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That he would convince her, he had no doubt. Had she really been a superstitious person, no amount of logic could have reached her. But she was clearly intelligent and, even better, a woman of science.
She would respond to reason. He just had to find the right approach.
The mayor advanced toward the podium at that moment and took the microphone in hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m happy to report that thanks to Dr. Brad Winslow’s expert analysis, we know that the skeleton in our time capsule’s closet is a fascinating artifact that, no doubt, will become an interesting research project for our Historical Society. Now please take your seats, for we are about to lift the time capsule out of its resting place and take a look inside. Who knows what other surprises lie in wait?”
CHAPTER THREE
“YOU LIED TO ME, EMILY BARRETT,” Dorothy whispered in her ear when they had retaken their seats.
“About what?” Emily whispered back.
“Dr. Brad Winslow is anything but just another guy.”
“And you’re saying that because…?”
“Come on, Em. You know perfectly well that man’s the reason we women were given breasts that heave and spines that melt.”
Emily contained her smile. Dorothy had insisted Brad join them on the platform in thanks for his help with the skeleton. He sat with the city council, on the receiving end of a lot of appreciative looks from the women in the audience. There was something about the guy, all right. Not that Emily had any intention of admitting that to her friend.
“Does Ted know you lust after other men like this?” she teased.
“I’m not lusting. I’m merely observing and appreciating. But you, my friend, are in a position to lust away. In case you need reminding.”
Emily was saved from answering when the grinding gears of the crane caught everyone’s attention, and the time capsule was lifted out of the pit.
It was a rectangular, steel-riveted box, about three-by-four feet and at least three feet deep. The rigger on the ground directed the crane’s telescoping arm until the capsule was set gently on the large felt-covered pad Emily had waiting beside the podium.
As the workmen went about removing the lid, everyone on the platform circled them in anticipation.
“We’ll only be able to get a brief glimpse at what’s inside,” the mayor cautioned the crowd as he slipped on thin plastic gloves. “The Historical Society must take possession of the contents so that they can be preserved. But once cataloged, our treasure will be shared.”
When the lid came up, the mayor lifted out the item on the top—a letter wrapped in string and sealed with wax. He unfolded it very carefully and began to read.
“To the Inheritors of Courage Bay, 2004: Inside this first carton, we send you the images of the white-winged ships that sail into our bay bringing us news and goods from distant shores. There are also photographs of our dwellings made of strong wood and brick, with wisps of smoke lifting out of our chimneys from the fireplaces that keep us warm when winter comes. Rising behind our homes you’ll glimpse the steep mountains that for generations have sheltered us from the sorrow and ravages of war. Above them is the sky of pale blue that will bring out scarlet sheets to wrap our sun to sleep tonight. And lastly we send to you our faces—both young and old, fair and less favored, the lines upon all being drawn with life’s deft pen.
“What will these pictures mean to you a hundred years hence? This we cannot fathom. Nor can we know what you will find here in your time. But we can tell you what you would have found in ours.
“This is a beloved world, swept with sunshine, the breath of flowers, the song of birds, forests bounding with wildlife and a people with hearts full of gratitude. We, the guardians of Courage Bay, pledge to care for this good land and for one another. When our history is written, may it be recorded with a light and understanding hand.”
O’Shea slowly raised his head. “This letter I’ve just read to you is signed by the mayor and eleven others. They are identified at the bottom as the twelve men chosen to bury the capsule and set the sundial in place. I’m going to close the letter immediately to protect it from deteriorating. Now let’s have a quick look at those promised pictures.”
The wooden box beneath the letter held at least a hundred pristine photographs, wrapped in cloth. Phoebe Landru, the senior member of the managing board of the Historical Society, had the honor of taking out a few to show them to the crowd.
Emily got a brief glimpse at a picture of the Courage Bay Livery Stable and Feed Store. A blacksmith shop. An apothecary. Then there was a shot of the mountains, heavy with trees that had since been logged. And finally, the photo of a young woman with a lovely heart-shaped face. Phoebe flashed the image briefly to the audience and then carefully put it back in the box with the others.
The mayor pulled the next packet from the time capsule. He identified it as a duplicate of the hand-drawn map of Courage Bay that had been filed at the county courthouse.
After showing it to the crowd and making sure the TV crew got a shot, the mayor stepped aside and invited Dorothy to open the next item in the capsule. It was a box filled with copies of the Courage Bay Bulletin, a newspaper that had been defunct for nearly fifty years. One of the copies Dorothy held up for the audience to see had a banner headline announcing that the Wright Bros. Flying Machine had Conquered the Sky. Another proclaimed that the time capsule was to be buried that day.
Beneath the box of newspapers was one with a stack of separate sheets of paper on which townspeople had recorded their predictions for the future. Emily was given the fun of selecting a few and reading them to the crowd.
“This storekeeper says that the marvels of modern machinery will turn the current drudgery of jobs and housework into joyful endeavors, leaving men and women many hours to take long walks and read well-written books. Ah, if only he had been right.”
