And Dolly isn’t telling. . .

Like Chelsea had predicted, Brooke’s funeral had been huge, depressing, and seemingly endless. The Enright house had then again overflowed with people. For the rest of the day, Chelsea had endured yet more sober conversations, crying, and purposeful hand-wringing. In Chelsea’s opinion, Lucy had ensured that Gram’s service was far too ostentatious. Although Gram had been well-to-do, there hadn’t been a pretentious bone in her entire body. Chelsea also knew that rather than approve of her grandiose send-off, Brooke would have most certainly laughed at it.

While driving along, Chelsea tried to remember what she knew of her family history. Brooke’s father, a man named James Ashburn, had become wealthy in his own right. He had quit school early and started out by selling newspapers, come rain or shine, on one of Syracuse’s busy downtown street corners around the turn of the century. Then later, like many other young men of his era, he saw action during World War I. On his safe return home, he became a tenacious reporter for the same paper that he had so eagerly hawked as a young boy.

Striving tirelessly, he ended up owning not only the newspaper but also much of the surrounding business property as well. But because of her father’s manic work ethic, Brooke hadn’t seen much of him while she was growing up, so she had been raised largely by her mother, Gwendolyn. Like many hard-boiled newspapermen of that era, James had been a voracious drinker and smoker. When a heart attack suddenly took him in his midfifties, Gwendolyn wisely sold all of James’s holdings, ensuring that neither she nor her daughter, Brooke, would want for anything.

Brooke had married the first man she fell in love with, not an uncommon occurrence in her day. William Bartlett was a handsome and respected editor on James’s paper. Soon after they were married, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Feeling an irresistible call to duty, “Bill” immediately quit the paper and enlisted in the army, hoping to become a war correspondent. James offered to use some of his considerable influence to keep Bill out of the war, but Bill adamantly refused. Although Brooke understood, when he left for basic training, her farewell to him had been tearful and heart wrenching. Tragically, Bill died in the war. But Chelsea didn’t know the particulars, because Brooke never wanted to talk about it.

Putting her family history aside, Chelsea smiled a little as she again touched her shirt and felt the key that lay beneath it. The closer she came to the cottage, the more she was dying to know what lay inside the hidden tin box.

She soon came upon a dirt road leading off to the right, and she stopped the Explorer. There she saw an ancient, weather-beaten road sign. It was little more than a pair of battered two-by-fours that had been nailed together and pounded into the ground beside the intersection. Its hand-painted letters read SCHUYLER LANE.

After consulting Allistaire’s directions for what would be the final time, Chelsea tousled Dolly’s ears. “This must be the place, girl,” she said. “Pretty swank, huh?”

As if convinced that they had at last arrived, Dolly barked eagerly.

Chelsea smiled. “I know, ” she said. “Truth is, I’m getting curious, too.” She then made a left-hand turn and started guiding the Explorer down the narrow dirt road.

Schuyler Lane was lovely. True enough, it was just a simple dirt road, with a dividing line of scruffy grass down its center where tire treads didn’t roam. Overhead there lay a dark canopy of maple branches, born from the dense woods that lined either side.