Treasure Me (17 page)

But she hadn’t checked the storeroom.

Excitement quickened her stride, and she reached the first floor in record time. And to think she’d had to pick the lock the night she’d entered the restaurant on the sly. Who knew the key was hidden in plain sight? Giddy, she looked up.

Just as Delia had described, the heavy molding around the door was loose. On tiptoes, Birdie removed the sliver of wood. The key tumbled into her palm.

She opened the door to the kitchen and flicked on the lights. According to Delia, the second key, used to unlock the storeroom, was in a silverware drawer near the grill, where Finney usually stood cooking and barking orders. She wrenched open the drawer. A large, old-fashioned brass key clattered forward.

It was pretty, really, with a heart-shaped head and large gleaming teeth.

Drawing it close, she gasped.

The clue, the one hidden in the bunting, spoke of building a life alone without the one you loved.
And the head of the key was shaped like a heart.

Would it lead directly to the rubies?

Retracing her steps, she reentered the hallway. The storeroom lay at the end, past the stairwell. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The musty scent of dust peppered the air. On an involuntary sneeze, she found the light switch.

Spellbound, she blinked. The storeroom was
huge
.

The place brimmed with a treasure trove of boxes and furniture and plastic-wrapped dishes. Aisles cut through the heirlooms in a sensible grid fashion that made perusing the antiques a simple task. Absently, she ran her fingers across the smooth mahogany of an antique sideboard. The furniture alone was worth thousands, and it was hard to imagine the wealth tucked away in the hundreds of boxes. Clearly nothing of worth had ever been thrown out in the restaurant’s history.

She was itching to investigate all of it when the sound of footfalls on the stairwell brought her up short.

“Birdie? Where are you?”

Hugh appeared in the hallway with a dishtowel flung over his shoulder, his black hair mussed. Despite her irritation at the interruption, she laughed at the orange glop speckling his blue oxford shirt.

“What did you get all over yourself?” she asked. He approached, and she instinctively blocked the door like a pirate protecting her booty. “You have some of it on your shoes, too.”

“I do?” Bending, he swiped a finger through the orange muck on the toe of his loafer. She cringed when he stuck his finger in his mouth. Noticing her disgust, he added, “What? You got something against pumpkin pie? It’s Thanksgiving. Everyone has pie after they chow down on the bird.”

“A man doesn’t have the skill set needed to bake a pie. It’s a multi-task event. Men aren’t multi-taskers.”

“For the record, I baked two pies.”

It was clearly the truth. Spots of flour dusted his all-too attractive features. “So we both get a pie? We don’t have to share?” The urge to push him from the doorway competed with her penchant for home-baked goods. “When do they come out of the oven?”

“You have to eat dinner before you have dessert.” He angled his head to peer over her shoulder. “What are you doing down here, cupcake?”

“Vegetable names, Hugh. If you want to call up sweeter memories from my childhood, stick to vegetables. Don’t forget to lay on the affection when you do.”

“Whatever you say, Tomato.”

“Shouldn’t you be upstairs basting the turkey?”

“Probably.” He pushed her aside and strolled into the room. Pausing beside an oblong table draped in plastic, he added, “I heard you on the phone with Delia.”

“You mean you were eavesdropping.”

Shrugging, he lifted the edge of the plastic. He let go and it fluttered downward in a puff of dust. “Do you need help moving the Christmas decorations or not?”

Covering her nose, Birdie shoved past him. “Don’t do that again. I hate dust.” She made a beeline through a clump of furniture and headed toward the nearest wall—which was, naturally, made of brick. “I can manage on my own.”

“I’ll wager some of the boxes weigh fifty pounds. Think crystal and ceramics. Lots of the holiday decorations are from the 1800s. They aren’t made of plastic.”

“Delia said there’s a dolly in here.” Birdie noticed the contraption beside a stack of boxes. She wheeled it toward the center of the room in a hasty, zig-zag route. If he didn’t leave, she wouldn’t be able to search for the gems. “See? I can manage. Now go away.”

