It was a box, a wooden chest to be exact. It was small, about a square foot cube of mahogany, walnut or some other darkly stained wood. There was a curved lid, and carved on either side of the front panel were pillar looking portions topped with a design similar to a fleur-de-lis, but not quite. Violet wondered if that meant it was French. Along the base on all four sides there were raised sloped-sided squares that looked like chocolate bar segments. It had a lock and was locked. It came with no key or instructions on how to, if she should, open it. She reasoned it had to be a valuable antique; if it was a sentimental piece, there would have been a note, or at least Violet would have remembered seeing it among Leo's knick-knacks. She shook it, turned it over slowly to hear anything that might move inside. There was no sound.

"You rotten tease."

Violet scoured the internet to research her inheritance. It was like asking a library if they had any books. She poured over online auctions, antique sites, and furniture stores. All her searches folded back in on themselves and she spent day after day following breadcrumbs which led to nothing useful. Since no news agencies or foreign governments had been alerted to the transferring of a priceless relic to her possession then the box might not have been worth much after all. If Leo wanted to leave her money he would have done just that. That's why she was burning with curiosity. What exactly was Leo trying to say with this thing? If she was going to call John and lie to him about being independently wealthy she'd need more help than she was getting. She was a terrible liar, and John was good at reading people, much better, anyway, than she was.

During the week, Violet was graced with the recollection of the Leeland couple who'd thrown their son's engagement party at the Grand. Mr. Leeland had an antiques shop. She phoned and left a message hoping that if the man could not himself appraise the chest, then he could at least help her refine her search. He called back over the weekend and confessed he relied on a few freelance buyers for his taste in stock. One was a dealer who worked part time for the museum in the restoration department, specifically in the area of woodwork. He arranged a Tuesday lunch hour appointment on her behalf to meet Mitchell Morrissey at the museum. "And if it's worth anything," he mentioned, "we can work out a fair deal."

Violet left on her lunch break an hour early and walked quickly. It wasn't until she nearly dropped the box while digging for subway fare that she considered being nervous. Oh dear, Ms. March. Before that hammering by the turnstiles it was worth an exorbitant amount of money!

She arrived just after noon. A staff member paged Mr. Morrissey from the front and asked Violet to wait on a bench in the hall near the elevators. Finally, a phone call came up from the man himself.

"Mr. Morrissey says you're a bit early. He says he'll be about fifteen minutes."

Violet sat quietly on a push-button seat watching groups of rowdy school children file in and out of the elevators. On the way up, their teachers looked mildly interested in aspirin. On the way down, they seemed to have sprained their foreheads. Violet tried to remember the last time she'd been to the museum outside of school. She couldn't. After her appointment she thought she might see if the bat cave exhibit was still up and running. The closest thing to a ride the building had, it made visitors feel as though they were walking through a craggy cave tunnel while eyes peered out of the surrounding darkness. Then thunderstorm sound effects and flashing lights would upset a swarm of fake bats and unleash them overhead in an aerial raid. It had always been her favourite.

She looked at her shoes, played with a button on her coat, checked on her box and the clock on the wall. At a quarter to twelve, she heard a laugh so sudden and hearty that she could not help but laugh herself. Only a man could laugh so loud, but only a child could laugh that way. Soon a big ball of a head with bright orange fuzz on top paced into sight down the hall and explained everything. Bob Fellows was speaking to someone on his phone so that every moose in Alberta could hear.

"I said, whaddaya mean I only get a wing. I want to redo the whole thing!" There was another loud burst of laughter. "That's right, I want the dark meat too. They're only coming to see the dinosaur. I'll work around it." He paused. "Papier-mâché? That's a pretty big word for you." Bob covered the phone and said to someone out of view, "Yeah, I know it's two words."

When he ended his conversation, Violet hesitated in drawing his attention. She decided to let him notice her first and in a few moments that's exactly what happened.

