Treasure Me (12 page)

The notion must have telegraphed directly to Bud. Grinning, he landed a punch on Hugh’s shoulder. “You catch on quick, buddy. Think of it as motivation to stay away from chicks.”

“I get it.”

“When will the exposé be on my desk?”

“In a few days.”

“Stay celibate and sober. Who knows what you’ll produce?”

Ralston, who was predictably obtuse, looked from one man to the other. “Does Hugh have a problem with women?” The compassion in his voice made Hugh’s molars throb. “Listen man, I can hook you up with a therapist and an herbalist. Combination therapy—it works.”

“I’ve already called my astrologer,” Hugh replied dryly.

“Great, great. Want the name of a good psychic too?”

“Naw. Too many people reading my tea leaves, and I won’t know which way to turn.”

Ralston gazed in wonderment like an idiot king. “No problem, man. And don’t worry about the newspaper—I’m covering for you. By the way, I’ve been working at your desk and using your computer. Soaking up the vibes of the master.”

“No shit.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Are you
shitting me?”

Ralston gave another of his shatteringly bright smiles. “It’s good karma to share a productive work space.”

Rage nearly struck Hugh dumb. “Don’t get too comfortable, pal. I’ll be back at the
Register
before you know it.”

He squinted into the harsh sunlight and glimpsed failure. The kind of failure that came from ditching ethics to get ahead. He’d expose Anthony’s perfidy and reveal the townspeople as fools for thinking they were contributing to Blossom’s medical care. He’d wipe the sheen right off the town. Sure, some of the donations
had
saved Blossom’s life. People across the U.S. now viewed the kid’s story as a lesson in how goodness prevailed. Which would no longer seem true once Hugh’s poison quill slashed across the
Akron Register.

Was there any choice? Safeguarding his career required nothing less than walking right over the good people of Liberty.

* * *

Soon Theodora began appearing at the restaurant during the afternoon lull to perch on a barstool and share the century-old tales surrounding Justice Postell.

Despite Birdie’s growing frustration—she still hadn’t found the Hope Diamond—she looked forward to the midday coffee break when they’d share conversation. Once a cup of java appeared beneath Theodora’s nose, she shelled out tidbits of the freedwoman’s life.

Justice had arrived in Liberty at the dawn of the Civil War when the town was little more than an outpost carved in the forests of northeastern Ohio. At the height of a blistering August, she appeared on the steps of the Unitarian Gospel Church in a tattered dress and a pair of men’s boots. She was still young, maybe late twenties, and possessed of a hunger for learning and a gaze so focused people said she wore blinders. Soon she became a fixture in town, often spotted with a book cradled in the crook of her arm. A polite, reserved quality imbued her speech. She scratched out a living as a seamstress then married the Negro preacher’s son, Elijah Turner, a few weeks before giving birth to her child.

Two years later, Turner died of pneumonia during a particularly brutal winter. The preacher’s son had been educated, and he’d had the foresight to teach his plucky wife how to read and to manage accounts. Turner owned several large parcels of land at the time of his death and Justice added to these holdings. By the time she opened the restaurant, which she named The Second Street Eatery, she was well established and the owner of one of the finest residences in Liberty.

Summing up, Theodora swiveled around on her barstool. “The house, the one Justice owned? It’s up on North Street.” She peered across the dining room to the picture window. Outside, a light snow was falling, partially obscuring the pedestrians and the cars weaving around Liberty Square. “Big house—you can’t miss it. Justice added on a few times and painted the house pink. Pink! I reckon she picked a feminine color to shock her uppity white neighbors. It’s been pink ever since.”

“I’d like to see the house.” Birdie twisted a rag between her fists, caught herself, and tossed it aside. She still hadn’t mustered up the courage to ask about Justice bringing something of value from South Carolina. “I wonder how a woman like Justice made so much money,” she ventured. “I mean, her husband taught her how to manage accounts but opening a restaurant would’ve taken a lot of cash.”

“You’re wondering how she bought this building and started the restaurant?” Beneath hooded eyes, the shadow of a smile played on Theodora’s mouth. “The rubies, that’s how. Justice used them as collateral to start the restaurant.”

“Rubies?”

“Oh, yes. Pretty gems too.”

“You mean she had more than one?”

