1…

The estate sale was about to end. Everything that had been marked down to half price in the morning was now, at ten minutes to one, another half off.

There wasn’t a lot left: a broom rake with three tines missing; a bicycle wheel with a fat tire, from the early ‘60s perhaps; an assortment of planters, mostly chipped pottery or faded plastic; odds and ends of kitchen implements (an ancient advertising beer opener, a set of teaspoons from the ‘40s, and a couple of rubber bottle grips “for those stubborn lids”); a sofa with a floral slipcover, probably from the ‘70s, minus one seat cushion; a box of miscellaneous items thrown together haphazardly (a jar of buttons, three small ceramic elephants, an empty photo album, and a small, tarnished tin box); a stack of the complete set of the Readers Digest novels; a collection of women’s clothes from the late ‘50s; and, a set of what had been expensive luggage, also from the 1950s.

Edna Handy, who had been the town librarian for as long as anyone could remember, had died a few weeks earlier and the estate sale gave her neighbors and curiosity-seekers a glimpse into the final years of her life. A sad glimpse, for Edna had been a pillar of the community and had once lived on the upper-lower end of the town’s upper class. Her husband, predeceasing her by two decades had been both loved and hated for the way he ran his businesses, but Edna had only been loved and many people conveniently forgot to whom she was married.

“Mom, aren’t you ready to go yet? I promised Lindsey I’d meet her at the mall at 1:00.” Maddy was becoming increasingly exasperated with her mother, who had been poking around in the detritus of the estate sale, it seemed to Maddy, foreeeever.

“Yes, I’m ready to go. I’ll just pay for this and we can be on our way,” Clare Arnold responded a bit absently, her arms loaded with two of the chipped planters and the box with the assortment of mismatched items.

“Good!” Maddy said, rolling her eyes at her mother. Something she did quite a lot these days. Clare chose to ignore her daughter’s exaggerated annoyance, something that she did quite a lot these days, also. They were at that stage of their relationship when shouting matches and hurt feelings could erupt over a glance, so they tread lightly a good part of the time. The rest of the time, they could sit on the sofa, curled up together with Maddy happily texting her friends and Clare planning a new art project.

“What is all this junk?” Maddy asked, picking through the box. “Buttons? And this tin thing is gross.”

“Well, I had to buy the whole box to get the buttons. I’ve got a great idea for a wall hanging. Or maybe a costume. Yes, I think a costume.”

Clare was an artist. Not just any artist, but an artist on the rise. She had had a dozen solo showings of her textiles and sculptures in the Midwest, and she was about to break into the national art scene.

“When we get to the mall, can I have $20?” Maddy asked, having already moved on from any interest in the contents of the box.

Clare’s first thought was to ask Why do you need $20? but decided that perhaps she didn’t need to know and Maddy was pretty conscientious about money.

“Uh, how are you getting home? And when?”

“Oh, Lindsey’s mom is picking us up around five. Is that OK?” Maddy was being civil and cooperative now that she had the money she’d asked for.

“Sure, that will be fine. We’ll eat when your father gets home.”

Clare was not a gourmet cook, by a long shot, but she did stick to a schedule with meals: breakfast at 7:00 before Maddy left for school and Jeremy caught the train to work; lunch on the weekends, but usually just for one or two of the three of them since weekends were packed with soccer practice and dance lessons and the gym and all sorts of shopping trips; and, dinner promptly at 7:00 every night.

“Lindsey and I will get something in the food court at the mall before I come home. I hope that’s OK.” Maddy ate a lot of her meals away from home. Clare never got the hint maybe it was her cooking.

“I suppose. Don’t just fill up on junk food.” Of course, that was the only kind of “food” there was at the food court.

When they got to the mall, Maddy jumped out of the car almost before it stopped.

“Thanks, mom,” she said, taking a few steps and then turned and mouthed through the car window, “I love you.”

It was the first time she had said it in quite a while. Clare’s eyes welled with tears. All the fights and hurt feelings melted away. Maddy was a good kid and Clare knew it. And she was just a kid, so every day was a new emotion. “Roll with it” was Clare’s mantra and it worked most of the time.

After she had dabbed her eyes, Clare maneuvered the car out of the mall parking lot and headed home. She calculated that she would have just enough time to unload her purchases from the estate sale, check on the garden, pick some herbs for whatever she might come up with for dinner, and sort out the contents of the sale box.

As she pulled into the driveway, she saw Gwen, her neighbor, standing in the gap that separated Clare’s workshop from the house. When they purchased the property, her husband suggested that they tear down the building that had been a one-car garage and glorified tool shed and put up something new, but Clare liked the dilapidated look of the structure and said that she wanted to “restore” it. Restoration took her five years and lots of banged fingers from nailing up siding that was sliding off, shelves falling down, and windows that needed to be replaced. In the end, she not only created a functional space to do her art, but added on a greenhouse for her plants. It was her sanctuary, inspiration, and refuge when that was needed.

“Looks like you scored big,” Gwen said, only a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Clare had set the box on her work table and had begun unloading it.

“Don’t laugh. I got a couple of pots I really needed and a collection of buttons that I know exactly what I’m going to do with,” Clare replied, ignoring the smirk.“The rest will probably just go to the thrift shop where it would have gone anyway.”

Gwen picked up the photo album and flipped through the pages.

“Too bad there aren’t any pictures in here. I always like seeing what other people think is interesting enough to take a photo of. I kind of like the elephants, too.”

Gwen’s tone had changed slightly once she discovered that there might be something that perhaps Clare would part with.

“Be my guest. Take what you want,” Clare replied, absently. She had picked up the jar of buttons and held it up like an Olympic torch. “Perfect.”

“I’ll just take the small elephant. It will look good with a plant in it on the window sill in the kitchen,” Gwen said.

“You are welcome to the other two. I might put them out in the garden if you don’t want them.” Clare didn’t want Gwen to feel that she was being greedy taking them all, but decided to offer an alternative use so she would know that there might be a place for them, besides the thrift shop.

“No, just this one is fine. I don’t want to be greedy.” They both laughed, knowing what each was thinking. They had been neighbors for a long time.

“Oh, I almost forgot why I came over.” Gwen had started for the door and then turned back. “If you and Jeremy aren’t busy Saturday night, I thought we could have a glass of wine on the deck. We haven’t had a chance to get together for a while.”

“That would be nice, Gwen. I’ll check with Jeremy, but I’m sure we don’t have anything on. I’ll let you know.”

Clare and Jeremy and Gwen and her husband, Ted, had been frequent visitors to each other’s homes after Clare and Jeremy moved into their house ten years earlier, but once each couple’s kids got a bit older, it seemed there was less and less time for the four of them to sit down together. Clare and Gwen saw each other several times a week, but the men were rarely included. Ted worked long hours at a big on-line merchandise fulfillment processing facility and Jeremy mostly wanted to sit down in front of the TV after dinner and enjoy whatever sport was being played at that point in the year. Football, baseball, golf, basketball, hockey, soccer… it didn’t matter to him. He’d even watch curling if it was on at the right time. Maybe cricket at a stretch.

After she dusted off the two remaining elephant planters and set the tin box and photo album on a shelf over her workbench, Clare got to work with a first inventory of the button collection. The buttons were in a Mason jar absolutely stuffed with all shapes and sizes, obviously the collection of a lifetime. Edna was always a stylish dresser who made many of her own clothes, so these were probably the leftovers from those creations. Clare had resisted the temptation of buying a box filled with Nelly Don dress patterns, not that she would have ever used them, but they certainly had novelty value. There might have been an art project in there and if Maddy hadn’t been so impatient, Clare would have happily paid the $1.50 for that box, too.

But I’ve got too many projects already, she told herself and it was true. She had two art shows coming up in the next six months and she hadn’t even decided what to do for one of them. Maybe the buttons would be the medium, as she had thought earlier.

She unscrewed the jar lid and dumped the buttons out on the table. She spread them into a single layer and contemplated how to sort them. By size? Color? Material? She started with size. There were tiny buttons that you’d find holding men’s shirt collars down; medium size buttons that might have been used on a woman’s dress; and large buttons that probably held an overcoat closed. There were also a few really large buttons and some oddly shaped ones. Clare couldn’t quite imagine what those were for.

Size didn’t seem to be a satisfactory classification system, so she started over and began putting them into piles of similar colors. Her artist’s eye thought that worked better. After a few moments, though, she realized that there were three, maybe four, dominant colors: white, black, beige, and green. Green seemed to be an odd color to have in a collection of buttons, but Clare remembered that Edna did seem to dress in all shades of green. It was her signature.

As she picked through the buttons, she began to take note of the different types of buttons that had spilled out of the jar. Her curiosity peaked, she picked up her phone and said “Siri, how many kinds of buttons are there?”

“My research indicates that there are four main types: flat buttons with two and four holes, shank buttons, stud buttons, and toggles,” Siri replied. “Buttons may be made of plastic, polyester, resin, mother of pearl, horn, corozo nuts, wood, metal, leather, coconut, ceramic, enamel, bone, glass, and rhinestones. Some decorative buttons are covered in knots or fabric. There are many types of novelty buttons, both for adults and children, and there are insignia buttons that are worn on uniforms. Buttons come in a variety of colors and shapes. I hope this helps to answer your question. I can also give you a history of buttons, if you like.”

“Wow, that did answer my question. I’ll let you know if I want that history lesson. Thanks, Siri.”

“Not at all. Have a nice day.”

Clare pondered for a moment how often she consulted Siri during the day for all sorts of questions she had. Siri had become her constant companion and, if she admitted it, almost a friend. She didn’t exactly confide in Siri, and she knew she might be a bit embarrassed if anyone knew all the thing she asked about.

Move on, Clare. Back to the buttons.

After a few minutes of staring at the piles she had created according to colors, she decides that each color needed to be subdivided into the different types Siri had told her about. She set about working on the white stack, separating the flat buttons from the shanks (the ones with the loop on the back) and the studs. There were no white toggles; probably not a surprise. Toggles were mostly used on winter coats and it was unlikely that Edna would have had a white winter coat with toggles. Those were for a younger crowd.

Clare’s sorting went on for some time and she reflected how the process had a very Zen-like quality to it. So Zen-like in fact that she lost all concept of time and didn’t look up from her workbench until she heard a car pull up in the driveway and Maddy say, “Thanks, Mrs. Henderson. ‘Bye Lindsey. See you tomorrow.”

Clare glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost 6:00. Jeremy wasn’t home yet and he usually appeared about 5:30, give or take a few minutes depending on whether the train was on time.

Maddy had run into the house and not finding her mother there, came out to the studio, grinning.

“I got you a present,” she said, handing Clare a beautifully wrapped gift. “I remembered your birthday.”

“Oh, Maddy, that was so thoughtful of you. But you know, my birthday was last week,” Clare laughed.

“I know, but I just remembered it today. That counts, doesn’t it?” Maddy seemed a little disappointed that her mother seemed to dismissed her gesture.

“Of course it does, sweetheart. Thank you so much.”

“Well, unwrap it already,” Maddy urged, having gotten over her disappointment and on to the prospect of her mother being excited about what she had bought her.

A few quick tugs and the wrapper fell away, revealing a selection of teas from one of the only shops in the mall that wasn’t a chain.

“Maddy, these are lovely. I love them. What made you think of this?” Clare was genuinely impressed that her daughter had managed to buy her something that she actually liked.

“Oh, mom, I’m not stupid! You have a cup of tea every night after dinner. I do notice things occasionally.”

And just like that, feelings were hurt and Maddy stomped off into the house.

Roll with it, Clare said to herself. Maybe after dinner, I’ll offer Maddy a cup of one of the teas she had bought. It could work, she told herself. Maybe it could work.

For a moment, she had forgotten that Jeremy wasn’t home yet. Where was he? It really wasn’t like him to not call if he was going to be late. Just at that instant, though, she heard the back door to the house open and close. He was home.

“Clare, where are you?” He yelled into the house.

“Mom’s out in her studio,” Maddy called from her bedroom. “I hate her.”

“Nice to know everything is normal around here,” Jeremy muttered. “What’s for dinner?”

