by CeeCee James
“I’m sorry, I followed someone here.” I smiled.
The drastic change to his expression bewildered me. Sleepy eyes and a frown flipped to wide alert in a millisecond. Yet his tone continued to be cool. “You thought you saw something? Must have been a rabbit. We have a bunch of them on the estate.”
And there it was. Handed to me on a platter. I had to decide whether to follow his deception, or stick to my truth.
I decided truth was best.
“I think it was a child.”
“A little kid?” He smirked. “It probably was someone poaching fish. There’s not been a child here in eons. Don’t tell me you’re falling for those old ghost stories.”
“You mean about the Thornberry’s? Did Miss Janice have any children?”
He smiled, indulgently. I didn’t like that so much. “Nope. Probably why Mr. Thornberry treated that cat like a son.”
“Hank’s a good boy.” I said, defensively.
He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “What are you doing all the way out here, anyway?”
I glanced into the field and then back at him. “Have you heard of a hidden garden around here? It could be quite secluded.”
“Like a secret garden?” His green eyes snapped with incredulousness. “Where you from again?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve got some imagination, don’t you?” He gave that tolerant smile again.
I shut my mouth, seeing exactly where this was going.
He straightened. “Listen, Laura Lee. You need to be careful. This place messes with people’s heads. Don’t be digging around, expecting some happily ever after. All that’s died off long ago.” He took a backward step inside the gloomy house. “Well, if that’s all, I need to get ready.”
I have to admit, my feelings stung. “Of course. Maybe I’ll see you later.”
His smile hadn’t warmed much as he shut the door. I stepped down the creaking steps and then turned back to look at the house. I couldn’t believe I’d found the place charming only a few minutes earlier. Now the dwelling appeared like a rock troll.
I started across the field again, meaning to make my way for the creek. Suddenly a prickle ran along the base of my hairline. I stared at the bushes that grew in a large clump to my right.
“Hello?” I called.
A breeze picked at the little leaves. I walked over to the shrubs, determined not to be scared, and peered around the other side.
There was no one. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to laugh at my silly imagination. Instead, I ran all the way back to the main house.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A car waited in the driveway by the time I reached it. Butler opened the back door and offered out his arm. Slowly, Mary emerged, blinking as though it had been years since she’d last seen the sunlight. She had a bulky boot on her foot which she cautiously tested with a little step.
“Hey hop-along!” I said, jogging over to the car.
“Har. Har.” She rolled her eyes. “You going to help me inside or what?”
“Sure.” I gave her my arm. She didn’t need it though. She just needed to know there was someone to grab onto in case she might fall.
We entered the foyer to what appeared to be a paparazzi crush. All the workers had gathered to cheer and question her, with more than a few hugs. She shared her story three times—sprained ankle, nothing broken—before she finally had Cook convinced. Cook still made Mary take a cup of tea and a cookie, though.
I left Mary in the kitchen so Lucy and I could clean the downstairs bathrooms. It wasn’t until I’d finished and put the cleaning supplies away that Mary found me.
“Are you ready?” Mary raised her eyebrows. “We don’t have much time.”
“We’re still going to do this?”
She nodded and gestured for me to follow. I hurried after her, surprised that we weren’t heading outside but deeper into the manor.
At the study, she grinned, the kind of smile you make when you’re about to give a well anticipated present. Then she opened the door and waved me through like a cruise director helping me board a ship.
The door creaked shut behind us.
“Come on!” She beckoned me over to the painting.
That darn painting. “You’re kidding me,” I said, walking slowly over.
“I discovered this place when Mr. Thornberry had one of his missing lapses. We were all worried because nobody had seen him all day. I just happened to be walking by the door when I heard a scraping sound inside. I peeked in, and that was when I saw him come out of the secret room.”
“Did he know you caught him?”
“Oh, he knew all right. Mouth hanging open wide like a bass.” She laughed at the memory. “Then he brought me over here, showed me how to do it, and swore me to secrecy.” She touched her heart. “Said if he was ever missing for more than twenty-four hours, I could check for him here. I think, after all his health scares, he was relieved he had me as a safety back up.”
One by one, she pressed the four corners of the frame, where the carvings had shell-like swirls. As the last carving was depressed, a popping sound came from the empty bookshelf next to it.
“Come on,” she said secretively, and then pulled open the door.
I stepped inside, feeling like I was entering a whole new world. Green, lush, with huge beds of purple and white flowers, all lit by the sun like the crown jewel. An inner arboretum, whose sheltering walls were the house raised on all four sides.
Not a single window looked out onto this magical spot. I stared up at the trees with their whispering leaves, and my mouth hung open in amazement at how something this grand could be hidden.
“You heard how Mr. Thornberry became paranoid in his later years. He built this and more. This whole estate has hidden rooms and tunnels.”
“You think the crown is here?”
“I’ve looked, trust me. If it’s here, it will be a miracle to find it.”
