two

Tucker bounded up the cement steps of the Savannah Maritime Museum, checking his watch again. Two minutes to spare.

The front windows were always bright against the two-story gray building that had been the home of a wealthy Southern banker before the war. Even after almost two hundred years, it was as beautiful as ever, green ivy snaking up the corners and wrapping around the trellis along the adjacent wall.

Pushing the wooden door open with his shoulder, he stepped inside. The entryway/gift shop was empty, the rooms beyond silent. PJ had texted him to meet her here, but she’d offered exactly zero details.

“PJ? Carter? You here?”

Carter Hale, museum director and local treasure-hunting hero, materialized from the darkness of the room off the entry with a smile and quick handshake. “Thanks for meeting me. Is Penelope coming?”

“I think so.” He looked over his shoulder like she might appear, but the doors remained closed. “Do you have something for me?”

Carter’s smile dipped. “I wish I had better news.”

“I’m here. I’m here.” PJ’s voice arrived before she opened the door, out of breath and panting. She swung inside like she owned the place, her arms packed with colorful file folders and her ever-present spiral planner. Thumping her load onto the wooden counter and wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she blinked at him and Carter. “What did I miss?”

“I just got here, and Carter was about to share his bad news.”

PJ’s hopeful smile flickered, but her cheeks bunched as she fought to keep it in place even as her blue eyes lost their glow. “Really? It’s not good?”

Carter shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I saw the letter. Mr. Jepson brought it in for authentication.”

“It can’t be real.” PJ shook her head like she refused to allow such a monstrosity to occur. Not on her watch. And certainly not when it ruined her plans.

Tucker reached for any hope. “Were you able to confirm it?”

Carter shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t have the kind of equipment needed to authenticate the letter, so I sent him over to the university for that. But whether true or faked, there’s definitely a letter that drags the Westbrook name through the mud.”

“Westbrooks in general?” Tucker asked.

“Daniel Westbrook.”

Tucker’s gaze darted to PJ, whose eyebrows had bunched together across her porcelain forehead. “Daniel is a family name. He’s my fourth great-grandfather, I think. I’m pretty sure. My aunt Shirley would know for sure. Either way, it’s my family.”

Carter sighed. “I’m sorry.”

PJ tapped her finger against her stack of folders, her nail ticking like a clock that promised there wasn’t enough time in the world to fix this. “Can you tell us what it said? Exactly?”

A grin popped into place, and Carter said, “I’ll do you one better. I made a copy.” He disappeared into an adjoining room, heading toward the offices in the back and the new addition being built onto the house following the discovery of a 250-year-old sunken ship the year before.

Tucker leaned his elbows against the counter beside PJ, resting his head in his hands, wishing he could soothe the thunder inside. “So there really is a letter.”

She patted his arm, but the action didn’t match the question that followed. “Did you think there wasn’t?”

He let that question bounce around inside him for a few seconds. Had he thought that? No. But he’d allowed himself to hope so. Evidence changed everything.

Her hand was small on his back, but there was a fierceness in her stance, her shoulders square and unrelenting. “I’m really sorry. But we’re just getting started. There’s so much we can do.”

“Let me guess.” He pushed himself up enough that he could look down at her. “You have some ideas.”

She let out a giggle. It was more self-deprecating than nervous, but she didn’t look up at him as she shuffled through some of the papers in her folder. “I had a few.”

A piece of yellow legal paper got loose and fluttered to the ground. He stooped to pick it up, only glancing at it for a second. Until Winston’s name caught his eye. That deserved a closer look.

The top of the page showed a line in all caps in her distinctive penmanship: OP KMJ. It was followed by three lines, each beginning with a box yet to be checked:

□ Fix Tucker’s nonsense

□ Have a backup—several large events at the Hall

□ Backup to the backup—Winston and Emmaline’s wedding

“OP KMJ?” he asked.

Her cheeks flushed a deep pink, and she bit her lips together so long that he thought she might not answer him. Finally, she shrugged. “Operation Keep My Job.”

“You really think you might lose it?”

“I think if Anabelle Haywood decides to move her event, Madeline won’t hesitate to show her displeasure. Even if she just cuts my hours, I won’t be able to pay my rent.”

He suddenly felt a little sick to his stomach. “Which is why I’m at the top of your list.”

She nodded, the pink in her cheeks fading until her skin took on a sad pallor. “We have to fix this.”

“But if we can’t . . .” Her list said it all. She had a couple backups.

“We’re going to fix it, but it might . . .” She sighed, picking at the corner of one of her folders. “If it takes longer than a week, I have to be ready. I can’t give Madeline any reason to let me go.”

“So you’re going to try to get Winston to have his wedding at the Hall?”

Her smile looked like it took every ounce of effort inside her. “Yes.”

