Of passion. Unashamed and bold.
Of creativity. Mystical and awe-inspiring.
A woman of love. True and loyal.
You.
This poem, like many of his others, gave evidence of his romantic soul. He’d written the words on a simple sheet of unlined paper. She turned it over, exposing a sketch. Her father had often doodled scenes like this when deep in thought. This time, he’d drawn mountains, a stream, a pond.
“June?” Robbie called from downstairs.
“Be there in a minute,” June called back.
“May I take this home with me and return it to you the next time I see you?” Finley asked.
“Be my guest.”
“I’d like to have it photocopied so I can add it to my collection.”
“Of course.” June squeezed Finley’s hand. “Your dad told me that he wrote it for Carla before her death. He wasn’t quite happy with it. He’d wanted to edit it, but then she died in such a sudden and tragic way. He never had the chance to show the poem to her. He gave it to me later, when he was out on bail. He said he wanted me to have it so that it could serve as a reminder not to postpone things because you’re hoping for perfection. If he were here, I think he’d encourage us to go ahead and do and say the things we feel led to do and say.”
Tears stung the back of Finley’s eyes. “Amen.”
The drive home to Misty River cocooned Luke and Finley in shades of black as they racked their brains and talked in circles regarding possible clues stemming from their evening with her aunt and uncle.
Robbie had told them that the day before Carla died had been filled with horses, barbecue, talk radio.
At this point, they couldn’t see how talk radio might prove relevant.
Horses? Maybe. She’d had a horse when she was young, but they’d housed it at a friend’s stable. Her dad sold the horse during her high school years, and their friends sold the stable a few years later.
They could drive to Satterfield’s Barbecue to look for another public clue. But doing so would require the better part of a day, and she didn’t feel enthusiastic about that possibility, since she and her father had never been there together.
She scrutinized the sketch. She read the words of the poem out loud to Luke three times. They tried assembling the first letter of every word to see if it spelled out a clue. No. Then they tried stringing together the first letter of every line. No. Then they tried the first letter of every sentence. No.
“Why did your dad warn you not to tell Robbie or June that you were asking questions in connection to the hunt?” Luke wondered out loud. “To me, that means he didn’t trust them.”
“No,” she said immediately. “He trusted them. I think he said that because he intended this hunt for me and me alone because that was our tradition.”
“If so, he broke that tradition when he pulled me into the hunt.”
“True. I can’t explain that.” She pressed her thumb against the edge of the paper. “My dad sometimes did spontaneous things that he regretted later. He once bought a seven-night trip for the two of us to the Swiss Alps because he ran across a great deal. It was only later that we realized we were booked to go in March, but not during my spring break week. Not only was itvery cold in Switzerland at that time of year, but I also had to work on school assignments the whole time. I have to wonder if this treasure hunt was like that. I can picture him getting swept away by the excitement and drama of it all when creating the hunt.”
“But then, over the years, it occurred to him that this might not be the safest thing for his only child?” Luke sounded annoyed.
“In a word . . . Yes.”
“Then why didn’t he scratch the whole thing? He created this hunt years ago. He could have contacted Rosco Horton from prison and asked him to amend the will and throw away the first clue.”
“He must have still wanted me to have whatever he’s left for me at the end.”
“If so, he could have told you where to find it one of the times you visited him.”
“You’re right. He could have.” She sighed. “I don’t have any answers, and all of this speculating is making my head hurt.” She wanted two Advil and a cup of tea.
“Do you think your dad asked you to read the poem about Carla because Carla herself is the clue?” he asked.
“It could be. Are you thinking we should research Carla?”
