²

I was now officially impatient for the holiday weekend, but there was one obligation (besides work) that I had to discharge beforehand. I had promised Tony’s sister, Angela, a tête-à-tête tea before her college classes resumed. Therefore, the Wednesday before the holiday, I welcomed her into the Violet alcove, my favorite spot in the tearoom for a cozy tea with a friend.

I offered to relieve her of her coat and hang it out in the hall, but she shook her head. “I’d rather keep it, if you don’t mind,” she said, draping it over her knees as she sat in one of the two violet wing chairs. “I got cold, walking from where I parked,” Angela added.

“Not at all,” I said, and stepped to the fireplace to add a log. I could hear the party next door, in Dahlia, settling in for their tea.

Angela was a few years younger than Tony, earnestly working to finish her degree in nursing so she could get a job and help support her grandmother. I liked her a lot, and looked forward to spending an hour or so getting to know her better. She had dressed up for tea, in a charming black long-sleeved dress covered with tiny yellow daisies and a little black cocktail hat with a wisp of veil.

“I adore that hat!” I said as returned to my chair. Between us stood a low table where the teapot already waited under a cozy. I picked it up and poured for Angela.

“It’s Abuela’s,” she said, rosy with pleasure. “She used to be an amazing clothes horse.”

“Oh, really? I’d love to see some photos, if you have them.”

“Mama’s got a couple of old albums. I’ll dig them out before Sunday dinner. You’re coming, right?”

“Right.”

Sunday dinner was a ritual in the Aragón family. One attended or risked matriarchal disapproval, a rule to which I, as Tony’s fiancée, was now subject. A miss required an unquestionable excuse, such as dealing with dead bodies, or being invited to dine at the Governor’s mansion.

Rosa brought in our tea tray, and presented it with a glance at Angela and a knowing smile. I had followed Julio’s advice and taken Rosa into my confidence about the engagement. Sure enough, Rosa had spared me the task of telling the rest of the staff. She knew Angela was Tony’s sister.

Over steaming cups of Margaret’s Hope, Angela and I chatted our way through the full, three-tiered tray of afternoon tea savories, scones, and sweets. At first we talked about light things: the holidays, Angela’s upcoming classes, the weather. Then, as happens when a conversation goes on long enough, our subjects got deeper. By the time we reached the sweets, I felt brave enough to ask the question I’d been holding.

“Angela, do you think your father would have approved of Tony’s and my engagement?”

It was a calculated question, which was a little unfair to Angela. I hoped to read in her response whether she herself approved, because I knew she was too polite to tell me if she didn’t.

She gazed at the fire, thinking. “I’m not sure. It was always hard to predict how he’d react. You’d think for sure he’d feel one way, and then it would turn out the opposite.” She sipped her tea. “You know, I was only nine when he died, so...”

“I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

“No, no. I don’t mind.” She set down her cup and took a pear and brie sandwich—one of Julio’s inspirations—from the tray. “He never thought much of Tony’s girlfriends, but I think he would like you. You’re not like any of the others.”

I bit my tongue. That could mean a lot of different things. Were Tony’s other girlfriends all Hispanic? Were they sexy cheerleader types? Or was it just that they came from his high school, not mine?

“You think about things, and you make Tony think,” Angela added. “Before he met you, he was Mr. Act-First-Think-Later.”

“Really? I doubt I was the cause of such a change.”

“I think you were. And Mama agrees. She said so, to me.”

I swallowed. “Oh?”

“That time we all came to tea, last fall? When we got home, she told me you were the first woman she’d met who might be able to wake Tony up.”

“Wake him up?”

Angela nodded. “That’s what she said. And then she turned around and told him he better not be rude to you.”

“Wake him up from what?” I asked meekly.

She gave me a mischievous glance. “From being full of himself, I think.”

I sipped my tea as I thought about that. My early ideas of Tony had certainly included the opinion that he was full of himself. Now I couldn’t quite remember when that had changed.

Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe I’d just gotten used to it.

But, no. Tony had changed. He’d been pretty insufferable at first, and I had not lowered my standards of courtesy in any way that I was aware of.

“He looks up to you,” Angela said. “All his other dates, at least the ones I met, he just wanted to get what he could from them, you know? He didn’t care what they thought. But he does care, with you.”

Now I felt myself blushing. Not knowing what to say, I filled my mouth with a mini cream puff.

“Eh, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know,” Angela added, proffering her empty cup. I hastened to fill it, and topped up my own, then washed down the cream puff with a sip.

“Angela, would you like to be my bridesmaid?”

She looked up at me, sudden color blooming in her cheeks. “I’d love to!”

“My best friend Gina will be maid of honor,” I added, “but I’d like to have you, too.”

“Thank you! Yes, I’m honored.”

“You can help keep me from being a Bridezilla.”

She laughed. “You’re about as far from Bridezilla as you can get.” 

“Well, I’d like to keep it that way.”

We finished our teatime on a lighter note, discussing my bridal colors (should I avoid wisteria?) and where the wedding might be held (I was still uninspired). When the last crumb was consumed and the teapot was empty, Angela rose and slipped her coat on.

“I better get home. Mama’s expecting me. Thank you so much!”

“Thank you. I’ll be wanting to get together with you and Gina to talk about plans—maybe in March?”

“Spring break?”

“Let’s compare calendars.”

“OK.”

I saw her out, slipping past the entrance to Dahlia as unobtrusively as I could on our way to the gift shop. Angela insisted on buying some scones to take home to Abuela. 

“She’s addicted,” she told me.

I tucked a couple of cream puffs in with the scones while Rosa rang up the sale, then I handed Angela the box. “My love to your family.”

“You’ll see them on Sunday.”

I smiled and walked with her to the front door, where I gave her a hug. “We’ll do this again.”

“Yes.” She kissed my cheek. “Bye, manita!”

I watched her walk to the gate, wondering what she’d called me. I’d have to look it up.

As I returned to the gift shop to make sure Rosa wasn’t overwhelmed, I saw the Bird Woman emerging from Dahlia, wearing a far-too-filmy-for-January dress of purple and chartreuse georgette, with a plumed hat worthy of a dowager duchess. Her two guests, middle-aged women, were less splendidly dressed, though they both looked nice enough. Since I didn’t recognize them, I assumed this was their first visit to the tearoom. They goggled at me while the Bird Woman broke into a grin.

“Congratulations, sweetie!” she crowed. “I couldn’t help overhearing! When’s the wedding?”

I winced a little. “In the fall.”

“You’re gonna be a beautiful bride!” she said in a voice that I was sure had carried to the recesses of the main parlor across the hall, if not back to the kitchen.

“That’s kind of you, thank you,” I answered quietly. “I hope you enjoyed your tea.” I followed this with a smile at her guests, which set them tittering. 

“Shush!” the Bird Woman told them. “Now hurry up, or we’re gonna be late for the movie.”

“Happy New Year, Mrs. Olavssen,” I called after them, fighting an amused smile. 

If I knew anything about her, she’d do Rosa one better and make sure anyone who ever set foot in the tearoom—and possibly the entire population of Santa Fe—knew about my engagement. She still got on my nerves a little, but I had learned how truly kind she was, and I was coming to the conclusion that I wanted to be rather like the Bird Woman when I was older.

Heading for the stairs, I spotted a stack of three boxes tucked out of the way beneath the first flight. Looking at the label of the topmost, I confirmed my suspicion: goods for the gift shop. The Valentine’s Day merchandise was starting to arrive. I tested the top box’s weight, found it not too heavy, and started upstairs with it.

I really should put in a dumb waiter, but even if it was disguised with clever cabinetry, I feared it would mar the architectural beauty of the house. And I might have trouble getting permission for such a change. This was a designated historic building, and there were restrictions. Not to mention that it might be expensive. I hadn’t even dared to look into the potential cost.

