Hidden Treasures (6 page)

“Hazel Nagy?” Erica scowled. Hazel Nagy ran the stationery store in town. She had to be at least seventy years old, which would place her safely beyond the range of people who had children attending Rockwell Regional Primary School. “Why should she care what you’re teaching?”

“She’s got morals,” Fern said sourly. “She doesn’t want our students learning anything dirty. According to her, discussing menstruation is dirty.”

“Some of the fifth-graders—”

“Some of the fourth-graders, too,” Fern pointed out. “I’ll damn well teach those kids about menstruation, and Hazel Nagy can stand at the gates to hell and greet me when my time comes.” She sighed melodramatically. “Why on earth did you move here, Erica? This place is insane.”

“You’re here.”

“And I’m insane.” Fern laughed. “I’m here because I grew up here and I figured, what the hell. You should have known better.”

“I like it here,” Erica told her, which made Fern laugh harder. Erica cracked a smile, too, although she meant what she’d said. “Lunch is almost over. I’d better get back to the classroom.”

“Make sure you don’t use the word
period
unless you’re teaching punctuation,” Fern warned her. “And seriously, Erica, brace yourself. You’re a celebrity now.” She waved at the photo of Erica grinning woodenly at them from the ghastly front page of the newspaper. “Not only are you a celeb, but you’ve been
photographed with Jed Willetz. The gossip could get very interesting.”

The gossip could stand on its head, for all Erica cared. Jed Willetz was only in town to deliver his grandfather’s ashes to their final resting place, and then he’d be gone. And she’d be here—with her box, her classroom and her zucchini, assuming they flourished the way Randy had predicted. She’d have lots of zucchini, and Jed Willetz would be back in New York City, and people in town would find something more interesting to gossip about.

J
ED POPPED
a cherry sourball into his mouth and sucked hard. It didn’t clear his head the way a cigarette might have, but it gave him something to do with his tongue.

April had settled another sunny day on central New Hampshire, and today he could actually enjoy the weather, instead of spending most of the daylight hours cruising various interstates in his rental car. He’d spent most of today indoors, inventorying his grandfather’s possessions so he could get an idea of what his father had filched, but at least he was able to take occasional breaks and breathe some fresh air from his grandfather’s front porch.

He’d immediately noticed, when he’d stepped inside the house last night, that certain items were missing. His grandfather’s cast-iron fry pan, which had always sat on the stove whether or not anything was cooking in it, was gone, and the stove looked strangely naked without it. Jed had rummaged through the rest of the kitchen, discovered a few more cooking utensils unaccounted for, then proceeded through the house, searching for what wasn’t there. The matching lamps
from the living room—those were worth some real money, which probably explained why his father had taken them. The portable TV—although Jack had left the cable box behind, a forlorn black wire looking for a screen to hook up to. The toaster oven. The Weed Whacker. The police scanner Jed had given his grandfather for his birthday a couple of years ago.

John Willetz had left his grandson the house and its contents because he hadn’t trusted his son with them. “Jack will get my money when I die, but my property is going to you. Your dad doesn’t know manure from mulch,” John had told Jed. “You know what’s valuable and what’s junk. Your dad still hasn’t figured that out.”

Unfortunately, Jed realized, his father had figured out how to help himself to whatever he wanted, even if it didn’t belong to him.

Jed was annoyed. So annoyed, he still hadn’t contacted his father, let alone made a plan regarding the old man’s ashes. He’d gone to Hackett’s and stocked up on edibles, missing New York City more with each item he tossed into his cart, and then he’d devoted the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon to writing a list of everything his father hadn’t already lifted from the house. So what if the ashes didn’t get buried immediately? He had pressing business to attend to.

As he sat on the creaky swing on the broad farmer’s porch that extended the length of his grandfather’s house, he acknowledged that his business entailed more than just taking care of what was left of his grandfather’s life. There was that other matter. The matter of Erica Leitner.

Everyone at the Superette had been buzzing about her when he’d gone in to buy a few days’ worth of
food. Of course, once he’d stepped inside the glaringly lit shop, everyone had started buzzing about her and
him
. “I see you’re making friends with that schoolteacher,” Harriet Ettman had remarked, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “You sure know how to work fast. Barely back home, and you’re already cozy with that lovely young lady.”

