to jump up and down. The brightest learned across the river. Duh. Harvard was in Cambridge on the other side of the Charles.
“Oh, yeah!” Ainslee allowed herself one little dance step as she gathered her belongings and headed back to the parking lot. The Amish would have to wait. She’d figure out the rest of the clue once she got to Boston.
* * * *
Griff stood in front of the Liberty Bell and swore. When an elderly woman gasped and edged away, he clamped his lips together and retreated to a bench far from the horde of eager history buffs with their clicking cameras.
What in the name of God was I thinking?
Had he really expected to find notes stuck to the inside of the bell? Or maybe a clue box with a flag on top like they provided for the participants of those reality TV shows?
“I’m an idiot.” He dropped his duffle bag on the grass beside him and pulled the creased letter from his pocket to scowl at the crabbed writing he’d come to despise. No way had Victor Talbot left the next clue glued to a national treasure. The words liberty and Ben had led him astray. Probably exactly what the old goat had wanted. Griff imagined the decrepit geezer cackling with glee while hellfire leaped and flamed behind him.
Maybe the freaking riddle wasn’t going to be so easy to solve after all.
He glanced up as a stunning brunette walked by, phone clamped to her ear. Her voice rose. “No, Tony, it isn’t here. I’m telling you, we were wrong.” Heels tapping and hips swaying, she headed toward the street.
Griff’s attention returned to the clue. His mistake had been in focusing on a single phrase and thinking he was so damned smart to figure it out in two minutes flat once he put his mind to it. Obviously liberty was a red herring, but the first part of the riddle didn’t make any sense. Jealousy looms if you add an eye. Tilting his head back against the bench, he turned his face to the morning sun and tried to think. There was some expression about jealousy that had to do with an eye. What the hell was it? He snapped his fingers. Didn’t people describe jealousy as a green-eyed monster?
Jackpot!
He sat up straight and read the clue again. If he took out the eye, he was left with…green monster. A grin spread. He’d been to Fenway Park with his crew after a salvage expedition up in Maine. Had just missed catching a foul ball. Not Philadelphia. Boston. The next piece of the puzzle was in Boston.
Jumping up off the bench, he paused as his grandpa’s voice echoed in his head. Don’t go off half-cocked, boy. That’s what he’d done before, and the result had landed him amongst a gaggle of tourists staring at a cracked bell. Boston was a big place. He needed to make sure he was on the right track.
He sat back down and read the scrawled words for the millionth time. Take liberty’s path to Ben’s wealth to find the year Paul took to the streets. Maybe Ben did refer to Franklin after all. Surely there was a Franklin Street in Boston. And Paul must be Paul Revere. What year had he made his famous midnight ride? Griff frowned, wishing he’d paid more attention in history class. 1776 maybe? He’d look it up to be sure, but he was willing to bet the next clue could be found at 1776 or possibly 1775 Franklin Street in Boston.
With a whoop, he rose to his feet, scooped up the duffle bag, then hurried across the grass. With any luck, a commuter flight would land in Boston within the next couple of hours. Raising a hand to hail a passing taxi, he jerked open the door when the driver pulled up to the curb, then tossed his bag inside.
“Take me to the airport.”
“You got it.” The cabbie snapped his gum as he pulled back into traffic. “Where you headed?”
Griff glanced down at the letter still clutched in his hand. “I have a date with destiny.”
“She sounds hot.”
His laugh echoed around the interior. “Let’s hope so.”
Meet the Author
Write what you know. Jannine Gallant has taken this advice to heart, creating characters from small towns and plots that unfold in the great outdoors. She grew up in a tiny Northern California town and currently lives in beautiful Lake Tahoe with her husband and two daughters. When she isn’t busy writing, Jannine hikes or snowshoes in the woods around her home. Whether she’s writing contemporary, historical or romantic suspense, Jannine brings the beauty of nature to her stories. To find out more about this author and her books, visit her website at www.janninegallant.com.
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