Front Yard (4 page)

“Murder?

Back came George, who placed a fizzing gin and tonic gingerly on the table in front of Jim.

“Presto!” he said. Nan smiled. She was happy to see George showing off something he was really good at.

“Well, it was a murder that was supposed to have happened, what was it, George, about three hundred years ago?”

“Give or take forty or fifty.”

“And that was just the start. She said there were pirates heading up the Big Turkey with gold doubloons.”

“Pirates? The Big Turkey? You couldn't even take a kayak. . . .”

“That's
just
what I told George, wasn't it, George?”

“They're the ones that murdered someone?”

“No, that was some French guy. So, get this, she even had Jesus Christ—Our Lord and Savior—burying his bifocals here after the Last Supper.”

“That was pretty much the clincher for me,” said George. “That made it obvious she was just laying a bunch of baloney on us. I mean, why would Jesus have needed bifocals at his age? Ha-ha!”

“To say nothing of the sacrilege involved. Oh, yeah, the erasers of the Aztecs are supposed to be buried here, too.”

“That's the racing bike of the Incas,” corrected George.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, the racing bike of the Incas.”

“Hmmm,” said Jim, sipping his drink, then stroking his chin and gazing pensively up at the sky, as if calculating how much a racing bike of the Incas might be worth.

The pause that followed allowed them to turn their attention to some activity around the bird feeders. They all watched as a blindingly bright yellow goldfinch lighted on a perch at the thistle feeder. Then, another one, this time a drab, greenish female. That caused Nan a momentary pang of sadness. Why did all the girls in the bird family have to fly around decorated so frumpily by Mother Nature?

Something about the two birds' actions injected a note of sobriety into her cottony, fading euphoria.

“Shhhh,” Nan whispered, clamping her raised forefinger to her lips. “Don't be too loud, or we'll scare them away. Boy, the males have really brightened up in the past several weeks.”

“Looks like a canary to me,” said Jim, who turned, twisting clumsily in his chair and screeching its ringed metal skid across the concrete to better view the thistle feeder.

“Goldfinches, Jim,” said Nan. “No more jerky movements, please. You almost scared them away. Look how unsettled they are. Just looking around all the time. Barely taking time to eat. They're scared.”

A sudden disturbance, announced by a whir of clumsily flapped wings and a little shriek, covered the feeder in a blur of miniature-hurricane-force action. The chaos of the struggle lasted just a few moments, then left the feeder tube swinging wildly. All three jumped up from their seats.

“Goddamn!” said George, jolted into complete sobriety.

“Jesus!” said Jim. “What
was
it? I didn't really see it.”

“It was a hawk!” said Nan, panting with excitement. “A hawk just attacked our feeder!” George rose unsteadily, walked over to the gyrating plastic tube, and reached up to still it with his hand.

“Damn,” he said. “There's drops of fresh blood on here.” He looked down at the chips of graying and decomposing cypress mulch on the ground and saw something bright. Bending over, he noticed they were tufts of yellow-and-black feathers and down.

“Damn again. Looks like the male just turned into dinner. What a rip-off for those guys. They get the bright plumage, which means, what, a hawk can see them from twenty miles away? As usual, the male of the species gets the short end of the stick.”

“Poor thing,” moaned Jim.

“Part of the cycle of life,” Nan said.

“What was it that did this?” Jim barked in a suddenly tremulous, cracking voice.

“Sharp-shinned hawk,” George said. “There's a bunch around here. Small hawks. Like suburban yards with lots of trees. They especially like suburban yards with bird feeders. They eat songbirds. That one was probably hiding in the branches, staking out the feeder, and saw the goldfinch. You saw how quickly it got here.”

“Jesus.” Jim looked around pensively, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed into little squints. For a moment, Nan thought he would start crying. She had never seen him so serious. “I
hate
that that happened.”

Nan and George looked at each other, bewildered. They loved what had just happened.

