Miss Stella Sundae, aged eighty-three, sat contentedly in the tiny breakfast nook of her newly acquired rural Pennsylvania dwelling and stared out the window at two squirrels squabbling over one small nut. Such a commotion they made! Quarreling and squawking, creating a hullabaloo, each one demanding the item in question simply because there was only one of it. She watched a moment longer as the larger of the two rodents snatched up the nut and ran off into the forest. That seemed, to her, to be the usual order of things. The bigger and stronger inevitably triumphing over the smaller and weaker. Stella sighed and continued her analysis of the two squirrels while intermittently sipping her third cup of coffee from an antique china tea cup. People, she concluded, were a lot like squirrels. Sweeping her mind free of critters, Stella peered over the top of wire-rimmed glasses that threatened to leap off of the tip of her nose, and contemplated the room in which she sat. It was a small but comfortable room, pleasantly furnished and not overcrowded. A cushy chair, a colorful divan, and a tiny end table adorned the room. Simple and functional, uncluttered with irrelevant distractions. She regarded an overcrowded room much in the same way she viewed an overcrowded life. Both resulted in unessential obstructions in reaching one’s destination. Complexity could be extremely irritating, especially when it directly affected her own personal contentment. For instance, at that very moment Stella knew that Abigail, her companion of twenty years, was floundering about in the kitchen, muddling up what should have been an uncomplicated breakfast for two. Stella, if given a choice, which she invariably was not, preferred to abandon breakfast entirely except for coffee, and plenty of it. Still, Stella always gave credit where credit was due. Abigail was simply carrying out her mission in life, which centered on mothering Stella to death. The differences between the two of them were complimentary rather than unfavorable. Abigail, thirteen years younger than her companion, was fortunate in that she retained most of the physical attributes of her youth, whereas Stella had not. One couldn’t truthfully say that Abigail had lost any degree of mental capability, for she never had much to begin with. But she possessed a talent much more important than an Einstein IQ – she could cook. Stella couldn’t fry an egg without the need to haul out the fire extinguishers. They were perfectly suited to each other, despite the constant bickering and differences of opinions. The only topic neither could effectively argue about was marriage, for neither had ever wed despite Stella receiving two proposals earlier in her youth, and Abigail one. They were completely opposite in appearance. Stella was what one might think of as a typical little old lady, short in stature, a bit wobbly on her feet at times, with grey-white hair neatly tucked in a bun-like hair style piled slightly askew atop her head. She had a tiny, thin build, almost wispy in nature, and she always tended to look frail and fragile. She wore dresses, rather than leggings of any kind, and was clothed much in the same fashion as the period in which she grew up. Abigail, on the other hand, was stocky with considerable extra weight on her rather large, bulky frame. She was physically strong, healthy, and robust. She wore both jeans and dresses, but mostly jeans as they were more suited for crawling around inspecting every inch of the house for dirt and grime. Her hair was naturally curly and dark with only a smidgeon of grey starting to show, and she wore it short and cropped close to her head. Time wasted on grooming her hair was time spent away from the household responsibilities, and was totally needless in her opinion. A good scrubbing in the shower, clean clothes, and air-dried hair was adequate. Stella stared at her empty tea cup and wondered if she dare sneak into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. She new Abigail would disapprove, as she believed that caffeine was not something Stella should be indulgent of. But Abigail just didn’t understand the importance of stimulant. The reverberating clang of a frying pan tumbling to the kitchen floor startled Stella with such intensity that she involuntarily swatted her cane away from where it had been resting against the arm of the chair in which she sat. “Goodness gracious,” she mumbled softly as the cane whirled to the floor. It bounced lightly on a braided rug and rolled onto the hardwood floor, making just enough of a sound to arouse Abigail’s keenly honed noise threshold. The sound of a cane falling to the floor would be the equivalent of a piano plummeting to a concrete pavement from a second story building to Abigail, as she invariably elevated any sound that originated from Stella’s direction to the most extreme degree, no matter how meek the noise. Stella knew she’d be in for it now, and steeled herself for the imminent blitzing. Abigail rushed into the breakfast nook with a funereal expression on her face and a damp, discolored dish towel draped untidily over one shoulder. “You scared me half out of my wits with all that thumping around in here!” she screeched, waving a vigorously zigzagging finger directly under Stella’s nose. Stella gave no indication that she was remotely interested in challenging her companion’s statement, but Abigail obviously assumed she was about to do so for she hurriedly added, “Yes, you did!” And then, “Thought I’d come in here and find you fell and broke your neck … or worse!” Stella puzzled over what Abigail might consider more catastrophic than breaking one’s neck, but declined to question the matter due to lack of passageway into the conversation. “And there you sit …” Abigail continued. Yes, there she sat, earnestly wondering how in the world she could ever compensate for not keeling over and breaking every feeble bone in her body to prove whatever point Abigail was trying to make. “And, just look at that!” Stella quickly turned her head to see what that was, but failed to see what Abigail was referring to. “That’s your third cup of coffee this morning … (Oh, that!) … no, don’t argue with me. I’ve been counting. And you haven’t even had breakfast yet.” Abigail, now Dr. Abigail, dutifully pointed out the damaging effects of caffeine on the brain and, after allowing the proverbial deceased horse to finally rest in peace, went back to the kitchen to finish preparing breakfast. Stella wondered at what point during Abigail’s tirade the