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  “Tell me this at least.” She kissed my neck. “Did you punch your uncle again?”

  “Naughty, naughty.”

  “Or maybe he punched you. You would’ve deserved it, actually.”

  “Hey. Whose side are you on?”

  “Did he steal the handkerchief? Did you get back your mom’s gift to you?”

  “Okay. Stop. In due time, sweetheart. In due time.”

  “Sweetheart? I like the sound of that.” She pecked my mouth with hers. “So you absolutely can’t tell me?”

  “Strict orders against it.”

  “Well,” she said, “I’m just glad to have you back.”

  More than anything else, that made it hard to keep my lips sealed. I looked into Brianne’s eyes, and I wanted to share. To open up.

  This new feeling scared me a little.

  Afraid of commitment?

  Well, it’s a big decision, choosing who you will spend time with, befriend, open your heart to, and maybe even marry. Till death do us part. It’s a huge step. And there are so many things you don’t know—about yourself and the other person. All the what-ifs.

  Women assume we’re afraid of commitment, but it’s really something else. We’re afraid, petrified, terrified, rather-put-a-wet-finger-in-an-electrical-socket scared of failure. That little boy wanting to be a hero fears losing the fair maiden to the dragon. For some, the dragons are of their own making; for others, the dragons have nothing to do with them at all.

  Discerning between the two? Avoiding failure in the process?

  These are sizable tasks for any boy, even if he is a hero.

  Mrs. Michaels was the toughest of all. Without ever asking a question, she almost had me bursting at the seams with the desire to tell her about my television experience. I wanted to fill her in, give her a heads-up. I wondered how she would react.

  A few days after my trip to Big Bear Lake, she got me on the phone at work.

  “You ain’t runnin’ out, are ya?”

  “No, ma’am.” I always felt a need to be polite around her.

  “Reckon I can drop some thin’ by real quick. Ain’t nothin’ fancy.”

  “Today? Isn’t it a bit outta your way.”

  “I ain’t callin’ for nothing. Got me some shoppin’ to do for the young uns, and being as I’ll be in your neck of the woods, thought maybe I could stop in.”

  “Swing on by. I’d love to see you.”

  I’d already taken my break and was sweeping the dining area when Brianne returned from her lunch. I asked her how it was.

  “You ever had their sandwiches over at Piranha’s?” she responded. “Okay, so it was thick and greasy, but it was delicious and stuffed full of fries.”

  “French fries?”

  “Of course, you big doof.”

  “I used to be a doof. Now I’m a big doof?”

  “It’s a step up, I promise you.”

  Brianne rounded the mahogany bar, brushing her fingers over mine as she went to get her apron. My hand still showed scars, slight puckering, from my counter-Taser skills. The skin was extra sensitive, and her touch felt soothing.

  A minute later Mrs. Michaels lumbered through the door in a mood.

  “Them drivers, I’ll tell you. Tried to be polite as could be, but it weren’t no use. Stole a parkin’ place from beneath my nose, then refused, and I mean refused, to let me out into traffic. They was gettin’ on my last nerve.”

  I tried not to laugh, but it took a monumental effort, which ended with a fit of coughing. Brianne rushed forward, still drying her hands on a paper towel.

  “Aramis, you all right?”

  I nodded. Coughed again. Nodded.

  Mrs. Michaels’s focus shifted from me to Brianne. “Don’t I know you from somewheres? Sweetie, I seen you before, and I just can’t place it.”

  Baffled or surprised—I couldn’t tell which—Brianne returned the gaze, started to turn away, then turned back. “Mrs. Michaels? Oh, I remember you now.” She leaned over the counter and wrapped her arms around the woman’s shoulders. “I know about your son, and I’m so sorry.”

  Mrs. Michaels’s expression was a similar mix, but it changed to sorrow. “Was a good kid,” she said. “Just couldn’t stay away from that stuff now, could he? Them drugs just pulled my boy back down. Got hisself mixed in with the wrong sorts.”

