Treasure Me (3 page)

Noise from the restaurant’s kitchen carried down the hall, a burst of impatient conversation and the clatter of pots. She skirted away from the commotion and up the shadowed steps. The second floor’s narrow hallway led into a sea of black, the carpeting underfoot nothing more than waves of grey, and she stumbled forward in search of light. The corridor opened into a cozy reception area.

The walls carried the sharp scent of fresh paint. The seating arrangement appeared new. A big cutout in the opposite wall revealed a receptionist’s desk on the other side. Nearing, she peered inside. By the phone, a stack of business cards read,
Dr. Mary Chance – Family Practice
.

She recalled the contents of the newspaper article. The good doctor had inherited The Second Chance Grill and resided in Liberty for just a few months when she took up the cause of paying for Blossom Perini’s bone marrow transplant. Among the other antiques auctioned off then returned, the picture of a freedwoman had probably seemed insignificant. Wandering into the reception area, Birdie hoped that no one would notice when the portrait—and its hidden clue—disappeared altogether. Once she knew the portrait’s location, she’d break into the building at night and carry it off. Given all the stuff in the restaurant, the loss would surely go unnoticed.

Satisfied with her plan, she studied the pretty green carpet underfoot. Two examination rooms lay ahead, and both were neatly filled with sparkling medical instruments and gleaming jars of cotton balls. Even here, the scent of new paint was strong.

Medical care wasn’t something a drifter got much of, and she’d always been grateful for a hearty constitution. Life on the road meant head colds went untended and a sprained ankle was bound with tape stolen from the nearest drugstore. She frowned at the memories and the accompanying heartache. Even as a child she’d understood that complaining broke an unspoken rule. Her mother worked her scams from city to city, luring a man with her beauty, after which she’d take her ill-gotten gains and her kid and move on. Birdie saw the world as a kaleidoscope of people and events, a swirling mass of excitement that ended as quickly as it began.

She’d spent her childhood like a novice standing backstage in an adult play trying to learn the lines of her mother’s script. When brought onstage she was the adorable tot of a woman down on her luck and in need of a man’s protection. A certain type predictably fell for the trick, the sort of mark who joined civic groups and wore a conservative suit. There were always men to be had, innocent stooges with pathetically gallant natures.

Remembering those years feathered sadness across her heart. The child she’d been had bobbed her pigtails engagingly whenever the man called her sweet baby. She’d smiled, but her pleasure was never sincere, except for that one time when she was three or four years old, too young to understand the mistake of loving a man caught in her mother’s web.

She’d paid dearly for the error.

Paw Paw.

His name, the city where he’d lived, the lines composing his face—time had erased the particulars save the affectionate timbre of his voice. If she saw him on the street today she wouldn’t recognize him.

He must have been wealthy, because her mother had stayed in his city longer than usual while the temperature ground down to the single digits. Freezing rain hung from the fir trees like diamonds scattered amid the greenery and Birdie recalled a fever that left her dazed. Paw Paw, worried, took her to an emergency room where she was treated and released. He bundled her off to a house he must have rented on their behalf, the place so clean it looked new and the bed impossibly soft. He spent hours playing Go Fish with her while she recovered. The cards were made of a heavy stock easy for a child to handle and printed with vivid scenes of marine life Birdie found mesmerizing.

The cards, now worn a tired grey, were mere scraps of fleeting joy tucked inside her coat.

Drawing out of the troubling reverie, she left the office and retraced her steps down the stairwell.

* * *

Settled on a plan, Birdie left the Square and found a small hardware store a few blocks away, where she bought a pen flashlight and extra batteries, and a bag of potato chips to hold her over. She was still stiff from the long bus ride and spent the next hour strolling the streets of pretty houses. There had to be a cheap motel somewhere, even in a town as small as this one, but she couldn’t find it. When her toes went numb inside her boots she started back up the hill to the Square. By the time she returned to The Second Chance Grill half of the breakfast customers had cleared out and she was able to grab a stool at the counter.