subject of broken necks had transgressed to coffee on the brain, but quickly shifted her thoughts to mentally preparing a list of the day’s activities. There was much organization to do in the old house. Furniture, draperies, personal belongings – everything, including the toothbrushes in the bathroom – had been left behind by the previous owners, an elderly gentleman and his wife. The husband, supposedly in excellent health (according to the realtor’s version of things), had died suddenly in his sleep, an apparent heart attack. With barely a chance to grieve, his wife died two weeks later. With no surviving relatives to haggle over price, and no other interested buyers, Stella and Abigail jointly purchased the house at a price far less than the property was worth. Much of the previous owners’ personal belongings had been removed, but there were many items left to be sorted and scrutinized. Not that Stella minded, for she was something of a snoop. She thoroughly enjoyed rummaging through another’s personal belongings as long as there was nobody who would object. If Abigail had had her way, every item in the house would have been ousted before they moved in. Stella had argued that everything should be gone through and examined. What if something of value was thrown away? At the end, Stella had her way and every object stayed put until it could be evaluated with concise objectivity (hers) and within a reasonable length of time. The basement, Stella declared silently, would take weeks to sort through, and she wanted to get to it before Abigail bagged everything up and piled it out for trash pickup. The only problem was, she would need Abigail’s help to get down there, and that meant manipulating Abigail into thinking it was her idea. Contemplating how, exactly, to do this set Stella to nodding off in her chair until Abigail noisily arrived in the breakfast nook, carrying a huge tray of food. Stella eyed the quantity on the tray and declared, “Goodness gracious! Who are you expecting to eat all of this?” “Now, mind!” Abigail scolded as Stella reached for the coffee pot. “There’ll be no more of that until you get some decent food in your belly. I suppose you’ll be wanting to go poking around in the basement today. Don’t deny that you want to. I’ve been watching you eyeing up the cellar door ever since we moved in.” She buttered a large blueberry muffin as she spoke. “Shouldn’t be overdoing in that way, you know. And don’t go getting any ideas about going down there on your own. It’s disgraceful the condition those steps are in. I’ll go with you as soon as I finish getting the rest of the kitchen in order.” “Goodness, I thought you’d be done with that by now! You were up half the night working in there,” Stella replied a bit irritably, although grateful that she could save her energy for snooping rather than convincing Abigail to go sleuthing in the basement with her. “And, I wasn’t going to deny anything. I admit I’m curious to see what’s down there. Aren’t you?” “No.” Stella sighed and inspected the various dishes Abigail had prepared. She chose two small strips of bacon and half of a muffin. “Is that all you’re having?” Abigail asked, heaping a pile of scrambled eggs on her plate. She filled the remaining empty space with generous servings of sausage and bacon. “You’re not eating,” Abigail commented, poking a fork accusingly toward Stella’s untouched plate. “I’ve barely had a chance to! Besides, I was thinking.” “You can’t eat and think at the same time?” “Apparently not,” Stella answered sarcastically as the meal continued and concluded in silence. A short time later, Abigail reluctantly agreed to let the kitchen wait for a time in order to accompany her companion to the basement. She knew Stella would subtly nag her until she relented, and she didn’t think it would take long for Stella to become fatigued, so she decided to get it over with so she could get back to her kitchen chores. The pair, upon descending to the basement, discovered shelves of home-jarred fruits and vegetables, years old and long forgotten judging by the soot and debris on the lids. “Just look at this,” Abigail said, fingering a jar of what looked to be mincemeat. “How long do you suppose this has been sitting here?” “Far too long to consider finding it on my dinner plate tonight. All of those jars are probably spoiled and full of botulism.” “But if they were jarred the right way … oh, you’re probably right.” Abigail set the jar back on the shelf, but silently hated the idea of any kind of food going to waste. “No, we can’t take the chance,” she agreed. “Of course not! Throw them all away. And make certain they’re disposed of properly. We wouldn’t want some furry little creature accidentally making off with something that might kill it.” “It seems like such a waste, though,” Abigail said. “You wouldn’t think so if you got sick from it. Food poisoning can be deadly,” Stella said. “The lighting is terrible down here. Make a note to pick up a few boxes of light bulbs when you go into town. What’s that sitting over there in the corner? “Looks like an old bureau to me,” Abigail answered. “Did you leave your glasses upstairs?” “No, I did not,” Stella said. “They’re right here, hanging around my neck.” “Well, then, why don’t you put them on?” “I don’t need them. I told you – it’s the lighting.” Trunks, boxes, and mold-covered cartons sat thick with dust, beckoning to be opened and explored. A tall white metal cabinet sat next to two large laundry sinks, its door slightly ajar. Stella could see that it held a large number of small uniformly shaped wooden boxes with lids. She wondered what treasures were hidden in each. Skipping these items for the moment, she pointed to the doorway of the “root cellar,” an area used in old farmhouses to store apples, potatoes, carrots, and a variety of fruits and vegetables harvested in late autumn to supply the family throughout the winter until the next season’s plantings. “Let’s take a look in there,” Stella said excitedly. “No telling what we might find.” “What do you think you’re going to find? A dead body or something?” Abigail asked. “You never know, do you? Let’s get that door opened.” “I think you read too many detective books, that’s what I think,” Abigail said and paused. “On second thought, maybe we should just leave that door closed.” “Oh, don’t be such a scaredy puss, Abigail. If there were any dead bodies in the basement, I’m sure they would have been discovered a long time ago. Now, open that door.” Opening the door was surprisingly easier than it