Treasure Me (25 page)

In the parking lot, Jack Frost had put a sheet of ice on the windshield of her Cadillac. Scraping it off would take time. She stomped her foot to rid her body of the jangly irritation.

“I’ll take care of it,” Birdie said, her voice breezy. She rooted around on the floor of the Cadillac and found the scraper. “Just give me a sec.”

“You can do better than that.” Theodora slapped the keys into her hand. “I don’t take well to heavy traffic. It’s almost five o’clock.”

“You want me to drive?” Birdie stared at the keys as if she’d never seen anything like them before. “Are you sure?”

Nodding, Theodora climbed into the passenger seat and stared at the white-crusted windshield. A shuffling outside the truck, then the child got her ass in gear and started scraping. When she’d finished, she slid into the driver’s seat and sat motionless.

“What’s the matter with you?” Theodora rapped her knuckles on the steering wheel. The sun was setting and her stomach was making a fuss. “You hold onto this and
drive
. Don’t you know how?”

“I’m not sure I remember. It’s been awhile.”

“Since you’ve driven a vehicle? Of all the… how long?”

Birdie worked her jaw. “I’m not sure, all right?” She found the ignition and jammed the key in. Bringing the engine to life, she added, “It’s been five years. No—seven. I’ve never owned a car but I had a friend who used to loan me hers. When I lived in Sante Fe. Crapsticks. Maybe it was eight years ago.”

“Get out.” Theodora flung open the door and hopped to the ground. Cain and Jezebel! She wasn’t allowing the child to drive anywhere in the trusty old Cadillac if she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been behind the wheel. “Trade places. And I mean right quick! Don’t know how long it’s been. What’s the world coming to?”

They switched off and she pulled out of the parking lot. On the seat beside her, Birdie slouched low with her white-gold hair spilling out across the ugly green fabric of her military coat. The sun, dipping low, sent flashes of red across her shuttered face as they made their way onto the highway.

If the girl was the spawn of the no good grifter, Wish Greyhart, she sure as hell wasn’t anything like the devil. Can’t drive a car, heaven above!

“There are worst things than not being able to drive,” Birdie said, breaking the silence with a defensive jerk of her chin. “It’s not exactly the end of the world.”

“In America, it is. It’s your God-given right to own a car and take it out on the road.
Route 66, Ventura Highway
—don’t those songs mean anything to you?”

“Not really,” Birdie replied, slouching lower. “Face it, Theodora. Culturally, we’re from different time zones.”

“Like I give a rat’s ass. Don’t you
want
to own a car?” She banged on the horn, blaring a Honda Civic from the passing lane. The thought of what the child was missing made her angry and she flipped the other motorist the finger. When Birdie gaped at her, she added, “The idiot was in the passing lane.”

Birdie raised her hands in an act of surrender. “Like I’ve said before, I don’t argue with old ladies who’re packin’.”

“Smart of you, too.” Softening, Theodora glanced across the seat. Birdie was examining her cuticles as if they unlocked the mysteries of the universe. “Is it true what you told Meade? You don’t have kin nearby?”

“Kin. You mean family?” Birdie shrugged, the nasty show of disinterest she did with her shoulders. Theodora wasn’t fooled. The child looked beaten down, about a hair’s breath from tears even if she was good at holding them in. “I’m better off by myself. Family can be a real hassle.”

“Not always. Not when your people love you.”

“Mine don’t.” Birdie stared at her fiercely before looking away.

When she tried to add something but the words wouldn’t come, Theodora said, “The cavalry has arrived. Consider me family. You’re spending the night at my house.”

* * *

Computer monitors blinked and keyboards clacked in the busy newsroom of the
Akron
Register
.

Standing before the City Editor’s desk with a feeling of hopelessness grinding down his shoulders, Hugh looked out at the humming room with a sense of longing. He’d miss the people and the general chaos of the place.

After meeting with Anthony last week he’d driven around for hours, finally ending up at his digs in Akron. In a truly undignified show, he’d spent days ignoring Birdie’s calls and drinking too much beer, watching the tube and sleeping in late. None of it constituted R & R. In a state of exhaustion, he’d finally shown up at the
Register
to fight for his job.

