Crossing the street, a lady pushing a baby carriage accidentally bumped into Jack. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized.
“That’s totally okay!” Jack responded, more enthusiastically than he might have yesterday.
Jack got ham on rye. Ruthie ordered a chicken salad sandwich, thinking how great food tasted now that Jack was Jack. Ruthie’s memories had returned to her, solidly taking hold in her mind. In fact, she now remembered what she had urgently wanted to do yesterday, right before her father’s phone call and the surreal events of the last twenty-four hours: find out why Phoebe’s tag still flashed in the South Carolina room and begin the search for the will and the letter that Isabelle had hidden.
“It’s only one o’clock,” she said, taking her last bite. “We’ve got time to go back to Phoebe’s room.”
“Sounds good.” Jack shoved the last morsel of sandwich into his mouth. “But let’s stay away from the Cape Cod room. Okay?”
Ordinarily the flashing of the coin would be enough to drive Jack’s curiosity, but Ruthie saw a look in his eye that betrayed how spooked he was. She felt the same. “Definitely!” she replied.
Once in the American corridor, Jack ran to one end and looked at the floor.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m checking the vent to see if the rope is gone.”
“What rope?” Ruthie was confused.
“See this vent? This is how we entered the corridor—in the other version of your life. You put a knotted rope in it to climb through.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. This leads to a duct that goes under the floor and comes out in the information booth.” He explained the rest of the route that they’d taken. “You don’t remember any of it?”
“Nothing! The last twenty-four hours is pretty spotty. I remember my dad calling, and I sort of remember dinner. But then I only remember being in the past, talking to Jack Norfleet on the Clementine.” Ruthie shook her head a little. “Weird that you do.”
“I’ll say. We used a knotted rope that you made. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t still here. You know …” He didn’t finish.
“You wanted to make sure that version was really gone,” Ruthie finished. Jack nodded. “I’m sure it is. Otherwise I’d have some memory of it.”
“And you for sure can’t remember any of it?”
“It’s gone. I swear.”
They headed back to the midpoint of the corridor, where the South Carolina room was located. Ruthie had the toothpick ladder in her messenger bag, still rolled up from the last time they’d used it. She hooked it to the ledge.
They used the key to shrink, then proceeded up the ladder and onto the ledge. Just outside the door to the room, Jack checked the tag again. The flickering continued. “There’s got to be something in that room!”
They quietly listened for their chance, and when it came they entered the room. Just as they’d done before, they made a circuit, all the time observing the tag as though they were playing a game of hotter/colder. The tag was definitely the hottest in front of the cabinet.
“But you know what?” Ruthie began. “I don’t think it’s as hot as it was when the ledger was in there. I could barely hold it then.”
Jack opened the drawer to retrieve the cabinet key.
“Pull the drawer out all the way, in case there’s something in the back,” Ruthie directed.
“We did that before,” Jack said, but did it anyway. They both saw clearly that the drawer was empty. “See?” He opened the cabinet once again standing on tiptoe and feeling the length of it. “Nothing.”
People were approaching the viewing window. “Quick,” Ruthie whispered, and pulled Jack out to the porch to wait.
“I don’t understand,” Ruthie stewed. “Isabelle said she hid them.”
“Didn’t she say she put the letter and the will in a book?” Jack asked.
“She did,” Ruthie remembered. “But there aren’t any books in this room.”
“Look!” Jack tipped his head in the direction of the porch window. They had a view of the piano that stood in the back of the room.
Ruthie peered through the parted curtains. It was true there were no books, but she saw what Jack had noticed: an album of sheet music on the piano. “Do you think? It’s not exactly a book.”
When the coast was clear they went directly to the piano. The score consisted of about ten pages. Jack swiftly flipped through them. There were no extra papers.
“There’s nothing in this room,” he said, putting it down. “We’d better get out of here.”
