The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (30 page)

“Mother needs to see to some committee business for a charity ball and
has had to cancel our plans to go shopping.” She raised her eyes to gaze at him
in a way that brought out the fine line of her nose and accentuated a dimple
that he had not noticed before. “I was so hoping that you might go along, to
act as my escort for a few hours.”

He reasoned that there were certainly worse ways a newly discharged
soldier could spend a day. He agreed, just as her father handed him a heavy
crystal glass with an inch of imported Scotch whiskey in it.

“From our most recent shipment,” Hastings said, “forty-year stock. I’m
afraid we’ll not be seeing much of that in the near future.”

“Because of the new prohibition laws?”

“The good stuff will go first but there will always be something to wet
a man’s whistle.” He took a long sip. “One thing you have to understand about
basic human nature, son. The more strongly you forbid something, the more
determined people are to have it. Ask the mother of any ten-year-old child!” He
chuckled and made eye contact with his wife.

“I can speak from experience in raising this one,” Mrs. Hastings said,
staring at her daughter. “Remember that little girl you wanted to befriend, the
Irish one? No matter how much I forbade you to play with her you always found a
way.”

“Maggie O’Hare? I hardly remember her now.”

“I should have given you free rein—you would have discovered how little
you had in common, years earlier.”

Franklin and Cat had joined them now.

“Am I right, Frank? Prohibit the sale of liquor and even those who
don’t care much for hard drink will suddenly develop a craving. There are men
who will make their fortunes from this ill-conceived whim of the nation.”

An inside joke seemed to pass through the group, with Patricio never quite
catching its meaning. Mrs. Hastings caught a glimpse of Mattie at the doorway,
stood and subtly herded everyone. Deborah caught Patricio’s arm and they
entered a formal dining room with more plates and silverware than he had ever
seen in one place.
Stay alert,
he told himself.
You can learn a lot
from these people
.

He was seated with Deborah on his right, her mother on his left. At the
head of the table, Mr. Hastings talked with Frank about his newest, very
lucrative, real estate deal. Patricio found himself perfectly situated to pay
attention to the men’s conversation while observing which fork Deborah used
with each course and when she sipped the wine and how she cut the meat into
small bites. By the end of the meal he came away with a feeling this might be a
lifestyle to which he could become accustomed.

The following morning Patricio put on his borrowed suit and rode the
elevator down to the lobby with Deborah. Her errands seemed trivial to him—a
packet of hairpins at the druggist’s shop, a small loaf cake to be served with
tea later in the day. As she paid for this last item she added a small wrapper
of chocolates to the order and tucked them into her bag.

“Let’s sit in the park for awhile,” she suggested, “enjoy the sunshine
of an Indian summer day and have a chocolate.”

She asked about Europe but didn’t want to hear the sordid parts. “No,”
she said, “tell me about the architecture, the paintings.”

He described the ceiling in the former museum that had been converted
to a hospital, the place where he’d awakened in the belief that he had died and
gone to heaven. She laughed with delight at the way he told it. He found
himself speculating at the amount of work that had gone into creating the
ceiling fresco, embellishing the details and describing the biblical characters
very specifically. She hung on his every word and his words trailed off when he
focused on her face.

“I want to go to Europe, so very much,” she said. “Mother had planned
to take me when I finished school. It’s just that by the time I might have
experienced a debutant season, the war had started and my parents did not feel
it safe to travel. I suppose now I shall have to wait until I’m married.”

Did he imagine some kind of suggestion in her tone? He reached for the
packet of chocolates, to take a second one, and his hand brushed hers.

* * *

The wedding was scheduled for Christmas week. A small ceremony at
nearby St. Anthony’s Chapel, followed by a reception at the Hastings apartment.
As a gift Deborah’s parents gave them an apartment in the same building, albeit
on a lower floor and far less grand than their own. Patrick would be employed
in the family business, managing two of the nightclubs which had begun to
flourish under the prospect of full passage of the Constitution’s eighteenth amendment.

