Page 11 of Abra's Acquisition
She grins at him. “Hey, maybe I’m just excited there could be someone else out there whose parents saddled them with a history lesson.”
“You’re really named Cleopatra?” Cicero asks her.
“I am. Courtesy of my father, Nero.”
“Your father was Nero? Oh, I see. Yes, that would explain it. I’ve heard rumors about him. He saw himself as a ruler and you as a future queen. My story isn’t quite so romantic. My parents were intellectuals who focused on research and publishing. They were researching the end of the Roman Republic for their next book when my mother went into labor. They needed a name, and they were researching Cicero at the time, so they named me Cicero.”
“You became a researcher, too?” Rey asks, glancing at the pile of documents Cicero spread on the table.
He nods as he chews on a bite of his sandwich. “I followed in their footsteps. However, my focus is on France. The French Revolution had a significant impact on other countries, particularly the United States. Many noble families fled France and settled in this region. I’m writing a book about the nobles who fled, their influence on New Orleans, and their descendants. It’s how I got involved in the De Villiers and the Maison des Cinq Chênes.” He turns his attention to Rey. “But you wanted to know how Abra joined the club? It feeds into the story.”
“It does?” Rey and I ask in unison.
Cicero nods. “It does.”
I frown as I try to figure out the connection while Cicero delves into the story. He enjoys telling it because he’s the hero, and I’m the idiot.
“I won’t get into all the details of how Abra and I met. Although he wasn’t Abra at the time, he went by the name Lorcan. Lorcan and his father, Lore.” Cicero stops the story before turning to me. “Is that right? His name was Lore, right?”
“Lorcan. We had the same name,” I tell him.
“Oh, I didn’t know that. Okay. Father and son were living on the streets when I met Abra. This was about a year before Lore picked the wrong pocket and got himself stabbed. I was living at home with my parents. They didn’t really care what I did with my time, so I spent much of that time on the streets, which is how I met Abra. After his father died, I tried to help him as much as I could. We became friends.”
“We did,” I nod in agreement. “There were a few times I might have starved or gotten seriously ill, if it hadn’t been for Cicero. I might have even died. He made sure I had a place to stay when the weather got too much. He’d bring me food and money, even though I realized later he didn’t have all that much to give.” I grin at my friend, who grins back.
“My parents weren’t the best at remembering to eat, so they didn’t always keep money and food in the house. However, once I met Abra, I decided to confront them and talked them into giving me access to their bank accounts. I promised to pay the bills and do the grocery shopping. They surprisingly agreed. Once I had access to their bank accounts, I could go grocery shopping. I always got some cash back so I could give it to Abra. My parents had money, more money than they needed.”
I pat Cicero on the back in appreciation, before turning to face Rey, who is watching us with sad eyes.
“We survived, obviously,” I tell her with a grin.
She nods. “You did. Now tell me how you almost didn’t.”
“Ah, yes, my first and last time playing hero,” Cicero says with a grin. “Much like our current predicament, it all started with a figurine. Like Harlequin here.” Cicero says, placing thefigure I had stolen for him at the center of the table. “Only in our story, the figurine wasn’t an exquisite porcelain figurine, but a wooden one. It was carved by an enslaved woman, Ana, as she sat at the bedside of her son, Darian, desperately nursing him back to life. You see, not only was Darian her son, but he was also the son of Ana’s owner, Fontaine. Fontaine’s wife was unable to have children. When Darian was born, he was more white than black, so Fontaine took him to raise as his son. Ana wasn’t allowed near the boy until he took sick. She sat at his bedside and nursed him back to health, even though she knew that once he healed, she’d have to leave him.”
“While the boy slept, she whittled a small log into the image of her son. She pictured him as a grown man with the word at his fingertips. She poured her heart into the image. Eventually, the boy regained his health, and as she expected, Fontaine had Ana removed from the house. He sold her to another slave owner so she couldn’t have access to Darian. She left the statue with Darian. Darian remembered Ana as the kind voice that spoke to him when he was sick. He kept the statue. He went on to become a doctor, a pediatrician. He treated thousands of children. Rumor has it that he would let the child he was treating play with the statue to distract them while he treated them. When he died, Darian donated the statue to St. Augustine's, a local church. It’s believed that the statue has healing properties. Several stories of people healing after holding the statue grew its miraculous reputation. Children were often the recipients of its power. That’s where our part comes in.”
“One night, someone stole the statue from the church. Whoever did it planted several hundred dollars in the room of a priest. The police arrested the priest, claiming he sold the statue. Abra knew the priest and knew he would never have done such a thing. He reached out to me, and I researched to determine who could have stolen the statue. The statue itself wasn’t valuable,unless you believed in the healing properties. I searched for someone who might want to use the statue to either cure themselves or someone they cared about. I discovered that a local businessman had a daughter who was sick with COVID. He had bodyguards working for him who appeared on the security feed of a store near the church. It seemed like a good place to start. That’s when Abra took over.”
Everyone at the table has remained silent for Cicero’s tale. All eyes turn to me.
“I broke into the house and found the statue tucked into the arms of a beautiful little girl. She couldn’t have been more than five. Fever flushed her cheeks. I couldn’t bring myself to take back the statue. Not then. I stayed near the house and checked on the girl nightly. I overheard a man and a woman who worked in the house talking. They said the girl’s fever had broken and that they were hopeful she’d recover. I waited another two days before I broke back in to reclaim the statue. Unfortunately, they saw me hanging around the house. I hadn’t been as stealthy as I should have been. I grabbed the statue, but when I left, five men were outside waiting for me. They planned to take the statue and sell it. I knew I didn’t stand a chance against five attackers, but I stood my ground rather than give up the statue. One pulled a knife and aimed for my heart. Cicero stepped in and blocked the blow with his arm. We probably would have both died, but Hex, Lake, and Dixie heard the fight and came to our rescue. We returned the statue to the church, and I became a Demon Dawg.”
“Why didn’t you join?” Rey asks Cicero.
“I can’t ride a motorcycle,” he grins at her. “Now, let’s talk about Harlequin.”
CHAPTER TEN: REY
I reach over and pick up the figurine to examine it. The artistry is exquisite. It’s made of porcelain, and I’m amazed it survived the journey from France to America two centuries ago. The costume appears to be silk, featuring purple and green diamonds with gold highlights. His eyes are a brilliant blue. I can even make out his eyelashes. The figurine bends at the waist with its right foot forward. In his right hand, he holds a scroll as if he’s presenting it to the viewer. Black lettering marks the outside of the scroll. I lean closer to the figurine, but I can’t make out the words.
“You’ll need this to see the writing,” Cicero says, offering me a jeweler’s loupe. I place it against my eye and can just make out the word ‘Rouvres.’
“What does ‘Rouvres’ mean?” I ask. “It’s French, correct? I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”
“It’s an archaic word for oaks,” Cicero explained. “Well, it’s archaic now, but back when this little guy was created, it was more popular.”
“I don’t understand. How is this a clue to the whereabouts of the treasure?” I ask.
