Wilde One (28 page)

Ainslee nodded. “You didn’t see anyone?”

“Not a soul except our hostess. And the cat.” He shut the door then pointed at Rocky who’d raced across the parlor, leash trailing, to greet Aristotle. “I don’t know what the fascination is, but he certainly loves that fat fur ball.”

“He…oh, here comes Doris.”

“Ainslee, there you are.” The elderly woman hurried toward them. “Did that man who was looking for you call your cell phone?”

“Man?”

“He asked if a pretty woman with long curls had checked in. Of course I don’t give out information about my guests and told him so.” She let out a huff of breath. “He said you were a friend of his, so I suggested he try calling your cell to find out where you’re staying.”

Ainslee’s hand shook as she gripped Griff’s arm. “Was he blond and stocky?”

“Oh, no. This man had dark hair. He was a good looking fellow.” Doris glanced up at Griff and smiled. “Maybe not quite as handsome as you are.”

He grinned back. “Was he a really tall, black man?”

“No, medium height with a nice tan. When my back was turned, he looked through the downstairs rooms.” Blue eyes glittered behind her glasses. “I found him in here and chased him right out again. I’m sorry if he was an acquaintance of yours, but I have policies to maintain.”

“Of course you do.” Ainslee offered a weak smile. “Honestly, I’m not sure who he was. I’d appreciate it if you don’t give him any information about us if he returns.”

Their hostess ran a finger across her mouth. “My lips are zipped.”

“You’re the best.” Griff patted the cotton sleeve of her blouse. “I’m going to recommend this place to everyone I know.”

“You do that.” She stepped back. “What with all this activity, I’m behind schedule. I still have my baking for the morning left to do.”

“We won’t keep you. Good night, Doris.” He nudged Ainslee. “Let’s head upstairs.”

She kept quiet until they were back in their room. After taking the leash off Rocky, she plopped down on the end of the bed. “Suddenly, I don’t feel much like celebrating.”

“A dark-haired man. Interesting.” Griff frowned. “I was so sure the guilty party was Ogden Morris. Can’t be unless we have two separate individuals tracking us down.” He raised a brow. “Did you forget to pay your taxes? Or maybe an ex-boyfriend can’t live without you?”

“Very funny.” She kicked off her shoes and crossed her legs. Elbow propped on one knee, she rested her chin in her hand. “Now what? We spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders, waiting for this…this person to find us. Maybe we should put the treasure on the sidewalk with a sign next to it that reads:
Take the damn thing. It’s yours
. This guy isn’t giving up.”

“Neither are we.” He glanced over at the minibar in the corner. “A night out on the town obviously isn’t happening. He’s probably waiting somewhere close by for an opportunity to follow us.”

“How in the name of God did he find us in the first place? That’s what I can’t figure out.”

“Remember the awesome parking spot only a half a block away where the SUV’s been sitting for most of the day? Since this guy must be somehow connected to one of the other players, he was probably searching the Richmond District for the house in the picture when he saw our car. Too bad I didn’t think of that sooner.”

“Don’t feel bad. I didn’t think of it, either.”

He crossed to the fridge and opened it. “Let’s see what drinks are stocked in here. I could go for a shot.”

“Anything good?”

“Apple juice and sodas. Unbelievable.” He slammed the door. “I need to have a talk with Doris about adult beverages.”

Ainslee shook with laughter. “You should see your face. Indignation written all over it.”

“Hey, it’s been a rough evening. I guess we’re going to have to do this sober.”

“Do what?”

“Figure out the stinking combination to the lock. I intend to find out what’s inside that box tonight if it’s the last thing I do.”

Standing at the foot of the bed, Griff studied the six pictures laid out on the spread. No numbers in any of them unless the way the bark of the eucalyptus tree grew in the shape of a seven counted. Then, only if he turned his head and squinted really hard. There was no convenient post in front of the house with a street number prominently displayed. They should have checked the address when they were on the property. He scowled. Or were they supposed to know the number of floors in the Transamerica Pyramid, or the year the Golden Gate Bridge was constructed?

Hands fisted on his hips, he turned away and blew out a long breath. “This sucks.”

