The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (20 page)

“The subject we talked about, years ago, when I told you the right day
would come,” he said, reaching for the shelf which held the carved wooden box.

“I am ready now?” asked the young man whose deep brown eyes were now
magnified by a studious-looking pair of spectacles.

“I believe so.”

Enrique set the box on his ornately carved desk. He stepped back. “Open
it.”

Jonathan took a deep breath and moved forward. Both hands steady, he
raised the lid on its hinges. Enrique watched, practically holding his breath,
waiting for any sign of trouble. None came. He breathed again.

“Your grandfather repaired those hinges once, I had forgotten the
incident until this very minute.”

Not taking his eyes from the box, the young man tilted the lid fully
open. Enrique remained watchful but said nothing. Jonathan touched the inner
lid where a few letters had been carved in some unknown long-ago time. They
were faint but in bright light he had once been able to make out a few V-I-
something-T. The rest was unreadable. He ran his index finger along the inside
edges of the box, following the perimeter. Enrique remembered the exact moment
when he had done the same, and the box’s reaction. The very same thing happened
this time.

Jonathan’s hand shot away from the box, his arm flailing in the air,
his legs buckling. Enrique grabbed a chair and steered his son’s limp body
toward it. He checked the pulse and found it racing. Gently, he stroked his
son’s hair until—more than one hundred counts later—Jonathan’s dark eyes
fluttered open.

“What happened?” he murmured.

“I will tell you everything I know.” Enrique pulled another chair
close, sat facing his son and began to talk.

Chapter 6

Scientific Minds Converge

Phineas Dailey pressed his horse to move more quickly now that the road
was smooth and dry. How nice to be away from the streets of the new District of
Columbia where construction continued non-stop and the plethora of workers,
slaves and conveyances kept the muddy roads continually churned and boggy.
Alexandria was a refreshingly quiet, charming town by comparison.

His two-wheeled trap approached the address he’d been given, rolling to
a stop beside a massive brick building. At the side, two other carriages
waited—a fine landau which he felt sure belonged to Walter Brannigan and a nice
little tillbury cart he recognized as that of his tobacco-farming friend George
Randall. During his drive he had wondered if Mr. Benjamin Franklin might also
be present but he did not see evidence of the great man yet.

It was at Randall’s suggestion that today’s meeting should take place
here. Phineas stepped down from his buggy and handed off the reins to a slave
who stood by tending the other vehicles as well.

George stood at the top of three steps leading to a wide front door.

“Greetings! So good that you could come, Phineas.” He descended to
street level and extended his hand. “Come in, see what you think.”

As a scientist Phineas supposed he would always be the quiet one of the
group, the man who lived inside his own head. George Randall, with his
plantations and multitude of slaves, was an outgoing man with large hands and
full-blown facial features including bushy side whiskers that were not quite in
fashion. He followed his host through the white-painted double doors.

Inside, the space was large and hollow, echoing their footsteps and
voices. A table that would have over-filled his own dining room in the city
seemed quite small in the cavernous room. Three men stood around the table,
where a decanter of golden liquid sat in the midst of a set of cut-glass
aperitif glasses.

“Come, come. Let me introduce you.”

George quickly presented the businessman Walter Brannigan, of whose
reputation for success Phineas was well aware, along with Roderick Smith and
Isaak Templeton. Smith’s British accent revealed that he was a recent
immigrant, but with the fight for independence now finished the colonists were
becoming more accustomed to having Londoners as neighbors. Smith was apparently
another source of financing for their little venture, while Templeton and
Phineas himself were included as the scientific side of the equation.

“We shall partition off various rooms,” George was saying. “It was
originally a warehouse but with the newer ones being built closer to the
river’s edge, I’ve begun storing my own crops there and this building has stood
empty for nearly two years now.”

He picked up a roll of white paper that Phineas had not previously
noticed and unrolled it on the table.