“How would I know? I’ve been at the mall with Lindsey,” Maddy yelled.

Jeremy could tell that a conversation wasn’t going to go well with Maddy, so he opened the door and walked out to the studio.

“Hi, sweetie. What’s with Maddy, or should I ask?”

“Oh, it’s my fault. She bought me a birthday present and I somehow managed to question her relationship to the universe. You know, same old thing.”

“What’s for dinner, hon?” Jeremy, like Maddy, had the ability to switch topics in an instant.
“I lost track of time, so I guess it’s Thai tonight. Sorry.”

“Hey, no problem. I’ll call The Blue Orchid and order our usual.” Jeremy was actually relieved that there was no dinner waiting for him. As much as he loved his wife, he didn’t love her cooking. He often wondered how someone so creative could manage to be so pedestrian in the kitchen. But then, she probably got the “bad cook” gene from her mother, who was notorious for making Thanksgiving dinner entirely inedible and heartburn-inducing at the same time.

“Perfect,” Clare said, absentmindedly, and then “Why are you so late?”

“There was an incident on the train line. Someone left a piece of luggage on the platform and the police had to come and make sure it wasn’t a bomb or something. They are getting really good at that,” he replied, scanning the workbench. “What’s all this stuff?”

“I went to Edna’s estate sale today. So sad. Her son, who lives in Tulsa, I think, took all of her beautiful things before the sale, of course, so what was left was mostly… junk. You know, like the junk we have in the attic. All of that stuff we are keeping for what? Maddy certainly isn’t going to want it. So some day, people will be poking around in our garage and living room and bedroom and clucking their tongues at all the junk we had.”

It all came spilling out, like the buttons out of the Mason jar, and it surprised Clare to know that that’s how she felt about a great deal of what they had accumulated in twenty-five years of marriage: a good collection of… junk.

“You are absolutely right. Let’s sell it all and move to Tahiti. I’ll go tell Maddy right now.” Jeremy was laughing at Clare’s sudden intensity, but he knew exactly what she was saying. He had thought it more than once. But moving to Tahiti was out of the questions. Maddy wouldn’t leave her friends and Clare’s art career was about to take off. The world probably wasn’t ready for a female Gauguin.

“I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t answer your question,” Clare laughed, too. “I bought a box of odds and ends in order to get a jar of buttons. I’m going to do a costume with them. I need to do some research, but I seem to remember that there were characters on TV who had buttons covering their coats. Maybe one of the Beatles did that. I don’t know. Anyway, I got a jar of buttons, an old tin box, a photo album and some planters. Gwen took one of the planters. The other things are there on the shelf, if you are interested.”

Jeremy picked up the photo album and said, “Well, this can definitely go in our estate sale.”

He put it back on the shelf and looked at the box. “This is interesting. I might use this in the garage. Odds and ends, you know. Nuts and bolts. Do we have any kind of cleaner? This looks like it has a century of dirt on it. I like the elephants.”

“We’ve got some WetWipes you could use on the box. But maybe start that after dinner. Weren’t you going to order Thai?” Clare suddenly found herself very hungry. She had just remember that she hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. The estate sale and fiddling with the buttons had distracted her.

Jeremy put the box back on the shelf and went inside to order. He didn’t need to ask Clare what she wanted; she had the same thing every time: green curry pad Thai with chicken. He was almost as predictable. His favorite was teriyaki salmon with vegetables, but tonight he decided to throw caution to the wind and have barbecued shrimp, spicy. He knew he’d regret it in the morning but it just felt right tonight.

“Twenty minutes, Mr. Arnold. You want some egg rolls or crab rangoon, too? Your usual?” Nancy, the owner of The Blue Orchid knew him very well.

“OK, you talked me into it. Both.”

“I knew you would want them. See you soon.”

The food was ready right on time and Jeremy was home in ten minutes after that. Expecting to find Clare in the kitchen getting plates and drinks ready, he was surprise to hear strange sounds coming from Maddy’s bedroom. When he knocked on the door, Clare said “Come in.”

Maddy was on the floor, giggling like she hadn’t done in months.

“Mom says we are moving to Tahiti. Can I see if Lindsey wants to come too?”

Every day was an adventure with Maddy and Clare, and Jeremy enjoyed every minute of it. Almost.

“Sure, the more the merrier. Want something to eat before we leave?”

“No, I’m stuffed. I’m just going to finish my homework and look at Instagram. You and mom have a good dinner.” With that, they were dismissed and equilibrium was restored in the Arnold household. At least for a while.

“How did that happen?” Jeremy asked. “I thought she hated you.”

“Oh, that was an hour ago. Let’s eat. I’m famished.”

2…

As usual, the food from The Blue Orchid was perfect and the Pinot Grigio was just the thing they both needed.

“I told you Gwen came over earlier,” Clare began, draining the last swallow from her glass. “She wants us to go over Saturday night for a drink on their deck. We haven’t done that in months. The weather looks like it’s going to be nice and Maddy asked if she could stay over at Lindsey’s that night. What do you say?”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose that would be OK,” Jeremy replied reluctantly.

“What is it? I thought you liked Gwen and Ted.”

“Gwen, yes. Ted… hmm. How do I put this? He’s annoying. Always going on about how his company makes the world function. All they do is deliver stuff to people who are too lazy to go out and buy it from a store in town. If they haven’t driven out the very stores that people would be happy to buy from.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way about him. You never said anything.” Clare was genuinely perplexed.

“I guess you haven’t noticed how I always find an excuse not to play golf with him, or go to a Cardinals game even when he’s got great tickets. And he does get great tickets. I just can’t bare to spend three or four hours listening to his drivel.” Jeremy had gotten a bit passionate in his demurral. “But if we can limit the evening, I’ll bite the bullet.”

“To be honest, I don’t like Ted that much either,” Clare laughed. “We’ll figure out a way to duck out early. Maybe one of us will get a stomach ache.”

“So you are making the appetizers, eh?”

It came out of his mouth before he realized it. Clare had a funny look on her face, but it passed quickly and she stood up and gathered the plates.

“If it’s okay, I’m going to work in my studio for a bit. Those two shows are closing in on me. You don’t mind do you?”

“No, I’ll just watch the ballgame for a while and read a bit. You go have fun.”

Ten minutes later, Jeremy walked into her studio.

“I thought you were going to watch the game,” Clare said.

“The Cubs are up 12 to nothing in the bottom of the second, so not much reason to watch. I thought I’d clean up that box and see what I can put in it. Where do we keep the WetWipes?”

“Right there on the shelf. Give it a go. It looked like at least of century of dirt and grime caked on that thing.”

The box was about ten inches long, four inches high and four inches wide. If you stacked a couple of bricks on each other, they would have been about the same size as the box. Jeremy couldn’t see how to open it and Clare was right; it did look like it had accumulated a hundred year’s worth of dirt.

Jeremy pulled out a cloth and started wiping. He had only gotten about halfway over the top when he needed to use another wipe. The box was that dirty. After using about a dozen of the squares, he had taken off what seemed to be the first layer of dirt. Under the dirt was tarnish. A couple of spots had a bit of shine to them and he started wiping more vigorously.

“It’s coming clean,” he said in Clare’s direction. She was engrossed in her buttons and just hrumpft in reply.

“I think it might be pewter. Or I suppose it could be silver,” Jeremy offered. “Here, what do you think?”

“I think you are going to have put some elbow grease into that project,” she replied. “But it’s looking more interesting. What’s that figure on the top?”

Jeremy hadn’t really noticed that there was a raised area that resembled a… bee. Curious. Another dozen used wipes and more of the accumulated dirt had been removed.

“Do we have any thing like tarnish remover?”

“Well, we have tarnish remover and that’s kind of like tarnish remover,” Clare chuckled. Having given in to Jeremy’s questions and observations about the box, she decided to put aside her project for the moment.

“Cute. Where is it?” Beyond the TV, Jeremy’s knowledge of the household was almost nil.

“I’ll get it for you. Easier than explaining where it is.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

Ten minutes later, Clare emerged from the house with a bowl of water, a box of baking soda, a microfiber cloth, a toothbrush, and rubber gloves.

“What’s all this?” Jeremy was perplexed. “I thought you said we had some tarnish remover.”

“I did a quick Q and A with Siri and she suggested using baking soda first and then silver polish if we decide the box is silver. Works with pewter, too.”

“OK, Siri knows best, I guess.”

Clare wet the cloth in the bowl of water and sprinkled some of the baking soda on it. She started wiping the box and it began to shine. She dipped the toothbrush in the water and then in the soda and began scrubbing the crevices of the raised area on the top. Sure enough, what looked like a bee was a bee. As she cleaned the rest of the box (it had suddenly become her project, not Jeremy’s), they saw that there was a ridge around the top of the box where it met the sides.

“Let me see if I can get the top off,” she suggested.

The crevice around the top was filled with tarnish, but the toothbrush and soda paste had managed to remove enough that she was able to gently wiggle the top and it popped off. Inside was a stack of papers. Most were very yellowed or nearly crumbling, but one was obviously newer than the rest. It appeared to be written on lined notebook paper, the kind used in elementary school to teach cursive writing.

Clare unfolded the paper and saw that it was dated 1932, written by Doris, who Clare dimly remembered was Edna’s mother.

“Listen to this,” Clare began reading. “‘This box was sent to me by my fiancé, Randall Wilde, from France, just before he was killed in action at Saint-Mihiel. He wrote that he and his friends had been holed up in what he called a ‘grand house’ in the village of Commercy as the war ebbed and flowed around them. The house had been abandoned in 1917. His platoon had taken refuge from a terrible storm and as often happens in war, they explored the place, mostly looking for something to drink, which they found in abundance. He wrote that it seemed all of the valuable items had been removed from the house, but there were some small things left behind. This box was one of those items. He said that he thought I’d appreciate it and perhaps I could translate the letters inside. He managed to get the box to the Red Cross which shipped it to me. I was reluctant to accept it since it was the property of some French family and it was not until several years later that I have now opened it and looked at the contents.’”

“Wow, this is pretty amazing,” Clare said, shaking her head.

She continued reading. “‘I believe that the letters in the box may have been written to Napoleon by his wife, Josephine, while he was leading the French army in Egypt. I am going to call the museum and see if anyone can help me translate these and verify their authenticity. If they are genuine, I will try to make sure they get to the right people in France.’”

“Oh, come on. This must be a hoax. Letters to Napoleon in a box that some guy in the army stole from a house in France during the First World War?” Jeremy was laughing and shaking his head.

“It does sound crazy, but I suppose it’s possible Edna got this from her mother and just hung on to it all these years.” Clare was perplexed by what she had been reading, but it was getting late and she finally said, “I think I need to go to bed and look at this with fresh eyes in the morning. How about you?”

“Yeah, let’s do that, but you’ll have to crack the mystery on your own. I’ve got a full day tomorrow and I may be late getting home again. TGIF, tomorrow. And I’ve got to psych myself up for our visit to Gwen and Ted’s.”

Jeremy retreated to bed and Clare was left with the box and it’s mysterious contents. Were the letters real and if so, why did they not end up in some museum instead of Edna’s estate sale almost one hundred years later? She knew she needed help unraveling the mystery, but who could she turn to for that? Well, not Siri or Gwen, that was for sure.

3…

The next day, after Maddy left for school and Jeremy headed to work, Clare called the one person she thought might have some suggestions about how to proceed: her old University art professor, Dr. Kramer Ibbotson. “Kram,” as he was known to his colleagues and friends (and his students, but only behind his back), was a bit more than an art professor: he was an art detective, someone who was frequently called on to find who, when, what and why a particular piece of art was created, destroyed, stolen, or discovered. He had been extraordinarily successful; his one failure, and the one that stumped the entire art world, frankly, was the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist. Kram probably got closer than anyone to solving that one, but in the end, the answer was just out of reach and he decided to put it aside and concentrate on his own art and retirement. Mostly, those were put aside until he got the inevitable call…

“Kram, it’s Clare Arnold. I’ve got a question for you.”

