“I think we need to look, find out what he knows about that trunk. Maybe it’s been hidden somewhere, and whoever had it, could give us clues about what to do. It’s a long shot, but we need to try.” “Sounds like a plan to me.” Selma picked up her purse.
Liz reached over and picked up the remote from the coffee table. She glanced at the news. “Michael Jackson died?”
“Yeah,” Selma said.
“Who is Michael Jackson?” asked Fin.
The news switched over to a story taking place at the observatory. Liz turned off the set. “He’s a singer.”
Fin tilted his head to the side in question.
“Never mind, I’ll explain later.”
After a quick discussion about how Fin couldn’t walk around the streets of the city with a sword strapped to his hip, they left the apartment with the sacred stone and the ancient note Liz hadn’t yet written from five hundred years in the past. Talk about an oxymoron.
****
Oversized sunglasses shaded Liz’s eyes as they moved from the car to the entrance of Graystones. As much as she wouldn’t mind seeing an old friend or two, she didn’t have time for explanations and didn’t need the complications that would arise from her sudden appearance.
Selma stepped inside first, followed by Liz and Fin, with Jake trailing behind. Liz never forgot for a moment that Jake now carried his guns and didn’t trust them an inch.
It didn’t take long for Mr. Harrison to make his way to Selma’s side.
“Ms. Mayfair, how good it is to see you again.
I’ve thought of you often over the last year.”
Selma shook the man’s hand, sent him a smile.
“I do hope all your thoughts were good.”
The man’s belly shook when he laughed. “Of course. I’d hoped you’d come back this way.”
“Really, why?”
Liz wondered briefly if the man had something else for her from the past. Something to help them.
“I’ve wondered endlessly what was in that crate.” The wishful gleam in the man’s eye matched the tilt of his head.
Selma glanced their way. Mr. Harrison noted them for the first time.
“Where are my manners?” He recovered quickly and stepped forward for introductions. “We’ve met, haven’t we?” he asked Liz.
“Yes, over a year ago. Winter.”
His eyes peered over his glasses, obviously trying to place her before shifting to Fin and then Jake.
Mr. Harrison lifted his plump finger in the air.
“Candlesticks. Twelfth century.”
“Aye,” Fin murmured by her side.
The man’s brows drew together, his brain obviously trying to recall something. “I’ve not met you, but I’ve seen you before.”
This was good. Some indication that Mr.
Harrison knew something they did not.
“I remember. Your picture was all over the news when you—” he pointed to Liz “—disappeared.”
Shit.
Liz swallowed, smiled and flipped her hair behind her shoulders. “Oh, God, that was ages ago.
You must have missed the follow-up story.”
Selma laughed and placed an arm around Liz.
“I’ll bet you get that all the time.”
Fin appeared in shock, and Jake lowered his gaze to the floor. Thank God, Selma could play along.
“Only when I go to places I haven’t been in a while. You should have seen my high school reunion.”
Selma went on to talk about pictures on milk cartons. Their banter turned Mr. Harrison’s confused expression to one of complacency.
“Well, I’m glad to see you’re all right.”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Well then, what can I help you with?” Mr.
Harrison directed them to a large conference table toward the back of the shop.
Selma started talking the minute they were all comfortable. “I was hoping you could give me some more information about the trunk.”
“I told you most of what I know. The trunk was bequeathed to you from an old estate. The auction house in London that held it for quite some time sent it to us only days before we contacted you. I’ve often wondered how it is that you’ve been given something so old without any knowledge of its origins.”
Selma skirted a sly look to Liz.
“Selma discovered a family link,” Liz said.
Mr. Harrison scratched his double chin, his eyes narrowed. “I’d assumed as much, but the trunk dates back centuries and the letter requested you—”
he pointed a finger toward Selma—“by name. How on earth is it possible for your name to be written in a document so many years in the past?”
Selma opened her eyes wide.
“’Tis something we’ve all wondered about,” Fin chimed in.
Liz’s spine shivered. She didn’t think Mr.
Harrison would believe in time travel or ever connect the dots, but to be talking about the trunk as they were opened the possibilities of discovery.
“There have been a lot of Selmas in my family genealogy.”
“Well, that may explain some. Surnames change, however.”
“True.”
“If it’s information about the auction house in London you’d like, I can give you their address and the proprietor’s name.”
“That would be helpful,” Liz told him. She’d have to have the name now to send the trunk in the future… or past… or whatever the hell she was going to do. Auction houses didn’t exist in Fin’s time.
Damn all this paradoxical time travel mumbo-jumbo was resulting in a headache.
Mr. Harrison perched his reading glasses on his nose and turned to his computer. He clicked a few times and sent a file to his printer. Liz leaned over to Fin and whispered under her breath, “He’s printing out the address from his computer.” She’d talked with him and all the MacCoinnichs about computers and the Internet several times.
Fin sat forward in his chair, fascinated with the screen and images on the monitor.
“Is that the store in London?”
“Auction house. But yes.” Mr. Harrison removed the paper from the printer tray and handed it to Selma.
“Is there a way to see what is inside that store from this?”
“They have a virtual monitor twenty-four-seven that can be viewed any time,” he said with pride.
“Here.” Mr. Harrison switched the monitor so they could view the inside of the London store.
Light from the windows indicated the setting sun in London, but enough light shone through to give clear images of the inside of the auction house.