Page 20 of Signed, Sealed, and Smitten
I know Francie’s office extension by heart, and it rings twice before she picks up.
“Sutton Archives.” It’s her polite tone for people who she’s preemptively annoyed with for making her answer the phone.
“Hi, is this Francie Sexton, future senior archivist and current bestie?”
“Pheeeebs,” she squeals, and I laugh at the one-eighty in her tone. “This is the future senior archivist andformerbestie since you left me.”
“What happened to supporting me no matter what and carrying the shovel when we bury a body?” I tease.
“That was before I had to work a week without you and got super bored. Tell me you miss me,” she says.
“Of course.” We were roommates for three years before Foster Martin changed my address. “It’s not as fun stealing clothes out of my own closet.”
“Ha,” she says. “You only ever borrowed my red Mary Janes, and I’ll give them to you if you’ll come home.”
“I have a museum to open first,” I say. “But snatching those shoes is the first thing I’m doing when I do move back.”
“Tell me how it is to be the whole boss, Director Hopper,” she says, and I picture her settling into her desk chair while I give her the update.
“I will, but just so you know, this is a work call. I have a question about postal regulations on dead letters. That question may only take thirty seconds for me to ask and for you to answer, but it wouldn’t be polite to jump right into it without some …” I pause, looking for the right word.
“Some collegial gossip,” she says.
“You mean collegial trade talk? I agree.” Even with Francie, I’m procrastinating an explanation of this letter’s provenance, because if she says I’ve lost my mind, I have.
“Spill it like it’s the Boston Tea Party,” she orders.
I told her in broad terms about the Martin estate after my initial visit, but now I fill her in on some of the details I’ve discovered since starting on Monday. “And get this,” I say, saving the best for last. “The library has a secret passageway, and I got to explore it.”
“I’m so jealous,” she whines.
“Don’t be too jealous.” I walk to the window and look out at the green lawn, admiring the cleverness of the landscaping. It was designed to make the Martins forget that the city hadgrown out to meet them and deposited a busy-ish road in front of their mansion. “The passage adventure ended with me getting groped, then launched through a wardrobe.”
There’s a beat of silence. “I know I should ask about the groping, but I feel compelled to ask about the wardrobe. Was it Narnia?”
“It does have a false back, but otherwise, not magical.”
“In that case, howdaresomeone grope you? Who are we suing?”
“I don’t think I can sue if he asked permission and I said yes.”
“I have so many questions. Please explain this consensual groping. I’m going to guess he went for your juicy peach of a booty.”
“Why can’t someone want me for my underwhelming cleavage?” I joke. “Anyway, it was one of the trustees?—”
“Phoebe!” she gasps.
“Who had to help me out of the secret passageway.”
“By your butt? Were your elbows too inconvenient?”
“He was behind me on the ladder in the secret passageway, and he tried to explain to me how to get from the ladder into the wardrobe. I wasn’t wrapping my head around it. I thought he was going to boost me by my foot, but suddenly I was being pushed by the peach out of the passage.”
“Poppycock.” She clears her throat. “Sorry, I got caught in the wave of alliteration. I am sorry you had old man hands on your peach.”
“Not old man hands.”
“Middle-aged?”