The box got heavier during the last few steps. Was gravity stronger at higher elevations? Reaching the top of the stairs, I sighed with relief and carried the box into Kris’s office. She was away from her desk. I set the box on her credenza and went to the little storeroom tucked behind her desk, where the roof restricted headroom. Turning on the light, I saw that there were already several other boxes in there, and felt a small surge of dismay.

I needed to get in here and find whatever it was Captain Dusenberry had hidden. In December the storeroom had been packed with boxes. By New Year’s it had mostly been emptied; now it was starting to fill up again.

I’d come back tonight, after closing. I didn’t want to crawl around in there in my nice dress, and I didn’t want to disturb Kris.

“Ellen?”

I stepped to the door and turned out the light. Kris was at the tea station that stood in a little nook between our offices, facing the shared doorway that served both rooms.

“Want some tea?” she asked. “I was thinking about making another pot.”

“No, thanks, I’m floating,” I said. “You go ahead.”

She nodded, opening the drawer and setting up the samovar’s matching teapot for brewing. Lapsang Souchong, I noted. Definitely too much after my tea with Angela.

I stepped past Kris and went into my office, going to my desk. A short stack of lavender message slips awaited me; I glanced through them, dealt with a couple, decided the rest could wait, and brought up my email, still thinking about what might be hidden in the storage room.

Captain Dusenberry, the tearoom’s resident ghost, had been killed by two shots fired from a Colt Navy pistol, in his study—the room immediately beneath Kris’s office—which was now the tearoom’s dining parlor. I wanted very much to know who had fired those shots, and so, I believed, did Captain Dusenberry. The holidays had kept me too busy to pursue the subject, but now I could take it up again.

One possibility was that the captain’s killer was a member of the Hidalgo family. I suspected this because I believed Captain Dusenberry had wanted to marry Maria Hidalgo, and that her family had disapproved.

Scrolling back through my emails from December, I hunted for a message that had come in from Sonja at the State Archives during the hectic final week before Christmas. I hadn’t had time to do more than glance at it then. There was a lot of other email, so I ended up running a search by sender. This produced the email from Sonja, along with a couple of earlier ones from her that I hadn’t finished reading. Ay, yi, yi! I really needed to get more organized about this. Better make a list, but first I read the most recent message.

 

Ellen - 

There’s a ton of information about Hidalgo Plaza, so please narrow down your request. I’m attaching a map from 1877, the earliest in our records, but the plaza is much older than that, of course.

You asked earlier about Maria Imelda Fuentes y Hidalgo’s papers. We don’t have any of them, but I did find an inventory of her personal effects made when she died, along with her obituary. Attaching those for your review.

Have a Merry Christmas!

 

- Sonja

 

I saved the attachments to the folder where I was keeping notes and information about the captain’s murder. There were other items from Sonja in there that I hadn’t yet reviewed. Yes, definitely needed to get organized.

The Hidalgo family had been prominent in Santa Fe for centuries, and still was. Hidalgo Plaza was part of the historic block of buildings on Palace Avenue, across from the Cathedral Basilica of St. Francis. Originally a hacienda belonging to the family, Hidalgo Plaza’s historic buildings were now occupied by shops, a bistro, and a fancy restaurant, but the family still managed the property, and might still own it. I had met one of the Hidalgos a couple of months ago, a charming older gentleman named Eduardo who occupied a tiny office just inside the plaza’s southwest entrance. He had very kindly allowed me to look at the diaries of Maria Hidalgo, “Tia Maria” as he called her, and to take a picture of an old photo of her that was hanging in his office. Wanting to refresh my memory, I opened that photo and zoomed in.