A cloud of steam emerged from the bathroom when Ainslee opened the door. She wore a short, fuzzy pink robe that hit her at mid-thigh. Damp ringlets cascaded down her back. Even without a bit of makeup, she looked unbelievably sexy. Maybe getting the damn box open didn’t have to be their top priority tonight. If he could get the dog off the bed…

Up near the pillows, Rocky stretched and moaned then stuck all four feet straight up in the air.

“What sucks?”

He turned his attention back to Ainslee. “There aren’t any numbers in the pictures. I’ve stared at them so long my eyeballs hurt.”

She frowned as she padded across the carpet on bare feet to stand next to him. “Maybe we need to use one of the earlier clues. Either the post office box number or the safety deposit box. I remember mine was 1692, the year the witches were hung in Salem.”

He leaned in closer. God, she smelled like some kind of flower. With an effort, he forced his wandering attention back to the conversation. “Uh, mine was 1775, the year of Paul Revere’s ride. The combination to the lock has to be information we all have.”

“You’re right.” When she sat on the edge of the bed, her robe drooped open, revealing even more smooth thigh. She absently straightened it with a jerk.

He tore his gaze away and forced himself to think. “The original letters Victor sent us were all the same, weren’t they?”

“I’m pretty sure they were. Let’s look at them again.” She hopped up, searched through her purse then waved an envelope. “I have mine here.”

“Hey, the postmark is a date. Maybe—”

“Can’t be. The letters were mailed after Victor died, so there’s no way he could have set the lock to correspond to the correct date unless he told someone to pull the plug at a specific time.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Griff read over her shoulder after sliding an arm around her waist. “Why couldn’t the old bastard have typed these notes? His writing is atrocious.”

“He was in his nineties. Give him a break.”

“How the hell did he plant all the clues if he was old and sick? I can’t picture a dying man digging up that rosebush to bury the treasure.”

“He must have paid someone he trusted to do it. Maybe an employee. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure.” She flipped over the single sheet. “Basically, he just talks about his buddies, how they found the treasure, and his intention of passing it along to one of their descendants. He doesn’t mention any numbers.”

“Maybe the combination corresponds to the year they uncovered the Nazi hoard? Had to be in the early forties.”

Ainslee glanced up. “It’s worth a try.”

Griff walked over to the table and spun the tumblers, giving the hasp a jerk each time he stopped. “Nope, that’s not right. I tried each year of the war.”

She dropped back down on the edge of the mattress. “What about their squad number. Do squads even have numbers?”

“I don’t have a clue.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, we’re making this too complicated. The pictures must contain the answer. There are five footprints in the sand. One of the numbers could be five. Or maybe we need to go back to the apartment building to check the address.”

“There were brass numbers above the front door. Nineteen fifty-three.”

Griff turned and stared. “You knew that all along? Why didn’t you say so earlier?” He spun the numbers on the lock again. Nothing clicked. “Shit. I was positive that would work.”

“How about the year Victor was born. We could look it up online.” Her robe parted when she scooted off the bed.

Griff’s vision glazed. She wasn’t wearing anything under the robe.

“I have a better idea.” He scooped up the photos and dropped them next to the box then turned back to the bed. “Move it, Rocky.”

“Oh, my God, look.” Ainslee pointed at the messy stack.

“What?”

“There’s a little squiggle in the corner on the back of that picture.” She picked up the taped together photo. “Victor’s crappy writing makes it hard to read, but I think it might be a two. Do any of the others have marks?” She flipped over the rest of the pictures.

“There’s a little wavy line on this one.” Griff reach past her to point, taking another intoxicating whiff of her lotion or whatever was making her smell so good. He cleared his throat. “Possibly a one or a seven.”

“I think the little hook on the top makes it a seven.” She held up a third photo. “That squiggle has to be an eight.”

“Nothing on this one.” Griff set the picture of Lombard Street back on the table.

“This one either.” Ainslee dropped the Transamerica Pyramid and raised the final photo. “I don’t…wait. There’s an ink smudge in the top corner. We must have gotten it wet. I can’t read it.”

“Are you kidding me! Without knowing the order, we could spend all night trying different combos if we don’t have all four numbers.”

She dropped the picture and smiled. “We’re idiots. Complete morons.” She ran to her suitcase and knelt to pull out an envelope. “We have another set.”

