Berried to the Hilt (19 page)

“Is there anywhere to hide?”

“We could either go in close to the rocks, or row out until we’re a little farther out from shore,” he said.

“Which do you think is the better choice?” I asked, watching the beach for the flashlight.

“I think we should go out,” he said, reaching for the oars.

“I’ll do it,” I said. “It’ll keep me warm. You keep an eye on the beach.”

I had been rowing for five minutes when the light appeared again, jouncing along the beach.

“Are we far enough?” I asked.

“I’ll take a turn,” he said, trading places with me. The light returned to the edge of the water; a moment later, I could hear the dinghy’s motor revving, and the light flashed in our direction.

“Do you have a fishing rod in here?” I asked.

“I think so,” he said. “It should be on the floor.”

I fumbled around until my hand closed on the rod.

“What are you doing?” he asked as I pulled it up and felt for the hook. The dinghy—and the beam of the flashlight—were growing closer.

“Pretending,” I said, as the hook pierced my finger. I winced and released the hook, then dropped the line into the water. “Come up here and put your arm around me, so it looks like we’re out having a romantic evening.”

“A romantic fishing trip at eight o’clock at night in October?” he asked, but did as I asked him to, pulling me close. “Maybe we should do this more often,” he murmured into my ear as the dinghy came closer.

“Think we’re far enough out?” I asked, leaning into him.

“We’ll see,” he said.

I held my breath as the motor puttered behind us. It had almost passed by when the light swept past us, then doubled back, glaring right into my eyes.

I smiled and waved;
John did the same. The motor slowed as the light flicked from my face to his, then back to mine. Then the driver gunned the motor, and the light—and the dinghy—slid away from us, back toward the direction of the inn.

“Do you think she bought it?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” John said. “But if you want to find out what’s on that beach, I think tonight’s the night.”

“Shoot. We didn’t stop for a flashlight.”

“Let’s run back and get one then,” he said.

“What if she sees us?”

“She already has,” he pointed out, and I couldn’t argue with him.

I pulled up the line, and after waiting a few minutes, John gunned the motor and we headed for home. The dinghy was back in its place at the back of the
Ira B
, but I noticed a figure sitting on the back of the vessel, watching us in silence.

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

_____

She didn’t follow us back to the beach—at least not immediately—but I felt a low buzz of fear at the thought of her following us. I had brought jackets for both of us, and as the temperature continued to drop, I was glad for the extra layer.

“Why am I so worried about her?” I asked John as we pulled
Mooncatcher
up onto the beach. The water lapped against the crescent of sand, and the stars were like tiny diamonds above us. It would have been an enchanted spot—if the temperature were forty degrees warmer and we weren’t secretly looking for hidden contraband, that is.

“Maybe because she’s got a secret she doesn’t want you to know about—and you don’t know what she’ll do if you find out about it?”

“I think you pegged it,” I said as we walked away from the water, our flashlights scanning the sand. “We saw something over there, behind one of the big rocks,” I said, pointing my flashlight to the left.

We searched the beach for only a few minutes before John’s flashlight found footprints in the sand.

“That makes it easy,” I said. We followed them until they stopped behind a group of boulders. Tucked behind them were the plastic buckets I had seen in Molly’s room—alongside a big, lidded plastic tub with wires poking out of it. It was attached to a big black garbage bag.

“Is this what you saw?” John asked, pointing to the bag, which was nestled behind a rock.

“Yup,” I said.

“Looks like a car battery to me,” he said, feeling the contours of the bag’s contents.

“Wonder what’s in the tub?” I asked.

He lifted up the lid and shone the flashlight inside. On the bottom of the tub was the wire mesh I had seen in Molly’s bathroom. On top of it were a few muddy-looking lumps I recognized as concretions. I opened the lid of another one of the buckets; there were more concretions in it.

“So she was raiding the site,” I said. “What’s this contraption, though?”

“I think she’s trying to get rid of the concretions,” John said.