“A wonder of nature, Jim,” George said. “One of life's little dramas. You probably won't ever see something like that again.”

“Thank God for that,” Jim said.

Nan cleared her throat in a manner she used to call attention to the true matter at hand.

“Well, Jim, the long and short of it is there is no hidden treasure of Livia. That hideous historical woman told us that after she played her little joke on us. It's nothing but a village myth.” Nan decided it was best for now to withhold her suspicion that the historian might know something she wasn't willing to tell them. She winked at George and hoped he got the hint.

“But, Nan,” said Jim. “The beeping was really strong over there near the . . . the . . .”

“Angel's trumpets.”

“Yeah, that's where.”

“But you already dug there and found nothing, or next to nothing,” Nan said. “A few little chunks of metal.”

“That's right, but after I dug, I began to think about it some more. I'm not sure I dug down deep enough. And over there.”

Jim pointed his drink toward the barren but richly damp flower beds that George and Nan had prepared as additions to the already-extensive backyard gardens, and which they hoped would soon be crowded with hydrangeas, astilbe, peonies, and a lot of annuals. They stared silently past Jim, then at their drinks, which always seemed to offer solace in troubling situations such as the one unfolding before them now.

“There was another thing,” said Jim. “I think my power was running down when I did the sweep between the fence and the woods. I might not have been getting accurate readings.”

“Oh, sheesh, Jim!”

“George, I would be willing to bet that what we find down there at that spot near the whatever tree next to the woods will make that $200,000 First Place Burdick's Best Yard prize you won last year seem like Monopoly money.”

“That being the white oak, our one and only and extremely old white oak?” asked George, pointing his drink in the direction of the massive and stately tree that rose from the neglected northeast corner of the lot, about twenty yards in front of the woods.

“The same,” Jim said.

“Why there?” wondered Nan.

“Just a hunch. My battery was dying at that point by the time I got there, but I thought I heard some tiny little beeps around the tree. Besides, I've swept just about every place else. Couldn't pinpoint the exact spot. It might have been under the tree. You woulda had to cut down the tree if there were strong beeps there.”

“Wouldn't have done that,” George said.

“That's what I figured.”

“And you said this treasure chest came from where?” Nan wondered. “And when?”

“Well, it's not a ‘treasure chest,' technically.”

“What is it, then—a treasure torso?”

“Ha-ha.”

“So,” Nan said. “You've been a little oblique with us about this so-called treasure buried under our yard other than to say it's huge and will make us all fabulously wealthy, with us getting, what was it, half the take?”

“Yes, that's right, Nan. I'm prepared to offer you half of what I find. Normally, the property owners get more like a third. What's oblique?”

“The information you've given us so far on the treasure.”

“I mean what does ‘oblique' mean?”

“It means you haven't been giving us much in the way of details of what exactly it is that's supposedly buried here,” Nan said. “In fact, you didn't tell us anything at all when you first started digging last year. We just thought you were playing around with your little toy. Then, you kept pushing us to visit the Historical Society, and we have to bully you into coughing up this buried-treasure nonsense. We need you to tell us more. Do we need to go get the thumbscrews?”

Jim pursed his lips.

“Another gin and tonic to loosen your tongue a bit, Jim?” said George. “Then we can forgo the thumbscrews. Ha-ha!”

“Sure, George.” Jim raised his empty glass and waggled it. “And not as strong, please? And with a bigger slice of lime?”

“And, dear,” Nan said. “While you're at it, a Coke for me, please.”

In what seemed like barely enough time for a nuthatch to make its transit from the thicket of lilac bushes to the forest-green, counterweighted bird feeder, George had placed a fresh gin and tonic on the glass tabletop in front of Jim and an ice-cube-clogged glass of fizzing Coke in front of Nan.

“Now that that's taken care of . . .” said Nan, with a hint of brittleness coloring her tone.

“Spill it,” said George.

“Okay,” said Jim, who tilted his head back for a long, deep, fortifying draw from his drink, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand and smiled. “Here goes nuttin'.”

