Paper Treasure (2 page)

“How come your mother looks Chinese and you don’t?”

“Joseph Bradford!” declared his mother.

Charlie glared at his brother, but Lisa laughed. So did her mother, her almond-shaped eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That’s because you haven’t met my husband yet,” she said.

Joey looked puzzled.

“My father’s Caucasian,” explained Lisa.

“White,” Charlie translated.

“Oh,” said Joey.

“So,” continued Lisa, “I’m fifty percent Chinese and fifty percent Caucasian.”

“Which makes her one hundred percent Canadian,” added her mother proudly.

“Just like me,” said Joey.

“That’s right.”

The second they leave, I’ll kill him, fumed Charlie as he watched Joey polish off his milk and head for the door.

His mother set her cup and saucer down on the coffee table. “Charlie, why don’t you and Lisa take those magazines up to your grandfather’s study.” She pointed to a stack of old
Northern Miners
and
Canadian Geographics
leaning precariously against the wall. “I can’t think what they’re doing down here anyway.”

“Sure. Okay with you, Lisa?”

“Sure.”

Charlie and Lisa divided the pile between them and headed for the stairs.

Malcolm Rossitor’s study was Charlie’s favourite room in the house. When he was little, he used to spin the globe with his eyes closed. Then he’d stop it with his finger and try to guess which continent he was touching before he opened his eyes.

Once he’d had his finger on France, and his grandfather had told him all about World War Two and how he and five other Canadian soldiers had hidden in a barn in France for two days surrounded by enemy troops.

“Weren’t you scared?” Charlie had asked him.

“Aye,” said his grandfather, “but when you’re with your friends even the worst times don’t seem so bad.”

Charlie set the magazines down on the table inside the door, crossed over to the globe and gave it a spin.

“Wow,” said Lisa. “Your grandfather sure had a lot of books.” She eyed the floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining two of the walls. “Was he a teacher or something?”

“No,” said Charlie. He opened his eyes and lifted his finger. California. Not even close. “He was a bank manager. Geology was his hobby. He used to go rock collecting and stuff like that.” Chunks of amethyst and crystal and samples of a variety of rocks and minerals lay interspersed amongst the books.

“My dad collects stamps.”

“Does he?” Charlie sat at his grandfather’s roll top desk. “There might be some interesting stamps lying around here. Grampa used to get postcards and letters from all over.”

He rolled up the slatted top and revealed the dozen cubby holes, little drawers and a writing area that had been hidden beneath the desk’s cover.

“Neat,” said Lisa. She leaned over and slid one of the little drawers in and out. “Does it have a secret compartment?”

“Nah, Joey and I already looked. Wait a minute, what’s this?” Charlie tugged at a corner of black leather wedged in the back behind a box of envelopes. It was his grandfather’s little note book. He used to keep it in his shirt pocket because, as he used to tell his grandson, “you never know when something’s important.”

Charlie flipped idly through the pages. Oil change on the 19
^th
of April. Joey’s birthday. Buy stamps. And then the last entry. On Wednesday, May 23. The day before he died.

Charlie cleared his throat.

“Are you okay?” asked Lisa.

He shook his head. “The last entry in my grandfather’s notebook....” his voice caught. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Why? What’s it say?” Lisa peered over his shoulder.

“Must go to the Colville Nursing Home and see Weirdo. The old coot might know something.”

“Who’s Weirdo?” asked Lisa.

“One of Grampa’s old army buddies.”

“So what’s funny about him wanting to see one of his old friends?”

“Dad once told me Grampa hadn’t spoken to Jack Weir in almost twenty years.”

“Well they must have made up,” reasoned Lisa, “or he wouldn’t have been planning to see him.”

“Yeah, but why after all this time?”

Charlie stared at his grandfather’s familiar scrawl. “I wonder if it has anything to do with the book.”

“What book?” asked Lisa.

Charlie filled her in on the missing pages from
Rocks and Minerals in Canada
.

“Why don’t you ask your father? Maybe he knows.”

Charlie shook his head. “Dad left last night for Toronto. He won’t be back until the weekend.”

“Then why don’t you ask Weirdo?”

“Hi, guys, whatcha doing?”