“Of course we do.” He rolled his eyes. “Good thing we hooked up. Look on the back of the Golden Gate Bridge picture.”

Ainslee shuffled through the taped together photos then flipped one over. “It’s just a little circle. A zero. Zero, two, seven and eight are our numbers.”

“I’ll start trying different combinations.”

Ainslee turned all the pictures over. “Try zero, eight, seven, two in that sequence first. It’s the order we used the pictures to find the treasure. Bridge, house, tree, footprints.”

His hand shook as he forced the rusty tumblers to move. A click sounded, and the lock fell open. “We did it.”

Eyes wide, she gripped the edge of the table. “I’m almost afraid to look inside. What if it’s a bunch of rocks?”

“Only one way to find out.” He pulled off the lock, flipped the stiff latch and lifted the lid. Metal scraped metal with an earsplitting shriek. His heart pounded so hard he thought he might pass out. “Now we know why the box was so heavy.”

“Gold?” Her voice squeaked.

“Just one bar.” He lifted it out of the box with both hands to turn it over. “But it must weigh close to fifteen pounds. No mint mark, so this isn’t government issue. Looks to me like someone melted down all their valuable possessions, maybe to make their wealth more portable if they needed to escape with it during the war.”

“Or the Nazis wanted to make stolen property easier to stockpile. What a shame. That brick may once have been an intricate candelabra or a tea service or a beautiful statue.”

“I wonder what’s in the pouch.” He pulled out a small leather bag and untied the string holding it closed. A necklace and earrings slid into his palm. Diamonds and sapphires sparkled. At least he assumed the glittering crystal and deep blue stones were diamonds and sapphires.

“Stunning.” Ainslee’s breath came fast near his ear. She touched the largest stone in the necklace’s setting with one finger. “This sure didn’t come out of a clearance bin at a five and dime.”

“I guess the jewelry
could
be fake. The bar
could
be a metal alloy mixed with gold, but I doubt it. I wonder what’s wrapped in the butcher paper. Looks like a picture frame. Do you want to do the honors?” He handed her the flat object, eight inches square by his estimation.

Her fingers trembled as she carefully unwrapped it. An engraved frame in some type of dark wood encased a painting of a misty sunrise over a field of blue flowers.

Staring at it, she let out a sigh. “So pretty.”

“I don’t see a signature.”

“The style reminds me of Monet.” Ainslee glanced up, eyes filled with wonder. “Do you think this could be an unknown masterpiece?”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up, but it really is beautiful.”

“I love it. Is that everything in the box?”

“There’s a folded piece of paper at the bottom.” He pulled it out. “Another letter from Victor.”

“What does it say?” She laid the painting on the bed, well away from the sprawled dog.

“I’ll let you decipher his writing.” He handed her the sheet of notebook paper.

Ainslee cleared her throat. “
Congratulations to the deserving winner. I may not rest in peace, but I’ll go to my grave knowing I did my best to make up for my youthful greed. Not that anything will ever compensate for my acts. Enjoy the spoils of your victory. Gold and jewels are easily spent, but I hope the painting will live on in your heart as it did in mine all these years. Victor.
” She glanced up. “Interesting. What do you suppose he did that was so awful he still harbored a bad case of guilt on his death bed?”

“Murder? Maybe there’s a reason our great-grandfathers never made it home alive.”

“Two of his buddies did. Parnell and Marietta’s grandfathers came back from the war, married then had kids.”

Griff walked over to study the painting. “But neither lived a long, fruitful life. Didn’t Speed die in a fire? Sounds pretty suspicious to me.”

Ainslee nodded. “And Thomas Washington got hit by a truck. I’m beginning to think you were right all along about Victor not being such a good guy.”

“I bet he had plenty to do with our great-grandfathers’ deaths, too. He could have orchestrated some sort of ambush.”

She rubbed her arms and shivered. “That’s horrible.”

“If it’s true, I hope the old bastard is roasting in hell.” He fisted his hands on his hips. “All for a bar of gold he never spent, some jewelry and a painting with no signature. I guess we’d better have the artwork appraised.”

She let out a long, shuddering breath. “Even if only the gold and jewels are valuable, my little nest egg just got a whole lot bigger.”