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Gabriel grimaced. “He apparently meant someone named Bridget, whose father was a silversmith.”
“That’s less sweet,” I grumbled.
“Your grandfather was a bit of a man-whore,” Andrea informed me.
“Yes, thank you, I blame genetics,” I said, eyeing Dick.
“Those are your genes, too,” Dick reminded me sternly.
Gabriel cleared his throat. “Would you two like to know who he gave the bell to, or will this uncomfortable family moment continue for the rest of us to enjoy?”
* * *
My palms were sweating as Jed and I waited outside the outdated offices of James H. Mayhew, Esquire. It was late in the afternoon. The reception area had certainly seen better days, with its worn leather chairs and battered tile floors. The secretary’s desk had long been abandoned, so we were left to wait while Mr. Mayhew finished up a phone call. Jed was amusing himself by sorting through six-year-old copies of Ladies’ Home Journal and Newsweek.
This was what a last resort felt like. I had no idea what our next move would be if this didn’t pan out. And the depressing thing was, I was sure it wouldn’t. Jed tried keeping a more optimistic perspective . . . until I threatened to smack him with a rolled-up magazine.
Jimmy Mayhew was exactly what I expected in a small-town lawyer. Elderly, with a full shock of pure white hair and out-of-control matching eyebrows. His suit was a dapper if unfashionable blue silk, with a tie that set off his clear cornflower-blue eyes.
“So, you’re the appointment Miss Jane referred to me?” he said, flashing some very respectable dentures at me.
Having long since tired of subterfuge, I introduced myself as Mr. Wainwright’s granddaughter. Mr. Mayhew’s white eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He sat back heavily in his club chair while I gave him a brief summary of the events that had brought me to his door. A parade of conflicting emotions crossed his handsome face as I told my story, ending with shocked resignation as I concluded with, “So, we were hoping, Mr. Mayhew, that you might still have that bell he gave you all those years ago and, if so, that you would be willing to part with it.”
“He really had a daughter?” he asked.
I nodded. “You can ask Dick Cheney,” I said. “He’ll vouch for my story.”
“Why would Jane’s shifty friend know anything about it?”
I offered him an easy smile. “Never mind.”
“Well, you do favor him. And if Miss Jane believes you, that’s enough for me . . . Gilbert having descendants would have drastically changed his will, you know,” he said, frowning. “Are you here to challenge it? Because he was very fond of Miss Jane, and I wouldn’t be comfortable—”
“Oh, no,” I assured him. “I think the shop is in very good hands. I was just curious about the bell.”
Mr. Mayhew blew out a long breath. “I haven’t got it.”
My heart dropped somewhere near the location of my feet. Jed gave my hand a squeeze, but at the moment, I couldn’t find it in me to look up at him.
“Gilbert did give me a bell, about twenty years ago,” Mr. Mayhew said. “He asked me to put it in my safe, something about not feeling right about keeping them all together. And then, five years ago, right before Miss Jane started working there, he took it back. Said it was time and that he was going to hide it in plain sight.”
“He didn’t tell you where that might be?” Jed asked.
Mr. Mayhew shook his head.
“And what about your friend Bob Puckett? He was one of your card circle. Would Mr. Wainwright have given it to him?”
“Bobby Puckett died ten years ago,” Mr. Mayhew said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Miss, but if Gilbert said he was going to hide it in plain sight, then you should look in the most obvious place first.”
“We kind of covered those,” Jed told him.
“I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” Mr. Mayhew said, shaking his head.
I stood, my knees shaking, and took his hand.
“After all this time,” Mr. Mayhew said. “Gilbert has a grandkid. He would have gotten such a kick out of you, young lady.”
“Thank you.”
