Blood, Ash, and Bone - By Tina Whittle Page 0,3
packing for the Southeastern Civil War Expo next week. This is my first time as a vendor, so I’m a little disorganized.”
His face went solemn. “I sure was sorry to hear about your Uncle Dexter passing. He was good people. To lose him so quick after your mama…”
We stood a few seconds in awkward silence. John had left me three months after my mother’s funeral. I waited for some anger to wash up, but felt only an edged curiosity.
“You want something to drink?” I said.
“Got a beer?”
I went upstairs and grabbed a Guinness for him, a Pellegrino for me. Back in the shop, I sat at the counter and sent the beer sliding his way. “So what brings you to the ATL?”
“Looking for you.”
“Why?”
He popped the top off the beer with his thumb. “Been reading about you.”
“And?”
“You’re quite the celebrity. Got yourself mixed up in some murders. Handled yourself real well from what I read.”
I remembered the article in the Atlanta paper. Feisty if somewhat foolhardy, the reporter had said of me. And then she’d slobbered love all over Trey. The enigmatic and intriguing corporate security agent. The cops hadn’t been happy with either of us, however.
I took a cold sharp sip of Pellegrino. “You still haven’t explained why you’re here.”
“You remember Hope?”
I tried to keep my expression neutral. Hope. My former roommate, former co-worker, former friend. Until she and John had run off together, of course, leaving me with a cracked heart and an avalanche of back rent.
“What’s Hope got to do with anything?”
He pulled out a pack of Marlboros and held them my way. I shook my head firmly. He stuck one between his lips, dug a lighter from his jacket. “We got married last month.”
“Congratulations.”
“Not really. She left me a week ago, and she took something with her that’s mine. I want it back.”
“And you’re talking to me because…?”
“Because you seem to know your way around a tricky situation.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I need you to find an artifact for me.”
“You know I charge a finder’s fee.”
“I expected as much.”
“Ten percent of the appraised value upon delivery.” I tipped my Pellegrino at him. “For you, though, let’s call it fifteen percent.”
He laughed. “Fair enough.”
And then he pulled a checkbook from his pocket, snagged a pen from the counter. A few squiggles and flourishes, and he sent the check my way.
“That should cover things.”
I stared at it. John didn’t say anything. He let the numbers speak for themselves.
I dragged my eyes from the check. “Is this for real?”
“Real as rain.”
I examined it closer, then shoved it back. “It’s post-dated.”
He shoved it my way again. “I don’t have the money right this second. But I will soon, if you help me.”
“You’d better start at the beginning.”
And so he did.
“Hope and I run a pawn shop down in Jacksonville. We sell the usual stuff, TVs and guns and video games, but we do some antique trade too. One day we hit this estate sale. The woman running it was an out-of-towner—from Des Moines, I think—and she offered me this roll-top desk filled with papers, pen, books, old stuff. The price was cheap, and it was solid walnut, so I bought it.” He smiled his gotcha smile. “Turns out, she hadn’t even looked through the drawers. Because if she had, she’d have found it.”
“Found what?”
“The Bible.” He leaned forward, eyes blazing. “An 1859 Oxford King James. It was covered in burgundy-colored velvet, crushed and stained, but in good condition overall.”
“And?”
John savored his words. “It belonged to General William Tecumseh Sherman. A gift from President Abraham Lincoln, signed and inscribed.”
“Dated?”
John smiled wider. “December 21st 1864.”
I tried to hide my excitement. I knew this story. I used to tell it every day during my days as a tour guide in Savannah, parking my herd of tourists in front of the Green-Meldrim House and explaining how, on that very soil one hundred and fifty years before, the mayor of Savannah surrendered his city to General Sherman, who had previously burned Atlanta to ash and then marched a swath of destruction to the sea. How Sherman had then offered the city of Savannah, along with some cotton and ammunition, as a Christmas present to the president.
“You found this Bible in the desk?”
“Hope did.”
“And now she’s run off with it?”
“Not just the Bible. Everything from the desk is gone—papers and pens and inks and books. She said she was taking it to an expert up here. But a friend of a friend called me and said they spotted her