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29
WASHINGTON, D.C.
KALORAMA HEIGHTS
MANVERS HOUSE
MONDAY NIGHT
Rebekah Manvers sat on the white wall-to-wall carpeting in her bedroom, a large, well-appointed room furnished with nineteenth-century English antiques and an enormous sleigh bed. She pulled the last envelope from the rubber-banded pile of letters in her girlhood keepsake box, a gift from her grandfather for his letters to her.
She wasn’t finding anything useful. The letters were loving, but mostly chitchat about his work in Congress and whatever new bills he was hoping to pass to help his district. She eyed the last envelope, a birthday card, which birthday she couldn’t remember. She did remember the crisp one-hundred-dollar bill she’d found tucked inside, a fortune for a little kid, and felt her long-ago excitement. She remembered her mother telling her it was going into her college fund. She’d sulked, but she never could budge her mother when she was set on something. She pulled out the card—a dog jumping off the end of a pier, about to splash into the water, a Frisbee in its mouth.
She read:
Happy Birthday, my beautiful girl.
Here you are, already quite the reader. On your birthday I find myself wondering where life will take you. Things happen in life, things you don’t expect, things you are forced to face and deal with. Even though you were small, I know you felt very sad for me when my best friend, Nate Elderby, died. It still hurts me. We had so many years together. As it turned out, in the end he wasn’t the lucky one. I was. Ah, but that’s not important; you’re what’s important to me now, and always.
My sweetheart, there will come a time when you outgrow my stories, but don’t forget I made them up only for you. Remember them and the promises we made to each other. You must always keep your promises. And now, a final bit of advice: When you grow up, stay in charge of your life. It’s yours alone, no one else’s.
My love forever, Rebekah,
Your Grandfather
She looked up to see Griffin holding out his hand for the birthday card. She handed it to him. “You’re only the second person in the world who’s read that card or any of his letters. Grandfather made me promise I wouldn’t share them. I didn’t even let my mother read them. That birthday card—he writes about his stories, about his friend Nate and my promises. I think he was reminding me about the poem he had me memorize, the poem he made me promise not to tell anyone. Yesterday, I told Agent Savich and Agent Sherlock, and of course Kit, the poem. I suppose Agent Savich told it to you?”
“Yes, he did. He also told me to keep it close.” Griffin opened the birthday card, looked it over. “The poem seems a major clue, but you have no idea what it means?”
“No, it’s quite mysterious. At least he was clear in the poem about hiding something.”
“And his telling you to keep the rhyme secret. I wonder what he meant about the key being in his head?”
Rebekah shrugged. “So do I. Actually, I don’t know if I even want to figure it out. I don’t want any stolen money, especially if it was Grandfather’s, and I’ll have no part in ruining my grandfather’s legacy.”
He raised his head, looked at her straight on. “I wonder what Nate Elderby did? Rebekah, do you have any idea?”
She said, keeping her voice emotionless, “I was a little kid when he drowned. Of course I don’t know. I know Agent Savich wonders if Grandfather might even have killed Elderby, but I can’t believe that. I won’t believe that. Do you?”
Griffin tapped the card against his palm. “I’m sorry, Rebekah, but if I had to guess, I’d say he might have. Can you speak to your grandmother about this?”
“If I even brought it up gently, innocently, my grandmother would fry my liver. I can’t remember a time she ever liked me. Even when I was little, I knew she hated to be around me, but it didn’t bother me because I had Grandfather and my mother. Once, my mother told me to ignore her. When I was older, I wondered if she was jealous of the bond between Grandfather and me.” Rebekah shrugged. “That sounds petty, but it’s all I’ve got. Even at Grandfather’s funeral last month she was distant. It was obvious she didn’t want anything to do with me. When she had to speak to me, she never looked directly at me. The staff at the Mayfield Sanitarium told me she very rarely visited. Why not? I don’t know.”
“What are you two doing up here?”
Congressman Richard Manvers stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at them—no, he was staring at Griffin, his hands fisted at his sides.
Griffin and Rebekah were sitting on the floor facing each other, a pile of letters between them, Griffin still holding the last one.
Rebekah jumped to her feet. “Rich, you’re early. If you’d called, Agent Hammersmith could have gone home.”
“What are you doing?”
Griffin got slowly to his feet. He knew instantly, of course, Manvers was pissed because Griffin was alone with his wife in their bedroom. It hadn’t even occurred to him when Rebekah waved him in that it was inappropriate. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced a pissed-off husband or boyfriend. It seemed there was always suspicion whenever he was within three feet of a woman. Get it through your brain, Hammersmith. Never go into a woman’s bedroom, no matter the reason. Well, unless it’s at gunpoint.
He said easily as he got to his feet, “Good evening, Congressman. Mrs. Manvers and I were reading letters written to her by her grandfather. They’re very interesting. In this last one he mentions his best friend, Nate, and how he, Nate, wasn’t the lucky one.” Griffin held out the card to Manvers. Griffin said nothing more. Rebekah said nothing, either, but her face was flushed.
Manvers quickly read the card, looked down at the pile of letters on the white carpet, and slowly, he eased. He stepped forward and took his wife’s hand, brought her close against him, and kissed her cheek. Then he smiled at her and read the birthday card again. “I don’t understand. What is this all about?”