Maria looked regal, serene, and a little sad, but that might just have been because of how photos were taken back then. Rarely did the subject of such a portrait smile; presumably, the process was considered serious business. Maria wasn’t a beauty, but she was a handsome woman. Her white dress was elegant and austere, ornamented only by a light-colored chain with a watch or a locket, hanging from a pin. Curious which it was, I opened the inventory that Sonja had sent. It listed dresses (each described in brief detail—they were all white except for one black one, presumably worn at funerals); silk lace mantillas (one black, two white); twenty-seven books (no details); a long list of furniture including a bed, desk and chair, and a maple spinet; an ivory chess set; a silver hairbrush, mirror, and shoehorn; hair ornaments (mostly tortoise-shell); a silver ring, and a gold locket with chain.

Aha! So it was a locket, not a watch. I wondered where it was now.

Kris came in with some papers for me to sign. Glancing at the time, I saw that it was almost five, her usual time for leaving. The tearoom would be open until six, then I’d be able to change into grubbies and grub around in the storage room. I signed the papers and handed them back.

“I’m off,” Kris said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Have a good evening,” I told her.

A brief smile flicked across her lips and she turned away. I returned to the email from Sonja and opened Maria’s obituary.

It was bland, full of family names, all dust now. About Maria herself, it said, “known for her kindness to all, her charity, and her devotion to good works.” Knowing what I knew, I silently added that she was fiercely loyal, and had known only one true love, for whom she had quietly mourned to the end of her days.

I wrote a quick answer to Sonja, requesting any papers on Hidalgo Plaza that referred to Maria, and any information the Archives might have about a concert held in the Santa Fe Plaza on April 7, 1855. That was the Saturday following Captain Dusenberry’s death, and I suspected it was the day referred to in the one letter of his to Maria that I had found. This letter had been hidden behind a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe in the back of Maria’s earliest diary, and I had snuck a photo of it during my perusal of the diary. The letter informed Maria that the captain’s offer for her hand had been rejected by her father, and that on the occasion of the concert, “A carriage will be waiting nearby to carry us to the church.”

Hmm. When Willow Lane and I had discussed this, we’d agreed that he probably meant a Protestant church, which I assumed was the one just across the street from the tearoom. It was currently the First Presbyterian Church of Santa Fe. 

I opened a browser and searched for its history, and found out that First Presbyterian hadn’t been organized until 1866, eleven years after the captain had died. The Presbyterians had bought “the ruins of a Baptist church that had failed” on land that was now within the intersection of Grant Avenue and Griffin Street. Yes, that was the one near me; Griffin merged into Grant, forming a “Y” around the grounds of the church, just a little north of the tearoom. I could see the current church from my front window. Apparently the earlier Baptist church had been the only Protestant church in Santa Fe when the Captain had lived here.

I paused, gazing at the sloping ceiling of my office. At that time, this house had been officer’s quarters at Fort Marcy Post, and had been assigned to Captain Dusenberry. The army post was large; covering most of my neighborhood from Grant Avenue (which was not yet Grant Avenue) to Lincoln Avenue (ditto), up to the Palace of the Governors, which had been part of the military post in 1855.

How different everything was, now. My house was the only remaining officer’s house from Fort Marcy Post. The others had all been torn down and replaced with commercial buildings. Across the street to the west, the historic buildings that remained had been the homes of early merchants and prosperous families—white families, mostly—dating from around the time of Mexican independence in 1821. Once upon a time, my ancestors had lived in that area, but their home was long gone.

If Captain Dusenberry had intended to elope with Maria from the concert and be married in the Baptist church, why had he needed a carriage? It was an easy walk from the Plaza to here. Just a couple of blocks. They could have slipped away during the music, and made their way to the church in just a few minutes.

Unless he wanted the carriage to also take them away from the church. Because an elopement to his house might not have been the most comfortable agenda. Angry Hidalgos would have known just where to look.

A quiet tapping made me look toward the doorway. Dee Gallagher, one of my servers, stood there, dark winter coat incongruous over her lavender server’s dress.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know I’m leaving. We’re locked up downstairs.”

“OK, thanks,” I said.

