Collaboration 1, part 7

[BL] 

“I need to get into a safe deposit box,” she said, unable to shake the nerves of anticipation. 

“Right over there,” the woman said, pointing to a desk at the end of the row of tellers. “Marcie can help you out.” 

“Thanks,” Vega said, giving the woman one last lingering look before crossing the room.
Marcie, a dinosaur at fortyish compared with all the other tellers, looked up from where she was tapping away at a computer behind the desk. Her gray eyes looked up over a pair of gaudy green-framed reading glasses with an inquisitional stare. Vega wondered what kind of punishment she could be in for if it turned out this was the wrong bank or if the box rental was no longer properly paid up. 

Vega held up the key Grandma had left like an admission ticket. “Need to get into a safe box.” 

“Certainly,” Marcie said, her voice and demeanor suddenly a great deal less intimidating as she hopped up from her seat. “Number?” 

“One ninety-eight,” Vega said, handing over the key to the woman’s outstretched hand. 

“Right this way.” Marcie led her back behind the desk and through a nondescript door beyond which was a second, heavily armored door swung wide open. Beyond, in a more dimly lit room, were several hundred safe boxes lining the walls of the walk-in safe. Unhesitatingly, the woman walked to about halfway through the room, withdrew a second key from under her shirtsleeve where it resided on a pink, coiled bungee, and slid both keys home into one of the medium-sized boxes. With practiced ease, she opened the door and withdrew a closed metal box about the size her new running shoes had come in and placed it on the island counter in the middle of the room. 

“Let me know when you’re done and I’ll close it back up for you,” Marcie said with a polite smile and took her leave.

Moment of truth, Vega thought to herself as she stared down at the cold, steel box. What secrets had Grandma hidden away inside this unassuming little container? It had no latch, only a simple hinged lid, and it opened smooth and quiet. 

Inside the box were two items – a rolled up old plastic grocery bag and a weathered manila envelope suitably sized for legal documents. Vega picked up the plastic bag and could tell there was something about the size of a Twinkie inside, firm but not heavy. She carefully unrolled the bag and withdrew what appeared to be little more than a wad of dried grass and leaves, tightly bound with longer strips of grass and reed. It had a slightly herbal scent to it, but she was at a loss to explain what it was. 

Hoping for more answers, she returned the grassy object back into the bag and withdrew the envelope. This felt like it contained at least a hundred sheets of paper judging by the thickness and way it flexed. She unwound the string binding it closed and let a well-worn book slide out into her hands. It looked for all the world like one of the old church fundraising cookbooks her mom collected, with its orange card-stock covers and amateur plastic spiral binding. The title was clearly done with an old typewriter, but the words were utter gibberish. 

Affixed to the cover was a stickie note: “Vega or Isabelle, burn the herbs and inhale before trying to read. Love, Grandma.” 

Who the fuck is Isabelle?