Thirty-Seven

  

A crowd had gathered at the farm. There were police, media, and a few members of the Historical Society whom Megan had invited. Plus, she and Denver and Clay and her Aunt Sarah, who stood alone at the far side of the barn, her earthy features a blank canvas. Was this hard for her, Megan wondered. The farm should have been hers. Does it matter to me? Yes, she decided. It did matter. They had no relationship now—Megan was still digesting her aunt’s presence in her life and her role in her mother’s leaving—but maybe someday. Maybe.

The barn was once again a crime scene, and the old portion of the barn had been taped off until the police could dig up the box. For her part, Megan didn’t much care what was in it. Gold and silver would be nice, of course—she could use the money to fix up the farm, maybe even buy the old Marshall estate. Or she could give it to Aunt Sarah, her portion of a rightful legacy denied.

Beside her, Denver moved from foot to foot, impatient. His broad shoulders and lanky form looked even bigger in the small space. He caught her looking at him and smiled.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Sure,” Megan said.

King, donning gloves, was the one designated to do the honors. A pair of uniformed officers, also gloved, pulled the metal box from the earthen floor. It was large, maybe three feet by two feet, and decorated with tiny scroll engravings. There was a lock, but it had long since rusted. King took a deep breath, looked around the room, and then clipped the lock with wire cutters. He opened the box. Only he could see the contents, and he stared for a long moment into the abyss of the container.

“Well?” Roger said.

King turned the box so the crowd could get a look at the contents. It took Megan a moment to register what she was seeing. It wasn’t a box of coins, nor was it full of anything of obvious value. There was what appeared to be a wedding portrait, presumably of Elizabeth. She wore an extravagant magenta dress set with purple panels and a plunging, gold-trimmed neckline. Her plain oval face gazed out with an innocence that was at once heartbreaking and endearing.

There was also a set of candlesticks, a trinket box, and an elaborate tapestry of the Washington Acres farmstead as it must have looked in the mid-eighteenth century—much like the painting in Sarah’s living room. Carefully, King opened the trinket box. A silver chain and locket, severely tarnished, lay inside.

“Open it,” Merry whispered.

King looked at her and nodded. Everyone remained silent as King worked the lock, springing the ornate oval to make the picture inside visible. King motioned for Megan to come forward. She gazed at the miniature portrait inside. It was a man. In the fashion of the day, he wore a brown suit and frilly white shirt, and his thick dark hair was swept back from his broad, open face. The face of a husband. The face of a traitor.

“Is that Paul Caldbeck?” Megan asked.

Roger peered at the picture over her shoulder. “I believe so.”

“There’s no treasure,” Merry Chance muttered. She and Roger looked devastated.

“Hold on, folks. There’s a letter attached to the back of the picture frame,” King said. Carefully, he untucked yellowing parchment, surprisingly intact for such an old item. The letter was secured with wax, the imprint of a crest pressed firmly in the center of the red circle.

“Open it,” Merry whispered.

A hush had descended over the room. King looked around from face to face, seemingly unsure whether he should break the seal here, in the barn—or at all.

“Would you like me to do it?” Megan asked.

King nodded. He handed the letter to Megan, who ran a finger across the crisp parchment and the hard wax. First, she took a photo of the seal with her smart phone—for future’s sake. Then Denver handed her a Swiss Army knife from his pocket, the knife blade open. Megan used it to work the seal free. She read, first to herself, then aloud.

  

My dearest Paul,

  

If you are reading this, my love, we are together once again or you have returned home alone. I pray that the former will be our fate, but I am afraid the latter is a more likely course. I waited as long as I dared, but time was not on our side, and without my father’s protection, I feared for my life and the lives of our children. In either case, you must know that should we return, Mr. James has agreed to terminate our contract and return our home to us for the original sum plus 10% as one last favor to my father. Be well, my Paul.

  

Always, in love and marriage,

Elizabeth

  

The hush continued. Megan stared at the paper, turning it over in her hand. A memory box, filled with one woman’s sentimental treasures. It hardly seemed worth killing for.

King said, “You’ll need to think about what to do with this once we’re done. This stuff belongs to the house, Megan.”

Megan glanced at Denver, then at Sarah. She’d talk to Bibi, of course, but she knew already what was right. “Simon’s museum,” she said with a glance at Merry. “Once the Historical Society sets it up.”

Merry nodded. “We can do that.”

“I’d like to keep the letter, Bobby. If that’s all right with you.”

“We’ll need to make a copy for the records.”

“Of course.” Megan took a deep breath. Everyone was looking at her expectantly, but she was at a loss for words. She walked out of the barn, back toward the greenhouses. She wanted to get back to work. To normalcy.

  

Denver followed her to the greenhouse. Her heart felt leaden, her mind numb. He took her hand at the entrance, spinning her around toward him. He ran a finger along Megan’s jawline and smiled. “It’s not quite the treasure Jeremy was after, was it?”

“Love letters and sentimental keepsakes? No, I don’t suppose it was.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Not in the way you might think.”

Megan pulled the letter from the pack she was wearing on her back. “Read it,” she said.

His eyes widened when he reached the end. The portion she’d omitted when reading it aloud had no doubt caught his attention: You will find the money necessary to repurchase the house in the place we discussed the night you left.

“So there is money hidden on these grounds. This was a ruse.”

“Here, or on the old Marshall property, most likely.” Megan gave him a wan smile. “You understand why I kept that quiet, don’t you?”

“Aye, and ye were smart to do so, Megan. You don’t want another bloody brigade of people sneaking on your property to try and find the treasure. As we’ve seen, greed can bring about one’s baser nature.” His face softened. “But what about you and Bonnie? You could no doubt use those funds. And what about the preservation district?”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. Otherwise, we’re doing fine. Besides, I don’t even want to think about treasure for a long, long time. If we happen to come across it—” Megan smiled “—well, then I guess we’ll decide what to do.”

Inside the greenhouse, the air was hot and humid. Trellised tomatoes wound their way up toward the ceiling, their hanging fruits in various stages of ripeness. Megan glanced around, her gaze falling on the table in the back, up against the windows. A bin of fresh potting soil mixed with compost sat on one side of the table, potting blocks on the other. Clay had placed packets of seeds next to the potting soil.

“Know your way around a garden, Denver?” Megan asked.

He smiled. “Aye, a bit.”

“Want to help me plant some annuals?”

Denver nodded. “Sounds like a perfect afternoon.”

“What time is your next appointment?”

“Besides dinner?” Gently, Denver pushed Megan up against the wall so that her back braced against warm glass. He kissed her while his hands trailed gently down her sides. “Not until tomorrow.”

Megan smiled. She kissed him back. “All the time in the world.”