"Hey, I know you!" he yelled with a gigantic grin. His voice bounced off the walls and reached Violet like a gleeful slap on the back. She gave a little wave and rose from her bench.

"Hello Bob," she said. With little force, her voice still echoed.

Bob turned towards his yet unseen companion. "Wait, you know, um...oh man, it'll come to me..." He snapped his fingers before finding her name. "Violet! That's it! You know Violet, don't you?"

John Finch strode into view. Violet nearly dropped her box again.

Embarrassed and excited, she was so stricken by his handsome genial face looking so reserved that she couldn't hope to form a proper sentence. He seemed to smile at her only out of politeness but she refused to put up her dukes. She returned the smile warmly, almost tenderly, a plea for forgiveness for misjudging him so criminally.

"Hello," he said, encouraged. "What's it been, like, seventy years?"

"A few decades at least. I live here now."

"You're holding up remarkably well."

"Thank you," she laughed.

The two men walked towards her, and though Bob was in the lead, Violet was relieved to see John so willing.

"What are you doing here?" Bob asked. "You got a hot date or something?"

Violet began to worry that her reasons would soon be all too apparent. "I have an appointment," she said vaguely.

Bob said, "We were just having a lunch meeting, but John insisted on seeing the aviary."

"I never believe the albatross is that big," John shrugged.

"Sure," Violet said.

"Do you doubt his motives?" Bob teased.

"She doubts my morals," John said meaningfully.

Bob bristled. "Really? The first time we met she was doing a stellar job of defending them."

"I wish that were true, Bob, but that was mostly you."

"Your face did more to put James on defence than my words did to get him on offence."

Violet made sure John understood. "Your uncle talked to me about his favourite nephew, Jimmy, all the time. I assumed incorrectly that he meant James."

Some small light flickered behind John's dark eyes.

"Don't you know what assumptions can do to a girl?"

"I have some idea."

"You two are talking in code and I don't like anything that reminds me of the feds," Bob protested. "I'm somebody's nephew too, you know, but it's never caused this much stink."

John said to Violet, "Do you know, biologically speaking, I'm nobody's nephew. I'm not even a cousin."

"Well now that we're all in on your secret identity, does it do anything for me?" asked Bob.

"It makes you look taller and slimmer," John said.

"Perfect. Speaking of shape-shifting, let's go see that Albatross Giganticus."

"But, I..." Violet wasn't sure how to stall.

"Come on, Violet," said John. "He's not getting any bigger."

"Or fresher" Bob said.

"Or faker."

"Ms. March?" Mitchell Morrissey, pin thin except for disproportionately large shoulders, entered the hallway in a mad rush. "Sorry for the wait," he said, blameless. "Do you have it with you?"

"Yes," she answered. If Morrissey hadn't been so nice about the favour she would have lied her way out of it. As it was, the best she could do was to remain as guiltless looking as possible and get on with it. She removed the chest from the bag and handed it over.

"That looks familiar," John said knowingly.

Violet purposely ignored the comment and took a deep breath.

Mr. Morrissey said, "Let's take it into my office and see if it's worth anything."

"Sounds good," said John before Violet could explain herself.

"Well," Bob sighed good-naturedly, "this is an in thing I am obviously out of. If you don't mind, John, and I'm sure you don't, I'm going to take off."

"Sure, Bob."

"Violet, I love surprises."

"Nice to see you again too, Bob."

After Morrissey, John and Violet walked side by side, he with a whistling bounce of self-satisfaction and she staring straight on refusing to acknowledge it. She peeked at him sideways and was caught by John doing likewise. His growing smirk made his whistling a little more difficult. Violet shook her head. Finally, she paused and grabbed his arm, looking him dead in his too-wide eyes. Like a camel working his glands, he waited to be dared to spit it out.

"Well?"

"Oh, I'd never sell something of senti-mental value," he mocked her.

"I knew you were going to say that. You couldn't wait to say something."

