Hidden Treasure

by Jane K. Cleland

  As I reached to open a drawer in the built-in closest to the outside door, I heard a steady, repetitive click-clack. Someone wearing high heels was walking purposefully toward me. Startled, I gasped.

  “Hello?” a woman called. “Ms. Prescott? Are you here?”

  I took a few seconds to regain my composure, then pushed through the swinging kitchen door. Three paces in, I could see the entryway. An attractive woman I’d never seen stood five feet from the front door.

  “I’m Josie Prescott,” I said.

  She smiled. “I recognize you from your TV show. I’m a huge fan. I’m Stacy Collins, Maudie Wilson’s niece, Celia’s sister.”

  She must have read the astonishment on my face as I glanced at the front door because she said, “Apparently, the bell is broken.” She smiled. “I used my key.”

  “Your key.”

  “I went to your office, and they told me you weren’t in. I thought maybe you were here, and you are! I’m hoping you have a moment to talk.”

  Stacy was a few years younger than Celia, thirty-five or thirty-six, perhaps, and cut from entirely different cloth. Whereas Celia was comfortably proportioned and dressed with country simplicity, Stacy was svelte, every inch a city girl who dressed to impress. Her salmon sleeveless raw silk sheath fit her as if it had been made for her, and maybe it had. Her blond hair was cut in a striking wedge. She wore ivory open-toed pumps with three-inch heels, two inches higher than most women in Rocky Point wore.

  I slipped past her to the front door and opened it. “Why don’t we step onto the porch?”

  She hesitated, probably worried I was giving her the bum’s rush, then walked outside. I patted my back pocket to confirm I had my key before following her out and shutting the door.

  I leaned against the porch railing. “What can I do for you?”

  She tried to smile, realized it wasn’t working, and let it go. “This is painful for me to talk about. I wish it wasn’t necessary, but I guess there’s no way around it.” She paused for a moment. “As you may know, I live in New York City. I came up for a few days to see how Aunt Maudie is adjusting to Belle Vista. I’m really very fond of her.” She paused again. “Celia told you that Aunt Maudie’s trunk is missing. Thank you for letting her look for it. It turns out that a cat statue and fancy box are MIA, too.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Aunt Maudie admits she can’t remember moving them, just like the trunk.”

  I wasn’t warming to Stacy. She didn’t say that Aunt Maudie reported that the objects were missing or that Aunt Maudie told her about it, or even that Aunt Maudie confided in her. Stacy chose the word admit. It made me feel sorry for Mrs. Wilson, who, it seemed, had been interrogated by her nieces until she confessed.

  Stacy laughed. “Of course, she has no memory of not moving them, either. She doesn’t even remember when she saw them last.” Her phone vibrated. She took it from her purse and glanced at the display, then said, “Excuse me a moment.” She stepped aside two paces and turned her back.

  “Alyson, how are you?” she asked, her voice suddenly silken. She listened for a moment. “I’m so pleased! Did you decide on the zebrawood or the padauk?… Oh, I agree. Zebrawood is perfect … Thank you … Yes, that’s right … Good … Fine … If you send me the purchase order, I can get the team started right away.”

  She finished the call, then turned back to face me, her eyes alight. I sensed she was in her milieu and on her game, and loving every minute of it. I found it hard to respect people who reserved their best behavior for special circumstances like meeting a celebrity or interviewing for a job or, as in Stacy’s case, talking to a customer, but I certainly recognized her look, a private moment of celebration for a hard-won achievement. I felt it every time Prescott’s competed against larger antiques auction houses for an important consignment deal and won.

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “I’ve just launched a new furniture line.”

  “And you just landed a good order!”

  “Twenty-seven three-legged oval waterfall tables with tricolor resin for a boutique hotel in Philadelphia.” Her smile broadened. “Needless to say, I’m excited.”

  “Tricolor?” I asked, intrigued.

  Stacy smiled. “If you ask a new mother about her baby, she’ll show you a thousand photos. This style of table is my baby. May I show you a photo?”

