Worth

Chapter 13

It was a box, a wooden chest to be exact. It was small, about a square foot cube of mahogany, walnut or some other darkly stained wood. There was a curved lid, and carved on either side of the front panel were pillar looking portions topped with a design similar to a fleur-de-lis, but not quite. Violet wondered if that meant it was French. Along the base on all four sides there were raised sloped-sided squares that looked like chocolate bar segments. It had a lock and was locked. It came with no key or instructions on how to, if she should, open it. She reasoned it had to be a valuable antique; if it was a sentimental piece, there would have been a note, or at least Violet would have remembered seeing it among Leo's knick-knacks. She shook it, turned it over slowly to hear anything that might move inside. There was no sound.

"You rotten tease."

Violet scoured the internet to research her inheritance. It was like asking a library if they had any books. She poured over online auctions, antique sites, and furniture stores. All her searches folded back in on themselves and she spent day after day following breadcrumbs which led to nothing useful. Since no news agencies or foreign governments had been alerted to the transferring of a priceless relic to her possession then the box might not have been worth much after all. If Leo wanted to leave her money he would have done just that. That's why she was burning with curiosity. What exactly was Leo trying to say with this thing? If she was going to call John and lie to him about being independently wealthy she'd need more help than she was getting. She was a terrible liar, and John was good at reading people, much better, anyway, than she was.

During the week, Violet was graced with the recollection of the Leeland couple who'd thrown their son's engagement party at the Grand. Mr. Leeland had an antiques shop. She phoned and left a message hoping that if the man could not himself appraise the chest, then he could at least help her refine her search. He called back over the weekend and confessed he relied on a few freelance buyers for his taste in stock. One was a dealer who worked part time for the museum in the restoration department, specifically in the area of woodwork. He arranged a Tuesday lunch hour appointment on her behalf to meet Mitchell Morrissey at the museum. "And if it's worth anything," he mentioned, "we can work out a fair deal."

Violet left on her lunch break an hour early and walked quickly. It wasn't until she nearly dropped the box while digging for subway fare that she considered being nervous. Oh dear, Ms. March. Before that hammering by the turnstiles it was worth an exorbitant amount of money!

She arrived just after noon. A staff member paged Mr. Morrissey from the front and asked Violet to wait on a bench in the hall near the elevators. Finally, a phone call came up from the man himself.

"Mr. Morrissey says you're a bit early. He says he'll be about fifteen minutes."

Violet sat quietly on a push-button seat watching groups of rowdy school children file in and out of the elevators. On the way up, their teachers looked mildly interested in aspirin. On the way down, they seemed to have sprained their foreheads. Violet tried to remember the last time she'd been to the museum outside of school. She couldn't. After her appointment she thought she might see if the bat cave exhibit was still up and running. The closest thing to a ride the building had, it made visitors feel as though they were walking through a craggy cave tunnel while eyes peered out of the surrounding darkness. Then thunderstorm sound effects and flashing lights would upset a swarm of fake bats and unleash them overhead in an aerial raid. It had always been her favourite.

She looked at her shoes, played with a button on her coat, checked on her box and the clock on the wall. At a quarter to twelve, she heard a laugh so sudden and hearty that she could not help but laugh herself. Only a man could laugh so loud, but only a child could laugh that way. Soon a big ball of a head with bright orange fuzz on top paced into sight down the hall and explained everything. Bob Fellows was speaking to someone on his phone so that every moose in Alberta could hear.