“No.” He pushed himself off the counter and waved the ridiculous checklist in her face. “I won’t let you do this. This is my fault. My election. You don’t have to be wrapped up in this.”

“I don’t think you have a choice in the matter. Unless you want to call Mrs. Haywood and convince her that we’re no longer friends.”

The paper crinkled in his fist. “I could do that. I can be very convincing.”

She wrapped her silky fingers around his clenched ones, slowly releasing his hold and recapturing her list. Then she patted his arm like a mother comforting her child. “Thank you for offering, but you’ve been my best friend for twenty-five years, and I expect to get at least another twenty-five years of friendship out of you. I’m not going to let an old biddy like Mrs. Haywood tell me I have to change my plan.”

“But Winston—”

She cut him off with a raised hand. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll make it work. I mean . . . it’s not . . . I’m not looking forward to it.”

He could see the truth written in her eyes. Dread. She’d rather meet up with a rabid raccoon than have to see Winston and his new fiancée. But she’d do it. For Tucker.

“I can’t let you do that.”

Her eyebrows nearly reached her hairline. “Let me? You’re not going to let me?”

He sighed, holding back the urge to shred her list. Instead, he scrubbed his hand over his hair. “You know what I mean. You’re trying to help me, and it’s making your life miserable.”

“Ha!” She laughed in his face. “Thank you for trying to be all chivalrous, but I’m not doing this for you. This is the price I’m willing to pay to keep a job I love. Would I rather not have to see my ex-fiancé on the regular? Yes. Am I willing to? Yes. Because I’m fine. I’m over him.”

He squinted hard at her, wishing he could know for sure if that was true.

As best friends, they talked about nearly everything. But somewhere around the start of high school they’d come to an unspoken agreement—boyfriends and girlfriends were off-limits. That was probably around the time Tad Andrews had asked her to the homecoming dance. Tucker had been pretty vocal about his disapproval. Worse, he hadn’t known why it bothered him.

So after Winston didn’t show up on her wedding day, Tucker had done the only thing he could. He’d held her.

They’d never talked about it again. Not using words, anyway.

“You would know,” he said.

She stiffened, her eyes scorching him. “Yes, I would. And I do. I am just fine.” She plucked a piece of paper from one of her folders and waved it in his face. “But you are not, so I’m going to help your sorry little self.”

He nodded quickly, because determined PJ was not to be trifled with.

When she slapped the paper on the counter, he got a good look at her handwriting again. She had scribbled “Op Fix Tucker’s Nonsense” across the top of the page. Below it, three unchecked boxes sat in a neat column. The rest of the page was empty.

“So, you’re going to help me, but . . .” He waved at her page.

“But what? I’m going to help you. The plan is . . . in progress.” She put her hand on her hip and glared at the empty page. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, but an escaped strand curled over her ear. Undoubtedly, she’d twirled it around her finger during moments of frustration earlier in the day. Her blue eyes narrowed to focus on the single page, and her full lips pursed then relaxed several times in a row. Her thinking face.

It was one of his favorites. Although her someone-kicked-a-dog avenging face and over-the-moon happy face were pretty fantastic too.

She rubbed her hand over the waist of her black skirt, and he couldn’t help but follow the motion with his gaze. The fabric sat snug against her hip and followed the line of her leg to her knee. There was some word for the design. He didn’t know it. He didn’t need to. He only knew that whenever she wore skirts like this, it made him look a little too long at her legs, a little too close at the dimple on her knee.

“What are you staring at?”

He jerked his gaze back to hers. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“I’m going to get this list fleshed out. I hope Carter can help with that.”

Tucker nodded. Better that she thought he was thinking about the letter than what was really going through his mind. Which he should not—would not—let happen again. So what if PJ had a set of legs on her? He needed her in his life as a friend, and she’d never given him any indication that she’d thought of him as more.

Penelope spun at the sound of Carter’s return, shooting one more questioning glance in Tucker’s direction. His furrowed eyebrows hung heavy across his face, weighing down his usual smile, and she had a terrible suspicion that it had everything to do with the return of Winston St. Cloud.

“Sorry about the wait. My assistant, Hazel, decided I needed a cleaner desk and moved the letter, but I’ve got it here.” Carter held out a sheet of white printer paper tucked inside a plastic protector. The curled edges of the original page had been captured in the copy, the scrawled handwriting slanted heavily to the right.

She reached for it at the same time as Tucker, and with a glance she asked if she should read it. He nodded. Leaning into him, she pinched her side of the page with two fingers and tried to ignore the earthy scent that wrapped around her like an embrace as she read the words aloud.

Colonel Covington Knowles
Richmond, Virginia
January 4, 1865

My investigation has met with a brick wall. I have turned over every rock in Savannah, but evidence of the thieves dissolves as soon as it appears. It seems to be as real as the ghost stories that swirl through the streets at night, and I am no more able to latch on to it as to the mist in the morning.