“Clare, good to hear from you. It’s been awhile,” Kram began. “I see your name coming up in all the art magazines. You are getting some good press.”

“That’s so nice of you, Kram. It’s been fun, but kind of nerve-wracking. I think I liked it better when not so much was expected of me,” Clare replied, wondering how that might have sounded. Humble or just a touch narcissistic.

“I always expected a lot from you and I was right. Anyway, you said you had a question. What’s up?” Kram was intrigued.

“Well, this is a bit strange, but I bought a box at an estate sale that contained letters that the owner’s mother said were sent to Napoleon from Josephine while he was in Egypt,” she began, the words tumbling out.

“So you talked to the owner of the box and that is the story he told you?”

“No, let me start over. The owner of the box – she – passed away recently and it was part of the things that were included in the sale. It was in pretty bad shape and when I cleaned it up, I discovered what was inside. Well, Jeremy and I did. He helped. A bit.”

“Ah, yes, Jeremy,” Kram replied, just the slightest hint of disdain in his voice. He felt Clare had made a mistake marrying an accountant instead of an artist like herself who would understand what she did. “How’s he doing these days?

“Oh, he’s fine. Concentrating on work and watching TV. The usual.” Clare tried to sound casual about her husband’s narrow world, but she knew that Kram felt that the two of them were not quite suited. Jeremy was simplicity compared to Clare’s complexity. Yin and yang, perhaps. But each grounded the other in multiple ways and that was what still made them work after twenty-five years.

“Good. Now the box. It belonged to the mother of a friend of yours who died recently and had letters that appear to have been sent from Josephine to Napoleon. Am I understanding right so far?”

“Yes, so far,” Clare continued, making sure that Kram knew there was much more to come. “The box contained a handwritten note from Edna’s mother. Edna was the woman who passed away recently. We weren’t exactly friends, but everyone in town knew her and I think everyone considered her a friend of sorts. Anyway, the note explained how the box was sent to Edna’s mother from her fiancee who was killed in France in World War I. He gave it to the Red Cross who shipped it to Edna’s mother.”

“That’s not all that unusual. The soldiers acquired all kinds of things during the war and sent them back to the States, some legitimately, some not. However, I would think that the contents of the box would surely have been understood by the fiancée to be pretty valuable and that raises all kinds of questions about ownership and provenance.”

“I know. Apparently Edna’s mother spent some time trying to find out who the box belonged to, but she didn’t explain beyond the note and I have no idea whether Edna knew anything about it either, though it’s hard to believe that she wouldn’t have. She was a librarian and you know how inquisitive they are,” Clare replied, laughing.

“Yes, that’s Betsy, for sure.” Kram had been married to the University librarian for forty years, so he knew full well their curious, answer-seeking nature.

“The funny thing is that the box was covered in dirt and tarnish,” Clare continued. “It’s as if it had been forgotten about after an initial search of its contents and whatever inquiry was made into its owners in France. It doesn’t make sense. Perhaps Edna’s mother was afraid someone would find out about it and understand its value. Maybe she intended to sell it and was just never able to make that happen. I assume the letters at least are valuable. It seems like she just hid it away and forgot about it.”

“That’s a possibility,” Kram suggested. “Maybe she knew more about the origins of the box than she let on in the note. It might be that she was ashamed of what her fiancee had done, stealing the box. We have to call it what it was: he stole it from the rightful owners in France and sent it to her, hoping that he could perhaps sell it when he got back.”

“Well, what now? What should I do with this thing?”

“If you want me to help, and I assume that why you called, how about scanning the note and maybe one of the letters and email those to me? Take a couple of pictures of the box, too. You said you’d cleaned it up a bit, right?” he asked.

“Yes, we didn’t do too much to it. It appears to be silver, lined with something that looks suspiciously like gold,” Clare offered. “The top has an embossed symbol of a bee and there are a couple of hallmarks on the bottom. I haven’t had time to investigate those.”

“Leave that to me. I’ll check with Tommy Arp. I don’t think you know him; he came to the department after you left and then moved to NYU. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of European silver. He’s been on Antiques Roadshow in England a dozen times,” Kram explained. “As soon as I get your email, I’ll get started. Clare, it’s good to talk to you again. After Anna died, we missed having you come over to our house. I know it was hard for you. You two were like sisters.”

“I miss her. I think about her every day, in one way or another. You were a great father to her and a friend to me. You still are. We’ll talk more, I’m sure.”

After they hung up their phones, Clare thought about all the time that she had spent at Kram and Betsy’s house, sharing good times with their daughter, Anna. Now she was a thousand miles away, asking for help with a problem she didn’t even know she had twenty-four hours before. Not a problem; more like a mystery. Exactly like a mystery.

4…

She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. One of. Paris was filled with beautiful women, then, and Napoleon Bonaparte seemed to know all of them. Rose de Beauharnais was different than the rest, though. She had confidence and a sense of grace that the others only hoped for. And her latest lover, Paul, Vicomte de Barras, was hoping to find someone to take her off his hands because she was bleeding him dry. Bonaparte fit the bill, so to speak. He was sure that he could find a way to satisfy her cravings for the finest things in life, even if it meant he would have to become the Emperor of France!

Rose saw something in him that only he saw in himself: his intense intellect, passion, and above all, ambition. His superiors mostly thought him a fool, but eventually agreed that he might be useful and sent him off to defend and extend the Republic. Not before he and Rose were married, though. And not before he began referring to her by her middle name, Joséphine.

“He wrote her over 250 letters from all over Europe,” Tommy began. “But there seems to be only two verified letters she wrote to him. If these are the real thing, this is an incredible find. And it would be hard to place a value on them. You say your former pupil bought them at an estate sale? Well, of course she did.”

“Like finding that Jackson Pollack in the trash,” Kram chuckled. “She sent me photos of the box and a couple of scans of letters and I’ll send them off to you. Let me know what you think. I have a feeling that we may need to get together in person soon.”

“That’s not a problem. I’m due to be in Chicago in a week for a conference. Always another conference. I could meet you in Denver after that. Do you think – Clare, that’s her name, right – could bring the box there? Or at least we could do a Zoom.”

“I have a feeling she’d be on the next plane. I’ll talk to her and then we can set a time,” Kram replied. “Tommy, it’s good to talk to you. It’s been too long. You know, if you’d ever want to move back to the mountains, I can arrange a spot here for you.”

“Thanks, Kram, but leaving Manhattan would be a bigger shock to Marnie’s system than to mine. We’re too settled here and between teaching at NYU and consulting, I don’t even have time to think about skiing, but thanks for the offer. Talk later. Cheers.”

Five minutes after he hung up, his email dinged and the photos and scans Kram said he’d send showed up. The silver box was not what he was expecting. It was stunning. Kram’s friend had done a good job cleaning it. Not too much, as was often the case with amateurs, but she was an artist, after all, so she knew a thing or two about conservation. The top clearly showed the bee insignia of Napoleon and a photo of the bottom indicated three hallmarks. They looked right, but Tommy knew that they were easy to fake, so closer inspection was called for. An in-person inspection.

He was not an expert in French memorabilia by any means, but the scans of the letters were very intriguing. Those would have to be looked at by someone who knew about paper, handwriting and the nuances of Joséphine’s communications. He had a couple of ideas, but they were miles away. Miles. On the Continent. Nothing ventured, though.

The email back to Kram said simply “I’m in. See you soon.”

It was 12:30 a.m., but Kram forwarded it to Clare with a note: “Let’s talk in the morning.”

His phone rang almost immediately.

“Why wait. You’re up. I’m up. Shoot.” Clare always wanted to get to the task at hand, even in all those boring freshman art classes. Get on with it; I’m here to learn was her mantra.

“Just wanted to let you know that Tommy Arp is very interested in your find. He suggested that he and I meet in Denver in about a week. Are you available? Can you get away?”

“Just a second; let me ask Jeremy. Oh, wait, he’s asleep. Yes, of course I can be there.”

“Did I wake you?” Kram was concerned now that he’d interrupt the precious little sleep he imagined Clare was getting with her two shows coming up.

“No, I’m working on a piece right now that’s got my attention. Maybe you can help. Buttons? Who did button art?”

“Hmm. I can’t think of anyone right now. I think there was a guy in South Carolina who was on the Tonight Show. I’ll get back to you with that one,” Kram said, momentarily stumped. “I’ll call you when I hear back from Tommy about a date. Get some sleep.”

Sleep was what she needed, but it was going to be hard to come by now that the mystery of the box was beginning to unfold. She switched off the light over her work table, closed the door behind her and headed into the house. She could hear Jeremy snoring down the hall. She picked up her earbuds and phone and turned on a podcast about the Vienna Secession, one that she had tried to listen to a couple of times before but had found it inexplicably boring. This will put me right to sleep, she thought as she climbed in beside her husband, who didn’t move a muscle. Two minutes later, she was dreaming of buttons.

5…

Her flight from St. Louis was delayed by a huge storm system sweeping across Kansas and western Missouri, leaving behind several areas devastated by tornadoes. By the time it reached St. Louis, though, the storm had lost most of its punch and she was finally able to board her plane three hours late. She’d be getting into Denver in time for dinner at Kram’s house, rather than the lunch they had planned on.

Safely on the ground, the Uber driver dropped her at the end of the long driveway, where Kram and Betsy had walked down to greet her.

“Tommy will be here tomorrow afternoon if the storms don’t affect his flights like they did yours. That will give us a chance to catch up before we get down to business, so to speak,” Kram began as they started the walk to the house. “How’s the button project coming?”

“To tell you the truth, my mind hasn’t quite been on it. I’ve had a hard time focussing. That box!” Clare replied, with a touch of annoyance in her voice. “And get this, I got a call from the estate sales agent a couple of days ago. It seems that he was contacted by someone who said he was Edna’s nephew and wanted to know if everything had been sold and if not, how was it disposed of. The nephew casually mentioned ‘a dirty, old tin box’ that he remembered when he would visit his aunt. The estate agent didn’t give him any details, just that everything that hadn’t sold had gone to a charity shop and that he thought the box had been bought along with some other odds and ends.”

“That curious,” Kram said. “Why did the estate agent have your number? Those sales are usually pretty anonymous.”

“I know. I asked him how he got my name and he said that Maddie had given him my phone number while I was in another part of the house and asked him to call me to ‘encourage’ me to finish looking. I guess she was getting desperate to leave. She is such a scamp! He didn’t call then, obviously, but did write down my number to humor her and when the nephew called, the agent remembered that I was one of the last people to leave, perhaps with the box.”

“I assume the estate agent gave you the nephew’s contact information?” Kram asked.

“Yes, he lives in Boston, but I haven’t tried to get in touch. It sounds a bit fishy, to tell you the truth.”

“I agree, but maybe we can sort it out a bit when we talk to Tommy. For now, let’s get you settled and then have something to eat.”

Kram put Clare’s backpack in the room that she remembered had once been their daughter Anna’s. At first, it seemed strange that he would do that, but then she concluded that perhaps was his way of saying that he and Betsy were, in a sense, welcoming her back to her second home. She had spent so much time with the three of them that it was almost that. A feeling of calm came over her, a feeling she hadn’t had in several days.

A few days earlier, she and Jeremy had gone to Gwen and Ted’s for drinks on their deck and it hadn’t gone especially well. Ted was being his usual arrogantly argumentative self and Jeremy was trying to ignore his endless complaints about the “customers” who ordered five different colors of the same shirt and then sent four back.

“You’d think they could at least narrow it down to two, maybe three, but oh no! ‘Send me six, send me seven. Free returns!’ Don’t they understand we are trying to run a business?” Ted’s voice seemed to gain an octave and a decibel with each sentence of his diatribe.

“Well, you do offer free returns. What do expect your customers to do? You’ve trained them to take advantage of that,” Jeremy suggested.

“But we’ve got a business to run!” He exclaimed again. “We have to make a profit or we can’t offer them free returns. And we can’t make a profit if they keep sending things back. ”

The irony seemed to be lost on Ted. Well, Gwen, too.

“I’m just say…” Jeremy started.

