Berried to the Hilt (3 page)

“How long ago was it?” I asked.

“Mid-seventeenth century,” Molly said. “It would be an amazing find. The biggest since the
Whydah
.”

“What’s the
Whydah
?” I asked.

“It was originally a slave ship out of England, but it was attacked by the pirate ‘Black Sam’ Bellamy and became his flagship. It went down off Cape Cod in 1717—he was actually headed toward Maine when it sank—and was only recovered about twenty-five years ago.”

“I had no idea Maine was such a pirate destination,” I said.

“Even pirates need vacations,” joked Molly.

“There was another captain whose ship disappeared,” I said. “He used to own this house, in fact—he built it for his wife. His name was Jonah Selfridge. One of his descendants, Murray Selfridge, lives on the island.”

Jonah Selfridge had built a beautiful house, but I’d learned last fall the he wasn’t exactly a nice guy. The room was still haunted by one of his victims.

“Do you know what his ship was called?”

I shrugged. “No idea, unfortunately.”

“What was the time period?”

“Somewhere in the early to mid-eighteen hundreds, if I remember correctly. Matilda Jenkins is the town historian—she could tell you tons more than I could.”

Carl looked at Molly. “Could be good news. Not as old, but at least there might be less profit in it, so we wouldn’t have to fight Iliad as much.”

“Depends on the cargo,” Molly said. She turned back to me. “Do you know what he was trading?”

“Again, you’ll have to ask Matilda,” I said. “How can you tell which ship is which, anyway?”

“It’s not easy,” she admitted. “Sometimes, if we can find an old image or the specifications of the ship we suspect it is, we can identify it by size and shape, or by something unique to the ship—like a figurehead, if it’s been preserved.” She took a bite of Emmeline’s streusel cake before continuing. It did look delicious; I had to restrain myself from grabbing a slice too. “It also depends on how broken up it is,” Molly said after she’d finished her bite. “Sometimes, they are almost intact, and sometimes, they’re in pieces.”

“What do you do if you don’t have an image to go by?”

“We look at the artifacts. There are often features—the ship’s size, the number and make of the cannons, the ship’s bell, if we’re lucky—that can positively identify the vessel. If not …” She shrugged. “We’ll see what puzzle pieces we can find and try to put them together!”

“Sounds like exciting work!”

“It is,” Molly said. “But it’s slow going. Measuring, mapping; and many times, if things weren’t immediately covered in sand or mud, metal artifacts—and anything close to them—are buried in concretions.”

“What’s a concretion?”

“Concretions form when the metal rusts, and all kinds of things—shells, debris—stick to it, forming a hard layer around the object.” Molly took another bite of Emmeline’s pudding and swallowed before continuing. “We X-ray them to see what’s inside, and then we have to carefully chip the artifacts out. We usually have conservators to help us … the process takes days.”

“Wow. And you have to dive down and get this stuff, right? That water’s about 50 degrees!”

“We prefer to use submersibles, but our biggest research vessel—and the university’s submersible—is booked for another month. Usually, researchers can’t even take the smaller ones out without a captain, but Carl has logged enough hours they’re making an exception, and allowing him to be the captain.”

“It’s not that big a boat. But not to have access to the bigger vessel … rotten luck, really,” Carl said.

“It’s much less expensive this way,” Molly reminded him. “And at least this site is shallow enough that we can dive!”

I shivered. “That water is freezing!”

“We use dry suits,” Molly said, “so it’s not that bad. But yes—it’s a lot of work.” She grinned at me. “Which means we’ll be staying here for a while, most likely.”

Which was good news for my bottom line, for sure.

“Maybe. It depends on
Iliad
,” Carl said grimly. He was taut, like a bowstring full of barely leashed energy.

“Don’t be such a pessimist, Carl. I’m sure we’ll have better luck this time.” Molly took a last sip of her coffee and glanced at her watch. I’d never seen a woman wear such a clunky piece before; it looked like it weighed ten pounds. “It’s pretty calm out there, and it’s still daylight. What do you say we go and have a look?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Carl said, pushing his barely touched plate away and standing up quickly.

“Let me know what you find out,” I said, leading them back through the kitchen to the back door.

Molly turned back. “That reminds me—how do we get in touch with the historian?”

“Her name is Matilda Jenkins. You can find her in the museum—the only brick building down by the main pier.”

“Thanks,” she said, giving me a sunny smile. She was a likeable young woman, a huge contrast to her brooding partner, Carl. “And tell your friend I liked the pudding the best!”

I watched the archaeologists head out in their research vessel, a small boat named the
Ira B
that Molly told me they frequently used for student expeditions. They had barely vanished around the point before the doorbell rang. I reluctantly went to answer it, hoping it wasn’t another would-be bake-off winner trying to bribe me with baked goods.