That generated a few smiles from the audience.
“According to the town’s newspaper editor, ‘Courage Bay will become a busy city where everyone will move quickly back and forth in their automobile wagons, horses having become obsolete. But the wheels of these automobile wagons will be cushioned so the city will be free from noise.’”
At that moment, a loud screeching of tires and the blast of a horn echoed from a car on an adjoining street. It was so perfectly timed, everyone laughed.
The audience was still chuckling when Emily took her seat.
Oliver Smithson was the one to remove the next box from the time capsule. A note on the top described the contents within as letters written by the surviving crew of the Ranger, each giving his individual account of the vessel’s sinking on that fateful day, as well as his rescue by the Indians.
Oliver read off the names of the authors: “Fitzwalter, Giroux, Himlot—”
“I’m his descendant,” Councilman Dean Himlot interrupted. “That letter from my ancestor belongs to me.”
Emily knew Dean Himlot as she knew most of the notables in this crowd. He could be a bit full of himself, forgetting sometimes that it was his family’s famous name that had enabled him to get elected.
Still, she’d never known him to be abrasive, especially in the company of his social peers. Just proof that lots of money and clout didn’t buy class.
“Actually, Dean,” the mayor said amicably as he took the mike from Oliver, “according to the letter that I read previously, everything in this time capsule was bequeathed to the people of Courage Bay, not any individual. However, rest assured that you will be given a copy of your ancestor’s letter as soon as—”
“Don’t open the box,” Dean said. “That letter is a family heirloom. You could ruin it by exposing it to the air.”
“Get a grip, Dean,” Gerald Fitzwalter spoke up from the spectators in a clearly annoyed manner.
Gerald was president of his family’s local bank and head of the Chamber of Commerce. He was also a descendant of a Ranger crewman. Gerald and Dean had been feuding for twenty years. It all started when they were on opposing football teams in high school competing against each other in a regional championship. A fumble on the field resulted in a fight between them and they both got kicked out of the game. Each blamed the other.
“I wasn’t going to open the box of these letters at this time,” Oliver said in the tone of a professor addressing dense pupils. “I’m perfectly aware that some of these letters could have been written a hundred and fifty years ago and may, therefore, be doubly sensitive to the elements. Now, if I may proceed?”
The mayor nodded in his direction and Oliver finished naming the surviving crewmen. Emily already knew their names, as she was certain did most of this crowd.
Oliver then put the box aside and opened the next in the capsule. The letters within were written by average citizens depicting community life.
The first one was by a farmer—who, fortunately, didn’t have any descendants in the audience—but who, unfortunately, had included more details about raising chickens than Emily ever wanted to know.
The second letter Oliver read started out to be a great deal more interesting. It was from an amateur gardener who claimed to have found a wonderful medicinal plant that had cured her of the blinding headaches she’d had since adolescence. The gardener had included a copper tin that was filled with its seeds, which she described as a soothing intoxicant.
There were two pages to her letter. But to Emily’s disappointment, Oliver read what appeared to be only half of the first before he suddenly stopped and closed it.
“We shouldn’t expose these documents to the light any longer,” he said by way of explanation.
The mayor nodded as he addressed the crowd. “The documents, artifacts and photos will be digitized and placed on the City’s Web site. Ladies and gentlemen, the founders of Courage Bay have left us a priceless piece of their history and ours. We’ll ensure that it is preserved for all to enjoy.”
When the mayor stepped away, Emily retook the podium and invited the audience to reconvene in the reception room of the Heritage Museum behind them, where drinks and hors d’oeuvres were being served.
The mayor and city council quickly joined the spectators headed toward those promised refreshments and the political shoulder-rubbing that was always the highlight of this type of social event.
Emily turned off the microphone just in time to prevent the argument that started behind her from being broadcast throughout the Botanical Gardens.
“How dare you imply that I’m too old and weak to catalog these artifacts correctly?” Phoebe asked in her seventy-three-year-old voice that was about as feeble as a two-by-four.
Oliver’s skin was turning a rosy pink beneath his full white beard. “You know damn well that’s not what I said, Phoebe. I simply pointed out that when it comes to computers, you are not up to speed.”
“Look who’s talking,” Phoebe said. “Last month, when Dorothy mentioned that we needed to update the Society’s hard drive, you were the one who got all hot and bothered because you thought that she was trying to reschedule our spring golf tournament.”
Oliver’s lips tightened. “I may not be familiar with the terminology, but need I remind you that the pharmaceutical company I ran for forty years is full of computers and competent operators?”
“We are not handing over these valuable items to some computer operator who hasn’t the faintest idea how to preserve them,” Phoebe said.
“What’s going on?” Emily whispered to Dorothy.
“Oliver just got a call from the hospital,” Dorothy whispered back. “Wayne won’t be able to take custody of the time capsule’s contents as planned. He’s had a stroke.”