  I’d seen river tables, with a central meandering blue or turquoise resin “river” running through the wood surface, and waterfall tables, where the resin “waterfall” runs down a mitered side, but I was unfamiliar with multicolored resin.

  “Sure.”

  She brought up a picture on her phone and handed it over.

  The photo showed a rosy wood table with a gently curving river that seemed to undulate, and water that seemed to fall over the sides in torrents. The three-dimensional depth was evident.

  I looked up and smiled. “It’s magnificent.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is that rosewood?”

  “Yes, with aqua, royal-blue, and white resin.”

  “Most resin tables I’ve seen are one-dimensional. How did you get the effect of the water actually moving and falling?”

  “That’s the secret sauce. I invented a new tool—it’s patent pending—that allows the craftsman to generate drapes, folds, and ripples of resin, resulting in a feeling of motion, both in the river and in the waterfall. My favorite part is the white froth.” She smiled with a sassy gleam in her eye. “I offer ten options based on combinations of wood type and resin color. Want to see them all?”

  I laughed, my initial negative impression shifting. “Some other time. Do you always use exotic wood?”

  “Always and only. That’s another part of the secret sauce. I’m working with a botanist to create a sustainable model—I’ve started a tree farm in Louisiana, just outside of New Orleans.”

  “Congratulations. I’m dazzled.”

  “Coming from you, that means a lot. Which brings us back to the issue at hand. When it comes to the missing trunk, Celia just rubs her hands together, oh, woe is me. The bottom line is that the ball is in my court and I can’t flinch from what is obviously a difficult duty. You need grit and guts to launch a furniture line, and I’ve got plenty of both, to say nothing of gumption. You’ve started a business, so you know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m sorry,” I interjected, “but I don’t see what—”

  “The point is that I’m working on a thousand details at once,” she said, breaking in, “including dealing with a myriad of legal issues. I was on the phone with my attorney today, and I mentioned Aunt Maudie’s forgetfulness, not asking for an opinion even, just chatting. She told me that if you found the trunk or the box and cat, you might have a viable claim. It seems that ‘finders keepers’ is an actual thing.” She smiled, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes. “We’re not looking for trouble, none of us is. All I’m asking for is the truth. If you found them, please tell me.”

  “The legal issue isn’t relevant,” I said, trying not to bristle. Stacy didn’t know me, so her suggesting that I might have questionable ethics said more about her than me. “If I found anything, I’d return it.”

  Stacy turned toward the street, her hands gripping the railing, a self-anointed savior grappling with defeat. After a moment, she turned back toward me and lifted her chin. “Let me give you my card.” She extracted one from an inside pocket in her purse and handed it over.

  Stacy’s company was called Tables by Collins. Positioned just below the name, a tagline read HEIRLOOM-QUALITY, ONE-OF-A-KIND, CUSTOM-CREATED EXOTIC WOOD AND RESIN TABLES INSPIRED BY NATURE AND CRAFTED IN AMERICA. Her showroom was in SoHo, in Manhattan. The off-white cardstock was thick, the lettering engraved.

  “If you find anything,” she said, “please call.”

  “Good luck with your company.”

  She met my eyes, accepting my brush-off with good grace. “Thank you for your time.”

  Th
e minute I heard her car engine turn over, I called our locksmith.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I considered calling Ty to tell him about Stacy’s visit, but I knew he was in the middle of fixing his training glitch, so I decided to save it for later. Instead, I returned to the butler’s pantry and resumed my search for forgotten items. I heard the faint patter of footsteps overhead as Tom continued his work on the second floor.

  My total take after an hour of searching included a black plastic teaspoon, a small-gauge scratched-up metallic-blue crochet hook, and a Chinese takeaway pack of hot mustard. Add in Tom’s rusty wrench, and we had a lot of nothing.

