“Maggie,” Walt says.
“What?” she barks.
“That’s insane.”
“It’s not insane. It’s chronologically intuitive.”
“No customer looking forThe Federalist Papersis going to search for it next to a horror novel.”
No customer is going to look forThe Federalist Papers,period. But I keep the sentiment to myself. It will only exacerbate the bickering. The two of them act like an old married couple. One of their favorite topics to argue about is the way in which Maggie organizes her shop, which is, admittedly, terribly confusing to customers.
“I have a question,” I say, giving the sticky note a wave as I join them in the post Revolutionary War, pre-fire section. “Have either of you seen this symbol before?”
“Never,” Walt declares while Maggie pats inside her pockets and mutters something about her reading glasses.
“They’re on your head,” Walt says.
She brings them to the end of her nose and inspects my rendering. When she’s finished, she turns to me with her unblinking stare. “Why do you want to know?”
“I saw it on a sketch and I’m curious.” It’s best to keep it vague. Maggie gets very irritated with strange and mysterious things. Not because they frighten her or even because she doesn’t believe inthem. Sometimes, I think she might. She just doesn’t like how easily they overshadow history. History, to Maggie, is the most important thing in the universe.
“Well,” she finally announces. “I recognize it.”
“You do?”
She waves at us to follow, then heads toward the reading nook, where a faded velvet armchair and a rickety side table sit beneath a floor lamp that almost always flickers. The area is boxed in by shorter shelves, the kind you might find in the children’s section of a library. The books in this section aren’t for sale; they’re for looking. She bends over, removes a large book from a bottom shelf, and places it in my hands. The thing is hefty, and looks like it belongs with the Vandenberg family archives. A proper tome made of leather. And there, on its dusty cover, is the symbol embossed in gold.
“It’s locked,” Twig says.
He’s right.
Its pages are sealed shut with a sturdy metal lock.
“Where’s the key?” I ask.
“If I had to guess, somewhere inside that estate you’re so obsessed with. This book was donated to me in 1995, along with several other volumes.”
“By who?”
“Denis Tulane.”
My mouth drops open.
Maggie waves her hand in my direction like one shooing away a fly. “We are acquainted.”
I stare incredulously. She knows more than anyone how hard Twig and I have tried to get an interview with Denis Tulane, and all this time, she’s known him? “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because the last thing Denis needs is a couple kids bugging him about that disappearance. He’s been pestered enough. The man deserves some peace.”
Walt lifts his eyebrows imperiously. “Why would this gentleman donate a locked book without also giving you the key?”
“Who knows and who cares,” Maggie replies. “My favorite thing about this book is that lock.”
I blow on the cover, sending up a small cloud of dust. “What does the symbol mean?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” Walt asks.
