The Pickle Boat House (26 page)

Richard slapped his hand down on the paper, stopping its progress across the table. “The money,” he said.

“Oh, yes, thanks for reminding me. I almost forgot,” Hector said with a snicker, pulling an envelope from his coat pocket and handing it to Richard.

Richard took the envelope and frowned at the size. “What the hell is this?”

“You don’t really think I’d be carrying around six million dollars in cash, do you? Do you have any idea how much that amount of money
weighs
? No, probably not.” Hector tapped the envelope with his index finger. “Inside you’ll find the name of a bank in the Cayman Islands, and an account number. The account is in your name. A call from me, when I leave here, will initiate a deposit into the account. You can draw from the account, but don’t try to transfer the money in large amounts to a U.S. bank. Keep the deposits under ten thousand dollars to avoid triggering an alert to the Treasury Department. We’d like to keep this below the radar. Any questions?”

“Nope.”

Hector extended his hand. “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Hardy.” Hector slid the notarized document into his jacket pocket and, together with the little bald fellow, disappeared just as quickly as he had arrived.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
SURVEYING THE SITUATION

Across town at the pickle boat house, Van and Jean started working their way through Mrs. Morgan’s boxes.

Van yanked several notebooks out of the box and handed one to Jean. “Dig in,” she said. “Now, you know what you’re looking for, right? Just don’t get disappointed if it’s really goofy odds and ends.”

About an hour later, they had emptied the boxes—boxes full of charming notes about local sightings of bluebirds and hummingbirds, what the Morgans did on their vacations over the course of their extraordinarily long marriage, and other random observations—all meticulously documented in Mrs. Morgan’s lovely old-fashioned handwriting.

“Well,” Jean said a little peevishly, “I was hoping for a little more excitement: antique jewelry, stocks, bonds, maybe a treasure map or two …”

“We’re talking about Mrs. Morgan here, remember?” Van replied, refilling the last box of junk. “I didn’t expect to find anything, but thanks for the motivation. At least now we can say we looked everywhere. Come on, let’s get out of here. It’s much too depressing right now.” They pushed the boxes back against the wall and were halfway down the hallway when they heard a dull thud upstairs.

“What the hell was that!” Van gasped, pressing herself back against the wall and backing away from the staircase.

“Who’s up there?” Jean hissed, tripping over her own feet in her haste to get out of Van’s way.

“Shh.” Van pulled her grandfather’s walking stick out of its place in the umbrella stand, and before Jean could grab hold of her, she tiptoed quietly up the stairs. She hesitated at her bedroom door. “What the … Why is there plaster and horsehair all over my bedroom floor?” Her heart beat wildly as she crept slowly forward. “And a huge hole in my ceiling?”

Jean peered around Van’s shoulder but looked ready to hit the stairs at a gallop if necessary. “No one’s here? All this water—it looks like a water balloon exploded.”

Van crept farther into the room until she could look up through the hole. “Oh, my God. I see blue sky and a tree branch. There’s a
tree branch
sticking out of my roof!”

“The
derecho
? The branch that hit the deck—it bounced off your roof first? Oh, sweet relief! I thought someone was robbing you.” Jean wrapped her arm around Van. “It’s okay, hon. That’s what insurance is for. I’ll get a mop.”

“Ew, look, there’s even shingles in this mess,” said Van, getting down on the floor. “And a box. Where did
this
come from?” she asked, peering back up into the ceiling.

“The attic?”

“Pickle boat house doesn’t have an attic. You don’t suppose that …”

“That you have an attic you don’t know about?”

“Nah, not possible, but maybe a space just big enough to store a few things. I’ll get the ladder. There’s a lock on here. See if you can figure out how to open this box.”

Van’s ladder gave a bird’s-eye view of the poplar branch impaling her roof. “It’s wet up here. Rainwater must have puddled between the rafters until the plaster couldn’t hold the weight.” Van waved her flashlight around in the space and let out a low whistle. “There’s other boxes up here. Jean, I’m not sure I can get to them. You’re gonna have to help me. Climb up and hold on to me.”

“Not happening.”

“Huh?”

“I’m afraid of heights. There’s no chance I’m coming up that ladder.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Jean, get up this ladder before I come down there and make you wish you had. I am so serious. Don’t make me come down there after you; it won’t be pretty. Now, sister!”