“Oh, I know what you are saying: capitalism stinks and my boss shouldn’t be making billions of dollars a year.” Ted’s voice had gone up another octave.

“If it weren’t for capitalism, I’d be out of job, too,” Jeremy suggested. “Accountants account. And, yes, your boss could pay a little more in taxes.”

Jeremy’s voice hadn’t gone up an octave, but oddly it had gone up a couple of decibels. He never raised his voice. Clare could see a little pink coming to his cheeks, too. That was a bad sign.

Five more minutes of back and forth, now about the tax system and then Ted ranting about the people insisting that delivery trucks be powered exclusively by hydrogen or, better still, nothing at all, and suddenly Clare had a headache.

“Gwen, I’m sorry I’m going to have to excuse myself. I think your frozen daiquiris have gone to my head, like an ice cream brain freeze.”

She stood up and turned to Jeremy. “Why don’t you stay for a bit? It seems like you and Ted have a lot more to talk about.”

But it was clear that she was saying Come home with me before you two get in a fist fight.

“Gwen, Ted, I think I’d better go with Clare. She’s been spending long hours in her studio and she’s exhausted. I think I should go put her to bed. It was a stimulating evening. Let’s do it again soon.”

Before they could react, Clare and Jeremy were heading toward their back door, leaving Gwen and Ted sitting a bit stunned.

The next day, Clare picked bouquet of snowball hydrangeas and a few of her pink hybrid tea roses and walked next door to Gwen’s house to thanked her for her hospitality and apologize for Jeremy’s behavior, even though she knew that Ted had started the whole rancorous discussion, as usual. Gwen’s ‘thank you’ seemed a bit cold, Clare thought. Usually she was oblivious to Ted’s outburst, of which there were many, but maybe last night she was paying attention and decided that Jeremy was not being a gracious guest.

After a few more attempts at pleasantries, Clare thought I’ve got a lot to do today. Let it go. It will sort itself out. And if not, Jeremy won’t be heartbroken if we never spend another evening with Ted.

And then, suddenly, she was back in Denver with her old friends, the calm settling in. The evening and next morning were spent remembering and laughing at some of the times that Kram and/or Betsy had to rescue the girls from themselves. She and Anna always seemed to be drawn to artistic types and everyone knows what they are like.

At two o’clock, Tommy called from the airport and said that he was going to catch a taxi to his hotel and then head to their house. He guessed he’d be there around three, depending on Denver traffic, he said. It was a good guess. Despite the early rush hour, traffic was moving and he walked up the driveway at ten minutes after three.

“Well, I have some news,” he began, chuckling as he set his bags down in Kram’s front room. “I’ve been in touch with Dr. Jeanne-Claude Mourget at the l’Institut Napoléon en France. She apparently had a good laugh when she reviewed the letters. There is no doubt that the letters are fake. The choice of words is all wrong and the phrasing reads like high school French to her. It’s definitely not Josephine’s handwriting. No need to do a test on the paper to find out if it’s genuine. A trip to France, obviously, isn’t called for. Maybe that was what you were hoping for, Kram? Clare? The box, on the other hand…”

“And I’ve got some news, also,” Kram jumped in before Tommy could finish. “Sorry, but I’ve been doing some digging and I discovered something that is very interesting. I found a newspaper clipping from Dayton, Ohio, from 1932. The headline is ‘Dayton Woman And Lover Charged With Fraud In Attempted Letters Scam.’ Clare, it seems Edna’s mom tried to pass the letters off as genuine during the Depression. Her husband had left her a couple of years before, supposedly to try to find work in Chicago. She never heard from him after that and things got really difficult for her. She had been working part time at the University of Dayton library and fell in love with a student who had returned from France after the First World War. He was actually the ‘fiancé’ who supposedly sent the box back to her. Part of what Edna’s mother wrote was true. According to the newspaper account of the arrest that resulted from the attempted fraud, he and his platoon were holed up in a chateau outside Commercy, but they didn’t just drink the brandy and wine they found; they ransacked the place and stole as many of the valuables as they could, the box among those items.”

“So how did the box get to Edna’s mother? Not from the Red Cross, I’m guessing,” Clare asked, puzzled.

“The last few months of the war – the battle at St. Mihiel was in early September, 1918 – were a chaotic time, apparently, and many of the soldiers stuffed as much loot in their duffel bags as they could carry, along with their military gear. Frank Morgan brought the box back with him when he mustered out. He apparently didn’t think it was worth much until he enrolled in the art department at the University and then discovered what it might have been. That’s when he met Edna’s mom and the two of them cooked up a scheme to sell the box and its supposedly valuable contents to a museum in Indianapolis.”

“So the box is genuine, but the letters were created by this Frank Morgan?” Clare was getting more confused.

“According to the newspaper account, Morgan was a skillful forger and had almost everyone fooled. He and Doris, Edna’s mom would have gotten away with it except that he misconjugated the verb manger in one of the letters and it sent up a red flag with the experts at the museum. It was a really, really stupid mistake,” Kram laughed.

“So were they convicted of the attempted fraud? What happened to them?” Clare asked.

“Apparently, before the trial, they were let out on bail and they just disappeared. I didn’t find any further information about Frank Morgan, but I was able to track down Doris, who seems to have reappeared in 1937 when Edna was born in a hospital in Quincy, Illinois. The father’s name was listed as Fred Masters and they gave an address in Hannibal, Missouri.”

“This Fred Masters was Frank Morgan maybe?” Tommy asked.

“Possibly. Probably. Doris gave her name as Masters. It seems likely that they got as far as Hannibal after being let out on bail and decided to settle down there, out of the spotlight. Well, it wasn’t really much of a spotlight. From what I gather, the police in Indianapolis had bigger things on their hands and the museum was willing to let it drop to save the board some embarrassment. I’ll do some more digging in Hannibal records to see if I can find out anything else about their lives there.”

“But we are no closer to finding out why the box ended up in the estate sale.”

“No, but let me take a look at it and I’ll tell you where it came from.” Tommy was finally able to get back to what he had come for.

Clare went to the bedroom and came back carrying a shiny object, a little bigger than the size of a loaf of bread.

“Oh, this is better than I thought,” Tommy said, turning the box over reverently. “You did a nice job of cleaning it just enough. The silver is quite thin, but intact. I don’t see any places where it is worn through. It’s sterling silver, which is right for the period and the use. The gold inside is immaculate. These hallmarks on the bottom quite definitely identify it as having been created by the silversmiths Marguerite and Nitot, who did over a hundred boxes of all sizes for Napoleon. I’ll do a little more research, of course, but I think there’s little doubt that this likely belonged to Napoleon at some point. Now, we’ve got to establish history and provenance.”

“That will be tricky. But maybe we can work back from what we know. Or at least what we think we know,” Kram began. “If we assume that Frank Morgan did bring the piece back from France, I think we need to find out if he really was holed up in a chateau near St. Mihiel. Who owned that chateau at that time and is there any connection with Napoleon? I’ll start there. Tommy, we’ll rely on you to find out as much as you can about the origin of the box and how it may be connected to Napoleon.”

“I wonder if I should give Edna’s nephew a call and see if he knows any more than we do,” Clare mused.

“Go cautiously with that, I’d say,” Tommy suggested. “Do a google search and see if he’s who he says he is. It’s hard to imagine he’d know about the box if he didn’t know Edna, but you need to be sure. Would you be willing to let me take the box back to New York? I’d like to do some tests on it, if I could. There is some wax and tarnish left in a couple of places. That could tell us more about the origin of the box or perhaps where it has been over the last two centuries.”

“Of course you can take it back with you,” Clare agreed. “In fact, I would feel better if it were out of my house right now. For some reason, I have an uneasy feeling about it. And I’ll be very cautious when I talk to Edna’s nephew, assuming that’s who he really is. Listen to me. I sound paranoid, don’t I?”

“Sometimes, paranoia is a good thing,” Kram said, trying to reassure Clare.

It seemed that each of them now had an assignment, so the rest of the evening was spent talking about Clare’s art career, Kram’s “retirement”, and Tommy’s multiple activities back in New York. The conversation lasted late into the evening, until Clare finally said, “All this mental stimulation has left me exhausted. Do you mind if I call it a night? I do have an early flight tomorrow.”

“You get some sleep, my dear. Tommy and I will probably be turning in soon, too. I can’t stay up as late as I used to,” Kram declared, looking at his watch in amazement. It was 12:30.

“Perhaps we can share a ride to the airport. I’ll be leaving fairly early, too,” Tommy said, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

“That would be nice. See you all in the morning. Good night.”

With that, Clare walked down the hall to “her” cozy, old room and after her usual bedtime rituals, she crawled into bed and was asleep in five minutes.

“Tommy, what do you honestly think about this object?” Kram asked, looking at the box. “Has Clare stumbled onto something? Or into something?”

“A little of both, I’d say, but we’ll know better soon. In the meantime, good night my friend. Sleep well.”

Tommy trundled off to bed, as the saying goes, leaving Kram sitting in his usual chair by the fireplace. It had been the spot from which many of his art riddles had been solved. Thefts, forgeries, and frauds leave a trail of clues and the solutions are mostly a matter of assembling the clues, in the right sequence, and seeing where they lead. Kram had tracked down a small Calder stabile, stolen from a private collector, by determining that in the dust left behind (the owner was more of a hoarder than a collector) was an eyelash that was determined not to belong to the owner of the Calder. There were also minute particles of dirt on the plinth where the stabile was displayed. The police had missed that evidence, but Kram had seen it and understood it’s significance. DNA analysis revealed that the eyelash belonged to the collector’s gardener, who was in the FBI’s art crimes database and the stabile was sitting in his apartment bedroom waiting to be picked up by a buyer.

After twenty years and three dozen cases like that, and at Betsy’s urging, Kram had decided to give up looking for missing paintings by Picasso, sculptures by Giacometti, photographs by Muybridge, and artistic detritus by any number of contemporary practitioners. Retirement, and the graduate seminars he taught, suited him.

6…

Clare’s flight back to St.Louis was on time and just under two hours. Rather than taking the Red Line train from Lambert, she decided to hail a taxi, hoping the just-before-noon traffic would be light. Big mistake. There was a major accident at St. Charles Rock Road and I-170 that closed down all lanes of traffic, coming and going. Three hours later, she walked into her kitchen, hot and tired and not expecting Jeremy to be home from work so early. And certainly not expecting Gwen to be sitting at their kitchen table.

“What…,” she started to ask.

“Ted’s gone, Clare,” Jeremy said, with just the faintest of smiles on his face.

“I don’t understand,” Clare tried again.

“I kicked him out,” Gwen said, almost matter of factly. “I’m going to divorce him. I’ve had enough of his nonsense. I tried to call you earlier, but I got your voicemail.”

“My phone died just after I got in the taxi. What a nightmare,” Clare said. “I mean the taxi and the accident, not you getting a divorce.”

Turning to Jeremy with a quizzical look on her face, she said, “What are you doing home so early?”

“Maddy’s in her room. She called me a couple of hours ago. She’s not feeling well. I think she missed you. It was a light day, so I came home.”

At that exact moment, Maddy walked into the room and ran to her mom.

“You’re home, mom! Lindsey and I had a big fight and I think she hates me. What am I going to do?”

Maddy was wrapped around Clare, with her head buried in her shoulder. Clare looked from Jeremy to Gwen and back to Jeremy and mouthed the words “It’s good to be home.”

Gwen stayed for dinner and late into the night, recounting all the incidents leading up to her decision to call an end to her marriage, of which many included uncomfortable evenings with Jeremy and Clare. Lindsey had called Maddy a few minutes before dinner and, in the manner of teenagers, arranged to meet at the mall, all being forgiven. One less mouth to assault with Clare’s cooking, Jeremy thought, though the decision to order out had already been made, to everyone’s unspoken relief.

Two bottles of wine later, Gwen returned home, more than a bit tipsy but even more content with her decision. Jeremy had long since gone to bed, but Clare tried to wake him up.

“It really is good to be home. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

“Mrmpf” was the reply.

“Tomorrow, then. I love you.” Clare knew better than to try to argue with ‘Mrmpf.’

