“Did it occur to you that Phillip Waterman’s death probably wasn’t accidental? That he found out something that cost him his life? And since he was warning you days before he died that those two goons were trying to find out where you are, maybe you’re next on the list to have an ‘accident.’ ”
“No,” Bailey said, swallowing. “I can’t say that I
did think of that. You’ll put my pantry back together?”
“That’ll be easier than trying to put your body back together,” he said as he walked toward the door.
“I’ll take everything out of it,” she called over her shoulder as she started running for the pantry.
“Nothing,” Matt said, looking at the bare walls. He had removed every shelf and every board nailed onto the studs, but there was nothing inside except years of dirt, dead insects, and dehydrated rodents.
Bailey tried not to weep as she looked at the naked, ugly walls of her once-beautiful pantry. The boards were stacked on the ground outside the kitchen door.
Matt leaned against the doorjamb. “Let’s look at this logically. First of all, there could be nothing else here. That one photo being stuck in between the boards could have been a fluke. On the other hand, if a person felt the need to hide one thing, then he probably needed to hide more, so there’s probably a motherlode somewhere. And if there is such a treasure trove, it’s either here in the floor or in the barn. So where do we look next?”
Bailey didn’t even look down at the wonderful old floor, its wide boards worn with years of use. “Barn,” she said. “I feel in my heart, right down to my toes, that if there is anything hidden, it’s in the barn. After all, the man did . . . well, hang himself there, so I’m sure that whatever he wanted to hide, he would have hidden it in the barn.”
“Right,” Matt said, “pantry floor it is.”
“I hate men,” Bailey muttered as Matt put his crowbar under the first board.
“What did you say?” Matt asked as he pulled the first board up.
“I said that I— What is that?” she asked as she peered over his shoulder. In the hole that the board had revealed was the corner of a metal box.
“You aren’t curious, are you? Actually, I think maybe we should wait on this,” Matt said, moving back from the hole. “In fact, I think I’d like something to eat.”
“Get it yourself,” Bailey snapped, then grabbed the crowbar from him and pried up the second board. When she’d removed four boards and the box was exposed fully, she looked up to see Matt lounging against the doorjamb, a smirk on his face.
With her nose in the air, Bailey pulled the box out of the hole and carried it past him to take outside. “If you ever again want to eat anything I’ve cooked or share my bed, you’ll wipe that look off your face.”
Matt’s face changed to serious so suddenly that Bailey laughed. “Here, you take the dirty thing outside while I get us something to drink. And if you open that box before I get there . . . ”
She let him imagine his punishment.
A few minutes later, she joined him outside. Matt had wiped the dirt off the outside of the box and was sitting on a chair, looking up at the mulberry tree and patiently waiting for her to show up.
“You do the honors,” Matt said as he took the glass of lemonade from her.
It was an old metal box, with the outside printed, “Earnest’s Crackers. Good for the digestion.”
Bailey took a deep breath before she pulled the lid off the box. What would she find inside?
What she saw was heart-stoppingly familiar. There were four blue ribbons on top, all of them for preserving. Lifting the ribbons, Bailey looked at them, then sat down on a chair and held them, running her fingertips over the slick surfaces. She’d never seen these particular ribbons before, but they opened memories.
“What is it?” Matt asked, watching her.
“I just never put two and two together before now, that’s all. I was told that the man who hanged himself had put up jams and pickles and that he’d sold them in town. By the time I saw his photo with Jimmie, though, so much had happened that I’d forgotten about his canning. But in the photo, I saw that he and Jimmie were friends.”
Matt was frowning in concentration, trying to understand her point.
Bailey looked up at him. “The first time I saw Jimmie, I had just won a blue ribbon for my raspberry jam.” She looked down at the ribbons she held. “A ribbon almost identical to this one.”
“You think there was a connection?”
“I think maybe what I did, putting the fruit in the jars, entering a contest and winning, was something that strongly reminded Jimmie of someone else he knew . . . and probably loved.”
Matt leaned toward the table, looked into the box, and withdrew a stack of edge-worn index cards fastened with a rotting rubber band. The band fell away the moment he touched it. “Hmmm,” he said loudly, then began to read the headings on the cards. “Ginger Jelly. Wild Blueberry Marmalade. Caramel Apple Butter.”