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“I needed a break.”

  Mull sat down by his daughter. “I know exactly what you mean.” He sounded exhausted.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there really a Letterford family treasure?”

  “Besides yourself?”

  “Seriously, Dad. Is there a family treasure?”

  “You’ve been talking with Julian, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Julian is a fine man, a very intelligent man. He could have been a very important part of the family business, but he has spent years obsessing over this so-called family treasure. It has ruined his life.”

  “So you don’t believe in the treasure?”

  “Belief is immaterial,” replied Mull. “Whether I believe or don’t believe changes nothing. It either exists or it doesn’t. I would love to believe a treasure exists. As a child I listened to the same stories as Julian, and I desperately wanted to believe in the treasure. But that was all it was—a belief. Not fact. Not reality. And belief was not enough. So I grew up and put that behind me. Julian didn’t.”

  “But,” asked Colophon, “he seems so . . . certain.”

  “His belief oppresses him.”

  Colophon stared up at the night sky in silence.

  “I shouldn’t be so harsh in my judgment of Julian,” said Mull. “It’s just that—well . . . I just don’t have a lot of room for false hope right now.”

  Colophon wanted desperately to tell her father that she had overheard the conversation in the library, that she knew exactly what he was going through. She wanted to tell him that there was still hope, and that she believed in him. But she couldn’t. And so they sat in the field in silence together and watched the stars make their way across the night sky.

  Chapter Eleven

  Use Careful Watch; Choose Trusty Sentinels

  Warm Springs, Georgia

  Sunday, December 14

  Old maps of the state of Georgia show a small town by the name of Bullochville, located just a few short miles to the northwest of Manchester at the base of Georgia’s Pine Mountain. Founded by a family of local merchants in the nineteenth century, the small southern city became known for the warm—not hot—natural spring that percolates up through the mountain. The waters from the spring were long believed to have restorative abilities. This very belief led the future president Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who suffered from polio, to the town in 1924. Significantly—and perhaps not coincidently—the town changed its name to Warm Springs that same year. The water flowing forth from the spring brought Roosevelt back to his small cottage in Warm Springs for the rest of his life. In fact, Roosevelt ultimately passed away in 1945 at that small cottage. The town, for all practical purposes, remains much as it appeared when Franklin Delano Roosevelt was its most famous part-time citizen.

  It is, literally, a one-stoplight town. It consists of two rows of buildings built in the late nineteenth century which contain a variety of shops, restaurants, and a small hotel—the Warm Springs Inn—all separated by the wide expanse (but limited length) of Broad Street. The Warm Springs Inn, a narrow three-story building, sits on the north side of Broad Street and is adjacent to the abandoned railroad tracks that once brought visitors to the town from far and wide.

  The meeting between Mull Letterford and Roger Scornsbury was scheduled to take place over lunch at the inn. Contrary to Colophon’s suggestion, her father expressed no interest in permitting his fifteen-year-old son to accompany him to the most important business meeting of his life. Fortunately, it was not uncommon for the Letterford children to visit the small town, particularly as it was just a short bike ride from the Letterford property. As Colophon pointed out to her brother, their father did not want Case to accompany him to the lunch meeting, but he had not specifically forbidden Case from visiting Warm Springs that day.

  After returning home from church, Case changed quickly into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, threw on a denim jacket, and headed to the garage, where he kept his bike. An abandoned railroad bed ran all the way from the rear of the Letterford property into downtown Warm Springs. It was, in fact, the same track on which President Roosevelt had once traveled from Washington, D.C. Case watched from the garage and waited until his father had left the house before he headed to the railroad bed. On his bike, Case could get to the town in around fifteen minutes, much faster than his father could navigate through the countryside by car.

  Case arrived on the outskirts of town and parked his bike in the woods. He carefully made his way to a small access road at the rear of the buildings lining Broad Street and then down a narrow alley to a coffee shop located across the street from the Warm Springs Inn. A bell on the door rang as Case slipped into the shop.

  “Afternoon, Case,” said Annette Parker, the owner. “What brings you into town today?”

  Annette was a petite woman in her midfifties with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. She always wore pink and, despite working in a coffee shop, was always dressed in her Sunday best.

  “Nothing much, Ms. Annette,” Case replied. “Just hanging out, I suppose.”

  “Did you come with your father? I hear he has a big meeting today at the inn. Is it something important? A big author? I’ll bet it’s something really exciting. Is he here yet? It would be great to meet a famous author. Do you know who it is?”

  The words shot out at Case in rapid succession.

  Case wasn’t surprised that Annette Parker knew about his father’s meeting. In a small town such as Warm Springs, everybody knows your business.

  “I think he does have a meeting. But I really don’t know what it’s about. I just wanted to get out of the house for a while.”

  “I understand completely,” she replied. “Sometimes you just need some fresh air. Great day, don’t you think? Nice and sunny, but cool, just like November should be. I hate it when November is warm, don’t you? Ruins the whole feel of the season. People certainly drink more coffee when it’s cold, I can tell you that. Although more people are drinking iced coffee than I have ever seen before. Didn’t see that five years ago. Coffee was hot, not cold. But hey, no skin off my back. If they want it cold, I’ll give it to them cold. So, what can I get you? The usual—black cherry soda? You really need to try a scone. I made them fresh this morning. Nothing better than a fresh scone.”

