Davison turned to enter a pew with enough space in the middle for all three of us (barely). Donnie and I followed him in, scooting past a young man in a long-sleeved fluorescent green t-shirt with Konishi Construction printed in black down one sleeve. A toddler lay half-asleep in the man’s lap. The child stirred and opened his mouth to fuss, displaying silver stubs where his baby teeth should have been. The father produced a bottle full of red fruit punch and popped it into the kid’s mouth.

  If the church is a hospital, New Beginnings Chapel must be the free clinic.

  “Is this good, Molly?” Donnie asked.

  “Yes. Wonderful.” I settled onto the cushioned pew, ending up wedged between my husband and my stepson. I picked up a paperback hymnal from the rack in front of me. All of the songs seemed to date from the 1970s through the early 1990s. Down on the distant stage, the praise band played a few chords by way of tuning up, confirming my worst suspicions about the kind of music we were in for. They launched into a repeating three-chord progression, the same one-four-five we’d beaten to death when I was in that punk band back in grad school. I preferred our version.

  Davison nudged me.

  “Eh Molly, you like go down there an’ play?” He was grinning. Of course, Davison found it hilarious that I used to play bass for an all-female band called Phallus in Wonderland. (The name was Melanie Polewski’s idea, by the way, not mine. She’d been into Lacan at the time.)

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Not your kine music, ah?”

  “This isn’t about what kind of music we prefer. Being here is an act of worship and sacrifice.”

  In my opinion, sacred music had gone downhill right after the American Civil War, when it started to sound more suitable for a barbershop quartet than for a church choir.

  “Time to stand up,” Donnie whispered. I was the only one still sitting. I saw the lyrics projected on the big screen, so I tucked the hymnal back into the rack. Out of curiosity, I pulled out the pew Bible. It was a Protestant translation, what the church of my childhood would have called a “heretic” version. I opened it to a random page in the New Testament.

  For if there should come into your assembly a man with gold rings, in fine apparel, and there should also come in a poor man in filthy clothes, and you pay attention to the one wearing the fine clothes and say to him, “You sit here in a good place,” and say to the poor man, “You stand there,” or, “Sit here at my footstool,” have you not shown partiality among yourselves, and become judges with evil thoughts?

  “What’s that?” Donnie glanced over.

  “Um, the Book of James.” I closed the Bible, slid it back into the pew pocket, and started moving my lips along with the lyrics on screen.

  People unfamiliar with the Catholic order of worship have told me they found it hard to follow, but the New Beginnings service was downright baffling. The program indicated when we were to stand and sit, but there was also apparently some secret signal to tell the worshippers when to lift their hands and start swaying, or clap along to the music. Once in a while, someone would shout, “Amen,” but such improvisation seemed to be optional, and restricted to the most advanced worshippers.

  When the music ended, we sat down for the spoken part of the service. I realized the purpose of the giant monitor mounted behind the podium: it gave the faithful in the nosebleed seats a view of the events on stage. Without the close-up, I’d have had trouble picking the charismatic Pastor Skip Lewis out of a lineup. But on the high-definition Jumbotron, I could see tiny beads of sweat breaking out near Pastor Skip’s hairline where the hot stage lights were hitting him, a ring of sweat forming on the collar of his aloha shirt, and orange-toned makeup collecting in the creases under his eyes.

  As this was the first Sunday in November, the theme of the sermon was “Being Thankful.” Pastor Skip offered as an example his own wife, whom he apparently counted as one of his life’s foremost blessings because (a) she hadn’t gained weight after they got married, and (b) she knew when to shut her yap and let him watch the game. The sermon was more standup routine than homily, with the humor of a “take my wife, please” variety.

  Donnie leaned over and whispered, “You got mad at me when I said happy wife, happy life. He just said the same thing.”

  “I did not get mad at you. And don’t blame me for what that guy says. I’m not the one who picked this church.” I glared at Davison, who had dragged us all up here in the first place, but he was busy with his cell phone.

