She spoke to the room at large, just to let whatever it was know she would follow through on this odd situation.
“Tomorrow I’ll bring a crowbar or something and get Carl to help me pry that plywood away,” she said, hastily reaching for her keys and purse as she sidled toward the back door, just in case the entity was of an impatient nature. “And I’ll see what it is old Valente had to hide.”
* * *
Fiona had no help from Carl the next day—for he’d called, explaining that he had the unexpected chance to meet with an historian from Williamsburg who was visiting the Henry Ford Museum across the state about a topic in his dissertation. Her head began to swim when he went on to describe the details—something to do with the way the floorboards in Colonial homes were laid compared to those in England—and Fiona cut him off and told him not to worry about it.
But much as she wanted to, she wouldn’t wait for his return. Despite her nervousness, she was dying to know what was behind that wall…and aside from that, she felt as if she’d made a promise to whoever or whatever was in the shop.
Fiona locked the front door of the store so that any arriving customer wouldn’t surprise her, then she hurried back to the little alcove under the stairs.
Hefting the crowbar, she glanced around to see Gretchen watching her avidly from a step halfway down the stairs. Her amber eyes seemed to glow with anticipation, rather than appearing sleepy or miffed as they usually did.
“Well, I hope I’m not about to make a fool out of myself over nothing,” Fiona murmured, shoving one end of the crowbar under the bottom of the wall.
She heaved and immediately felt the flimsy wood give. She heaved again and it cracked, splintering along near the floor. She found the seam between two thin pieces of plywood and shoved the crowbar between them. They came apart easily, splitting along under the thick paint job that hid the woodwork.
By the time she pulled a good chunk of plywood away, a dark hole yawned behind it and Fiona felt vindicated. There was some kind of room or storage area behind there, under the stairs, and obviously it contained something with a yellow feather.
Perhaps it was some old clothing—hats or costumes—and she might be able to sell it to a vintage clothing store. Or—she wrinkled her nose against the dust as much as from the thought—the feather could be attached to some victim of a taxidermist.
A rattling at the front door drew her attention from her task, and Fiona whirled to look toward the front. Sighing, she pushed a spiral of hair out of her face, tucking it back into the loose twist at the back of her head, and let the crowbar fall onto the floor. Dusting her hands over the jeans she’d chosen to wear today, she hurried to greet the customer at the locked door.
By the time she got to the front, though, no one was there, and she tsked in annoyance at the unnecessary interruption—and the potential loss of a customer.
She started back toward her project, pausing at the desk to grab a flashlight, and felt her stomach tingling. She couldn’t help but remember those Nancy Drew books she’d read growing up.
The titian-haired sleuth peered into the cavernous darkness, her flashlight beam glancing off the walls. The secret had to be there—the last clue to the Mystery of the Antique Light! Nancy’s pulse quickened when the flashlight illuminated a metal chest in the far corner….
Fiona smirked to herself as she thrust first the flashlight into the hole, followed by her head.
Then she screamed.
Nine
“Mr. van der Bloest,the contract can be revised,” Gideon repeated for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. He was able to keep his voice smooth, but the back of his jaw ached. “It’s not an unusual circumstance at all. It—”
A light tap on his door interrupted him, and, with an apologetic glance at the fussy, skinny man with him, he called, “Yes?”
Claire cracked the door and poked her silvery blond head in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Ms. Murphy is here. She says she needs to see you as soon as possible.”
Gideon felt his heart lighten, and he almost smiled. But, then, remembering himself, he kept his face placid. He wasn’t surprised that she’d come crawling back…only that it had taken her a week to do so.
“We don’t have an appointment, do we, Claire? If not, then I’m afraid she’ll have to wait until I’m finished with Mr. van der Bloest—or come back at another time.” It wouldn’t do to give her the impression that she had the ability to get him to drop everything to see her—even though that was precisely what he most wanted to do.
Did he imagine it, or did Claire—his ultra-professional, poker-faced assistant—give him a nasty look? “Mr. Nath, she appears rather distressed….”
“She always looks that way.” Gideon waved it off with a casual gesture, but he felt a prickle of concern. He expected Claire to take that as a dismissal and to handle Fiona—as she did all of his other situations, but she did not.
“Mr. Nath, I apologize for belaboring this,” she cast a smile at the fidgeting Mr. van der Bloest, “but Ms. Murphy expressed her need to see you immediately…and if you weren’t available, she requested that I see her in to Mr. Nath, Senior.” The woman looked as though she’d actually tossed a trump card onto the table, a slight smugness playing about her face.
Gideon caught himself before he uttered the outraged exclamation that came to his lips. “I see.”
Apparently she wasn’t there to see him on a personal note—unless she was using his grandfather as a way to get to him. No, Gideon dismissed that thought immediately, Fiona was completely guileless. She wouldn’t do that.
Now concern washed over him, and he stood behind his desk. “Er—well, Claire, I—”
“I can certainly see to Mr. van der Bloest’s last minute items,” she stepped in smoothly. “I believe your meeting was almost over anyway.” She turned the full force of her attractive smile at the man, and Gideon saw the fussiness drain from his countenance to be replaced by a dazed, hungry look.
