Berried to the Hilt (16 page)

“Any luck?” I asked as I closed the kitchen door behind me. The air was tangy with salt, pine resin, and a hint of wood smoke from somewhere on the island. I could tell from the spring in the archaeologist’s step that their outing had likely been a success.

“The lift bags came in this morning,” said Molly, eyes bright, “and we did manage to bring something up. But I’ll only tell you if you’ll promise to keep it under your hat.”

“I promise,” I said.

Molly turned to Matilda and me. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course!” said Matilda. “And if you have time, it’ll be low tide in an hour; we could go check out Smuggler’s Cove!”

“I almost forgot!” Molly said. “That sounds great. And the water’s calm today, so that should make it easier to get in. I can’t wait to see it!”

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid it will be a bit disappointing.”

“Why?”

“It’s simply a cave that formed at the base of the cliff, and it’s got a few subterranean rooms,” Matilda said with a shrug. “Anything that used to be kept there is gone, but there are some old iron rings buried in the stone, for tying up boats. I’ve tried to date them, but I haven’t had any luck. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“You never know—maybe with a close examination, something will turn up,” Molly said, her voice cheerful. “Do you think the cove earned its name?” she asked.

“It’s common knowledge that the cove was used for smuggling liquor during Prohibition. But legend has it pirates also used to use it as a hideout—and perhaps even a place to hide their treasure.” Matilda glanced at her watch. “We’ve got a little bit of time. Why don’t we take a look at what we pulled up first?”

“I’ve got some muffins in the oven, but I’ll ask John to take them out when the timer buzzes,” I said.

Once I’d enlisted John’s assistance with the muffins, we followed Molly down to the dock and climbed into the dinghy after her. The face of her enormous watch caught the sunlight as she reached to pull the cord to the motor.

“That is the biggest watch I’ve ever seen,” said Matilda, echoing my thoughts. “It must weigh a ton.”

Molly held up her arm. “It’s much more than a watch, actually—it’s my dive computer. It keeps track of my time down, my oxygen, the time and duration of all my dives … it’s like my second brain. It keeps me safe.”

“Handy,” I said.

“I never dive without it,” she said, yanking at the starter. The motor started on the first try. We crossed the short stretch of water in less than a minute, and soon were boarding the
Ira B
.

“It’s kind of Spartan,” she said, and I had to agree with her. The
Ira B
was a small vessel, and the wheelhouse, which was the only ‘room’ on the boat, was cluttered with gear, including scuba tanks, big plastic tubs, and bright orange lift bags. Carl was standing at a worktable, bent over a large, rusty object and carefully chipping away at it with a chisel. He looked up and frowned when he saw me. “What are they doing here?”

“I wanted to show them what we found,” said Molly.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” asked Carl, eyeing me with suspicion. He hadn’t forgotten that I’d mentioned his death threat to the investigators. I felt my cheeks getting warm, and looked away from him. My gaze was drawn to the lift bags. They looked exactly like the one I’d seen under Molly’s bed.

“Everyone’s going to know soon enough anyway,” Molly said. “And Iliad already has the R/V with the submersible and the sonar here. What do we have to lose?”

He sighed. “You’re right, I suppose.”

“Well, then. You have to promise not to tell anyone from Iliad, but we finally managed to bring up the ship’s bell.”

“Wow,” I said, looking more closely at the thing Carl was chipping away at. I hadn’t been able to see it at first, but now that I knew what it was, it was obvious.

“That’s wonderful,” Matilda said. “Any sign of a name yet?”

“Not yet,” said Carl. “But I’m optimistic.”

“Ideally we’d use electrolysis to get the concretion off,” Molly said, “but we’re a little short on time.”

The rough surface of the bell was dotted here and there with barnacles and strings of seaweed. “Hard to believe that was shiny once, isn’t it?” Molly remarked.

“Isn’t it?” Matilda agreed. “It’s amazing what a couple of centuries at the bottom of the ocean will do.”

I looked around the wheelhouse. The wall was lined with plastic tubs, all filled with water and chunks of what looked like debris. No car batteries or jugs of clear liquid, though. And even though the wheelhouse was crowded, it wasn’t overflowing. I didn’t know why Molly had extra equipment in her room, but it wasn’t due to lack of space on the
Ira B
. “What’s all this?” I asked, walking over to the line of tubs.