“Now, here,” said George, pointing at the largest room on the drawing,
“I would envision the laboratory. If it meets with our scientists’ approval, of
course. Two small rooms serve as offices for the financial accounting and a
secretary or two. I am certain there will be additional uses, but this is a
start. What do you think, gentlemen?”

Brannigan suggested the addition of a large vault for safe storage of
items of value which, in turn, expanded the size of one of the offices. Phineas
felt his pulse quicken as Templeton pulled out a pencil and sketched a layout
for work tables and storage for the burners and beakers they would use to
conduct experiments.

“What level of financing will be required to get the project started?”
George asked rather bluntly.

“At a bare minimum …” Templeton began.

“Let’s not talk of minimal in anything we do,” Brannigan interrupted.
“If we plan to do this we should do it correctly and without frugality.”

Templeton asked to have a moment and drew Phineas aside. They talked
quietly and Isaak wrote a list. When he handed it over, he sounded apologetic.
“It will run into the thousands of dollars, I’m afraid.”

Brannigan and Smith turned to George Randall now.

“Do you plan to donate the use of the building?” Brannigan asked
George. Phineas was learning that these two did not mince words or stand on
niceties. “If so, I believe that Smith and I can put together the funds for the
renovation and equipment.”

Smith had not actually said much up to this point, but he nodded
agreement. Phineas could only surmise that the two men knew each other fairly
well and had already discussed the matter.

“Before we move forward, I think we should clarify our goals and set
forth a mission statement,” George said. “Privately, each of us has discussed
our interest in science and in unexplained phenomena. May I state it now for
the group, that this is our intention: We are here to study occurrences and
items that may come to our attention, those which are purported to or have a
reputation of demonstrating a power beyond our knowledge. We will use any and
all scientific techniques available to us, as well as any new techniques that
shall become available in the future. Our own fortunes and those that might be
offered by others with a similar interest shall be used to fund our research,
but we shall never accept money from any entity with a vested interest in the
outcome of any finding.”

“Hear, hear! The science speaks for itself and shall be conducted
diligently and without prejudice.” Brannigan’s sentiment was echoed by the
others.

“And what shall we call our new scientific institution?” Smith asked.

George Randall had clearly considered this question as well. “I would
propose that we name it for the man who first piqued the interest of several of
us here today, the scientist who, although his name will never be known by most
of the world, is the man who set the standard for the sort of research we hold
in esteem, Helmut Vongraf.”

“The Vongraf Foundation.” The words slipped from Phineas without a
second thought.

Brannigan had reached for the decanter. “To The Vongraf Foundation!” he
said, filling each of the five small glasses.

Phineas sipped the sherry. He had met Helmut Vongraf once when his
father financed a trip to Europe during which Phineas was to finish his studies
and open his mind to the wider world beyond the small American colonies. The
Austrian had been a visitor to Paris, along with his lovely wife Kirsten, who
had also studied science and acted as the great man’s laboratory assistant.
Phineas suspected that Kirsten may have contributed significantly to her
husband’s discoveries. His enchantment with the lady, however, might have been
based on the fact that he developed a glorious youthful crush on her that
summer.

He tamped down those thoughts. The truth was that the Austrian pair had
brought scientific interest in the unexplained into the modern age. They
disputed tarot, magic and alchemy even though those topics were still popular
in parlors across the continent. He suspected he knew what they would think of
superstitious American colonists who believed that the devil and his minions
lived in the heavily wooded areas of New England. Such legends as the Jersey
Devil would surely draw their scorn, as it did his own.

“One more item for discussion,” George said, holding his half-empty
glass. “For the present time I believe that we need to keep our activities
quiet. We are not a so-called ‘secret society’ such as the Masons, Illuminati
or Rosicrucians. We know that. We know ourselves. But others may become
suspicious as they learn of the types of artifacts we want to investigate.
Prosecution for the practice of witchcraft is not supposed to exist anymore but
there are yet those who would think of us in that way.”

All heads nodded.