With renewed energy she surveyed the walls bursting with Americana, the large painting of George Washington astride a white horse, the brass sconces that might’ve been crafted in Williamsburg during the Colonial period. There was also a portrait of a man in a frock coat. Next up were a series of porcelain figurines she guessed were Pilgrims. Where was the portrait in the shadowbox frame? Frustrated, she slipped out the article from the
Akron Register
and examined the photo with painstaking interest, the heavy-set cook in the foreground and the portrait—it had to be of Justice—in the background. Had the photo been shot in the restaurant’s kitchen? Was the portrait, a key to untold riches, hanging by the stove or a sink full of dishes?

“Do you need a menu?”

Startled, Birdie swung back around. “Yeah. Great.” Stuffing the article back into her pocket, she gave the waitress, who looked about twenty years old, the once-over. “Nice hair.”

The waitress’s bubble gum-colored lips eased into a smile. “I was experimenting. Something went wrong.”

Way wrong
. The young woman may have started on the highlighting highway toward blonde but she’d veered off on the lime green exit. Her close-cropped hair bore a definite green hue on top of the sunny yellow color. Then again, she was young enough to pull it off.

The waitress tipped her head to the side. “I’m Delia Molek. Are you new in town?”

Birdie hesitated. She didn’t have a story down yet. Was she visiting relatives? Just passing through? “Yeah, I just arrived,” she hedged. “My name’s Birdie Kaminsky.”

“Cute name. And don’t worry. All the publicity about Blossom has brought lots of newcomers to town. You aren’t alone. Liberty is growing for the first time in years.”

“Where’s the hotel?” Birdie peered over the heads of diners, and out the large picture window. “I didn’t see it on my way into town.”

Delia snorted. “Are you kidding?” She slapped a menu down in front of Birdie, who’d suddenly lost her appetite. “If our population mini-boom keeps up, maybe we’ll get a movie theatre. But a hotel? I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Where do people stay?”

“With relatives, where else?” The waitress rolled her tongue inside her delightfully plump cheeks. “Don’t you know anyone around here?”

Since when was that a crime? Of course, Birdie usually scammed her way through cities. In a small town, a new face stood out. Cops in the sticks were best avoided and the neighbor next door might notice an afternoon burglary.

“I don’t have any relatives in Liberty.” The scent of bacon frying in the kitchen brought her hunger bounding back. After she ordered, she asked, “What about apartments? Is there a place I can rent by the week?”

“Mary’s place is available. It’s on the second floor, right above us. But I think she was hoping to rent by the month. If I were you, I’d grab it. There really isn’t anywhere else.”

She’d already canvassed Dr. Mary’s new office upstairs—the door in the hallway she’d passed must’ve led into the woman’s apartment. “Why is Mary renting her apartment?”

“She got hitched to Blossom’s dad. Real spur of the moment.”

“How much is the monthly rent?” After Delia told her, Birdie frowned. “That seems awfully steep.”

“Trust me—there’s nowhere else.”

Which was a hassle since Birdie had no idea how long she’d be staying. She still had to locate the portrait of Justice. According to family legend, there was a clue attached to the picture, which led to the mysterious treasure. Of course, it might all be a tall tale. She might spend time in Liberty spinning her wheels for nothing.

While she ruminated, Delia returned with a plate of eggs, sunny side up, bacon, and a side of wheat toast. After the waitress poured coffee, she said, “So. Do you want to check out the apartment?”

“I don’t need a tour of the place.” Like it or not, she’d have to pay a month’s rent. “I’ll move in right after I finish breakfast.”

“I’ll tell Finney.” Delia jerked her chin toward the swinging door, and the kitchen beyond. “She’s the cook—a real nice woman as long as you don’t piss her off. She’ll ask for references.”

“What kind?”

“The usual. Your last three places of employment, and the names of everyone you know in town.” The waitress misread the horror on Birdie’s face and quickly added, “It’s not a big deal. Use me as a reference. We’ll tell Finney you’re a friend of the family.”

The offer would’ve been suspect if it weren’t for Delia’s wide-eyed cheer. Stuck in this desolate town, surrounded by snow-covered cornfields, the waitress had probably lost half of her girlfriends to marriage and the rest to civilization. Yet the offer wasn’t enough to put Birdie in the clear. She didn’t have anything resembling an employment history. Stumped, she bit into her toast to stall for time.