“Artifacts we brought up from the bottom,” Molly said. “We won’t know what they are until we have a chance to X-ray them back at the lab. If it’s anything worthwhile, we’ll chip them out.”

“Why are they in water?” I asked, looking into the closest tub. The contents looked a bit like a chunk of solidified mud, with a couple of barnacles attached.

“If they’re left exposed to air, metal artifacts will decay and crumble to nothing. We have to use electrolysis to change the chemistry and make them able to survive in dry conditions. That process can take awhile, though.”

No wonder they wanted to pull up the ship’s bell. I turned my attention back to Carl, who was painstakingly chipping off flakes of what looked like rust. “Are you sure there are letters on there somewhere?” I asked, peering at the rough surface of the object. All I saw was thick, pitted rust.

“There’s no way to know if they survived, but we’re hoping so,” Carl said. “If I can get enough of this off to see even a few letters, we’ll have enough to claim the wreck.”

“Which ship are you hoping it’ll be?”

“Either one would be fascinating,” Carl said. “The
Black Marguerite
would be more historic, but also more controversial. If it’s the
Myra Barton
, we should be able to proceed without interference.”

“What about the Selfridges?” I asked. “Won’t they want to stake a claim?”

“I don’t foresee that being a problem,” said Carl.

“You haven’t met Murray Selfridge then,” I said.

Carl gave me a cryptic look, then returned to his work.

As Carl and Molly bent over the bell, I walked over to a small stack of lift bags. “How do these work?” Matilda asked.

She picked up the bag, which was an inverted triangle, and pointed to the strap on the bottom. “You attach this to the object you want to lift,” she said, “and then you fill the bag with air from one of your hoses, and it floats the object to the top of the water.”

“Clever,” Matilda said.

“It’s actually tough to get it just right,” she said. “Like Carl said the other day, If you put too much air into it, it goes up too fast, and can drop the artifact. That’s what he was worried about with the bell, but we made it work.” She grinned.

“Amazing,” Matilda said, then glanced at her watch. “I’d love to stay and see more, but if we’re going to make low tide, we’d better get going.”

“Do you want to head out to Smuggler’s Cove with us, too?” Molly asked me.

I suppressed a shiver. My memories of that dark, dank place weren’t particularly pleasant. On the other hand, it would be fascinating to be on hand if Molly found something relevant. “I think I can make it,” I said. “Can we make a quick stop back at the inn, first?”

“If we hurry,” Matilda said.

“What about you?” Molly asked Carl.

“I’ll trust you to make the first run. I’ve got to keep working until I find something,” he said, barely looking up from his work.

“We’re off then,” she said, and leaving Carl to his chisel, we clambered back down into the dinghy.

Within five minutes, we
were back at the inn dock. “Let me just make sure the cake and muffins are out of the oven and I’ll be right back down,” I said to Molly and Matilda.

John was taking the muffins out of the oven when I hurried into the kitchen. Thankfully, they looked perfect—golden brown on top, with crannies where the butter had melted into the batter—and the kitchen smelled divine.

“Back so soon?” he asked.

“The university team brought up the ship’s bell today,” I said. “I went over to take a look at it, and now we’re going to show Molly Smuggler’s Cove.”

“Who’s we?” he asked.

“Matilda and I. Want to come?”

“Last time you and I were there, things didn’t go so well,” he said. He was remembering a time not long after I moved to the island, when I’d been cornered in the cove by a murderer and had almost drowned trying to get out.

I shivered thinking about it, but shooed the memory away. “It was touch-and-go,” I admitted, “but thanks to you, it turned out just fine,” I said, remembering how John had gotten there just in time to haul me out of the water. “Thanks to you, I’m still here.”

He looked hesitant. “I was going to work on my portfolio, but I’m not comfortable with you going out there by yourself.”

“I’m not by myself. I’ll be with Molly and Matilda. Do you really think either of them is the murderer?”

“The only one with a motive is Molly, and she doesn’t seem half as concerned with the wreck identification as her partner,” he confessed. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll walk down with you so they know I know where you’re going,” he said. “And if you’re not back in forty minutes, I’ll come find you.”

“You’re really that worried?” I asked.

“Better safe than sorry,” he said. “And you draw trouble like a magnet.”