“Until we prove ourselves as diligent seekers of scientific knowledge,
I say we do not discuss our work or our beliefs. As long as we are
experimenting in the unknown, the unexplained, we run the risk of being seen as
heretics. And
that
, gentlemen, could be very dangerous indeed.”

Chapter 7

A Balloon Drifts

Elizabeth Cox stood within the wicker enclosure looking out over faces
in the crowd. Her husband, handsome in his top hat and tails, gave her a hearty
smile then turned back to the crowd. Their two little girls, Nancy and
Constance, were in the front row where their father could keep watch over them.
Nancy, in particular, would fidget through the entire ceremony, Elizabeth knew,
but at this moment the enormous balloon held the girls’ attention.

“Friends! Fellow
Texians
! This is a momentous
day indeed,” shouted James Cox. “For we have declared our independence from all
other powers and have become a sovereign nation unto ourselves. March 2, 1836,
will be forever marked as a day to remember!”

A roar rose from the crowd.

Beside her in the balloon’s gondola, Elizabeth felt Rory Duncan move
about. The pilot—her husband’s acquaintance from the newly formed
legislature—checked the dozens of ropes that secured the inflated bag of gas to
the basket, yanked a few times for good measure at the sacks of sand that hung
around the edges, and looked up critically at the valve where the gas had been
pumped in.

“All is perfectly well,” Rory said under his breath. “We shall launch
the minute James’s speech is finished.”

The excitement among the people became palpable; to see a balloon
floating over Galveston was a first-time event, and to have the mayor’s wife
aboard—well, Elizabeth knew she was the envy of all her friends. Virginia
McDermott had been unable to quell her snide remarks at the Ladies Aid meeting
on Tuesday, a sure sign of her jealousy over the fact that Elizabeth had been
chosen to stand here in front of the gathering in her new spring finery and to
experience the upcoming excitement of the aerial view.

James talked on … the bravery of Stephen Austin and Sam Houston, the
treaties with Mexico which had finalized the breaking away of the new republic.
He glossed over the squabbles between Mirabeau Lamar and Mr. Houston, each of
whom had different ideas about the direction the newly formed country should
take. Elizabeth had heard all of this discussed in her own parlor until she was
sick of all subjects political. Now she merely wanted the balloon to launch and
to float over her city. What would it be like? Would she be able to pick out
her own house? Surely so, it was the largest at the north end. They planned to
land as close as possible to the park, where a luncheon spread was being
prepared. A crowd would greet them and bear them back in triumph to the
celebration. It would be the perfect way to cap the afternoon and to rub her
little achievement in the face of Virginia McDermott.

Rory’s voice caught her attention as he instructed the four men holding
handling lines attached to the corners of the basket to release them. James had
finished talking and was looking over his shoulder at them. Rory pulled the tie
string on one of the sandbags and as the sand poured to the ground the basket
became buoyant and she felt the floor of it wobble under her feet. Oh, my!

Her daughters waved the white handkerchiefs she had insisted they carry.
Everyone else in the crowd waved small paper flags with the Lone Star. The red,
white and blue bunting around the dais fluttered in a light breeze. A cheer
rose. Elizabeth found herself looking at the upturned faces of the entire
citizenry. Her stomach fluttered and for one tiny moment she wondered what on
earth she was doing. Then a smile spread over her face.

They rose to treetop level. None of her friends had ever viewed a fully
grown elm tree from its crown. And the houses! The peaks and gables of the Cox
home stood high and beautiful, just as she had known they would. Only the
church was larger and she realized with a start that they were drifting right
toward the steeple tower. She turned to tug at Rory’s sleeve but he had already
spotted the danger.

“Not to worry,” he said, reaching for another of the sandbags. “We drop
more sand, we rise a little higher.”

But the string seemed to have knotted and he had to resort to another
tactic. Pulling a deadly-looking knife from its leather holster at his belt, he
bent over to slice the canvas bag. The steeple was coming at them with alarming
speed and Elizabeth edged back, not wanting to see it, trying to leave Rory
extra space to work. He bent at the waist, over the edge of the wicker basket.