  “A boy comes home from school and tells his mother he has a part in the play.” Pastor Skip was teeing up another one. “She asks, ‘What part is it?’ The boy says, ‘I play the part of the husband.’ The mother says, ‘Go back and tell the teacher you want a speaking part’.”

  Of course, the Catholic Church wasn’t much better in this respect, but at least you had hundreds of years of history and tradition to let you know what you were getting into. And the Catholic homily wasn’t packed with groaners straight out of a vaudeville-era Catskills routine.

  It was an hour and a half before the service let out. The fluorescent-shirted young man with the toddler stood up. Instead of standing back to let us out of the pew, he approached Donnie, still holding the kid’s hand. The boy took the opportunity to suspend his full body weight and allow his toes to drag on the ground, swinging his bottle with his free hand.

  “Mister Gonsalves?” The young man addressed Donnie. “Thought it was you guys. Eh Davison, long time, man.”

  “Eh, Curtis. Didn’t recognize you. Howzit?”

  The two younger men did a fist bump, Davison wandered off to talk to someone else he recognized, and Curtis got down to business.

  “Mister Gonsalves, we found one wooden box in your house when we was doing the repair.” The man was oblivious to the fact that his toddler had turned his juice bottle upside-down and was shaking it. Red droplets appeared briefly on the surface of the green carpet before soaking in. “Was in one cupboard that got painted over a long time ago. Probably you never even seen it. When the tree fell, it broke out the wall. Anyway, we cannot be responsible for the box. You gotta come pick it up.”

  “Are you talking about my house?” I interrupted. “What was inside the wall?”

  Curtis looked to Donnie as if seeking his permission to address me directly.

  “It’s my wife’s house,” Donnie confirmed.

  “Oh, sorry, missus. Was one old box. We didn’t open it or nothing. Mister Konishi’s in the office today. He got it there. He wants you to come get it when you can.”

  I felt a cold liquid spattering the top of my foot and looked down to see the little boy’s silver-toothed grin.

  “Da-da-da-da-da.” He waved his bottle gleefully. Then released it. As it rolled downhill, the boy pulled the hymnals out of the pew one by one, dropping them onto the punch-soaked carpet.

  “I can go get the box when we leave here.” I stepped back out of the toddler’s radius of destruction.

  “Glad I seen you, Mister Gonsalves. You guys staying for the pancake breakfast?”

  “Not today.” Donnie shook his head. “I have to get to work.”

  “Yeah, Tessa got scheduled to work today. They don’t let her know until the night before sometimes. Kinda humbug. Eh, no grumble you. Come on, we go get pancakes. Aw, shoot.” Rage clouded the young father’s face as he caught sight of the punch-spattered hymnbooks on the floor. “Stupid. What you did? Where you put your juice?”

  “No worries, Curtis,” Donnie said. “I got it. Say hello to Tessa for us.” He bent down to retrieve the soggy hymnals, and I found a tissue pack in my purse. Donnie and I got the hymn books wiped off and put away in the pew rack as Curtis dragged the flailing toddler off in the direction of the Social Hall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I had taken my own car up to New Beginnings Chapel that morning so that Donnie could leave for work directly from church. I said a quick goodbye to my husband at his car, and then Davison followed me to my Thunderbird.

  “Eh, I like try drive this thing,” Davison said.

  “Sorry. You need a special license to drive a vintage car.”

  “Not,” he protested, but I was already buckling myself into the driver’s seat. I waited for him to get into the passenger side, pulled out, then waited some more until the orange-vested parking lot volunteer waved me into the line of trucks creeping out of New Beginnings Chapel’s vast parking lot.

  Davison opened my glove box and pulled out the case that contained our tablet.

  “Ho, heavy, this thing,” he exclaimed.

  “Emma bought a top-of-the-line case for it. Waterproof, fireproof, the whole thing. Please put it back. It’s university property.”

  Davison unlatched the case. Too bad Emma hadn’t gotten the stepson-proof model.

  “Aw, sweet. This kine get the good camera on it.”

  “Yes, it’s for our research. Please put it back”

  “I like try the camera. I take one picture of you.”