7…

Bright and early the next morning, Clare got a call from the gallery owner organizing one of her upcoming exhibits.

“T minus twelve weeks, Clare. How’s it going?” Sidney believed in pushing her artists, knowing that the word “deadline” was in the vocabulary of very few of them, but “art gets done when it gets done” was the mantra most of them lived by.

“Great, Sid. Just great. No worries.” Clare lied, knowing that Sidney probably knew she was lying. Sidney knew.

“Good to hear. I’ve been sending out teasers to some of my clients and I think you are going to be surprised who shows up. The promise of lots of champagne doesn’t hurt, of course,” Sidney laughed.

She was only half joking. Alcohol lubricates sales, for sure.

“I appreciate what you’ve done for me. That last show really helped my bank account. Jeremy loved it, too.”

“You do such interesting work, Clare, and you are easy to sell. Just wondering. Do you have any photos you could send me of what you will be showing this time? I meant to ask last time we talked.” Sidney was pushing, but she did have publicity to get out into the social media ether.

“I’ll put some things in an email later this week, if that’s okay. I’ve been out of town for a couple of days and I need to catch up with some family stuff. Maddy is being Maddy, you know.” She felt guilty the minute she said it, implying that Maddy was the reason she was focussed on things other than her art. Maddy was innocent this time.

“I understand. I’ve got a kid of my own. Just send what you can soon, okay? Talk again.”

Oh, great, Clare thought. All I’ve got for Sidney is a pile of buttons I haven’t done anything with. I’m cooked.

For the next few hours, though, she actually concentrated on trying to make sense of the pile of buttons, but nothing was coming to her. No inspiration or perspiration. Then it hit her: Napoleon/Josephine. The two of them constructed of buttons. Like that painter who did portraits using vegetables. Giuseppe something. Arcimboldo. Right, that’s the one. I think I’m going to need a few more jars of buttons.

The next day, she took the car and headed to the charity shop next to St. Nicholas. Her friend, Hillary, knew all the other shops in town and which ones might also be likely to have buttons, if she didn’t.

“You know, there’s are a couple of antique stores on Cherokee that might have what you are looking for. Let me give them a call.”

A few brief conversations later, Hillary turned to Clare. “Bingo. The guy at ‘Vintage and Not-So-New’ said he has six three-pound coffee cans full of buttons he’s been trying to get rid of for years. Fifty cents each, if you want them. Struck out with the other shop.”

“Hillary, you are a jewel. I knew you could help,” Clare declared, hugging her friend.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve got a jar of buttons right here, but these will cost you,” Hillary laughed.

“Name your price!”

The traffic getting to and from ‘Vintage and Not-So-New’ was brutal, but Clare came away with enough buttons to complete several portraits, not just of Napoleon and Josephine. Maybe she was on to a new direction for her art. But do I really want to be known as the button lady? I think that could turn into a joke pretty quickly. Maybe not. Just get this show done and we’ll see where it leads.

By the end of the week, she had laid out a rough sketch of what she had in mind, filled it in with some of the buttons and sent it off to Sidney, with a note that said a photo of the completed piece would follow in a few days. Sidney’s reply was “Can’t wait.” Which Clare interpreted, correctly, as “Get a move on!”

Work on the piece went more smoothly and quickly than she had thought it might. Maddy and Jeremy seemed to sense that she was concentrating on something important and refrained from causing a ruckus, unusual for the two of them. Gwen popped in a couple of times, once in tears and once fuming about something Ted had said.

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to kill him,” she began. “Can I borrow one of your knives?”

“Ah, so you want to pin it on me. I get it. Who’d suspect the neighbor?”

“You’re a good friend. I suppose I couldn’t do that to you. Just promise you’ll visit me in prison,” Gwen laughed, the fuming fumed out.

“At least once a week. And I’ll bring snacks.”

“Just a visit will be fine,” Gwen replied, the unspoken “prison will be enough punishment” hanging in the air.

8…

The next Monday morning, as she sat in her studio working on Josephine, one of the pieces she’d be showing at the Sidney Morrison Gallery in Albuquerque in just a few weeks, her phone dinged, indicating that she’d gotten an email. It was from Kram.

“Clare, I got some interesting news from Tommy late last night. He has confirmed that the box belonged to Napoleon. The hallmarks are all authentic. He located receipts for one hundred similar boxes that were used for Napoleon’s food.” Kram summarized the text from Tommy and said, “I’ll forward this to you so you can see the details.”

It seems that Napoleon wasn’t a picky eater, according to what Tommy had been able to uncover, but he knew that his military campaigns would only be successful if this army was well-fed. He offered a large prize for anyone who could develop a method for preserving food beyond the usual methods of drying, smoking, or pickling. Nicolas Appert had been experimenting with a system for filling tins with food, boiling, and then sealing them with wax, and when Napoleon learned of this, he awarded Appert 12,000 French francs and a contract to supply food to the army. Special boxes were created for Napoleon, of course. The Emperor deserved the best.

“By the way, Tommy tested the wax and dirt embedded in the crevices of the box,” the email continued. “The wax was made from the fat of a sperm whale, consistent with the time period, and the particles of dirt imbedded in the wax are from northern France, Indiana, and Missouri. The silver and gold came from mines in western France. The box is absolutely authentic.”

Clare replied to the email: “That phenomenal! Let’s talk in a couple of days. I’m finally immersed right now in this project and afraid I’ll lose my rhythm if I stop.”

“Excellent. Carry on,” was Kram’s reply.

By the end of the week, Clare had completed Josephine and was just about to begin Napoleon, when another email from Kram arrived.

“I sorry to bother you, but I took a quick look at French geography and it showed that there were several possible chateaux in the Commercy area that survived the First World War and might have been the ones from which the box was taken. French property records are incredibly detailed and complete for centuries, so I was able to determine who the owners of the estates had been. I narrowed it down to those that might have a connection to Napoleon and found that Claude Gauchet served as one of Napoleon’s generals. He was part of the corps that was in charge of logistics, especially food. Another link in the chain.”

“You and Tommy are my heroes. I will be getting back to our little mystery in a week or so.”

Napoleon turned out to be rather simple compared to Josephine, so Clare was able to complete it in just a few days. As a bit of a joke, she also did a button portrait of the Duke of Wellington, but when she sent the photos to Sidney, she got a “?” back. Connection lost, apparently.

Good thing I didn’t do a landscape of Waterloo, Clare thought.

With her art show buttoned up, so to speak, Clare got back to the box.

“So it’s real? And it belonged to Napoleon? Cool,” Maddy said when she told her. “Can we sell it and make a million dollars?”

“Well, I’m sure it’s not worth that much, but we need to find out what the laws are about this sort of thing. It may need to be returned to it’s owners in France.”

“Oh, I bet they don’t miss it.” Maddy was trying to think of all the angles. “You bought it fair and square. Can I tell Lindsey?”

“Let’s keep it under our hats for a few more days, okay? Just until I get everything checked out.” Clare knew, though, that Maddy would be on the phone as soon as she was out of the room. There are no secrets between teenage best friends.

9…

The piece of paper Clare had written Edna’s nephew’s name on was buried under a couple dozen sketches of Napoleon and Josephine. She had been thinking for several days whether she should call him. There were lots of questions. Was he really Edna’s nephew was the big one, of course. Could he prove to everyone’s satisfaction that that was the case? If so, would he somehow claim ownership of the box? Had he been in contact with his father about the box? Would the family want it back? What about the original French owners? Should she consult an attorney?

Maybe, Clare thought, the thing to do right now is talk to Kram again. They hadn’t really discussed the ownership question in any detail, being more focused on the authenticity of the object.

“Clare, I’m glad you called,” Kram said cheerily when he answered his phone. “I’ve been thinking about you and our ongoing little problem, if I can call it that.”

“I know. It’s always in the back of my mind, even when I’m doing other things. Now that we know the box, at least, is the real thing, it seems that the next issue to resolve is what to do with it. I imagine that you’ve dealt with ownership issues many times in all the cases you’ve worked on.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Kram began. “It eventually always gets down to who has the legal right to possess the artwork. It’s almost never easy and straightforward. The older a painting or sculpture or object is, the thornier the legal issues. And this one is going to be particularly tough. I’ve been turning it over in my mind a lot and it’s going to be tricky sorting it out.”

“Well, we know who owned the box originally and that it was stolen from them by Edna’s mother’s future husband when he was in France. That much is clear. Right?”

“It would seem so, but since it was been in the possession of Edna’s family for now over a hundred years, they could certainly lay claim to it.” Kram continued his explanation. “However, they apparently didn’t think it was valuable and put it in the estate sale, though perhaps accidentally, where you bought it, so it could also rightfully be considered yours. The legal questions are murky; the moral question of keeping a piece of stolen artwork comes into play, though. That’s the one I think you will have to wrestle with.”

“I think I’ll try to deal with it by calling Richard Morgan. That’s the nephew and see if I can sort some things out with him,” Clare replied, tentatively. “And I’ll heed Tommy’s advice about being cautious. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

That afternoon, after some work on the pieces for her second show, this one in Cincinnati, and a short chat with Gwen about her progress on the divorce, Clare dialed the phone number of Richard Morgan in Boston.

“Morgan and Associates,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “How may I be of assistance?”

“Mr. Morgan, this is Clare Arnold. We don’t know each other, but I’m the one who bought some things at your aunt’s estate sale.”

“Ms. Arnold, so good to hear from you. I was wondering if the agent had indeed given you my number. It has been several weeks,” Morgan began, with what Clare thought was a slight hint of impatience in his voice. “I know everyone is so busy these days. I’m just happy to hear from you. I’d love to know more about how you came to purchase the objects that belonged to my aunt. And call me Richard, please.”

At first, she thought he’d respond by telling him to call her “Clare” but something told her to keep it on a more formal level. Tommy’s advice…

“Well, as the estate agent probably told you, I purchased a carton of odds and ends, and the box you referred to was one of those things. It was pretty dirty, but I’ve cleaned it up somewhat. I’d be interested in knowing what you know of it.”

“As I remember it, it was in rather bad condition when I used to see it at my aunt’s house. I do recall that she told me it had belonged to Napoleon. Just one of those family stories, of course. Every family has them, I know.”

Richard was being coy, Clare could tell. Not giving away all that he knew right off the bat. Nor was she.

“Have you opened the box?” He asked.

She decided to lie.

“No, I haven’t gotten around to that. Like I said, it’s still a bit tarnished and I didn’t want to disturb that. I’m an artist, you see, and I know a bit about conservation. Better leave things as they are until you know exactly what you are dealing with.” In life and in art, Clare thought.

“Good idea. Yes, that’s the right approach. Clare – may I call you Clare? – I’m an antiques dealer here in Boston and I’m actually interested in the box not because it’s a family heirloom, but because I have a client here in the city who collects artifacts that have a connection to Napoleon Bonaparte. His collection is quite extensive, but one of the things that he has not been able to acquire is this particular object. He calls it ‘Napoleon’s lunchbox.’ Funny, I know, but it seems very important to him. Apparently, there is only one other one known to be in existence. You know how collectors are: they must have one of everything.”

While Richard had seemed coy before, this information seemed to tumble out of him. Almost immediately, he returned to his guarded conversational tone.

“Perhaps I’ve said a bit too much.”

Clare decided to play along and asked, “Why do you think my box has anything to do with Napoleon? From what I can tell, it’s probably just a tin box from the ‘20s or ‘30s. When I clean it up, I’ll be able to tell more, obviously.”

“Did you notice a raised area on the lid? Or any hallmarks on the bottom? As an artist, you would have seen those.”

Clare sensed that Richard thought that she was being evasive and was beginning to probe a little more. She was and he was.

“Yes, there was what looked and felt like a bee on the top. Like I say, it’s pretty tarnished. Frankly, I haven’t had the time to investigate it any further.”

“As I recall from my visits with my aunt, the box did have a bee insignia on the top. I’d have to see it in person to be sure, but from what you have told me, I think my client would be very interested in this piece of memorabilia. He’s always anxious to add to his collection. I wonder if you would consider sending it to me so I can verify it’s authenticity? I’d be willing pay for the cost of shipping and give you a deposit against a possible purchase, if my client decides he’d like to acquire the box. Do you do Venmo? I could send, say $10,000, to your account?”

