Treasure Me by Christine Nolfi

long ago, or still hidden away somewhere? Birdie’s mother, convinced the world was out to screw her over, worried the treasure was lost and she’d never profit from it.
    Birdie’s grandfather, before he’d whittled out the end of his life in the New Jersey state penitentiary, believed Justice was pregnant when she undertook the dangerous journey to freedom. In a desperate act of love, Lucas gave her something of great worth. The way Birdie’s grandfather told it, Justice never cashed out because she was generous and pure. She’d considered the treasure a legacy belonging equally to her unborn child and the white branch of the Postell family tree.
    Hard to believe, since most people were driven by greed. Certainly everyone in Birdie’s family was. Yet she preferred her grandfather’s theory not simply because something of worth might be found. She liked to think of Justice as someone who’d risen above her base desires. Secretly she imagined the freedwoman as a paradigm of virtue.
    Maybe the stories were true and Justice bore a child with Birdie’s ancestor. Which meant Birdie had more family than she knew of, black relatives who might have done better with their lives than their avaricious white relations.
    Hungry for the truth, she grabbed the sides of the frame to remove it from the wall. The portrait was heavy. Stumbling, she managed to lug it to the counter and set it down.
    Family lore agreed on one fact: the portrait hid a clue to the location of the hidden treasure. Examining it would take time. Trying to see in the darkened room was impossible. Risk turning on a light? If Hugh woke upstairs he might notice the glow knifing across the snow. Or a cop might investigate. Finally she noticed a pewter sconce on the wall that held a candle.
    Wiggling the candle free, she lit it and returned to the portrait. She dropped the candle into a juice glass and stared hard at the swirls of burnt umber and deep rose comprising the image of Justice. She half expected to find writing hidden in the deft strokes of paint but nothing looked like a clue. Frustrated, she ran her fingers across the frame’s heavy scrollwork. The ornate curls were feathered with gilt paint, and she wondered if something was etched in the wood. No dice. Was the clue hidden inside the backing paper?
    Turning the portrait over, she drew out her switchblade. Carefully she peeled off the tan backing paper. And felt gravity shift when a small rectangle of yellowed parchment dropped out onto the counter.
    Nearly faint with excitement, she blew out the candle and returned the portrait to the wall. Stumbling through the kitchen, she nicked the corner of the stove before managing to stuff the clue in her bra. It wasn’t safe to examine the contents until she’d locked herself inside the bathroom upstairs.
    “Hey, there.”
    Her heart slammed against her ribs. Beneath the reddish glow of the kitchen’s Exit sign, Hugh lounged against the wall.
    “How did you get in here? I locked the door behind me!” she demanded without thinking.
    He shrugged. “Fatman Berelli.”
    “What?”
    “Fatman.” Hugh strolled through the shadows toward her. “He’s one of my contacts in Youngstown. Union guy, big as a Sumo wrestler. He’s branched out—now he’s a private investigator. Fatman taught me all of the dark arts including how to pick a lock.”
    Speechless, she tried to get her bearings. Did Hugh mean he knew she’d broken in too? It was unlikely he’d buy a story about Finney leaving the door ajar after closing up for the night. The cook was as territorial as a Rottweiler.
    She stumbled toward the massive steel refrigerator. “I was hungry.” She wrestled the door open. “Do you want something to eat? How do eggs sound?”
    “That’s a freezer. Are you planning to thaw the eggs, assuming you find some? Everything in there is frozen solid.”
    So it was. The shelves were packed with frigid bricks in white paper. Maybe she’d grab one and hit him on