  “Davison, would you please—”

  “Molly, look out!”

  I slammed the brakes just in time to avoid rear-ending the truck in front of us. The Thunderbird’s nose plunged and the car skidded sideways. A driver behind us leaned on the horn.

  Davison quickly stuffed the tablet back in the glove box and was quiet for the rest of the ride.

  Konishi Construction was a few doors down from the Pair-O-Dice Bar and Grill, in the same shabby single-story building. I followed Davison in through the unlocked front door. Our arrival triggered a chime, which resonated from somewhere in the back. The reception area was dark, but down the hallway, a light shone from an open door.

  “Eh Mister Konishi,” Davison called out as he sauntered down the hallway. “It’s Davison Gonsalves. Curtis said you gotta box for my dad, ah?”

  “It’s for me,” I called after him. I didn’t follow Davison. I didn’t know Al Konishi and was happy to let Davison deal with him while I waited in the reception area.

  I sat on an orange vinyl couch, which must have been the height of style in the seventies. Now, even in the semi-darkness, I could see the vinyl was scuffed and the chrome legs were pitted.

  I couldn’t wait to see what was in the box. Historic documents? Priceless antiques? There was one person, at least, who would be as excited as I was to find out.

  I called Pat Flanagan’s number, but there was no answer at the headquarters of Island Confidential. The phone reception was patchy up on the mountainside where Pat’s little cabin sat.

  I called Emma next, but her number went straight to voicemail. I left a message for her and hung up just as Davison emerged holding what looked like a bundle of towels. I stood up.

  “What is that? And why is it wrapped up?”

  “Dusty is why,” Davison said.

  “Let’s see.”

  He set the bundle down on the reception counter and pulled back the towel to reveal an ancient wooden crate, which looked to be exactly the size of a breadbox. The faded ink read Harper Twelvetrees Soap Powder. Grey wisps of spider webs dangled from the sides of the box. I tried to pick it up from the counter, but it was so heavy it felt like it had been nailed down.

  “I got it.” Davison lifted the box effortlessly. “Eh, good thing I came, ah?”

  The twenty-minute drive down to Donnie’s place took about an hour. No one (except me) seemed to be in any particular hurry. The motorists ahead took up both lanes in a leisurely blockade, apparently engaged in some kind of contest to see who could drive the slowest without coming to a complete stop.

  Pat and Emma were waiting at Donnie’s front door when we pulled up.

  “Got your message,” Emma said, as I unlocked the front door. Emma and Pat went in while Davison retrieved the box from the trunk. I hovered anxiously behind him to make sure he didn’t drop it. By the time we were inside, Emma, who was really good at making herself feel at home, was already seated at the dining room table, drinking Donnie’s good Sangiovese out of a coffee mug Donnie had picked up at the Cremona food expo a couple of years earlier. The decimated wine bottle was parked in front of her, within easy reach.

  Pat sat at the dining room table next to Emma, checking his phone.

  “Pat, make yourself some coffee,” I called out as I hurried to the linen closet for a clean towel. “The pods are in the drawer under the machine.”

  I spread out the towel on the dining room table, and Davison set down the box.

  “That thing looks old.” Emma drew her mug of wine to her protectively. The box was made of pine, the label printed on the bare wood in orange and green inks.

  Harper Twelvetrees Soap Powder. Bromley-by-bow, London.

  “Are you going to open it right now?” Pat called from the kitchen.

  “You better,” Emma said. “That’s how come you called us down here, right?”

  “Don’t we gotta wait until Dad gets home?” Davison asked.

  “He said not to wait for him.” I thought I remembered Donnie saying something like that. And I was dying to see what treasures lay inside the box.

  For Washing Without Rubbing. A Penny Packet Equal to Ten Pennyworth of Soap.

  I might find a long-buried secret. Or a time capsule. Or something so valuable I could retire and stop worrying about tenure.

  “Hey, where were you this morning?” Emma asked.

  “We went to New Beginnings Chapel,” I said.