I swallowed, a bit disconcerted at her answer
“But, we have clues now.” She opened her bag and pulled out a book.
“You went into my room?”
“I wanted to be prepared, and our window of opportunity is shrinking with the sunset.”
I understood. Besides, I was no one to talk. “Did you get the map, too?”
For an answer, she slipped it from her pocket. She unfolded it, and we inspected it together. “Look, there’s the swing. I knew this was the place.”
“And the apple tree.” Excitement swirled around us, mixing with the sweet flower scent. The air felt like magic.
“The square on the map might be this fountain.” Mary stumped over to the cherub spilling a water pitcher. “I was obsessed with searching this spot after he died.” She poked around the base of it and then wandered over to the apple tree.
I took my time to examine the fountain, noticing fairies, stone bees and flowers perched on the stone pitcher. I pressed different objects, hoping something would pop up or open. Nothing happened. However, my gut told me I was close.
I followed her to the fruit trees, all of which had dropped their blossoms. As I approached, I heard the distinct sound of buzzing.
A white beehive hid behind the tree. The bees flew in and out like a yellow curtain.
I sucked in my breath.
“What’s the matter?” Mary asked, concerned. Her gaze darted between the hive and me.
“The bees… I’m allergic.”
“Well, let’s get out of here!” She reached for my arm to pull me away.
“Hang on a second. Someone’s been in here.”
Mary snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know. I told you it’s haunted.”
“I mean the hive. No ghost could have harvested the honey. It should be dripping all over the ground after all these years.” A sinking feeling hit me. “You don’t suppose the crown is hidden in there? Or… was.”
“If the honey’s being harves
ted, there’s no way the crown is still in there. But I promise you, Mr. Thornberry said I was the only person to know about this place.” She studied the beehive, being sure to keep her distance.
I frowned, thinking. A fat bee flew by, and I had to resist the urge to swat the air to keep it away.
Slowly, I turned in a circle and examined the entire garden. The crown had to be here, somewhere. This place was too perfect. Yet, all the rose bushes, the swing and several fruit trees were maintained. So who’d been taking care of them?
I refused to give up. Not with so many people dependent on us finding it. “Let’s check the books once more. We’re missing something.”
She handed one of them over to me. “Louise Driscoll. Twenty-three.” Even though I’d already checked, I still turned to page twenty-three. She did the same in her book. I reread the twenty-third poem, something about a barn. Nothing made sense. I glanced at Mary, who riffled through the third book in her hand. She shook her head, disappointed.
“What if the number twenty-three is the amount of steps we’re supposed to take?” I asked, picking a fallen leaf off of the open book page.
“You think? But in what direction? And from where?”
“I have no idea. It doesn’t say.”
She lifted her injured foot onto a rock to rest it. “And do you think toe to toe, or—?”
“Without knowing which way to go, does it even matter?”
We both grew silent, struggling with the riddle.
“Are there any poems about apple trees or a swing?” I asked, feeling desperate.
She read through the table of contents before shaking her head.
I groaned. “This is so frustrating.” I sank to the grass and morosely glared out at the garden while pulling up grass blades.
“There has to be a key,” Mary murmured.
“What?”
“That’s what we’re missing. He must have left another key.”
I rubbed my neck. “I hear what you’re saying, but—” Just then something came to me. “That’s it! Mary! You’re brilliant!”
“I am!” She sounded pleased. “I mean, yes I am. How am I, again?”
“Hank’s collar.” I wet my bottom lip. “It says Larkspur. It must have a deeper meaning. Are there any poems titled Larkspur?”
She looked through the first book, her finger racing the table of contents. Her lip curled down as she shook her head. She discarded it in the grass and grabbed the second. Her finger slowed. A grin spread over her mouth. “Right here!” she shouted. “the Crooked Larkspur!”
I scrambled over the grass toward her. “Where?”
She was already flipping through the pages. Her finger shook as she pointed to the title.
Crooked Larkspur
by Louise Driscoll
In my July garden
Larkspur and hollyhocks
Are shining under sunny skies
In blue and rosy flocks.
The stately garden gothic,
They are proudly high,
Flushed like the sunset,
Blue like noon sky.
Among its tall, straight brothers
One crooked larkspur stands
That yet has all the beauty
Any bee demands.
I do not know what sorrow
Touched it and made it bend.
I only know it keeps its
Beauty to the end.
The gardener cuts the larkspur
And lets it grow again,
And my crooked larkspur
Will be straight then.
But no winged thing that comes there
With fine, esthetic sense
Looking for love and honey
Will know the difference.
Together, we read it out loud.
“Anything stand out to you?” Mary asked.
“Yeah. The word July. There’s a newspaper article next to Mr. Thornberry’s portrait. I saw an ad circled on it. I remember it said July.” I thought harder. “Actually, I think the word Larkspur was in there as well.”
“Oh, my gosh. This is it. I can feel it!” Mary squealed in anticipation.