Out on the ledge, Jack opened his palm again. “Still hot.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.” Ruthie started pacing. “She said she put them in a book but there’s no book in that room. Where could they be?”
Jack followed her along the ledge. “Maybe the book was taken out later for some reason.”
“We know that other people have been in the rooms. Maybe it was stolen,” Ruthie worried as they approached the back of the next room.
“Uh-oh!” Jack stopped in his tracks and opened his palm. “It’s getting hotter. A lot hotter!”
The tag had turned flame red and Jack tossed it from hand to hand.
They were standing right next to the label for A28. “What’s in this room?” he asked.
“Another South Carolina room. C’mon!” Ruthie ran into the framework to find the opening.
From a back hallway they peeked though an open door to a lovely white room. It was formal but more of a regular living room than the ballroom next door.
“Hey, didn’t Isabelle say something about things getting mixed and matched in the rooms if the periods were right?” Ruthie whispered, quickly taking stock of the details. “This room is from the same time period as A29!”
Several chairs were placed near a fireplace and a round table stood near a bay window with fancy blue curtains. A tall cabinet was directly in front of them and just on the other side of it stood a stately grandfather clock. Most important, they saw books! Lots of them!
Forgetting to check for viewers, they dashed into the room, with Jack trying to keep hold of the hot tag. Electric flashes ricocheted from his hand. They darted across to the far side of the room first, where a single shelf held a matched set of about a dozen books. Ruthie and Jack began pulling books down, turning pages in a frenzy. Nothing. They went over to the round table, where they flipped through three more. Again, they found nothing. Finally they stopped at a small table near the front. A single book rested on a kind of pop-up tray. The tag let off sparks! Jack grabbed the book and they ran out of the room just as two large heads appeared in the viewing window.
“This has gotta be it!” Jack declared.
They sat on the floor in the hallway, out of sight. Jack handed Ruthie the tag. He turned the cover of the book and almost immediately it fell open to the place where someone—probably Isabelle—had inserted two envelopes. One envelope was slightly larger than an everyday letter. Jack carefully slipped the contents out onto the floorboards: a single piece of paper with typing on it. He picked it up and started reading.
I, Eugenia Phoebe Charles, being of sound mind and body …
22
A RAGGED PIECE OF TIN
“IT’S THE WILL!” RUTHIE COULD barely contain her excitement. “Go on!”
… do hereby bequeath my worldly goods to my son, Benjamin Charles. This includes all property in my name, household items, personal and business properties …
The document continued in dry legal language for another paragraph, about survivors and words Ruthie and Jack had never heard. But one thing they did understand: the will mentioned the ledger.
I bequeath the formulas, recipes and quantities to my son, Benjamin Charles, and all surviving heirs in equal shares.
The document was signed in February 1924, more than a decade before the trial. There was another signature of a name they didn’t recognize and an embossed stamp near it.
Jack opened the smaller of the two envelopes and inside found three handwritten pages, quite brown with age, folded in thirds to fit in the envelope.
“Looks like Phoebe’s handwriting,” Jack said.
“Let me see.” Ruthie reached for them.
No sooner had her hand made contact with the top sheet than the tag shot light that scattered like glitter in wind.
The telltale sounds of magic stirred all around them. The chimes rang softly at first, becoming louder until a clear voice broke through.
“It’s happening!” Ruthie exclaimed. “Can you hear that?”
Jack shook his head emphatically but it was obvious what Ruthie meant—she was already listening to Phoebe as her voice crossed through time to read aloud the words she had written.
Jack read silently while Ruthie listened.
This is my story. I am Phoebe Monroe and I am in my 36th year, although I feel as though I have lived double that number. I am alone in this world, save for the memories of my beloved family and the knowledge and wisdom my experiences have sowed in my soul. And save for my only surviving child, my blessed son, Eugene Monroe.
Phoebe’s voice sounded older but was beautiful and songlike, and she hadn’t lost the thick accent she’d had when they met her as a girl of ten.
