Matt's ruddy cheeks flared bright red as he became aware of Clara's scrutiny. He turned to Molly. "I'd better come with you. If you're giving a statement, then that means you haven't kept your nose out of this mess like you promised to."
Clara stood and clapped Matt on the back. "You and I are going to get along just fine," she beamed. "Molly gets rather stubborn at times and she won't listen to my advice, so I'm glad someone else is in the picture when it comes to cautioning her to be more sensible. Ha! Just wait until you hear what nonsense she pulled this afternoon. She probably won't tell you but"—Clara paused for dramatic flare—"she was held at gunpoint today!"
Don’t do that! Clara shrieked at a young police officer bent over the interior of the slant-front desk. The man, who was as smooth-cheeked as a boy, was so startled that the screwdriver he held in one hand crashed on the floor while the small flashlight he held in his other hand rolled off the surface of the desk and broke into three pieces near his black-booted feet.
"Don't force that panel, for heaven's sake," Clara said more quietly, but with the same level of firmness that she'd used when eight-year-old Molly would plead for dessert before dinner. "That glue hasn't been tampered with since this desk was made," she explained to the stunned officer. "There may be a secret panel in there, but it wasn't used recently."
"Listen ma' am ..." the officer began.
"Are you looking for the Dahlonega coins?" Molly asked him excitedly, squeezing in next to her mother and completely blocking the remainder of the overhead light. Matt was the only person among their party who kept his distance from both the desk and the policeman.
"Do you mind?" the officer snapped, overwhelmed.
"I'm an antiques expert," Clara said authoritatively. "And I refuse to watch you pry apart this incredible piece of antique furniture, bumbling about until you've ruined it, when I can offer you my expertise. Now..." She inhaled swiftly, allowing the bewildered officer no opportunity to retort. "Molly, show me the secret panel Frank found."
Molly pointed and the officer carefully pulled out the vertical pillar to the right of the cupboard door and handed it to Clara.
"That's a common place to put a secret panel." Clara nodded without surprise as she examined the vertical drawer. "But if the coins aren't here, there may be another hiding spot. Sometimes these pigeonhole desks had two or three secret niches." She turned to her daughter. "Why are you so sure the coins made it back inside this desk anyway?"
"Because Garrett was yelling at Chris for putting the mold on this piece and not the blanket chest. By covering the desk with mold, Chris forced the police to seize the one piece of furniture Garrett wanted to keep tabs on at all times. He even bought the desk using Chris's name so that it could be shipped out of the country with the coins still hidden inside. If there were any trouble, the desk would be linked to Chris, not Garrett. Yet if everything went smoothly, Chris would never know that Garrett was pretending to be him when he bought the desk."
"Both men claim to know nothing of the whereabouts of the missing coins," the young officer chimed in.
"Have you tried a metal detector?" Clara asked.
"Yes, ma'am. But all the metal around the keyholes kept setting it off."
"Why were you chosen for this particular task?" Clara inquired, not unkindly.
"I'm sort of famous around the station for solving puzzles," the young man said, embarrassed. "Crosswords, jigsaws, word scrambles, that sort of thing. I'm real good with my hands, too," he added.
"I'm certain you are." Clara smiled. "Can you reassemble your flashlight for me?"
"Sure, I can do that."
A minute later, Clara was aiming the thin beam of the flashlight into the cavity created by the missing panel. She shook her head. "I don't see anything."
"Put your hand in and feel around, just in case." Molly directed. "Here, hand me the flashlight while you're doing that."
Molly opened the central cupboard door and peered inside, shining the flashlight into the corners of the tiny, dark space. Blinking, she thought she saw a sliver of white, no larger than a splinter, sticking down from the top right seam of the cupboard. At the same moment, Clara gasped.
"There's a teeny hole back here. It's a release button, my god! I need a bobby pin or a paper clip to push it in with. My fingernail is too big. Quick!"
The officer dug around in his toolbox until he found a metal thumbtack.
"Perfect. Thank you." Clara complimented the young man and he smiled from ear to ear.
