The Jewelry Case (13 page)

Hopefully the pregnant musical director would be able to return soon. If not, Paisley prayed that Shirley would find someone skillful to fill the slot. After all their hard work, these kids deserved a chance to pull off a decent production. Heck, maybe she'd even attend opening night after all to cheer them on. It would be interesting to see if any of her ideas helped. That suggestion she'd made for the first scene, for instance, for the girls to come out single file, twirling their parasols....There were a couple of casting changes she'd thought of as well.

Shirley reappeared, bearing an armload of costumes. "Sorry," she said, panting. "I swear, I wasn't planning on dragging you into this. I did hope that you might volunteer to give us a few pointers, but when Marcie didn't turn up, I panicked. I don't know a lick about music."

"It's okay. I enjoyed it." The fact surprised Paisley. She took another swig from her water bottle and opened her mouth to tell Shirley about her casting ideas, but Shirley rushed on.

"Gee, that's really good to hear, because Marcie just called back. She said the doctor wants her to stay in bed until the baby's born."

Paisley stiffened, guessing what was coming next.

Shirley's eyes were pleading behind her glasses. "Look, I know you're new in town and you don't have any obligation to help out. But you did a fantastic job today. The kids really seem to like you. Is there any way you can fill in tomorrow, too? Just until I can find someone else to take over. I swear, I'll do anything...."

Paisley wanted to say "No." Instead, what came out was, "Um, I'll think about it. Can I give you a call later?"

"Sure. You're the best." Shirley looked relieved. "No pressure, I'll understand if you say 'no.' Say, can I give you a lift home? I know you came on foot, and with that limp and all, it's the least I can do. No luck finding a car yet, huh?"

Paisley thought about the scare she'd had crossing the field yesterday and her scraped knee throbbed again. She really didn't feel like walking home again, with night coming on. And Shirley was right, her limp was worse. She was supposed to be taking it easy.

"Thanks," she said. "But I can't keep bumming rides off you every time I come to town. I haven't found anything on Craigslist. Have you heard anything about someone around here who might want to get rid of a car?"

"You poor thing, I promised to help and I completely forgot! I'll ask around. I won't drop the ball this time, I give you my word.

As Shirley drove Paisley home, they chatted about the play, the weather, and politics
.
Shirley was much more interested in the latter than Paisley, who didn't follow national news, and merely mumbled "uh huh, uh huh," to everything her companion said. When Paisley mentioned her ideas for the casting changes, however, Shirley listened with interest.

"You're right about the Major General," she said thoughtfully. "The boy I put in the part doesn't look older than twelve, even in makeup, and he doesn't really want the part. But no one else can do the patter fast enough. Maybe....

They discussed the casting problems further, until they arrived at the little white house sheltered under the big oak. Once again, Paisley was shocked at the surge of homecoming that leaped inside her chest, like an unleashed golden retriever lunging at its beloved master.

Shirley waved as she opened the car door. "Thanks again, hon. Let me know what you decide, okay?"

The evening light was dim, and silence settled around Paisley like a comforter as Shirley’s car disappeared
, a
far cry from the construction racket that had driven her away that morning. The quiet was so heavy that she could hear the cooing of birds in the oak tree overhead, the whisper of a breeze rustling through the long grass. She felt relaxed, calm, peaceful
…
even happy.

As she set a foot on the first step of the porch, a tall figure peeled itself from the rocker and loomed over her. Paisley gasped and groped in her purse for her cell phone. Steve had warned her....

Then the moon glinted off a familiar thatch of sandy hair and a pair of prominent ears.

"Ian!" She practically shrieked her relief.

"There you are." His voice sounded accusing. "What took you so long?"

"Why are you still here?" she countered. "Aren't you finished for the day?"

"I've been waiting for you to get home since five o'clock." He sounded like an outraged father waiting up for a teen-age daughter. "I didn't expect you to be out this late."

She walked up the steps, not hiding her annoyance. She didn't owe him an explanation. Rather, it was up to him to explain why he hadn't gone home with the rest of the crew instead of lurking in the dark like a bandit.

Then Paisley realized there was something different about him. It was in the tone of his voice, and in the air of excitement that hung about him like the subtle scent of his aftershave.
Aftershave?

"What is it?" she asked, pausing at the door with the key in her hand. "Did something happen? Is everything all right?"

"I found something today when we took down the wall between the bathroom and the second bedroom."

Her heart nearly flew through her chest as he thrust out a battered cardboard box, covered with a thick layer of dust and sealed with yellowed tape. "We found this between the framing," he said. "As you can see, somebody must have hidden it in there a long time ago. I thought you might be interested."

"You haven't opened it?"

"It's yours, isn't it? That's why I waited until you got home."

Her fingers closed convulsively over the box. The story Jonathan had told her ... could it have been true after all? "But where…?" she began.

"Upstairs. Come on, I'll show you."

Still clutching the cardboard box, she followed him up to the smallest bedroom, the one with the sharply slanting ceiling and the view of the oak tree outside the window. His crew had started to pull down an interior wall to get to the mold, he explained. There, between the beams, the box had nestled for many years, hidden behind the plaster.

"Interesting, huh?" he said. She could feel his warm breath on the nape of her neck as she bent to examine the opening in the wall. "Just like that TV show,
If Walls Could Talk
. Alix wanted to open it right away, but I said no, it belongs to you.” He added, “I wonder what's in it." The hint could not have been broader.