  Case purchased a black cherry soda and a cinnamon chip scone and then took a seat at the front of the shop. From his vantage point, he could see the front door of the Warm Springs Inn. Fortunately, another customer had arrived to draw Annette’s attention. Case sat back, sipped his soda, and waited for his father to arrive.

  Chapter Twelve

  A Good Direction

  Notwithstanding her father’s lack of belief in the treasure, Colophon began formulating a plan to track it down. She decided that she first needed to narrow her search.

  Miles Letterford had lived his entire life on the other side of the Atlantic and never set foot on North American soil. It seemed unlikely to Colophon that the treasure would be found in America.

  From her perspective, that same logic effectively eliminated every continent but Europe. Sure, a clue or two (such as the portrait) might have been transported to this country, but it seemed unlikely that the treasure itself would have made its way over the ocean—not without being inadvertently discovered at some point.

  All right, so I have narrowed it down to one continent, she thought. For what that’s worth.

  Colophon, however, also believed that Miles Letterford would not have placed the treasure in a location where it could be easily moved, as such an occurrence would have rendered all his well-laid clues meaningless. No, he would have placed the treasure in a well-hidden spot, but in an area that he knew. An area that he was comfortable with.

  The treasure, she determined, must be in England. And with that, Colophon decided, England was where she needed to go.

  Getting to England actually proved to be the easiest part of the plan. The fami
ly always celebrated Christmas at their home in London. Meg Letterford would leave for London that very afternoon to begin preparations. It was not a particularly odd request on Colophon’s part to accompany her mother to London—she had certainly done so in the past over the holidays. She asked her father, and he said yes.

  Colophon knew that at least one significant clue was located in America—the portrait of Miles Letterford. Obviously, she was not going to be permitted to simply pack it up and take it with her to London. Digital photos would have to do. She turned on all the lights in the foyer and stood in front of the portrait on the stool from the library. She took a picture of the entire painting, and then, moving section by section around it, she took close-up photographs in an effort to capture every detail. As a precaution, she also took photographs of the frame, as it bore the first clue—the rhyme. Returning to her room, Colophon downloaded the photos to her notebook computer and ran off a copy of each picture, which she placed in a small folder that she intended to carry with her to London.

  Chapter Thirteen

  All Strange and Terrible Events

  Case sipped his soda as his father’s car turned down Broad Street and parked in front of the hotel. Mull Letterford stepped from his car and glanced up and down the sidewalk. As of yet, there was no sign of Roger Scornsbury. Mull checked his watch, took one last glance down the sidewalk, and then headed into the hotel lobby and out of Case’s view.

  The previous evening Case had asked his father about the meeting and Scornsbury. The question, coming from Case (who normally expressed absolutely no interest in the family’s business), surprised his father. Nonetheless, he explained to Case that Scornsbury was a famous author who lived in Atlanta. Although he considered Scornsbury a nice enough fellow, Mull Letterford expressed some concern over the meeting because of Scornsbury’s peculiarities.

  “What peculiarities?” asked Case.

  “You see,” replied Mull, “Scornsbury is a very talented writer—very talented. However, he suffers from globophobia.”

  “Globophobia?”

  “Yes, globophobia—an extreme fear of balloons.”

  Case had laughed. “Balloons?”

  “Yes, balloons. And it’s not funny. Apparently it developed after a rather bad incident at a birthday party when he was young. I suggested we meet at his home, but Scornsbury insisted on having breakfast in town at the inn. Fortunately, the owners of the inn have assured me that the dining room is and shall remain balloon free. If all goes well, Scornsbury will be signed to a contract before the final cup of coffee is poured.”

  All, however, did not go well.

  Mull Letterford sat in the inn’s dining room and sipped his coffee as he waited for his guest to arrive. Just as he had been surprised the previous night by his son’s sudden interest in the affairs of the company, he was equally surprised by his daughter’s request to accompany her mother to London. Colophon had always enjoyed staying in Manchester and exploring the countryside. But Mull had no reason for insisting that his daughter stay here. In fact, he thought (somewhat guiltily) that there would be fewer distractions with Colophon and her mother gone. The business he needed to attend to was of the utmost importance. The fewer distractions, the better.

  As Mull completed his thought, he noticed the tall lanky figure of Roger Scornsbury walk past the front window and toward the front door of the inn. Seconds later he entered the dining room.

  Scornsbury was approximately fifty years old and stood several inches above six feet in height. He towered over Mull Letterford. Scornsbury wore, as was his custom, a three-piece suit. However, as was equally his custom, neither the pants, the coat, nor the vest came from the same ensemble or bore any resemblance in color or pattern. Remarkably, even his shirt and tie were mismatched.

  Scornsbury extended his right hand. “Mull Letter­ford, how are you?”

  “Quite well, Roger, and you?”

  “Ah, quite the same, quite the same.”

  Whether “the same” was good, bad, or otherwise was unclear to Mull. Mull gestured toward the open seat, and Scornsbury sat down.