5

M
iss Price slurped noisily and repeatedly at her whipped-cream-topped Ovaltine, which Artis and Nimwell Scroggit, who counted themselves among the nation's minority of hot chocolate haters, were forced to endure with a quiet yet squirmy grace. She stared at them in disbelief. So, these were the alleged professionals who had so blithely detoured from the straight and narrow of the law to procure for her some of her most treasured historical artifacts? In the past, her surreptitious dealings with them had been strictly by phone or letter. Deliveries had been left on her doorstep, and cash payments left in the mailbox.

Now that she was actually meeting the Scroggit brothers in person, she began to have second thoughts. Why, these two looked and acted like ne'er-do-well slugs, mere husks of men barely able to summon the energy to tie their shoes in the morning, much less flout the law. Look at them, all hangdog expressions and fumbling hands, weakness etched into every pore of their putty-like faces. Why, they were just wheezing, doddering old fools! But who else was there? They were all she had.

Artis and Nimwell sat quietly on the sofa, daintily drinking their Ovaltine out of scalloped china cups, and thinking that mugs would have done a better job of conveying the offending beverage to their lips. They took care to keep their eyes averted from the steely, unremitting gaze of Miss Price, who finally turned her head in disgust, almost sloshing hot chocolate all over herself in the process before setting the cup on the lampstand next to her.

But the Scroggit brothers brought a sort of bumbling passion to their work as antique hunters that was great enough to sometimes offset their absolute fecklessness. Aware at least subconsciously of their limitations, they often operated in the shadows of their profession, sneaking around on lightly patrolled public lands looking for easy pickings and targeting desperate widows and widowers willing to part with their historical relics for some ready, piddling cash.

Why, it was only last week that they had dug up the steel band fitted around the rim of a Conestoga wagon wheel in western Nebraska. Sure, it was on government property, but Nebraska was in budget-cut mode, slashing the state park budgets. Supervision having been drastically reduced, the Scroggit brothers were able to just waltz up to the site with their tools, probe around with their metal detectors, and dig the thing out without anyone but a few visitors being any the wiser. Besides, they were wearing their gray shirts with official-looking arrowhead-shaped patches stitched onto them to make it look like they were supposed to be there. They knew a collector who would pay $3,000 for that band.

While they were at it, they had detoured west to that vast sandstone megalith, Goliath Rock, where, under the cover of a heavy rain, they chiseled out the carved autographs of a dozen pioneers. That'd be good for a cool $10,000.

The Scroggit brothers, bachelors by both choice and lack of opportunity, did not really like women in general and Miss Price in particular. She was prissy and domineering. She treated them like children and derided them as oafs.

Still, Miss Price would pay well for what she wanted, and she knew her history. This new job offer sounded intriguing. If they had to skirt the law a bit, that was just an occupational hazard that would jack up their price.

Then again, taking liberties with the law was something they'd have to consider carefully. They could handle mild infractions posing negligible risks. An overt criminal act involving the distinct possibility of getting caught was a whole other matter.

“Miss Price, what you're asking us to do is against the law,” said Artis, who gazed distastefully into his cup of Ovaltine, then took a reluctant sip.

“This is justice we're serving here,” said Miss Price. “That's a lot bigger than something written down in a statute book. Something that is rightfully mine remains buried on that ridge across from Bluegill Pond. Don't you want to help somebody do the right thing in the name of history? Besides, professionals such as yourselves are supposed to know how to minimize risk. And where's your sense of adventure, huh?”

Artis tugged his ear distractedly and fidgeted in his chair. Nimwell stole a quick glance at his watch. A pocket notebook, pages flapping, sailed by Artis's head. A ballpoint pen, launched with some force, grazed Nimwell's forehead.

“Hey!” they both cried.

“Pay attention!” shouted Miss Price. “Am I boring you, or are you dimwits incapable of showing a prospective employer a little consideration?” She sighed. “I guess good help is hard to find these days in the historic antiquities business.”