Jean looked up the ladder and shook her head. “Really, Van, I don’t think I can. The last time I went up I came down a whole lot faster.”

“Close your eyes and don’t look down. Come on, Jean. I really need you right now. Please? Just two steps.”

Jean grimaced and put her foot on the bottom rung. “Only for you, Van.” Slowly, with her eyes closed, face taut with fear, she inched her way up until she could steady Van. Between the two of them, they wiggled and jiggled the two boxes until they were down and sitting safely on the living room floor.

“Why would anyone put boxes up there where no one could find them?” Jean asked, opening the bigger cardboard box.

I don’t think they wanted them found. Maybe whatever’s in here is too important to share with just anyone.”

“Let’s try this again. Anything that talks about land in Nevis, pull it. Set it aside. We can decide later if it’s going to do us any good.”

Jean rolled her eyes and pulled open the first notebook. And the second and the third, right on down through the box, without so much as a second glance at most of the documents: shipping invoices, indentures, births, death reports. In the end, she dumped the last one back into the box. “Sorry, Van, nothing here except lots of dead people.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I had such high hopes—make that one last hope.” She pulled the last few loose papers out of the bottom of the box, preparing to shove them into the last ledger, when the name “Hardy” caught her eye.

“Stop. Hardy document.” She scanned down the page. “Court proceeding, delinquent tax payment. This is a judgment against Coleman Hardy (alias Harwell). ‘Given failure to pay taxes assessed against the property called Nevis Landing, cited in previous tax assessment … property seized to be sold for payment of taxes in arrears … title to the old property transfers to the purchaser at the time of sale … right of ownership to revert at any time within sixty days to former owner provided former owner pays purchase price …’” Van sat back on her haunches. “Coleman Hardy lost ownership of Nevis for failure to pay taxes? This is a miracle.”

She pulled a small hard-bound book from the bottom of the box. A title was written in neat capitals across the top: “
Hardy and Affiliated Families, 1679 to Present. Presented to Alfred Hardy on the occasion of his eightieth birthday, by his loving daughter, Betsey Seagle
.” Van flipped through the book and found an index in the back. Running her finger down the page, she stopped at an entry for Coleman Harwell (alias Hardy). “Jean, there’s a whole section on Coleman Hardy in here. Wow, look at the family trees.” Van stopped and glanced at Jean. “This is awesome!”

“Aw,” said Jean, sticking her finger between the last page and the cover. They used cute little kid drawings of Nevis for the end papers. It’s a map. Look.”

“Jean, that’s not a kid’s pictures. It’s a survey map … signed by
G. Washington
? Dated 1785? Get out! These are signed by
George Washington
! “Not only did he
sleep
here, he
surveyed
the place!” She flipped to the endpaper at the front of the book. This one’s not a map; it’s like a pictograph … a drawing of houses … some notes on the bottom.”

“This couldn’t be Nevis, could it?”

“It’s hard to tell. I thought the pickle boat house was one of the older houses in town. The houses on Main Street don’t look old, but then again, colonial Williamsburg hid in plain sight for over a century. We need something to compare.”

“Don’t you have any old pictures in the museum?”

“No. Nothing that would show an area this broad. Just references to the town that I used to make the model in the museum. The model … Jean, you’re brilliant!” Van squealed, lunging at Jean and giving her a big bear hug. “HYA can’t tear down or hide in a historic town, especially one surveyed by the father of our country! Come on. Let’s check the model. I can’t wait to see the look on Ryan’s face.”

When they got back to the Phoenix, Ryan was in his office, brooding about Richard and Hector.

“Ryan, we need to talk. Now,” said Van, bouncing with excitement. “We found something that’s going to save Nevis.” She handed him the court document. “It looks like Coleman Hardy may not have been able to hold on to his Nevis property. He had tax problems. This says the property was seized and sold for nonpayment of taxes. I skimmed parts of the book. It discusses him losing his fortune shortly after he inherited it. If we can find documents verifying that various parcels were subsequently sold and not reclaimed by Coleman, we can make it very difficult for HYA to make an offer to a single descendant.”