“These irreplaceable items must stay in the hands of the Historical Society,” Phoebe continued. “Now, my grandniece Fiona is quite competent with computers. Together, she and I can—”
“Only last week you were complaining that Fiona was so tired chasing after her two preschoolers that she didn’t even have the energy to come see you,” Oliver interrupted.
“I’ll hire a sitter for her,” Phoebe said, undaunted.
“And how long will that take?” Oliver challenged. “You went through nearly sixty applicants and four months before you finally chose Mrs. Hanna to be the librarian. And what a choice that was.”
“Mrs. Hanna’s credentials as a historian are impeccable, not to mention the fact that she speaks five languages.”
“We didn’t need someone with impeccable credentials or who could speak five languages. We needed someone who could work the library’s computer! Now we’re paying Holly to come in and do it after school!”
“Ken, I need another picture of this imbecile,” Phoebe said, pointing to Oliver. “The last one of him I put on my dartboard is already full of holes.”
The photographer looked amused but made no effort to comply. Ken—like the rest of them—was used to Phoebe and Oliver’s verbal sparring matches. When these two crossed swords, the best thing anyone could do was stay out of the way.
“And that’s another thing,” Oliver said. “Ken’s supposed to be the Society’s photographer, but I can’t get him to do a damn thing for me. Every time I try he tells me he’ll have to clear it with you first.”
Oliver was talking about Ken as though he wasn’t there. Typical of Oliver. And typical of Ken that he showed no sign of offense.
“He has the editing and printing of the newsletter to see to,” Phoebe countered. “He’s not one of your lackeys. Speaking of which, where is this illustrious and purportedly proficient historian who was supposed to be on hand today to take custody of the time capsule contents?”
“Damn it, Phoebe, I already told you.” Oliver was shouting now. “Wayne had a stroke. Are you going to blame me for that?”
“Please, Oliver, Phoebe,” Dorothy interrupted as she stepped between her fellow board members. “I know this is disappointing. I, too, was counting on Wayne’s expert assistance. But he’s seriously ill. We should set aside concerns about the time capsule for the moment and think of him.”
“His doctor told Wayne’s wife that the stroke was minor,” Oliver said, as though Dorothy was making a big deal over nothing. “He’ll be all right.”
“That’s good to hear,” Emily said carefully. “But I believe the point that Dorothy was making is that Wayne needs to know how concerned all of us in the organization are for his welfare.”
“Thank you, Emily,” Dorothy said with emphasis.
“Oh, very well,” Phoebe said. “I’ll send him a fruit basket from the Society. And a card.”
“And now that that’s taken care of,” Oliver said, “let’s get back to the matter of what we’re going to do with the time capsule treasures.”
Dorothy and Emily looked at each other and shook their heads.
“None of us on the managing board knows enough to digitize this important information, not to mention putting it on the city’s Web site,” Dorothy said. “And, as generous as Oliver’s offer is to use personnel at the Smithson Pharmaceutical Company, Phoebe’s right. These artifacts are too valuable to let out of our hands.”
“Josh is employed part-time by the Society,” Oliver said. Scanning the now nearly deserted gardens, he called, “Josh? Damn it, where are you, boy?”
“Here,” Josh said as he scrambled up the platform steps.
Oliver grabbed his grandson’s shoulders. “You took computer courses in high school, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“So you could do whatever it takes to get images of these items into a computer and put them on the City’s Web site, right?”
Josh shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, that overwhelms me with confidence,” Phoebe said.
Oliver slipped his hands from his grandson’s shoulders and let out a huff of disappointment.
When Emily saw the look that flattened Josh’s face, she immediately stepped forward. “Josh is doing a superb job for the Botanical Gardens and the Society. He’s also been a big help getting things organized for today. I don’t know what I would have done without him.”
Oliver wasn’t listening. He was too busy shaking his head like a windshield wiper on high.
“Damn kids today come out of school dumber than when they went in,” he muttered.
Josh slunk off the platform just as Holly came out of the museum. She waved in his direction, but Josh turned away and disappeared into the trees.
Emily was trying to decide whether to try to talk to Oliver or just kick him when Dorothy raised her hand to get everyone’s attention.
“As much as Emily is right about Josh’s great work in the Heritage Museum and around the Botanical Gardens, it’s not fair to ask him to take on a task of this magnitude. We need someone from the Historical Society who has both experience in document preservation techniques and computer expertise.”
Dorothy looked pointedly at Emily.
Emily felt both Phoebe and Oliver’s eyes turn toward her as though assessing her right to have the job.
“She has the gardens to see to,” Oliver said, “and her own research.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Dorothy agreed. “Which means these important artifacts will not leave this site. That’s another plus.”
“You said everything would go off today without a hitch,” Phoebe complained. “But there was that long delay when the skeleton was unearthed.”
“I’m so glad you mentioned the skeleton,” Dorothy said, ignoring Phoebe’s unfair implication that unearthing a skeleton was somehow Emily’s fault. “Isn’t it a fascinating find? Emily will be working with Dr. Winslow to identify the remains for us and the items that were found in the grave.”
“What items?” Phoebe asked.