“You’d be the first,” Pop Hackett had commented from his post at the cashier counter. “Not that others haven’t tried with her.”

“I hope
you
haven’t tried with her,” Harriet had clucked, wagging a bony finger at Pop. “Elaine wouldn’t be too happy with you. Besides, you’re old enough to be Erica’s father.”

“You’re old enough to be her grandmother,” Pop had retorted.

“Well, who cares how old I am? I think it’s lovely that she came here all the way from Boston just to teach our children. That shows true dedication. Not too many young people would be happy settling in a sleepy little town like Rockwell. Isn’t that right, Jed?”

“She’s Jewish,” Toad Regan had commented to no one in particular as he emerged from behind a rack of potato chips. Toad Regan had a way of addressing the air molecules around him rather than actual people. Much of what he said made no sense, and a goodly portion of the rest of it was irritating or offensive.

“What’s her being Jewish got to do with anything?” Harriet had inquired, her voice as prickly as a porcupine.

Toad had glanced up, as if startled to discover human beings within hearing distance of him. “Well, we ain’t got no Hebrew National here, if you get my meaning,” he’d muttered before shuffling out of the
store, a wrinkled paper bag shaped suspiciously like a whiskey bottle tucked under his arm.

Jed hadn’t gotten his meaning, but that was nothing new. The last time he’d seen Toad was a few years ago, when he’d been visiting town and had spent the night at his father’s place. In the morning, he’d discovered Toad passed out on the living-room sofa. Jed had awakened Toad and asked him what the hell he was doing, and Toad had answered, “I’m sleepin’.” He’d launched into a monologue about having seen a UFO the night before and Jack Willetz’s house was the closest, and he’d had to find cover, and by the way, where did Jack keep his blankets, because it was as cold as a witch’s tit in the living room and he hadn’t been able to find a blanket anywhere. Besides which, what the hell was Jed doing there, anyway?

Jed supposed every small town had its version of Toad Regan, a skinny, underemployed fellow in baggy, stale-smelling clothes, who alternated between two states: drunk and hungover. Toad was generally harmless, and because front doors were left unlocked, he never went wanting for a place to sleep if UFOs were in the vicinity and he was too crocked to find his way home. New York City was crawling with guys like Toad, but unfortunately people kept their front doors locked in the city, so all its Toads wound up sleeping on sidewalks and park benches.

Jed had managed to pay for his purchases at the Superette without too much more needling over his having gotten up close and personal with Erica Leitner. He’d driven home, reminding himself that one of the particular joys of Rockwell was that everyone felt entitled to comment and conjecture on everyone else’s affairs—even when those affairs didn’t exist.

Yet, for some reason, Pop Hackett’s words resonated inside him:
You’d be the first. Not that others haven’t tried with her
. Who’d tried? Why hadn’t they succeeded? What was her story?

Jed shouldn’t even be thinking about it. He didn’t have time for her, even if her lips were the color of a cherry sourball and her hands were strong—especially when she was aiming a carving knife at him—and her hair was as thick and lush as the tresses in a Renaissance painting of Eve or Venus or any of those other mythical women who were always depicted in artwork as naked and sexy and worthy of worship. Erica was thinner than the fine-art Eves and Venuses he’d seen, but not skinny. Hard to tell with the baggy sweatshirt she’d had on last night, but he was reasonably sure she had some nice curves going on under her clothes. And beautiful eyes, dark and soulful, full of worry even when she was trying to smile.

He didn’t have time for her.

Still, there he was, sitting on his grandfather’s porch swing, gazing out at Old North Road and wondering when she’d be rolling home from her job at the primary school. According to Meryl Hummer’s article in the
Gazette
, Erica taught third grade. Jed didn’t remember his own third grade teacher, but he’d probably hated the woman. He’d hated pretty much all his teachers.

He heard the spit of tires on gravel and straightened up. A Subaru wagon braked by her roadside mailbox. Erica reached through the car window to retrieve her mail, then proceeded up the driveway.

