The Mapmaker's Children (15 page)

Your true friend
,

Sarah

New Charlestown, Virginia, April 20, 1860

Dearest Sarah
,

I received your letter this morning and am greatly concerned to hear that you've taken on yet another secret burden. Please know that I am here and you may write anything (curses upon curses, if you wish) without judgment
.

Damnation! Now, see, you have my own obscenity in written proof and you may use it as you see fit. I trust you, as I hope you trust me. These penned words hold so little in their strokes. I wish you might paint me all that is within you. If only people could journey like your sketches—with a mere postal fee. Perhaps modernization will progress to such a point eventually. Until that time, I will simply have to bring you by train
.

My great-aunt Mrs. Nancy Santi, whom we call Auntie Nan, has invited us to stay with her in Boston in June while Father meets with
prestigious investors of our parish's great calling. If you and your sister are not otherwise engaged in academic activities, Father has asked that I pass on his formal invitation to dine an evening that is most convenient to you. Auntie Nan has insisted that you stay as honored guests at her home in Beacon Hill. While Father attends to business, I would thoroughly enjoy the company of the Misses Brown
.

I pray that between the date of your letter and today, Annie's disposition might've seen some improvement. If not, I hope this news of our visit is received favorably
.

Affectionately yours
,

Freddy

P.S. We recently finished Miss Alcott's collection. Alice and Siby have taken to calling each other Thistledown, Lily-Bell, Sunbeam, Leaf, Summer-Wind, and all manner of fairy flower names imaginable. They call you Ripple, the Water-Spirit, in the light of your current stewardship over Walden Pond. Also, we thank you for the drawing of Albany. Alice has dubbed it Ripple's City Port. It has proved pleasingly popular with all
.

Concord, Mass., May 6, 1860

Dear Freddy
,

I've immediately written to Mother so that she may, in turn, write straightaway to Mr. Sanborn with her permission for us to visit you and Mr. Hill next month! My father had many friends in Boston. I am certain Mother will approve. It will be so good to see Mr. Hill and you, Freddy!

Mr. Sanborn has announced that the poet and artist Mary Artemisia Lathbury of Saratoga is coming in July to teach a painting salon and summer biblical dramaturgy. She is a woman of great leadership in our
work to uplift the nation. I am elated and humbled to study with an artist of such celebrity. I pray she will help me elevate my drawings from sketch to canvas, so my work might be shared further in our friendship circles. Do not fear, however; her arrival will not conflict with your June invitation. Even Mr. Sanborn appears greatly enthused by the news of your father's visit to Mrs. Nancy Santi and our visit to Beacon Hill. He said it was divinely timed
.

Lastly, I'm glad the Hills are enjoying the
Flower Fables
book. If you are finished reading by next month, you may return the book to me in person and save the postage. I'm flattered to be likened to Ripple, the Water-Spirit. She was no stagnant fairy. What honorific have Alice and Siby bestowed upon you? Perhaps one of the good Elves living in haystacks of Fairy-land. What mischief and adventure we're sure to have—a water sprite and a barn elf set loose in Boston
.

Affectionately your friend
,

Sarah

P.S. Annie is still unwell, but I believe this trip is the medicine necessary for all
.

N
EW
C
HARLESTOWN
, W
EST
V
IRGINIA
A
UGUST
2014

W
hen the Nileses' white ice-cream truck with the cherry megaphone pulled up Eden's driveway, she was convinced her
Twilight Zone
reality had progressed to a full-fledged Stephen King movie.

But as the state historic preservation officer for New Charlestown, Vee was Eden's only hope of getting the house on the National Register of Historic Places, the seal of authenticity that could blast their real estate value through the roof. Eden had done her homework.

The national criteria required a property to be evaluated for age, integrity, and significance to historical persons, events, activities, or developments. The renovating architect had said the cornerstone was dated 1850. So age was in the bag. While the house had been completely gutted during the renovation, she'd argue that the face and bones were the same, which she hoped would suffice for integrity. Last was significance. Such a subjective quality: one man's trash was another man's treasure—wasn't that the saying? She was sure she could spin barn straw into gold bullion. If there was truly a historical connection, however, all the better.

So horror film or not, Eden was opening the door.

“Mrs. Anderson?” Vee asked from behind the screen.

“Eden, yes. You must be Vee Niles?” Eden nodded to the truck with
Niles' Neapolitans
printed in giant cursive above the frozen-treat chart.

“Sorry about the truck,” apologized Vee.