He stood fast, but there wasn’t time to argue. She caught something out of the corner of her eye and abruptly surveyed the walls. The bricks were different here. They weren’t all of the same fire red color used in the rest of the building. Some were a muddy brown. Others were a bright orange like the pumpkin Hugh had spattered all over himself. She remembered something Ethel Lynn had said: the storeroom was part of the original building, which had been added onto several times.

Excitement tripped up her spine.
Brick by brick, my love. My life built alone without you.
Bricks of many colors… she must be close.

“What are you up to?” Hugh joined her at the wall, his intelligent gaze traversing the bricks like a hound pursuing quarry. “You don’t care about getting the Christmas stuff out of storage. You agreed to do the dirty work for something else.”

“Stop sweet-talking me. You know how it goes to my head.”

“Then let me lay on more sugar. I’ll help if you’ll tell me what’s going on.”

Dragging her attention from the wall was nearly impossible, but she managed to glare at him. Help her? Was he kidding? The rubies were her ticket to a better life. She wasn’t sharing them, least of all with a reporter who was as irritating as he was sexy. She had to find the boxes of holiday decorations, start moving them, and get him off her tail.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “Let me help you.”

The entreaty in his voice was sudden and sincere. His expression was infused with a gentleness she hadn’t thought him capable of. For a reckless moment, she wondered if maybe he wasn’t trying to horn in on the loot at all. He wanted
her
.

Impulsively, she brushed the lock of hair falling across his brow. “I’m fine on my own,” she replied. He took her by the wrist to stop her from moving off, and her emotions cartwheeled. “Go back upstairs. I have work to do.”

“And I shouldn’t watch you in the commission of a crime?”

“Hugh—”

“I’m only trying to help. Maybe it’ll give me a better understanding of the woman I’m sharing an apartment with since she’s also the woman who’s getting under my skin.”

“Being under your skin doesn’t sound so bad,” she replied, lured by the soft lights in his eyes. She couldn’t look away.

“Birdie, I’m not perfect, and I won’t judge you. We’ve both made mistakes.”

His voice, like his expression, went fluid. “What kind of mistakes?” she asked, his sincerity pouring something new and wonderful into her heart. He did understand how much she’d messed up her life because he’d messed up his own. It wasn’t easy to pass judgment if you were able to call up the long, dreary list of your own errors, the people you’d hurt through anger or neglect, and the actions taken that were petty and self-serving. Hugh was better than most people—he possessed fortitude, enough to view himself with clarity and recognize his transgressions.

Still, it was crazy to stand here and drink in the enticing scent of his cologne and the misgiving in his eyes. But her feet were glued to the spot even as her thoughts sped forward and became focused. He’d also made mistakes. Whoppers, probably. Had he made a few recently?

Blossom
.

Why had he sat in the kid’s house pretending to interview her if he wasn’t writing an article?

“Is Blossom one of your mistakes?” she asked. “You aren’t going to hurt her, are you?”

“Probably.” He tried to smile but his expression collapsed. “Yes, I will hurt her. I don’t want to. I didn’t come back to make her famous all over again.”

“Why are you here?”

He scrubbed his palms across his face. “I’m investigating her father.”

Anthony Perini owned the Gas & Go on the other side of the Square. He’d just wed Mary Chance, the doctor who owned the Second Chance Grill. The way Finney spoke of him, Anthony was nothing if not decent. Why would a hard-edged reporter like Hugh be interested in such a regular guy?

Noting her confusion, Hugh said, “Last summer, Blossom’s leukemia progressed to the point where she needed a bone marrow transplant. Anthony’s insurance didn’t cover the procedure.”

“I remember. I read the article you wrote about the auction that raised money for Blossom’s care.”

“It was the same with the websites. They went up and brought in money by the truckload. Problem is, those sites are still up, still bringing in cash.”

What he’d described was sad and common, and her lower nature told her exactly where this was headed. She thought of her mother scamming marks and reeling in cash. Wish never used websites. She was a klutz on a computer and had never learned how to use the Internet. But Birdie could imagine the possibilities.

She whistled softly. “Anthony kept the sites up to make himself rich?” Even in small town America, people weren’t as decent as they seemed. The realization hit hard—she wanted to believe the people of Liberty were better than most. She’d grown to like so many of them. “How much cash are we talking?”

“Thousands.”

