The Jewel and the Key (45 page)

“What do you have to find?”

“Those pictures I was looking for. Listen.” Addie's gaze drifted around the bookshop. She could see the room as it had been last night, could feel the others who had been there, still sharply, unbearably, present. “Do you remember how Mrs. Turner told us that her aunt used to own this house? And she was the director at the Jewel?”

“Sure.” Almaz dropped her duffel by the cash register.

“Meg Turner was her name. She was an amazing woman. She...” Addie looked straight at Almaz and felt relieved that, finally, she could reveal something to her. She dug into her handbag and pulled out the silver mirror. “This mirror belonged to her. Mrs. T. and I found it in those crates.”

She held it out to Almaz, who took it, handling it carefully, examining the delicate embossing on the back and then turning it over. “Oh, it's cracked,” she said. “That's too bad.”

“I know.”

Almaz returned the mirror, and Addie ran her forefinger lightly along the crack, as if her touch could somehow fuse the pieces together. “It was a talisman of hers—s he never directed a performance without it. And she lived in this house until she—until she died. Do you see?” She stopped. “We've been searching the theater for evidence of the Jewel as it was long ago, but we never thought of looking here. And yet Meg Turner lived here for so many years.”

“Ooh, I get it.” Almaz's eyes lit up. “You're thinking that she had all the costumes from the Jewel and so maybe—” “That's right.”

Almaz spun around, surveying the shop. “But where?” “I have no idea. But it's our last chance. And there's at least one thing I know for sure.” The certainty rushed up in her so fiercely that she felt dizzy. She held up the mirror. “This is mine now. And when I'm working at the Jewel,
I'm
going to use it in every performance. Meg left it for me.” She slipped it back into the purse. ‘And I
feel
—oh, don't laugh at me!—I feel as if she's left me the pictures of the Jewel, too.”

Almaz crinkled her nose. Her big eyes, with the dusky shadows underneath, examined Addie with concern. “Addie,” she said gently. “I don't want to pop your bubble...”

“You can't!” Addie cried, and jumped off the desk. “Because we're going to find something.” She grabbed Almaz's hand and pulled her along to the drama section. “Help me move this shelf.”

“You want to look in that closet again?” Almaz surveyed the c lose-pressed bindings of the books. “It would be a whole lot easier if we pulled out the books first.”

“I moved it alone, with all the books on it!”

“Yeah. You don't know anything about muscle injuries. If you played soccer, you'd think before—”

“Are you going to help me or am I doing this myself?” Almaz grinned. “You're doing it yourself.” Then, at Addie's thundercloud look, she amended, “Just kidding.

“Dark in here,” she remarked when they'd moved the shelf and opened the closet behind it.

“I know. Hold on a minute.” Addie ran back to Dad's big desk and pulled out the bottom drawer. She removed the flashlight he'd kept there ever since the earthquake and switched it on to make sure it worked.

Then she checked her watch. Eight thirty.

She grabbed her phone to call Whaley but put the phone away before she'd touched the button. Look first. Then call.

Or not.

She went back to the closet just as Almaz emerged, disgustedly wiping a cobweb off one of her braids. “I don't think there's much in there, but I can't see too well.”

“Let me.” Holding the flashlight in front of her, Addie stepped in.

The scent of cedar struck her once again, but differently, because this time it was the smell of the smooth wooden benches in King Street Station the night that Gustaf Peterson had gotten on that train. The scent of Frida's dress when she'd first met her.

She blinked, sternly forcing herself to stop thinking about the past. She had to examine the place inch by inch. The crates were gone, leaving fresh square marks in the deep dust on the floor. She'd hoped that perhaps she and Mrs. Turner had overlooked an extra one hiding in a corner. But they hadn't.

She shone the beam higher up the wall. There was a steel dowel to hang clothes on, which she didn't remember from before. And up above it, a long shelf, just like they had in their own coat closet and on which they threw all their hats and scarves and gloves.

She couldn't reach the shelf and had to climb up on the little bench built into the wall where she'd sat with Mrs. T. amid piles of vintage clothing. Now she could see clearly. And what she saw was...