He had never made the train trip back to New Mexico. By Thanksgiving in
Chicago he and Deborah were spending a great deal of their time together;
December first she began tiptoeing to his bedroom nearly every night. Once he
discovered the joys of her uninhibited nature, he could not seem to remember
much about his home state. These lavish walls and this vibrant city had become
his domain. He wrote to Emelia to inform her that he would not be returning. He
told his parents he would come after the first of the new year, when he could
introduce them to his new wife.

Two important things happened in the spring of 1920. He booked tickets
for the two of them to take the train to Santa Fe where his mother and father
would meet them and they would all make the drive to Taos. And Deborah informed
him that she was pregnant.

The journey went smoothly until his wife set foot in his parents’ home.
The disdain was clear on her face. Perhaps she had expected them to be wealthy
landowners; perhaps she saw the accommodations at the La Fonda Hotel as bare
minimum. Either way, she was openly condescending to both mama and papa and
could not get out of there quickly enough. He tried to chalk it up to morning
sickness and other things women went through during pregnancy; he really did
not understand those things. The thing he did understand was that his wife
wanted nothing to do with his parents.

“
Hijo
,
” his mother said, “you
are a man now and your duty is to your wife and children. There is no other
way. Write to us often and tell us of your new life. We will always love you.”

She cleared her throat and turned away, but not before Patrick saw the
tears coursing down her face.

Back in Chicago, Deborah decided to redecorate their new apartment. It
had come furnished with perfectly nice things but she wanted to ‘make it my
own’ she said. This entailed bringing in crews of plasterers and painters and
an odious woman who gave advice on what colors each of the rooms should be.

“And I want to be rid of this piece of junk,” Deborah said. She held up
Patrick’s wooden box.

“You will not!” he shouted.

She drew back, staring at him. He had never raised his voice to her.
She dropped the box on a sofa and placed her hands protectively over her
growing belly. He immediately felt contrite.

“This box saved my life. During the war. It will not be discarded like
so much junk.” He picked it up and cradled it against his new, expensive suit.

She glared at the box but obviously knew how to choose her battles.
“It’s only that it doesn’t go along with the new décor. Keep it somewhere else,
darling?”

She blew him a kiss and flounced out of the room. He carried the box to
his study and placed it on a high shelf, moving some books to conceal it.
Emelia would have found the box rustic and enchanting. How had he come so far
from his true roots?

* * *

Deborah turned toward him in bed, running a fingertip over his bare
arm. “Darling? Do you still plan to take us to the park today?”

He rolled to face her, hoping that the playful tone meant something good.
Their intimate relationship had been practically nonexistent since the birth of
little Frankie, and that was nearly two years ago now. Between the demands of
his work and the moodiness of his wife, he felt lucky if his needs were met
every few months. Of course other men visited the brothels or took
mistresses—he knew they did—including the men in this very family.

“The park?”

“Well, yes, Frankie loves it so much and I thought we could make it
special, take a picnic along and ride the carousel the way we did when we met.”

He eyed her cautiously. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d
demonstrated a playful or sentimental streak.

“If you will organize the food, I can meet you and Frankie there. Your
father has called a meeting this morn—” Suddenly, he remembered the last time
she had been in such good spirits. The day she informed him that she was
carrying their baby.

She had already turned the opposite direction and was sitting on the
edge of the bed.

“How far along—when is it due?” he asked.

She sent him her most earnest, dimpled smile. “Oh, darling, I had hoped
to surprise you with the news, over lunch.”

“When?”

“Six more months. Please tell me you are happy, please Patrick?”

He thought of little Frankie and smiled. Maybe another baby would
repair the strife between them. Surely
every
subject in a marriage
couldn’t lead to an argument. Surely there would come a point when they settled
into their roles and felt the same happiness inside they portrayed to the rest
of Chicago society.

Deborah pulled a satin robe over her peignoir. “I’m glad to see your
smile, dear. So we’ll be at McCormick Park at noon then? I’ve started to do a
little rearranging, making space for the baby. I’ll decorate the room in pink
this time.”

So much for the possibility of sex, he thought as she left the bedroom.
He washed and dressed in one of his office suits for this morning’s meeting.
Some papers, contracts he was to discuss with his father-in-law, were in his
study and he went to collect them. The moment he opened the door he knew what
was going on.

