Deborah’s office more closely resembled a library’s archive room, with four walls covered with shelves, leaving space only for the window and stacks of papers teetering on and around the perimeter of a metal teacher’s desk. I didn’t spot her until a loud thud came from a spot in the room behind us, and we turned to find Deborah standing on a tall stepladder, her arms overstuffed with books, the one on top threatening to join its partner in crime on the floor, where it lay with spine splayed, like a dead bird.
Gibbes reached up and took the stack of books from her, then stayed beside her while she carefully made her way down the steps. “Thank you,” she said, peering over her glasses at him. “If you could put them on my desk, I’d appreciate it.”
There were no exposed parts on her desk, so I began carefully stacking folders and books to make room. I noticed two small frames perched precariously on the edge, both containing photos of the same two cats. There were no photos of children or grandchildren, just the cats. I wondered whether, after Loralee and Owen were gone, and Gibbes had finished taking what he wanted from the house, and I was alone again, I’d need to get a cat or two to keep me company. The thought stung more than I cared to admit.
Deborah wore a quilted vest with appliqués of cats and balls of yarn. Her khaki pants were pulled up higher than current fashion dictated, and she wore the same sensible shoes she’d had on when she visited the house. But her eyes were bright with anticipation, and when she clasped her hands in front of her, I almost expected her to rub them together with glee.
“Thank you both for coming. And it’s so good to see you, Gibbes. I haven’t seen you since your grandmother’s funeral.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been working hard. One of the doctors has been out on maternity leave, so we’ve all been a little busier than usual.”
She’d said it so bluntly that I wondered whether she wasn’t originally from Beaufort. I knew she’d babysat for Cal’s father, but that would have been when she was a teenager. And she didn’t sound anything like Loralee—or Gibbes for that matter—where syllables were added to even the shortest words, and consonants were sometimes dropped completely.
“Are you from Beaufort, Ms. Fuller? I can’t place your accent.”
Her eyes continued to sparkle, and I could describe them only as mischievous. “I’m a true Beaufortonian. My family has owned land here since the original land grants. As for my accent, my mother taught me how to speak correctly, without a lazy drawl, and to clip the ends of my words. Some people mistake it for a New England accent.”
I smiled, thinking I knew now why I’d taken a liking to her when I’d first met her. “The last time I saw you, you said you had something here that I might be interested in seeing.”
She nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. And Gibbes, too, I would suspect. Follow me.”
She took a lanyard off a hook screwed into the side of one of the bookshelves, about a dozen keys dangling from the end. It looked handmade, with needlepoint cats marching up and down the length of it.
Deborah stopped in front of a closed door and turned to us with a secret smile before sorting through the keys. “We only open up this room by appointment. It’s full of miscellaneous historical artifacts that have been either purchased for or donated to the society by residents who wish to preserve a piece of their family history.” She stuck a key in the old lock, then opened the door, letting it swing wide in front of us. “Take a look.”
Gibbes and I stole a glance at each other before heading inside. It took me a moment before my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Heavy shades were drawn over the windows to block out the harsh South Carolina sun, and the double-bulb light fixture in the porcelain shade on the ceiling did little to illuminate the room and its contents.
Small vitrines were set against one wall, displaying pieces of jewelry, portrait miniatures, and pocket watches. Larger pieces of furniture were set randomly around the room, with handwritten descriptions on cardboard plaques set in ornate wood frames. An antique rocking horse, a baby’s cradle, and a modern mannequin wearing a nineteenth-century dress complete with hoop skirt and feathered bonnet were crowded in one corner of the room, allowing for a labyrinthine path through the artifacts.
I met Gibbes’s gaze and he shrugged, confirming that, like me, he had no idea what we were looking for. He lifted a corset from a pile of linens and waggled his eyebrows, and I smiled before I could stop myself.
I turned to Deborah. “Ms. Fuller, was there something in particular that you wanted us to see?”
“Absolutely,” she said, not bothering to mask a simmering excitement. “Over here.” She walked toward a heavy rocking chair that looked like it had been made for a giant, and began tugging on the arms to slide it backward.
“Let me,” Gibbes said, taking over and moving it easily on the wood floorboards, revealing a small end table behind it. On top of the table sat a large open shoe box on its side that was suddenly and horribly familiar.
“Where did this come from?” Gibbes asked, his voice clipped.
“The Beaufort Police Department. Your grandmother made it.”
Gibbes stared at the older woman. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What is this?”
“She never told you?”