Half-Moon Lake, page 10
There were cowboys—both on and off horses—and Indians of all kinds in a variety of poses; Civil War soldiers—both Union and Confederate; Victorian ladies with incredibly ornate hats and hairstyles; fierce dragons to Albert Einstein.
There was Sherlock Holmes and Watson, both smoking pipes, which struck me as funny—pipes smoking pipes. Over there, Abraham Lincoln was wearing his stovepipe hat and Winston Churchill was making his “V for victory” sign. There were Scottish lairds wearing tams, several wizards looking very Gandalf-ish, innumerable nudes in racy poses, every wild and domesticated animal imaginable, clowns, pirates, mermaids, kings and sheiks, a very Shakespearian looking Shakespeare, and mythical characters from Zeus to Bacchus. The list seemed endless. Some of these I remembered; some must have been added after Pat had taken me away. Some made me laugh out loud, and others made me shudder. Under the “shudder category,” there seemed to be way more than necessary numbers of skulls and Grim Reapers; as if my father had gone through a very dark time in his life and his pipe collecting reflected that.
It was definitely creepy.
I wanted to move back to the desk and files, but when I tried to step away, it felt as if an invisible hand held me there. My eyes were riveted on an especially hideous skull. Its grin was menacing, its empty eye sockets stared at me. A barefoot, winged demon sat behind the skull with his hand lying atop it in a protective manner. I shivered convulsively, but couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away.
I remembered that pipe. It was one that Kenna and I had never touched. We never dared. It was just too darn scary.
I stared at the hand that reached inside the case to carefully remove that pipe, startled to realize it was my own, but unable to control the action. As soon as the pipe was in my palm, I forced my eyes to look away. It took more effort than it should have…much more. My shaking legs barely got me to a chair before they collapsed. I could hear my heart thudding in my chest, and I concentrated on taking deep, even breaths.
My inner-Kate just cowered in a corner and stared, wide-eyed and pale, chewing a thumbnail into the quick. I expected her to say something…either cheer me on or berate me, but she kept silent, not encouraging me in either direction.
What in the world had just happened? It was as if the creepy pipe had used some sort of mystical magnetism, pulling my hand toward it until I picked it up. It sounded crazy, but crazy or not, that’s exactly what it had felt like. Okay…now what?
I squeezed my eyes shut and inhaled through my nose as deeply as I could before exhaling through my mouth. You can do this, Kate. Keep telling yourself that…you can do it. My pep-talk helped a little until I opened my eyes and looked at the pipe shaking in my hands, then I started to hyperventilate.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Get a grip! It’s a stupid pipe. That’s all…a pipe!
Evidently, I could add certain skull pipes to my phobia menu. It was something I’d never realized before, probably because I generally didn’t spend much time around meerschaum pipes shaped like skulls. And as soon as I figured out why I felt drawn to this one, it would be a very, very long time before I got close to it again. Never seemed like a good adverb to use.
After several minutes, I was able to get my breathing under control, but not my shaking. It started somewhere around my stomach and radiated out in all directions. Clamping my legs together so my feet would stay on the floor helped some, but the trembling travelled upward, to my shoulders, then down my arms. By the time it got to my numb hands, to my deadened fingertips, it was impossible to hold anything, and I watched the pipe flip through the air and hit the floor. There was a faint popping sound and then it bounced in two different directions.
Hold on! Two directions? Oh, no!
I broke it! No, no, no! A priceless collector’s item, now worthless. How could I be such a klutz? What should I do?
I dropped to my hands and knees and scrambled in search of the pieces. They weren’t hard to find. The larger of the two—the “bowl” part—had rolled in front of the cabinet that housed the rest of the collection. The stem now rested under my chair. Could they pop back together as easily as they’d come apart? There was only one way to find out.
My terror seemed to have subsided for the time being. I guess worrying about destroying an expensive piece of art tends to take one’s mind off something as trivial as phobias. My hands still shook, but it was different now…nerves rather than terror.