"You're right. Want to hear what's next?"

"Even though I find you about as witty as you do, don't waste it. For your information, I'm not here to sell it. I just have no idea why Leo left it to me. There isn't a clue. There's nothing in it. It's locked and I don't have the key."

"Then how do you know there's nothing in it?"

"I shook it."

"Ahh, I can see you doing it too. Glassy-eyed, tongue sticking out, just like Christmas morning."

"Har, har. That's a lot of help. You wouldn't happen to have picked this up on one of your South of the border gun runs, would you?"

"Nooo, but that reminds me. It might be worth more on the black market."

"Fine. What time do you open?"

"I just have to take this meeting first and then I'm all yours."

"Why don't you wait out here for me?" Violet pleaded. "There will be tons of other people for you to make fun of, I promise."

"But you're my muse!" They turned another corridor, this one with an echo that made Violet's pleased sigh sound like light laughter. "If you're going to tell me you hate me again, you'll find there's a line you have to get in back of."

Violet's regret was visible. "I never said I hated you."

"I couldn't really hear with you yelling at me."

"I could always start a new one," she said.

"A new line?"

"Yes, a new line."

John was hooked.

They were in Morrissey's office now, cluttered and claustrophobic. Morrissey detangled his dangling glasses from his grey sweater and removed a foreign fluff form them. He was pale with a friendly, non-descript face, dullish blonde hair and nails nearly ground down to their quicks. He mumbled, and excused himself for mumbling. Glasses on, he turned on a desk lamp and then shuffled in a few busy circles with shoes that looked more like worn bedrooms slippers as he concentrated on the box from every angle.

"I have to say," he drawled, "there's nothing that strikes me as remarkably distinctive in the pattern itself. The lock seems to be consistent with common mid-century mechanisms."

"So we're not talking ancient."

"Nothing earlier than 1940. The adhesive materials, the varnish - nothing spectacular. But you said you had some reason to think it's valuable?"

"It belonged to a fan of Military History. A collector."

"Hmm." Morrissey flipped the chest upside down. "Here's something. Here we go." Violet and John leaned forward, eager. "Pennywise or Pennywhistle. I know that." He was mumbling again.

"I didn't see anything printed on it anywhere," Violet said curiously.

"And was she looking," John said.

"Because it's inside this leg. You see this imprint?"

It took Violet's eyes a moment to adjust but as John's head tipped out of her light she saw the half circle logo and a capital 'P'.

"It's the mark of a stereo company, I think. Let me just check something online for a second."

Morrissey's fingers tapped on the computer.

"What are the chances a wall spins around and suddenly we're in his laboratory?" John whispered. Violet shushed him. "But what if he's really the janitor and we're in the closet?"

"Okay," Morrissey said. "It's what I thought. Late 30s to early 40s. Pennywhistle was making radios out of Southern Ontario and Buffalo. They later became Symphony At Home in 1944. Both companies made radios and record players and furniture to display them - cabinets, tables, that kind of thing." He came back to the desk and fiddled with the chest lock. "I honestly believe this was a gift with purchase, a promotion for buying a player or stereo, and if I check I'm sure we'll find this used to hold a cleaning kit and change of needles."

"So what does that mean?" John asked.

"Not much, I'm afraid. Besides the fact that there was a repair to the lock - this is the original lock but see the grain difference on the wood above it? - these things were given away and there are probably thousands out there. With the damage and the market saturation, I'd probably say it's worth forty to fifty dollars, but I'm being conservative."

"Thank you anyway, Mr. Morrissey."

"It's not fantastic news, but I hope it helps with your mystery."

Violet gave him her business card in case she could return the favour and said goodbye. She and John walked out into the hallway, Violet having the peculiar feeling of dissatisfaction mixed with a sense of accomplishment.

"Let's show it to Dudley and see what he thinks," John said brightly.

"Who's Dudley?"

