Apple, smiley-face, heart, I thought. Sun, moon, wind.
“Police officer” was the only pictogram to be repeated. The obstructionist police Lieutenant R.T. Moore? His hand is in all that is unpleasant here in Norraton.
I had tossed my soggy shoes under my desk, and now feared for their restoration. Taking the morning Times from my desk, still folded and unread, I ripped away the front page and crumpled it, preparing to stuff the toe of my pumps. Page three of the Wednesday paper was now visible, showing a grainy photo of a group of people. I started, for one of them was Mr. Brett, my “Stardust” partner. TOWN FATHERS SEEK ECONOMIC SOLUTION the headline read. I skimmed it, curious, remembering Mr. Brett’s wandering paws. “Just under ten percent of soil in Norraton is potentially . . .” I paused, reading the rest.
Police officer, police officer, police officer, I thought.
Watson’s chin had sagged to her chest, her eyes closed, her feet still propped on the low sill of our front window. Peacefully asleep. And let her be so.
Careful not to disturb my colleague, I turned to the bookcase behind me, crouching to face the second shelf from the bottom, the place I kept my geology volumes, as well as the ones I’d inherited. Far less valuable than a rural estate, but all my own modest family could afford to bequeath. I selected one of Father’s personal favorites, and opened it. We’d looked at it, together, when Father was still alive and my life had not yet unfolded.
We’d traveled many a rocky pathway together, walking the rolling hills of Norraton, filling our pockets with rocks and our heads with dreams that would never be fulfilled: father and daughter, traveling the world and studying its treasures. One evening, after we’d organized our discoveries on the kitchen table, Father offered me a tattered leather-bound volume, Final Report on the Geology of Massachusetts, published in 1841. He’d pointed out the author’s name. Hitchcock, just like the master of suspense.
“The earth itself is a mystery, and offers constant surprises,” Father had told me. “It is our job to discover the solutions.”
I hadn’t thought of that in years. Ironic, now, that my current vocation also dealt with mystery. And solutions.
I scanned Hitchcock’s table of contents, but it was frustratingly long and, for my purposes, illogical. I flipped to the appendix, which, reliably, was in alphabetical order. Ran one searching finger past the list of A—agate, alabaster, amber, apatite; and past the list of B—basalt, beryl, bloodstone.
Police officer, police officer, police officer. Again, I thought, sometimes our initial responses are wrong.
As the appendix directed me, I turned to page 193.
“Are you ready?” I whispered. It was now almost four A.M. We’d entered the studio using Daley’s key. “I hear footsteps coming up the stairs.”
“Ready!” Watson whispered back, having taken up her position in the left wall’s coat closet.
“Are you ready, Arthur? Careful of the mirrors.”
“Ready!” He’d hidden himself behind the armoire housing the record player and collection of vinyl.
“Officer Lester?”
“Yup.” Jake was concealed behind the door of the right wall’s closet.
If all went as planned, we would soon know whether my deductions were correct. I had the proof we needed close at hand. In Father’s bequeathed Hitchcock, on page 193, I’d found “Copper, in Massachusetts.”
And on page 194: “Copper, maps of.”
The maps revealed the treasure: one seemingly worth arson, and deception, and deadly threats.
Underneath the groomed lawns of Stoke Moran lay a forgotten bonanza—the fabled copper lode of western Massachusetts.
The pictograms had not meant “police officer police officer police officer”—but copper copper copper.
I sent a silent thank you to my departed father, who had once again been my partner.
The footsteps drew closer.
Into the reception area.
Down the corridor.
I ducked into the shadows.
The door to the studio swung open.
“So you have finally come to your senses!” Anthony Selwyn Harrison slammed the door behind him as he entered, and with a dramatic flourish, flipped on the reliably dim overhead lights. “Now that your precious house is gone, you’ll have no need for the property. Shall we sign the sales paperwork right now?”
“That’s good enough for me!” Lester cried. He sprang from his hiding place and clapped handcuffs on the thunderstruck dance master.