When the silence grew daunting, she said, “My job history is a little sketchy.” Delia puffed out her lower lip in what appeared to be a show of empathy. Emboldened, Birdie corralled her scattered thoughts and devised a plausible story. “I’ve been traveling. In Europe. I worked in a shoe store in London and a travel agency in Rome. Short gigs, but they paid for my Eurail pass.”

Delia fiddled around inside her blouse and withdrew a stick of gum from her bra. “Sweet. I’d love to see Europe.”

“I’ll tell you everything once I’m settled in.” She sensed triumph as the young woman’s expression lit up. “I mean, Finney won’t mind calling overseas to check my references, will she?”

“She’d make me walk to London to check you out before she’d pay for an overseas call.”

“Then I guess I’m screwed.”

“No, no—we’ll think of something!” Delia raked her fingers through her hair. “There must be a way to get around the references.”

Birdie was about to wholeheartedly agree.

Her optimism died when, from behind, a man said, “Delia, don’t bother. You can’t lease the apartment to her. I’m taking it.”

The angel in the army jacket swung around on her barstool and gave Hugh a look that needed no interpretation. Pure unadulterated loathing. He was out to steal her new digs in town. Evidently, she wasn’t pleased.

Which was her tough luck. He needed a base of operations. It might take weeks to write an exposé about Anthony Perini’s misuse of the money pouring into the websites for his daughter’s medical bills. Those bills no longer existed. The dirt Hugh planned to dig up would make for journalistic greatness. Best of all, he’d get reinstated at the
Akron Register
.

He shrugged off her ire when Finney Smith, who’d presumably heard his voice, barreled from the kitchen and hurried around the counter.

“Hugh! What are you doing here?” The cook caught him in a bear hug, greasy apron and all. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? Are you writing another article about Blossom? Oh, wait until Mary and Anthony find out you’re back!”

Her excitement barely registered. The angel, with her white-blonde hair and eyes he’d swear were violet, hadn’t stopped glaring at him. Then she spoke.

“Wait a second. You’re
that
Hugh? The journalist from the Akron newspaper?”

Of course she knew who he was. The article he’d written about Blossom had been circulated far and wide. But the angel wasn’t a local. He’d met nearly everyone in town last summer when he wrote the article. Not this woman. She was stunning, if bizarrely dressed in a combat coat that must have pulled duty in WWII. She was the kind of long-legged beauty whose thighs could put a man in a hip-hugging lock sure to send him into bliss.

You need to give your gonads a rest, remember?

“Hugh Shaeffer.” He stuck out his hand, which she ignored. “I’m sorry about taking the apartment.”

“You’re not sorry. You look pleased, asshole.”

“Nice mouth.” Nice lips, actually—her language he could do without.

“Glad you like it.” She turned back to Delia, who was snapping her gum and watching their verbal tussle. “He can’t have the apartment. It’s mine.”

He turned to Finney and launched into a smooth series of lies. “Listen, I promised my editor I’d stay in Liberty until the feature’s written. I’m doing a nice follow-up on Blossom.”

Finney planted her hands on her hips. “Whatever you need, Hugh. Mary has no use for the apartment. She moved in with Anthony right before they left for their honeymoon.”

“Honeymoon… Mary and Anthony?” If Anthony was AWOL, Hugh couldn’t grill him about the websites until he returned. “When did they get married?”

“Last Sunday. Damn if we all weren’t surprised.”

“Where’s Blossom?”

“Meade is staying with her at the house. I don’t think you’ve met Meade.” Finney grunted. “She’s a real piece of work, all pomp and circumstance. The queen of cosmetics—she owns a company in Beachwood. I’m hoping Blossom will torture her and hide the evidence. I love that child.”

Hugh barely heard the comment. The commando angel was digging bills out of her pocket in an attractive and growing state of agitation. “I’m taking the apartment,” she announced, sorting the cash. “Delia, let me give you the rent.”

Which was when Hugh realized she wasn’t carrying a purse. He’d never before seen a woman without her everyday gear—a purse slung over her shoulder or a bag so large it could hold his golf clubs. And there was something else, something about her that put his inner antenna on alert. He got the sudden premonition, the one that always started his thoughts whirling.
There’s a story here.