"The Albatross."

"Is he a locksmith?"

"No, but he's a good whittler. Specializes in driftwood. Come on, the aviary's on the same floor as the insects."

"That's where the bat cave is!"

"They have a bat cave?"

Violet was delighted.

It happened naturally that they linked arms. They marched with purpose back through the winding corridor, excited in secret beyond happy faces for the last expected outcome either had anticipated for the day. Holding the door to the main lobby open for her, John said, "I meant to tell you. You sure clean up nice."

"You clean up pretty nice yourself."

Just ahead of them, a teacher was herding her flock into one of the elevators. "Hup! Hold the doors!" John called out. The teacher looked so discouraged for not being decapitated by them that Violet waved her on.

"We'll catch the next," she said.

"My, but you're taking your defeat today graciously," John said.

"It's nothing. I come from a long line of disappointed women. Not immediately, just historically speaking. I still wish I knew why he left it to me though. It must mean something."

"Want to know what I got?"

"No."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

A handful of other visitors were waiting with them by the time the next elevator arrived. Everyone sandwiched in together and somehow Violet and John got separated so that he was crammed into the back corner and she was up front near the buttons.

Over the other passenger's heads John persisted. "I'm just going to tell you what I got."

"I don't want to know," she insisted, meaning that she didn't want to know it from him.

"Why not?"

"Because," Violet said, loud for a whisper. Two passengers got out on the next floor and she was able to reach for John and drag him to her. "Because I'm tired of talking about money. What does it matter?"

"Roughly."

"Roughly what?"

"Roughly a million and a half."

Violet was dumfounded. Now the elevator doors opened on the third floor and they got out. They faced each other in a pretend rainforest.

"Why did you do that?"

"You asked," John said sheepishly.

"John?"

"Because I'm tired of being taken for an idiot."

Violet was puzzled. "But...what does that mean?"

"Forget it," he said. "To the Bat Cave!"

"No, this time I am asking."

John sighed. He seemed to study her face. "What were the odds of running into you today? A month ago I had no idea who you were and ever since I saw you in Philroy's office I can't get you off my mind. I know it's nuts but I am not in control here. When I saw you today I felt maybe we had another shot. I thought, why should I talk myself out of you? In the unlikely case you do take me for a ride, at least this way I asked for it."

Violet wilted.

"I think," she said thoughtfully, "that is the lousiest thing anyone has ever said to me. Maybe not ever, but it definitely ranks." John looked frustrated where he should have looked instantly regretful. "If I take you for a ride," she mimicked him, weighing the words. "And to think I was eating myself up over what I said to you that last day."

"I said unlikely," John said only half apologetic. "I just want to be on the level."

"Do you have an idea how ludicrous it is to me, having to keep defending myself against these gold digging charges when I am the last person in the world who works that way?"

"That's kinda what a gold digger would say," John said, trying to be funny. It backfired big time.

Violet pushed the elevator call button frantically. "I don't believe this," she said.

"Violet, I'm kidding." John begged. "It's not easy for me to...it's been a while since I...you picked James!"

"And what a colossal mistake that turned out to be. I won't make another one like it."

"Violet, I'm sorry. Just give me a minute."

"Don't compromise yourself for me, John. It obviously isn't worth it."

"It's not compromise. It was only...risk assessment."

Violet stared at him wordlessly, repulsed. The next elevator brought them to the lobby, and when the other passengers had spilled out gratefully, Violet turned to John and said, "I know you're tired of being taken for an idiot so I won't stick around and rub it in. What's the point? I wouldn't go out with you if you paid me."

She turned from him, burning mad, and began to walk away. John was holding her box and she had to turn back and get it. She snatched it from him. He looked helplessly at a woman beside him who left him to his shame.

"Do you know how ridiculous this is? We've only known each other for three and half days."

"You don't know me," Violet said solidly. She stormed off for good this time, though she stumbled slightly making her escape.