“What is it?” Taneea twists a fuchsia strand around her index finger.
“It’s the Lowcountry’s premier Gullah museum.” Claude beams with pride. “We house the most impressive collection of Gullah art and historical artifacts in the country.”
“Do you have air-conditioning?” Taneea asks.
He laughs. “Of course. The exhibits require a climate-controlled environment.”
“Nice. Is it open to the public? Because when I’m not melting from the heat, I’m losing my mind on this frigging island.”
Claude laughs. “Then you must absolutely visit. Our collection is extensive and we’re always searching for volunteers. I promise you’ll be quite cool. And while you’re there, you could see your…grandmother’s donation.” He scans Miss Delia’s face for some confirmation of their relation, but she doesn’t twitch.
“Grammy’s in Chicago. Delia’s my great-gran. She won’t buy a new TV or get cable so I seriously doubt she’d donate anything decent to a museum.” She laughs as if she’s just made some hilarious joke, but instead she’s only managed to humiliate the only person willing to take her in.
“That’s enough now, child. I think you’ve got some tidying up to do in the house, don’t you?” Miss Delia asks.
Taneea shakes her head. “Nope. I’m done for the day. Your house is so small it doesn’t take long to clean.” She bats her lashes.
My tongue burns like fire, desperate to utter every nasty insult that’s piling up in my brain. If I wasn’t trying to make nice in front of a guy who works for the museum I stole from, I’d totally tell her off.
Claude smiles. “Oh, your great-grandmother did indeed make a donation. An impressive one at that. It’s the reason for my visit.”
“Was there a problem with the paperwork I signed?” Miss Delia asks. “I don’t have the best eyesight, as you can tell from my cataract.”
“Oh no, everything was in order.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask, unable to keep silent. You’d think they’d be happy to get a treasure box filled with pirate gold.
“I just had a few questions. You see, there’s an anomaly I just wanted to follow up on.”
“Anomaly?” Miss Delia asks.
“Yes, it’s means there’s something unexpected or unusual.”
Miss Delia leans forward, pursing her lips. “I know what it means, young man. What I don’t understand is why you’ve come bothering me about it.”
“You gave us a box of pirate doubloons from The Dagger, a pirate ship that sank off the tip of Coffin Point in the eighteenth century.”
“Yes?”
“It’s a remarkable find. Tell me, how did you come to possess such a treasure?”
She leans back in her chair. “I dug it up. In my front garden.” She points a gnarled finger toward the catnip bushes in the far corner.
He laughs, gripping his midsection with his spindly hand. “Really? Imagine that.”
She smiles. “Yes, indeed.”
“Over there?” He puts his briefcase down then steps his wing-tipped feet through a cluster of juniper, past a row of dwarf holly, then leaps over some echinacea to the catnip. Bending down, he scoops up a teeming handful of dark brown earth, then sifts it with his fingers. “It’s hard to believe something so valuable was just lying here, waiting to be discovered.”
Miss Delia shrugs. “Not really, seeing as it came out of the ground.”
He stares at the soil in his hand. “It’s rich and moist.” He sniffs it. “I believe the term is loamy, isn’t? Clumps when you squeeze it.”
“And your point is?” Miss Delia is clearly losing her patience with him, his anomaly, and his fascination with the quality of her dirt.
Grinding the last bit of grit between his two forefingers, he seems not to have heard her question. “The secret is plenty of humus. Without it, this would be just another dry patch of ground unable to grow anything.”
Miss Delia and I exchange bewildered looks. Did he really come out here to do a soil analysis?
Taneea shifts her hip and crosses her arms. “Um, who cares about her dirt? I thought you were here to talk about her donation.”
I’m not sure whether to be happy or insulted that she and I on the same wavelength.
“Oh, I am.” He finally pulls his attention away from the dirt and stands. “You see, I can’t understand how a wooden box could have stayed so pristine buried in such moist conditions. Surely it would have deteriorated and likely fallen apart after nearly three hundred years.”
A wave of relief floods over me. Finally something I can answer. “That’s because it was encased in a tabby box. I helped uncover it myself.” The words fly from my lips before I can think. Miss Delia’s good eye stabs in my direction. She doesn’t need words to let me know she thinks I’ve made a giant mistake.
His smile broadens as his slick brows arch. “Tabby? I didn’t think that old concrete was used this far inland. Seems much easier to mix oyster shells and sand along the shore.”
My stomach flitters, filled with nerves. Despite Miss Delia’s obvious preference to the contrary, I can’t clam up now. I’ve got to answer his questions so he’ll hit the road and leave us alone. I shrug. “I don’t know about that. All I can say is the box was definitely hidden in a hunk of tabby. But it doesn’t matter as much as the fact that Miss Delia gave it to the King Center, right? I mean, it’s a piece of St. Helena history. Do you think she should have given it to someone else?”
“How about keeping it for herself and fixing this place up?” Taneea casts a disapproving glance at Miss Delia’s house.
“Oh, don’t misunderstand me, Miss…” Claude pauses, expecting me to fill in my last name. But judging by the way Miss Delia’s brows are knit in a stern and not-so-subtle warning, I keep my mouth shut. An awkward moment later, he continues. “The King Center greatly appreciates Miss Whittaker’s bequest. It’s an exquisite addition to the collection.” He sidesteps some spindly heather, weaves through some lavender bushes, then crosses over the juniper. “Our curator has already planned a seafaring exhibit around it.”
“That’s nice to know,” Miss Delia says. “You be sure to let me know when it’s up and running and I’ll try to visit sometime. Now, unless you want to trample the rest of my garden, I think we’re done.”
“It is a lovely plot. Very well stocked. And now that you’ve explained about the tabby concrete, everything seems so clear.” He picks up his briefcase. An ultrawhite smile slides across his face. “Thanks again for your time, Miss Whittaker.” He turns around and steps toward the white picket fence. I sigh, glad to finally be rid of his weird energy. But then he pauses and pivots on his heels. “Oh, there’s one more thing I forgot to ask.” He lifts a slender finger to his chin.
Miss Delia sighs. “What’s that?”
“Do you have any idea why the engraving on the box matches an artifact that was recently stolen from the museum?” His voice is as smooth as a polished stone. Spreading his hands about twelve inches apart, he adds, “It was a knife, about yay big. Made from the same type of wood as the box. Our curator thinks they were made around the same time, too. Perhaps even by the same hand.”
My stomach plummets as I strain to keep my eyes from popping out of my head.
Sucking her teeth, Miss Delia shakes her head. “Can’t say I do.”
“Sounds kind of hinky to me,” Taneea says.
Claude’s eyes flit in Taneea’s direction. “Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. Though it’s funny that one object would show up so soon after the other went missing.”
Miss Delia shrugs. “Ain’t nothing predicable about the Lowcountry.”
His thin lips bend at the ends. “True enough. Well, I’ve taken enough of your time, ladies. Miss Taneea, I hope you visit the King Center sometime.” He bows slightly, then turns his attention back to Miss Delia. “You’re not planning on going anywhere, are you? In case I have further questions.”