“I have it here that you’ve authorized your attorney to make decisions on your behalf during the sale.”
The woman nodded.
“And that you’re planning to put your property on the market next month—is that correct?” asked Brian. The woman nodded again, her blue eyes watering slightly. “You’ve also requested that the proceeds from the sale be donated to the Bucks County Historical Society. Now, is there anything in particular you’d like to set aside for someone? Something you’d like to pass on to a friend or a relative?”
Mrs. Crosby shifted her gaze to the window. “No,” she whispered as a tear leaked onto her cheek. “My family’s all gone.”
Concerned, Haven reached out and gently touched the woman’s hand. She listened impatiently while her brother went over all the items to be shipped to New York, eager to tell Miss Crosby about the Barbary chest.
“All right, that about does it,” said Brian. “On behalf of Stockton Estate Sales, I want to thank you for the opportunity to handle your estate sale, Miss Crosby. Rest assured that everything’s in good hands, ma’am.”
Haven stared at her brother in disbelief. “Brian, what about—”
“Oh, right!” Her brother slapped his forehead. “Geez, I can’t believe I didn’t let you know as soon as we walked in. Haven’s got some news to share with you. We found something on the farm today.”
Miss Crosby’s brow furrowed and her lip trembled. “What did you say?”
“I was in your barn today, and my foot went through the floor in the hayloft,” Haven said. “I found an old chest that someone had walled off in the corner of your barn.” The old woman stared intently as Haven went on to describe the Barbary chest and relate the story of how they’d freed it from its wooden prison.
Brian gave Haven’s shoulder an affectionate pat. “We don’t know too much about its history yet, but we’re working with an auction house in New York to have it appraised. It’ll bring in a hefty donation for the Historical Society.”
“We wanted to open it, but we couldn’t find a key,” Haven said, looking hopefully at Miss Crosby.
But the woman didn’t seem to be listening. The color had drained from her face until it nearly matched that of the white blanket she now clutched in a death grip.
“The b-barn?” she croaked. “Oh, no…no…” The old woman moved her trembling fingers to her lips. Tears spilled down her delicate cheeks and made dark spots on the front of her nightgown. “The barn…the barn!” she wailed.
“Er, we’re really sorry about the wall, Miss Crosby,” said Haven, suddenly feeling terrible they’d ripped apart the lady’s property without asking.
Brian glanced uneasily at Haven and cleared his throat. “Please don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll fix any damage before the real estate appraisal—that’s a promise.”
Miss Crosby started to cough and wheeze. She pulled a white lace handkerchief from her sleeve and hastily put it to her mouth.
“Miss Crosby, are you all right?” Haven asked. “Do you want me to call for the nurse?”
“No,” their client sniffled, “I’ll be fine. This chest…you have a picture?”
“A picture? Sure.” Brian pulled out his phone. “Just give me a second here.”
Haven watched Miss Crosby stare desolately out the window, picking at her handkerchief. The old woman’s reaction was puzzling. We just found a priceless antique out in her barn…why does Miss Crosby seem so upset about the damage to a useless, rundown old building that she’s selling anyway? Haven leaned back in the chair, feeling defeated.
Just then, a couple of deep voices approached Miss Crosby’s doorway, Mr. Venimer’s accented tones prominent in the conversation. Haven sat up rigidly. Ugh, he’s here. He’d better keep his mitts off my hair this time. She grabbed her ponytail and pulled it forward onto her collarbone, just in case.
The duty nurse appeared and rapped on the open door. “More visitors for you, Miss Crosby,” she called in a cheerful voice, surveying the small room. “Your attorney has come, along with Mr. Schoenfeld. My goodness, but you’ve got quite a party going on in here. I’d better see about getting some more chairs…”
“Don’t bother, Lindy. We can just use the sitting area across the hall.” The speaker, a tall man dressed in a dark gray suit, walked in and shook Brian’s hand. “Hello, Mr. Meadows. Hal Schoenfeld—the home’s finance director.”
Haven leaned away from Venimer as he reached over her to get Miss Crosby’s attention. “How are we feeling today, Gail?” he asked in a loud voice, waving in the old woman’s face.
