The Treasures

The Letter

Bertie placed her mail on the kitchen counter, glancing at bills, advertisements for Chinese food restaurants, and nail salons, and that’s when she noticed a small handwritten package addressed to Ms Bertilla Hart sitting on her stoop. She opened it curiously and read:

Dear Bertilla,

What did the caveman say to the Smilodon? Sorry your friends are all dead.

I am sorry that I am gone and you are here. It’s tough getting old, which is why I was glad to have a young friend like you. I have left a puzzle for you if you’re quick:

It isn’t shiny anymore with clods of dirt upon its door.

When once it kept this house quite warm,

Today it holds a precious charm.

What is it? A better question yet - where is it?

I love you my darling girl. Keep this journal with you for all the adventures in your life, and if there’s any way to enjoy this journey from where I am, I am here with you.

Yours,

Jean Marie

Bertie loved to get handwritten letters, but this message was not expected or desired. For as long as she could remember, Bertie’s childhood neighbor, Jean Marie, had been one of her more prolific correspondents in the age of Emojis and two-word text messages. Her letters were designed like a mini lesson. Each started with a joke, peeked with a riddle, and ended with a quote or question to consider.

Bertie opened the package and pulled out a lovely black Moleskine journal with a sticky note attached. The note read: “Call Tom Bentley, my estate lawyer. Expecting your call.”

Jean Marie lived in a sweet, historic neighborhood with two and three-story stucco homes adorned with English garden terraces framing playgrounds and discarded baseball gloves. Each property was home to mature sycamore, maple, and oak trees, littering the sidewalks with gumballs, helicopters, and canvas-like leaves.

Jean Marie’s house was a ruin of its former self. Vines had slowly laid siege to the side porch with one daring greenling forcing its way into the roof. The exterior paint was chipped and the stucco facade cracked at the foundation. The stone side wall looked precariously placed, leaning like a bully squeezing out the runt. Yet, there were the little smiling ceramic gnomes lining the sidewalk. Wild onion grew in the untouched lawn and eroding steps led to the entrance where Mr. Bentley was waiting with the cracked screen door open.

As she entered the foyer, Bertie still felt the warmth of times past. Those middle school afternoons spent solving an adolescent girl’s social dilemmas over a plate of cookies was immeasurable. Bertie’s mother worked late, and Bertie needed a friend.

Mr. Bentley ushered her in to sit. “You have brought Ms. Menough’s letter with you? Good. You will need it.”

He continued. “Ms. Menough had a long battle with cancer. She made provisions early on in her diagnosis so that she was ready. What I am about to give you is her explicit instructions,” Mr. Bentley paused, contemplating. “however, if you should have any questions, please do not hesitate to call my office.”

His statement complete, he handed her a slip of paper, nodded his head, and left her to whatever Jean Marie had planned for her last charade.

Bertie was stunned and she could feel tears coming. The yellowed newspaper clipping opened to an advertisement for .25 cent buttered ham and an article circled lightly in pencil:

Father O’Reilly’s Treasure - A 100 Year Recap

October 5, 1965

A local Kansas City legend’s missing treasure gains new ground this week when Father James O’Reilly’s notebook was found by a local woman. Ms. Jean Menough purchased a box of books at an estate sale Thursday afternoon only to find that one of the books was Father O’Reilly’s journal. Father O’Reilly is considered to be one of Kansas City’s founding Catholic priests, helping the many Irish Catholic immigrants who came to the region in the late 1800s. When the Civil War came to Westport, many of Father O’Reilly’s parishioners asked him to care for their most prized possessions. In the mayhem of the days that followed, Father O’Reilly was so concerned that he would lose his parishioners’ most valued possessions that he buried the treasure throughout the city. Post- war, a distraught O’Reilly could be seen always with a shovel, never recovering all the items that were given to him. Ms. Menough looks forward to her own treasure by reading her new purchases.

Bertie smiled. Only Jean Marie would find a treasure like that at an estate sale. She missed her already.

The article felt like a moment in time, but what was she supposed to understand with it? Bertie remembered the lawyer’s instructions to reread the letter. She scanned the words with a cry deep in her throat. When once it kept this house quite warm…

Bertie remembered stories her mother used to tell her about playing in the old coal shoot like it was her own personal playground. Could Jean Marie also have one? She hopped up and ran down to the basement, finding the light switch in the old stone foundation walls. The coal trap was made of cast iron and was hard to open. It eventually moved, and inside, Bertie found what she was looking for - an old, faded journal. There seems to be a trend here, thought Bertie.

The pages were thin and brittle. Bertie was hesitant to open the journal further than the ebony leather cover. Luckily, another slip of paper was waiting for her.

“This is the journal of Father James O’Reilly. If found, please return to the Kansas City Historical Research Center, Rm 31”

Bertie reread the note. She knew Bertie attended lectures on local history from time to time, but it seemed a strange clue to give Bertie the work of finding a journal only to release it. However, Jean Marie was nothing if not surprising. Bertie could still remember the day where Bertie had come home particularly downtrodden only to find Jean Marie in the tree next door having tea. “We shall have a ‘trea’ party today,” she said with a grin.