Once he explained the Perini story was a no-go, Bud said, “I wish I had better news for you.” The bastard almost looked sincere. “I don’t want to cut you loose but I’m feeling pressure from upstairs. You’ve missed too many deadlines. Now the Perini story is a bust. My hands are tied.”

“They wouldn’t be if I’d come back with the dirt. Is that it? Anthony should be skimming thousands from the websites, not putting together a foundation to help kids with cancer?” Hugh was unable to halt the sarcasm seeping into his voice. “True, good news doesn’t grab headlines like avarice and gore but I can stay in Liberty and write about the foundation.”

“Since when are you interested in reporting on the good side of humanity? You don’t think there
is
a good side to humanity.”

“Maybe I’m seeing things differently now.”

An image of Birdie spilled before his eyesight, the excitement and sheer joy on her face when they discovered the key in the storeroom. The way she fought back when he battled with her at the festival. She didn’t believe she could put her life straight but damn it, she tried. She tried because in the deepest part of her heart, at her essence, she was an optimist. Her life was harrowing and harsh, yet she found an inner reserve of goodness that had allowed her to make friends in Liberty. She tried to appeal to her higher angels.

Hope.

Was that what set her apart? She was cocky and irritating and rude, but underneath it all, she possessed enough hope to rise above her lousy lot in life.

Pulling from his thoughts, Hugh said, “A feature about the foundation won’t carry the front page but it
is
news. Why not give it a shot?”

Bud stared at him with a jaundiced eye. “You want to drive back up to Liberty? Why? A guy like you can’t see the good stuff in life even if it hits him like a two-by-four.”

“You’d be surprised by what I can do.” Hugh grappled with his self-doubt, which was mixing with rising anger. What right did an editor from a second-rate newspaper have to tell him what he was capable of? “I’m writing the story. If you’re cutting me loose, I’ll sell it to a magazine.”

“Good luck.” Bud jerked his chin toward the newsroom. “If I want fluff, I’ll send Ralston out to Liberty. The story’s dead, pal.”

“How is our boy?” Looking across the newsroom he peered over the heads of journalists to the desk where he’d worked the last five years. Ralston sat with a Starbucks in one hand and the telephone in the other. “He almost looks like a real journalist. Did the ad department send you flowers when you gave him my job?”

“You brought this on yourself. Ralston thinks he can handle investigative journalism.”

“Cut the bullshit. You’re buttering up his father. If daddy’s furniture chain pours enough ad dollars into this dump, you might turn the
Register
into a real newspaper.”

“Out.” Swinging from his chair, Bud jabbed a finger toward the door. “Clear out your desk and see Cummings. Good guy that I am, I had him cut you a check even though I officially canned your ass before you went to Liberty.”

“Well thanks a helluva a lot,” Hugh said, reeling. The payroll department had written his last paycheck
before
he’d arrived to plead his case? No judge, no jury—Bud had already decided to cut him loose.

Furious, he stalked from the office. Reaching the desk he thought of as his own, he discovered Ralston making eye contact with a blushing Sarah Blake, the paper’s movie critic, two desks away.

Coming up from behind, Hugh pleased himself by startling the big oaf. “Keep away from Sarah. Her boyfriend is into kickboxing.”

Ralston stumbled to his feet. “Hugh. I didn’t know you’d be in.”

“I’m collecting my stuff.”

“You’re fired?” A hint of glee marked Ralston’s voice. “Bad break, man. I’m sorry.”

Hugh resisted the urge to shove him out of the way. “Sure you are.”

Pausing, he noticed Fatman’s name and number scrawled on a slip of paper in Ralston’s bold hand. It was a stunning breach of ethics. No journalist used a colleague’s source without permission. A contact of Fatman’s caliber was guarded like a state secret.

Then he thought of something else, and the ramifications sucker punched him in the gut.

Fatman had dug up a landfill on Birdie and her family. If Ralston ever learned about it, he wouldn’t think twice. He’d write about her. A real charmer about how a pretty thief was preying on unsuspecting folks in small towns.

Rage bolted through him. “Where did you get this name?” He snatched up the paper.

“I took Fatman’s call on Tuesday.” Ralston shrugged. “He was looking for you.”

Perfect. Fatman probably called with more information on Birdie. Hugh mentally flailed himself. He wasn’t merely dodging Birdie’s calls. He’d inadvertently missed a few from the PI.