His desk had been shoved to one side, the rug rolled up, the shelves
emptied. Swatches of pink fabrics lay on his chair. He stared at the shelf
where he had stored Roberto’s wooden box a long time ago. It was missing.

His gaze darted about the room, landing finally on a waste basket that
stood ready for emptying near the door. The box had been carelessly tossed
there. Without a word, he picked up his prized item, tucked it under his arm
and walked out the door.

He walked the streets for more than an hour. In the back of his mind,
the meeting over the liquor contracts loomed. He was late already and for the
first time he didn’t care. His mind churned. Responsibilities. Wife, child—soon
two children—business, in-laws. He had been married in the church and took
those vows seriously. There could be no divorce. But did he really want one?
For the first time he faced the fact that the money had ensnared him.

He thought of the tiny adobe house where his parents lived. As enticing
as the farming life might sound to some, he had been there, had known the
backbreaking work his father performed, year after year, simply to feed the
family. He’d lived without money, and he’d lived with it. He had to admit that
having the means to own anything he wanted was the easier way.

Hating himself with every step, he approached a trash receptacle on the
street.

No. He couldn’t do it.

He turned and walked to the nearest post office.

“I need this item wrapped for shipping,” he told the clerk. “And
postage enough to mail it to New Mexico.”

While the clerk wrapped the box, Patrick scribbled a note to his
mother.
Please keep this safe. It’s very important to me.

Chapter 10

Magic Goes Missing

Cardinal Luca Pancetti gathered his red robe tightly about him as he
followed the young priest who led the way and switched on lights in the dim and
dusty catacombs. Pancetti knew of this area of hidden Vatican tunnels and
alcoves. He had once visited here as a much younger man at the time of his
assignment to serve in Rome—the day he had learned that this would be one of
his life’s responsibilities.

They rounded a corner, moving deeper into the maze of corridors. Glass
light sconces gave way to a string of bare bulbs running along the center of
the low ceiling. Dark smudges along the walls attested to the fact that
illumination here had once consisted of burning torches.

“It should be just through here,” said the priest in a hushed voice. He
consulted a note his superior had scribbled on onionskin paper.

The young priest aimed a battery-powered flashlight toward a dark
alcove to reveal a heavy wooden door. A key, produced from inside the
cardinal’s robe, worked smoothly in the ornate metal lock and the door swung
open as smoothly as if it had been oiled yesterday. Perhaps it had. Pancetti
knew nothing of the daily operations of this section of the massive underground
archives, nothing other than his personal mandate. To check the contents of
Chamber 13, the place allocated to storage of those items deemed heretical.

The study of so-called magical objects, of the Church’s long battle
against the intrusion of Satan himself into the world, had become Pancetti’s
life’s work. As a youngster he’d been fascinated with tales of an old woman in
his village who claimed to foretell the future. Young Luca lingered outside her
cottage, hoping to learn exactly how she did this, until the day his mother
discovered him there and with an incredibly strong grip on his left ear hauled
him home. The next day he was enrolled in a program for troublesome boys under
the tutelage of a rather strict order of monks. At their severe hand, he’d
learned discipline and that it was wise to keep one’s opinions to oneself. His
fascination with things of a supernatural nature had never waned, but he kept
his collection of reading material well hidden and his views were shared with
no one.

Twenty years ago, Luca Pancetti had been called into a meeting in a
narrow, backstreet building. The group called themselves OSM. How they ferreted
out his secret was unclear; he suspected the orderly who cleaned his rooms may
have discovered the false drawer in his bookcase. No matter—the organization
had a mission for Pancetti and it was on this errand he came now.

He knew little of their history, only that once during the reign of
each pope it was required that OSM’s special emissary come to this secret
chamber to inventory the artifacts and assure there had been no tampering.
Although none of those influential men publicly acknowledged that a mere relic
could contain power, it would not do for any such item to leave their control.
Pancetti carried with him a list of some fifty objects which had been gathered
during the past five centuries.