Clara stuck the tack's point into the minuscule hole. The tack came into contact with a piece of wood that resisted for a moment but then gave way with a click. The small archway above the cupboard popped out a few centimeters. Clara had discovered a secret drawer.
"A secret within a secret." Clara breathed as her daughter gently pulled the drawer away from the desk's frame. "The man who made this piece was a master craftsman."
Molly pulled out a small envelope from inside the drawer. Inside, wrapped in layers of tissue, were the six Dahlonega coins.
"Gotcha!" the officer yelled with a boyish whoop. He scooped up the envelope from Molly's hands and dashed off toward Robeson's office.
As Clara stood lost in admiration over the desk, Combs suddenly appeared and jerked his meaty thumb at Molly. "You first. Statement time."
"I'll come with you," Matt said, putting a possessive arm around Molly's shoulders as he stared down at Combs.
It was difficult for Molly to get through her statement. Between the disparaging comments uttered behind her by the irascible Combs and Matt's startled exclamations of horror, she was finally able to complete her narrative and bid farewell to Detective Robeson and the city of Richmond's police department.
'Try to stay out of trouble, Miss Appleby," Robeson said in parting and shook her hand. Molly thought she detected a twinkle in the comer of Robeson's dark eyes, but before she could take a second look, Matt was ushering her out of the office. They sat on a bench outside the front door to wait for Clara.
"He should be thanking me!" Molly sulked. "I helped catch the villains and Mom discovered the whereabouts of the hidden coins. Damned chauvinists."
"I don't think that's the case," Matt said soothingly, picking up Molly's hand. "I'm sure they appreciate your help, but I doubt the police want to encourage the average citizens from becoming too involved in crime fighting. That probably just complicates things for them."
Molly wasn't listening. She was busy thinking about how she could spin at least one of her articles on Hidden Treasures so that her role in capturing the criminals was revealed, earning her a stack of fan mail and perhaps a hike in salary.
~~~~~
As Clara finished giving her statement, she stood and returned Robeson's firm handshake. "I know you warned my daughter about sticking her nose into hazardous entanglements and I'm grateful for that,” she said. "I'd certainly like to see her focus on other activities." Combs gave Robeson a smug wink. "But..." Clara lowered her voice dangerously. "Since Molly and I both facilitated the capture of your murderer and his accomplice, perhaps you'd like to do us a good turn?"
Robeson stared impatiently at Clara. She blinked innocently and plowed on. "What will happen to the antique desk once this case is closed?"
"It will go up for public auction, along with anything else in our evidence room that needs to be cleaned out at the time," Robeson stated flatly. He didn’t care if he saw another antique for the rest of his life.
Clara pressed her card firmly into Robeson’s palm. "I want you to call me the second you find out about that auction. My daughter is turning thirty this year and that desk would make the perfect gift. Will you do that for me in exchange for our cooperation and discretion?" She raised her brows, letting the insinuation fill the room. Either Robeson’s team could take the credit for the bust, or Clara would do her best to highlight how a civilian had solved the puzzle.
Robeson took the card, hesitated, and then nodded. He was ready to be d
one with the two Appleby women. At least Mrs. Hewell was waiting outside with a basket of her finest cinnamon scones. He could smell the scent of cinnamon and warm buttery dough seeping under the crack of his door. He hoped to have a moment alone with her as she was reputed to be an excellent cook. Perhaps she had a secret to the timing of soufflés.
"Thank you," Clara said, interrupting his thoughts. She swept out of the room like a queen leaving a group of admiring courtiers. Combs gazed at Robeson with a self-satisfied grin.
"You got something to say, Officer Combs?" Robeson's eyes bored holes into the burly, red-haired officer. Combs blanched.
"No, sir."
"Then send in Mrs. Hewell." Robeson let his enormous bulk settle into his creaky chair. "And get us some coffee to go with those scones."
~~~~~
That night, Mrs. Hewell made a pot roast with glazed carrots and potatoes followed by a blackberry pie. She invited Molly, Clara, and Matt to join her for dinner as her husband was still out visiting a friend from church.