“And I wanted to ask if it’s all right for me to take the afternoon off, on the 15th.”

“Let me check.”

I brought up the staff schedule. The 15th was the Friday before a long weekend, the next Monday being a holiday. Dee was already off on the 16th. I could ask Dale or Iz to cover for her on Friday.

“I think so,” I said. “I’ll let you know tomorrow, all right?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Planning a vacation?”

“A little one, yeah. Going skiing.” Her cheeks dimpled charmingly as she pulled a watch cap over her blonde hair. “Night, Ellen.”

“Good night.”

Glancing toward the window, I realized it was dark. I should knock off, have some dinner,  and then do my searching in the storage room. I looked back at the scatter of open documents on my computer screen. Where was I?

Captain Dusenberry planning to elope with Maria Hidalgo. There were a lot of questions I needed to look into, and several files from Sonja to review. I still hadn’t opened any of the files she’d sent me with her next-to-last email. She had found those in a search for “Colt Navy Pistol” and “Hidalgo.”

Looking up that message, I knew I wasn’t up for reading Manuel Hidalgo’s diary. Also not hot for reading a collection of letters belonging to a third party. I opened the sales register from Seligman’s Mercantile, figuring that wouldn’t take too long.

It was a single page from a ledger, listing items sold on March 29, 1855.

That was interesting. Exactly a week before Captain Dusenberry’s murder.

Even more interesting: the captain’s name was on the list. On that date he had purchased a gold locket and chain.

Oh, my. Could it be that he had bought it as a gift for Maria?

A tingle shot down my arms. I went back to the top of the list and read slowly through it. Most of the purchases were ordinary: cooking staples, tools, candles and lamp oil, and so on. The captain’s purchase stood out, as did a half-dozen entries listed as sold to one Tyrone Lea: a “fine gold watch,” two boxes of cigars and a humidor, a silk waistcoat, a beaver hat, a pair of Italian shoes, and bottle of French brandy. Mr. Lea was moving up in the world, it appeared.

The second-to-last item on the list was the sale of a Colt Navy Pistol to Reynaldo Hidalgo.

I drew a breath. So Reynaldo had owned a Colt! This could be it!

The last item sold was a pound of sugar, to “R. Smith.” One blank line was followed by a tally of purchases made by Seligman’s on that date. Three of these were also listed under the name Tyrone Lea: each for twenty boxes of rifle cartridges. So that was how he had afforded all the luxuries. Interesting.

I opened a new document and started a list of tasks, beginning with asking Eduardo Hidalgo if he knew anything about Reynaldo’s Colt. If I was very, very lucky, the family would still have it. I added a note to ask if he had a photo of Reynaldo as well. I wanted to know what that man had looked like.

Filling out the list with the other documents from Sonja, I then closed all the files and shut down my computer. After sitting at my desk for so long, it felt good to stand up. I left the office, turned off the light, and headed for my suite.

Still full of afternoon tea, I decided on tomato soup and a salad for dinner. While the soup was heating I changed out of my pretty tea dress and into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Perhaps in anticipation of a claustrophobic evening in the storage room, I decided to have my dinner in the sitting area by the front window. I put soup, salad, a glass of white wine and a tumbler of water onto a tray and carried it out into the hall. The floor creaked gently as I walked to the sitting area. I set the tray on the low table and stepped to the window.

Cold radiated from the glass as I gazed down and to the right at the part of the Presbyterian church that was visible. How different things would have been if the captain had survived and married there.

Pulling the drapes closed against the cold, I made myself comfortable on the sofa. Hanging on the wall near the window was the poster of Blue Green Music. Though it was abstract, that painting had always made me think of water. It had motion and fluidity, and the colors were soothing and gentle. Well, except for the black bar that rose up out of the bottom center and angled off toward the upper left. Its edges were the sharpest thing in the image.

Contrast. O’Keeffe had been a master of it.

