Tom and I climbed up the stairs, crossed over to the other side—the one I’d deemed “the dark side”—and I flipped the switch that lit a naked overhead bulb. Despite its dust and grime, the dark side was my favorite, because it was where the warehouse, my work space, was located.
We climbed down another flight of stairs, these steps more rutted with wear than the others, and took the short hall back to the oversized and ornate red door. On the way we passed a small kitchenette and the toilet before we came upon this door that hid the secrets.
It hadn’t been long into my relationship with Tom that Edwin gave me permission to tell him about the warehouse. My landlords, Elias and Aggie, had also been invited in. For something that was such a big secret, a legend even, Edwin hadn’t hesitated to trust my judgment regarding who could be included in our small inner circle.
And even with the warnings about Tom and his love-’em-and-leave-’em ways, and my only knowing Elias and Aggie a short time, I hadn’t hesitated to trust them. So far my trust hadn’t been misplaced. I’d tried to quit worrying it might happen with Tom, that he’d “leave-’em” me, but every once in a while I’d look at my pub owner, become flummoxed by his cobalt eyes and the way he smiled at me, and think that somehow the universe wouldn’t want me to have him all to myself. It was best not to dwell on those worries.
I put the oversized blue skeleton key into the lock and turned three times to the left, unlatching the dead bolts inside.
Because it was the rule, once we were inside and after I flipped on the overhead lights, I relocked the door.
“Cold,” I said. “Sorry.”
“A wee bit like a dungeon, but in the best way possible.”
“Yep.” I smiled. I loved my dungeon.
Shelves lined the walls and, as on the light side, things were messy. However, I had a good grip on what was on most of the shelves. I’d inventoried, catalogued, preserved, and filed more over the last year than I had in all the years I’d worked at the museum in Wichita. The warehouse would always be Edwin’s, but it was mine too now.
“Over there,” I nodded as I checked my desk for messages and found one from Rosie, “are three shelves I haven’t done a thing with yet because I’ve been saving the hard parts for last and these seemed the most packed. If there are scalpels in here, they must be on one of those shelves. Be careful, though, there are some sharp points and edges, and if there really are scalpels, they might still be sharp enough to do damage.”
I looked closely at the message. It was from earlier today after I’d left the shop, and said: Birk needs you, Delaney. He says it’s life and death, but you know Birk.
I could imagine Rosie’s eye-roll. The “Birk” she was referring to was a friend of Edwin’s. I’d done some research for him, and though Edwin thought Birk took advantage of my skills too often, I’d come to enjoy his flamboyance and general outlook on life. He liked to have, to be, and to throw himself right into the middle of “fun.” I’d call him first thing in the morning.
Tom approached a shelf and moved a few large items, uncovering a small wooden chest on the end of one of the shelves.
“Seen this before?” he asked.
“I haven’t looked inside it yet,” I said.
I didn’t remember even noticing the small chest, but there’d been so much to explore that I might have just forgotten about it.
“Gold and doubloons inside this one, you think?” he asked as he carried it to my worktable. I also had an old desk that, true to the ad that I’d answered for the job, had seen the likes of Scottish kings and queens. I hadn’t become cavalier about working atop something with such history, but I wasn’t scared of it anymore. I’d acquired a roll of white newsprint and, as one would with a doctor’s exam table, I changed the paper frequently.
However, Tom was still wary of the desk, so much so that he’d cut a slightly larger path than normal around it. I watched him with the box and smiled at the fact that he’d never even consider setting it on the desk.
“Gold and doubloons are distinct possibilities,” I said.
I was curious enough to join him at the worktable.
There were sliding latches on three sides of the box. Two moved easily, but we had to use a small screwdriver to budge the last one. With one raised eyebrow and a conspiratorial smile that almost did me in, Tom raised the lid.
“How disappointing,” he said as we looked at the empty space inside.
“A nontreasure treasure chest,” I said.
“It’s a lovely wee box, though.”
“It is.”
I was glad there were no gold pieces inside the chest. Because of the combined natures of my boss and the warehouse itself, chances weren’t nil that there might be gold pieces nearby, particularly hidden in a small treasure chest.
Edwin had tried to allay my concerns about the value of his collections, but there was no escaping my upbringing. He’d always had money. I’d never been poor, but Kansas farm girls were taught more about sticking to a budget and using all parts of everything than Edwin ever had been. There was always something intimidating, magical but definitely intimidating, about the bigger discoveries.
We closed and relocked the box and then Tom put it back on the shelf before we resumed searching for scalpels. We