She was younger than Eden had anticipated, Denny's age. Her dark hair was swept up in a French twist, revealing a pathway of diamond studs
in her left ear. At one time cartilage, nose, and facial piercings had been the markings of a certain kind—rebels and radicals silently dissenting from social constraints. But those days were long gone. Vee was proof, with her designer jeans, tailored collared shirt, and ear constellations.

“I could only swing by during my route. Dad usually runs the truck while I work the antiques shop. But back in June he was pulling an old road sign out of a collector's hayloft and fell. Broke his pelvis. He's been home healing ever since, leaving me to run the front door and the midway of this summer circus. The truck's been driving New Charlestown streets since before I was born. I couldn't let the kids down.”

Eden understood. “We had a Good Humor truck in the neighborhood I grew up in. My brother, Denny, and I used to wait on the corner every afternoon.”

Vee smiled, for the first time. “Exactly. It's tradition.”

Eden opened the screen door and motioned her in. “Nice to meet you, and thanks for coming over.”

Vee checked her chrome watch and stepped inside. “I can only stay a few minutes.”

“Oh? Can you make an appraisal that fast?”

Eden had picked up the house, put on makeup, and asked Cleo to take Cricket on a very long walk, then brush him out and give him a bath. She figured that would keep her busy awhile. She was giving the girl twenty dollars for the extra services. The thought of coordinating a time when no one was home again and everything was presentable exhausted Eden. She'd hoped to have the deal signed, sealed, and delivered in one visit.

“I've already done most of the houses on Apple Hill. I can tell pretty quick about a property. It's the application that takes weeks to complete.” Vee took out her clipboard checklist and clicked her ballpoint pen while surveying the ceiling beams. “And that's before you give it to me and the Jefferson County Historic League. After our evaluation, we send it to West Virginia Division of Culture and History. On their authorization, it would go to the National Register Review Board and, if
they
approve,
to the National Parks Service in Washington, D.C. The National Parks folks are real quick, though. They have a forty-five-day guaranteed turnaround.”

“Forty-five days!” Eden gasped.

Weeks of protocol and stops at three bureaucratic desks, culminating in a forty-five-day review in Washington, meant it'd be months before she'd even have the paperwork embossed. Never mind putting the property on the market, finding a buyer, endorsing her half of the sales check to a private account, hiring a divorce lawyer, and renting an apartment in the city.

Vee ignored Eden's anxious twitching and knelt to run a finger along the grooves of the floorboards. “This the original wood—just varnished up?”

“Yes.”

Vee stood and jotted on her clipboard, then walked straight down the foyer into the kitchen. “Oh my,” she murmured under her breath. “You sure did a number on this place.”

A hot flash made Eden's neck sweat. “Upgrades. So the house could be livable—by modern standards.”

“I see.” Vee tapped a fingernail on the chart. “I assume the large stainless steel range hood was not part of the building's original integrity, right?”

Eden put a hand defensively to the brick. “The whole wall was a kitchen fireplace. Our architect suggested we keep the chimney and use it for ventilation. It's all cosmetic, really.”

“Of course. It's just that the more modifications, the harder it is for the house to qualify as a historical site. You understand. If the only antique item remaining in a building is a crossbeam, how can it legitimately be on the National Register map beside the White House?” She scribbled.

Eden didn't want it beside the White House or any other house. She wanted it beside dollar signs!

“It was built a hundred and fifty years ago. That's got to gain it some distinction.”

Vee made a sweeping check across her page. “Yes, but that's only one-third
of the criteria. Being old, alone, doesn't make a place significant…and with such extensive renovations, it's practically rebuilt new.”

She frowned and started toward the door. “I'm really sorry, Eden, but unless you have more…”

In desperation, Eden snatched up the doll's head. “We found this in the pantry cellar.” The head clanked in her hand.

Vee turned at the sound.

“It's a porcelain doll's head. The little girl next door, our dog-sitter…Cleo Bronner…was going to ask you and your father about it since you are the experts in town.”

Vee came closer. “An antique European doll.” She put the clipboard down on the counter. “May I?”

“Please.” Eden hoped she didn't come off as too earnest.

Vee turned the head over carefully, ran her fingers along its ceramic neck, considered the crack, and gave it a soft shake.

“There's something inside,” said Eden. “The chip from the top, probably.”

Like a surgeon in the field, Vee set the doll down facing up and went to the crown. “Might you have a pair of tweezers I could borrow?”

Eden raced up to the bedroom and returned with her pink Tweezerman set. Vee inserted the slanted tips with Eden leaning forward beside her, both holding their breath while she slowly, slowly pulled a tiny metal item through the crack.

“A key?” Eden couldn't have been more surprised if she'd pulled out an elephant.