Red flag immediately went up in Clare’s mind. He’s willing to send me $10,000 for something he hasn’t even seen? His client must be rolling in money, she mused.

“Oh, I don’t know, Richard.” It just slipped out. Richard. “That’s very generous of you, but it seems quite a risk on your part. What if it’s not real and I’ve got your money in my account?”

“Clare, I’m willing to take the risk and so is my client.”

“Let me think this through and I’ll get back to you in the next day or so. I need to talk to my husband. You understand.” It was Kram and Tommy she really intended to talk to, of course. Jeremy would be no help. “Send him the box,” he’d say.

“Yes, I understand, but I’d like to conclude this as soon as I can. My client is not a very patient man. If it’s about the money, we can certainly work something out that would be more to your satisfaction.”

“No, what you’ve offered is very generous, like I said. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I’ve decided.”

Clare didn’t want to prolong the conversation, so she quickly said goodbye and hung up. She immediately dialed Kram’s number, hoping that he’d have a suggestion about what to do. She wasn’t disappointed.

“If he’s willing to put $10,000 into your bank account for a object he hasn’t seen, you can be sure there’s more to this story. I wonder what he would say if you offered to bring the box to Boston so he and his client could see it in person with you present? Tell him that you have a couple of friends on the east coast who know a bit about antiques and you’d like bring them along with you. Richard’s client might know who Tommy is, but I doubt he knows about me. You know I’ve always flown under the radar. This is purely a guess, and Tommy might have a different opinion, but I’d imagine that your box might bring upwards of $50,000 at auction. We haven’t talked about value before, so I’m just throwing that out.”

Clare gasped.

“I’d say that’s worth a trip to Boston. Do you think Richard might be suspicious if I offered to do that?”

“Tell him that Jeremy has business in the city and you’ve been meaning to take a vacation; that you want to combine the two things. See if he offers to pay your airline tickets. That will tell you how anxious he is to conclude a deal. I’ll get there on my own, of course, and Tommy’s just an Acela away.”

“I’ll talk to Jeremy tonight and see if he agrees to a trip,” Clare replied. “I know he’s really busy right now, but I think I can talk him into getting away for a couple of days. Especially when he hears what might be the payoff, so to speak. Though, I still haven’t thought through whether it would be right for me to sell the box rather than return it to France. I’m not even sure how I’d do that. You could help with that, right?”

“Oh, certainly if that is what you decide to do. That would be a very generous thing.”

Kram had always been proud of Clare’s innate integrity. There were a couple of incidents in graduate school when she had persuaded some of her classmates that the assignments they were about to turn in were nothing more than obvious plagiarism and that they would be quickly found out. She managed to save them from themselves, though they were less than happy about having to scramble to meet the professors’ deadlines. The decision about disposition of the box was a few steps off, but Kram was sure that Clare would do what felt right to her in the end, whatever that end might be.

10…

“How would you feel about a trip to Boston?” Clare asked when Jeremy returned from work that evening.

“Do you have a new art show there? I’ve kind of lost track of everything you’re doing? Sorry.”

If Jeremy were being honest, he had no idea from day to day what Clare’s art career involved. Every three or four months, they would fly off to Atlanta, Sausalito, or Santa Fe to spend an evening chatting with local art lovers who pretended to understand what Clare was trying to say with her creations. Very rarely did those art lovers have any idea what she was trying to say because Clare had decided long ago that she wasn’t trying to “say” anything. Her art didn’t reflect a political viewpoint or a particular philosophy. She wasn’t advocating for anything or protesting against anything. She didn’t consider herself part of any art movement; in fact, she resisted being categorized when someone from the world of art journalism, or a local journalist assigned to cover her show, asked her if she was a conceptualist or a post-conceptualist, a minimalist or a surrealist, an expressionist or even an impressionist, as if there were any of them still around. She usually answered “yes” to such a question, leaving the writer confused and annoyed. Confused and annoyed is a good description of my audience, she thought. But she was selling more art than she had reasonably expected to do at this stage in her career and she was always happiest in her studio “fiddling” as she called it.

“No, I’m going to see an antiques dealer who has a client who wants to buy that box you worked on. You remember that box?” It had been by now over a month and she was fairly certain he had moved on from thoughts of the box. As he had. The Cardinals were losing consistently, so the world was once again upside down for Jeremy. “I thought you might like to come along and we could make it a mini vacation. We haven’t been to Boston in ages.”

“When is this trip? You know I’ve got a lot going on at the office.” Jeremy the practical one.

“End of the week? Friday, Saturday and Sunday should be just about right. We could fly up on Thursday afternoon. I’ll meet the dealer on Friday and we can relax and see the sights over the weekend. Maybe drive up to Provincetown. Let’s play it by ear,” Clare suggested, throwing things out on the fly. “Oh, and Kram and Tommy are going to go to the dealer with me. You know they’ve established the authenticity of the box, so I want them to be there to guide the discussion if I decide to sell it.”

“Well, I’m game, but it seems like a long way to go to see about selling that box. What are you talking about? Five or six hundred?”

“You might want to sit down. The dealer said that he’d put $10,000 in our bank account as a deposit against whatever price we agree on. Kram thinks it would bring $50,000 at auction.”

“Hokey smokes, Bullwinkle! Are you kidding me?” Jeremy had practically fallen into one of the dining room chairs where they had begun the conversation. Now he was laughing uncontrollably.

“If Maddy had any hope of getting into college, we could use that to pay her tuition. Or move to Tahiti. She’d like that better, I imagine.” Jeremy was making plans already. Silly plans.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Clare suggested.

“Right. I’ll call the airline and get tickets. You book hotels. Boston, here we come.”

11…

“Mr. Morgan, this is Clare Arnold. I’ve been thinking about what you proposed yesterday, and I have a suggestion. After talking it over with my husband, we’d like to come to Boston and meet you and your client in person, if that would be possible. We’ll bring the box with us, of course and you and he can examine it and see if it is something he would be interested in. How would Friday be?”

Clare had spent a somewhat sleepless night, trying to decide what the best approach would be going forward. Take the lead, she concluded. Set the terms at the outset, as best you can.

It caught Morgan off guard. He was not used to being dictated to, even in the tiny way Clare was doing.

“I, uh, I think that would be fine. I’ll need to talk to my client and be sure that he’s available. May I call you back later today?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be here all day. I’ll look forward to your call.”

Well, that went better than I expected, Clare thought. He must really want this box… Napoleon’s lunchbox, he called it? Perfect.

It took Richard Morgan less than an hour to get back to Clare. “Yes, Friday would be fine. Let’s plan to meet at my client’s house. I’ll send you the address later in the week. He’s a very private man, so please don’t tell anyone about our discussions.”

“I’d like to bring a couple of my good friends with me, if that’s alright. They have been able to establish the authenticity of the box and I’m sure they will add much to our discussions. They are not in the antiques trade; they are both academics who study art.”

“That puts a bit of a different slant on this. As I said, my client is a very private person and I’m not sure he’d happy with additional people being privy to the details of our negotiations. I’ll have to talk to him about that. I wish you had mentioned this to me earlier.” Richard was clearly annoyed by this last minute information.

“I understand. It’s just that I’d feel more comfortable with them there. I’m sure you understand. And they can provide an extra set of assurances about the origin of the box. I’m sure your client would appreciate that.” Clare had clearly succeeded in gaining the upper hand.

“Indeed, but as I said, I’ll need to confirm this with him. I’ll be in touch soon.”

Only a few minutes passed before Clare’s phone rang. It was Richard.

“My client would like to know the names of your friends. He wishes to check them out, as it were, before he welcomes you and them into his home.”

“I don’t think that’s a problem,” Clare said, wondering if it would be a problem. “Dr. Kramer Ibbotson is an emeritus professor of art history at the University of Denver, and Dr. Thomas Arp teaches at NYU and is an expert in antique silver. You’ll find their credentials are impeccable.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Still… We’ll speak again.” Richard ended the conversation rather abruptly, Clare thought. She wondered if she’d hear from him again. If not, she and Jeremy would have a nice weekend in Boston and the Cape. September was a beautiful time of the year to be in New England.

12…

Direct flights from St.Louis normally take a little over four hours. Clare and Jeremy’s took eight, being diverted first to Nashville and then to Philadelphia by the remnants of an early season hurricane heading up through the middle of the country. The storm itself had died out before it caused any damage to the Gulf states, but sent lots of water northward and spawned tornadoes and floods. Arriving at 9:30, rather than late afternoon as they had planned, put a damper on the beginning of their trip.

“We’ve still got the morning and early afternoon to explore tomorrow. What time are you meeting this guy – Morgan and his guy – you don’t know his name, right?”

“No, we don’t. Kram and Tommy have been trying to find out who it might be. They’ve come up with some possible names, but most of them are fairly well-known in the antiques and art world, so it must be someone entirely different. Richard said his client is a very private person. He emphasized that several times. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow. You don’t mind not going with us, do you?”

“Well, I didn’t mention it earlier,” Jeremy began, “but I discovered that the Cards are playing Boston at Fenway tomorrow and I was thinking of going to the game, if that’s okay? I probably won’t stay for the whole thing, considering how they are playing right now, but you know I’ve never been to Fenway.”

Clare’s first reaction was a bit of annoyance that Jeremy had already made other plans even though he wasn’t invited to go with her to the meeting with Kram and Tommy and the others, but annoyance quickly turned to relief.

“No, that’s really nice that you found out. That will be fun for you. We’re meeting at five. What time’s your game?”

“Four. Kind of an odd time for a game to start, but apparently there’s a Bruins game later that evening, so they want fans to be able to do both.” Jeremy could tell that Clare had no idea who the Bruins were, so that information was superfluous. “Fenway’s right across the street from where we are staying. Good choice.”

When Clare made the hotel reservations, she had no idea that they would be within spitting distance of one of baseball’s most hallowed grounds. She and Kram and Tommy were meeting Richard Morgan at a residence on Queensbury Street, the address having been sent Thursday morning. Everything was close by. No need for a lot of Ubering around.

The sandwiches they had grabbed at the airport in Philadelphia were all they had had to eat all day, since airlines had stopped serving anything other than peanuts on most of the flights and even those were restricted because of the allergies so many people seemed to have these days. When they finally got to the hotel, they were directed to a little diner a block away that stayed open until very late at night when the Red Sox were in town. To their surprise, the clam chowder at this unprepossessing place was spectacular. A hand-painted sign behind the counter read “Open since 1919. We still miss the Babe.”

The next morning, when Clare woke up, Jeremy was gone. He was an early riser and was already downstairs at the breakfast buffet. She had learned over the years that whatever hotel they were staying in had to have a full breakfast available, not just rolls and coffee. Jeremy needed protein and carbohydrates to get his day started.

She picked up her phone and texted him. “How’s the breakfast?”

“Excellent,” was his reply. “They serve beans, just like that cruise we were on in England.”

“Baked, I’ll bet.”

“Right you are.”

By the time he got back to the room, Clare had showered and dressed and was ready for a morning of exploring Boston. Though Jeremy was not a big museum guy (“I see art everyday at home; why do I need to look at it anywhere else?” he once said), they decided to walk over to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. As they walked in the front door, just after eleven thirty, she got a text from Kram.

“Just landed. Headed to the hotel. Be in touch.”

A few minutes later, another text from Kram: “Tommy says he will meet us at the hotel at 4.”

Everyone was nearly in place for their meeting with Morgan and his mysterious client.

A half hour touring the museum was about as much as Jeremy could take, so after lunch in the museum café, he was ready to head back to the hotel. Clare’s thoughts weren’t on the artwork in the Gardner either, so she was happy to go. She wanted the time to mentally prepare for the rest of the evening, which was sure to be interesting. She had not decided what she would do if she were offered an extraordinary amount of money for an object she had picked up at an estate sale for next to nothing. That wasn’t even why she bought the box of odds and ends; it was the buttons.

