The solitary Sylvia smiled genuinely as Nina rolled through the keys of various hymns and old laments she could rip from her carefully buried past as a young girl. Father Harper stood by listening in awe.
“By the sounds of it, you haven’t forgotten a thing,” Sylvia praised. She seemed truly captivated by Nina's playing, although she admitted that she herself had not a musical bone in her body.
“Thanks,” Nina smiled, trying hard not to surrender to the warm pleasantries of her former prowess and the exaltation that used to come with it. She didn’t want to get involved with this part of Oban again, so she kept her answers guarded and her humble thanks to reserved brief statements. A few mistakes later she halted her attempt and sighed, “Father, I’ll need some serious practice before tomorrow's funeral. I have the sheets at home.”
“Would you like to go and get them?” he asked. “Nina, we would appreciate it very much. If you wish, you’re welcome to practice here as long as it takes. I’m still going to be doing some administration in my office downstairs so you can practice until late.”
“I can come with you when you fetch the music sheets, Dr. Gould,” Sylvia offered.
“Oh no, please, there is no need for that,” Nina quickly objected as kindly as she could. But with the priest's urging she really had no choice but to take the latest member of the bitch squad with her. Father Harper spoke under his breath to remind Nina, “Just in case you’re being watched again, Nina. Take Mrs. Beach with you. You never know what wolves are salivating out there in this wicked world of ours.”
And so Nina and Sylvia drove to the historical house the historian owned to retrieve the music sheets for the funeral. It alarmed Nina how she was suddenly attending so many funerals after going through two decades without religion, church, or services pertaining to religious ceremony or dogma. She made a mental note not to allow the world of religion to seep through into her life and corrupt her as it had so many of her family and friends long ago before she found her purpose in life by pursuing true accounts of events that presented proof in archaeology and history.
“Here we are,” Nina announced when they stopped in front of her house. “I'll be quick.”
“Don't be silly,” Sylvia replied. “I’m coming with you.”
“My house is a mess,” Nina warned as she fled up the walk to her porch, keys at the ready.
“I have three children under the age of eight, Dr. Gould. Your messy house will not scare me,” Sylvia chuckled.
“Alright, then,” Nina cocked her head as she unlocked her front door. “It's your funeral.”
Pausing momentarily, the two women fully grasped the ironic humor in Nina's statement before laughing. Feeling guilty, they both brought it down to an apologetic giggle as they entered Nina's home.
“I'll be back in two shakes,” Nina said, and she made for the side hallway that led up to her once grisly little attic, now stylishly converted into a proper archive and library she often used as a study. In her wake Nina could hear Sylvia Beach befriend the cat, her high pitched gibberish permeating through the lobby and kitchen under Nina's floor where she was rummaging through her old music books and loose compositions.
“What’s his name, Nina?” the doctor's wife cried.
“Bruichladdich!” Nina called down. “Bruich, for short!”
Suddenly the mousy woman appeared on Nina's upper star landing, cuddling Sam's cat. Quizzically, she asked, “You named him after whiskey?”
“Aye,” Nina chuckled, “but it wasn't me. He belongs to my friend, Sam. I’m just cat-sitting for a bit. Sam loves whiskey almost as much as he loves his cat. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”
“Ha!” Sylvia exclaimed, pacing about the attic as she stroked Bruich's lavish coat under her well groomed fingers. “This is a lovely old house. They say it’s haunted. They say it used to belong to a warlock and that something out of H.P. Lovecraft lives under it. I’ve always wanted to see this house on the inside, Dr. Gould,” she confessed. “I have to admit it is part of the reason why I wanted to come with you.”
“Howard Lovecraft is my favorite fiction author, you know?” Nina admitted, smiling and winking at her new acquaintance as she collected the sheets she’d finally located. Had it not been for semantics, the accusations toward her home may very well have been accurate, but such truth was something reserved for the less impressionable. “It’s only haunted by me and the cat, Mrs. Beach, but then again, I believe that it is the mind of the individual that fuels their perception. Maybe I just don't encounter specters because I deny them. Maybe they are here, for those who summon them by belief.” She held up the papers. “Got the music pieces.”
Sylvia put the cat down with a wavering nod. “Right, I'm spooked. Let's go.”
Just before they exited the lobby Nina's home phone rang. Perplexed, she frowned at the phenomenon. She used the line mainly for Internet access, although it was a phone line too. In all the time she’d lived here Nina had received no more than two phone calls on it. In fact, she was amazed that anyone would even have this number. She excused herself and while Sylvia waited outside in the midday sun Nina answered the mostly ornate device.
“Nina?” she heard a female voice on the receiver. “Is that Nina Gould?”
“Aye, this is she. Who is this?” she asked the caller.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I got hold of you! Your cell phone number is inactive, did you know?” the woman said.
“I am aware,” Nina answered. “Listen, who is this?”
“Oh, oh, sorry. This is Joanne Earle. Doubt you'll remember me,” the woman said. “I was an undergrad at…”
“No way! Jo, I remember you!” Nina exclaimed. “We did our PhD in Modern History together, right?”
“That's right!” Joanne cheered. “That was me. Listen, I believe you are a lecturer and freelance historical adviser.”
“Aye,” Nina affirmed. “I’m based in Oban and Edinburgh. Where are you now?”
A brief moment of silence passed before Joanne replied in a hushed tone. “Listen, Nina. I can't really talk now, but is there any way you can get to Labrador, Canada anytime soon?”
“How soon?” Nina asked, keeping an eye on Sylvia outside while getting her coat and shouldering her bag.
“Um, the first chance you get?” Joanne requested. “I am not sure of this, but that is why I need you to come and clarify it for me. I believe I have found a very valuable piece of history while on a school field trip here. This could be huge or it could be nothing, but I need an expert's opinion, and I cannot take the risk of e-mailing a picture of what I found.”
Nina was hooked. “Jo, what is it you think you found?”
“It could be nothing, as I said,” Joanne whispered. “But it might be a piece from the Treasure.”
Nina's interest was arrested. “Which treasure?”
Joanne whispered, “The Treasure of Alexander the Great.”
Chapter 8 — Beware of the Camel's Nose
Two hours later, two hours after the fateful call had been placed to Dr. Nina Gould's home phone, a dark figure exited a large vehicle only two houses down from her residence. It was time to scoop her up and Beck was ready to get it done swiftly and with as little commotion as possible. In his gloved right hand he held a bottle of chloroform, clutched tightly as he watched Nina park her car. It was dark and foggy, perfectly set for what he was planning.
The private investigator in him now stepped aside for the covert enforcer, and as Nina stepped onto her porch, fumbling with her keys, he moved quickly through the hazy ghost of the street light in front of her house. Waves of mist clouded his stealing shape as he turned onto the walk and crept up, hastening so that she would not leave him locked out once she’d entered. Beck had to move faster, resorting to a crouching jog as she opened the door.