I glanced at the Bundt cake pan. “If you’re going to be here, could you take the cake out of the pan and cool it on a rack in about twenty minutes? I’ll glaze it when I get back.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “I’ll even sample a slice.”

I laughed. “You’re so self-sacrificing. But it’ll be better if I’ve glazed it before you try it.”

“I suppose I can wait a little bit longer, then,” he said, grinning. He proffered an arm. “Shall we?”

“With pleasure,” I said, and together we walked down the path to the dock, where the
Ira B
’s dinghy was waiting for us.

_____

It was a calm, beautiful day, with only a slight breeze off the water, but I was still apprehensive about the approach to the cove. We passed by the beach where the black-chinned terns nested every year. It was the only sand beach on the island, but virtually unreachable except by boat; I’d fallen and gotten stuck on a cliff ledge trying to climb down once, and had never been brave enough to try it since. John occasionally took
Mooncatcher
over after a storm, to pick up any driftwood that washed up on the beach, but it was not a popular destination. The terns’ nesting season was over now, and the sandy beach looked deserted. As we passed it by, however, I noticed something like a black plastic garbage bag peeking out from behind one of the rocks.

“Look at that,” I said, pointing it out to Matilda.

She sighed. “I hate litter. Usually this beach is safe from it, but so many of the kids have skiffs these days, they sometimes come here and have picnics, and then don’t bother to pick up after themselves.”

“A little late in the year for a picnic on the beach,” I said, zipping my jacket up. The wind was light, but it was still a crisp day.

“Who knows how long it’s been there?” she said. “Could be someone who doesn’t want to pay to have their trash hauled, too. You never know.”

“Where’s the cove?” Molly asked, focusing on the stretch of blue water ahead of us. I looked down at the water, catching a glimpse of a ghostly moon jelly as the dinghy cut through the waves.

“Right up ahead on the left,” Matilda directed her. “It’s a bit of a tight entrance, though—and there are lots of rocks just under the water. I’ll go up to the bow and keep an eye out,” she said.

“Good idea. Wouldn’t want to damage a fine boat like this one,” she said, winking. We all laughed; the dinghy, whose sides were splintered and dented in a number of places, had obviously seen a lot of rough use.

Just the sight of Smuggler’s Cove unnerved me. As we puttered closer to the dark hole in the cliffs, surrounded by rocks that jutted through the water like sharp teeth, I found myself clutching the edge of the boat, bracing myself for another dangerous entry.

“Not an easy approach, is it?” Molly asked.

“Not at all,” I said. “I almost drowned trying to get out of there once,” I said.

Molly glanced at me, surprised.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

Molly was a better boatswoman than I, though. With Matilda at the bow, she deftly maneuvered us through the gap, only once grazing a submerged rock. “Another beauty mark,” she said as we passed out of the sunny afternoon into darkness.

“Kind of spooky in here, isn’t it?” Molly’s voice echoed off the close, damp walls. I could hear the slap of the waves against the stone.

“Let there be light,” Matilda said, and snapped on the flashlight she had brought. “There are the rings I was telling you about,” she said, training the beam on first one rusty iron loop, then the other.

“Interesting,” Molly said. “Let’s tie up the boat, and then I’ll take a closer look.”

Matilda and Molly quickly secured the dinghy to the iron rings, and the three of us hoisted ourselves onto the rocky shelf.

“Can I borrow the flashlight for a moment?” Molly asked, and when Matilda handed it to her, she knelt to examine the iron loops. “These aren’t that old,” she said. “Probably less than a hundred years.”

“Oh,” said Matilda, disappointed.

“But that doesn’t mean they didn’t replace an earlier set that corroded away,” she said, standing up and playing the light across the cave walls. “Not much in here,” she said.

“The entrance to the cave is toward the back,” Matilda told her, and the beam soon located the gap at the end of the rocky shelf we stood on.

“Is that it?” Molly asked.

“Yes it is,” I said. “Careful, though—the floor is really uneven.”

The three of us carefully made our way back, away from the bit of light from the cave’s entrance, and I found myself grateful that John would come out to look for us if we didn’t make it back in time.

“There’s obviously some wear here,” Molly said, training the light on the rocky floor. “See how those rocks are worn down? There’s been a lot of foot traffic over the years.” Something glinted in the beam of the light, and she bent down to examine it.