At three o’clock, Jeremy put on his Cardinal’s baseball hat and started for the door. She hadn’t even seen him pack it! He knew before they left St.Louis he was going to the game! If she weren’t preoccupied, she might have been a bit mad at him, but she just laughed it off.

“Have a great time at the game. I’ll see you later,” she said, cheerily.

“Love you,” he said, hugging her somewhat sheepishly, she thought. “Thanks for letting me go. Good luck with the box.”

At precisely four o’clock, she got a text from Tommy. “Downstairs with Kram. I’ve got it with me.”

Clare chuckled. She couldn’t imagine that he’d forget and leave the box back in Manhattan, but it was possible. What a trip this would have been! she thought.

The lobby was empty except for her two friends and colleagues in the enterprise they were about to embark upon.

“I have to admit that I feel like I’m coming into this meeting very unprepared,” Clare began.

“I’m not sure any of us knows what to expect, except that we are dealing with someone who doesn’t want to be known,” Kram replied. “The address that you sent me yesterday is listed as a vacant building by the City of Boston’s Planning Department. In fact, it has been listed that way since early 1991. But this is a coincidence I didn’t have time to check into: at the time, it was owned by someone named Morgan, the same last name as Edna’s nephew. If there is a connection, it would be an interesting one, to say the least.”

“Oh, that’s just too much for me to believe,” Clare laughed. “There must be thousands of people in the country named Morgan.”

“I’m sure Clare’s right. Just a coincidence,” Tommy ventured. “So, what are you leaning to as far as selling the box, Clare? Do we need to think about a plan to get us through the evening without embarrassing ourselves?”

“Well, you two are there to verify the box is authentic; that it belonged to Napoleon. If Morgan or his client wants to dispute that, but offer to buy it anyway, then that ends the discussion. It will be evident that they are trying to get something for nothing. From there, I think I’m just going to have to rely on my gut. If selling it to this person seems like the right thing to do, I think I’ll know it. If not, tomorrow is another day. God, I can’t believe I just said that!”

“Sometimes, clichés are the only sensible responses,” Kram laughed. “We will support you in whatever decision you make. I know it will be the right one.”

“I agree. Not just about the clichés. Let your gut be your guide,” Tommy said, concurring with the plan and looking at his watch. “I think we should head to our destination and see if it’s really an abandoned building. Wouldn’t that be a joke on us!”

13…

The walk to the address Clare had been given took them fifteen minutes. As they left the hotel, they could hear cheering from the baseball stadium.

“That sounds like Boston is winning,” Tommy ventured. “They are having a good year, I understand from my son, who is a Yankees fan and hates the Red Sox.”

“Jeremy’s going to be devastated if his Cardinals lose, though just getting to go to a game here was a big deal. For him. I’ll hear all about it later, I’m sure.”

Clare was very forgiving of Jeremy’s lack of interest in the things she was interested in. In some ways, it made it easier to concentrate on her art and garden. He had his loves, she had hers. He was supportive when she needed him to be and she tried to do the same. She was actually glad he didn’t feel the need to include her in his sports obsession. She couldn’t imagine sitting in the cold watching a football game or baking in the sun, playing a round of gold. What was the point? None, she finally concluded and maybe that was the point. They were just experiences and didn’t have to have a point.

When they arrived at the address n Queensbury Street, they could tell that the building was clearly occupied. In fact, it presented an extraordinarily fastidious, affluent face to the world. How could it be listed as vacant? Clearly the owner had some friends somewhere helping him remain anonymous for some reason.

Set back a good fifty feet behind an eight-foot tall, ornate iron fence rose the facade of a Richardsonian Romanesque mansion, surrounded on the sides by lush gardens. Clare, Kram and Tommy looked at each other in bewilderment. It was not at all what they were expecting, but maybe they hadn’t actually thought about what to expect in any detail.

“How do you remain a very private person when you live in the middle of Boston in a house like this?” Clare asked, echoing what they were all thinking. “It’s obviously a very high-income area, so maybe the neighbors are just as private.”

“I imagine that’s true. Wealthy folks tend to stay to themselves except when they want to present a certain face to the world. Well, old money, at least. The newly wealthy, I won’t name names, seem to want to flaunt it.” Kram shook his head in what to Clare seemed to be a mixture of sadness and disgust.

“Shall we open the gate and see who the master of the house is, my friends?” Tommy suggested.

When they reached the top step of the small veranda, the door opened and they were greeted by Richard Morgan. He was not smiling.

“We are disappointed that this has turned into a rather larger gathering than we originally hoped for, but we will make the best of it.”

We

In their previous conversations, Morgan had never used the word ‘we.’ He had always just spoken about his ‘client’ and himself. Clare glanced at Kram with a questioning look. What could this mean, she wondered?

“Well, do come in and we’ll sort it out,” Morgan said, with a wave. “We will talk in the library, just on the right.”

The library was a large, misnamed room because there were almost no books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves that covered the walls. On those shelves were all sorts of military memorabilia, autographed photos of military leaders and equipment, and, yes, a few books about military matters. Dotted around the room were poles sporting flags of the US military and of foreign countries. On the shelves on one wall were, it seemed the owner’s most prized possessions: artifacts of Napoleon Bonaparte. A bust of the Emperor by Antonio Canova took center stage, with a discrete spotlight trained on it. On one shelf, a tricorn hat sat next to a sash that was often seen in paintings of the general. There were coins scattered randomly, Clare thought, on the shelves, along with a set of silver bowls that might have been used by him. There were paintings and sculptures taking up every square inch of the wall and shelf space. It was an amazing collection, but the overall impression it gave to Clare was of someone who didn’t so much collect Napoleon as accumulate Napoleon. And it was evident that the owner had little interest in letting others see what he had acquired.

“I see that you are admiring my collection,” a voice behind them said, barely above a whisper. “He was the greatest general and leader of a nation in human history. He was badly treated by the English, but he rose above it every day of his life, until the end, sadly.”

“Ms. Arnold and gentlemen, let me introduce you to my uncle, Franklin Morgan,” Richard Morgan began, turning to a small figure, whom Clare judged to be at least ninety-five. Perhaps more. He couldn’t have been more than 5’5”, the same size as the object of his collecting obsession. But despite his evident age, he stood completely upright, as if he were at attention. He had the bearing of someone who had spent his life in the military. Perhaps it had been decades of osmosis, absorbing the trappings of that existence that surrounded him.

Clare managed not to gasp at the disclosure of the relationship between the two men, but it was all she could do not to. The first words out of her mouth were, though, “You’re Edna’s brother?”

“That is correct. My dear sister chose to remain in the midwest during her unfortunate marriage, while I made my life here in New England. This has been my home for seventy-five years, but I have hardly ventured out since the death of my wife in 1991,” Morgan began. “I have been fortunate to have the solicitude of my extraordinary nephew who has assisted me with my business dealings as well as my interest in acquiring the artifacts that once belonged to Monsieur Bonaparte.”

“You do have an extraordinary collection, Mr. Morgan,” Kram jumped in. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Kramer Ibbotson, retired. I once endeavored to instill an appreciation of art and history in uninterested undergraduates at the University of Denver.”

“Dr. Ibbotson, I have taken the liberty of doing some research into your background. You understand that I don’t invite just anyone into my home. This morning, I read your paper on the iconography of William Blake’s The Good and Evil Angels. While I don’t agree with all of your conclusions, I think you covered the subject with admirable resourcefulness.”

Turning to Tommy, Morgan continued, “And you must be Dr. Thomas Arp, the renowned expert in European and Southeast Asian silver. It is an honor to meet you, also. Your appearances on The Antiques Roadshow have been a delight.”

“And Ms. Arnold! We meet at last! Well, you are making quite a name for yourself in the art world itself. Remind me before we conclude our discussions to procure a business card from you. While I don’t travel these days, Richard is empowered to scour the art shows for things I might add to my other collections. I’m sure he’ll join you at one in the future.”

With the introductions out of the way, Franklin sat down behind a large, walnut desk that Kram judged to certainly be from the one of Napoleon’s residences. When he was comfortable, he gestured for the others to sit also, except Richard, who took up a position behind and to one side of his uncle. It was clear that the business of the evening had begun.

Morgan’s age, appearance and courtly demeanor had momentarily thrown Clare, Kram, and Tommy off balance. They hadn’t quite known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this. Clare recovered quickly.

“Mr. Morgan…”

“Oh, please, do call me Franklin. I feel we are on a first name basis already,” Morgan interrupted. “And I’ll call you Clare.” It was not a question, but a statement of intent.

Clare hesitated just a beat. “Franklin, thank you for inviting us into your home. I apologize for there being more of us than you might have been comfortable with, but I felt my friends could add their expertise to our discussion.”

“And provide some security? Of course. All is well.” Morgan waived off Clare’s apology, though it was evident that he would have been happier if it had been just her sitting in front of his desk. “Now, shall we get to the matter at hand. I see that Dr. Arp has a container that must be transporting something of interest to me. May I see it, please?”

Tommy leaned over to the desk and placed a metal case, like ones used to transport expensive camera equipment, in front of Morgan. He clicked open the latches and withdrew an object wrapped in a velvet, tarnish-inhibiting cloth. He had gone all out. Clare was impressed. Morgan seemed to be slightly less so.

“Please unwrap it, Dr. Arp.” Again, Morgan’s tone seemed to be a command, not a request.

Without a word, Tommy pulled the cloth away to revealed the shiny box, still encrusted with some of the tarnish and a bit of the centuries-old grim. It had been cleaned just enough.

“Magnificent!”

Morgan stared at the box with delight and… desire. He momentarily tried to hide his evident eagerness to pick up the box and cradle it in his arms, but instead he turned to Clare and asked, “May I examine it?”

“Yes, of course. That’s why we are here,” she replied.

“Richard, my gloves.”

From a drawer in the desk, Richard produced gloves that looked at first like an ordinary pair of disposables used to handle food or anything the least bit undesirable you might risk getting on your hands. On a second look, it was clear that they were made of the thinest leather imaginable, sized exactly for Franklin Morgan’s small hands. These gloves were evidently not meant to be disposed of.

When he had put them on, with help from Richard, Morgan reverently picked up the silver box and regarded it with admiration. He rubbed his fingers lovingly over the bee emblem on the top and turned it over to look at the hallmarks on the bottom. Gently, he removed the lid and stared into the gold interior. Replacing the lid and taking a last look, he handed it to Richard, who in the mean time had put on an ordinary pair of disposable gloves.

“Your opinion?”

Much as his uncle had done, Richard turned the box over and over, looking at it from various angles.

“The insignia is correct and the hallmarks are right,” he mused.

Turning to Clare and the others, he said, “I assume you have satisfied yourselves that this is authentic?”

Kram stepped in.

“Dr. Arp has verified that the silver and gold came from France and the detritus still on the box was tested for its origins, also. The wax is from France and the grime is from Indiana and Missouri, places your mother and sister lived. I have been able to trace the box back to the Gauchet family in France. We also believe that we know how it came to be in your sister’s estate sale. We have brought along a report on the provenance of the box.”

“Excellent. Both Richard and I are satisfied that this is indeed one of the last such containers Napoleon carried with him on his military campaigns. What you have discovered, Clare, is of inestimable importance and I salute you for that. However, Richard tells me that our attorneys say that the legal ownership of the box, though purchased by you unawares in an estate sale, remains with the Morgan family.”

Clare looked from Franklin to Richard to Tommy and then to Kram.

“I see,” she said. “Well, that throws a new light on things, doesn’t it?”

Once again, Kram interjected. “Well, I’m not so sure it’s quite that simple. There are numerous instances in which the ownership of a historical artifact has been decided in the opposite way. I imagine that if this were to go to court, the wrangling could go on for quite some time.”

“Indeed.” Addressing Clare now, Morgan said, “Which is why I’m willing to forego that unpleasantness. Ms. Arnold…”

The discussion had now turned formal again and become a negotiation.