The soup and salad were the perfect counterpart to the rich tea food I’d shared with Angela. Even though January’s afternoon tea menu had been designed purposely to be lighter, it was still a filling meal, with scones and three sweets. The salad, especially, was welcome after that indulgence.

Finished, I took my tray back to my suite and washed up, then braided back my hair to keep it out of the way, and headed for Kris’s office. The box I had carried up was gone from the credenza; I found it inside the storage room. Turning on both the standing lamp and the bulb that hung from the ceiling, I went to the northwest corner and got down on my hands and knees, peering at the floor.

I had already spent a lot of time knocking on the walls in here, especially the outside walls, with no result. Gut instinct told me the floor was the place to look. Captain Dusenberry had hidden Maria’s letters under the floor downstairs; it made sense he’d do the same up here, if he had more to hide.

Which, essentially, he’d told me he had.

I swallowed, remembering Kris’s séance, which had taken place in the dining parlor below. Still not comfortable with that event, I focused instead on searching for a loose board.

Unlike the oak floor downstairs, the boards here were wide, rough-cut planks of pine, probably unfinished to begin with, but some time in the past hundred and more years someone had decided to varnish them. They were now darkened with time and a good deal of engrained dust. I poked and pressed at the end of each board, but found none that were loose. Working my way from east to west along the north wall, I eventually encountered the boxes. I carried them out into Kris’s office, determined to examine every inch of the storage room floor.

I did. No loose boards.

Frustrated, I sat back on my heels and gazed back toward the west wall. A thin, dark line near the west wall caught my attention. I crawled over to it, and found that it was the end of a board that was a tiny fraction of an inch—maybe a millimeter—higher than its neighbor. I poked at it. Felt solid, didn’t budge. Still, it was the only difference I’d found.

I got to my feet, taking care not to whack my head against the low side of the sloping ceiling, and went across the hall to my suite. I had a toolbox under the sink in the kitchenette, from which I extracted a hammer and a small crowbar. Thus armed, I returned to the storeroom to attack the uneven board. The end that was higher was perhaps two feet from the wall.

Time was my friend in this case. It had shrunk the pine boards over the decades, so they were no longer snugged tight together. I was able to work one end of the crowbar between the high board and its neighbor. With a few taps from the hammer, I got the bar beneath the lower edge of the board. Gently, I pressed it back, working to lift the end of the board. It took some wiggling, and moving the bar back and forth a couple of times, but eventually I got the end of the board up about a half inch above its neighbor.

Pausing, I set the bar beneath the board to keep it up, and went to my suite for a flashlight. When I aimed it into the gap beneath the board, I let out a sigh.

Nothing under there but dust. I shone the light into all the corners I could see, but the struts supporting the floor ran crosswise to the boards, so the space I’d uncovered was only about a foot long. It was empty.

If I pulled the board out, I might see more. I might also not be able to get it back in.

Was I nuts? Tearing up the floor in my house? If I found nothing under this board, how many more would I be willing to pull up?

Movement caught my eye. I sat back and looked at the board. Its shadow was shifting back and forth.

I looked up, blinking at the light of the bare bulb hanging above. It was swaying slightly at the end of its cord.

“All right, all right,” I muttered. “Might as well finish it.”

I moved the crowbar aside, took hold of the board, and tugged it toward me. It came free with a few small “pops” of cracking varnish.

Two more struts were now visible, one between me and the wall, and one just a handspan from the wall. I put down the board and picked up my flashlight, shining it into the spaces. Nothing between the first and second struts. I scooted closer to the wall and aimed the light into the small gap near the wall.

Almost the same color as the boards, a small pouch of heavy leather lay tucked against the outside wall. It reminded me of the cartridge pouch worn by Mr. Quentin, the reenactor who had talked about Captain Dusenberry during the ghost tour teas we had hosted with Willow in October.

That was another item for my to-do list: talk to Mr. Quentin about a metal detector.

Later.