  Mull Letterford and Roger Scornsbury had actually known each other for several years, as they were both well-known figures in the publishing industry. Until recently, Scornsbury had been under contract with a large New York City publishing house. However, that relationship had fallen apart in a nasty dispute over the proper use of semicolons. Fortunately, the timing of Scornsbury’s departure from his old publishing house had worked out perfectly for Mull.

  “So, Mull Letterford, tell me—what would an esteemed publisher such as yourself want with a simple wordsmith such as myself?”

  Mull Letterford laughed and launched into his sales pitch.

  Case had waited until Scornsbury entered the Warm Springs Inn before leaving the coffee shop and quietly slipping across the street and taking a seat in the inn’s lobby. From his vantage point, Case could see his father’s back and look directly into the face of Roger Scornsbury. Unfortunately, he was too far away from his father’s table to hear what was being said.

  What am I doing here? Case thought. His sister was crazy—no one was out to get their father. There was no grand conspiracy. No bad guy. He had to admit, though, that his father had seemed distracted lately. And he seemed tired. Case knew Colophon didn’t think he noticed things like that, but he did. And although he would never admit it to his sister, it concerned him.

  The reception desk for the hotel, located immediately to Case’s right, was staffed by a middle-aged lady with bright red hair. As Case sat watching his father and Scornsbury discuss whatever it was they were discussing, he noticed a man enter the lobby and approach the reception desk. Case, bored with watching his father, turned his attention to the discussion between the man and the receptionist. The two spoke briefly and then walked into the office behind the reception desk.

  The door to the hotel opened once again, and to Case’s horror, a young woman entered carrying a large collection of balloons.

  She’s probably delivering the balloons to someone’s room, he thought. No need to panic.

  The young woman, however, did not head toward the front desk; rather, she headed straight for the dining room. Case shot up from his seat and stood right in front of the delivery girl just as she was set to turn the corner into the dining room.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  The girl looked up at the balloons and then at Case. “I have a balloon delivery.”

  “Balloons. You have balloons!”

  The delivery girl looked at Case, back up at the balloons, and then back at Case. “Yes, I have balloons. I thought I made that clear. The balloons in my hand should have been a dead giveaway. I deliver balloons for a living. That is why my shirt says ‘Balloons R Us.’ That is why I drive a van with big words on the side that spell ‘Balloons R Us.’ That is why I have all these balloons in my hand.”

  Case started to speak when he noticed yet another delivery person walking through the door of the hotel, carrying yet another handful of balloons. And behind that delivery person stood yet another delivery person, who carried yet another handful of balloons.

  “Listen, there has been some sort of mistake,” Case said to the first delivery girl.

  The delivery girl looked at the card on the balloons. “Unless your name is Roger Scornsbury, then these balloons are not for you, and there has been no mistake. Now, please get out of my way.”

  “I can’t let you go in—” Case started to say, but it was too late. The delivery girl turned the corner into the dining room, followed closely behind by the other two deliveries of balloons. All told, a total of twenty-eight balloons entered the room.

  Mull Letterford was well into his explanation of why Letterford & Sons was the perfect publishing house for Roger Scornsbury—which he felt was going exceptionally well—when he noticed that Scornsbury’s face had gone completely white and his left eye had started to twitch.

  “Roger, are you OK? Is
something wrong?”

  “Balla balla balla,” Roger Scornsbury stammered.

  “I’m sorry? Is something the matter?”

  The twitching got worse. Scornsbury’s nontwitching eye grew wide in terror.

  “Balla balla balla,” Scornsbury repeated.

  From the corner of his eye, Mull Letterford saw brief flashes of red, green, blue, and yellow. Balloons filled the space around the table.

  “Are you Roger Scornsbury?” the first delivery girl asked.

  Scornsbury did not answer. Instead, he bolted upright and ran out of the restaurant. A second later Mull heard the door to the inn slam shut. Immediately after that, Mull saw the terrified face of Roger Scornsbury running down the sidewalk and away from the hotel.

  Mull slumped in his chair. The three delivery persons simply stared at him.

  “Are you—?” the first delivery girl started to ask again.

  “No, my dear girl, I am not Roger Scornsbury,” replied Mull. “The gentleman that just left the restaurant was Mr. Scornsbury.”

  “Odd bird, isn’t he,” the delivery girl said to no one in particular.

  “Yes,” Mull replied dejectedly, “odd indeed.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tedious Stumbling Blocks

  Colophon received the text message from her brother just minutes before she boarded the plane with her mother. She grimaced as she read it.

  “Something the matter, dear?” her mother asked.

  “No,” Colophon replied, “just something from Case.”

  Meg Letterford pursed her lips but did not pursue the line of inquiry. Shortly thereafter Colophon and Meg boarded the plane and took their seats. Within minutes Meg fell into a deep sleep.

  But Colophon couldn’t sleep. She was now convinced that someone was sabotaging her father’s efforts. She realized, though, that there was little she could do about it from London. That was up to her brother, which did not exactly ease her mind. Her focus had to be on solving the family mystery. With that thought, she opened her folder and pulled out the photos of the painting. For half an hour, she stared intently at each photograph.