Gemma gave her a look like,What if it’s not just decorative and contains a clue?
Alcohol sloshed over Colette's glass as she set it on the coffee table. Her liver was as hardy as Popeye and Gemma was convinced Colette would outlive them all. Colette approached, then planted her palms on her knees to study the compartment. “If you want to confirm that it’s just decorative, I’m willing to break it open.”
“We shouldn't damage the desk,” Mom said worriedly. “It's an antique. A family treasure.”
“Simmer down now,” Colette said. When she used that phrase she meant,No matter what you say I'm not going to change my mind.
Colette left the room. Mom fretted. Stevie smiled benignly.
Colette had an extensive tool collection she used to fix plumbing issues, car issues, and everything in between. She'd once reroofed a section of the house after a tree had fallen on it. She returned with a tiny crowbar, which she slid beneath the top lip of the compartment. She began to exert force. The wood creaked and squealed.
“I really don’t think,” Mom said, “you should damage that desk—”
“Simmer down now.”
“What?” Stevie asked.
It felt wrong to damage the desk. At the end of the day, though, if there was no key, Gemma was willing for Colette to damage it for the greater good.
One more squeal, then the top third of the small door broke off. “Wood glue will fix that right up.” Colette wedged two fingers inside, rooted around, and brought out a strip of paper. “Well well well.” Her peachy hair drifted in the warm air coming through the vent as she unfolded and read it. She handed it to Gemma.
“What does it say?” Mom asked.
“I don't know,” Gemma answered. “There are handwritten numbers and letters in groups, but they don't spell anything.” The bright white paper looked to have been snipped off a plain notepad or piece of printer paper. It wasn't brittle and the ink wasn't faded. She walked the paper over to her mom, who held it up so Grandpa Stevie could see it, too.
The four of them stood in positions that formed the points of a square. Gemma and Colette standing, the other two sitting.
“It’s some kind of code,” Colette said.
“Could it be shorthand?” Mom wondered. “Did Gracie use shorthand at her job?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Colette answered. “But maybe? I think shorthand was popular back during her working years.”
“Isn't shorthand made up of non-alpha-numeric symbols?” Gemma asked.
Mom shrugged. “I don't know.”
“You could call Dot,” Stevie suggested to his wife. “She was an expert at shorthand in her day.”
“Good thought.” Colette dug her phone from her purse and dialed.
The rest of them listened as she and her longtime friend exchanged greetings. “Look, Dot, I just found something unusual among my mom’s things. A piece of paper with writing on it that's in some type of code. If I take a picture of it and send you the picture, can you let me know if it’s shorthand? And if it is, can you translate it?”
She listened for a few moments, nodding. “Great. Thanks. Bye now.”
It took Colette no time to snap a photo of the scrap of paper and text it to her friend. And very little time for Colette's incoming text notification to chime. Colette slid on her reading glasses and peered at her phone. “It’s not shorthand.”
“How strange,” Mom said.
“I’m guessing,” Gemma speculated, “this piece of paperiswhat Gracie intended for us to find in her desk. But now I’m wondering why this was locked away, hidden. Why she wrote it in code. And how she knew this code if this code isn't shorthand.”
“Could Paul have been the one who wrote on the paper?” Stevie wondered.
The three women shook their heads. “This is definitely Mom's handwriting,” Colette said.
“Where do we go from here?” Mom asked.
“To Marigold Manor,” Gemma suggested, “to show this to Gracie.”
