He grabbed the canister and finished changing the tire. Not yet two in the afternoon, he drove back to Falmouth Village. He would need to get back to the Island. But first, Kilkenny thought, ‘Why not a lobster basket, a pint of Shipyard Ale, and catch a half of the Patriots game.’ Yes, the simple pleasures.
Nola paced around the office in a manic state. The events of the past twenty four hours had cast her life into a tumultuous maelstrom. Papi and Pete were dead. Dead!
“It won’t help you know,” Dan snapped. He didn’t want to be cross with her. But, he also needed Nola focused.
“What will, Dan?” she hissed.
“For you to dig in and starting helping me. Pete is dead. It pisses me off. Something doesn’t add up. I want to get to the bottom of this. And you, well I’d want some vengeance visited on whoever brought this into our lives.”
The thought of vengeance struck a chord. Revenge was something tangible. It was a rock Nola could cling to.
“Ok. Where do we start?”
“You said Pete and Papi were after treasure.” With four hundred years of shipwrecks strewn off the Cape Cod coast this wasn’t farfetched. In fact, it was the treasure hunter’s dream. “What else did they tell you?”
Nola leaned back, took a drink from the beer Dan had given her, and scoured through every small detail. Her brother and uncle were often after hair brained schemes that never amounted to more than slapstick mishaps.
“A man approached Papi one night in their local pub. He gave him a map.”
Dan leaned forward, interested at the mention of a map. “An old map? A map that is a rough rendering of the Cape Cod coast and up through Massachusetts?”
“No. It was a computer printout. I didn’t look close. Woods Hole, I guess, and all the small islands around there.
“The Elizabethan Islands.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Dan.”
Dan took a shot of his ale. The vision of Jack Beckham’s ancient map danced in his mind. Any shipwrecks in the Holes would have long since been identified however. And, if there had been a Viking long boat, it would have been the find of the century. Better to focus on the person. “This man, did Papi describe him?”
“Not really. Anyway, they only talked to me when they needed you to get them out of the lockup. He only said that this man was somebody he could trust, ‘a sailor’s sailor’ I believe were the words.”
That was something. Papi had met, presumably, with somebody who was known to him, a man who knew the sea, and was respected in the community. He would need to visit Grumpy’s Pub. An idea popped into his head.
“Time to earn that salary, Nola,” he said trying to lighten the mood.
She gave a melancholy laugh. “You still owe me from last month, Boss.”
Dan slid an envelope across the desk. She peered in, surprised.
“That’s right, we’ve got a job. Two actually. Let’s get started. Now.”
A wide grin peered through her gloomy attitude. “Right to it, Boss. What do you need?”
“Check the register for missing fishermen. I noted something yesterday in the Hyannis Times. How many have been lost recently and is it more than normal? Also, I need the name of the Falmouth’s Harbormaster. He’ll have information on any shenanigans.”
“And he probably won’t talk,” Nola sneered, her gloom still clinging tight.
“That’s information too, sweetheart. Body language and what people won’t tell you is often more helpful in discovering the truth than pure honesty. You get started on that and I’ll make a phone call.”
Rrick Cleary draped the cool towel over his aching and balding head. The freshly brewed French roast offered his blurry mind a light at the end of the tunnel.
‘Screw it, let’s drive this cup of java through Dublin.’ He tossed a jigger of Canadian Mist Whiskey into the mug while stirring in a dash of milk. His thoughts turned to the upcoming Patriots game. The tunnel’s light got even brighter. He opened his wallet and took out a ticket. His New England Patriots at twenty to one odds to win the Super Bowl. He had laid down five thousand large. Business was tanking and his two ex-wives were ravenous. Two ex-wives, two mortgage payments, four kids and all the expenses that came with that, and here he was sleeping in his run down South Boston office.
“Brick,” came a loud wail from outside the door.
“Geezus, Molly,” he barked stumbling into the office lobby. “My head is pounding harder than Keith Moon on the drums. What the hell is it?”
His bubbly pudgy early thirtyish red headed ball of South Boston femininity greeted him with a smile and a bagel. If he was down on his luck he still had Molly. They had met in the aftermath of her suffering another beating from her abusive boyfriend. She was slumped on the front steps of her brownstone when ‘Brick’ Cleary happened by. He had noticed her around the neighborhood before. In fact, he was smitten.