Bertie locked the old door behind her and set out for the next destination. The pit of her stomach twisted with a mixture of excitement and hunger. It was now half past noon, and Bertie knew she had forgotten lunch. On a normal weekend, she would be scrolling through her social media channels over last night’s takeout, debating whether to go for a run. Bertie felt today was where she was meant to be - holding a Moleskine and a mystery in Jean Marie’s personal scavenger hunt.

The Historical Society

The city’s historical society was one of the more established in the region with partnerships extending to local libraries and universities for ongoing classes offered throughout the year. Bertie had never actually set foot in the building, but she trusted that Jean Marie had a plan.

A dark-haired man stood at the information desk. He looked up with a smile when she arrived, his earth-toned button-down drawing Bertie’s attention to his brown eyes. They were kind, and she knew that while her story may be unique, he would understand.

“How can I help you?” he asked with his name badge identifying his name was “Pete” and he was a research assistant with the university.

Bertie brought out Father O’Reilly’s journal, and began: “I believe this belongs to this institute. My neighbor found it back in the 60s, and she instructed me to bring it to Room 31.”

Pete gazed at Bertie and then looked thoughtfully at the journal. “We don’t have a Room 31 here. Do you think she meant somewhere else?”

Bertie’s excitement fell with the realization that she may not have understood Jean Marie’s note. Pete leafed through the journal inquisitively while Bertie tried to clear her thoughts. “Wait, start at the first page and count to thirty-one!” she said excitedly!

On the thirty-first page, the following slip of paper appeared:

“One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries.” - A.A. Milne

Bertie read the slip and then scanned the journal page. Father O’Reilly’s handwriting was barely legible in its now faded grey ink, but she could still recognize every other word. “Sending mother a package [...] militia men knocked [...] tense circumstances [...] and then the ink became smudged, but Bertie could make out one more phrase: ‘remain in Menough House.’

Bertie knew that like her family, Jean Marie’s came to the area with the first Irish settlers in the mid-1800s with promises of work on the railroad. Jean Marie had once told her that her family’s homestead plaque still marks the place where their first house once stood, now on the Penn Valley Community College’s grounds.

Pete looked at her, searching. “It’s not every day a pretty girl brings me her little black book. Did I make the cut to read it?”

Bertie blushed and hid her face in mock embarrassment. She told him about the discovery and the strange turn of events that led her to it. He listened with interest. “I think this clue is leading me to a fabled homestead marker at Penn Valley,” she conceded.

“I can’t resist an adventure like that.” Pete laughed. “If this adds anything, I come with a metal detector that was randomly donated to us last month. Does that win me an invitation?”

“Just like that? No dinner and champagne first?” asked Bertie flirtatiously.

“That can be arranged,” smirked Pete, his brown eyes sparkling as he put on his coat.

Bertie followed suit with a growing excitement in her heart.

The Homestead

The original site of the Menough home was now only a sunken cement marker with the house numbers somewhere between Southwest Trafficway and Broadway Boulevard on campus grounds. Bertie wasn’t sure what house numbers to look for, but she knew she would know when she saw it. The air was crisp and warming for a February day and the campus was relatively empty in the afternoon when they arrived.

Pete was an enthusiastic conversationalist. Bertie liked to talk to him. He was twenty-seven and working on his doctoral thesis on the ebb and flow of communities. As they talked, it was not lost on Bertie that the ground below them was once a bustling neighborhood now encircled by highways and decaying apartment buildings. An Irish ghetto swallowed by progress.

The metal detector beeped every once a while, which Pete said was typical. Slowly, they came upon a sandstone-looking structure submerged in the ground. The metal detector began to beep.

“Did you bring a shovel?” asked Bertie.

“Honestly, no,” laughed Pete, who admitted he hadn’t thought they would find anything. “However, I am decent with a stick and am not afraid of dirt.” his eyes twinkled as he broke off part of a fallen branch from a previous storm.

They both dug for several minutes until they felt something hard beneath. An outline of a metal container emerged from their hole. “This must have been buried more recently,” thought Bertie as they pulled the slightly soiled box out of the ground.

With some maneuvering, Bertie was able to open the metal clasp. The box creaked open to reveal a delicately embroidered bag. Bertie separated the ties to release the contents: a $20,000 banknote, and, of course, a note.

Bertie: Well done, my dear. You are my heart through and through, and now you have my next clue. What is the difference between a treasure hunter and a berry farmer? A treasure-hunter buries his treasure and a farmer treasures his berries. Which am I?

Use the banknote for something frivolous - or another mystery on another day. Love, Jean Marie

Bertie smiled, wiping away tears as she reached for Pete’s outstretched hand. “May I take you to dinner?” she asked.

“Of course,” he smiled. “Especially if there’s champagne.”