Page 20 of Home to the Hollow

Scanning the most recent stack, I frown. They appear to be written in code, though it doesn’t look like it’s all in the same code. Some sheets use symbols and pictures, some use a mix of words and numbers, and some are a potpourri of all three. Nothing looks even remotely familiar, and I’m fairly decent at cryptography. The first tech company I consulted for when I moved to Europe had me working for the head of their corporate espionage department to ferret out moles, and I had to spend six weeks in a training their new employees took to prepare for it. I won’t claim to be a code breaker, but my skills aren’t nil.

A quick glance through the other two stacks yields the same results, and I huff in irritation. This is fucking great. Apparently, my parents read too much Tom Clancy or some shit, and now I have to figure out what in the goddamned hell they were doing with old school encrypted documents hidden in their bedroom. Add that to the coded message and the puzzle box and I’m wondering if someone has teleported me into theDaVinci Code.

“Miss Jolene?”

The sound startles me, and I look over at the doorway where one of Niecy’s grandsons is standing. “Oh, Ellison. I’m sorry! I got absorbed in some of the stuff I found in my parents’ room. What can I do for you? Do you need help?”

He shakes his head, giving me a shy smile. “No, ma’am. Pop-pop wanted me to tell you we have the second load ready to go. We’re going to stop near the unit for lunch and then unload. He thinks we’ll be able to squeeze one more load in after that before Mimsy wants us home for dinner, but that should finish out the upstairs and the leftovers from the first floor.”

Smiling broadly, I walk over to him. “That’s fantastic. I’m so grateful to you boys for helping. I tried to hire someone, but Niecy insisted.”

“Oh, no, Ma’am. Mimsy would skin us alive if we didn’t help you out. She tells everyone that you were her practice grandchild.”

Chuckling, I nod. “That she does. Well, let me know if you need anything else. I have two more rooms to sort up there before the end of the day. Gene said you’d come back tomorrow while I’m out to get the trash box stacks.”

Ellison nods again and waves, taking off to help his brothers finish loading the truck.

Shit. I should have fed them, right? My mother is probably rolling in her urn right now. I’ve been pretty good at remembering all the things she taught me since I returned, and I got so wrapped up in this damned mystery that I left my free labor to forage for food. I’ll have to call Niecy and apologize for my oversight.

* * *

Once I cleanup the kitchen, I stow the weird documents in my trusty bag and leave it in the care of my fierce new roommates. If I can finish the closet on the master quickly, I can bust through the guest room and the office before Gene’s crew returns. I want to be alone when I hit the office because I’m certain it will have more clues hiding amongst my parents’ jumbled personal finances, lesson plans, and assorted bullshit that accumulated over two decades of living in this house. Grabbing a rocks glass, I pour a hefty scotch, and head up the stairs.

When I enter the bedroom, I sit my drink down and grab a garbage bag. Most of the clothes will be outdated, but these bags can go to the thrift store outside of town and possibly help someone in need.

I start with my father’s clothes, folding and bagging suits, ties, and dress shirts first. There’s a small insignia on the French cuffs of the dress shirts he preferred, and I study it for a moment. I’ve never seen it before, but every single one has it embroidered behind the cufflink holes. Odd. I throw most of the winter clothes in as well, leaving a few oversized jackets and sweaters that I might use for extra warmth when the frost inevitably comes. Pants go next, and again, I keep a few pieces that feel like they might be useful.

If you asked me what for, I couldn’t tell you, but my instincts rarely fail me, so I follow them.

Once his side is almost cleaned out, I find another small puzzle box like my mother’s sitting beside an onyx box. Grumbling under my breath about my timeline, I ignore the mystery and open the simple box. It contains my dad’s pocket watch, several pairs of expensive cufflinks, and a money clip.

Every single one of them have the mysterious logo.

I rub my hand over my face in frustration, knowing the symbol means something, and these are all important items that I need to keep. I close the box, pick its companion up, and take them into the bathroom. Moving the linens aside, I hide the boxes behind them until I can figure where I’m going to store all this valuable mystery shit. It can’t be somewhere without safety measures, but it also can’t be as far away as the deposit box at the bank I’m going to place my mother’s expensive jewels in.

Crime is non existent in the Hollow—save juvenile pranks—but I’ve seen far too many clients get complacent in the past to let that keep me from making solid choices about security.

Padding back to the closet, I compact the male clothes to the front left area and move over to the side belonging to my mother. Her taste and mine havenevermeshed, so I doubt that I’ll be saving much from her wardrobe.

Tossing floral atrocities in the bag, I mutter to myself about how I couldpossiblyhave come out of this woman. One shirt looks like they cut it from a Florida woman muumuu, and I cringe as I fold it. She always looked impeccable and stylish—the latest fashions right off the designer racks—but I was right about much of it being dated, and even more so about it not being my style.

Finally, I hit the last section—zippered garment bags. I’m a little terrified of what Southern lady looking lace monstrosities are stored in these because I may have to sell them if they’re vintage and expensive. I’m not in the mood to deal with E-bay, but I can’t send clothing valued in the realm of small vehicles to thrift stores. It’s not budget savvy.

I pocketed the money in the money clip; you know. Waste not, want not.

When I unzip the first bag, I almost have a fucking aneurism on the spot. The smell of leather assaults my senses and I take a deep whiff, pleasure sparkling through my limbs. Running my fingers over the calfskin, zippers, and studs that adorn it, I look for the tag that will identify who crafted the jacket, pants, and vest in this bag.

Mary Magdalene, mother of whores. It’s a motherfucking Saint Laurent—no, notjusta Saint Laurent. This is hand tailored, Saint Laurent leather motorcycleset.

I might have an orgasm from looking at the outfit in this goddamned bag.

Blinking my complete shock out of my eyes, I rush to open the other bags, gasping as couture gowns, skirts, dresses, pants, and shirts of baddest assed variety I’veeverseen get revealed. What in the absoluteshitis my mother—patron saint of the Sunday Chanel—doing with this?

It’s been worn, but well taken care of. Tags hang from the items with locations and dates that I don’t recognize, and a band of color that must mean something I don’t get yet. There must be over a hundred grand in clothes here—minimum—and I haven’t even figured out where she kept her shoes. I’m drooling justthinkingabout it.

Wait. If my mom had a secret stash of fly clothes, why didn’t my dad have something similar?

My eyes close and I try to imagine the past, pushing past the haze in my mind. Work trips. My mother went on work trips for the college to recruit students and staff—several times a year. Dad always stayed with me, joking that he wasn’t cut out for the whole ‘social networking’ aspect of his career.

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