Unfortunately, Miss Crosby seemed to have slipped into a kind of dementia and stared straight ahead, oblivious to the crowd of people gathered in her tiny room. “It’s too late…” she was muttering to herself, “…much, much too late.”
“Now don’t you worry about a thing, my dear, I’ve got everything under control.” Venimer gave the woman’s hand a patronizing pat, then turned and winked slyly at Haven. “The estate sale is in very good hands.”
Haven shrank even further away from Venimer. Ugh.
“Y-yes, of course,” Miss Crosby whispered vacantly.
To Haven’s relief, the men excused themselves and went out to the sitting area to discuss the upcoming auction. It seemed Schoenfeld was also interested in Miss Crosby’s Buick Electra, so Victor’s cousin was going to have some competition during the bidding. Brian hung back for a moment to hand Haven his phone. “Here—I can’t seem to find the end of my picture roll…see if you can get those photos for Miss Crosby, will you?”
Haven quickly located Brian’s message to the New York auction house and brought up the attachment. “Here, Miss Crosby—this is what we found in your barn.”
Haven held the picture of the Barbary chest in front of Miss Crosby.
In a strange and shocking sudden reaction, the woman darted out a bony hand and grabbed Haven by the wrist. Her pale lips trembled, and she pulled Haven’s hand closer to her. Tears once again slid down her cheeks.
“It was there all along…” she whimpered, “but now it’s too late!”
“Miss Crosby,” Haven said softly, “I beg your pardon, but…what do you mean? Why is it ‘too late’?”
The woman then closed her eyes and began to cry in earnest.
“Do you know something about this chest? Was somebody searching for it?” Haven pressed. She thought of the scrapbook full of antique shop brochures she’d come across in the farmhouse sitting room. “Were you looking for it?”
The long, wailing sob that escaped the woman’s lips caused a lump to form in Haven’s throat. “Miss Crosby? Miss Crosby, what’s the matter? Please tell me what’s wrong.”
But the woman just shook her head and turned away.
Haven set Brian’s phone down in her lap, and she sighed. This conversation was going nowhere. Looking out the window, she saw that the sky had clouded over to a murky gray. Fierce wind gusts began to whip through the tree branches. Victor was right about the rain.
Miss Crosby obviously needed rest, but Haven was hesitant to leave her alone in her present state. The poor woman. Haven wanted to do something for the despondent farm owner, give her some reassurance that everything would be all right—even a hug, perhaps—but she barely knew her.
“Miss Crosby, I’m so sorry if we’ve upset you. Is there anything I can do for you?” Haven asked. “Anything at all?”
Miss Crosby stopped crying, and her eyes slowly opened. Turning her head, she searched Haven’s face for a long moment, considering something. “I wonder…” she said weakly, “but the question is, does it still work?”
“Does what work, Miss Crosby?” asked Haven, growing more bewildered by the minute.
“Yes!” Miss Crosby clutched the sleeve of Haven’s sweater, her blue eyes burning bright. “Yes, my dear! I believe you can help me.”
Though relieved Miss Crosby had finally stopped crying, Haven was a little taken aback by the abrupt change in her demeanor. A mo
ment before, the woman had been a miserable wreck. Now, she acted as though she might leap out of bed and dance around the room.
Miss Crosby gestured at the bedside table. “That drawer there, open it.”
Inside, Haven found an ancient-looking Bible, a bag of hard candy, and a beat-up looking wooden box.
“The box—give it to me, please,” wheezed Miss Crosby.
Haven handed it to her as a flash of lightning lit up the sky outside. “Looks like we’re about to get a storm,” she said, peering through the white curtains. A crackle of thunder reverberated through the roof of the nursing home.
“In that case, we had better hurry.”
Miss Crosby fumbled near the neck of her flannel nightgown and pulled out a thin silver chain with a small skeleton key. She used it to open the wooden box and scooped out some old letters and a couple of black and white photographs, discarding them on the bed. Then Miss Crosby unwrapped something from a handkerchief and held it up: a large, bronze key.
Haven gasped.
Woven into the filigree design at the top of the key, she clearly saw the letters BC…Barbary Company?