“What’s your boyfriend’s name, sweetheart?”
Tears streaming down her face and with sadness and humiliation in her eyes, she answered, “Bobby Salvio.”
The name was familiar to him. A low life numbers runner. The next day he paid a visit. Bobby Salvio was never heard from again. Brick Cleary needed a girl Friday for his fledgling private investigation business and Molly Curran needed a job. Thusly their love affair started. She never asked about Bobby.
“Dan Burdett is on the phone,” she chirped cheerily in her deep Boston accent.
He plopped his bulky frame down onto the imitation leather chair and looked out his dingy window all the way to Castle Island and out into Boston Harbor. Brick Cleary shook his head and grinned. Dan Burdett.
“What the fuck do you want five minutes before kick-off?”
Dan glanced up at his pilot’s wheel shaped clock. He had missed the Boston College game yesterday and it appeared this afternoon’s Patriots game would go the same way.
“Brick, I need you down here on the Cape,” he began.
“It better pay. Well!”
“I’ve got an envelope with your name on it.”
“You still owe me let’s not forget.”
It was a debt Dan knew he could never repay. Brick Cleary, ex-Quincy cop turned private dick, had uncovered dirt on his wife during their divorce proceedings. Betty Hartin had had him by the balls and was intent on squeezing them tight. He had conceded everything: the house, the car, even the minimal stock portfolio they had managed to scrape together. He was walking out of their twenty year relationship with nothing but his toothbrush and a pair of Fruit of the Looms. All he wanted was the ramshackle Channing Terrace cottage and weekend visitation rights with their children.
Betty Hartin wasn’t looking to budge an inch. That is, until Brick Cleary walked into the room. Brick walked over to the conference room video player, inserted a disc, and pressed play. The room erupted in grunts and moans. Betty Hartin’s grunts and moans. Her lawyer’s ass was in full view.
Five minutes later Dan had walked out of the room with his visitation rights and the keys to his rundown dream home.
“Forever in your debt, friend. Watch the game. Then get your arse in your car and be in Falmouth by early evening. I got you booked into the Mariner’s Lodge. The drinks are on me, seven or so, at Liam McGuire’s.”
“It is something, John. Don’t be so downcast.” Henry Sinclair patted his trustworthy aid on the shoulder and then returned his attention to the map spread flat on the table. It was a copy. The authentic one was still to be secured. He traced his finger from Falmouth directly into Narragansett Bay. Finally, he stabbed down at a prominently sketched site. “Newport!”
John Kilkenny had been crestfallen to find out he had brought back only a copy. There was still work to be done. But his boss’ enthusiasm lifted his spirits. “Vinland?” he questioned.
“No,” Sinclair stated. “I staunchly believe we are at Vinland. The Cape, or this part of it that we know today, would have suited my ancestor’s needs. Here, Nashawena Island, would have been the se
at of power. Fishing would naturally be abundant and light farming could have been done mainland. Follins Pond is a natural port of sorts, a place to build and repair their ships. But Newport, this perhaps was seen as their next step of expansion. It held significance for them somehow.”
“How can you be sure, sir?” John Kilkenny always became enthralled when Henry Sinclair espoused his theories on the ancient Viking myth.
“The Newport Tower, John. This map surely was passed down through the generations. Clearly those brave souls who undertook such an undertaking had a specific purpose in building that magnificent structure.”
“Yet they did not stop here to recover their treasure.”
A quiet chuckle emanated from Henry Sinclair. “Oh, but they did, John. They added to it! We’ve not only Viking gold, my friend, we’ve got Templar riches as well. This is a Templar map.”
“No, sir, Professor Collins is not currently on site.”
The unexpected news was troublesome. Collins was most definitely returning to the Woods Hole Institute to begin his investigation of the map. Also worrying was the fact that his seafaring adventurers had yet to report back to him. Mick Beckham had had suspicions that seemed to be confirmed by the map’s detailed description of the Cape Cod coast as it flowed into the Narragansett Bay. If his compass was correct, the Elizabeth Islands were ripe for exploration. But that was out of the question. Privately owned by the Sinclair Family, and fanatically protected by the family’s eccentric hermit, Henry Sinclair, this collection of small sandy atolls were off limits. Legally speaking that was.