Phoebe said she’d worked for the Smith family, then was separated from her own family when she was sent off to another town to work for Martin Gillis, the master’s son that Phoebe had told them about. He owned her.
Ruthie and Jack learned that Phoebe’s parents had died when they tried to escape to freedom. But Phoebe had discovered that her knowledge of plants was useful. She wrote about keeping a ledger filled with her recipes and formulas of herbal extracts that had medicinal qualities and how she earned small amounts of money by selling them. With that money, she bought her freedom and went north, traveling at night, aided by Quakers and abolitionists. She called them her angels. She had married but lost her husband and a baby daughter to illness.
The story ended with this:
I live in a free state now. But the country is in a terrible battle, American against American. Who knows how long my freedom will last. I only hope my son will remain a free man. I write this so he will know my struggle.
Phoebe Monroe, Chicago, 1864
The voice stopped and the tinkling of the bells quieted until all was silent. The tag glowed softly in Ruthie’s hand, as though it were now resting.
“It was like she was right here, reading directly to me.” Ruthie shook her head in wonder.
“So she wrote that during the Civil War,” Jack said thoughtfully.
“Kendra didn’t know how she became free. It sounds like Phoebe bought her freedom. She left Charleston and came to Chicago. I wonder if she chose Chicago because we told her about it when she was a girl.” The possibility made Ruthie happy, even proud.
“That would be awesome!”
“But I’m a little confused,” Ruthie admitted. Her brain felt like a room that someone had just shoved too much furniture in. So many items seemed like they should be related but there were major pieces missing.
“Look at the names,” Jack began. “Phoebe Monroe comes first. Then she had a son named Eugene. He was Mrs. Thorne’s chauffeur. Then the lady who wrote the will was Eugenia Phoebe Charles, Eugene’s daughter, Phoebe’s granddaughter. The one the mob stole from.”
“And Kendra’s great-grandmother,” Ruthie declared. She stared at the writing for a moment. Then she noticed the temperature of the tag she still held. “Look,” she said. The little metal square lay cold and gray, having completely lost its glow. “The magic’s gone.”
“Let’s go out and test it,” Jack suggested.
They put the letter and the will back in their envelopes. Ruthie carefully placed them in her messenger bag. Jack returned the book to the room, and then the two headed out to the ledge. They tossed Duchess Christina’s key to the floor and leapt into the canyon, landing full size on the ground.
Jack and Ruthie took a moment to observe the ragged piece of tin. They waited. Ruthie shook her head. “Nothing. I guess it’s done its job.”
“Incredible,” Jack said.
Ruthie dropped it into the messenger bag and they made their way out of the corridor and Gallery 11.
Outside at the bus stop in front of the museum, Jack smiled. “It’s gonna be great to give all the documents to Kendra. Now all we have to do is figure out what to say.”
Ruthie grinned back. “I think I have an idea.”
23
PROVENANCE AND POETRY
“DOESN’T IT SEEM LIKE A dream?” Ruthie said to Jack on Monday afternoon. They were waiting near the front door of Oakton for Isabelle St. Pierre’s car and driver.
“Not really. It’s way clearer than that to me,” Jack answered.
What had happened just yesterday seemed disjointed in Ruthie’s memory, as though it hadn’t happened at all. If it hadn’t seemed so clear to Jack, Ruthie might have thought she’d dreamed it. She found it difficult even to talk about. But that was okay, she thought; they had an important job ahead of them.
Ruthie and Jack were probably the two most unlikely kids in their class to get picked up after school by a chauffeur-driven car. At 3:15 the car pulled up. The chauffeur got out and opened the back door for Ruthie and Jack to climb in. There sat Isabelle, dressed in an elegant red suit and looking eager.
“Good afternoon! I hope you had a pleasant day,” she greeted them.
“I wouldn’t call it exactly pleasant,” Jack answered.
“No? Did something unpleasant happen?”