Three people stood at the front door, two men and a woman. All three were dressed in jeans and blue windbreakers with a logo—
Iliad
—stitched on the breast pocket.

“I’m Gerald McIntire,” said the oldest of the trio, who I guessed to be in his late forties. “I believe we have reservations?”

“Of course,” I said, opening the door wider so the trio could file in. Gerald McIntire was the university archaeologists’ archenemy. He didn’t look like a pirate, I thought. He was tall and stocky, with a bit of a spare tire, but his baby cheeks and light blue eyes, fringed with short blond lashes, gave him an innocent look. “You’re here because of the wreck, right?” I asked.

“Right,” he said, wheeling his case behind him. He was pink from exertion, and puffing. “Long walk from the pier,” he said.

“I wish I’d known when you were coming! I would have picked you up!”

“No worries,” he said. “The suitcase rolls. Besides, I needed the exercise.”

I glanced at my watch. “The mail boat doesn’t come for another hour, so I assume you have a boat. Did you leave it down at the main pier?”

“We did.”

“I’ve got mooring lines out back you can tie up to if you want. There’s going to be another boat docked there, too, but unless you came in a cruise ship, there should be plenty of room.”

“Thank you,” he said, and turned to the other two. “This is Frank Goertz, my partner, and Audrey Hammonds, our primary archaeologist. We’ll have more crew coming soon; our main research vessels are down in the Caribbean at the moment, on other excavations. We’re doing a preliminary review of the site.” He grinned. “If this is what I think it is, we’ll be back with the big guns in the spring.”

“Big guns?”

“One of our two biggest vessels—they both have submersibles, and we’ll be able to map the site—even pull up cannons, if we find any.” I could see the excitement in his pale eyes. “I’ve been looking for Davey Blue’s ship my whole life; wouldn’t want to miss a chance to find her!”

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” I said politely.

“I’m kind of glad we don’t have the
Nibelung
here,” the other man said, his eyes roaming around the antique furniture, plush peach-colored rug, and sparkling windows looking out over the water. “This sure beats a six-foot cabin.”

I laughed. “I certainly hope so!”

I shook hands with Audrey and Frank; both of them had firm handshakes, and their skin was warm and calloused. She was wiry and fit-looking, with a weathered face, probably in her early thirties. The man was equally wiry, but much taller, about the same age as Gerald. Despite his cheerful assessment of their lodging, there were worry lines etched into his tanned brow. “Let’s get checked in, and we’ll go back and move the
Lorelei
,” Gerald said with an easy air of authority. As they finished the paperwork and I handed them the keys, he asked, “Is the other boat yours?”

“Actually, no. A couple of marine archaeologists from the University of Maine came up in it today. Carl Morgenstern and Molly O’Cleary,” I said, watching his expression. “They’re currently out investigating the wreck.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling back at me and not looking at all concerned about the potential of academics horning in on his turf. Either he was a good actor, or he didn’t view them as much of a threat. “It’s going to be a regular get-together, then,” he said, glancing at Audrey, who smiled back at him. “Just like old times.”

“I hope you’ll enjoy your stay,” I said neutrally. If there was any truth to what Carl had said earlier, I hoped it would be significantly better than old times.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t how it worked out.

I had just finished
early dinner prep and was thinking about heading down to the store when there was a rap at the kitchen door. I looked over at it with trepidation; three islanders had already come by bearing food gifts that afternoon, offering me sneak peeks of their recipes or inquiring as to my culinary preferences. I had offered them the same deal as I had Emmeline, and now had four trays of food offerings in the dining room—including Maude Peters’ cranberry pickle chutney, which smelled as bad as it sounded.

I was relieved to see Eleazer White smiling through the glass panes, even if he was carrying what looked like one of his wife’s infamous cranberry pies. I liked Claudette immensely, but had never been a fan of her pie.

I hurried to the door. “Come in, come in!” Eli’s bright eyes and weathered face always cheered me up.

“Brought you a pie,” he said. “She made it special; she even put sugar in it!”

“Thank you,” I said. “Unfortunately, I can’t eat it, but I’ll ask the guests what they think.”

“I told Claudette it was best not to bring it—said folks might think she was trying to stack the odds.”

“I wouldn’t worry. The whole island is guilty of that.” I led him into the dining room and showed him the array of cranberry-related food items. “I’ve got a jar for comment cards, and I’ll send the feedback to Claudette.”

“May I?” he asked, indicating Emmeline’s streusel cake. It looked tempting to me, too; it had been harder to resist than I expected.

“Be my guest,” I said.

He picked a large piece and took a bite. “Claudette’s got some competition this year,” he said, surveying the spread as he chewed. “What is that?” he asked, pointing to the chutney.

I told him.