I studied the two parts carefully. In a perfect world, they’d snap back together and no one would be the wiser. But unfortunately, my world wasn’t perfect. The pieces looked like they should go together, but something was blocking the connection. Holding the stem up to the light, I squinted through it, and saw nothing but a circle of light at the other end. Next, I tried peering into the bowl, avoiding the empty eye sockets and hideous teeth. It was harder to see through this part since it curved upward, not allowing the light to shine through it like the stem. I went to the window and held it at an angle so the morning sun could shine down into the hole.
Hmmm… There’s the problem. Something was sticking out, blocking the stem from going in far enough to snap back together. I carefully tapped it against my palm, hoping to jar the obstruction loose. Nope, whatever it was, it was still in the way. I walked over to the desk and grabbed a letter opener out of the top drawer. Maybe this would do the trick.
Walking back over to the window, I eased the tip down through the narrow opening and prodded at the object. It wasn’t as easy as I’d thought it might be. The hole was just big enough for the letter opener to fit in; not big enough for any maneuvering room. My persistence finally paid off after several concentrated minutes of gentle digging. The offending article finally came loose and I shook it out into my hand.
It looked like a piece of paper.
It had been rolled into a tube shape so it would slide inside the pipe and be undetectable…unless one were dumb enough to drop the pipe and break it, that is. At any rate, it didn’t seem very smart to stick a piece of paper in a pipe. Wouldn’t it pose a fire hazard if someone tried to use the pipe for its intended purpose? Paper and flame? The two didn’t go together very well; not for long, anyway. Who would do something like that?
Wait! Maybe it was a message from my father.
I fully expected to hear a derisive snort or comment from my inner-Kate. Something like, “Don’t be ridiculous! It’s probably just one of those slips of paper that says: Inspected by #854.” But there was no snort. I glanced at the corner where I’d last seen her cowering and chewing her nails, but the corner was empty. Where in the world was she now?
Oh, well…I’d worry about that later. I had more important things to think about. Could this slip of paper really be from my father? A message? Some sort of clue, perhaps? There was only one way to find out.
My heartbeat picked up its pace again at the tiny possibility that this was my father’s voice from the grave. I needed to unroll that slip of paper, but before allowing myself to do so, I snapped the stem into the bowl, adjusting it so it angled correctly and almost ran to the cabinet to put the hideous thing back where it belonged.
Once that was done, I raced back to the desk, plopped down and began unrolling the scrap of paper. It was rectangular, only about an inch by three inches, but seemed brittle and I had to move slower than I wanted to. I could see something written on it, but ignored it, concentrating on unrolling the missive without breaking it to slivers. Why was it brittle? If it was from him, it couldn’t be that old. Maybe the tobacco residue from the inside of the pipe caused some sort of chemical reaction to the paper, making it this way, or maybe…the paper was older than I thought; not from my father at all, but from some much older source.
Whatever the case, I refused to allow myself to read whatever was written there until I was done. My heart was thudding again by the time I finally got it fully flattened on the desktop.
Four words were printed in all caps:
THE KEY IS “ELEMENTARY.”
Huh? I squinted at them in confusion. What kind of message was that? Was I supposed to know what that meant? Was it in code? Had I missed the decoder ring that went with it? Looking back inside the pipe was useless. There was nothing there.
I wasn’t sure how or really even why, but I was certain this cryptic message had been left for me by my father, but what did it mean? And how was I supposed to figure it out? Gee, thanks, Dad. I understand perfectly now. Everything is crystal clear. Thanks for the great clue!
I blew out a disgusted sigh and read the note again.
The key is elementary? And the word elementary was in quotes. Did that make it more important? Was I supposed to pay extra attention to that word?
Okay, think, Kate, think. How would the word elementary be used? Elementary…school? No. Elementary…algebra? Don’t be ridiculous! Elementary…education? Even more ridiculous. Hmmm. What else? Elementary…elementary, my dear Watson? Elementary…wait! Watson? Elementary, my dear Watson? Could that be it?