Vee laid it out in her palm. “A rather modern key. It doesn't match the head, which I'm quite certain dates to around the Civil War. Given that the other houses on Apple Hill Lane are of that time…and you say the doll was hidden somewhere?”

Eden nodded emphatically. “The head. Not a whole doll. And yes, in the cellar.”

“Can you show me?”

Eden led the way. No longer needing to search for the notch, she quickly pulled up the floor door.

Vee brightened. “A root cellar. Used for keeping meats and vegetables cool before icebox refrigerators. Typically found in the basement or just outside the kitchen. I've never seen one hidden in the servants' or slaves' quarters before.”

“Slaves?” The word assaulted Eden.

“Yes. The kitchen, pantry, and laundry room were where the slaves lived and worked to serve their masters. Most of the homes in town have root cellars, but only one other I know has one inside like this. And none of them are this big—large enough to fit a person or
persons
.” Vee gingerly lowered herself into the space. “Also, I've never seen a door hinged to match the floor so perfectly. It's almost as if…” Her voice lifted with squelched excitement before she popped her head back up through the opening. “Was there anything else you found in here?”

Eden shook her head.

Vee spoke from the opening, frowning: “But it doesn't match up. These dolls were expensive back then. I haven't seen too many in our area that didn't already belong to a museum or serious collector.”

Eden's heart double-pumped. She liked the sound of “museum” and “serious collector.” Did “expensive back then” mean
very
expensive now?

“Most were destroyed. Southerners smashed them up because abolitionists were using dolls to bootleg medicine, messages, maps, weapons, and everything in between to plantation slaves. Then, when the war started, both sides thought the trick so good, they used it to shuttle spy messages across enemy lines. So soldiers pretty much took a bayonet to every child's toy they found. A doll massacre.”

“Maybe that's why it was put in the cellar.” Eden had squatted down so that she and Vee were eye to eye. “To keep it from the—massacre, as you say.”

“Maybe, but it still doesn't explain the key. From the shape, make, and material, it is most certainly of the twentieth century. That's forty to fifty years postdating the toy. In addition, a key like that doesn't fall into a doll's head by chance. Someone had to purposefully put it inside.”

“So…
someone
who lived here in the last hundred years had a Civil War doll and a key they wanted to hide.”

“That's my guess. But the bigger question is
why
and what lock does the key open?”

“Must be something
significant
.” Eden emphasized the word.

Vee hoisted herself to her feet and held a hand out to Eden, helping her up off the floor. “I would agree.” After Vee closed the door, the two walked back to the kitchen. “There are rumors, town folklore for the most part, that there were people in town who worked the UGRR, the Underground Railroad, and somewhere in New Charlestown was a crucial UGRR station house.”

“Like Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass Underground?”

“Like John Brown abolitionist Underground, yes. They say his family might've stayed here the night before his execution. I do antiques and appraisals, but Emma Silverdash is our town historian. She owns the bookstore on Main. We've been researching together for years but never found substantial enough evidence to say one way or the other. Old Man Potts moved into this house right after World War II, and hardly anybody set a foot inside until his passing, when the bank took over during probate. Then the Milton business…and all that bad blood between father and son. Mrs. Milton had her stroke around then, so basically the place sat empty until you folks. It's entirely possible the doll has been down there since the turn of the century.”

“I know Ms. Silverdash!” said Eden. “Cleo just introduced me yesterday. In fact, I'm to lead the Children's Story Hour starting tomorrow.”

Vee's officialdom gave way to a delighted smile. “I went to Story Hour when I was little. There were a lot more kids back then. A lot more people at the bookstore in general. You don't know how good of you this is. Business has been hard on her, with everybody buying books online these days. Plus, you know, the bad economy.”

While Cleo had hinted at Ms. Silverdash's financial troubles, hearing it from Vee solidified their truth. Eden wanted to help. It was the one place she could make an immediate difference, and she needed that as much as Ms. Silverdash might need her.

“I'm going to be late to my next stop if I don't get moving. You've passed my initial appraisal review, so here.” Vee handed Eden the application
on her way out. “This is the National Park Service's Form 10-900. It requires you to give detailed historical and architectural descriptions with proper bibliographic references. Ms. Silverdash and I can help if you need us. You have my number.”

Just as Vee's ice-cream truck took off down the street, Cleo came in the back door.

“Cricket did his business, stretched his legs
a lot
, got brushed out and washed up to smelling like a Golden Afternoon—or at least that was the name on the shampoo bottle.”

Eden couldn't wait to tell her chief detective about the crack in the case.