Lair of Dreams

Sam stretched his arms across the back of the sofa and smirked. “Well, I did my best. And my best is pretty irresistible. So what do you think—should we hire a jazz band or an orchestra? See, I think jazz band. But the professor seems like the orchestra type to me—violins and French horns. Frilly-cuff music. Oh, and we could get somebody to cater.…”

Jericho dropped the newspaper in Sam’s lap. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Gee, Freddy,” Sam said quietly, pushing the newspaper aside. “I, uh, didn’t want to rub it in.”

“Seems exactly like something you’d want to do. And don’t call me Freddy.” Jericho crossed to the fireplace, poking at the embers till they blazed.

“Did you ever consider that maybe you got me figured all wrong?” Sam said.

Jericho didn’t turn away from the fire. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got you figured exactly right. You’re a thief. You steal things. And people.”

Usually Sam enjoyed the friendly competition over Evie’s affections, but just now, he felt like a real heel. He didn’t know exactly what had happened between Jericho and Evie. Maybe they’d kissed. Maybe more than that. But whatever had taken place was a romance of circumstances, he was certain. Surely Jericho had to know he was all wrong for Evie. Jericho spent his nights reading or painting Civil War models. Evie was a bearcat, the life of the party. She’d eat him alive. The more Sam thought about it, the more he came to think that it was better this way. He’d snooped in Jericho’s room, looking for clues to Project Buffalo, and he’d found the letters that Jericho had started to Evie and never sent. It bordered on what his old man would call nebbishy. This phony romance would give Jericho time to lick the last of his wounds and move on. In four weeks, he’d be a new man. It would be, “Evie who?” And Sam would help Jericho along. He owed the giant that much. In fact, he’d be doing the big lug a favor.

“Listen, pal, I feel lousy about the way you found out about Evie and me. Let me make it up to you. How’s about you and me go out on the town sometime, huh?”

Jericho narrowed his eyes. “You. And me.”

“We could go to the fights, or head to the Kentucky Club to hear Duke Ellington play. I could introduce you to some girls. It’d be swell times!” He gave Jericho his most convincing smile.

Jericho didn’t return it. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response, especially when we have more important matters to tend to. We’ve got a museum to save and an exhibit to put together, if you recall.”

Sam figured it was best to leave the giant his pride and change the subject. At least they could agree on saving the museum. “What’ve we got so far?”

Sam followed Jericho to a table that held a paltry assortment of items. “Let’s see. We got a gris gris bag. Liberty Anne’s diary. A very shriveled mandrake root…” Sam held the grizzled thing up to the light. “Or possibly the world’s hairiest potato. And something that looks like chicken bones?”

Jericho swiped the bones into a trash can. “Last night’s dinner.”

Sam held up a photograph with a gauzy white smear in the background. “Is this a spirit photograph, or is that mayonnaise?”

Jericho snatched the ghostly tintype away. “Spirit photograph.”

Sam picked through the rest of the meager collection, his hopes flagging. “This is it? It’s not any different from what we already got going on.”

“Sam, this entire museum is a Diviners exhibit. I don’t see why you haven’t grasped this yet.”

“This is gonna be a three-legged dog of an exhibit,” Sam grumbled. “Buncha spooky knickknacks and haunted doilies. Nobody’s gonna line up for this junk!”

“I’ll remind you that this was your idea.” Jericho spread his arms wide in challenge. “Fine. Why don’t you curate this exhibit, then? See what you come up with.”

Jericho headed to the collections room, and Sam followed, complaining.

“Gimme something to work with. A curse. The bloodstained waistcoat of a murdered aristocrat. A hotsy-totsy medium who, uh, felt the spirits move through her, if you catch my drift—ouch!” Sam said, tripping over a spot on the rug that sent him tumbling into a sideboard.

“Watch it,” Jericho said, steadying the sideboard. “These are rare artifacts.”

“Thanks for your concern. I’m fine,” Sam muttered. He pulled back the rug, exposing the scarred outline of a door with a metal ring attached. “That’s the culprit,” Sam said, tugging on the ring. “What is this?”