Forget the Hope Diamond. Somewhere in the building,
a cache of rubies was waiting to be unearthed.
“How many gems did she have?”

“Two bags full. They were given to her by the man in South Carolina who loved her.”

My ancestor, Lucas Postell.
“And she used them for collateral?”

“She was a smart woman—knew better than to part with the jewels. An abolitionist owned a farmer’s bank outside Liberty. Good Henry Williams, why, he helped her. He kept the rubies for collateral until she was making money with her restaurant. He let her buy them back once the place was profitable.”

“I wonder where the rubies are now,” Birdie said, stupidly. When Theodora’s expression grew suspicious, she clamped her mouth shut.

“Don’t rightly know,” the old woman replied. “Why are you so interested?”

“I’m not.”

Birdie smiled gamely. Outside, Liberty Square was being festooned in Christmas decorations but she had visions of rubies dancing in her head. Gems the size of a robin’s egg. Glittering facets of blood red, a whole bag worth thousands—hundreds of thousands, maybe.

Snapping out of gem lust, she deftly moved the conversation forward. “I can’t wait to see the pink house,” she said. “After work I’ll walk down North Street and get a load of the place.”

“If you do, take the nosey reporter with you.” Theodora jabbed a thumb toward Hugh, hurling himself down on the next barstool. “The scoundrel looks itchy for some fresh air.”

Birdie fetched the coffee pot. “Where have you been?” She forced her mind off buried treasure. Filling a mug, she cast a look of displeasure that he ignored. He’d been avoiding her all week.

“Working.”

“So you say, Parsnip.” Replacing the pot on its stand, she leaned against the wall to give her sore feet a rest. “I’m a firm believer in keeping my enemies close. I haven’t been able to keep track of you for days. What time do you get up in the morning?”

Hugh looked at her peevishly. “Earlier than you.” He exchanged pleasantries with Theodora before landing another sour glance. Bitter lemons, this one. “Why do
you
sleep in every day? Aren’t you worried about losing the waitressing gig?”

“Actually, that’s my strategy. Tardy today, tardy tomorrow. Keep coming in late and Finney will have to fire me.”

“Why not quit? Move on, find another town.” Draining his mug, Hugh set it down and tapped on the rim. “We can all agree you’re mouthy. Given a chance, Finney will be happy to dump you in the nearest ditch. I’ll help. My wallet is still leaking twenties and I’m sick of sharing my clothes.”

“Why Hugh, greed is a deadly sin.” Pot in hand, she sashayed back over.

“So sue me.” Brightening, he slid his cup forward.

Ignoring his mug, she did a pretty turn and returned the pot to the coffee station. When he glowered, she batted her eyes. “Now what’s wrong?” Still high on rubies, she gave a flirty look. “If I didn’t know better I’d swear you’re premenstrual. You aren’t in one of your crappy moods, are you?”

“I am now.”

“Pity.” Shimmying her hips, she toyed with the hem of her midget’s uniform. Hugh licked his lips, caught himself, and frowned. She smiled. “Tell you what. Leave a big tip and I’ll improve my serving skills the next time you blow into my restaurant.”

“Give it a rest, Tomato.”

She couldn’t. Having to share the apartment with a cranky roommate was intolerable, but it was something she wouldn’t have to endure much longer. Now that she knew she what she was looking for—rubies—the future was golden.

And a rich, radiant red.

“Roomies should get along better than we do,” she said, brimming with cheer. “Look at me. I’m the picture of sweetness and light. You, on the other hand, were planted with the demon seed. What gives?”

He muttered something nasty under his breath. She shot a look at Delia straightening chairs in the center of the dining room. The young waitress lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug.

Theodora pounded her gnat-sized fist on the counter. “Both of you, stop squabbling. If I have the desire to watch Saturday night wrestling, I’ll wait until Saturday night. Let me drink my coffee in peace.”

Birdie squeaked. “He started it!”

“Hogwash. You
are
sassy. If I had a bar of soap, why…”

“You’d what? Wash my mouth out?”

She got a visual of fending off the flea-sized woman. Not that she was in the habit of defending herself against the elderly.

“Stop grinning, missy. You’re playing Cat’s Cradle with the last thread of my patience.”

“I’m really scared, Theodora. Shaking in my boots.”