“With a car battery?”

He nodded. “It’s a rudimentary electrolysis setup. The liquid in those jugs must have been an electrolytic solution—something like sodium hydroxide.”

“I don’t understand. They didn’t find anything of real value at the site. Why steal from it?”

John trained his flashlight on the contents of the tub. “Iliad didn’t find anything of value, but it looks like Molly did.”

I followed the beam of the flashlight—and swallowed hard. Inside the concretion, I could make out what looked like a pile of gray poker chips. “Holy moly. Those are coins!” I said.

“A whole lot of coins, from the look of it.” John said.

“No wonder Carl said it looked like someone had disturbed the site and taken things. Someone had!”

“Only it was Molly, not Iliad,” he said.

“So she’s been selling stuff on the side?” I asked.

“I don’t know if she has in the past,” John said, “but I’m guessing she’s not doing this for scientific posterity.”

“She’s had the key to the ship’s identity all along, then.”

“If these coins have dates, she has,” he said.

“What do we do now?”

“We should probably tell Carl,” he said.

“Should we tell the police, too?” I asked.

“I don’t know if it’s illegal or not. Ownership hasn’t been determined.” He was quiet for a moment, thinking; I could make out the silhouette of his face against the weak light of the moon.

I sighed. “Well, we’ve solved one mystery, but we’re still no closer to getting Eli out of jail.”

“Unless,” John said slowly, “this is somehow related.”

“To Gerald’s death? How?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “Maybe he found out about it, and threatened to blow her cover.”

“But if what she’s doing isn’t illegal, why would she kill Gerald to keep it quiet?” I asked. “Besides, we found the scabbard in Audrey’s room, not Molly’s.”

“True,” he admitted.

I glanced back toward the dark water with apprehension. Ever since we’d landed, I had half-expected to hear the sound of the dinghy’s motor approaching. “Let’s look around one more time, make sure we haven’t missed anything. Then we can go tell Carl.”

“We should probably take something with us,” he said.

“See if you can find a small concretion,” I said. “I’ll search the area, see if there’s anything else.” As John sifted through the chunks of coins in the tubs, I walked around the area, which was cleverly located to be invisible from the cliffs above, yet safe from the tide—and hard to see from the water. I found only one more thing; another garbage bag. It was filled with diving paraphernalia, including a lift bag—probably the one I’d seen under her bed—a coil of rope, a dive knife, some glow sticks, a waterproof flashlight, and a gold watch that would be a much better fit on her arm than her bulky diving computer.

“Found a good one,” John said, training the flashlight on the small concretion he held in his left hand. “How about you? Anything interesting?”

“Just some diving gear,” I said, showing him the contents of the bag. “She must have been doing surreptitious dives late at night, when Carl was back at the inn. No wonder she changed the subject quickly when I asked if she’d dived from the dinghy before.”

“You don’t think she took the R/V?”

“It’s possible,” I said, “but I would take the dinghy. It would be missed less easily, and easier to refuel.”

“Good point,” he said. “Ready to head back?”

“Ready when you are,” I said—although I was dreading a potential confrontation with Molly.

I steeled myself as we drew closer to the inn, thankful that I wouldn’t have to face Molly and Carl alone. But by the time we got back to the inn, the
Ira B
was gone.

_____

John idled the engine, and we looked at the buoy where the R/V had been. “Where did it go?’ he asked.

“Look,” I said, pointing to the dock. “The dinghy’s still here.”

“What the heck is going on? Do we have two disappearing boats?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m betting someone in the inn can tell us.”

Molly was sitting in the parlor, curled up on the couch with a book, her red hair loosely caught up in a clip. She looked up with a strained smile as we entered.

“Where’s the
Ira B
?” John asked.

“Carl took her down to Portland,” she said.

John’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Tonight?”

She nodded. “He wanted to file papers first thing tomorrow,” she said.

“He identified the bell then,” John said.

