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I HAD TAKEN MY OWN car up to New Beginnings Chapel that morning so that Donnie could leave for work directly from church. I said a quick goodbye to my husband at his car, and then Davison followed me to my Thunderbird.
“Eh, I like try drive this thing,” Davison said.
“Sorry. You need a special license to drive a vintage car.”
“Not,” he protested, but I was already buckling myself into the driver’s seat. I waited for him to get into the passenger side, pulled out, then waited some more until the orange-vested parking lot volunteer waved me into the line of trucks creeping out of New Beginnings Chapel’s vast parking lot.
Davison opened my glove box and pulled out the case that contained our tablet.
“Ho, heavy, this thing,” he exclaimed.
“Emma bought a top-of-the-line case for it. Waterproof, fireproof, the whole thing. Please put it back. It’s university property.”
Davison unlatched the case. Too bad Emma hadn’t gotten the stepson-proof model.
“Aw, sweet. This kine get the good camera on it.”
“Yes, it’s for our research. Please put it back”
“I like try the camera. I take one picture of you.”
“Davison, would you please—”
“Molly, look out!”
I slammed the brakes just in time to avoid rear-ending the truck in front of us. The Thunderbird’s nose plunged, and the car skidded sideways. A driver behind us leaned on the horn.
Davison quickly stuffed the tablet back in the glove box and was quiet for the rest of the ride.
Konishi Construction was a few doors down from the Pair-O-Dice Bar and Grill, in the same shabby single-story building. I followed Davison in through the unlocked front door. Our arrival triggered a chime, which resonated from somewhere in the back. The reception area was dark, but down the hallway, a light shone from an open door.
“Eh Mister Konishi,” Davison called out as he sauntered down the hallway. “It’s Davison Gonsalves. Curtis said you gotta box for my dad, ah?”
“It’s for me,” I called after him. I didn’t follow Davison. I didn’t know Al Konishi and was happy to let Davison deal with him while I waited in the reception area.
I sat on an orange vinyl couch, which must have been the height of style in the seventies. Now, even in the semi-darkness, I could see the vinyl was scuffed and the chrome legs were pitted.
I couldn’t wait to see what was in the box. Historic documents? Priceless antiques? There was one person, at least, who would be as excited as I was to find out.
I called Pat Flanagan’s number, but there was no answer at the headquarters of Island Confidential. The phone reception was patchy up on the mountainside where Pat’s little cabin sat.
I called Emma next, but her number went straight to voicemail. I left a message for her and hung up just as Davison emerged holding what looked like a bundle of towels. I stood up.
“What is that? And why is it wrapped up?”
“Dusty is why,” Davison said.
“Let’s see.”
He set the bundle down on the reception counter and pulled back the towel to reveal an ancient wooden crate, which looked to be exactly the size of a breadbox. The faded ink read Harper Twelvetrees Soap Powder. Grey wisps of spider webs dangled from the sides of the box. I tried to pick it up from the counter, but it was so heavy it felt like it had been nailed down.
“I got it.” Davison lifted the box effortlessly. “Eh, good thing I came, ah?”
The twenty-minute drive down to Donnie’s place took about an hour. No one (except me) seemed to be in any particular hurry. The motorists ahead took up both lanes in a leisurely blockade, apparently engaged in some kind of contest to see who could drive the slowest without coming to a complete stop.
Pat and Emma were waiting at Donnie’s front door when we pulled up.
“Got your message,” Emma said, as I unlocked the front door. Emma and Pat went in while Davison retrieved the box from the trunk. I hovered anxiously behind him to make sure he didn’t drop it. By the time we were inside, Emma, who was really good at making herself feel at home, was already seated at the dining room table, drinking Donnie’s good Sangiovese out of a coffee mug Donnie had picked up at the Cremona food expo a couple of years earlier. The decimated wine bottle was parked in front of her, within easy reach.
Pat sat at the dining room table next to Emma, checking his phone.
“Pat, make yourself some coffee,” I called out as I hurried to the linen closet for a clean towel. “The pods are in the drawer under the machine.”
I spread out the towel on the dining room table, and Davison set down the box.