I scanned the curio cabinets until I found them. There—side-by-side—sat the Sherlock Holmes and Watson pipes I’d seen earlier. While my mind thought, “Which one?” my hand reached instinctively for the first one. Grabbing it, I headed back to the window where the bright sunlight streamed into the room. Not much could hide from light like that. It was too much to hope that another message would be hidden like the first—stuck down inside the bowl just waiting for me to find it, but I looked there first anyway.
Nothing.
Okay, what next? I turned the pipe carefully—no more than millimeters at a time—examining it from every angle.
I heaved a heavy sigh when I reached the point at which I started. Still nothing. Could my deduction of the clue have been wrong? Maybe I chose the wrong pipe…maybe I should’ve picked Watson. I’d give it one more thorough examination, then I’d try the other pipe.
I stared at it until my eyes burned, following dips and grooves in the intricate carving, searching for something…anything that looked a little different.
Wait! I was scrutinizing the groove alongside Sherlock’s pipe. Was it just a groove or something more? I flipped it so I could see the other side of his pipe. Yes! It was the same on that side too. I turned it upside down and studied the pipe from that angle. There seemed to be a tiny lip—just big enough for a fingernail to fit against. If I set my nail right…there…and pulled…
Sherlock’s pipe moved outward ever-so-slightly, causing me to gasp. I turned it back around so I could see the front and grinned. I was right. His little pipe slipped in so tightly that the seams on either side were all but invisible, completely hidden within the grooves. Hard to see even if one knew exactly where to look. I pulled a little harder, sliding out a tiny drawer from the bottom of Sherlock’s face, breathing a prayer of thanks that it hadn’t been the creepy skull that I was doing this to.
My heartbeat quickened once again when I tipped the pipe forward in order to peek into the opening. There, wedged down inside the little drawer, was a key. I shook it out into my palm, a grin spreading across my face.
I’d figured it out!
I gave a cocky wave toward the curio cabinet where the Watson pipe remained and used my best English accent. “By Jove, it was elementary, my dear Watson!”
My inner-Kate was back, hands fisted on her hips, head cocked to the side, and one plucked eyebrow arched as she tapped her toe impatiently. A key?
Ignoring her, I allowed myself a moment of self-congratulations before the thought struck me. What does this key unlock?
I was wondering how long it would take you.
“Shut up. I like you better when you’re quiet. Better yet, why don’t you go to wherever it is you keep going? And stay there!” I lifted the pipe for another inspection. “Maybe there’s a slip of paper hidden in here, too.” I ran a pinkie around the inside of the tiny drawer and my shoulders sagged in defeat. “Nope.”
Realizing Mrs. Davis could show up at any time with some excuse to check up on me, I decided to put Mr. Holmes back into his place, beside his partner, in order to avoid nosy questions. I slid the “hidden” drawer back into place, making sure I couldn’t tell that it had been moved, then put him back where he belonged and locked the case, slipping both the key for the curio and the secret key into my pocket. My father had gone to great lengths to hide the second one; there must’ve been a reason he hadn’t kept it with the others in the credenza. Until I discovered what it unlocked, I’d keep both keys with me, where I knew they’d be safe.
Until I discovered what it unlocked… The thought was sobering. How was I supposed to do that? There was no telling how many doors there were in this house and even if I lucked out and found the right door, what then?
Maybe there was another clue hidden in some of my father’s papers. I eyed the massive lateral files behind the desk with trepidation and sighed.
Yay…this was going to be a blast.
Chapter Seven
A soft knock at the door startled me. I glanced at my watch, surprised at how time had flown. It was already nearly one o’clock. No wonder my stomach was growling. Remembering where I was yesterday at this time—or more importantly…with whom—filled me with a sudden longing that I had to force into submission. I had work to do, and wayward thoughts like those wouldn’t help any.
“Come in.”
There was a moment of shuffling and fumbling outside the door, then Emory stuck his head in and smiled. “When you didn’t show up for lunch, I had Cook make you a tray. May I…?”