  Last-looks are time-consuming, tedious, and painstaking, and worse, they rarely turn up anything of value, but like the arduous process of digging out weed taproots before winter sets in, if you don’t want to welcome spring with a carpet of pigweed choking your tulips, they have to be done, and you’d better be thorough. I stood in the center of the pantry, taking one last, careful look. I approached the center unit on the wall the pantry shared with the kitchen. The top cabinet didn’t open. In fact, it didn’t even have a handle. Every other top cupboard featured double doors with simple wooden pulls, and they all opened easily. Maybe this single door wasn’t a door at all but a false front, installed to cover up an old eyesore—a falling-down baker’s chimney, for instance. I ran my flashlight over every inch and discovered a hair-thin horizontal seam, just above the counter, and two chest-high round wood putty patches.

  I swung through the connecting door into the kitchen. The size and layout of the cabinets on the kitchen side of the shared wall exactly matched the ones in the pantry. I used my flashlight, and sure enough, there was a whisper-thin horizontal seam directly above the counter, a match to the one on the pantry side, and two holes of some sort, both imperfectly patched with wood putty, painted white to match the cupboards. Evidently, door handles had been installed at some point and later removed.

  I ran to the toolbox and rummaged through until I found a pick, a slender hooked probe, the kind of tool used to remove O-rings and seals.

  Back in the pantry, I gripped the rubberized handle and slid the probe into one of the wood-putty-covered openings, twisting it to penetrate the rubbery putty and gain purchase. When I had a solid grasp, I tugged. Nothing budged. I tugged again. Nothing. Instead of pulling, I pushed gently, then, when nothing happened, with more force. I felt no movement, not even the slightest shift.

  I left the probe in place and stepped back, trying to figure out why my pick wasn’t working. Given there had been a handle, the door must have opened somehow, at some point. Maybe it was sealed. I shook my head. No, not if I could see a seam. Maybe, I thought with a flash of excitement, it wasn’t a door but a panel that lifted, slipping into a groove in the ceiling. I looked up. In the weak light, it was impossible to see whether there was an opening. I could get a ladder to examine it or simply try to raise the panel.

  I lifted, and as if by magic, a six-inch-wide slot in the ceiling appeared and the panel rose swiftly, smoothly, and silently, disappearing into the opening within seconds, stopping when the pick ran into the ceiling. I was staring into a three-foot-high aperture. Between the effortless way the panel slid into the ceiling cavity and the dangling ropes, I knew I was looking at a dumbwaiter, an old-fashioned elevator designed to move objects, not people, via a pulley system. More astonishing was what was inside—a tin and wood-slat dome-topped trunk about four feet wide.

  “Holy cow!” Tom exclaimed.

  I spun toward his voice. He stood at the foot of the back stairs, the rusty wrench in his hand, his attention riveted on the trunk.

  “What the…? Is that a secret compartment?”

  Before I could explain, a firm knock sounded on glass, and Tom and I looked over our shoulders. Julie stood under the overhang. She was cute, with strawberry-blond hair cut short and a smattering of freckles across her nose, but she looked exhausted, with bowed shoulders and dark smudges under her eyes.

  I looked at Tom. “Talk about timing.”

  “That’s why I came down. Julie just texted that she was here. The front bell doesn’t work, so I told her to come to the side door and took the back stairs to let her in.”

  He placed the rusty wrench on the counter and opened the door.

  “Hi,” Julie said. She stepped inside and pointed at the trunk. “You found it.”

  “Just now, yes,” I said.

  “Mrs. Wilson had a hidey-hole?”

  “You’re close. This is a dumbwaiter.” From their blank expressions I could tell they’d never heard the term. “A dumbwaiter allowed staff to transport food, cleaning supplies, and so on between floors.” I touched one of the loose rope pieces, sending it swaying. “It’s not automated; it’s mechanical, like a window shade. Tug on this section of rope and the elevator goes up. Tug on the other part and it goes down. This one is broken.”

  “So Mrs. Wilson used it for storage,” Tom said.

  “Not simply storage, I should think. More like a private hiding place. I’m going to call my company to send a van, then videotape it in place. First, though, I want to call Mrs. Wilson and relieve her mind. Do you have her number?”