“That thing looks old.” Emma drew her mug of wine to her protectively. The box was made of pine, the label printed on the bare wood in orange and green inks.
Harper Twelvetrees Soap Powder. Bromley-by-bow, London.
“Are you going to open it right now?” Pat called from the kitchen.
“You better,” Emma said. “That’s how come you called us down here, right?”
“Don’t we gotta wait until Dad gets home?” Davison asked.
“He said not to wait for him.” I thought I remembered Donnie saying something like that. And I was dying to see what treasures lay inside the box.
For Washing Without Rubbing. A Penny Packet Equal to Ten Pennyworth of Soap.
I might find a long-buried secret. Or a time capsule. Or something so valuable I could retire and stop worrying about tenure.
“Hey, where were you this morning?” Emma asked.
“We went to New Beginnings Chapel,” I said.
“With your hair uncovered like that?” Pat called from the kitchen. He emerged with a steaming mug of coffee. “Did the mutaween come and beat you with sticks for venturing out unveiled, you hussy?”
“Not this time. Fortunately, I was accompanied by male relatives. Okay, gather round everyone—”
The box appeared to have been nailed shut.
“Shoot,” I said. “How are you supposed to open these things?”
“Gotta pry ‘em,” Emma said. “Davison, you get a crowbar or something?”
Davison disappeared into the kitchen and came out with a flat head screwdriver.
“Be careful,” I said.
As Pat, Emma and I watched, Davison worked the flat blade of the screwdriver under the lid and rocked the screwdriver up and down. He did it next to each nail until an even gap separated the lid from the box. Eventually, he worked the lid free to reveal objects wrapped in yellowed newspaper.
Davison reached in and grabbed the paper-wrapped lump on top. The newspaper cracked like a shell in his grip, and crumbled onto the table, leaving him holding a sugar bowl. The silver had tarnished to a black finish with a rainbow shimmer.
“Wait,” I cried.
“Sorry. I better go put away the screwdriver.” He placed the sugar bowl back in the box and slunk away.
“Shoot,” Emma said. “Now what?”
“From the typeface, it looks like this newspaper is from the mid to late nineteenth century.” Pat leaned over the box and peered inside but didn’t touch anything.
“How do you know?” Emma asked.
“J-school. I can get Jeffrey to take a look at this.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Jeffrey Voorhees. He’s the manager of Bayfront Antiques and Collectibles. And he does some consulting for private collections.”
“I know the guy you’re talking about,” Emma said. “He sold some old furniture for my dad. He seemed okay. Weird for a young guy to know so much about antiques.”
“So he knows how to handle fragile things like this?” I asked. “Unlike you-know-who?”
“Jeffrey has this spray he uses for old paper,” Pat said. “It neutralizes the acid and keeps the paper from falling apart. You want him to see what he can do about unpacking your box?”
I heard Davison’s bedroom door close.
“You were kinda hard on him, ah?” Emma said.
“Me? What did I do?”
“You gave him this look like he’d just run over your puppy,” Pat said.
“He kind of did. What if the paper he crushed was valuable?”
“What?” Emma shoved my shoulder. “You think someone wrapped their tea set in the Declaration of Independence?”
“You don’t like being stuck down here at Donnie’s place,” Pat said. “That’s why you’re so cranky.”
“Ooh, Molly. You don’t like living with your own husband?”
“Stop it. I love my husband. But maybe Pat has a point. I mean, for the past few days I’ve been living in not-my house, going to not-my church, eating not-my food. I thought whatever was in this little wooden box, at least, was mine. And even that has to get ruined. By you-know-who.”
“I get it,” Emma said. “Just, the boy was only trying to help.”
“So is it going to be expensive? To have your antique dealer friend take a look at this?”
“I’ll ask him not to do it if it looks like the contents aren’t going to be worth it,” Pat said.
“Sounds fair. How long will it take?”
“I’d give him a week, at least.”
I placed the lid back on the soap powder box and pushed it over to Pat.
“I hate delaying gratification.”
“Me too,” Emma said.
“I know. I’ll tell Jeffrey to get to it as soon as he can.”