Theodora slid her buckskin satchel toward Hugh. “Use the gun if you must,” she said. “A little bloodshed will make my day.”

Rising, Hugh pulled on his coat. “I have a better idea.” He motioned for Birdie to follow. “Tell Finney you’re taking a break. We both need some air.”

Any reason to leave work was a good reason. “Finney, it’s slow out here,” she called, poking her head into the kitchen. The cook, busy scrubbing the stove, blustered an objection. Hurriedly she added, “Delia’s got it covered. I’m leaving for the day.”

She donned her coat and the leggings she’d stored beneath the counter. The cook rattled off a few more choice words, then banged a pot, probably for emphasis. Delia, swabbing down a table, flinched.

The tips would be sparse for the rest of the afternoon. Birdie didn’t relish the idea of horning in on the young waitress’s wages. Delia had mentioned more than once that she lived on her tips.
Lived
on them
. How she did it was beyond comprehension. Besides, it was a good idea to escape the confines of the restaurant before Finney came barreling out of the kitchen brandishing a skillet over her head.

In the Square, city employees were stringing holiday lights. A twenty-foot blue spruce blinked with holiday cheer. Midway up, a youth with a goatee balanced on a ladder.

Goatee Boy recognized Hugh.
Hola, Mr. Schaeffer! You back in town to give Liberty another fifteen minutes of fame?
Stepping to the curb, Hugh shouted a reply over the hoods of the cars wending around the Square.

The moment he turned away, Birdie crouched before the brick façade of the building. The putty-colored mortar was intact; none of the bricks appeared loose. Wherever the rubies were hidden it wasn’t out here, on the street.

Since locating the second clue in the patriotic bunting she’d done nothing but search for loose bricks in the dining room, the hallway, and now here outside. Not the storage room, however—the damn door was kept locked.

Finding the treasure was proving far too difficult.

Tamping down her frustration, she straightened as Hugh returned from the curb.

“So what’s up?” she asked. With his hands stuck deep in his pockets, he looked troubled.

“We need to talk.”

“Does arguing count? We do that all the time.”

“Can it, babe. We need more than a chat.”

Whoa
. The razor-sharp edge to his voice raised her defenses. He wasn’t troubled. He was pissed off about something or someone. Probably her.

Recalling her conversation with Theodora, she clamped her self-composure in place. “Let’s walk down North Street. There’s a house I want to see,” she said, jockeying for the upper hand. “I don’t mind having a heart-to-heart as long as I can navigate.”

“Why do you get to call the shots? We’re heading down South Street, Carrot.”

“No can do, Parsnip. North Street it is.”

“I’m not walking down North. I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

He glowered, the fury rising off him like steam. What was the big deal? Shrugging, she started off. Screw him. If he needed to talk, he’d pick up his feet and follow.

The street bustled with holiday shoppers. Weaving through the crowd, she reached the northern edge of the Square and the stoplight. The light had already turned green when a blast of foul language parted the crowd.

She crossed with Hugh dogging her heels. “You’re a pain in the ass, Birdie.”

Venom peppered his voice, but she let it slide. There was no understanding his lousy mood or why he had an aversion to North Street, which was bizarre, given the street’s beauty. The houses were spectacular, rambling Colonials with holiday candles glowing in the windows and Greek Revivals with wreaths hung on the doors. There was even a Gothic mansion of golden stone, with a grouping of life-sized tin soldiers set out on the snow-crusted lawn.

No pink house in sight. Was it further down the street? Theodora had said Justice built and then added on during her lifetime. Owners who came later might have done the same, which meant the place was large. It would be impossible to miss.

“Are you casing the houses for the perfect heist?” Hugh chided, catching up. “Bad idea, Sweet Pea. Most of these homes come equipped with burglar alarms and dogs with names like Adolph and Killer.”

“I’m a waitress, not a burglar.” And soon, she’d be legit. With the cache of rubies—two whole bags of rubies—she’d have enough cash and then some
.
“Your snarky comments are rude.”

“Give it up, Potato. I’m a reporter. I read people. You’ve got ‘criminal’ written all over you.”

Did she?
His powers of observation were unnerving. “I do not.” She skirted a boxwood hedge growing over the sidewalk. “Just yesterday, Ethel Lynn invited me over for tea. I have friends in town, Cabbage. It’s more than you have.”