“I didn’t give you permission to use one of my sources. Do your own legwork, pal.”

“If you’ve been bagged, why do you care?”

Hugh went nose to nose with the bastard. “I care,” he growled. “Why the hell do you need Fatman’s expertise?”

“I got his take on the UAW strike.”

“Since when does the UAW rate a piece in the Features section?”

“Piss off, Hugh. It’s hard news, and I needed Fatman’s help.”

Hugh prayed Ralston was telling truth. He couldn’t ask Fatman what they’d discussed. The PI was clever and resourceful, but honest? In his vernacular, the word didn’t exist.

“Stay away from him. He’s my source.”

For a long moment, Ralston stared at him. Then in a surprisingly strong voice, he said “I don’t take orders from you,
pal.
” He stepped forward. “Bud’s fired your ass. So Fatman isn’t your source. Not anymore. He’s mine.”

Hugh froze. He didn’t have any leverage and Ralston knew it. If he was off the paper, there was no stopping Fatman from changing allegiance. The PI was always hungry for cash. And in the final analysis, Hugh was responsible for the mess. He’d asked Fatman to poke around in Birdie’s background. The goods would go up on the auction block if he didn’t think of something, and fast.

“Bud hasn’t fired me so Fatman is off limits,” he said, grabbing the big oaf by the shoulders and shoving him against the desk. The computer twitched and Ralston’s cactus joggled. “Get your trash off my desk
now
. I don’t share my territory.”

“But you said—”

Ralston never got the chance to finish the thought. Hugh drove his fist into the man’s face with all the force of his fury. Ralston spun backwards, meeting the floor with a thud and bringing the newsroom to a standstill.

Seething, Hugh cleared a wide path through the newsroom. Losing his job after years of work for the
Register
was bad enough. Somehow, he’d manage. But now Birdie’s privacy was at stake. It would only be a matter of time before Fatman invited Ralston to the hunting lodge. They’d talk, drink too much—Hugh would enter the conversation. And Ralston, curious, would quiz the PI on what Hugh had been working on. Birdie would come up.

That was one reason for what he was about to do. The other one undermined what little dignity he had left.

By writing about the rubies, he’d stop her from searching for them. No rubies, no reason to leave Ohio. There’d be time to talk her into staying, time enough to build a relationship—assuming he found a way to gain her forgiveness. After her treasure hunt graced the front page, the odds weren’t good.

A fleeting image of her swept through his mind and his heart seized.
No choice here
. He’d write about her treasure hunt or Ralston would write about her. Either way, her secrets were about to meet the glaring limelight.

He strode through the newsroom on autopilot, forcing his thoughts away from her. It was easier to focus on Ralston growing rock formations out of the desk where Hugh had interviewed mob bosses and captains of industry, uncovering scams and putting corrupt politicians in the spotlight.
I can protect her if I save my job
.

He’d barely come to a scudding halt before the City Editor’s desk when Bud’s mouth curled. Hugh cut him off.

“There’s buried treasure in Liberty,” he said.

Bud looked at him like he’d grown a tail. “What? Like in a pirate movie?” He pointed toward the door.
“Leave.”

“I’m serious. There are rubies hidden in Liberty.”

Queasy, he rattled off everything he knew. How Justice Postell hid the rubies during the Civil War. The clues Birdie had found in The Second Chance Grill. Then he went for the jugular—Birdie’s, and his own.

Guilt seeped under his skin, but he hurried on. “There’s a key with a ruby in it—I’ve seen it.”

“What does it unlock?”

“I’m not sure yet. Probably a safe, with the rubies inside.”

“And this Birdie—what’s she like?”

“Just a woman who found the clues.”

Bud leaned across the desk. “You aren’t sleeping with her, are you?” When Hugh reddened, a foul retort on his lips, the City Editor waved him off, asking, “How much are the gems worth?”

“Six figures, I’d guess.” Remorse welled up, nearly shattering his heart. Steadying himself, he added, “Birdie says they were owned by one of her ancestors, a Rhett Butler type from South Carolina. I think she knows what she’s talking about.”

“If she does, that would be some story.”

“She’s close to finding the gems. I’ll be there when she does.” He paused for effect, relishing how Bud hung on every word. “If you’re not interested, I’ll take the story elsewhere.”