He shuddered theatrically. “Who’s the bright bulb who came up with that one?”

“Maude Peters,” I said. “At least it’s creative,” I offered.

“That’s one word.” He finished off the cake in one big bite, swallowing it almost whole. “Good cake,” he said with an approving nod. “But I didn’t come to jaw about baked goods. I hear some of the folks from the university are staying here.”

“They are,” I said.

“Good,” he said, and reached down and drew a sword. I involuntarily took a step back.

“Eleazer …”

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” he asked, cradling the sword. The hilt was worked in cracked leather and silver, and the blade was filigreed. “It’s a cutlass, I believe from the eighteenth century. I was hoping they could take a look at her,” he said, holding it up in the light. “It’s a family heirloom. I don’t know where my grandfather got it, but the legend is it belonged to the old pirate himself.”

“Davey Blue?” I asked.

Eleazer nodded, a twinkle in his eye.

“Unfortunately, they’re not here right now,” I said. “They went out to the wreck site. Do you want to leave it here?” I asked. “I’ll be sure to ask them.”

“Nah,” he said, re-sheathing the cutlass—which was a relief, to be honest. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Eleazer—I was just happier without weapons being waved about. “I’ll bring it by another time. In the meantime, I’ve got the skiff out back; want to go look at the wreck site?”

“I wouldn’t think there’s much to see,” I said. “It’s underwater.”

“Yes, but don’t you want to know where it is? Besides, the archaeologists are out there. You never know what they’ll find!”

I glanced at my watch. I’d done most of the prep for dinner; if I made it back in two hours, there would be plenty of time to finish getting ready. And since two of my guests were presumably out at the wreck site, I wouldn’t have to worry about them showing up and me not being at the inn.

“Why not?” I asked. I slid the wrapped pan of scallops into the refrigerator and grabbed my jacket and gloves. “Let me just get a thermos of hot cider to take with us. It’s cold out there!”

“Mind if I take a few of your goodies to munch on?”

“Go ahead,” I said. I knew Claudette kept him on a tight diet at home; this was a real treat for him. As he selected a few choice morsels, I headed back to the kitchen and fixed us two thermoses of cider and a few cookies for myself. Then I left a note for John and followed Eleazer outside.

The fall air was bracing, and I shoved my gloved hands into my pockets as I followed Eleazer down the walkway to the dock, my bag of goodies bumping against my hip. The grass had turned the pale yellow I’d always thought of as winter wheat, and across the dark blue water, the pink granite mountains glowed in the afternoon sun.

I clambered after him into his skiff, watching with admiration as he deftly untied the ropes and pushed us away from the dock. The process took maybe twenty seconds. He was a waterman through and through; he moved with a graceful economy that I envied. I was getting the hang of my own skiff, the
Little Marian
, which Eleazer had found for me not long after I moved to the island, but I would never handle her with Eli’s skill.

“You’ll get it, lass,” he said when I told him how much I envied his boatmanship. “Just takes practice, that’s all.”

I turned to watch the island as we pulled away. The gray-shingled inn nestled into the hillside, its mullioned windows gleaming in the sun. A few orange and gold chrysanthemums bloomed in the window boxes, not yet felled by the frost; behind the inn, tall pine trees stood on the gentle rise of the hill, as they had for hundreds of years.

The inn receded as we moved farther out, and I turned my gaze to the lighthouse out on Cranberry Point. It had recently been renovated, and its fresh white paint was bright and clean against the weathered granite. A gust of wind blew over us, and I shivered, remembering the body that had been found in a hidden subterranean room during the renovation; the bones had moldered there undiscovered for over a hundred years. And now we were going out to see the remains of a ship that had lain hidden under the waves for centuries. How many more secrets did the island hold? I wondered. And how many ghosts?

“Haven’t heard a word about the ghost ship in years,” Eleazer told me, speaking loudly to be heard over the thrum of the engine and the rush of the wind. The skin on my arms prickled at the coincidence.

“I didn’t know there was one.”

“Ghosts all over the place in this part of the world,” he went on. “Out at your inn, the old lighthouse … even the store.”

“That’s one I haven’t heard about!”

“Hasn’t done much since Nelda moved on.” Nelda was Charlene’s great aunt, and it was from her that Charlene had taken over the store several years ago. “I think Nelda just stacked the shelves wrong; cans of tuna kept falling down all over the place.”

“I can’t believe Charlene never told me about it!” I said. I’d have to grill her on it when I got back. “She didn’t tell me about the ghost ship, either. This place sure has a lot of spooks!”

“Most places that have been around a while do,” he said. “The story of the ghost ship’s been around for years and years. My granddaddy used to tell me it was the ghost of Davey Blue, looking for his lady love and his lost treasure.”

“That’s the pirate who disappeared a couple of hundred years ago, right?”

