Strongbox by Simon Sharpe

prompt: tiny sparks flew

Why would anybody have a box with no key? I’d tried everything. Maybe Harry could help.

When I phoned he said, “Bring it in and I’ll take a look.”

His garage smelled of solvent and tires and needed a coat of paint. But it was clean, organized, and had no girly pics. He’d always looked me in the eye and never any lower. When Honda told me I’d needed a new exhaust, Harry had welded it back together for thirty bucks.

I hefted Oma’s strongbox up onto his counter.

He examined it closely. “This was your grandma’s?”

I nodded. “Found it in her basement.” 

“It’s an ammunition box, maybe World War Two. This padlock though, I haven’t seen one like it. That shackle is case-hardened.” He pointed to the lock. “The way the shoulders come up here, you couldn’t get bolt cutters onto it anyway.”

“So you can’t open it?”

“Hang on, Missy. I didn’t say that.”

I raised my eyebrows hopefully.

He turned it over. “Angle grinder might do the trick. It’s not the right tool for the job, will ruin that fancy lock. Sure she didn't have a key?”

“She had lots of keys, but none of them fit.”

He lifted the box “Come back into the bay.”

I followed him and he set it on his bench, offered me a pair of safety glasses. As I put them on he rubbed his hands together. “Think there is gold in here?”

“You’ve driven by my grandma’s place, right?”

“Yeah, there is that. Maybe a live hand grenade? Photos from when she was a chorus girl?”

“Oma was a clerk in the War Department. Really, your guess is as good as mine.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” He lowered his visor and spun the grinder up. A shower of tiny sparks flew to the floor as the wheel ground through the shackle.

I must have reached forward because he said, “Don’t touch. It’ll be hot”

He set the grinder down and, with leather gloves, grasped the lock and rotated it out. “Shame to wreck it,”  he said, tossing it into the can.

He lifted the box and headed for the front office

I asked, “How much do I owe you?”

Harry paused, setting it on the counter. Considered for a moment. “Tell you what, open it right here and you owe me nothing.”

“Fair enough.” I swung the lid open. 

There were some papers and a black flip-top box. Like for a collector coin. I flipped the lid. Some kind of medal, a silver cross hanging on a blue and silver ribbon. Inside the lid it said “Distinguished Service Cross, Captain Opal Zelenko.”

Harry’s eyebrows went up. “Opal was a Captain?”

I shrugged and set the medal down.  Started with the papers. On top was a letter titled "Official Secrets Act.”

Harry leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think your Oma was just a clerk in the War Department.

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Simon Sharpe has published three short stories, one of which is in CBC's Alberta Anthology.