“Ms. Arnold, I’m willing to purchase this box from you for a generous price, if we can agree on that. Are you willing to accommodate my desire to own what had once long been in my family and, of course, that of the Emperor?” Morgan continued. “Before you answer, you should know that I’ve gotten an estimate of the auction value of such an important piece of history and I’m prepared to offer you $500,000, which can be in your bank account before you and your friends leave this room.”

He let the offer sink in for a few seconds and then he added, “You understand, I’m also fully prepared to challenge your ownership in court, if need be, which I’m confident will result in my acquisition of the box with an ultimately much smaller cost to me.”

If it sounded like a threat, Clare was pretty sure it was a threat, albeit one delivered in a most gentlemanly manner.

“Now look here, Morgan…” Tommy had been sitting quietly by, but the implication of a legal wrangle made him angry.

“Wait, Tommy,” Clare jumped in, deciding to try to move the discussion back to a somewhat friendlier place. “Franklin,” she began, deliberately using his first name, “your offer is very generous. I’m overwhelmed. I could never have imagined that this piece of metal that I almost put in my thrift store box when I got home from the estate sale would have any value at all.” She laughed, knowing early on that it was something of real interest, at least. Even Jeremy was intrigued by it. She hoped that her laugh would throw both the Morgans off just a bit.

“I’m glad you are amused. Does that mean that you are entertaining my offer?” Morgan’s tone was slightly less menacing, but still had an edge that showed he had made his position quite clear: Take my money or I will take your box anyway and make you pay for the pleasure of giving it to me.

“Well, yes,” Clare replied. “How could I not? I know you are anxious to conclude this, but I really feel that I need to talk to my husband first. And confer with my friends. I’m sure you understand. Could you see your way clear to giving me until tomorrow for my answer?”

Morgan was not used to being put off. He looked at Richard, annoyance clear on this face.

“If I increased my offer, would that make a difference? Say an additional ten percent? Five hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a great deal of money, to you, I’m sure.”

It was one of those statements that instantly separates someone who has lots and lots of money from someone who does not. Clare tried very hard not to be offended. She had come to understand the dynamics of the situation very quickly. The Morgans were being very subtly, well, maybe not so subtly, menacing and domineering. She stood her ground.

“Franklin, as I said, your offer is much more than I could have imagined, but I do need just a bit of time to discuss it with my husband. It affects him and my daughter Maddy as much as it does me.” She hadn’t mentioned Maddy. She instantly regretted it.

“Oh, you have a daughter. She must be a baby. You look too young to have one older than that.” Franklin had returned to being solicitous, feeling that might be the path to a conclusion of the negotiations.

Clare ignored his attempt at a compliment and said, “She’s ready for college, so selling you the box would provide for her future, but as I said, I need until tomorrow to give you my answer. Can you give me that much time?”

The Morgans looked at each other and it was clear that Richard wanted it settled then and there, but Franklin appeared to be hesitating, perhaps swayed by Clare’s insistence on discussing it with Jeremy.

“Clare…”

Back to being familiar.

“… I’m an old man, as you can well see. I do not have much time left. I’m not ill but the odds are against me. I need to take my pleasures when and as quickly as I can. Owning another item that was part of the world of the great man himself would give me intense enjoyment. It might be the last part of his legacy that I will every possess. Even one more day without it will be agony, now that I have seen it and touched it. But I understand your need to consult with your family. I do that every day with mine.”

He turned to Richard. “Shall we give her until tomorrow?”

It was clear that Richard hardly ever said ‘no’ to his uncle, so he merely nodded.

“Fine,” Franklin said. “We will allow you some time for a decision. I will expect it by 3:00 tomorrow afternoon. Good evening.”

And with that, he stood up from behind the desk, with Richard’s help and walked to the door, not looking back or acknowledging his guests further.

“I’ll show you to the door,” Richard said. “We’ll expect to hear from you by 3:00. Please don’t delay. My uncle would be annoyed.”

14…

“Well, that was interesting,” Tommy said.

“Oh, more so than you might imagine,” Kram replied. “I’m going to make a few phone calls when we get back to the hotel. In the meantime, Clare, I’d suggest that tomorrow morning, you call Richard and tell him that you will meet him and his uncle at 3:00 to hand over the box.”

Clare was stunned. She had thought that Kram, like Tommy earlier, would have been offended by the rather highhanded treatment that the three of them had endured, especially the implied threat of legal action, law suits, and loss of the box in the end.

“If I’m right,” he continued, “you’ll get to keep the box and possibly something quite substantial in addition. I’ll know more in the morning. Now, let’s have a nice dinner at an expensive Boston beanery. Clare, call Jeremy and tell him to meet us at O’Callahan’s Public House in an hour. I imagine the baseball game will be over by then and we can either celebrate with him or we can console him for his team’s loss.”

The dinner was expensive, as was the wine. Tommy, it turned out, was something of a wine connoisseur. Three very pricey bottles of red and two whites went on his part of the ticket. Clare got off easy; Jeremy was a beer-drinker. Budweiser, of course, but the restaurant only served local craft beers, so he had to experiment.

“Not bad, but I’d never pay $12.00 for a glass of beer back home,” he groused. After his third.

“I know it’s early, but I need to sleep,” Clare finally announced, feeling the affects of the wine. “Jeremy and I will catch a cab. Kram, I’ll listen for your call in the morning. My friends, thank you for your support and encouragement this evening. I imagine tomorrow will be exciting.”

Kram just smiled and said goodnight. Tommy stood up and hugged Clare. “You handled the Morgans expertly. Kram was right about you. Until tomorrow.”

As they walked to the taxi, Clare wondered what it was that Kram had told Tommy about her, beyond what he might have picked up in their time together in the last few weeks. She had always thought of herself, when she thought of herself, as merely an artist, not a starving one by any means, but not in the top ranks of contemporary notice. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to be there, anyway. She’d be expected to do more than she wanted to do, be more than she was. She was satisfied with her twice-a-year shows for Sidney, her studio, her family, her life. It was enough. Kram had always been her cheerleader and saw something in her that she perhaps didn’t always see: determination. Maybe that was all he implied.

When she and Jeremy got back to the hotel, they both collapsed onto the bed. It was all they could do to get up again, take off their clothes, brush their teeth and crawl under the covers. Within minutes, they were sound asleep.

At nine o’clock the next morning, Clare’s phone rang. Somewhat groggily, she picked up. It was Kram.

“Clare, can you meet Tommy and me downstairs in half an hour? We have to discuss plans for the day.”

“Uh, sure, I think. You woke me up.”

“Sorry. I was afraid of that. Anyway, 9:30 or so? Give or take?” He was trying to be gentle, given what he imagined Clare’s head must have felt like. She had done her best to help with the wine.

After a quick shower and application of a minimal amount of makeup, the only amount she ever wore, actually, Clare stumbled to the elevator and rode it down to the lobby of the hotel. In a corner of the restaurant attached to the hotel she found Kram and Tommy, talking very seriously it seemed to her.

“Clare, I’m afraid that we have stumbled into something more than just the ownership or sale of an artifact belonging to Napoleon,” Kram began. “Last evening, before we met for dinner, I called one of my friends at the FBI Art Crimes Division. I had seen something in Franklin Morgan’s library that precipitated my call.”

Clare was stunned. “The FBI? What…?”

“As you know, we’re sitting in the city where one of the most notorious art thefts in history took place. One that has never been solved. Until now, I believe.” Kram was looking intently from Clare to Tommy. “You may not have noticed when we were shown into the library a group of flags on standards, with military insignias. On the top of one of the French standards was a silver eagle finial, the symbol of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard. It was one of the items stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in 1990.”

Clare stared in disbelief. “You are kidding. No, I can see you aren’t.”

Kram continued. “I also noticed, among the artwork, nearly hidden, was a small drawing that showed a battle scene. I’m certain it is the one stolen from the Museum of Fine Arts in Budapest. It was never recovered. I believe, and my friend at the FBI also believes, that Franklin Morgan has at least one, and maybe more, stolen pieces of art from the Gardner heist, as it’s known. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence that he seems to have disappeared in 1991. Maybe it was as he said because of the death of his wife. The FBI has had him in its sights for some time, but never able to directly connect him. Until now. This afternoon, when you go to hand over Napoleon’s lunchbox, you are going to be accompanied by agents with a search warrant, if you agree.”

“Clare,” Tommy began, “neither Kram nor I believe there is any danger, if that’s what you are thinking, but it would be good to get Jeremy down here to talk this through. That is if you are willing to do this. The only danger might be if you decide not to do it. Who knows what the Morgans might decide to do then.”

“Tommy’s right. It seems like the choice is to let the FBI do it’s job, recover the stolen artwork, and arrest the Morgans, or sell them the box. I don’t think Franklin would be happy being turned down,” Kram reiterated.

Picking up her phone, Clare texted Jeremy: “Put on your pants and get down here right now.”

Her phone pinged: “What’s the hurry? The breakfast buffet was good but not that good. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

“Okay, what do I need to do?” Clare had quickly decided that the only course of action that made sense was to go with Kram’s suggestion. She could also tell that plans had already been put in place, so events might move along with or without her. She instinctively knew she wanted to see them through.

“After we talk to Jeremy and explain the situation, if he agrees, you’ll call Richard Morgan and tell him you have decided to sell the box to his uncle. Tell him you’ll come to his house at 3:00, with just your husband this time. As soon as you are met at the door, the FBI agents will come up the steps, serve the warrant and take it from there. Just so it looks realistic, you’ll carry the camera case we had last night, but the box won’t be in it. There will be no need for that. Tommy and I will guard it here at the hotel until you get back.”

“It can’t be as simple as that, can it?” Clare was a bit skeptical. “Surely, that place has a security system with cameras and sensors and things.”

Kram shook his head and laughed. “You’d think, wouldn’t you, with what may be some of the most valuable art work in the world inside, but Franklin Morgan has had decades to create his anonymity, in plain sight, as it were. Richard’s front as an antiques dealer has been the perfect cover, so to speak. They have had help, no doubt, but they believe they are absolutely safe. They have been… until this afternoon.”

15…

At 3:00, Clare and Jeremy walked through the ornate, wrought-iron gate to Franklin Morgan’s house, carrying the case that did not in fact contain Napoleon’s lunchbox. As soon as the door opened, six FBI agents appeared behind them, presenting Richard Morgan with a warrant to search the premises. The search discovered much, but not all of the artwork stolen from the Gardner Museum, as well as artifacts and paintings stolen from other museums around the world.

A few months later, as Clare and Jeremy were sitting in their front room, Jeremy watching a basketball game and Maddy happily creating inane content for TikTok, Clare’s phone rang. It was Kram.

“I just thought you should know that the recovery of the stolen artwork has come with a substantial reward.” Kram began. “It’s not the number that Morgan was willing to pay, but it’s a healthy sum.”

“Whatever it is, I’m going to share it with you and Tommy. You did all of the hard work. I just bought an old box at an estate sale.” Clare looked up at the object sitting on their mantle, shining in the glare of the tv.

“No need for that. I got my reward with the recovery of the stolen art work. Have you decided what you are going to do with the box now? I know there are legitimate collectors who would love to own it, given its new fame.”

“Yes, I have,” Clare replied. “I know what I’m going to do.”

16…

“Maddy, your dad and I are going to be taking a short trip next week and we’d like to know if you want to go with us.”

“Oh, mom, this isn’t going to be another ‘family’ things is it? The last time, we ended up spending two days at Disneyland. That’s for little kids!” Maddy had not enjoyed being mauled by Minnie Mouse and made to wear a fake pirate’s hat and eyepatch. She accidentally sent one of the photos of the experience to Lindsey, who wasn’t letting her live that down.

“Well, if that’s the way you feel, I guess your dad and I will just enjoy Paris on our own.”

“Wait. Paris? Like in France? For real?”

“Exactly like in France,” Clare could hardly contain her giggles. “You know that old box you thought we could sell for a million dollars, well the descendants of the family who originally owned it have invited us to come to visit them. I’m going to give them back Napoleon’s lunchbox.”

“And we’ll get a million dollars?” Maddy was already mentally picking out her spring wardrobe.

“No, sweetie, but this will be even better.”