Hidden Devotion Page 5

  She touched the cabinet now—it was only shoulder height, so much smaller than the massive thing in her memory—and for a moment her chest felt tight with the desire to go back to being a child, free of the heavy burden now pressing down on her. She opened the top and the speaker doors. Not trusting herself to use it, she gently touched the mechanism and ran her hand over the lower set of doors. A finger-length brass plate was screwed across both doors, holding them closed, just as it had been when she was small.

  Juliette frowned, for the first time wondering why. As a child, she hadn’t known—and wouldn’t have dared—to question, but she’d seen her share of antiques since then. The larger lower section of a Victrola was meant to store records. Why was this screwed closed?

  “You have so many better things to do,” she whispered. “And why are you whispering?”

  Letter opener in hand, she dropped to the floor in front of the Victrola. It took forever, but she got one of the tiny brass screws loosened enough that she was able to unscrew it the rest of the way with her fingers. Even then the doors wouldn’t budge. She ran the letter opener around the seams, clearing away accumulated gunk and wood wax. Another five minutes of tugging and prying and the doors gave with a pained groan.

  “Eureka!” she cried. Juliette shook the fingers she’d banged when the cabinet gave way. “And we have…”

  There were two wooden boxes, fit so snuggly in the space they must have been made for it. Each was about a foot tall and a foot and a half wide, stacked one atop the other.

  Envisioning everything from pirate gold to Area 51s’ artifacts—both of which were the types of things that might end up in the Trinity Masters’ hands for safekeeping—Juliette hauled out the top box and opened it.

  “Oh good…more paper.”

  The top box seemed to contain aging manila folders. She pulled out a few and flipped through them.

  “Birth certificate, report cards, doctors’ records…these are dossiers on people.” Flipping through some of the newer files—dated twenty-plus years ago—she decided they must be records for prospective members, who, for whatever reason, hadn’t been offered membership. There were names on the tabs, and she recognized the illegible scrawl as her father’s. The files were in reverse chronological order, and by the time she got to the bottom, the paper felt brittle and the birth certificates were dated fifty years in the past.

  Turning to the lower box, she wasn’t surprised to find yet more papers, but these were older—the paper yellowy-tan. Some were bundled up in twine, others in old-style envelopes. The penmanship on these was slightly better, but the ink so faded it was barely legible.

  Juliette was flicking through everything idly, not really paying attention, when she stopped, fingers curled around a black-and-white photo of three mustachioed men. The man on the left wore light-colored pants and jacket, a scarf tied around his neck. In the center was an older man in loose clothing with knee-high boots, a rifle strap cutting across his chest. Next to him was a younger man with a flat-brimmed hat, his rifle held proudly in front of him. Though the hat shadowed his face, the younger man’s posture and build mirrored that of the older man. The photo was tacked to a larger sheet of paper with photo squares, and the caption under it read “William Ludlow, Calixto Garcia, Pedro Garcia Fernandez.”

  “Ludlow. Ludlow and Garcia.” The names were setting off bells in her head. After jumping through several security hoops, she got the computer on the desk to connect to the Internet.

  “General William Ludlow, US Army Corps of Engineers, fought at the Siege of Santiago in the Spanish-American war.” Juliette’s fingers were trembling slightly from a surge of adrenaline. “And then we have Calixto Garcia, general in all three Cuban uprisings.” She had a tingly feeling, the same feeling she sometimes got just before she got someone to open up to her about their experiences, or before she put the pieces together and was able to identify where women were being held. “That leaves Pedro.”

  Leaping up, Juliette checked the archived member files. “Ah ha!” For a second, Juliette looked around for someone to share her discovery with. There was no one.

  Sobered by that, Juliette pulled out the file labeled “Garcia, Pedro Fernandez.” In it were a few other black-and-white pictures, several where Pedro was holding a gun, probably during either the Cuban War of Independence or the Spanish-American war. There were a few copies of official documents, including immigration papers from 1900. Pedro had settled in Florida and gone to school, joining the Trinity Masters in 1901. The timing probably meant that he’d been identified as a potential member and someone had helped with his immigration prior to his official joining. The bastard son of the famed Cuban general was exactly the kind of person the Trinity Masters liked to scoop up.

  There wasn’t much in his file after that besides some newspaper clippings. He’d been a politician and activist in Tampa and Key West.

  Juliette switched over to the files about the trinities. More than just biographical, these files were meant to help chronicle the reason each trinity had been formed—a politician, soldier and socialite brought together to help shape military policy; an activist, lawyer and educator who together empowered social change. Locating the records from the early 1900s, she checked for one including Pedro. When a quick scan didn’t yield what she wanted, she went through it methodically.

  There was no file for a trinity including Pedro.

  Juliette went back to the Victrola boxes. She’d noticed, but not really thought about the fact, that some of the bundled papers in the older box had three names on the labels.

  It took her less than a minute to find a large envelope with faded handwriting that said “Garcia – Smith – Cruz”.