She did not answer, however. Her nails left small dents in the sides of the box. If Jonathan's grandmother had been right ... if the story was real ... there would be no more money concerns. There would be freedom from bill collectors and from the necessity to take on a job she dreaded. Funny how money could do that ... make all one's problems go away. She had never been more aware of the fact than in that moment.

Ian was waiting, his light-gray eyes alert and curious. "Well?" he prodded. "Aren't you going to open it?"

Not with you watching
, she thought. She forced a weak smile, the best she could manage. "I'd rather do it alone, if you don't mind."

A disappointed expression flitted across his features. He straightened, a complicated procedure reminding her of a camel standing up, all long legs and joints. "Oh. I see. Okay, fine."

He's hurt
, she thought.
He waited to share his discovery with me, and now I've hurt his feelings.
The realization made her feel guilty. But not guilty enough to let him stay and watch. The contents of the box were hers, and hers alone. She had no desire to share the discovery with anyone, especially a young architecture student whom she barely knew, and who had lied to her about his contracting business, or lack thereof.

"I'm sorry," she said, removing one of her hands from the box long enough to touch his shoulder arm in an effort to appear reassuring. A smear of gray dust appeared on his white T-shirt. "Thank you for keeping it safe for me. I'll tell you what's inside tomorrow. I promise."

"Sure," he said flatly. "Okay, gotta go. Hot date tonight." He nodded an abrupt good-bye and headed downstairs. She watched through the window as he strode toward his truck, his long form swallowed up quickly in the darkening shadows.

Late for a hot date? That explained the aftershave, she thought, standing on the porch and watching the tail lights of his pickup fade into the distance. She wondered mildly who the girl was, and if he was going to stop at home long enough to change. Or maybe his girlfriend liked rumpled T-shirts and dirty jeans with the knees worn out. Maybe they were going to an evening monster truck rally, or something.

Then she remembered her conversation with Shirley at lunchtime. No, not a monster truck rally. A Berkeley student was likely to have more intellectual hobbies. Maybe he and his date were going to an anti-war demonstration, or a foreign movie, or a raw-food restaurant.

Remembering that she was still holding the cardboard box, she hurried to the kitchen and got a sharp knife. Forgetting Ian's plans, she found her hand trembled slightly, and she had to wait a moment before carefully slicing through the fragile brown tape and lifting off the lid. Then she stood, staring down at its contents.

Chapter Six

Paisley's heart sank as she took in the box's interior. No jewels. Nothing but an old doll with a cracked china head and soiled clothes, a child's tea set, a molding bird's nest, and a folded letter. The treasure was nothing but a cache of sentimental keepsakes, valueless to anyone but the person who had put them there.

Shoving aside her disappointment, she picked up the doll and examined it. The stuffing in the cloth body was coming out, and the lace on the once-pink dress was torn and filthy, as if someone had dragged it through a ditch. The porcelain head smiled coquettishly up at her. She turned the doll over, wondering idly how old it was. Seventy-five years? A hundred? She had seen something like it on Antiques Roadshow once that had been in far better condition. This one might fetch twenty bucks. If that much.

Then her eye fell on the letter, and her interest rose slightly. The thin faded-blue paper, almost like tissue, was folded over in such a way that it served as an envelope as well as stationery. She carefully opened it and experienced her second stab of disappointment. The tiny, precise handwriting was in a foreign language she didn’t recognize. Even the shape of many of the letters were unfamiliar.

She put the envelope back in the box without bothering to take out the china tea set. Like the doll, it was cracked and obviously worthless.

She set the box on a shelf in her bedroom closet, then rested her forehead against the newly painted door, trying to overcome her disappointment, which was made keener by an even more unpleasant sensation of guilt. She was uncomfortably aware that she had been unfair to Ian. He had gone to the trouble to save the box for her, although he had obviously been as curious as she was.

Why hadn't he opened it? She suspected most workmen might not have hesitated to look inside. Had there valuables inside, he could have kept it, and she would never have known about the discovery. But he had not looked. The old, fragile tape had remained intact, the thick layer of dust a testament to his honesty.

A voice inside whispered she should have allowed Ian to share the excitement of opening the box with her. It would have cost her nothing. Her refusal seemed ... selfish. Maybe that's what greed did to a person, she thought with a sudden pang of self-loathing. She had hoped Ruth's jewels were inside the box, and she had wanted to hoard the discovery to herself. To think Shirley had called her a
mensch
!

Tomorrow
, she thought. Tomorrow she would show Ian the box's contents. That would salve her conscience, and redeem herself in his eyes. She did not ask herself why that should matter. It just did.

#

The next day, however, Paisley's resolve wavered. She had remembered something she had overlooked in her burst of sentimentality last night: Ian was working under false pretenses. Weren't there legal ramifications for remodeling without a license? All the work might have to be torn down and done over, and she had neither the time nor the money for that.

But as she looked around at the renovations that had taken place, they appeared to her untrained eye to have been done beautifully. No, she decided, there was no reason to report him to whomever one was supposed to report such things to.

When Ian's work crew arrived, Ian's expression was reserved. The "hot date" didn't seem to have improved his mood.

From her vantage on the front porch, she watched him walk up the path, his helpers behind him. As a means of atonement for her rudeness, she had arisen early and baked muffins using a recipe she had found in the old cookbook from the pantry, and the house smelled heavenly. The golden-topped muffins were studded with plump blueberries she had plucked from one of the bushes in the back yard.

As Ian approached and saw the basket of muffins waiting on the side table by the front door, his reserved expression brightened. "Hey, these look homemade!" he said, bending over and sniffing. "I wouldn't have thought you were the type of woman who cooks/."