by Wendy Tyson
Alvaro was the first to greet her. He pulled her close, hugged her tight, and then let go. No words. Over his shoulder, Megan saw Maria smile.
Bibi had reacted to the situation as Bibi always did—with food. The kitchen and dining rooms were loud and crowded, with platters of lunch meat, rolls, and baked goods on every flat surface not reachable by the dogs.
Clay accosted her in the dining room. “You need to come up to the barn.”
“Not now, Clay,” Megan glanced around. “Not with everyone here?”
“Why?”
“I want this to be private.”
Almost two years ago, Megan found the historical letter that mentioned treasure on the property. She hadn’t looked for it, hadn’t really believed it was real. Now that it was, she wanted to savor the moment. She wanted to share it with Bibi and Clay and Porter and her family, no one else.
“Let’s toast, then,” Clay said. “To feisty chicks who drive trucks and to senior centers.”
Megan laughed. They clinked juice glasses. “And to friendships that come in all shapes and sizes.”
Thirty-Six
Clay lifted the chest from the ground and placed it on the white sheet. It was rusty and disintegrating, the lock just a flimsy remnant of its former self. Clay clipped the lock with wire cutters and looked around at the small crowd that had gathered. Gray skies remained, and Megan was hoping for more rain that evening. For now, though, the earlier storms had broken the humidity and the evening air was pleasant.
“Do it,” Bibi said. “I’ll be in my grave by the time we see what’s in there.”
Megan lifted the lid. She stared, disbelieving, and saw similar looks of awe on the faces around her.
“Go ahead, run your hands through it.”
Megan did. The gold coins felt cool and grimy and substantial.
“There could be six figures in there,” Clay said.
“Maybe not that much, but a small fortune.” Sylvia’s eyes were wide. “Enough to help you with this farm.”
“And to think, all those times I sent you to play at the old oak, you were playing on gold. This would have made your grandfather’s life much different.” Bibi paused. “Different, but not necessarily better.”
Megan was thinking of the original owners of this gold, Paul and Elizabeth Caldbeck. Of the woman who buried it hoping her husband would return. Clearly it never happened. Did the family ever reunite? She supposed she’d never know.
“Can you help me bring it inside?” Megan asked Clay.
“Sure.”
They took pictures, then stored the chest in Megan’s closet. Megan tossed and turned that night, thinking about the gold and friendship, and the vagaries of fate.
When she woke, she knew what to do with the money.
“We need to get it appraised, of course, but there should be more than enough for the business,” Megan said. “I did some research and under Pennsylvania law, we’re the rightful owners. I’ll verify that with a local lawyer. Assuming I’m right, I want to make a donation to New Beginnings, to help them continue the work that they do. But other than that, it’s yours. Well, it’s my father’s.”
Sylvia regarded her with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “You would do this for him?”
“Yes.”
“He will never know. You understand that?” Sylvia leaned toward her, her gaze piercing. “He will have no idea of the sacrifice you are making for him.”
“I understand.”
They were sitting in the sewing room, looking at old photos of Eddie and Charlotte and young Megan. Sylvia held a photo of Eddie in her hand. He wore pleated brown trousers and a plaid shirt. A hat fell over one eye. “He was dapper even then.”
Megan smiled. “He was, wasn’t he?”
Sylvia was difficult and demanding and petty, but she clearly loved Eddie—and saw something in him no one else had. Perhaps her father had found his forever match after all.
Eddie and Sylvia left that evening, after a Bibi-style bonfire celebration. Megan retired for the night at nine, tired and oddly content. It’d been an eventful three weeks, but she was going to Scotland soon and she’d see Denver. Something to look forward to.
Her phone buzzed at four, waking her up. Megan glanced at the screen expecting to see Denver’s number. He’d texted her, all right: I’M HERE. LET ME IN.
She ran down the steps two at a time. Denver stood in the doorway wearing a dimpled grin, his arms outstretched. Megan flew into his embrace.
“I was going to surprise you,” she said, elated. “I purchased a ticket to Scotland.”
“Oh, yeah? How about that?” Denver kissed her. He picked her up and carried her up the stairs, toward her room. “I missed you. And when I heard what was happening back here, I knew I needed to come.”
“I’m fine. But I’m so happy to see you.” Megan kissed him, long and hard.
Denver paused at the top of the stairs. “We can still go to Scotland,” he whispered. “Perhaps Bonnie would like to join us.”
“You just want her to cook,” Megan said, laughing. She kissed him again. His face was scruffy and warm and smelled like home.
“No more haggis for this Scotsman. Bonnie Birch is crossing the Atlantic. Dolores and Bonnie can fight it out.”
Thirty-Seven
The letter came two months later, after the gold had been counted and appraised and given away.
Megan had taken the taxes from the bounty, sent a piece of the treasure to New Beginnings to start a scholarship fund, and with Bibi’s blessing, had wired the remainder to Sylvia for her father’s business. The letter that arrived not long after the wire was sent was from her father. Megan opened it in the privacy of her bedroom.
The note was short. Sylvia had told Eddie about the payment to the clothing boutique. She’d confessed that the money had come from selling the treasure on the farm. He appreciated the gesture by both of them, but the money was for Megan. He was wiring it back.
Buy the Marshall House, Megan, he wrote. You should have enough. Next time we visit, we want to stay in the new inn.
Megan saved the letter.
Later that night, she reopened it, thinking of Maria and Alvaro and Ray and Thana and Denver and her. Perhaps each person did have someone out there who could balance their weaknesses and buoy their strengths. A significant other. A friend. A grandmother. Did it matter who the person was? She didn’t think so.
Buy the Marshall House, Megan.
Perhaps she would.
About the Author
Wendy Tyson’s background in law and psychology has provided inspiration for her mysteries and thrillers. Originally from the Philadelphia area, Wendy has returned to her roots and lives there again on a micro-farm with her husband, three sons and three dogs. Wendy’s short fiction has appeared in literary journals, and she’s a contributing editor and columnist for The Big Thrill and The Thrill Begins, International Thriller Writers’ online magazines. Wendy is the author of the Allison Campbell Mystery Series and the Greenhouse Mystery Series.
The Greenhouse Mystery Series
by Wendy Tyson
A MUDDIED MURDER (#1)
BITTER HARVEST (#2)
SEEDS OF REVENGE (#3)
ROOTED IN DECEIT (#4)
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