  “Everyone makes their choices,” Brianne said. “He was trying, I’m sure.”

  “A good kid.”

  “A good kid.” Brianne looked at me as if to say, I don’t know all that she’s going through, but every mother needs comforting in a situation like this.

  I mouthed, Thank you.

  Brianne extricated herself with grace and moved back to the kitchen cleanup while Mrs. Michaels gathered herself. Her eye shadow was smeared on one side, which I informed her of quietly so as not to embarrass her any further.

  “And here I done forgot why I came by,” she said at last. “This is for you.”

  I looked down at a breadbasket. Peeling back the corners of a checkered cloth, I found fluffy biscuits and a cup of her salted butter. Tucked inside, a handmade card was decorated and signed by all four of her little ones. The gift was small, yet so big of heart. All I could do was squeeze her hand.

  “Best be goin’, Aramis. And tell Miss Brianne that was nice of her to say them comfortin’ words to me. Real nice.”

  Detective Meade stopped by the next morning and didn’t ask a single question regarding the television show. “Why don’t you whip me up that special concoction of yours.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do I look like I’m playing around, Aramis? One Hair Curler to go, please.”

  Armed with his cup, he meandered to the window and stared outside before turning back and facing the dining area. I could imagine him replaying the morning of Darrell Michaels’s murder in his mind, putting the pieces in place as they’d been given to him by the evidence and the testimony of the witnesses.

  He gestured with a nod for me to join him.

  Brianne looked at the three people in line, at the detective and me, then back to the customers. She’d been through this before and no doubt dreaded it. What sorta trouble was I being pulled into now?

  Sipping his drink between sentences, Detective Meade recounted for me the crucial points of the murder and upcoming trial. He let me know of the record Trey Kellers had compiled in his past, a list of priors longer than my own.

  We discussed, again, the revolver versus automatic handgun dilemma.

  “One other thing, Aramis. I want to bounce something off you, a little tidbit that turned up in our second round of interviews.” He proceeded with the details as I tried to hide my reaction.

  The final puzzle piece.

  I felt like a crowbar had been slammed into my gut.

  “What’s bothering you, babe?”

  I fielded Brianne’s concern with a stoic face. We were at my brownstone on a Saturday evening, watching My Best Friend’s Wedding from the sofa. Even though I knew Johnny Ray was out doing a show at the Douglas Corner Café, I leaned forward and glanced down the hall.

  “Let’s not talk about it right now. Okay?”

  “If you say so. You mind pausing it while I refill our drinks?”

  I hit the button on the remote. Watched her go into the kitchen.

  She seemed so relaxed—shoes kicked off by the door, parading around in pink ankle socks, giggling at her favorite parts in the movie. The pull and tug between Cameron Diaz and Julia Roberts was fodder for some great comedy, but my laughter was shallow. I was weighing the consequences of relationships.

  I thought of the romance between Brianne and me. Thought of the connection that had formed between my brother and Samantha Rosewood. All of us, searching for our places.

  How could I possibly tell Brianne what I’d discovered?

  How could I ruin this date night?

  She set our glasses on the table, then nudged me. “Was that a yawn? Are you getting
tired?”

  “As a dog.”

  “Do you want me to go home?”

  “Not really,” I said. I saw her eyes come alive, then dim again as I added, “But I really should get some sleep, sweetheart. I won’t be any fun anyway.”

  I’d been pulling sixty to seventy hours a week, and she’d been holding steady at fifty. Per the secret request of Brianne’s father, I’d been training her on the business side of things, squished together in my cinder-block office at Black’s, sharing the chair as we went over inventory issues and payroll, codes and permits—when we weren’t sneaking in kisses and cuddling.

  The New Testament on my desk had caught my eye a time or two. I’d studiously avoided its reprimanding presence.

  “Tell me the truth, Aramis,” said Brianne. “Is it the chick flick? You can choose something else if you like.”