"I don't usually do dinners for my guests, but we've been through so much together that I feel we're more like family now." Mrs. Hewell bustled about the table, seemingly unfazed by the day's events and pleased to have company for the evening.
"I'm ready to go back home and kiss my seven cats," Clara said, digging into the deep bowl of mashed potatoes. "But I will miss you, Mrs. Hewell. You must come visit me in Hillsborough some time."
"I'd love to!" The older woman flushed with pleasure. "And that way, I could visit the newly weds, too."
Clara looked hopefully at her daughter's ring finger. "Oh?" she squeaked breathlessly.
Mrs. Hewell beamed at her guests. "Borris called this afternoon. He and Jessica are eloping tomorrow. They’re Vegas-bound! Isn't that wonderful?"
"It is indeed," Clara agreed. "I hope Jessica doesn't get in too much trouble over the fake coin business."
"Me, too." Molly turned to Matt. "Isn't it romantic how Borris rushed down to Charlotte and wouldn't take no for an answer?"
Matt squirmed in his seat, painfully aware that the eyes of three women were watching him with the utmost intensity. "Uh ... sure. Could you pass the rolls?"
Later, when Matt and Molly were clearing the table, Clara pulled Mrs. Hewell aside. "Is Mr. Harrison staying in his own room?"
Mrs. Hewell's eyes flew open wide. "Of course! Whereelse would he be staying? I've given him the Limoges, the one Jessica had occupied."
"Can't you tell him all the rooms are full?" Clara whispered rather maniacally. "Then he'd have to stay with my daughter, you see."
"Oh, no, I couldn't lie, Mrs. Appleby." Mrs. Hewell looked simultaneously insulted and horrified. Then her expression softened and she put a warm hand on Clara's cheek. "Don't worry, my dear. They'll find their way to one another. I can just tell that they’re meant to be."
Clara's shoulders drooped. "I suppose, but I never even knew Molly was interested in this man."
"They're sweet on each other, that's clear enough to anyone. Let nature take its course and you’ll be throwing your lovely Molly a bridal shower by springtime. Good night, my dear. I'll see you in the morning."
"Good night." Clara smiled and then headed up to her room humming. Pausing on the stairs, she heard her daughter's laughter and Matt's placid voice from within the kitchen. "Mrs. Hewell’s right. Maybe I'll be buying that desk as an engagement present instead," she told herself gleefully.
~~~~~
The next morning, Clara left for home in Molly's, car while Matt and Molly were still lingering over a late breakfast. Afterward, Molly decided to ignore the serious penalty for impersonating a police officer and called human resources at Richmond Doctor's Hospital to discover if Jasmine Jones was one of their employees. She was told that Mrs. Jones worked the day shift in the hospital cafeteria.
Unfolding the roll of bills she’d found in Garrett's shoe, Molly placed them inside a padded manila envelope and asked Matt to drive her to the hospital on their way home.
"What for?" he asked, instantly concerned.
Molly filled him in on how Jasmine had brought her coin to be appraised and was tricked out of a large sum of money by the wily Garrett. Matt's face flashed through a variety of emotions as he listened to the injustice inflicted upon the single mother.
When Molly was done with her story, she impulsively leaned over and kissed Matt at the next red light. She loved the way he wore his heart on his sleeve. He was nothing like Garrett, she thought. Some shallow, handsome stranger would never attract her again. She was ready to work on her commitment to Matt, and she had an idea of how to get to the next level of their relationship. She was more than ready to claim this fine man as her own.
"How much money is in there?" Matt glanced at the envelope as he merged onto the highway.
"About ten grand, all told. This should help Jasmine with her bills."
"Wow! Ten grand! So you're leaving her all that money in an envelope? Why don't you just go in and give it to her?" Matt asked, pulling in front of the hospital.
Molly held the envelope tightly in her hand. "I don't want her to be embarrassed over having been tricked her or make her think I feel sorry for her. It's better if she gets to open it after work, when no one's staring at her. It's going to be a pretty big shock, after all. I think she'll need some privacy."
