Chapter Twelve
Jay
I don’t expectthe whole world to know who I am or what I do. Do tens of thousands of them who have read my books know anyway? Yes. Does almost anyone working in the field of American history know? Yes. Should the director of this specific museum know my professional background as a trustee? Definitely.
“Hello, I’m Jameson Paul Martin,” I say, walking toward the desk with my hand outstretched for a shake, “and I’m a historian. I specialize in the Revolutionary War.”
Phoebe’s mouth falls open. She shakes my hand almost like she’s on autopilot. “We have your books in the museum gift shop.” She gives her head a small shake. “The Sutton did, I mean.Rogues of the Revolution. That’s you.”
“Yeah. That’s me.” I give her the performance people expect from Jameson Martin, also known in way too many circles as the Hot Prof. I wink and give the crooked grin that gets me into and out of all kinds of trouble. “The ladies love rogues, even the high-class Boston ladies.”
She blinks at me. “Right. Well, I’m glad your grandfather could get them placed in the bookstore for you.”
I frown. “No, that’s not why?—”
“But I promise you this letter isn’t from that long ago,” she continues, like I didn’t speak. “You don’t need to bother with this. What brings you across the lawn this morning?”
“I know it’s not that old.” I’m more curious now about the mail than her comment on the phone about a beautiful male, which I’m fairly sure was about me. Chalamet on a Cavill body? I see it. “But I spend a lot of time in archives and dealing with old letters, so maybe I can help. I did an entire seminar on the ethics and practice of opening sealed correspondence for archival purposes.”
She looks down at the envelope on the desk. “To be honest, this isn’t even related to the museum. I’ve got an odd mail situation at my apartment, and I’m trying to figure it out.”
“Odd how?”
She taps the letter. “This keeps showing up in my mailbox no matter what I do with it. I wrote ‘return to sender’ and ‘no such resident,’ and it came back both times. I gave it to the building manager to deal with. It still came back.”
“Post office?” I’m sure she’s already tried there.
“I took it there myself and gave it to a clerk who said she’d handle it.” She picks it up and waves it at me. “It came back. But this time, it came back without a stamp or postmark.”
“Yeah, that’s odd.” I walk over for a closer look. “And you’re stuck because you can’t open it or it would be obstruction of correspondence?”
She bites her lip. She uses a lipstick that’s not exactly red but not exactly pink. It’s rich, and I like that she’s not afraid of color. I’ve always thought I prefer the more low-key natural look on girls, but Phoebe does her face like someone unafraid of highlighting her best features, not someone hiding behind heavy makeup.
Whatever color she’s using on that mouth of hersdefinitely makes it look … biteable. I need to investigate that theory. Figuring out how to give myself the chance sounds like a good way to spend some free time.
“That’s the thing,” she says, handing me the envelope. “Maybe there’s no law being broken here.”
It’s quality paper but slightly yellowed with the early ink bleed some documents get as they age. It’s old. Older than me, but not open-with-gloves-in-a-clean-room old. “Smitten Kitten?” I read the addressee’s name aloud.
“Yeah. That’s not a nickname I’ve ever had or used.”
I flip it over and examine it for stray marks or possible identifiers. “You sure it’s the same letter showing up?”
“That’s my handwriting where it says ‘return to sender.’ See that smudge on the flap?”
I look closer at the fingerprint. It’s light but unmissable, and I nod.
“It’s there every time it shows up in my mailbox.”
My eyebrow goes up. It looks like an original smudge, not the kind that would show up on reproductions. “No stamp or postmark. Since it was in your mailbox, and since anyone could be Smitten Kitten, you can legally open it.” I hand it back to her.
“That’s what I thought.” She sets it on the desk.
I pause for a couple of seconds. “Oh, sorry, do you want to be alone while you snoop on someone else’s letter?”
“As if that’s not thirty percent of your job, Mr. Seminar on Letter Snooping.”
I grin. “If you don’t want people to know about it, don’t put it in writing. There will always be nosy historians.”