She stared at Miss Crosby in shock. “You do know about the chest, don’t you? But how—”
The old lady swiftly seized Haven’t hand again, making her jump.
“There is something you must do.” Miss Crosby thrust the key into Haven’s palm. “You’ll need this.”
“Okay, but—”
“Just a moment—I have one more thing I need to give to you.”
Miss Crosby rifled through the wooden box again, then reached over her various medicine vials on the bedside table, trying to get at something there. Her hasty movements ruffled the blanket, knocking the letters and photographs to the floor.
“Oh, dear…”
“No worries,” Haven said. “I’ll get them for you.” She had to reach halfway under the bed to retrieve the fallen items. One was a rumpled publicity shot of 1950s crooner Bing Crosby, the other a photo of some tombstones in a cemetery.
Haven sat up and smiled. “I see you like Bing Crosby…are you by any chance related?”
“No. But I liked his music.” The old woman tied a lace handkerchief around something and held it out to Haven with trembling hands. “Now, my dear, I want you to take this and put it inside the chest for me tonight.”
Haven’s brows pulled together as she studied the knotted handkerchief. “Is that all?” she asked.
Miss Crosby nodded resolutely. “Yes.”
“Um…may I ask why?”
“No, you may not.”
“Okay, no problem,” Haven answered slowly. The old lady must be nuts. “But does it have to be tonight? I sort of have a dinner date with someone later. After that I was going to head over to Stockton. So if tomorrow would work, then—”
“But you promised you would help me, Miss Meadows!”
“I know, but—”
“You said if there was anything you could do…”
“Well, yes, but—”
Miss Crosby’s voice grew hoarse. “All right, then. Now, you must remember something important about the chest. To open it, you must insert the key and turn it counter-clockwise three times. Three times. Then you’ll be able to safely place the handkerchief inside.”
Haven glanced at the door to Miss Crosby’s room. Out in the hallway, Claude Venimer was laughing loudly at something.
“Er, yes, all right—three times.” Sounds simple enough.
“Then close the chest, take out the key and walk away.”
Haven lifted an eyebrow. “But don’t you want me to—”
“NO!” croaked Miss Crosby. “Walk away. Do not re-insert the key, and do not attempt to lock it. Do you understand everything I’ve told you, Haven?”
Haven started to think something other than oxygen was being pumped through the old woman’s nose tube. “Yes, ma’am, I understand.”
“Good. And please—don’t show the key to anyone, all right? It will be our little secret. You can bring it back to me tomorrow. Will you do that, dear?”
Haven smiled. “Sure, Miss Crosby.” She could hear the murmur of men’s voices outside the door. They were saying goodbye to Mr. Schoenfeld and getting ready to leave.
Miss Crosby’s blue-eyed gaze burned into Haven. “I’m depending on you, Haven.”
Haven nodded. “I understand. But you should probably rest now. It’ll be dinnertime soon.”
“Haven…”
“Yes?”
“Remember…don’t let anyone know you have the key.”
Haven sighed, trying not to roll her eyes. “I’ve got it, Miss Crosby.”
“Thank you, Haven.” Her peaceful expression restored, Miss Crosby closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured again, and appeared to drift off to sleep.
“Where’s our woman of the hour?” Venimer called, striding into the tiny room as Haven quickly slipped the key into her messenger bag.
“Congratulations, young lady! Your brother’s told me all about your wonderful discovery, my dear. An Elizabethan chest—imagine that!” Venimer crowed, his dark eyes shining with a burning intensity.
“Thanks,” Haven mumbled. She stood, clutching her bag to her chest to shield her body from Venimer’s view.
Brian came in a moment later. “How’s everything going in here?” he asked brightly.
“Shhh,” Haven admonished.
Noticing their client had fallen asleep, her brother lowered his voice. “So, did she tell you anything?”
“Um…no,” said Haven uneasily. “I don’t think she was up to talking much.” She indicated the menagerie of vials standing on the bedside table. “Miss Crosby’s on a lot of medication.”
The attorney’s narrow eyes darted between Haven, the old woman, and the messenger bag.