  “It’s nothing. Seriously.”

  “Babe, I know you better than that. Something’s bugging you.”

  The phone rang, sparing me the need to explain.

  “Hello.”

  “Aramis, can you hear me? It’s loud in here.”

  “What’s going on, Johnny?”

  “I just wrapped up the show, had a good turnout. Listen, me and Ms. Rosewood, we’re going out on the town.”

  “Sammie’s there?”

  “What’d you expect?”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  I ignored Brianne’s sudden stiffness beside me. With all that was going through my head, I had to speak with Sammie. She was a rock. That’s what I’d told her.

  Johnny said, “She’s already gone out to the car.”

  “Well, aren’t you the gentleman.”

  “Kid, I can’t hear ya in this madhouse. Talk at you later.”

  “Later.”

  As though on cue, the phone rang again. This was a call I’d been expecting.

  “Was that Detective Meade?” Brianne asked after I disconnected.

  “The one and only.” I leaned back, arms folded over my head.

  “And?”

  “And,” I said, allowing a smile to tug at my lips, “he confirmed something.”

  She jabbed me in the arm. “You, Mr. Aramis Black, are impossible. Talk in full paragraphs or not, but don’t keep stringing me along.” She sipped at her drink.

  “What if I said that you and I are going out of town tomorrow?”

  Her gray blue eyes studied me over her glass.

  “Just you and me, Brianne. Don’t let anyone else know. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “I think I’ve finally figured out where Lewis hid his treasure, and we don’t need anyone tagging along. At this point, I don’t trust anyone. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Our secret,” she said.

  “Our secret.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Under the pretext of a breezy Sunday drive, I told Johnny I’d be back later.

  Brianne and I met at ten o’clock and followed the Natchez Trace Parkway, just as my brother and I had done weeks before. With most people in bed sleeping off their sins—or in church repenting of them—the roads are quiet this time of day.

  I was counting on it.

  Mom’s embroidered handkerchief was in my hands, accompanied by the memory of her words: I have secrets wrapped in here. Someday it’ll show you the way.

  “It’s gorgeous out here.” Brianne reached into her daypack and pulled out a digital camera. She snapped a picture. “The way the sun’s peeking through the clouds.”

  “Hope they come out,” I said, with my mind on more than photos.

  The weather in late November was less forgiving than it had been before, but dry leaves still clung in patches on the tree branches, and birds flitted about with unabated zeal. There were no bees in the air this time, and the humidity was normal.

  “This is it,” I said, leading Brianne from the Honda to the broken-top monument. A surreptitious study of our surroundings revealed no tourists, tagalongs, or malcontents. We appeared to have the place to ourselves.

  Good. Just as planned.

  “The Meriwether Lewis Memorial. It looks so … barren, Aramis.”

  “Kinda sad, isn’t it?”

  She shifted her pack while aiming another picture.

  “Right over there.” I pointed. “Those cabins are Grinder’s Stand, where he was shot and killed. I think he was murdered to cover up General Wilkinson’s treason. He died after hiding the gold that was meant to pay Wilkinson for his dirty deeds. And this handkerchief. It’s a map, just as you suggested.”

  Her eyes gleamed. “Babe, are you supposed to be telling me this?”

  “You and me. Shh.”

  “We can run away. Carefree.”

  “The gold. That comes first.”

  “It’s here? How do you know?”

  “The map starts at the cabins and leads back along this old section of the Trace. I checked it earlier, but I wanted you to be with me. Come on.”

  I took her hand, stood at the base of the monument, then started counting our steps—one, two, three—as we moved toward the opening in the foliage. Nondescript, hardly recognizable as the trail once traveled by presidents and thieves, Indians and missionaries, the gap in the trees drew us into its cocoon of forest noises. With the handkerchief held out in one hand, I continued counting out the steps—ninety-three, ninety-four.

  We stopped at the hundredth. I glanced around. The underbrush was thick, and a layer of molding leaves covered compact earth.