I reached into the gap and took hold of the leather pouch. It was hard, belt leather: old and dry and dusty. Heavier than I expected. Definitely not empty. I lifted it out carefully.

Yes, it might be a cartridge pouch, or maybe some other belt pouch. Mr. Quentin’s had a brass plate with “US” stamped on it; this one was unadorned. There were slots in the back, where a belt could thread through, but there was no belt with it. I held it in my hands, almost unwilling to believe it. Captain Dusenberry had told me to look here, and this is what I had found.

I swallowed, then sneezed. The dust was getting to me. Leaving the tools and my flashlight, I carefully stood and carried the pouch out into Kris’s office and through to the hall. There I brushed off the worst of the dust, then took the pouch to the sitting area and put it on the table while I brushed dust off of myself.

Sitting down, I carefully lifted the pouch’s front flap. Inside were two soft leather drawstring bags—one full and heavy, one nearly empty—and a folded piece of paper. I set them all on the table, hesitant to open them. I felt a little like an intruder, prying into these things.

But they were mine. They were part of the house, and the house belonged to me.

Deciding I should document them, I fetched my camera and took several pictures of the pouch and its contents. Then I began to examine them.

The paper, which I unfolded carefully, was a marriage license issued to Samuel Dusenberry. Blank lines awaited the names and signatures of the bride and groom and their witnesses. Tucked inside it were two tickets for a northbound stagecoach.

So he had planned to take Maria away from Santa Fe after the wedding. Maybe for a honeymoon? He wouldn’t have abandoned his post, so he must have made arrangements for someone to cover his job until he returned.

Add to the list: check the captain’s official correspondence.

I opened the smaller pouch, after a little trouble with the strings, which had been wound very tightly around the drawstring opening several times. Inside were two plain gold rings, one smaller than the other.

Wedding bands.

I couldn’t help glancing at my engagement ring. I turned the rings this way and that, looking for any engraving on the inside, but they were unmarked.

Finally, I picked up the heavy pouch. In my hand, it was the size of a small apple. When I opened it, I found it was full of coins, mostly silver, but a few gold. Some were tiny, smaller than a dime.

Oh. My. God.

These might be worth a lot. So many coins! Was this the captain’s life savings?

Carefully, so as not to drop any, I took a few coins out and spread them on the other pouch with the rings, then took more photographs of everything. My hands were shaking a little.

This was amazing. This was a treasure! Here were all of Captain Dusenberry’s hopes and dreams. They had waited hidden beneath the floor for over a century, never to be realized.

Why had he led me to them? My finding them wouldn’t change the past. They were proof of his intentions, but what good would that do him now?

Was this his gift to me, simply because I cared?

I sat gazing at everything for a while, feeling rather stunned. Finally I decided I needed to protect these items, put them away someplace safe. They belonged in my safety deposit box, actually. I would take them there tomorrow.

Carefully, I put the coins and the rings back in their bags, and slid the stage tickets back into the folded license. I tucked them all into the pouch, closed it, then carried it into my office and locked it in my desk.

Tomorrow morning, I’d take it to the bank. Better take Maria’s letters, too, I decided. This was becoming an important collection of artifacts.

Feeling a little melancholy, I returned to the storage room. For good measure, I turned on the flashlight and peered into the little gap to make sure there was nothing else hidden in there. It was empty now.

The board slid back into place pretty easily, and when I pushed, it settled down level with the rest of the floor. My fiddling with it had apparently loosened the fit just enough that it no longer stood proud.

Well, if I ever needed a place to hide something secret, I had it now.

I moved the boxes back into the storeroom, then turned out the lights and closed the door. I felt drained and exhausted, and now I had even more questions. I put away my tools, then took the camera into my office and turned on my computer so I could download the photos. 

The computer time showed 11:49. Really? Ay, yi, yi!

I saved a copy of the photos onto a thumb drive, which I locked away with the pouch and Maria’s letters. Then I shut down the computer and went across to my suite to shower off the dust.