  “Why are you in here, and not with the other trinity files?” Rather than stay hunched on the floor, Juliette gathered up everything and took it to the conference table, spreading everything out so she could make sense of it.

  Pedro Garcia Fernandez, bastard son of the Cuban revolutionary general, had been only seventeen when he joined the Trinity Masters. He’d fought in World War One, and been called to the altar after the war, marrying Lucille Smith and Maria Cruz in 1920. Lucille, a legacy, had lost both her husbands in the war and her only child to measles. Maria was the daughter of another wealthy Cuban family, and like Pedro, a new addition to the Trinity Masters.

  Lucille and Maria each had a child, though their birth certificates both listed Maria as the mother, since by law only Pedro and Maria had been legally married, Lucille living under the guise of wealthy widow, next door to Pedro and Maria.

  One of the sons had died fighting in World War Two. The other, Luis Garcia Cruz, joined the Trinity Masters in 1942. And…that was it. That’s where the “official” file seemed to stop.

  Several smaller envelopes had been stuffed inside the larger one. In those she found a marriage certificate for Luis and a birth certificate for his son Henry. Another envelope contained a copy of Henry’s driver’s license dated 1974, his marriage certificate from 1985, and a 1987 birth certificate for Henry’s son, Francisco.

  The last envelope bore Juliette’s father’s handwriting in the lower front corner. She squinted at it for a moment, before deciphering the word “inactive”.

  In it was a second copy of the birth certificate for Francisco Garcia Santiago. Behind that was a copy of a driver’s license. The boy in it had an artificially serious expression, spiked hair and a puma shell necklace—the perfect image of a nineties teenager.

  Smiling, Juliette flipped to the next page. “Well, hello, Francisco.”

  The photo was a professional shot, and seemed to be a color copy from the page of a magazine. The title of the article was “Next Year in Cuba: 100 years of the Cuban-American Experience”, and it went on to discuss a new exhibit at a museum located in Key West. The caption under the photo said, “President of the Garcia Cuban Heritage Foundation, Francisco Garcia Santiago, will speak at the exhibit grand opening.”

  The dorky teena
ger was gone. Francisco had a lean face, slightly too-long dark hair, and startlingly light-colored eyes. He was smiling in the photo, and it was a quiet smile, almost reserved. The black suit, white shirt and black tie seemed a bit severe, but his arms were casually folded.

  Juliette tipped the paper towards the light, examining his right hand, which was visible. On his middle finger Francisco wore a ring she knew all too well.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Juliette dashed to the computer again, this time searching for Francisco, finding a high-resolution version of the image in the magazine article on the foundation’s website. She magnified his hand. There it was—the gold triquetra ring worn by male members of the Trinity Masters.

  With a sinking feeling, Juliette spent the next hour checking the member files for anything on Francisco or his father Henry. There was nothing. For some reason, Francisco’s family wasn’t in the records. Luis Garcia Cruz, Francisco’s grandfather, had been a member, but unless the file for his trinity had somehow been destroyed, it seemed that he’d never been called to the altar. And now his grandson was flaunting a Trinity Masters’ ring in public photos.

  Juliette read through everything a second time, committing it to memory since she shouldn’t take anything out of this room. Placing all the papers into a new file, she labeled it “Garcia Family – Inactive?”

  After a moments debate she put the rest of the hidden files back in the Victrola then gathered up her things and left the office. When she hit ground level, she pulled out her phone to call her brother.

  *****

  “Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?” Alexis looked at her husband Michael and then back to Devon, who was pacing in their living room.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Devon knew he shouldn’t be here—most members didn’t know the Grand Master’s name since he always wore a black, hooded robe—let alone where he lived or what he did. It was only because of the Asher family ties to the Adamses that he knew, but that didn’t make this appropriate.

  Harrison hadn’t been home when Devon came knocking an hour and—he checked his watch—seventeen minutes ago. Instead, Devon had found Harrison’s spouses, Michael and Alexis. He hadn’t heard that the Grand Master had gotten married, but Juliette’s brother had always been a private person, so he wasn’t surprised. While Devon recognized Michael, he didn’t know Alexis, which made the fact that he’d invaded her house all the more awkward.

  The metallic clack of a key in a lock made all three turn their heads. Michael laid a hand on Alexis’ shoulder then left the living room, undoubtedly to warn Harrison about their guest.

  Devon should be worried about the Grand Master’s reaction to his breach of manners, should be worried about potential repercussions. He wasn’t. All he cared about was an explanation. He wanted to know why his trinity—something that for Devon was as good as set in stone—had been dissolved. He wanted to know what Juliette had said that would make the Grand Master do something so drastic.

  “Inactive? No. I’ve never seen anything like that.” Harrison’s voice carried faintly from the hallway. “You’re going where?” There was a pause. “Do you think that’s… No. Of course not. I’ll try to think of anyone who might know more about it.” A longer pause and then Harrison said, “Please be careful, Juliette.”