  “Is this it?”

  “My shovel. What am I thinking?” I dropped her hand. “I’ll be right back.”

  “What should I …”

  “Just wait. I don’t wanna recount the steps.”

  I hurried back through the trees, curving toward the monument and the parking lot. My heart was beating faster than my footsteps. I opened the trunk, retrieved the shovel, then stood still for a moment. My mind played again over the list of clues and convinced me I was on the right path.

  A little more digging. Soon I’d know for sure.

  Two minutes had passed by the time I jogged back into Brianne’s view. She was pacing, surveying the ground for a sign of some sort. I threw out a laugh and said something about her looking anxious.

  “Why would he bury it here?” she said. “Wasn’t this like a thoroughfare?”

  “Used to be.”

  “So why here? It doesn’t make sense. Are you sure about this?”

  “You’re bright. I’ve known that from the start.”

  “What’re you telling me?” Brianne stood rigidly, and the pack slid down her arm into her hand. She gave me a questioning look.

  “He didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Bury it on the trace. He buried it near Memphis.”

  “I don’t understand. Then why come all the way out here?”

  “It’s been right before my eyes all this time.” I waved the handkerchief. “See this embroidery? It’s a map, just as we suspected. It shows the pattern of the Mississippi River and its inlets. I figured it out from a book.”

  “What book? This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “The Three Musketeers. Chapter four. Aramis was one of the musketeers and my namesake. Can you believe that? My mom must’ve intended for me to solve it all along, but now that I have, I can’t touch it. That gold has hurt too many people.”

  “Can’t touch it? Of course you can, babe.”

  “No. I’d be profiting from her death.”

  “But you said … you and me.” Brianne stepped closer to me. Although her hair caught a beam of sunlight falling through the branches overhead, her face moved into shadows. “You’re confusing me.”

  “I told you we’d find out what was going on. I’m doing a little digging.”

  She reached for the shovel. “Let me try. Maybe it is here.”

  I pulled away. Even as I did, as my shoulders squared, I saw her posture change too. She stiffened for a moment,
then pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to hold back tears.

  “You don’t trust me, is that it, Aramis? Why are treating me this way?”

  “You tell me, sweet heart.”

  “You sound upset. I thought we had a relationship here, built on trust. I’ve never opened up like this before”—sniffle—“not with anyone, so please don’t tell me you’re gonna turn on me. I can’t watch you walk away. I can’t … You said we’d share it. Together.”

  “Is that the same line you pulled on Darrell Michaels?”

  “Darrell?”

  “You act like you didn’t know him. But you certainly know Mrs. Michaels. When she came into the shop the other day, she recognized you.”

  Brianne rolled her eyes and wiped away a tear. “I went to the same school as some of her older children, yes. That woman’s not all there, though.”

  “Brianne.”

  She looked up at me, blinked. Looked off to the side.

  “Detective Meade conducted follow-up interviews with the people who were in Black’s on the day of the shooting. No one saw the guy point the revolver. No witnesses. We knew that already. What we didn’t know was that you used to date Darrell.”

  “Says who?”

  “Trey Kellers.”

  “Well, of course he would say such a thing.”

  “No, Brianne. You’re not listening. Meade corroborated the report. And then I thought back to what you told me about your old boyfriend, the one who’d been all caught up in church, then fallen into his old ways. It all adds up. And why wouldn’t you say anything? What’re you trying to hide?”

  “Aramis, why are you treating me this way? Let’s just go, right now. We’ll drive straight to Memphis and get this gold and never come back. Never have to worry again about food and clothes, any of that stuff. Just you and me. It can happen. We can make it work.”

  “You own an automatic,” I stated. “You’re not afraid to pull the trigger.”

  “That man would’ve raped me. Please don’t judge me for—”

  “I’m not talking about at your condo. The morning of the Elliston shooting you were there in that window booth. With your mocha. Holding that same daypack.” I indicated the bag in her hand.