As the door to the chamber swung open he privately wondered why the organization’s
leader had called upon him now. The man gave no indication, other than to
thrust this list into his hands and give the written instructions which had
brought him here. It was no secret that Pius XI’s health was precarious—a heart
condition, they said—and the fact that his physician was the father of
Mussolini’s mistress probably did not bode well for the pope who had publicly
denounced both Fascism and Nazism. Luca put this line of thinking aside;
Vatican politics did not interest him.

He dismissed the young priest, who took his flashlight and closed the
door. Pancetti switched on his own battery-powered lantern in the absolute
darkness. What interested him were the artifacts in this room. His previous
visit to the catacombs had taken him only to the outer door; now he stared in
fascination at the niches built into these sacred walls. Illuminated only by
the lantern, and therefore limited in the amount of time he could spend on this
visit, he began. A less-enthused man would start at the first compartment and
tick off the first item on his list, but Pancetti found himself walking past a
bowl of small amulets, some books, a metal cask reputed to expand in size until
a grown man could climb inside and travel to another universe. He focused, instead,
on a gemstone that sparkled in the dim light. Even the coating of dust on its
glass case did not dull the fact that this was an extraordinary item. Luca
reached out to touch it.

No, he reminded himself, pulling his hand back. He’d been given a few
short hours in which to conduct the inventory. If he moved quickly to check the
items on the list, perhaps there would be time to actually handle a few of the
most interesting ones later. He hastily checked off five amulets, a dozen books
purported to contain magic spells, and the glowing gemstone. The next item on
the list must be special indeed. Not on display in one of the niches, a
description was provided for the means to reach this one: a stone one meter
from the southwest wall would have small crosses etched on two of its
rough-hewn corners. Press gently on the left edge of it and a compartment would
be revealed. His heart beat faster. This, surely, must be a very important
object to deserve such special treatment.

Already, his light was growing dimmer. He scanned the walls, unsure of
direction here in this place more than twenty meters below ground. Southwest.
Which way was it? His eyes were drawn to a section of wall that contained no
other niches; he began his examination there. Finally, nearly a foot above his
head he spotted the two small etched crosses. Standing on tiptoe he reached for
the left edge and pressed. The stone released without a sound and slid outward,
providing an easy edge to grip. He pulled it out of its place. Fascinating. It
must be spring-loaded in some fashion. How had men of the thirteenth century
concocted these mechanisms, he wondered. But there was no time to ponder it
now. The lantern flickered.

Luca cursed the fact that he had been a slight child and had not grown
taller as a man. He could not see into the empty space revealed by the missing
stone. Glancing around the room he found nothing to stand upon other than the
stone he had just removed. He placed it on the floor and found that it was
precisely the size of his two feet if he stood carefully on it. The lantern
flickered again and he raised it to the black hole in front of him. He could
not see anything.

The space was supposed to contain a box of some sort. By the code
markings on his list this was considered one of the collection’s most important
items. He jammed the lantern closer to the opening. Nothing. He ran his hand
inside as far as he could reach but the space was empty.

His heart thudded now with a sound that must surely be echoing from the
walls. An artifact was missing, and on his vigil! He’d been told a month ago to
conduct the inventory count and be ready in time for tonight’s meeting. Why had
he waited until the last moment? Had the box disappeared within the past few
weeks? It did not matter, he realized. The box was lost while under his care
and now he had to report it to the powerful men of the OSM.

The lantern faded, like a candle guttering its last few moments. He
stepped down and quickly replaced the stone in its slot. Before he’d turned the
key in the lock, the light went out.

* * *

“It was there at the last inventory!” shouted the leader, a sharp-jawed
businessman from Zurich named Humboldt.

“With all due respect, sir, that was nearly twenty-five years ago.”

Luca Pancetti silently thanked the priest who had spoken up. Had he
uttered the same words, his protestation would have sounded much too defensive.

Humboldt drummed his fingertips on the written list of artifacts. Luca
had returned to the chamber with a fresh light, finished counting all the other
items and thoroughly examined the compartment of the missing box. He’d used
every remaining minute until he absolutely had to leave for this meeting to
check the walls for other possible hidden spaces. There were none. He told the
men this, feeling like a complete failure.

Faces around the table were grim. A bishop spoke up. “It’s the one we
could least afford to lose, the box called Facinor.”