Her thoughts turned to Blossom, a sweet kid with a potential felon for a parent.

The thought jogged a memory from childhood, one she despised. Cold, cement walls, and her mother dragging her forward by the hand. She’d been five or six years old. The sinister noises of the penitentiary had terrified her—metal doors slamming, and a man shouting in the distance. With her feet tripping forward, her attention hung on the glinting silver of the guard’s sidearm.

The guard moved off, leaving them trapped in a room that felt like a tomb. Birdie scrambled onto a chair and pressed her hands to the glass separating her from her father.

Why he’d been in the pen, when he’d be released—she no longer recalled the specifics. What she
had
carried through childhood was the humiliation. Unlike most kids, her dad was usually behind bars.

Bleakly, she drew from the reverie. “Will Anthony go to prison?” Sick at heart, she stepped back. “Get real, Mr. Reporter. If you report this, you’ll send him to the pen. You know that, right?”

“He’ll get a fine and have to return the funds. He won’t serve time.”

“Yeah, and who gave you that guarantee?” For a reporter, he sure didn’t understand how the world worked.

Hugh looked as sick as she felt. “I don’t think Anthony will do time.”

“If you’re wrong, it’ll destroy Blossom. Is it worth it?”

He took her by the shoulders and spun her toward the wall. “Is
this
worth it? Why are you studying the bricks? Thinking of switching jobs and going into construction?”

“I can’t explain.”

“Can’t or won’t?” When she pressed her lips together, he added, “I told you about Anthony to prove I’m trustworthy. You know my secret. Now tell me yours.”

Indecision wound through her. Given Hugh’s occupation, he was good at unraveling mysteries. Could he help find the gems? It wasn’t like she’d done so great on her own.

But she didn’t trust him. The dark, painful truth threatened to shut down her heart. She didn’t trust anyone.

A little depressed, she tried to kick-start her cunning. No easy feat with Hugh looking at her with enough sincerity to make her feel like hell. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell him exactly what she was looking for. A better ploy? Hide the specifics behind a hill of lies.

Maybe he’d buy a story about a family heirloom she’d come to Liberty to seek out. It was a half-truth, really. She
was
related to Justice through the child the freedwoman had with Lucas. Of course, Justice’s direct descendants had more right to the rubies, assuming the gems could be found. Still…

In the past, skirting the truth had been easy. Since arriving in Liberty, her conscience had risen from a deep slumber. Something in the water was getting to her. Or the people were. Whatever it was, she didn’t relish lying, even if there was no other choice.

Would Hugh buy some bullshit she made up on the fly?

Birdie managed to lift her head to regard him. The truth knocked around in her throat, trying to get out. But it was professional suicide for a petty thief to trust a newspaper reporter.

Hugh lounged against the plastic-wrapped table as a battle waged in Birdie’s eyes. The Greeks and the Trojans going at it inside her skull, and it was anyone’s bet which side was winning.

Odds were, she didn’t want to come clean. But from the looks of her, she wasn’t comfortable lying either. He recalled the sad bits Fatman had told him about her life, a childhood that had been damn abusive. Wish Kaminsky, a grifter more interested in lining her pockets than in raising her daughter. A father in prison.

Making the slog to the moral high ground wasn’t second nature for Birdie.

“Why not play straight with me?” he asked, frustrated. Even if he couldn’t alter the trajectory of her life, he could offer friendship. “The bricks have something to do with your search, don’t they? The way you keep studying them, they must be important.”

“They are.” She rolled her lower lip beneath her teeth, her violet eyes smoky with doubt.

“Tell me why.”

“I’m still deciding if it would be a smart move or a dumb-ass one.”

“It’s a good move, a winning move. If you don’t have someone to trust, what have you got?”

“Peace of mind,” she said, but she grinned. Kneeling, she dragged a box close. “I have to find the holiday decorations and move them into the dining room. You want to help? Then help.”

“You’ve got it.”

Anxious to gain her trust, he scanned the notes written on the top of each box she pushed forward. The cursive was thin and wavery, rather difficult to read. Ethel Lynn’s handwriting? The first two boxes were labeled ‘linens’ and ‘Wedgwood China’. The third was marked ‘holiday.’