“One of New England’s first pirates,” he said. “Round about the 1630s, give or take a few years.”

“Was he from Maine?”

“Ayuh,” Eleazer said, steering the little skiff out of the path of a lobster boat. He waved at the sternman and waited until they had passed the boat to continue his story. “Davy started out an honest man—a fur trapper, earning a decent living. He didn’t go bad until a bunch of French pirates cleaned him out. Stole everything he had.”

“What did he do then?”

Eleazer grinned. “Why, he stole a boat and turned pirate himself.”

I grinned back. “If you can’t beat ’em …”

“Exactly,” Eleazer said. “Turned out he had a talent for it. They sent almost half a dozen ships after him over the years, and he slipped away from every one of them. Built up a fortune, before he disappeared.”

“What happened?”

“Some say he went back to England, and some say he died in a sword fight.” He patted the cutlass at his hip. “This cutlass used to belong to him—at least that’s what the story is.”

“How did you come by it?”

“I don’t know, but it’s been in the family as long as I can remember,” he said. “When I die, it’ll go to the museum. I’m hoping to ask the archaeologists to take a look at it, see if it really did belong to the old pirate. Legend has it that Cranberry Island was one of his favorite places—lots of folks think Smuggler’s Cove is where he hid his booty—so it may be my granddad was right.”

“I’m confused. If he was supposed to have gone back to England or died in a duel, why do people think the shipwreck might be the
Black Marguerite
?” I asked.

“Ah, that’s the thing,” he said. “Local rumor is, he came back from pirating to pick up his lady love and stash his loot. Problem was, no sooner did he pick her up to whisk her away than a storm came in, and legend has it the ship went down just off the coast.” A pair of seagulls skimmed over the water toward us, then began following the little boat, diving and swooping in the chilly wind. I pulled my jacket closer around me; it was cold out on the water, and the wind bit through even the thickest jackets. “My granddaddy used to tell me stories about Davey Blue,” Eleazer continued. “They say he still sails these waters, searching for his lost treasure—and his lost lady love.”

“Quite romantic,” I said.

“It may sound far-fetched, but they took it mighty serious back when my granddaddy was a lobsterman. They avoided the place—and not just because of the rocks. Used to give Deadman’s Shoal a wide berth, even if the lobstering was good.” He shook his head, remembering. “Time was, you could net ten-pounders out there regular.”

Ten pounds? Forget a pot—you’d need a hot tub to cook them in. “What about now?” I asked.

His eyes glinted with mischief. “Not too many ten-pounders—and couldn’t keep ’em if you caught ’em, anyway.”

“I’m talking about the ghost ship, Eli—not the lobsters!”

“I know,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Just playing with you.” He squinted out over the water, and I followed his gaze to where two boats floated in the distance. “As for Deadman’s Shoal? Nobody pays any mind to the oldtimers’ stories,” he said. “It’s still dangerous out there—there are lots of rocks out on Deadman’s Shoal, so folks with sense steer clear of it—but no one worries about ghost ships anymore.” He gave me a wicked smile. “Till they see one, that is.”

I leaned toward him. “Have you seen one?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I sense a story,” I said.

He shrugged again, and seemed to debate telling me for a moment. Finally, he said, “I don’t tell too many folks about it—some of them think I’m a few crackers shy of a full bag as it is, and I don’t want to encourage it, you know?”

“I won’t say anything,” I said.

“I know you won’t,” he said with a sharp nod, and a moment later, he began. “It was a foggy night, round about midnight, I’d say. I was fifteen at the time, out with my da, searching for a lobsterman’s boat that didn’t come back from the fishing grounds. We didn’t mean to be out by the shoals—like I said, folks with sense avoided it back then, ’specially at night—but there was a light flickering in the fog, and we headed over to see if it was our missing lobsterman.” Eli paused to reach in his pocket and pull out a bite of cake. A hopeful gull swooped overhead; as he stuffed the sweet morsel into his mouth, he batted the bird away with his other hand. “Anyway,” he said when he’d swallowed, “there was something there all right, but it weren’t no missing lobster boat.”

I sat on the edge of my narrow bench, breathless. “What was it?”

“That’s the thing,” he said. “I don’t rightly know what it was. But it was dark, and it was big, and it looked like a ship. My da and I could see her in the fog and hear the waves slapping up against the sides. And the smell …”

“What did it smell like?”

“Tar,” he said. “Tar, and wet wood, and gunpowder. And something rotten. Dead things,” he said quietly; I had to strain to hear him over the sound of the motor. He took a deep breath and looked out to sea. “It smelled like death.”

Again, I felt the skin on my arms prickle, and I dug my hands deeper into my pockets. He was quiet a moment before continuing. “My da called out to her, hailing her, you know. But nobody answered.”