Nothing.

Again nothing. It was always nothing. She shook her head, trying not to let the disappointment overwhelm her.

She leaned forward as far as she could without losing her footing, held the flashlight high, and ran her hand along the shelf to make sure she hadn't missed anything hidden in the shadows.

“Ow!” She pulled back her hand and looked at the nasty splinter she'd jammed into her finger.

“No luck?” Almaz ducked back inside the closet.

“No,” Addie said, and carefully stepped back off the bench.

“What are you standing on?” Almaz frowned. “Not a crate, is it?”

“Just a bench.” Addie looked down at it. The wood was blackened with age. The seat was narrow, and it wasn't just a seat, but a base as well. The whole thing projected from the wall about six inches. Actually—it reminded her of the old toy chest built into the window seat in Zack's room upstairs. The toy chest that you could open just by taking off the cushions and lifting the top...

She looked up at Almaz and saw her eyes widen at the same moment.

“Y'know—” Addie handed Almaz the flashlight.

She bent down and put her fingertips under the lip of wood. Gently, she lifted it.

“Shine the light in here!”

Almaz pointed the flashlight down, and its powerful beam stabbed into the dark recesses of the bench. Addie saw immense balls of dust. Small bits of scrap wood. She knelt to get a better look.

Then, at the bottom, shoved in a corner, she saw a metal box with a black handle on top.

“What's that?” Almaz cried at the same moment that Addie yelped, “Hold up the seat!”

When Almaz had it propped open, Addie reached down and lifted out the box. It was pretty light, but she could tell it wasn't empty.

“Bring it out here,” Almaz said, and Addie carried it back to Dad's desk. The sun had torn away the fog by now, and the whole front of the store was bright, dust motes shimmering in the air. The light struck the golds and reds of book covers in the unsorted piles on the floor, and they sparkled.

Addie's mouth was dry as she settled herself in the big wooden chair and set the box down carefully. On its front, she saw a silver latch with a keyhole.

“A keyhole, but no key.” She frowned and pushed a button next to the lock. But the box wouldn't open.

“Let me.” Almaz leaned over Addie and tried to twist the lock with her fingernail, but it really was stuck. “You know, I learned something about locks in physics, of all places.”

Addie looked up at the clock on the wall. Quarter to nine.

“No time for physics,” she said, and opened a desk drawer and found a box cutter. But it wasn't sturdy enough. She shoved aside more papers and found a letter opener, a stapler, sticky notes—“Aha!” Dad's Swiss Army knife.

She pulled out the knife and extracted a short blade.

“Whoa!” Almaz objected. “Don't you think—”

But Addie had already jammed the blade underneath the lid. She jerked the knife to one side, and levered it up. The top sprang open with a creak.

For a moment she couldn't look. The exhilaration shaking through her almost made her sick.

Trying to control the tremor in her hands, she picked up a paper folded in quarters. It crackled as she touched it. A bit of its brownish edge flaked off, like broken pie crust.

“Careful!” Almaz warned. Addie nodded, trying to keep her touch light enough that no more damage would be done. It was agonizing how slowly she had to move. But when she laid the paper on the desk and gently unfolded it, she gasped with delight.

It was the issue of the
Daily
that had been pulled from the newsstands. On the front, she saw Toms sweeping shot of the façade of the Jewel. The shot he'd taken when he made Reg stand in the street to ward off traffic.

“Ha!” She looked up at Almaz. Her own joy was reflected in her friends face. “Look! There's more!” Below, between two scant bars of text, were three other shots. Of the dome, open like a flower, the chandelier hanging from its center. The box seats. The carvings of boats on the Nile. She opened the paper to where the article continued on another page.

And then she caught her breath.

It was a nearly all-encompassing shot of the auditorium, from the entrance to the proscenium arch. She sighed softly as she made out the Pharaoh staring sternly down, awaiting the gifts of his attendants. It took in the stage, and the orchestra pit, all the fabulous paintings of the Egyptian gods on the walls. But none of that was what made her shiver. It was the fuzzy, indistinct image of a girl in a dress and an apron walking up the left aisle, half turning in surprise. Startled by the explosion of the flash.