“What is it?” asked Matilda.

“A shard of glass,” Molly said, holding it up. “I’ll take it back and see if I can date it.”

“Could be from Prohibition times,” Matilda suggested, excitement in her voice. “A piece of a broken bottle belonging to one of the smugglers.”

“Good chance of it,” said Molly, pocketing the shard. “Might even be some residue of the contents.”

We followed her deeper into the subterranean cavern. Molly was nothing if not thorough; she ran her flashlight over every inch of the walls and floors, touching rocks, peering into crevices. She picked up a few odds and ends; a bullet casing, a penny minted in 1938, and a few more shards of glass, but nothing that would tie the cave to Davey Blue. As she pored over every inch of the cave, I was keenly aware that the slap of the waves was growing louder. The tide was starting to come in; the longer we tarried, the harder it would be to slip through the narrow opening. Molly seemed unperturbed, but I found myself wiping my sweating hands on my jeans. Smuggler’s Cove had bad memories for me; I didn’t relish the thought of spending ten hours in it, waiting for the tide to drop again.

“I think we’ve got to call it a day,” I said finally. “Tide’s coming in. And if we don’t get back to the inn in the next fifteen minutes, John is going to come after us.”

“Give me just five more minutes,” Molly said, sounding utterly engrossed in her search of the cavern room. I waited patiently as she continued her examination of the deepest part of the dark cave. I was about to tell her five minutes were up when she said, “Hello. What’s this?”

Matilda bent closer, peering at the wall. “It looks like letters,” she said. “Carved into the rock.”

“What does it say?” I asked.

“I can’t tell,” Molly said, moving the light closer. “Looks like initials …” She laughed suddenly. “It’s love graffiti!”

“What?” I asked.

“You know. John loves Sally—like the things teenagers spray paint on bridges, or carve into trees. I think it’s two sets of initials.”

“One of them is E.K.—could be Eleanor Kean!” Molly said, excitement in her voice.

“That doesn’t explain the other one, though,” Matilda said, pulling a digital camera out of her pocket and snapping a few pictures. “Who the heck is AT?”

“Good question,” I said. “Kind of shoots down the Davey Blue theory.”

“Unless there was someone else on board his ship that she fell in love with,” Matilda suggested.

“It’s too bad there’s no easy way to tell how long ago this was done,” Molly said. “Could be last year, could be five hundred years ago. If we could tell what tool was used …” she trailed off.

“Looks like whoever did it had some time on their hands,” Matilda said, rapping her knuckles against the cave wall. “This rock is hard stuff.”

“Maybe they got trapped in here waiting for low tide,” I said, only half in jest. As I spoke, a particularly strong wave slammed into the rock walls, then retreated with an eerie sucking sound. “We really have to go,” I said. “If we don’t get out of here soon, we’ll have plenty of time to do our own rock carving.”

“She’s right,” Matilda said. “We can come back tomorrow if you’d like.”

Molly sighed. “I suppose you’re right—but I hate to leave so soon.”

“If we’re going to go, let’s do it now,” I said, resisting the urge to grab Molly’s sleeve and drag her to the boat. Finally, she turned and sauntered back toward where the dinghy was tied up. She stopped in surprise when she saw that the opening to the cove had already shrunk.

“I didn’t realize the tide came in so fast!” she said.

“It does, and it’s still coming,” I said, feeling dread rise in my throat. The three of us hurried into the boat.

“Shoot,” said Molly. “I forgot to snap a picture of this area.”

“We can do it tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

I had the ropes untied in record time, and waited with bated breath for Molly to start the motor. She pulled it twice, and it didn’t catch. She was about to pull the cord a third time when a huge wave pounded into the cove, filling two-thirds of the opening. The boat yawed drunkenly, slamming against the stone shelf, and Molly’s flashlight clattered to the bottom of the boat. The cove was darkening by the second.

She pulled the cord three more times, to no avail, and I began looking in vain for oars. Then, finally, the motor caught.

“Wait until the next wave,” she said. “When I give the word, let go of the ropes, and we’ll make a run for it.”

We didn’t have to wait long. Seconds later, another big wave almost eclipsed the cave entrance. I held tight to the ropes as the boat strained to break free. The wave had barely subsided when Molly barked, “Now!”