Ryan ran his finger down the page, backtracking occasionally, all the while muttering under his breath.” Suddenly he looked up and grinned at Van. “Life is so good,” said Ryan, nodding as an exuberant smile spread across his face. “Peggy appears to be firmly in our corner. I’ll get her to comb the land records to see if the land was sold—whether Hardy was able to reclaim any of it. It’s not exactly her area of expertise, but she has the patience and skill to look through a lot of records quickly.”

“Ryan, it gets better. As I suspected, Mrs. Morgan’s boxes were full of worthless musings. But when we were at the house, part of my bedroom ceiling collapsed. There’s a hole in my roof, probably from the
derecho
. Half my upstairs ceiling has collapsed and there were boxes hidden up in the rafters.
Good
boxes! Besides the tax document, there was also this family genealogy book with Coleman Hardy in it. Open it up and check out the end papers.”

Ryan studied the book for a few moments, then looked up at her. “No way!
George Washington?
This is real?”

“Right time frame. Hidden away in someone’s attic? Could be authentic. Flip to the end paper in the front. It’s a pictograph. These colonial houses pictured here may still be on Main Street. The model at the museum shows turn-of-the-century buildings in the same location—a similar block of structures. It’ll take more digging by somebody that knows what they’re doing. False fronts, additions—all kinds of architectural changes can mask older structures. I’ll contact someone I know down at the Smithsonian. If we can designate this area as historic, HYA is screwed.

“Okay,” said Jean, but I still don’t understand why they hid and left them.”

“Guess we’ll never know. Perhaps they weren’t even supposed to be hidden—just tucked away for safekeeping. My granddad died suddenly out on the bay. Maybe he never got a chance to tell anyone else. I doubt my grandmother got involved in his business dealings. Granddad was very respected in the community. Maybe he was a keeper of the flame.”

“Maybe he knew he’d have a granddaughter who cared,” said Ryan, giving Van a hug. “You’re probably more like your grandfather than you know.”

“That would be nice,” said Van, beaming. With a whoop, she threw her arms around Ryan’s neck and pulled an embarrassed Jean into their embrace. “We’ve won, Ryan! Now they’ll have to leave us alone!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A WHISPER BY NIGHT

“More flowers. When is this all going to end?” Jean asked as she hurried across the room with yet another vase. Ever since opening night, flower arrangements had been trickling in from well-wishers. This one was uncommonly elaborate, made entirely of white: bell flowers, delphiniums, lilies of the valley, white roses and orchids. A small flock of black origami cranes fluttered in among the petals in stark contrast to the white. And at the top of the entire arrangement perched a crane-shaped card, gleaming black as hematite.

“Your choice. Go to it, Jean,” said Ryan, waving his arm around the room. But as she passed him by, his demeanor changed immediately. “Wait, come back,” he said, his hand darting out to grab the arrangement.

“Oops … hang on. Damn, Ryan, I’m gonna drop it!” Only Ryan’s quick reflexes kept it from crashing to the floor.

“When did this come in?” he said, lifting the arrangement out of Jean’s hands. “Who brought it?”

“Harpers delivered it just a minute ago. No sender, unless it’s in the card. Problem, Ryan?”

“
Jeesh,
I’m sorry Jean. I didn’t mean to rip your arm off. This is spectacular. Let me have it. I think I’m going to put it in my office until I find out who sent it. Be right back.”

Jean frowned and shot a sidelong glance at Van, who merely raised her eyebrows and shrugged.

Ryan wasted no time in getting back into his office and locking the door behind him. He set the arrangement in the center of his desk and then backed up until he hit the filing cabinet behind him. Origami cranes. HYA was calling. He ran the back of his hand across his brow and exhaled deeply. Slowly he walked forward and drew the card from the center of the arrangement. It read “Would like the pleasure of a meeting with you at the Phoenix tonight at nine o’clock. Looking forward to discussing present and future success.” He looked at his watch. It was almost eight.

He put the card back in the flowers. It had been a pipe dream to think that he could shake free of HYA. He had been reckless and scattered in his negotiations, accepting Hector Senior’s agreement at face value. What a mistake. A whisper by night and a shadow by day—HYA operated without a face. He didn’t even know the price for walking away. He could only hope that it would be quick and relatively painless. Could he, in good conscience, answer? Circling around the desk, he unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled out the little five-shot revolver, checked that it was loaded, and put it in his pants pocket. One thing he was sure about: he would not be used and discarded as Earl had been. He relocked the drawer and returned to the public area of the tavern.