“And I would remind the gentlemen,” said an American industrialist who
had been appointed to the executive committee only four years earlier, “that
this is the second of these boxes to disappear in OSM history.”

Those representing the church bristled. Pancetti could almost hear them
growling over the fact that non-clergy had been admitted to the organization.
But politics and business were becoming ever more powerful in today’s world;
somewhere along the line it had been decided to include the secular.

The industrialist was still giving a pointed stare toward Humboldt.

“Way before my time,” the Swiss man answered. “But yes, you are quite
correct. I’ve read the history. The disappearance of the box called Manichee
during the Inquisition was what prompted the formation of this organization.
Our entire directive is to protect these artifacts and to keep them locked away
where their powers cannot be misdirected by the average commoner who might
possess one.”

And the missing one now was Facinor, the box whose powers were
purported to be evil.

“I suppose we should launch an investigation,” suggested a priest whose
reluctant tone said that the mere idea of investigating anything within the
Vatican was practically sacrilege.

A man at the other end of the table cleared his throat. He was a
politician from America and the fact that he had not yet spoken was unusual.
“We are fairly certain that The Vongraf Foundation has examined one of the
boxes.”

He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and brought out a sheaf
of vertically folded pages. “In 1910, according to a spy we placed at the time,
the piece definitely had paranormal powers. Jimmy himself witnessed a secretary
to the director handling the box and the wooden material undergoing changes in
appearance.”

“It must have been the missing box, Manichee,” someone speculated. “Facinor
was in our possession when our own 1915 inventory was taken.”

“There have been tales—call them rumors or speculation, if you
will—about the existence of
three
boxes,” Humboldt reminded them. “We
cannot possibly know which one The Vongraf has.”

“Had. They don’t keep any artifacts that pass through their hands,”
said the politician, waving the sheaf of pages. “I verified that myself. The
box the foundation examined was returned to its owner. Unfortunately, I could
not find out who that was.”

A dark quiet settled over the group. Luca Pancetti thought furiously.
His name had been whispered in the halls of the basilica as a possible
replacement for Pius XI when the ailing pontiff’s time came. He would be
swiftly withdrawn from consideration if it ever became known beyond these walls
that an important artifact had been lost under his care. Not that the official
church bureaucracy would acknowledge interest in such items, but the stain of
having been placed in charge of something and having failed so miserably … that
sort of thing would linger on his record forever.

“Let me lead the investigation,” he said. “I have the previous
inventory sheet. I shall begin by tracing backward in time to find out who had
access to that room.”

Glances flicked around the table. Clearly, some did not want to trust
the man who had lost the box in the first place but most of them were looking
for excuses to dodge the work. It was difficult to turn down a volunteer. The
priest offered a motion to accept Pancetti’s offer and it was quickly approved.

Two hours later, in his room in Vatican City, Cardinal Pancetti scanned
the list he had composed. Everyone stationed within the archives, most everyone
who could have handled the key to the special chamber, all members of the OSM
directorship during the ensuing twenty-plus years. It was a daunting list. His
head was pounding and he reached for the aspirin for the second time since he’d
begun the task. How was he to narrow this down and find the thief?

* * *

A month later, the pontiff’s condition had worsened and whispered
speculation ran rampant in the halls. Pancetti had asked so many pointed
questions in his quest for the missing box that his name was less frequently
mentioned for the inevitable papal election. The stern-faced
Eugenio
Maria Giuseppe Giovanni
Pacelli
seemed to be the
front-runner at the moment. But Luca had more pressing concerns. OSM would meet
this evening and if he could not present the box itself he was at least
expected to come up with a short list of suspects and some viable possibilities
as to the item’s whereabouts.

He could, at least, provide this.
After eliminating all of the previous OSM directors and most of the archivists
from his list, he felt fairly confident that his quarry was one of three men: a
young novitiate whose uncle’s position in the Basilica might have given him
access (although unauthorized) to the keys; the uncle himself who was head
keymaster
for the entire complex, except that the man had
an exemplary record for forthrightness and honesty; Giuseppe Santini, a bishop
who was overseer of the archives for the two decades before his death.