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“Oh, I don’t know. In fact, no one knows what became of him. I’m simply talking about the last letter he sent Grandmother Constance.” Miss Cynthia’s eyes brightened. “Goodness, there are dozens of them, with the most wonderful postmarks and stamps from all over. He was quite the character. Always on some kind of adventure or quest. As I understand it, Grandmother Constance was worried that he was a bit touched in the head. She took all his stories with a grain of salt.”
“You mentioned letters,” Remi said. “Do you still—”
“Oh, yes, certainly. They’re in the basement. Would you like to see them?”
Sam, not trusting himself to speak, merely nodded.
THEY FOLLOWED HER through the kitchen and down a set of narrow steps near the back door. Predictably, the basement was dark and dank, with rough stone walls and a veined concrete floor. Using the light streaming down the stairs, Miss Cynthia found the light switch. In the center of the basement a single sixty-watt bulb glowed to life. The walls and floor were stacked with cardboard boxes of all sizes and shapes.
“You see the three shoe boxes there?” Miss Cynthia said. “Beside the Christmas-tree box?”
“Yes,” said Sam.
“That’s them.”
Back in the parlor, Sam and Remi opened the boxes and were immediately relieved to find the letters had been divided and stored in gallon-sized Ziploc baggies.
Sam said, “Miss Cynthia, you’re our hero.”
“Nonsense. Now, I have one condition,” she said sternly. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Sam.
“Take care of them and bring them back when you’re done.”
“I don’t understand,” Remi replied. “You’re letting us—”
“Of course. Julianne said you were decent people. She said you were trying to find out what happened to Uncle Blaylock in Africa—or wherever he ended up. It’s been a mystery in our family for a hundred twenty-seven years. It would be nice to have it solved. Since I’m too old for that kind of adventure, at least I can hear about it later from you. Providing you promise to come back and tell me everything.”
“We promise,” Sam said.
CHAPTER 26
LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA
“PETE, WENDY, GET THESE INTO THE VAULT AND DO A QUICK assessment,” Selma said. She slid the shoe boxes across the worktable, and her assistants picked them up and disappeared into the archive chamber.
Unsure of the Blaylock letters’ condition, Sam and Remi had resisted temptation and refrained from opening the Ziplocs before they got home.
“A fruitful trip, it seems,” Selma said.
“Your friend Julianne is one of a kind,” Remi said.
“Tell me something I don’t know. If I’m ever hit by a bus, she should be your first call for a replacement.”
“Before or after we call 911?” Sam said.
“You’re a funny one, Mr. Fargo. This Ashworth woman . . . she seemed genuine?”
“She did,” replied Remi. “Between Blaylock’s journal and Morton’s biography we should be able to definitively prove or disprove the letters’ bona fides.”
Selma nodded. “While Pete and Wendy are working with those, care to see what progress we’ve made on the journal?”
“Can’t wait,” said Sam.
The three of them sat down at the worktable facing the nearest LCD screen, and Selma used the remote to scroll into their server. She located the file she wanted and double-clicked it. It filled the screen:
“Wow,” Sam murmured. “That’s a busy mind. Could be the thoughts of a genius or a nut.”