“I still can’t figure it out.” I stood up and brushed off the grass, feeling overwhelmed. Once again, I headed over to the fountain. This time I studied the stone blossoms. Confused, I glanced around the yard at the other purple blooms. “Mary, what kind of flower is this?”
She stumped over. “I’m pretty sure those are Larkspur. But I’m telling you, I’ve gone over this fountain with a fine-tooth comb. There’s nothing here.”
“No. But maybe this is the starting place.”
“To start walking? But how many paces?”
“Twenty-three.” All of a sudden, it seemed like a puzzle piece had fallen in place. This had to be it.
She grinned. “Yes! Now which way?”
I didn’t know but I wasn’t going to stop now. From the fountain I counted twenty-three careful steps, and ended in the middle of the lawn. It didn’t feel right. There should be some type of marker. There had to be.
I started over, this time heading in a different direction. The steps led me to the apple tree, and I had to duck under the branches to take the last few. The ground had lumps from roots. This could be it, but it didn’t seem like the crown could be buried very deeply.
I decided to give it one more try. Since the fourth direction ended at the house wall only a few feet away, the last path was chosen for me. I paced the twenty-three steps and ended at the other side of the brick path. Could it be under these bricks? I blew out a breath and noticed a large bird house a few feet away. I walked over.
It was as old as everything else in here, but just as charming. The white paint had missing chips and cracks, however most of the designs had been engraved. Someone had carved a heart for the bird hole. Above the entrance it said, “Home is where the love is.” Carved bees, a beehive dripping with honey, and curlicues decorated the sides.
“Is it inside the house?” Mary asked hopefully.
I peered into the interior and shook my head. Only an abandoned nest remained. “Let me see that poem again.”
She passed it over, and I reread it slowly.
This time, every hair on my arms stood on end. I stared at the length of the garden and then at the poem. Breathlessly, I counted down the stanza lines. Twenty-three, to be exact.
Looking for love and honey
“That is it!” I yelled, my breath hitching in excitement.
“What’s it?” Mary yelled back.
“That!” I pointed to the bird house. “That’s it! In the ground! It has to be!”
She hobbled over to see for herself. “Home is where the love is.”
“And the honey! See the beehive?” I laughed in delight.
The curly-haired girl clapped her hands. “Now what do we have to dig?”
I was way ahead of her. I found a stout branch and soon had a long trench at the base of the birdhouse scraped away.
“Anything?” she asked, leaning over to watch.
“Not yet.” I grunted. A rock came out of the hole.
“Want me to try?”
I didn’t answer, determined to see this through. Grass, mud, and dirt piled up.
Finally came the sound we’d been waiting for. The dull thud of the stick hitting a hollow object.
“It’s there!” squealed Mary. Ignoring me, she found her own stick and furiously dug. Clots of dirt flew through the air. Minutes later, the box was uncovered.
We gawked at it in a combination of shock and surrealness. Finally, Mary voiced what I was thinking. “This is it?”
“I hope. It looks so ordinary.” An old-fashioned padlock fastened the box shut. I wedged the dirty wood into the metal loop and tried to bust it loose. The branch broke, half flying through the air.
Mary picked up the container and shook it. There was no sound. “It’s really light.” Her voice dipped in disappointment.
“We’d better b
ring it inside. I’ll find some hedge clippers or something.”
She nodded. “All right. Forward march.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
We snuck into the house, a bit breathless from all the excitement. I carried the box, and it left a muddy print on my blouse. Back in the study, Mary shut the door and whispered furiously. “Who can we ask to snap this off?”
“If I can find some garden tools I think I can get it open.”
Mary huffed. “Good luck with that. Stephen isn’t exactly accommodating.”
“Maybe I can help.”
We both spun around like puppets on marionette strings.
Lucy stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room. The thin young woman’s hand rested on the back of a chair, partially hidden behind a velvet curtain. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.”
“What are you doing in here?” scolded Mary. I knew the attitude stemmed from fear.
“This is where I come to read. It’s the one place I can get a minute of peace before Marguerite finds another chore for me to do.”
“Lucy, you know better.” Mary’s eyes snapped, pointing to the paperback. “What if Miss Janice sees that?”
“I know. I know!” Defiance shaded Lucy’s last word. She slid the small book into her pocket. “Miss Janice left for the afternoon, and I thought I’d be safe. I said I was sorry.”
Mary blushed. “No, I’m actually sorry. You startled me, and I took it out on you.”
“Why do you have the bead box?” Lucy asked, accepting the apology and changing the subject. I liked that about her.
“You recognize this?” Surprised, I held out the box.
She nodded. “Yes, It’s Miss Barbara’s. She must have left it here before….” Her words dribbled off.
“How well did you know her?” I asked.
“Well enough. Why?” Lucy narrowed her eyes. “I never did believe the horrid rumors about her. All of them were made up by Mark. He was nasty.”
“Why do you think he was so mean to her?”