Chapter 54 - The Burl-Wood Secret
The officers hauled Raymond to his feet and dragged him out of the room. His ruined ankle scraped along the floor until the heavy hallway doors swung shut behind him, cutting off his hoarse curses.
The sudden quiet in the sunroom was heavy, laden with the metallic tang of adrenaline and unresolved history.
"Are you all right, Mrs. Vance?" Ellis asked, holstering his weapon and kneeling beside Eleanor’s chair.
Eleanor smiled faintly, placing a hand on Ellis’s shoulder. "Better than I have been in thirty years, young man. But my daughter needs to finish this."
I knelt and picked up the heavy brass key from the floor. It was cold, forged from solid metal, its notched edges worn smooth by years of handling. I crossed the room to the burl-wood secretary desk. It was an exquisite piece of nineteenth-century craftsmanship, crafted from dark, swirling walnut burl with tarnished silver brassware.
In the center of the drop-front lid was an escutcheon plate identical in design to the crest on the walnut gift box Sanford had pressed into my hands on the day of my wedding.
I inserted the brass key into the lock. It slid in with perfect tolerances.
With a firm, decisive twist, the ancient tumblers gave way with a resounding *clack*.
I pulled down the hinged desk surface. Inside were dozens of miniature pigeonholes and small velvet-lined drawers. In the central recess sat a dispatch box made of sheet iron, banded with riveted steel straps. On its lid was a small rectangular slot, flanked by two brass keyholes.
"The box from the reception," Eleanor said softly, gesturing toward the canvas bag I had carried from Michigan. "And the key you found under the floorboards."
I retrieved Sanford’s walnut box and the second key. I placed the walnut box beside the iron dispatch case.
"Look closely at the walnut box, Abigail," Eleanor instructed, her voice steady and guiding. "Sanford was a master carpenter before he ever ran a mill. The box itself is not just a container. It is a key."
I examined the small walnut box. The underside had four brass pins protruding from the corners. I turned to the iron dispatch case. To my astonishment, four tiny guide holes were drilled into the iron lid around the rectangular slot.
I positioned the walnut box over the slot and pressed downward.
A sharp mechanical chime resonated inside the iron case. Hidden gears whirred into motion. A hidden compartment on the bottom of the walnut box sprang open, dropping a long, slender silver cylinder directly into the iron receptacle.
Simultaneously, the heavy iron lid of the dispatch case popped open by two inches.
May you like
Ellis stepped up beside me, shining a flashlight into the interior. Inside lay a stack of yellowed vellum parchment bound in black ribbon, a set of hand-drawn survey maps, and a leather-bound notebook embossed with gold lettering: *The Journal of Sanford Vance — 1954 to 1988*.
At the very top of the papers lay a fresh, handwritten letter addressed to: *Abigail, on the Day of Reckoning*.
