Page 61 of Your Every Wish
“A briefcase or something the key might fit.”
“The key? You mean the one we found in the envelope.”
“Yep. ”
I toss down a couple of hatboxes, which I’m surprised the FBI agents missed. “Go through these.”
She lets out an exasperated sigh but dutifully starts sorting through the boxes. “It would help if I knew what I was looking for.”
“Piles of cash would be good.” Fat chance of that. “Something small. A strong box, a file case, a cosmetic bag.”
“A cosmetic bag? Since when do those come with locks?”
“Give me a break, Emma. I’m improvising here. While you’re down there, look for luggage, too.” We haven’t culled through the guest room closets yet. I make a mental note to do that next.
I sneeze from all the dust. “Jeez, no one ever cleaned up here. ”
I toss down a couple of empty boxes. It couldn’t hurt to get a second pair of eyes on them in case I missed something. I sort through a stack of golf caps. Pebble Beach, Augusta, Sand Hill, Crystal Downs, and a bunch of other courses I’ve never heard of. I leave those on the shelf and work my way down.
Tucked way in the corner, I feel something metal, but it’s too far back for me to get any purchase to pry it loose. It seems to be stuck to the shelf. “Emma, hand me a hanger. One of those beefy wooden ones.”
She reaches up on her tiptoes with the hanger. It gives me just enough length to wrench the object free and pull it toward me.
“What is it?”
“Some kind of a box.” My heart races. “It’s heavy.”
I manage to get one arm around it and use my other hand to climb down. I take it into the bedroom because as big as the closet is, it was starting to get claustrophobic.
“Do we need the key?” Emma is right behind me.
I study the outside of the container, which appears to be an old junction box, searching for a keyhole.
Emma simply lifts the hinged lid and laughs. “There you go.”
We both peer inside to find reams of newspaper clippings, a few black-and-white photos that look like they’re from the 1930s or ’40s judging by the people’s clothes, a handful of poker chips, and a Xerox copy of a thousand-dollar bill.
“Do they even print thousand-dollar bills?” Because knowing Willy it’s counterfeit.
“Not anymore but they used to,” Emma says. “One of my readers had one and wanted to know what it was worth, so I did a little research.”
“This one isn’t worth anything. Isn’t it just like Willy to leave us a copy of money instead of the real thing.”
Emma begins sifting through the newspaper clippings while I check out the first guest room. Like the primary, the room has been raided—the mattress tossed, dresser drawers opened, crap all over the floor. One look and I can see there’s nothing worth salvaging.
The closet is also a walk-in, but this one is nearly empty. A set of open luggage is scattered across the floor, the linings of the suitcases slit open. I race into the kitchen where I’ve left my purse, fish out the tiny key, and race back to the guest room closet to test it. The key doesn’t fit any of the suitcases’ locks. Good. Because whatever was in them is now gone.
The next room is much the same as its twin. The only thing stored in the closet is a cordless vacuum and a tennis racket.
What are we missing?
Emma finds me, her eyes filled with tears.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing. It’s just sad. He saved all these stories written about himself, even the local story about him being indicted.”
“What’s so sad about the man being an egomaniac?”