Molly nodded, smiling. “It belonged to the
Myra Barton
,” she said. “Iliad probably isn’t interested—there’s likely to be nothing of value aboard—but Carl isn’t taking any chances.”

Nothing of value
anymore
, I amended silently. From what I could see, Molly had already made off with everything worth selling. “So, Davey Blue’s ship is still lost to posterity,” I said. “Along with his girlfriend and his fabled treasure.”

“For now, anyway,” Molly said.

At least the archaeologists had located the late Jonah Selfridge’s long-missing ship. Another ghost laid to rest.

“And Carl will get his funding,” I said.

“I can’t think why he wouldn’t. I saw you in your skiff, by the way,” she added, and something in her tone made me squirm. “You two out for a late-night fishing run?”

I nodded.

“Catch anything?” she asked, and I couldn’t help but hear a double meaning.

“Not a thing,” John lied smoothly. “Mac Barefoot told me the cod were running, but we didn’t even get a nibble.”

“Shame,” Molly said, still looking at me.

“All that fresh air tired me out, though,” John said, stretching his back. “Not to mention the seating—no cushions. What do you say we hit the sack, Natalie?” he asked, putting an arm around me.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said, feigning a yawn. “I’ll just do a little breakfast prep and then head to bed.” I smiled at Molly. “See you in the morning.”

“Why didn’t you ask her about the stuff on the beach?” I asked when we were safely in the kitchen. I had grabbed a pot from the drawer and was mixing butter, brown sugar, and corn syrup in it for overnight French toast. The recipe was scrumptious, and just the thing for an easy breakfast; toss the pan in the oven first thing in the morning, then cut up a fruit salad and cook some sausage while it baked, and you had a delicious yet quick meal.

“I was hoping she’ll leave it there another day if she thinks we haven’t found it,” John said. “I want to be able to show Carl exactly what we found. I’ll call the university and get in touch with him tomorrow morning.”

“Should we have moved it?” I asked.

“To where?” he asked. “If I get a chance, I’ll head over and snap some photos tomorrow. If what she’s doing is illegal, and if there’s some way they can press charges, moving it would be tampering with evidence.”

“That’s true,” I said, reaching for a loaf of French bread and a knife. “Speaking of evidence, let’s take another look at those coins, now that we’ve got light.”

John dug in his pocket and pulled out the fist-sized concretion. I watched as he turned the clump over and over in the light.

“Do you think they’re gold? Or silver?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s impossible to tell.” The coins were identifiable by their shape, but too crusted over to make anything out. “Can you believe these have been sitting on the bottom of the ocean for more than a hundred and fifty years?”

“I always wonder about the people who went down with the ship,” I said. “It’s morbid, I know, but I still think about it. What happens to their bones?”

“If they haven’t degraded, I imagine they’re still down there,” he said. “The bottom is probably littered with them.”

I shuddered, thinking of the lives lost mere miles from my home. Then again, one of the men who went down had caused another life to be lost—in my own house. He’d paid the price, but he’d taken others with him. I laid the slices of bread on the cutting board to dry and gave the syrup a stir; it was almost ready to pour into the baking pan, still thinking about Jonah Selfridge, whose descendant, Murray Selfridge, still lived on the island.

“I’d better put this concretion in water,” John said, breaking me out of my reverie. “So it doesn’t degrade.”

As he filled a bowl with water, I whisked eggs and milk together for the custard component of the French toast. Then I poured the hot syrup into the pan, layered it over with slices of bread, and topped it all with the creamy egg and milk mixture, making sure the bread soaked up the liquid. I put plastic wrap over the pan and tucked it into the fridge, and then John and I climbed the stairs to my room,

I lay awake in John’s arms an hour later, thankful not to be alone—and, particularly with a potential murderer staying in the inn, thankful that there was a lock on my bedroom door. As John slept beside me, I kept running through what we’d found at the beach. Something about it was nagging at me, and I kept running what I’d seen over and over again, trying to figure out what it was.