“Anyway, she’s asleep, so we should probably go now,” Haven said. She abruptly headed out of the room, dodging Venimer’s suspicious gaze.
As the group walked toward the front lobby, Brian clapped his hands together. “Hey, what do you say we all go out for dinner here in Newtown? Normally we’d wait until the sale is over to celebrate, but under the circumstances, I think it’s in order.”
Rich nodded. “That’s a great idea.” He turned to Miss Crosby’s attorney. “Care to join us, Mr. Venimer?”
“I’d be delighted, Mr. Horn. May I recommend the Bird In Hand Tavern? It has rather excellent food, and a superb wine list,” Venimer said.
Rich signed them out at the front desk. “Sounds great, Claude. Haven, what about you? Want to come along?”
Crap. The last thing Haven wanted to do was endure the lecherous stares of Claude Venimer while she ate dinner. Besides, she’d already made plans with Victor, and now she had a task to accomplish. She faked a wide yawn. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go back to the farm to help Victor finish with the kitchen, then head to the inn to study.”
“You sure?” Rich asked.
“Yeah, I’m like, totally beat. I had a long day yesterday.”
“Here, take the Mercedes,” said Brian, fishing a set of keys from his pocket. “If you don’t mind giving Victor a lift home, I can ride back with Rich.”
Haven took the offered keys as they walked outside. “Thanks, Bry.”
“A college student passing up a free meal—now that’s a rare occurrence,” said Venimer, looking disappointed. “Are you sure you won’t come out with us? I promise not to bore you with any more dull history lessons.”
Haven forced a tight smile. “Thanks, but I’ll grab something with Victor on the way home.”
A black scowl seemed to cross Venimer’s features, then was quickly replaced by a crooked smile. The attorney touched Haven lightly on the wrist. “Oh, by the way, Miss Meadows...” His dark eyes slid down to her messenger bag. “Should you or your…associate…run across the key belonging to that antique chest, I’d like you to set it aside. You are not, under any circumstances, authorized to unlock the chest yo
urself. Is that clear?”
Haven bit her lip and nodded mutely. Brian and Rich exchanged a questioning glance.
“For insurance reasons, you understand,” Venimer explained.
Haven thought of the bronze key at the bottom of her messenger bag. She wondered why Miss Crosby had asked her, a perfect stranger, to perform a favor she considered so important. Why didn’t she ask her attorney?
Or doesn’t she trust Venimer?
Brian shrugged. “Not a problem, Claude, though anything inside of it belongs to your client—it’s her property.”
Just then, a streak of purple lightning shot over the parking lot, followed closely by a loud roar of thunder. Everyone hastily retreated to their respective vehicles. “Take good care of Bessie!” called Haven’s brother, ducking into Rich’s truck. Large raindrops began to spatter the pavement.
“I will,” shouted Haven, smiling at Brian’s pet name for his revered car. She jumped into Brian’s old Mercedes and threw her bag on the passenger seat. “All right, you temperamental pile of junk,” she said to the automobile. “You’d better not give me any trouble.”
After two tries, the engine caught and Haven pulled out onto the dark road just as the sky opened up into a downpour.
THIRTEEN
City of Tangier, Northern Africa
The Year 1587
CURLS OF DARK EBONY FELL away beneath Ugonnatubelm’s chisel as he feverishly worked his tool across the front of an immense chest. I must finish tonight. It’s already three weeks past the equinox—tomorrow will be too late. He knelt on the workroom floor in the back of the furniture shop buried deep within the tangled alleyways of the souk, his eyes glued on the object in front of him.
After a time, he glanced up to study the small patch of sky visible through a tiny window. It was nearly dusk. Soon the call to evening prayer would echo throughout the city, and his master would bolt the doors to his shop and hurry back along the narrow, interior passage to check on Ugo’s progress.
This inconsequential, half-moon-shaped opening had, for long stretches of time, been Ugo’s only link to the outside world. Though it provided little in the way of ventilation, its effect on the weary slave’s mind was beyond measure—for it gave him hope. Ugo cared not that it was covered by a latticework of thick iron slats. They only served to remind him that his days as a slave were winding down.
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