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“Why would they? They sound like torture devices to me. Besides, you’ve never seen one.”
“Well, no, but I’m not a woman, and I didn’t grow up with any sisters.”
“Fair enough.”
“But this could be a gold mine. I have no idea if these hairs are viable, but at least it’s something. Is there anything else in the box?”
“Yeah,” Rory says. “Take a look.” She scoots the box over to me, and we both glance inside together. “I was right. Ennis was definitely a romantic.”
Dried roses. The petals line the bottom of the box, but one or two of the buds are still intact.
“These are short-stemmed roses,” Rory says. “For the thrifty romantic. Long-stemmed can sometimes be too expensive.”
“Or one of them could’ve picked them,” I say. “My mom picks roses all the time from her gardens.”
“Could very well be. We’ll have to ask Ennis.”
“Let’s put everything back in the box,” I say. “I hope he’ll let us take the stuff with us so we can have it all analyzed.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then we have to respect his wishes,” I say. “This is his stuff.”
“Should we go through the rest of these boxes?” Rory asks.
“I don’t think there’s any need to further violate his privacy. We found the shoebox.”
“I agree.” She closes the box. “Havisham can come down here and retape these.”
I grab the shoebox and help Rory to her feet. “How long have we been down here?”
She looks at her watch. “About an hour and a half.”
“Still about half an hour before dinner, then,” I say. “Maybe we can talk to Ennis now. This stuff isn’t exactly good dinner conversation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
RORY
Ennis was napping before dinner, so we didn’t have time to talk to him until dinner anyway, which is now being served in a formal dining room.
For such an affair, I’m expecting a four- or five-course dinner, but Ennis surprises us.
“I told Havisham to order from one of my favorite restaurants this evening. I wasn’t sure the two of you would enjoy English food, so we’re having Italian.”
Actually, I would love to try a traditional English dinner, but we can go to a restaurant tomorrow evening.
Havisham serves us veal Marsala, broccoli with basil, and a side of spaghetti marinara, already plated. On our bread plates, he sets white bread with individual cruets of olive oil.
“We don’t stand on ceremony here, regardless of Havisham’s manners. Please. Dig in.”
Brock smiles. “I think that’s an American phrase.”
“I lived in your country for the better part of my life,” Ennis says. “Except for the accent, I’m more American than I am English now.”
“We found the shoebox, Ennis.” Brock dips his bread in some olive oil.
“Oh, good. I’m glad I still have it after all these years. Was there anything in there that can help you?”