“Well, Miss Price, we had planned to visit our St. Anthony store, which is on the brink of going out of business. We're already late for an appointment with our accountant.”

“It can wait!” Miss Price hissed. “If you do as you're told, you won't care if your whole bloody Civil War empire comes crashing down. What I'm proposing could make you rich in ways you can't imagine.”

Artis and Nimwell cringed, both at the thought of their flagging business, and at the notion that, somewhere, just out of reach, there might be a treasure that could set them up in comfort for the rest of their lives. But they were inclined to view stories about buried treasure near where the old Price place used to be as just a bunch of old wives' tales unworthy of investigation, and certainly not worth breaking the law for.

“Miss Price, you can't just go traipsing around in somebody's yard, without permission, looking for some buried treasure,” Artis said. “You just can't do it.”

“It is against the law,” Nimwell said. Miss Price sucked in a big breath, then heaved it out with an exasperated gasp.

“Why don't we just explain to the Fremonts what the situation is, and ask if we could please look for it, whatever it is?” wondered Artis.

“Because we don't want them to know what's under their property and get it for themselves, you dingbat! What is on, or under, that property belongs to me and my family. It's just that the law as it is now written doesn't recognize that. So, do you want to help, or do you intend to chicken out? And where did you get the idea that this is a treasure? I never told you about any treasure.”

“Old treasure hunter stories,” Nimwell said.

“Every treasure hunter worth his salt has heard them,” added Artis. “Those stories have been circulating for generations. There's nothing to them.”

“Well, I happen to know differently,” said Miss Price. “And I'm a historian. I don't traffic in
stories.
I amass evidence and reach conclusions. And my conclusion is that there is something of great value and much significance buried in that backyard. And the thing is that we have to get moving on it because they suspect it's there. Just you go over there with your watchamacallums—”

“Metal detectors.”

“Metal detectors. That's right. They're good ones, too, I take it.”

“They'll do in a pinch,” Nimwell said. “Mine found a belt buckle, scabbard, and three minie bullets at the Chickamauga battlefield site. That was under a bunch of forest clutter and a foot of soil.”

“And you did that on the sly, didn't you!” whooped Miss Price. “You did that on the sly because you weren't supposed to, were you? I remember. That's National Park Service property, and you snooped around and dug up stuff there anyway, now didn't you? See, I remember. You told me so!” The Scroggit brothers looked at each other sheepishly. “So what makes this one any different, huh?”

“That was Civil War stuff,” Artis said. “That's different. And it was government property we were digging on, not somebody's own yard. The government has no right to own land in a democracy. We were merely carrying out our commission as private citizens expropriating resources unlawfully locked up by a socialist state.”

Nimwell nodded vigorously.

“Don't assault me with any of your right-wing libertarian claptrap! You cowards! You frauds! You unmentionables! If I told you what I almost know beyond any doubt is buried on that ridge, you would jump right off your duffs and hightail it right over there because you wouldn't be able to contain yourselves. That's how big it is! That's how big it is!”

Miss Price jumped up out of her chair in her excitement, knocking over her cup, spilling hot chocolate over her beautifully woven circular rug of many colors, and not even noticing. She shook a balled fist at the Scroggit brothers.

Artis and Nimwell reared back instinctively, holding up their free hands to ward off whatever Miss Price was prepared to unleash at them.

“This is wha' the hightail that struck mightily in which his was arrears,” cried out Nimwell, who had the disconcerting habit of mangling his syntax and vocabulary when faced with a high-stress, threatening situation.

“Huh?” said Miss Price, suddenly taken aback. “What'd he say?”

Artis shrugged and rolled his eyes.

“And now!” roared Miss Price, her voice taking on new fervor, steadiness, and unwavering purpose. “I'm gonna tell you what it is that's buried under 4250 Payne Avenue, and you just try to tell me you're not going to itch to go lookin' there to find it!”