looked, considering the rusted hinges and its heavy oak construction. What wasn’t so easy was dealing with what they saw on the other side of the door. They were greeted with something worse than a cellar full of corpses to Abigail thanks to a phobia that developed in childhood, but only somewhat of a minor problem for Stella. Spiders. Small, black spiders were everywhere. Crawling up the walls, hovering in corners, skittering across the ceiling. Hundreds of spiders, maybe more. Unfortunately, one small spider dropped from the ceiling and landed square on Abigail’s shoulder. Stella was just about to caution Abigail to remain calm when the latter screamed like a banshee and proceeded to brush the spider from her shoulder in chaotic sweeping motions. Abigail flew up the basement steps, not an easy task at two hundred pounds, ruthlessly abandoning her friend to close the old cellar door and struggle up the precariously lopsided steps with only the aid of her cane. Stella shuffled into the kitchen, breathless but undamaged, and collapsed, somewhat ungracefully, onto the closest chair available. “Coffee,” Stella demanded, and Abigail rushed to oblige. “You do know, don’t you, that a quick call to an exterminator will take care of our little insect problem? We’ll call them tomorrow morning. I know how much you hate spiders, but really, Abigail!” “I feel really bad about running off on you like that,” Abigail sobbed. “But you know I’m scared to death of those … things. I just couldn’t go back down there.” “Well, no harm done. They’ll be taken care of. Now stop sniffling and get me that coffee.” Mercifully, the sound of the doorbell stifled any further discussion on the matter. Abigail had a tendency to go on and on when in a state of distress, almost as if she enjoyed conjuring up the memory of a bad incident just to have something to talk about. “Who in the world could that be at this hour? It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning,” Abigail said distrustfully. “Hope it’s not bad news.” “Goodness gracious! Why do you always assume anything out of the ordinary has to be bad news?” “Just the way it is most of the time, that’s why.” Stella sighed impatiently and urged Abigail to reserve her doom-and-gloom attitude for those times when the call for such was clearly evident. “Please,” she said, “go answer the door.” Abigail did just that, returning shortly, studying an envelope addressed to Stella. “A letter for you,” she said, handing it over, a distraught look on her face. “Had to sign for it. Any letter you have to sign for means bad news.” “Now, who in the world could be writing to me?” Stella wondered out loud. “Nobody even knows we’re here. Goodness, I haven’t even had a chance to give out our new phone number.” “Well, open it, for heaven’s sake! It’s got to be bad news! I just know it!” “Don’t talk so silly. Of course it isn’t bad news! You’re not being rational,” Stella said to Abigail. “Who would be sending us bad news? We have no family to speak of. Let’s see, now … looks like an out-of-state postmark. Might be from my old friend Helen … but it can’t be; she has no idea that we moved. No, no … not her … I believe she passed away about a year ago if memory serves. So hard to keep track of things sometimes. Time passes so quickly, you know? Before you know it …” “Stella Sundae, for heaven’s sake!” Abigail wailed. Stella knew quite well that her companion did not appreciate the intoxication that accompanied the prolonging of a mystery, and she often took full advantage of it. For Abigail’s sake, Stella opened the letter without delay and read it aloud: “Dear Miss Sundae, “Please forgive my forwardness, for you do not know me. I located your name and address by consulting the Register of Deeds office in your area. My name is Thomas Matthews, and I am a retired theologian dabbling in archeology during my retirement. Religious artifacts are my specialty. “For some time now, I’ve been involved in the research of an item we, in the field, refer to as Peter’s Crucifix. I’ve always believed this piece to be the figment of someone’s overactive imagination, until recently, that is. Due to information I’ve gathered, I now have to rethink my original theory. “Forgive my rambling! Let me get to the point of my writing. I believe the artifact is located somewhere on your newly acquired property. I had no success in contacting the previous tenants, but I’ve since discovered they passed. “I am wondering if I might impose on your hospitality for a short time in order to further my investigation. Please let me assure you that you will be well compensated for the intrusion. I will explain in more detail if you will consider my proposal. “Please telephone me at your earliest convenience to let me know what you think. This could be quite the adventure! I’m anxious to speak to you. “Sincerely, “Thomas Matthews” Stella paused to reflect and said, “Well! Just what do you make of that?” “You don’t think it’s a hoax, do you, Stella? There’s a whole lot of kooks out there. But then he’s preacher so I guess he can be trusted,” Abigail said, answering her own question. “He’s a retired theologian, which I believe is a bit different than preaching from a pulpit,” Stella replied. “And, no, I don’t think it’s a hoax. What point would there be?” She collected her cane and struggled to her feet. “I’ll phone him right away. Let’s see … his number should be here somewhere. Yes, here it is at the top of the letter. Perhaps he can arrive as early as tomorrow. In any event, this should be quite interesting. Don’t you think so?” “So, you’re going ahead with this then?” “I don’t see any reason not too. Really, Abigail, do you think I’d pass up the chance to be involved in a real, honest-to-goodness mystery? I can’t imagine anything I’d enjoy more!” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Thomas Matthews was expected around dinner time of the following day. Abigail spent most of the day in anticipation of his arrival, busying herself cleaning, dusting, and generally picking up after the clutter that was created from Stella rifling through small boxes stacked in one bedroom. Determined to provide their guest with a good, home-cooked dinner, Abigail took great pains to prepare the evening meal. At exactly 5:30 on the evening Thomas Matthews was expected, Abigail opened the door to a slightly bald, middle-aged, pleasant-looking man of medium height, whose stature closely resembled the huge bulging briefcase he carried. Much to her delight, here was a man who enjoyed eating. Abigail showed Thomas Matthews to the sitting room where Stella waited excitedly, and retreated to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. Stella’s normally pale, ashen complexion sparkled anew with a pink blush. “Do make yourself comfortable, Mr. Matthews,” she said, pointing to a huge velvety chair which sat next to a fireplace. The hearth was mellow with amber, glistening wood coals; its warm glow weaved stealthily throughout the room, subtly infecting the occupants with an aura of suspense. “I can barely wait to hear all about this! Yes, I believe this will be the most excitement I’ve had in months. Years, more like it. I believe the last time was when … well, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that.” She waved her arm back and forth through the air as if trying to erase the last few statements she had made. “Tell me more about this … what was it you called it?” “Right to the point of the matter! Yes, I like that in a person. Peter’s Crucifix is what it’s called. And, please, call me Thomas. Would it bother you if I smoked?” Thomas Matthews reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a mighty cigar, and waited for a reply. “I don’t mind myself, but I must warn you that you may be subjected to one very lengthy lecture when Abigail gets wind of it, and she surely will! But you mustn’t mind her. She means well.” Thomas laughed heartily and lit the cigar, puffing zestfully. “I could do with a good, stern thrashing about my stogies. I shouldn’t be smoking at all, I don’t mind telling you. Bad heart, hypertension, all that. I suppose I’ll just keel over dead one day and that will be that.” “Goodness gracious,” Stella said, not knowing how to reply. “Now, don’t go worrying yourself over me. Not the least bit worth it, I promise you,” he laughed, and then coughed spasmodically. “Yes, it’s the strangest thing, this crucifix. Supposed to be nothing quite like it in all the world. I’ve spent half my life researching this thing, mostly to discredit its authenticity. Got tired of my colleagues harping about it, you see. Now I believe that I may have been wrong.” “And you think it’s somewhere in our house? How do you suppose that could be?” “Not necessarily in the house, but somewhere on the property. I’m almost certain of it. I don’t suppose you’ve had much of a chance to study the history of this place. You realize, don’t you, that this house is nearly two hundred years old?” “No, I hadn’t realized! We haven’t lived here very long, as you know. I’d have thought it may have been nearly one hundred years old, but not two. It certainly is well preserved for its age. Don’t you think?” “Oh, I do, I do! Very intriguing history, I might add. Up to the point of your occupancy, the property remained the possession of one particular family – over generations, of course – a family of strong Catholic origins. I’ve gathered a fair amount of evidence to support my theory that the crucifix was brought into this country by the first generation of immigrants. How they happened to have the artifact I don’t know, but I’m convinced they did. Journals and diaries unearthed over the years substantiate that fact. I don’t believe that subsequent generations were ever made aware that the crucifix even existed. It’s almost as if the thing was meant never to be found.” “This crucifix … is it very valuable?” “Oh, extremely! According to legend, it represents the very groundwork of Catholicism. You see, Catholic doctrine is based on the belief that the apostle, Peter, was the very first Pope, so to speak, ordained by Jesus Christ, Himself. The belief is the basis on which the Catholic Church has built its structure over the years. So, you see the significance the crucifix would have.” “Yes, that’s all very interesting, but I was thinking more in terms of … well … monetary value,” Stella said embarrassingly. Thomas laughed heartily and said, “Sinfully valuable it is! Priceless in every way. Solid gold, studded with one enormous ruby and twelve 14-carat diamonds, one blue, ten white, and one black – probably to depict the twelve original apostles, with the black one most likely representing Judas Iscariot. Here …” He bent down to open his swollen suitcase. “I have a drawing of it. It really is quite magnificent. That is, if we can trust the artist’s rendition, which I believe we can. Ah! Yes, here it is.” He handed her the drawing. Stella studied the drawing. It was, indeed, spectacular. Haunting also. The sketch portrayed the apostle Peter hanging crucified, upside-down, his face contorted in a contradictory fusion of indescribable agony and bliss. The ruby was seated in his forehead, the single blue diamond at his heart. Ten white diamonds were scattered uniformly about the cross, and the black stone was positioned at the bottom, horribly surrounded by what one would imagine were the flames of Hell. Stella was speechless. “There is one little catch to this whole thing,” Thomas said, interrupting her captivation. “Oh?” was all that Stella could manage by way of an answer, still totally mesmerized by the drawing. “Yes. You see, I’m quite certain the artifact is here. Where, exactly, is the problem. It wouldn’t do to go digging up the whole place, now would it?” Thomas peered at Stella auspiciously, clutching to the insipid idea that she might actually suggest overturning every inch of ground in hopes of finding the crucifix. “No, that certainly wouldn’t be kind to the flower beds,” she answered instead, shattering his not-so-sensible illusion. Stella reluctantly handed the sketch back to him. “I do have something,” Thomas sighed with resign. “It’s not that we have to be going about this blindly. There are clues. Not so easy to crack, though.” “Clues?” Stella straightened. Clues intrigued her. Clues denoted mystery. “Ah! I see I’ve got your interest. Excellent. A fresh set of eyes and all that. Perhaps you may be able to see what we have been unable to.” “And that is?” she asked, inching forward in her chair. “Let me show you this.” Thomas bent down once again, in obvious discomfort due to his too-tight belt, and flipped through the pages in his briefcase. He retrieved a document and handed it to Stella. “Why, these are Bible passages,” she said. “Indeed they are,” Thomas concurred. Stella read the passages aloud, very slowly, her mind swirling with possible, but improbable, solutions. Revelation 1:7,1 Revelation 6:12,8 Revelation 3:18,8 Revelation 9:19,4 Revelation 11:8,7 Revelation 13:18,10 Revelation 21:14,9 Revelation 22:18,11 Revelation 11:13,2 Revelation 