Matt hopped out of the car and opened Molly's door. "You're an angel, Molly Appleby."
Molly looked up at him with a mischievous glint to her gray eyes. "I'm going to drop this off. And then you get me home, Matt Harrison," she whispered huskily, brushing her lips against his cheek, "and I'll show you that I've got a another side of me. One that’s not at all angelic."
~~~~~~~~~~
Richmond, Virginia 2006
The desk was put up for auction on a blustery March afternoon. The auction was unusually well attended for a seized and unclaimed property sale. The items ranged from an assortment of jewelry, used cars, bicycles, electronics, and a scattering of small household items.
Unfortunately for Clara Appleby, a photograph of the desk heal been included in the newspaper advertisement announcing the sale. Eager buyers representing the Smithsonian, Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, and both the Fredericksburg and Richmond Historical Societies had already looked the desk over with black lights and magnifying glasses weeks ago. Each society sought to purchase such an exquisite piece of American furniture history.
Clara groaned as she took her seat, recognizing some of the power buyers immediately. Five minutes later, she still sat in shock hands quivering, her bidding card unused on her lap. The final bid came in at $175,000 with all proceeds to benefit the Fallen Officers of Virginia Fund. With one strike of the gavel, the benefit fund would now be able to send a dozen young men and women to college and the high bidders from the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation would add another piece to its already stellar collection of federal furniture.
Propped up on a carpeted dais, the desk sat at a safe distance from the public behind a crimson velvet rope. Thousands of visitors walked through the museum that spring, each one pausing to glance at the reproduction of the Declaration of Independence that rested on the desk's writing surface. Little did they know that a real historical document lay hidden scant inches beneath that reproduction. Undiscovered by a lifetime of owners, appraisers, and finally, the team of Colonial Williamsburg furniture experts, the desk held onto its greatest treasure. For inside a hollow within its left slide support, a faded and yellowed paper was folded into a tiny square. This letter read:
Radford, Virginia 1810
To Elspeth,
I know not where to find you, so I shall write this letter and place it in the secret place in your father's desk, which belongs to me now. I purchased it from your aunt when she came to occupy your family's house after you and your father disappeared. Each time I look upon it I remember standing in your house and boasting of my clever craftsmanship by showing you th
e third secret compartment. What a young fool I was. How strong and beautiful you were! As you can see, I have learned to write. My wife Mary, who has departed this life for a better one in Heaven, was a schoolteacher. She taught me my letters. It is a great joy to be able to read now that I am old and my joints are too sore to allow me to craft furniture. I find much solace in the words I once could not comprehend
I searched for you, Elspeth. I searched for years. You haunted my thoughts like a ghost. I heard many rumors about where you had been taken. Your father escaped arrest the night at the munitions factory. A dockworker from Portsmouth claimed that by the light of the full moon, Captain Tarling boarded one of his ships and returned to England. They say you were carried aboard, bound and gagged, and forced to accompany him. A trader from Norfolk told tale of that same ship veering south, where your father established himself in the West Indies. This trader also claimed that your father's fortune grew enormous through the slave trade and that you perished from an illness within a fortnight of arriving there.
I could never confirm either story, as your father changed his name several times. We captured every member of the Hazard Club that night, Elspeth, except for your father. Believing that my failure to seize him has cost you happiness or worse, your very life, has brought me much anguish. Not knowing your fate has been the greatest regret of my lifetime. I swore to protect you and I did not. But it is time to let the past lie now, so I place this letter along with your token, where I shall not look upon it again.
My sight grows weak, Elspeth. The daylight is fading above the great hills. When twilight comes I shall think of your blue eyes again, as I do each night, and as I shall do every night until I see you once more in Paradise. On that great day, I can finally ask for your forgiveness. Your Own, Thomas
The fragile sheaf was carefully bound with an old silk ribbon. The ribbon is now faded and tattered at the edges, but if it were ever rescued from its dark nook and held beneath a gentle beam of sunlight, it would reveal a soft and delicate shade of cornflower blue.
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