It was. I turned on my hall light, locked the door behind me, reset the alarm, and quickly went around the house shutting blinds and pulling curtains closed. Only then did I feel comfortable turning on other lights. I put the food in the fridge and took off my jacket, anxious to open the package.

I sat down at the kitchen table and inspected the package more closely. It was definitely old. Although originally well-sealed, the yellowed tape along the edges had come away from the cardboard and it looked as if it had been opened once or twice since the original sealing. I pulled back on the cardboard and found something rectangular wrapped in butcher paper, but not taped. Obviously a book, it was about twelve inches long, by eight inches wide. What struck me was its thickness—almost five inches.

Enough suspense. I took off the paper, only to reveal a plumber's manual. A 1933 updated edition, no less. To say I felt let down would be putting it mildly. I was expecting something other than that. Anything other than that. Something old and ornate, or something with obvious value.

Then I stopped. 1933. I had assumed all along, due mostly to Izzy's questions about my grandfather, that whatever was going on had to do with him. But my grandfather would have only been about thirteen in 1933. Could this have actually come from my great-grandfather?

I opened the book, more out of frustration than curiosity, and suddenly it all became clear. The book was hollowed out! In the hollow space was a yellowed letter-size envelope. It had once been sealed, but over the years most of the glue had disappeared. There were two small spots that had remained connected, but it looked as if someone had pulled them apart. Had someone else opened it? I carefully opened the envelope, dumping the meager contents on the table. There were a total of three paper items, two of which were so fragile I was afraid to unfold them. The third was a small postcard-sized paper from an art gallery in Fairfield, Iowa, called the Simpson Gallery, acknowledging receipt of a painting by Lando Ford on loan. It said it was loaned by a Bruce Honeycutt. My great-grandfather?

That made no sense at all. Fairfield, Iowa? Where the hell was Fairfield, Iowa, and why would my great-grandfather have gone there? And who was Lando Ford?

Next I unfolded a hand-written letter. Robert, There were three of us involved… I stopped.

Already I could tell that it was going to make as little sense as the other paper, so I put it down and unfolded the final piece of paper. It was actually two pages. A newspaper article from the New York Times from May 2, 1933:

Art Thieves Raid Brooklyn Museum ~ Ten Old Masters, Eight From Friedsam Collection, Taken During Week-End ~ World Alarm Is Sent Out ~ Dangling Rope Is Left By The Invaders ~ Fingerprints Of Two Found On Window