“What Jack means is that we’ve both been distracted, planning for today.”
“Ah, I see,” Isabelle responded. “And did you tell Miss Connor?”
“No,” Ruthie said. “Kendra already knew that Mrs. McVittie knows us, from the newspaper articles about the art thief. But we didn’t tell her we’d be coming today too.”
“We thought it would be cooler to surprise her,” Jack added. “By the way, great car.” He admired the luxurious details.
“Thank you, Jack.” Isabelle smiled at him. “And thank you both for finding the documents. I can’t tell you how thrilling it was when you called me yesterday!”
The chauffeur drove to Mrs. McVittie’s building, and Ruthie and Jack went up to the apartment to get her. After just a few minutes, the two returned with Mrs. McVittie.
“Isabelle St. Pierre,” Ruthie introduced, “this is Mrs. McVittie.”
“Call me Minerva, please,” Mrs. McVittie said, sitting next to Isabelle. “It’s wonderful to meet a fellow visitor to the rooms.” She winked.
“Indeed!” Isabelle responded. “Ruthie tells me you helped them work all this out?”
“It was mostly their plan. Even the idea to develop a believable provenance for the documents,” Mrs. McVittie explained.
Ruthie loved that new word, provenance—the history of where something comes from. It was like an ancestry for objects. The word had a mysterious ring to it, she thought.
It was a very short ride to the Connors’ apartment building. Jack and the chauffeur got out first, helping the two older women from the car. Ruthie joined them all on the sidewalk.
“Thank you,” Isabelle said, taking the arm that Jack gallantly put out for her. The foursome made it through the lobby to the front desk, where the security guard called up to the Connors.
“Mrs. Connor says you can go right up. Second elevator, twenty-fifth floor,” the guard directed.
“Are you all right?” Ruthie asked Isabelle as the elevator glided upward, her own heart thumping away.
“I’m fine. But you look a little flushed!” Isabelle noted.
The elevator came to a halt. The door slid open.
“My goodness!” Mrs. Connor said upon seeing Ruthie in the hall. “Hello again, Ruthie. This is a surpri
se!”
Kendra came into the foyer.
“And Jack!” Kendra exclaimed. “What are you guys doing here?” Kendra had already changed out of her school clothes and was munching on an apple.
“Hi, Kendra. It’s kind of a long story,” Ruthie answered.
“I’m Genie Connor,” Kendra’s mom said.
“Genie—that’s short for Eugenia, is it not?” Isabelle said as she shook hands with Mrs. Connor.
Oh! Ruthie thought.
“Yes, it is,” she answered. “I’m named after my grandmother and my great-grandfather.”
Mrs. Connor led them into the living room and made sure everyone was comfortable. “So, what is this mystery item you called me about?”
“Actually, it’s not one item, it’s several,” Mrs. McVittie began. “Ruthie?”
Ruthie pulled them gently from her messenger bag and lined them up on the coffee table for everyone to see. After putting the spiral notebook away for Ruthie in a safe place in her apartment, Mrs. McVittie had wrapped the ledger, the documents and the beaded handbag carefully in tissue paper loosely tied with twine.
“What are they?” Kendra’s voice was Christmas-morning-excited.
Mrs. Connor tugged the bows to undo the ties on the ledger first. “I don’t know what this is,” she said upon seeing the old leather of the cover.
“Open it,” Ruthie urged.
She did and read the title, written by Phoebe. “How on earth … is this what I think it is?”
Kendra looked over her mother’s shoulder. “Is it for real?”
Ruthie nodded.
“Look at the next one,” Jack suggested.
Mrs. Connor untied the twine and carefully inspected the papers within, reading the first few paragraphs of Phoebe’s 1864 letter. “I can’t believe I’m reading a letter from Phoebe Monroe! Where did you find it?”
Mrs. McVittie responded, “Why don’t you open the last two and then we’ll explain it all.”
The Pirate's Coin Page 12