2:22,8 “Yes, Bible passages. Ten of them,” Thomas said, but I’ve been frustratingly unable to make any sense of them. They seem to be randomly patterned, yet the passages could mean something in relation to its content. Trying to decipher this has been a humbling experience, more so because I’m a theologian.” “You’re certain these are clues of some sort?” “Yes, quite certain. The diaries found with the sketch confirm those passages as being clues to the whereabouts of the crucifix. The clues were found in an old King James Bible which, incidentally, is how we came to trace the family. The genealogy record was explicit and thorough.” “But surely if you haven’t been able to solve the puzzle, I certainly won’t be able to,” Stella frowned, feeling completely inadequate. “Well, I was thinking … you live here. You know the lay of the land, so to speak, and I don’t. Something, perhaps a concept, might be relevant to you, whereas it wouldn’t be to me. Do you see what I mean?” “Yes, I understand, but you have to remember that I’ve only lived here for a short time. Granted, I’ve done a fair share of poking around, but …” Stella shook her head skeptically. “I just don’t know, but I certainly will try. This is something of an adventure for me, you know?” Her face brightened with anticipation. “Well, there it is. I’ve told you everything I know about it. Nothing left to do but find it.” Abigail entered the room and announced that dinner was ready and on the table. Not often does occasion call for the necessity of preparing large quantities of food. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and other family gatherings, certainly, but not a three-person meal. Tonight was an exception. Between Abigail and Thomas, Stella could not determine which of the two consumed the most food. It seemed they could not bear the idea that one morsel be conscientiously ignored. Pounds of mashed potatoes, a large gravy boat brimming with velvety sauce, green beans (which Stella thought looked rather overcooked and stringy), peas (Abigail’s favorite), and slice after golden slice of baked turkey disappeared faster than ice in a hot frying pan. Afterward, Stella and Thomas sat in the living room, enjoying coffee (and he a cigar), and recapped the clues to the whereabouts of the elusive crucifix. Stella requested a copy of the Bible passages just to look over in the event she had trouble falling asleep that night, and Thomas gave her one of the extra copies he’d brought with him. The conversation then turned to sleeping arrangements. “I hope you don’t mind sleeping in a bedroom in which someone has … ahem … passed on,” Stella said to Thomas. “There are three bedrooms downstairs, and those are all we’ve managed to make livable in the short time we’ve been here. Abigail refuses to sleep in that room, and she fussed so when I suggested that I sleep there. Some silly superstition she believes about bad things happening in sets of three. I suppose the notion evolved from that old three-on-a-match tale or something similar. No, I believe that had something to do with predicting imminent motherhood. Well, that’s not important. I do go on sometimes. In any case, the room is quite pleasant.” Thomas Matthews appeared to be somewhat uncomfortable. “If you don’t think me too inconsiderate,” he announced, “I think I’d like to retire shortly. I am rather tired, what with traveling and all. A bit of indigestion too I think. I get it frequently.” No wonder, Stella thought, remembering how much food he ate at dinner. Stella showed him to his room without delay and pointed out its peculiarities. Heavy, intricately carved oak furniture sat about, gleaming and majestic, amazingly untouched by time and wear. The eccentricity shared by each bedroom in the house was that all of the furniture was appendage-free and solidly fixed to the floor. None of the fixtures were able to be moved. “I tried to find out if houses fashioned with stationary furniture were common around the time the home was built, but never received a practical answer,” Stella explained. “There were many opinions, one being the fear of tornadoes, but I don’t think there are many tornadoes in this part of the state.” Thomas Matthews assured her that he was not in the least worried about tornadoes or other weather calamities that might carry him away in his sleep. “But, look at this over here,” Stella whispered to him with the excitement of a child who was about to reveal a new-found secret. “See that door over there?” She jabbed her finger toward one wall. “Go ahead, open it! Open it and see for yourself!” Thomas eyed Stella curiously, but decided it would be best to just humor her. He walked over to the door, grasped the doorknob, and tugged. “What the …?” Stella chuckled and said, “”It doesn’t go anywhere, does it? It opens to a brick wall! There’s one door like that in every bedroom of the house.” “What do you suppose is the purpose?” asked Thomas, peering at the bricked-up doorway. “I don’t know,” she giggled, “but I intend to find out. I told you I liked a good mystery. I’d say that door qualifies, don’t you?” “I’d say it does,” Thomas said, running his palms over the wall. Abigail popped in briefly to make certain that all was in order and to leave a small assortment of freshly laundered towels. When she opened the bureau drawer to deposit the linen, a small black spider greeted her with startling boldness. Four things happened in rapid succession. The towels were propelled high into the air, accompanied by the expulsion of high-pitched squealing; the spider emerged from the drawer and dropped to the floor; Abigail danced wildly around the room, arms flailing in an effort, apparently, to avoid being trampled by the atrocious insect; and Thomas Matthews wrenched a shoe from his foot and beat the spider mercilessly until it was squashed beyond recognition. Stella stood quietly by, both hands resting on her cane, and stifled an overpowering urge to guffaw wildly. Once the spider had been ferociously escorted into the afterlife, Thomas and Abigail calmed down and rehashed their narrow escape from the hideous beast lying wait in the bureau drawer. Stella was mildly amused to discover that Thomas hated spiders as much as Abigail did, but then retreated from the room, leaving the two chattering about their hate of all insects and the details leading to the spider’s demise. Stella retired to her own bedroom, pulled down a King James Bible from the bookshelf, laid out the Bible passages Thomas had given to her, and set to work. Turning directly