The cargo to have been delivered this November past has vanished. A ship’s worth of gold and jewels and arms from France was taken and has disappeared into the night, surely scurried away by the traitors among us. They can have only one intent, to hinder our Cause and injure your good self. Whether they seek to send all support north or arm themselves for an internal uprising is unclear. There are still Southerners about the city, though men in uniform are absent save the Yankee invaders.

I have identified the leader as one Daniel Westbrook. I am certain he is involved, as he led a band of thieves and smugglers about town in the wee hours of the night. Several locals have confirmed his involvement, but there is no evidence of the missing cargo and no sign of the deserter. Westbrook sits piously in church every Sunday, hands folded and head bowed. ’Tis a ruse of the worst sort.

I will watch him relentlessly. I must believe that his stolen gain is still within Savannah, for he has yet to pass it off.

I will see this treasure restored and put to its rightful use, and I will see Westbrook hung for the traitor he is.

For the Cause
and Confederacy,

Fox

Tucker sighed. “Well . . .”

Penelope fought to find the right sentiment, but words escaped her. In the end she reached around his waist and hugged his side. He returned the embrace, his breaths coming out in strained, controlled gasps.

“I’m really sorry about this, man.” Carter shoved his hand through his already wild brown hair.

“And you don’t have any idea where it came from?” Penelope hated the desperation in her voice.

Carter shook his head. “But I’m pretty sure Buddy is going to try to get it shown somewhere. He asked if I’d put it on display here.”

Tucker’s back tensed before he stepped out from her encircling arm. “You turned him down?”

“Of course I did. I’m all for showing off history, but that letter hasn’t been authenticated. And I’d never add a piece to my collection that would tarnish someone’s reputation.”

Tucker sighed, his shoulders relaxing and his eyes closing for a moment.

Until Carter continued. “Even if I have been trying to put together an exhibit on Civil War smugglers.”

Tucker jolted, his eyes now open and his mouth agape. Penelope wasn’t struck silent though. “You’ve been researching smugglers in this area? You can help us find the treasure. That’ll prove the Westbrooks weren’t involved.”

With another shake of his head, Carter dashed her hopes. “I’m just getting started on my research. I don’t have much—definitely not anything as interesting as a lost treasure.”

“Do you think it’s out there?” Tucker asked.

Carter crossed his arms and bowed his head, seemingly studying the carpet between his feet for a long moment. “I don’t know. The Civil War was a long time ago.”

“But you found a ship that was way older than that.” Penelope squeezed her hands together at her waist, praying for a scrap of good news.

“Yeah, well, it was under 150 feet of water. It was a lot easier to hide for so long. And most of those looking for underwater treasure don’t have the right equipment. It’s a lot easier to find treasure when all you need is a map and a shovel. The smuggled treasure mentioned in the letter could have been found a hundred years ago and never recorded.”

The wind left Penelope’s sails, and she sagged against the counter as Tucker shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“It’s worth looking for,” he said. With a shrug, he added, “I’ve got a shovel. Too bad I don’t have a map.”

“I don’t have one either,” Carter said. “But I’m happy to offer you the only thing I do have.”

Pushing herself off the countertop, Penelope leaned forward. He’d been holding out on them. “What’s that?”

“Jethro Coleman.”

Tucker raised his eyebrows, and she was pretty sure her face mirrored his response. Jethro Coleman wasn’t known for being particularly useful. Not since his wife had passed and he’d picked up the bottle, anyway.

That didn’t stop Carter from scribbling down a phone number on her legal pad. “Call him. He knows more about Georgia’s Civil War history than nearly every historian in the area—combined.”

Mentally scratching the number from her pad, she shook her head. “I think we’ll—”

“Call him.” Carter’s eyes lost that chummy look, the dimples in his cheeks disappearing. “If that treasure was ever found, he’ll know. If it wasn’t, he’ll know where to start looking.”

Tucker nodded, held out his hand, and thanked Carter for his help. Then he ushered her from the building and down the steps, his hand hovering at the small of her back—completely normal. Except for a strange feeling deep in her stomach.

It had to be the shrimp she’d eaten for lunch.

Around the corner he stopped to face her, his eyebrows drawn tight. “What do you think? Should we talk with Jethro?”

Everything inside her wanted to scream that it was a fool’s errand. Jethro wouldn’t—couldn’t—help them, even if they pumped a carafe of coffee into him.

But Carter had found his own treasure.

He’d had a diary for that though. He’d had his family history spelled out for him. Right there on the page.

“That’s it.” She snapped her fingers, and Tucker snorted.

“You forget to share something with me again?”

She shoved his immovable arm and continued. “Carter had a diary from his family. Maybe we don’t need a Georgia historian. We need your family historian.”

A smile broke across his face. “I’ll call her in the morning.”