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“Not unless they’re both 120 years old. This insignia hasn’t been used by the army in about a century. It’s the insignia of the Rough Riders,” Emerson said.
“As in Teddy Roosevelt?”
Emerson smiled. “Precisely. The same Teddy Roosevelt who led the Rough Riders in the Spanish-American War. The same Teddy Roosevelt who, as president, signed the Antiquities Act of 1906, allowing the president, with the stroke of a pen, to seize control of any lands he deems of natural, cultural, or scientific importance. It’s been used hundreds of times since 1906 to create national parks and federal monuments. Millions of acres have been put under permanent conservation. That’s why Teddy Roosevelt is often seen as the father of the national parks system.”
“It’s a pretty cool emblem,” Riley said. “I could see why someone might want it as a tattoo. Not me, of course, but someone.”
“It might be more than that. The Rough Riders were officially disbanded in 1898, but maybe Teddy Roosevelt had some use for them other than fighting Spaniards. Something important. Something he wanted kept secret.”
“Oh boy,” Riley said. “Now you’re going to drag poor Teddy Roosevelt into this.”
“Yes,” Emerson said. “I think it might have all started with Teddy. Although at this point in time there’s no way to know for sure if it was the man himself or someone close to him.”
“And you think Tin Man and the dead guy are both members of some underground Rough Rider society?”
“That’s my theory.”
“Seems like a stretch,” Riley said. “One hundred twenty years is a long time to keep a secret.”
Emerson did a full-on smile. “It must be a real doozy!”
—
Riley spent the night at Mysterioso Manor. She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, and Emerson’s house felt safer than her apartment. She woke up slowly, assessing her injuries from the day before. Her knee had scabbed over, and she was generally achy. All minor issues. Her life’s direction was more serious. Her life’s direction was panic-attack material.
She got out of bed and saw two suitcases in the middle of the floor. Medium size. Black. New. The nice kind that rolled around on four wheels. One had an orange tag that said “Yellowstone” and the other had a red tag that said “Hawaii.” She looked down at herself and realized there was a Post-it note stuck to her pajama top.
Flight for Jackson Hole, Wyoming, leaves Dulles at noon.
“Crap on a cracker,” Riley said. And she padded off to the bathroom.
A half hour later she was showered and dressed in new undies, new bootcut jeans, a new plaid flannel shirt, and new Ariat cowboy boots that she had found in the Yellowstone suitcase.
Emerson, Wayan Bagus, and Vernon were already halfway through breakfast when Riley walked into the kitchen. Vernon’s and Emerson’s packed bags and three backpacks were sitting by the table. Wayan Bagus was trying to fit an assortment of supplies from Emerson’s guest room into his little duffel. L’Occitane shower gels, bath salts, and Charmin Ultra Soft toilet paper.
It was clear it wouldn’t all fit.
“The root of suffering is material attachment,” Emerson said.
Vernon was eating a big stack of waffles smothered in butter and maple syrup, with orange juice, bacon, and sausages on the side.
“Well, I’ve got to differ with you there, Emerson. I kind of like all my attachments.”
Riley sat down next to Emerson. “Do you think it’s weird that you’re a multimillionaire with lots of stuff who believes that material possessions are the root of all suffering?”
Emerson shrugged. “What choice do I have but to be myself? Everyone else was already taken.”
“Is that more Buddhist wisdom?” Riley asked him.
“It came from a fortune cookie I had last week. I thought it might be appropriate. My life is complicated and even contradictory at times, but it’s my life and I’m comfortable in it. Also, my lucky numbers are seven, fourteen, two, and nine.”
Riley took a piece of bacon off Vernon’s plate. “Since we’re on the subject of being yourself, could you be a little less yourself from time to time, primarily from when I fall asleep to when I wake up? I mean, who sneaks into someone’s bedroom in the middle of the night, sticks a note on them, and leaves suitcases filled with clothes? And I’m not even going to ask how you know my bra size.”
“I must confess I had little to do with the clothes selection,” Emerson said. “I employed a professional shopper.”
Vernon looked up. “Personally, I don’t believe in sexualizing women’s bodies by making them wear bras and such,” he said, his mouth full of waffles. “Free the nipple! Make America great again!”
“You needed the clothes for Yellowstone,” Emerson said. “It was in the interest of expediency.”