  “With your hair uncovered like that?” Pat called from the kitchen. He emerged with a steaming mug of coffee. “Did the mutaween come and beat you with sticks for venturing out unveiled, you hussy?”

  “Not this time. Fortunately, I was accompanied by male relatives. Okay, gather round everyone—”

  The box appeared to have been nailed shut.

  “Shoot,” I said. “How are you supposed to open these things?”

  “Gotta pry ‘em,” Emma said. “Davison, you get a crowbar or something?”

  Davison disappeared into the kitchen and came out with a flat head screwdriver.

  “Be careful,” I said.

  As Pat, Emma and I watched, Davison worked the flat blade of the screwdriver under the lid and rocked the screwdriver up and down. He did it next to each nail until an even gap separated the lid from the box. Eventually, he worked the lid free to reveal objects wrapped in yellowed newspaper.

  Davison reached in and grabbed the paper-wrapped lump on top. The newspaper cracked like a shell in his grip, and crumbled onto the table, leaving him holding a sugar bowl. The silver had tarnished to a black finish with a rainbow shimmer.

  “Wait,” I cried.

  “Sorry. I better go put away the screwdriver.” He placed the sugar bowl back in the box and slunk away.

  “Shoot,” Emma said. “Now what?”

  “From the typeface, it looks like this newspaper is from the mid to late nineteenth century.” Pat leaned over the box and peered inside, but didn’t touch anything.

  “How do you know?” Emma asked.

  “J-school. I can get Jeffrey to take a look at this.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Jeffrey Voorhees. He’s the manager of Bayfront Antiques and Collectibles. And he does some consulting for private collections.”

  “I know the guy you’re talking about,” Emma said. “He sold some old furniture for my dad. He seemed okay. Weird for a young guy to know so much about antiques.”

  “So he knows how to handle fragile things like this?” I asked. “Unlike you-know-who?”

  “Jeffrey has this spray he uses for old paper,” Pat said. “It neutralizes the acid and keeps the paper from falling apart. You want him to see what he can do about unpacking your box?”

  I heard Davison’s bedroom door close.

  “You were kinda hard on him, ah?” Emma said.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “You gave him this look like he’d just run over your puppy,” Pat said.

  “He kind of did. What if the paper he crushed was valuable?”

  “What?” Emma shoved my shoulder. “You think someone wrapped their tea set in the Declaration of Independence?”

  “You don’t like being stuck down here at Donnie’s place,” Pat said. “That’s why you’re so cranky.”

  “Ooh, Molly. You don’t like living with your own husband?”

  “Stop it. I love my husband. But maybe Pat has a point. I mean, for the past few days I’ve been living in not-my house, going to not-my church, eating not-my food. I thought whatever was in this little wooden box, at least, was mine. And even that has to get ruined. By you-know-who.”

  “I get it,” Emma said. “Just, the boy was only trying to help.”

  “So is it going to be expensive? To have your antique dealer friend take a look at this?”

  “I’ll ask him not to do it if it looks like the contents aren’t going to be worth it,” Pat said.

  “Sounds fair. How long will it take?”

  “I’d give him a week, at least.”

  I placed the lid back on the soap powder box and pushed it over to Pat.

  “I hate delaying gratification.”

  “Me too,” Emma said.

  “I know. I’ll tell Jeffrey to get to it as soon as he can.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  By Monday morning, I’d managed (with some effort) to stop obsessing over the contents of the box. I had more urgent matters to work out with Emma, anyway. We needed to decide what to do about continuing with our research, in light of the grisly murder on Art Lam’s property, and Art Lam’s subsequent vow of silence. I walked with Emma to her morning class, up the wide, covered concrete walkway that cut through the center of campus.

  “I still don’t think the murder has anything to do with us,” Emma said. “If someone wanted to stop us, wouldn’t they have sent us some kind of message? No one’s even claimed responsibility.”

  “Seems like leaving a hacked-up body for us to see was supposed to send someone a message. But you’re right. There’s not really anything to connect it to us. On the other hand, should we just ignore that we found a hacked-up body?”

 

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