I set a stack of files on the corner of the desk and stretched. I was surprised that he seemed in such a good mood after I’d turned down his offer at breakfast. “You read my mind. I didn’t realize what time it was. I’m starved.”
He shouldered the door open, stepped through and closed it with his foot. “Good thing I asked her to make plenty then.” He set the tray on a coffee table that faced a leather sofa. “It’ll be more comfortable over here. You need a break from all that paperwork anyway.”
To be truthful, I was glad for the excuse to stand and get some blood circulating to certain parts of my anatomy, flattened from sitting so long. “Whew! I’ve got a bad case of FFS.”
“FFS?”
From the look on his face, he must’ve thought the letters stood for some terrible disease. I bit my lip to keep from laughing out loud, giving him a rueful smile, instead. “Don’t worry, Emory. It stands for ‘fanny fatigue syndrome.’ It’s a term Pat made up.”
His laugh boomed, disproportionately loud when compared to my little joke, but the room was cavernous, with high ceilings and hardwood floors. Not a lot to absorb sound, so it tended to echo a bit. I stared at him curiously for a moment before giving him the benefit of the doubt and joining in.
“Oh, Katelyn, you always were such a cut-up. I wish you could know how much I’ve missed you these past fifteen years. We have a lot of lost time to make up for. Here…eat.” He handed me a plate loaded with chicken salad and fresh fruit.
“Mmmm,” I groaned after taking a bite. “That’s delicious. I can taste the rosemary…one of my all-time favorite herbs. I think you could probably put it on just about anything and it would taste great. I love to add it to the recipe when I use my bread machine. The last fifteen minutes or so before it gets done, I almost drool myself to death.” I pointed to the salad with my fork. “Are there smoked almonds in this too?”
He shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m pretty ignorant when it comes to recipes. I can’t tell one ingredient from another, so I’m clueless as to what Cook uses.” He gave me a warm smile. “I’m glad you like it though.”
I returned the smile, studying him. As Pat would say, he was very nicely put together. Technically, he was more handsome than Levi, but there was something—I couldn’t really put my finger on it—but something about him put me slightly on edge. Maybe it was because he looked so much like his mother…that must be it. I was probably transferring Jessa’s creepiness to him. He was being the perfect gentleman.
I ate quietly for a few moments, missing the camaraderie of yesterday’s lunch with Levi. Emory wasn’t eating, and he stared at me so intently that it made me self-conscious and uncomfortable. As I sipped my glass of tea, my mind raced, grasping desperately at the first thing that popped into my head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it out to Biltmore with you and Jessa today.”
There was a flicker of some emotion in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly I didn’t have time to analyze it. Then he flashed me a smile so dazzling, I started questioning whether I’d seen it in the first place. Had I imagined it? I couldn’t tell.
“I completely understand, Katelyn. Patrick didn’t have a secretary, and his filing system leaves much to be desired. Just between us, I think the reason he didn’t hire a secretary is that he didn’t trust anyone. I know it will take you quite a while to get things into any semblance of order.”
I forked another bite of chicken salad into my mouth, chewing slowly as I thought about what he’d said. The little voice inside of me—the one that acted as a sort of warning system—was starting to mutter a little. How did he know about my father’s filing system? Had he gone through his papers? Had he been looking for something? And if so, what?
Stop being so suspicious, my inner-Kate snapped. Ever since you arrived at Half-Moon Lake, your phobias have taken on a life of their own. You’re paranoid about everything and it’s not a very attractive quality, so stop, already!
Even while my subconscious berated me, I couldn’t help thinking of the keys tucked in my pocket and fought the urge to check to see if they were still there.
Emory’s question interrupted my musings. “So, what did you do with yourself for the most of the day yesterday?”
“Oh, I wanted to explore the town before the crowds descended. I found the most amazing little shop—Kudzu’s—have you been there? Oh, what am I saying? You live here…of course you’ve been there. And you know that the lady who owns it also owns the restaurant beside it. That’s where I had lunch…and dinner, for that matter. I’m sure you know her son. I just found out we all grew up together, and that he was a close friend to me and Kenna.”
