Page 127 of In the Pursuit of Haven
Just like her father—she was either just as cagey… or just as oblivious. I tried again. “They’re mutual friends of ours, I think. She’s a redhead, and he uh…”was hired by you to work with usand she still looked blank. We were never going to figure out what Leon had to do with all of this. “You have a place out on Tinker’s,” I said. “Was that inherited because you’re a Crowninshield?”
She frowned like the question insulted her. “Daddy bought it from a friend of his when I was twelve.”
So, we were… wrong? These Shepherdswerelike shadows, weren’t they? “So you know nothing about uh… um… Crabb’s treasure?”
Her melodic, mocking laughter did nothing to endear me to her. “What are you talking about?” Ruth twisted around to Jessie, who put on a jovial smile a little too late, in my opinion. His eyes widened at me as soon as Ruth turned from him to fasten her sharp glare my way. “You can’t be saying you’re falling for that cheap pirate story again?” she mocked.
Jessie’s chuckle sounded forced. “I thought you’d be the type to be intrigued with this kind of mystery?”
“I am,” she blurted. “Don’t get me wrong… especially the money, but, ha! Really? You’re actually buying that old wives’ tale after all these years? It’s a joke, just like this secret staircase. You want to know the real story behind the staircase? It was built in the early 1900s to cash in on all the tourism around here. The treasure’s the same thing. Don’t fool yourself.”
Still laughing, she led us downstairs to the second floor to signal she was through with our silly conversation. “You see this room?” she asked. “It belongs to Colonel Pyncheon—the bad guy in Hawthorne’s novel.” She gave us a superior look. “Also?Not real.The author gave us a detailed description of his office, including this map that they tried to replicate. Look at this!”
A map!
“It’s exactly how Hawthorne described in his novel,” Ruth said. “Can you imagine someone remodeling their house to fit something you wrote?”
If Hawthorne was in on this at all, if he’d somehow been a Shepherd of the Relic back in his day, then there was something to this. Jessie studied the map.
Knowing we were on borrowed time, I read Hawthorne’s description beneath it:“… a map of the Pyncheon territory at the eastward, not engraved, but the handiwork of some skilful old draughtsman, and grotesquely illuminated with pictures of Indians and wild beasts…”
Could this be a clue? Very aware that Ruth might have the same sensibilities as her father about not taking pictures, I took a quick shot of both the map and the quote with my phone. Sure enough, her sudden intake of breath showed her disapproval.
I gave her a weak smile and drifted closer to Jessie, which no doubt irritated her further.I don’t care anymore, honey! This is my man and we’ve got places to be.“Jessie,” I whispered to him. “Your sister texted.” Shoving my phone at him, I watched him frown as he read it. We needed to leave.
I hoped he didn’t think this was some ploy to make him lose his bet.
Ruth pointed to the terrain on the map. “If this were actually authentic, it would be the oldest existing map in Salem.”
Not really. And yeah, this time crunch is making me way too snarky!
I glanced over at another quote under Nathaniel Hawthorne’s portrait. This one was from his book, “The House of Seven Gables.” I read it:“Why should he make himself a prisoner for life in brick, and stone, and old worm-eaten timber…”
“There’s something in that timber,” Jessie said behind me.
I glanced back at him, seeing that he’d read the quote over my shoulder. The rafters upstairs in the attic were original from the 1668 gable. Could he be right?
“A prisoner in worm-eaten timber,” he said. “That doesn’t say E.A.U. up there, it says EAT.” He grabbed Ruth’s arm. “That’s our worm-eaten timber. Take us back to that attic.”
“We’ve got to go!” Abby materialized through the door.
I jumped at her sudden appearance. Jessie’s sister was breathless, like she’d been running… and without a coat. She hadn’t had a second to mess around. Abby wasted no time getting to us. She shot across the room and tugged on her brother’s arm. “They’re coming. They’re coming!”
Ruth’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“The… uh… plumbers,” Jessie said quickly.Sounded like the mafia.“Just one second, Abby,” he said. “I forgot something in the attic and then I’ll follow you back down.” He glanced over at Ruth. “Keep my sister company? I’ll be right back.”
Our reluctant tour guide nodded dumbly.
That excuseneverwould’ve worked for me. Without waiting for anyone’s permission, I followed Jessie up the stairs. “What do you think you have?” I whispered.
“Did you notice those marks all over the timber under those initials? That kid’s not the only one who can carve his name into things—someone tried to scratch the words out.” We reached the attic and Jessie led me over to the EAT etched into the gable. “Look!” He was tall enough to reach the beam and he ran his fingers over the “W” underneath that was half-scrubbed out.
I knew I was seeing “W’s!” Was this Hawthorne then? He’d added a “W” to his surname to distance himself from his ancestor that presided over the witch trials.
Before us was the good and the bad—all the contributions that built American history. Was Hawthorne using the extra “W” in his name as his mark to show the Relic was here?
Once again, Jessie used his height to run his fingers over the “W” to discover any give or take in the wood.