Too far. With flailing arms he went over the edge, a frantic shout
escaping him as he went. Incongruously, she noticed a hole in the bottom of his
right shoe just before he disappeared completely from sight. Elizabeth Cox did
something she ordinarily thought crass and stupid—she screamed. And screamed,
and screamed.

A quick peek over the edge of the basket showed that Rory had hit the
steep roof of the church and was sliding swiftly toward the ground. The
balloon, on the other hand, now shot upward at a
frightning
rate. Her heart threatened to burst from her chest and her breakfast rose in
her throat. She looked around, without a clue about what to do.

Her house seemed much smaller now, the trees merely a fuzz of green and
the people mere dots. Had anyone witnessed what had happened? Would someone
figure out a way to rescue her? She felt frozen at the edge of the basket,
watching everything on the ground grow more distant, wanting to reach for the
sandbags. She had a dreadful feeling that rescue was impossible. She was on her
own.

She pressed her hands to the sides of her head and forced herself to
think. What had the pilot told her? Dropping sand made the balloon go up. She
stepped away from the temptation to touch those bags. Venting gas made the
balloon go down, but she had no idea how he had intended to perform that feat.
None of the equipment or the rubberized cloth bag made a bit of sense to her.
She risked another glance over the edge and her eyes widened in horror.

Instead of moving inland over the city, the craft had now changed
direction. She had just crossed over the narrow strip of beach. In no more than
a moment there would be nothing below her but the blue-gray waters of the Gulf
of Mexico. She felt her legs give way as she fainted to the wooden floor of the
gondola.

* * *

James Cox watched the red and yellow balloon drift lazily over the
city; he sported a smile at his successful planning of this day of celebration.
He stepped off the dais and stood next to his daughters as he shook hands with well-wishers.
The plan was to make his way slowly by open carriage toward the city park
where, with luck, Stephen Austin planned to join the Galveston citizens for the
midday meal. The important man was very busy, so there had been no promises,
but still—a local politician could hope.

“What’s happened?” someone in the crowd called out.

James followed the fingers pointing at the sky. Why was the balloon
going so high? This did not fit with Rory’s plan to skirt the treetops, make
his way to the north end of town, and then tether the balloon so he could give
rides to the populace during the picnic.

“I’m sure it’s fine. The pilot knows what he’s doing,” he assured the
people nearest him. “He’s very experienced.”

James hoped to God that was true; he’d only known Rory Duncan for a few
weeks.

“Let’s continue to the park,” he said with his best political smile.
“Refreshments await!”

He steered Nancy and Constance toward the road and the open carriage
with his finest trotter hitched to it. It was all he could do not to betray his
concern over this unplanned turn. James Cox was a man who made plans and
expected them to go perfectly.

He’d no sooner released the brake on the carriage and given the horse a
gentle smack with the reins than he heard shouts of alarm. A man on a chestnut
quarter-horse rode toward him full-out, yanking his mount to a stop only a foot
from Cox’s carriage.

“Mayor—” his breath came in gasps. “There’s been—” He glanced at the
two little girls next to James. “I need to speak—”

James set the brake again and told the girls to sit absolutely still.
He climbed down, wishing that bad knee would quit acting up, and walked to the
back of the rig. The other man had dismounted, leading his horse and standing
very close.

All around them, concern turned to shock on the faces of the crowd as
some kind of news rippled through the gathering.

“It’s the balloonist, Mr. Mayor, that Rory fellow. He’s fallen. By the
church. We saw him fall off the roof and— I’m afraid he’s dead, sir.”

“Dead?” James repeated the word as if he’d never heard it before.
Comprehension dawned. “But then, where’s my wife? Was she thrown out too?”

“I don’t think so, sir. Well, no one’s seen her.”

James stared skyward. The balloon was a small spot in the sky now, and
it was much too far south. Over the water.