He crunched his teeth into the remains of his candy and watched as she pulled to a halt and climbed out of her car. Her curves were better displayed by the outfit she had on today—tailored navy-blue slacks and
a soft, silky-looking beige blouse. Her hair was clipped back from her face, emphasizing her cheekbones.

She crossed her backyard, pausing briefly to study her half-planted garden, then pursed her lips and scaled the steps to the back porch. She carried a bulging leather tote, the kind very busy women in New York seemed to favor. Maybe they liked those leather totes in Boston, too. Wasn’t that where Harriet Ettman said Erica was from?

God, he really didn’t have time for this.

“Hey,” he called over to her.

She glanced in the direction of his voice, then squinted, then frowned. His grandfather’s front porch and her back porch were maybe two hundred feet apart, and nearly on the same latitude, since her house was much closer to the road than his grandfather’s.

His
house. He owned this place now. He ought to start thinking of it as his so he could figure out what to do with it. And what to do about the items his father had stolen from
him
, not from his grandfather.

She was still standing on her back porch, staring at him. He shoved himself to his feet and strode across the grass to the broken fence that separated their property. She wasn’t exactly frowning, which he took as encouragement to step over the fence slats. “How was school?”

“Awful,” she told him. “Have you seen today’s
Rockwell Gazette?
”

He noticed an edition of the newspaper protruding from her tote. “I saw it,” he said with a smile. “We’re famous.”

“I don’t want to be famous,” she announced, then pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the back
door. “I can’t believe how Meryl mangled Dr. Gilman’s name. He’s going to be upset about that.”

“As if he actually reads the
Rockwell Gazette
.”

He couldn’t tell if his sarcasm annoyed her until she glanced over her shoulder at him. Yeah, it annoyed her, but her eyes had laughter in them. “Maybe it would be best if I don’t mention the article to him.”

“That would be my strategy.”

She shoved open the door, which stuck a little around the molding—his grandfather should have taken care of that when he’d sold her the place—and didn’t try to prevent him from following her inside. A frantic beeping came from the telephone sitting on a counter. She tossed her tote onto a chair beside the small pine table near the window, crossed to the phone and pressed a button on the console. He realized it was an answering machine, and all those beeps—he lost count after five—were messages.

“Hello, this is Doug Brezinski from the
Boston Globe
. I’m writing a piece about your archaeological find. I’ve already spoken with a Mr. Rideout, and I’d like to speak to you, too. My phone number…”

“This is Sandy Bradburn from Channel 3 News in Manchester. I’m heading up to Rockwell today, and I’m hoping we can talk. I’ll call again when I get into town…”

“I’m trying to reach a Ms. Leet-ner. My name is Malcolm Moody, and I’m a historian with the Minuteman Historical Society…”

“Jeez Louise, Erica! How’d you get so friendly with Jed Willetz?”

Erica slammed the off button to silence her messages.

“Hey, who was that?” he asked, pretending enor
mous interest. “It sounded a little like Janelle Dickerson.” He’d gone to high school with Janelle. He’d gone the distance with her, too. She’d been quite the party girl back then. Last he heard, she was working behind the counter at Rockwell Rx, keeping tabs on who in town was taking which drug.

“It wasn’t,” Erica said swiftly. Then she sighed. “She’s Janelle Mondo now.”

“No kidding? She married Danny Mondo?” He flipped a chair around and straddled it. “When did that happen?”

“It was rather sudden. She was pregnant.” She bit her lip and turned away, her cheeks flushing pink. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s only gossip.”

He grinned. He liked her qualms, even though they were misplaced. Everyone knew everything about everyone in Rockwell. The only reason he hadn’t known about Janelle was that he no longer lived in town.

She turned back to Jed, her cheeks still bright with color but her eyes steady. “Did you get lots of calls like these?” she asked, gesturing toward her answering machine.

He shook his head. “I haven’t got a phone. Well, I’ve got my cell phone with me, but nothing hooked up at my grandfather’s house. No number people from the
Boston Globe
could look up in the directory.” He pondered the other messages he’d overheard, even though he’d much rather contemplate Janelle’s insinuation about him and Erica getting friendly. “It looks like you really
are
famous.”