Frida.

She pressed her hands together in front of her mouth.

“Awesome!” Almaz whooped. “This is what you've been looking for, isn't it?”

Addie nodded. “We have to get this down to the Jewel.” She grabbed Almaz's wrist. “I'll call Whaley, but look—its almost nine. How are we going to get there in time?”

Almaz didn't hesitate. She rushed to the door. “I'll get Dads car. He'll let me. I'm sure. Just be ready. I'll stop in front of the store and honk.”

“Thanks!” Addie stood up and took out her phone. This time she made the call.

“Whaley?”

“Is that you, Addie? Listen, you've got to explain about the union card you gave me—”

“It's simple, Whaley. That card means you belong there. At the Jewel. Your great-great granddad left it for you. Its—it's an heirloom.” She felt giddy with happiness. “But, listen, there's something else: I've found pictures of the Jewel. From 1917.”

“You
did?”

“I did. Are the preservation people there yet?”

He sneezed into the phone. “Ugh. Dust. No, not yet.”

“Can you tell Mrs. Powell? Tell her Almaz and I are on our way. We're bringing the photos with us.”

A rustling in the earpiece told her he had put the phone down or was holding it against his jacket or something. She heard him yell. “Yo, Mrs. T.! Addie found pictures for us! Where's Mrs. Powell?” Then a second later: “Tell her it's good news!”

“Whaley!” Addie called. “Whaley! I'm still here.”

His voice zoomed up close to her ear again. “Sorry, Ads. Anything else?”

“It changes everything, Whaley. Do you understand? If this works—”

“You don't have to tell me.” He sounded happy. Reallyh appy.

Then he hung up.

Addie felt her whole body sag with relief. She'd found it. All of it.

But then she realized there was more. Looking back down, she noticed a picture at the bottom of the metal box. Gently, she lifted it out and held it up to the light.

It was a photo of the troll king and his court.

A tide of excitement washed through her.

It wasn't the same performance as in the other photograph.

It was the same scene, all right—the scene she'd helped direct on that long-ago afternoon when she'd danced with Reg. But in this photo, the troll king's daughter was center stage. It was hard to tell because of the mask, but she didn't think Hettie was playing the role. The actress, whoever she was, was holding Peer's hand aloft and running her other hand through the air below his arm, as if plucking an instrument.
Strike the Dovrë Harp.
Peer was mugging at the audience like a henpecked husband. Addie examined him more closely. He wore no mask, so she could tell he wasn't Andrew Lindstrom.

Then, in the background of the photo, she made out the troll king himself. The mask concealing the lower half of his face was the same mask Meg had shown her.

She leaned forward, straining her eyes to bring the upper half of the actor's face into focus. She couldn't have sworn to anything. Not in this ancient photograph. But he had smooth, dark hair. And was it just wishful thinking to imagine that the eyes above the mask were blue? They had that amused, ironic look in them....

There was no way to tell for sure.

But there was something about him.... Addie turned over the photo and found, in the same hand that had written
R. before the mob
on the photo up in her room,
Veterans benefit
—
spring1919.

Spring 1919.

The war was over by then.

The little moth of hope fluttered up again, pale and fragile, almost invisible in the bright sunlight.

Had
he survived? Her heart leaped. She pressed the picture to her chest in inutterable relief.

But if he had, then what Whaley had seen really was Frida, weeping for her father.

Addie put down the photo. Why did it have to be one or the other?
Why?

But something tugged at her. Drew her back to look one more time.

She picked up the photograph again and turned it over once more. There was something else written on the back. She squinted at it. Oh, it was too faint to see! She held the picture right up under her nose.

The writing was barely visible, and in a different hand—big looping letters, the ink turned gold with age. It said ... it said...

I wish you had been here.

The initial underneath was a sloping
R.

For a moment she couldn't move. Her eyes ran back again and again over the flowing curves of the script and she stared until her vision blurred. Then she drew in a ragged breath, turned the photo over, and looked back at the troll king's eyes, love and remorse and sorrow and joy all fighting inside of her, churning up a storm.