* * *

Elizabeth stirred. The air around her felt cold, so cold. She sat up,
her fuzzy mind trying to recall … the situation coming back to her at once when
she saw the wicker basket all around. Her light, spring shawl offered little
protection and she hugged herself, scrubbing her hands along her upper arms for
warmth. Her skirt and petticoats were tangled around her legs, and she gathered
some of the material around her upper body. But the muslin dress was of little
help.

She looked up. The fabric of the balloon seemed a bit more slack than
before. Had some of the gas leaked out? She got to her knees, briefly
considered praying but decided God had already abandoned her. Gripping a piece
of rope tied to the inside of the gondola she pulled herself to her feet and
risked a glance over the side. Nothing but blue, far below.

She sank to the floor again, placed her forehead against her bent
knees. James was a man of action and he would do anything in his power, she
felt sure, but what could he really
do
? Nancy and Constance—her sweet
little ones. Their faces appeared, clean and neat in their best dresses and the
bonnets she’d chosen for them that morning, exactly as she’d last seen them
waving from the ground. A physical pain stabbed her heart at the thought of
them.

Her situation was hopeless and she could only wonder how long the
balloon could possibly stay airborne before either it crashed or she simply
died from exposure. Her spirit felt crushed. She curled into a small ball and
cried.

When next she opened her eyes the air had changed. The sun was low in
the sky and it was, if possible, even colder. She shivered until her muscles
ached. Her mouth was so dry. She looked about for a canteen of water—anything
to eat or drink—but there was none. They’d only planned to traverse the city
and then partake of a sumptuous barbeque luncheon at the park. All of that
would be long finished, she realized, watching the sun hit the far horizon.

Where were James and the girls now? Had anyone gone by the church and
discovered Rory? Did he live to tell the story, to tell them what to do now?
Probably not. If hitting the tin roof had not killed him, surely the fall to
the ground did. That church roof was high. She remembered when it was built—the
stone edifice, the wood beams inside, the pounded metal for the roof that would
keep the structure safe and dry for generations to come. James had been in on
the planning and Elizabeth had watched men sit around her dining table,
discussing and revising the plans.

And what did that have to do with her plight now? Nothing, she
realized, but it was something to think about other than the bleak prospect of
what lay ahead.

She saw the last scrap of sun disappear and could not face the dark
sky. She wrapped every bit of her clothing around her and closed her eyes.

* * *

Sammy Avila started the day early. Living with three women sometimes
made him feel crazy and he liked to get outdoors, to walk along the beach, to see
if he could scare up something to eat. Once in awhile a nice grouper or eel
would wash up on the shore; other times there were mollusks or clams caught in
the little tide pools down by the big rocks. If they were still alive or only
recently dead, he would catch them and take them home for breakfast.

His mother would be awake by now, perhaps stirring up a batter for
plantains. He loved the way she fried them and served them hot with a little
agave syrup on them. But if mama was awake, so too would be his sisters.
Cornelia had a boyfriend in the village and he hoped the
hombre
would
hurry up and marry the little witch so she would move out. She did nothing but
criticize and torture him.

Yolanda was a confirmed spinster at thirty—she had already promised (threatened!)
to live at home and care for Mamá until her last breath. Sammy had thought that
duty would fall to him as the only son, after the summer before last when his
father’s fishing boat had gone out to sea and never returned. Well, pieces of
it had returned, smashed to bits on the rocks. Hurricanes in the tropics posed
a constant danger, even though the resulting waves sometimes washed interesting
things ashore.

Now that Yolanda’s position in the home was confirmed—never to
change—Sammy supposed he could consider finding a wife and a place of his own.
But the village had few choices and he found none of the young women appealing.
Plus, a wife would insist that he take up some type of work to support her, and
then she would get grand ideas of living in a nice house like those on the
banana plantations, and Sammy knew he could never go to work for one of those
big companies. He loved the sea and would have followed his father’s trade
except that, if he had to confess the truth, facing the same fate as his father
terrified him. He’d not been out in a boat in nearly two years.