to the Book of Revelation, she searched for the first passage on the list of clues. Revelation, Chapter One: verses seven and one. Her hand trembled slightly as her finger scanned the page for verse seven. Behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him, and they …” Clouds? Clouds were everywhere. Outside, under the clouds, perhaps? A particular type of cloud? Perhaps simply referring to an outdoor object sitting under the sky … on the ground. Stella sat back against her propped-up pillows and sighed, pondering what it might mean. Unable to make a connection, her attention shifted to verse one. THE Revelation of Jesus Christ, which …” Revelation. How appropriate, she thought. The revealing of something, in this case the hiding place of the gold crucifix. She wished she’d armed herself with a full pot of coffee before making an attempt at deciphering the clues. Stella moaned in frustration. She’d fleetingly hoped the meaning of the clues would become immediately obvious to her. For the first time in many a year, she had no desire to prolong the anticipation that shrouded a mystery. Revelation, Chapter Six, verses twelve and eight were the next passages to be inspected. She read over verse twelve two times, and moved on to verse eight. Why, she wondered, were the verses listed in reverse chronological order in each reference? Could there be a reason? She checked over the list to see if all the verse references were patterned in the same way. They were. She was certain, now, that the pattern was important. But in what way? Long into the night she worked, never coming closer to the solution than when she’d started. Feeling utterly wretched, and more than incompetent, she decided to put the matter to rest for the night. She’d read all of the scriptures on the list enough times to almost have memorized each one, but she still had not one flicker of understanding as to what each one inferred. Weary and disappointed, she turned off her bedside lamp and settled down to what promised to be a restless night. Thomas Matthews was having a restless night of his own. He’d been tossing around in his bed, teetering miserably between sleep and wakefulness, thanks to indigestion and mild stomach cramps. Breathing was becoming more difficult – another unpleasant result of overeating and too many cigars. Tomorrow, he promised himself, I’m going to quit smoking and go on a diet. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Dinner the previous night was a complete fiasco compared to the next morning’s breakfast. Unaware that Thomas had vowed to start dieting, Abigail prepared an enormous feast. Four different types of pancakes – apple, peach, blueberry, and plain – were being kept warm in a low oven. The usual pork sausages, bacon, and scrambled eggs accompanied the ensemble of flapjacks, along with two newly added breakfast dishes: home-fried potatoes and scrapple. Abigail bustled about the kitchen, cheerfully tending to the business of keeping the household well fed. Upon drowsily entering the kitchen, Stella marched to the coffee pot and sluggishly equipped herself with a mug full of coffee. Robe-clad and barefooted, with uncombed silvery white hair strewn haggardly about her face, Stella plopped down onto a kitchen chair and grumbled something about revelations of any kind being best left to God, Almighty. Abigail turned from the stove to look at Stella and said, “Well, if you aren’t a sight! I guess you forgot that we have a guest in the house? What do you think Thomas Matthews would think if he walked in here right now and saw you sitting there like that?” “Goodness gracious! He’d probably think I looked like some grizzly old witch from one of his childhood fairy tales but I doubt he’d have the ill manners to say so. Goodness gracious!” Stella murmured. “What was that you just mumbled? I can’t understand a thing you’re saying … oh, for heaven’s sake! You don’t even have your teeth in!” This is the weakest coffee I’ve ever tasted,” Stella sputtered peevishly, ignoring Abigail’s reprimand. She was always a bit irritable in the mornings, especially before she’d had her first cup of coffee, but today she was more cantankerous than usual and she was in no mood for bickering. She collected her cane and coffee mug and headed for the tranquility of the breakfast nook. Once comfortably settled in, Stella gazed out the window and scanned the area for something that would make a perfect hiding place for the elusive crucifix. There was a weathered old wishing well sitting by an oak tree near one corner of the yard. She wondered how long it had been there. There was no evidence that it had received any kind of attention for many years, as the stone base was crumbling and overgrown with creeping vines that promised to obscure it from existence before long. A tiny gravestone, the inscription faded and worn away, was nestled in among a tangle of holly bushes that were in serious need of trimming. There was no doubt that the plants had been ignored for a very long time. Stray, unkempt branches stretched out, shrouding the headstone in an array of vibrant green foliage that signaled the approaching winter months. Stella assumed a beloved family pet rested beneath the stone. She didn’t believe anything else would be buried there, even though she knew there was a time when it was not uncommon for a stillborn baby to be entombed somewhere on the property rather than the family enlisting the services of a mortician. She doubted the crucifix would be so obviously obscured. Still, she supposed it was possible. But there was something else that Stella believed held great promise as a hiding place. A life-sized statue resembling a figure from ancient Biblical times sat squarely in the center of the yard in front of a twelve-foot high, ten-foot wide tree that she believed to be a Rose of Sharon. Its red, cup-shaped flowers were in full bloom, providing a spectacular backdrop for the weathered sculpture. The significant difference between this tree and other plants and bushes in the yard was that it had been well cared for. There was no sign of neglect. Stella had barely gotten herself seated in an appropriate position for serious contemplation when a hideous scream bellowed out from the far end of the hallway. The coffee mug slipped from her hand and fell to the hardwood floor, breaking into large chunks of sharp, jagged shards. She forced herself to retain her composure as she pulled herself up from her chair and hurried as fast as she could out into the corridor. Try as she did, Stella could not make her stiffened, age-weary legs move as fast as she would have liked. Now she heard nothing but silence. One horrible scream and then nothing but insufferable silence. Breathless and frightened, Stella turned the corner at the end of the hallway and stepped through the opened door to Thomas Matthews’ bedroom. Abigail stood by the bed with both hands held tightly against her stomach, her face sallow and listless. She stared solemnly at the dormant body lying lifeless on the bed. Stella staggered to Abigail’s side, shaking from exertion and too breathless to speak. Abigail muttered the only words her mind considered sensible under the circumstances. “Stella … I think there’s going to be a lot of food left over from breakfast today.” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * “We’ll know more after the autopsy has been performed,” John McNulty, County Coroner, said to Stella. He was a tall, hollow-eyed creature who spoke in slow, monotonous syllables. Everything about the man was leisurely and lackadaisical except for his wildly maniacal red hair. “Looks to me like a heart attack. Probably didn’t feel a thing. Just went to sleep and never woke up again. Happens like that sometimes. To the lucky ones, anyway.” Two burly medical assistants were lifting the body of Thomas Matthews onto a canvas litter to be carried out to a waiting ambulance. They went about their business in a calm, unaffected manner, each one making their own personal assumptions as to which baseball team would win the World Series in a few weeks. Stella tried not to watch as she spoke to the coroner. “I believe Thomas did say something in passing … oh, my … what a poor choice of words … about having heart problems. It’s difficult, right now, to think straight and remember exactly. I … we … knew so very little about him, actually. We’d only met yesterday and …” Stella tried to explain the circumstances leading to Thomas Matthews visit, but the words were coming out all jumbled up. “No need to go on,” McNulty said, “your roommate filled me in. Took awhile to sort out what she was saying, though. We’ll need to take his personal effects, for identification and all that. Relatives have to be notified. Mention any relatives? Well. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure we’ll find something in the way of clues as to next of kin when we go through his belongings.” Stella cringed slightly at the mention of the word clues. If not for clues, Thomas Matthews would not have contacted her about the treasured crucifix. If not for clues, he would have died somewhere else, certainly not in her home. Death was such an inconsiderate guest. Stella suddenly felt ashamed for wishing the poor man had been more selective with his departure, as if he’d had a choice. The coroner left soon after Thomas Matthews’ body was removed from the house. Stella, still somewhat shaken from the morning’s events, went to the kitchen for coffee. She found Abigail sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her prayerfully folded hands and sobbing quietly. “Funny how things happen, you know?” Abigail said. Stella found the incident not in the least bit funny and told Abigail as much. “You know what I mean,” Abigail said. “Him being what he was. You’d think the Lord would have seen fit to let him stay down here a bit longer than most. He wasn’t an old man. Heaven knows, there’s tons of people I know who deserve to die and they just go on living like there’s no tomorrow. No tomorrow for Thomas Matthews.” Stella softened a bit and whispered, “No. No tomorrow for Thomas Matthews.” She filled her cup with coffee and sat at the table across from Abigail. She knew Abigail needed to talk, to somehow make sense of what happened. “Last night, after you went to your room,” Abigail continued, “him and me got to talking. He got to quoting some of his favorite Bible passages to me. Quoting them, Stella, not reading them. He had all those verses memorized. But not one single word out of all those verses kept him from dying, did it? No, not one word. A man like him has got to be in Heaven right now, I’m sure. Can’t argue with the Lord, I guess. When your time is up … well, your time is up and that’s all there is to it. Don’t you think so, Stella?” Abigail looked up when no answer came and glanced about the kitchen. “Stella?” Stella had gone swiftly to her bedroom somewhere toward the middle of Abigail’s remarks. Her thoughts spun expectantly as she remembered what she’d found on a shelf in the closet of her bedroom very shortly after moving in. She’d put the old King James Bible she’d found out of her mind and set it back on the shelf because she hadn’t had the time to properly read through the previous owners’ family genealogy that was recorded in the first few pages. Now, she pulled it down from the shelf and laid it on her writing desk. She was almost positive that all King James Bibles had exactly the same text, but she wanted to be absolutely certain the Bible she referenced was one that had been in the family for generations. Something Abigail had mentioned clicked in Stella’s mind. Words. That’s what Abigail had said. Something about words. Single words. Words were the keys to understanding the clues to find the crucifix. Not verses, not concepts … words. Stella retrieved a sheet of stationary and a pencil from the desk drawer, and set to work once again, this time confident she was on the right track. Revelation 1:7,1. The first word of Chapter One, Verse Seven of the Book of Revelation. “Behold.” She wrote the word down on her paper and quickly turned to the second reference on the list of clues. Revelation 6:12,8. “And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was ...” She carefully counted to find the eighth word in the verse: the. She scribbled the word on the paper. Stella paused briefly and inhaled deeply. She was becoming far more excited than was reasonably good for her. The third reference was Revelation 3:18,8. “I counsel thee to buy of me gold tried in the fire ...” She jotted down the eighth word and read what she’d written so far. Behold the gold. She was right! As she collected the pertinent word from each verse, Stella mused over how easy it was to decipher a riddle when it was stripped of man-made complexity. She, as did Thomas Matthews, expected the clues to be much more complicated, almost impossible to decipher. Indeed, the answer to the puzzle was simple and direct, and the clues were most likely compiled in a straightforward manner to purposely lead a person