Charlie slammed shut his grandfather’s diary and shoved it to the back of the desk as Joey bounded into the room.

“I thought you were playing outside.”

“I was. It started to rain.”

Lisa glanced out the window. The sun was still shining, but a fine sheet of rain was slanting across the afternoon sky. She looked at her watch.

“I’d better get going. It’s almost five.”

Charlie stood up. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

“Me, too,” said Joey.

Charlie gritted his teeth.

“I’ll tell you what, Joey,” said Lisa, bending down and giving him a dazzling smile, “why don’t you go ahead and see if my mother’s still here.”

“Okay, Lisa.” Joey raced for the stairs.

“Smooth move,” said Charlie.

“I babysit.”

“Look. If I decide to go and see Weirdo, do you want to come?”

“I’d love to,” said Lisa. “But don’t you have to look after your brother?”

Not if I can help it, thought Charlie. “I’ll call on you tomorrow morning,” he said and followed her out of the room.

The summer was shaping up after all.

Chapter Three

The Old Coot

Essie Lovell was outside sweeping stray chestnut leaves off her porch when a man in his forties seemed to come out of nowhere. He strolled up her front walk.

“Mrs. Lovell?”

“Yes,” she answered cautiously.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Lovell stopped sweeping and took a closer look at her visitor. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He wore glasses with dark, smoky lenses, and was conservatively dressed – probably a salesman, she thought. She’d hear what he had to say, and then politely tell him she wasn’t interested.

“My name’s Reid,” he said. “I’m visiting Colville on a buying trip. I collect old certificates and papers for antique dealers in Toronto and Montreal.”

Mrs. Lovell thought it over. “What kind of certificates?” she asked.

“Old shares, stock certificates, bonds. That type of thing.’

He edged a little closer to the porch. “You’d be surprised what people collect.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“I found your name on an old shareholders’ list. I thought maybe you’d have something that might interest my clients.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Lovell. “My husband used to look after everything like that.”

She felt a familiar, furry sensation around her ankles. Benjamin Bunny was scratching his chin against the sides of her orthopedic shoes.

“Nice cat,” said her visitor conversationally. “Is he yours?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lovell, “this is my Benjamin Bunny.”

She bent down and stroked his flank.

Benjamin arched his back in response, and padded down the porch steps to sniff out the stranger.

Reid dismissed the cat with a perfunctory pat on the head, and continued his sales pitch. “Some people toss out their old certificates, thinking they’re worthless, but they’re not. Collectors will pay a few hundred dollars for old mining shares, for example.”

Benjamin kept rubbing himself against Reid’s leg. Reid brushed irritably at the fur the cat was leaving behind on his slacks.

“A few hundred dollars?”

“That’s right.”

Benjamin lost interest and moved away.

“Mining shares have a lot of historical value,” continued Reid.

Mrs. Lovell thought it over. A few hundred dollars would be useful, especially if she planned to stay in the house another winter. The furnace needed work, and there was a small leak in the roof that threatened to get bigger.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said finally. Her friend Dorothy had fallen for an investment scheme last year and lost all her money. Essie Lovell intended to be more prudent.

“How much did it cost you?” asked Lisa as they headed east along King Street.

“My entire allowance. I promised to take him to the show tonight, and buy him popcorn and a drink – watch out for the sprinkler.”

A spray of water swung into their path, leaving a pattern of dark splotches in its wake.

“I’d say your brother has a great future ahead of him.”

“As what? A con artist or a blackmailer?”

Lisa giggled. “He’s not that bad.”

“Yeah? You try living with him seven days a week.”

Charlie adjusted his backpack and glanced over his shoulder in case they were being tailed by any seven-year-old boys wearing purple reflector sunglasses. The coast was clear.

“How much further?” asked Lisa.

“About three blocks,” said Charlie. He’d called the nursing home that morning to get directions and find out about visiting hours.

Lisa checked her watch. “It’s almost eleven. We’d better hurry if we’re going to see Weirdo before lunch.”

According to the brass plaque by the front entrance, the Colville Nursing Home had once been a private home, built in 1853 by a wealthy ship owner. He must have watched his ships ply the lake from the top gable, thought Charlie as he craned his neck for a better view of the old stone mansion.