  At the sound of her name, Devon’s already tight muscles hardened into blocks. He had to force himself to relax his jaw and hands, to make sure his posture didn’t give away what he was feeling.

  Harrison stepped into the room. Alexis rose from the couch and kissed her husband on the cheek. She whispered in Harrison’s ear before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

  Devon hadn’t seen Harrison in years. The man had aged; his dark hair was no longer streaked with gray. Instead, the salt and pepper was equally distributed and there were deep lines creating defined grooves in his face.

  He didn’t smile when he saw Devon. Instead, he gave him a short nod that, paired with Harrison’s stern expression, offered Devon no hope that this conversation would end well. He took a seat then gestured for Devon to do the same.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Devon.”

  “I know, Grand Master.”

  Harrison slashed a hand through the air, frowning. “Don’t… Tell me why you’re here.”

  “I want to know why you did it.”

  Harrison went unnaturally still. “Why I did what?”

  The words caught in his throat. Devon pulled the letter from his pocket and held it out. Harrison took it, glancing over it quickly, then handed it back.

  “When did you get this?”

  “Earlier today.”

  “I assume you’ve seen Juliette.”

  “This morning.”

  Harrison was silent, waiting for Devon to continue. When he didn’t, the Grand Master gestured. “And?”

  “What did she say to you?” Devon rubbed his forehead. “What did I do? What did she find out? Whatever it is, it can’t have been bad enough that you had to dissolve our trinity.”

  “You know your situation, the fact that your trinity was decided on when you, Juliette and Rose were children, is unique.”

  “I do.”

  “And since you’ve known Juliette her whole life, you better than anyone should know that it’s been hard on her, for many reasons.”

  “It wasn’t easy on Rose or me, either.”

  Harrison raised a brow and Devon realized that had come out more pouty than explanatory. He cleared his throat. “Grand Master, I—”

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence because for the second time, Harrison slashed a hand through the air, his shiny new wedding ring catching the light. “I have to stop you.”

  Harrison leaned forward, passing back the letter. Devon took it, a strange feeling of foreboding settling over him. The expression on Harrison’s face was one he couldn’t decipher.

  “Devon, I did not send you that note.” Harrison braced his elbows on his knees. “And you should not address me as ‘Grand Master’.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Given the circumstances, you have a right to know, but I must ask you to keep this information to yourself. Members of your family are among the handful of legacy bloodlines who know that the Grand Master is an Adams, who would know my name.”

  Devon looked at the paper, this time really looking at the bold, cursive handwriting.

  “I didn’t send you that note because I am no longer the Grand Master.” Harrison’s voice was calm and smooth, as if he were relating the weather forecast.

  Devon sat back in his chair, distancing himself from the words. “If you’re not the Grand Master, who is?”

  A small, sad smile twisted Harrison’s lips.

  Devon dropped his head into his hands. “Juliette?”

  “Juliette.” Harrison briefly patted Devon’s shoulder. “I think this is a conversation you need to have with her, Devon. For me to say anything more would be completely inappropriate. Go talk to her.”

  Harrison quietly walked out, leaving Devon to contemplate the way his world had been turned upside down.

  Chapter Five

  Franco Garcia adjusted the contrast of the image, peering intently at his computer screen. Was that word “for” or “from”? The elegant feminine handwriting was the type of cursive where only the first letter was actually legible. Given the age of the letter, and the condition it had been found in—Florida was hell on old documents—he couldn’t be sure.

  Leaning back, he adjusted his reading glasses then peered at the real letter, which was between two thin sheets of protective Plexiglas. He knew the best chance of deciphering it was in manipulating the scanned image, but the impulse to check the original with his own eyes was hard to ignore, even though ten years as an archivist, and a lifetime as a card-carrying geek, meant that he lived for the latest tech gadgets and application of tech to his decidedly anti-tech profession.

  It was time for a break. Franco
rose and scratched his stomach. The humidity-controlled room was tucked in the center of the first floor of the mansion-turned-museum that was the Garcia Cuban Heritage Foundation. The lack of windows meant he didn’t really know what time it was, but his stomach was telling him it was food time. Given the way Franco managed his day-to-day life—meaning he didn’t manage it in any remotely adult way—it could be noon or midnight.

  Turning off the light box under the letter, Franco slipped out of his workroom into a dim hallway that was closed to the public. The foundation offices, which really meant an office for the foundation director Marcia, were beside his workroom. Her door was shut, meaning that whatever time it was, the museum was closed.

  He doubted there was anything to eat in his living quarters on the second floor, so rather than heading for the back stairs he decided to walk to the little twenty-four-hour shop down the street and get food. Franco opened the door into what had once been a drawing room and was now a gallery filled with memorabilia about the early days of the cigar business in Florida.

  Diffused Florida sunshine had him blinking, and Franco lifted the hem of his ratty t-shirt, using it to rub his eyes. Daytime. It was definitely daytime, and he’d been inside too long if that little bit of light coming through the glazed windows was hurting his eyes.