  He did, but my call went straight to voicemail. I left her a brief message saying I’d found her trunk and asking her to call me to arrange delivery.

  “She doesn’t check her cell phone much,” Tom said. “Sometimes I have better luck calling the main Belle Vista number.”

  “Good idea.”

  The phone was answered by a young woman named Lainy who told me Maudie Wilson was out.

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed. “Do you know when she’ll be back? I have some good news I’d love to deliver as soon as possible.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed to discuss residents’ whereabouts.”

  “I understand. I just need to know when she’ll be back.”

  “I guess it can’t do any harm…”

  Lainy lowered her voice as if she were revealing a secret to a girlfriend. “Maudie is on a Rocky Point Women’s Club–sponsored tour of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. We don’t expect her until dinnertime.”

  “Fun! Would you ask her to call me about her trunk?” I gave my contact numbers. “She can reach me on my cell phone or at Prescott’s in the morning.” I thanked her and ended the call.

  “I can drive the trunk to Maudie, if you want,” Tom offered.

  “Thanks, but I might as well use a Prescott’s van. That way we can wrap it in furniture blankets and crate it up properly.”

  I stepped outside onto the concrete stoop to call Cara and was immediately struck by the rich scent of thyme, sage, chives, mint, and sea. Cara said she’d dispatch someone. I slipped the phone into my back pocket and turned in time to see Julie reach into the dumbwaiter, evidently planning to lift the trunk lid.

  “Please don’t touch it,” I said, and she stepped back, her guilt and embarrassment apparent.

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem.” I smiled. “It’s just that I want to record it first. My company has a policy—we video-record everything before we touch it.” I laughed. “Except rusty wrenches and packets of Chinese mustard.”

  Julie smiled. Tom laughed.

  “Even though this isn’t Prescott business,” I continued, “I’ll feel better knowing I’ve documented where I found it and what’s inside.” To say nothing of preempting Stacy. With her seemingly litigious attitude, I could see her trying to stir up trouble.

  “Is there enough light?” Julie asked.

  “We’re not looking for publishable photos or anything like that, so … yes.” I handed Tom the measuring tape. “I’ll record everything, describing what I see. You do the measurements.” I opened the small iPhone tripod I carried in my tote for just this use, set my iPhone’s camera to video, and tapped the START button. “I discovered what seems to be an inoperable dumbwaiter. Inside was this trunk.”

  Tom called out the measurements as h
e took them, forty-four inches wide, twenty-seven inches deep, and twenty-three inches tall.

  “Give it a lift, Tom, and tell me how much you think it weighs.”

  He used the two side handles to hoist it, held it in place for a few seconds, then lowered it. “More than fifty pounds, less than a hundred.”

  “Based on my knowledge of trunks of this type, the trunk itself probably weighs thirty pounds, so that means there’s something with some heft inside.”

  Together, Tom and I wiggled the trunk to the edge of the dumbwaiter, then eased it to the floor.

  “More than fifty pounds, for sure,” I said. An escutcheon plate covered a skeleton keyhole. “There’s no key in the lock, but maybe we’ll get lucky. Tom, would you see if you can lift the lid?”

  Tom unlatched two side hasps. “Here goes nothing.” He tried the lid, and it opened with a faint squeak, releasing a woodsy aroma—fresh, not mossy.

  “Thank you, Tom.” I continued my annotations: “From the appearance of the wood slats lining the trunk and the scent, I suspect the material is red cedar.” I stepped closer and peered inside. “Approximately a foot down, there’s a large black book with the word ‘Bible’ stamped on the front in gold and a pile of envelopes tied together with baby-blue satin ribbon. Something shiny is visible below those items. Tom, would you please lift out the Bible and letters?”

  He placed them on the counter.

  I flipped through the stack of letters, fifty or more. I raised the top one to face the camera. “From a quick examination, every letter appears to be addressed to Maudie Collins, postmarked in the late 1960s. The return address indicates they were sent from a military address by Sergeant Eli Wilson.”