Lisa was holding the door open for him, so he hurried up the front steps and inside to the main hall. It felt at least five degrees cooler now that they were out of the late-morning sun.

They crossed the marble foyer to where an official-looking woman sat behind the reception desk. After a moment or two, she raised her head and peered at them over the top of her half-moon glasses.

“Yes, can I help you?”

“We’d like to see Mr. Weir,” said Charlie.

“Are you a relative?”

“No.”

“A friend?”

“Sort of,” said Charlie.

The woman pursed her lips.

“He’s actually a friend of my grandfather’s,” Charlie added. “At least he was.”

“I’ll check and see if he wants visitors today,” said the receptionist. She picked up the phone. “There was a man here the other day, said he was a relative. Mr. Weir got very upset, said he’d never seen him before.”

“You can’t be too careful,” said Lisa nudging Charlie with her foot.

The receptionist entered a number and then waited a few moments before replacing the receiver.

“There’s no answer in his room. He’s probably in the sunroom.”

She gave them another once-over as if sizing up their sincerity. “I guess you can go ahead.” She pointed down the hall to her right. “Take the staircase at the end of the corridor to the second floor. The sunroom will be on your left.”

“Thank you,” said Charlie.

They walked quickly down the hallway before she could change her mind.

“How are we going to know which one he is?” asked Lisa as they pounded up the stairs.

“Good point.” Charlie stopped on the landing and thought about it. “My grandfather showed me an old picture once. Taken after the Second World War. Weirdo was the smallest of the bunch.”

“They all look like little old men,” whispered Lisa as they hovered uncertainly just inside the sunroom door. “Let’s ask that woman over there.”

They threaded their way through half-a-dozen residents to where a pink-smocked volunteer was helping an elderly man piece together an elaborate jigsaw puzzle.

“Excuse me,” began Charlie, “we’re looking for Jack Weir.”

The woman scanned the room. “That’s him,” she nodded, “over by the window in the corner.”

The old man was sitting stiffly in his wheelchair, a blanket over his knees despite the heat, staring out at the grounds below.

“Mr. Weir?” Charlie asked tentatively.

No answer.

“I don’t think he heard you,” said Lisa.

“Mr. Weir?” Charlie tried again, louder.

“Stop shouting. I heard you the first time. What’s the matter?” Jack Weir swung his wheelchair around and faced his visitors belligerently. “You think I’m deaf or something?”

“No, sir,” stammered Charlie.

“Well, who are you? And what do you want?”

Charlie’s tongue seemed to have swollen about ten times its normal size. He felt like an idiot.

“I, that is, we, wanted to ask you a few questions…I’m Charlie Bradford and this is Lisa Kirby.”

“How do you do,” said Lisa.

“Bradford, Bradford,” muttered the old man. “Don’t know anybody named Bradford.”

“Actually,” said Charlie, “you knew my grandfather.”

“Who’s that?” Mr. Weir asked.

“Malcolm Rossitor.”

The old man scrunched his eyes warily. “He’s dead.”

“Yes, sir,” said Charlie. “He died a couple of months ago.”

“So what’s that got to do with me?”

“Didn’t you two used to be friends?” asked Lisa.

Mr. Weir’s expression softened. “That was a long time ago,” he said gruffly.

“During the war?” prompted Charlie.

“He told you about that, did he?”

“Yes, sir.”

Charlie waited for the man to continue.

“I suppose he told you there were six of us. Me, your grandfather, Herb Lovell, Louis Gagnon, Fraser Hamilton and old Archie Spencer. We were all in the same unit.” He stopped abruptly. “You said you wanted to ask me some questions. What about?”

“Well, actually I’m not really sure,” Charlie began. “I thought you and my grandfather weren’t…um, weren’t exactly friends anymore….”

“We weren’t.”

“But he wrote in his diary that he was planning to come and see you. Why would he do that if you weren’t friends?”

“Who knows? Your grandfather was a crazy old coot.”

“Yeah, well he thought you were an old coot too,” replied Charlie hotly.

“At least he wasn’t stuck in some fool nursing home,” fumed the old man. Then suddenly he started to chuckle.