in the wrong direction. So like humanity, Stella thought, to perceive things much more muddled than they actually were. It took her twenty minutes to complete the answer. It was now perfectly clear to Stella why certain items in the house were constructed as they were, for they were meant never to be altered. She read the sentence aloud. “Behold, the gold is in the foundations of the bed.” A bed that had been built solidly attached to the floor, impossible to be moved unless torn from its foundation. But which bed? Had she been sleeping these past weeks on top of a literal fortune? Thomas Matthews’ bed perhaps? How ironic it would be had he slept his last sleep lying upon the very thing he’d sought for so long. And how sad. Not bothering to dress, Stella went directly to the bedroom Thomas Matthews had slept in. She had to start somewhere. On her way, she called out to Abigail to bring a hammer, a crowbar, and a flashlight to the bedroom, and be quick about it. When Abigail entered the bedroom, she found Stella laboriously attempting to pull the mattress from the bed. “What on earth?” Abigail gasped and commanded Stella to stop before she hurt herself. “I’ve found it,” Stella said, trying to explain to her befuddled companion. “Behold! The gold is in the foundations of the bed!” “What?” “I really haven’t the energy or the patience to explain all the details,” Stella insisted. “We’re going to remove the slats from the bed frame. Now, let’s get started.” “Whaaat?” Abigail repeated. “Pry them up!” Stella shouted, waving her cane in the air much in the same way Moses might have done when parting the Red Sea with his staff raised high. Abigail shook her head distrustfully, convinced that her friend had lost her mind. She decided that indulging Stella for the moment would be the wisest course of action. Abigail removed the mattress and box spring from the bed. Underneath, six-inch-wide wooden slats, nails missing in places, were lying loosely against each other to form the surface on which the box spring had rested. “That’s what we’re looking for,” Stella said, her head bobbing up and down. “Now, pry up one of those slats. I’m guessing there’s a hollow area between the slats and the floor. Let’s see if I’ve gotten lucky and picked the right bed.” She acknowledged the bewildered expression on Abigail’s face by adding, “No, I haven’t gone crazy. You’ll see when you’ve removed a few of those slats. What we may find will be beyond description.” Stella’s words proved to be dreadfully accurate. When the third slat was removed and the beam of the flashlight aimed down through the narrow crevice, the sight was more than words could describe. Hundreds … thousands … of shiny black spiders flurried about erratically … one huge black pulsating mass of venomous fury, agitated to the point of madness due to the bright glare of the flashlight. Out of the foundations they came with horrifying speed, frantically pouring out into the room. Unable to find her voice, Abigail dropped the flashlight and fainted to the floor. Stella staggered backward, wide-eyed and astonished, as her cane fell from her hands. The spiders continued to rush from the bed, quickly covering the floor in a blanket of black. A thin gleam of light temporarily blinded Stella as she said one quick prayer and dropped to her knees in an effort to escape the assault. A few minutes later, the conflict was over. Once again, with infallible accuracy, the usual order of things flourished. The biggest and strongest inevitably triumphed over the smaller and weaker. And sometimes size had nothing in common with the victor. One week later, Abigail and Coroner McNulty sat in the living room, in solemn awe of all that had happened. “The results of the autopsy were nothing like I’d expected,” McNulty said to Abigail. Imagine how shocked we were to find that Thomas Matthews’ heart attack was brought on by the venom of black widow spiders. The venom hardly ever kills anyone, you know. Only those with advanced heart problems and, unfortunately, the elderly.” Abigail flinched involuntarily, remembering the spiders pouring out from the bedstead. “You’re sure all of those things are gone?” “Yes, but if not for her, you might not be alive today. One or two bites probably wouldn’t have done much harm, but there were thousands of them things. Not that you can blame the spiders too much. They were only acting defensively. Black widow spiders don’t go around attacking people. They’re really shy and try to stay out of sight for the most part.” “It was horrible!” Abigail said. “Lucky you came back to the house when you did. Who knows what might have happened? Me with a bad knock on the head. And Stella! Lying there on the lawn with a broken leg from falling down the porch steps! We both might still be lying there!” “Well, I tried to phone after I noticed those funny looking bite marks on Matthews,” McNulty said, brushing a tiny speck of lint from the arm of the chair, “but, as you know, no one answered the phone.” “Yes,” Abigail sighed. “Good thing you hurried back.” “For the life of me, though,” he said, “I can’t figure out how that frail old woman got you both out of the house. She looks like she doesn’t have the strength to lift a cup of tea!” “I don’t know how she did it,” Abigail confessed. “I’m not sure she knows how she did it. But she did. Thank God for that.” Thanking God was exactly what Stella Sundae was doing at the moment as she lay in her bed, studying the exquisitely designed crucifix lying on her lap. She would, as soon as she was properly able to, turn the artifact over to the organization that funded Thomas Matthews’ research. Her bed was positioned in such a way as to enable her to gaze out the window and contemplate the wonders of life. Wonderment such as how she managed to find the strength to drag Abigail to safety. Fright-induced adrenalin? Coincidence? Power of prayer, perhaps. Stella spotted a small grey squirrel scurrying down a tree. It glanced back and forth to make sure there were no rivals lurking about, and ran toward an acorn lying on the ground. No sooner had it done so, another squirrel joined the chase and the dispute began. Thank God to be back to the usual order of things, she thought, smiling. After all she’d been through, one would think Stella Sundae would have had her fill of mysteries, but an evocative question refused to allow her peace of mind, and she was determined to find the answer as soon as she was fully recuperated. What was the reason for all those doors that opened to solid brick walls?