Mick Beckham had an affinity for Papi Gomes. An sturdy sailor of Portuguese stock, he had no qualms placing responsibility in Papi’s hands. A meeting had been arranged for tomorrow. The situation with Collins gave him cause for anxiety however. Papi Gomes was not answering his phone. Professor Peter Collins was not at his station.
He politely ended his call with the Institute and dialed another number. “We need to talk. I feel we have been blown off course, dear niece.”
Dan took a sip of his Shipyard Ale as he waited on his lobster basket, bowl of chowder, and plate of quahogs. The Seaside Pub on Main, with its old pub charm, eclectic menu, and view of the harbor, was the perfect venue for him to collect his thoughts and plot a course forward. Jack Beckham wanted his map and treasure protected. He wanted to know who was behind the break-in. Most of all, Jack Beckham wanted to have a showdown with his foes. Dan Burdett was being paid a princely sum to make those things happen. Jack would have his day.
It had been a while since he had had the pleasure of a lobster lunch. It had been a while since a significant payday. He put on his glasses and searched his phone for a number. A year had nearly passed since he had last spoken with his graduate school advisor. Allen Wittenborn had been part advisor, part mentor, part drinking buddy during Dan’s return to academia. He owed him much.
“Burdett, it’s been too long,” the gruff voice answered.
“Allen, sorry, I’ve been up to my neck getting my cottage in shape. Say, I have recently been hired by a certain Jack Beckham. It seems I came highly recommended.”
“My pleasure. Jack’s a good man. His theories are farfetched, I’ll admit, and I guess I’m the only local scholar that lends him an ear.”
“You’ve seen his collection I take it.”
“Some. It has been a few years since our last meeting. I was surprised, quite frankly, when he dialed me up earlier this week.”
“And his theory, you don’t buy it?”
“Cape Cod is not the mythical Vinland, Dan. But, Jack’s artifacts would be worth a fortune on the black market.”
“And that is what this about, you think?”
“We are having a conference this week. Templars in America! Sit in on a few presentations and we can discuss this properly over a bottle of Scotch.”
Dan thought over the black market angle. It made perfect sense. And, perhaps, at the conference, he’d be able to investigate that angle further. “The Scotch is on me, Professor.”
He looked back up at the screen. Damn. Another touchdown for the Buffalo Bills. The 2003 New England Patriots season was starting out anything but spectacularly. He never should have listened to Brick. ‘Twenty to one odds!’ Shit, one thousand large down the drain. Hell, the drains! He still needed to refit the cottage’s drainage system. Better to have used that grand on a plumber.
The boiled lobster uplifted his spirits. He put on his bib and allowed himself a satisfied grin. Ready to jump in, his phone came to life.
“Yeah,” he growled not pleased with the interruption.
“Having a bad day, Mr. Burdett. A pity. It started off so well just a few hours ago.”
“Bess, good afternoon,” he answered his mood brightening. “No, I’m fantastic. You just caught me digging into a two pound lobster.”
“Aha,” she said with a good natured laugh. “Celebrating your conquest are we?”
“Something like that,” Dan admitted. He enjoyed Bess. Smart, sassy, and hot could only begin to describe her. But it wasn’t only that, there was a zest to her spirit. Zest was something that had been sorely lacking from his life for too long. “How can I help you, Officer?”
“By asking me out for a date, first of all. But, on a more serious note, I’m at work, at the station. The Chief asked me to call you. You can come tomorrow to view the body.”
Dan’s appetite suddenly dimmed. Here he was enjoying a congratulatory feast while Pete Gomes lay on a cold coroner’s slab. And still, his heart pumped a little quicker knowing Bess wanted a date.
Bess noted his silence. “My bad, I shouldn’t mix business with pleasure. Very unprofessional of me, I apologize.”
“Not at all, Bess. The thought of Pete threw me though. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow.” He looked out at the glistening Hyannis Harbor, sailboats bobbing up and down on the gentle waves. He saw a sign. Sailboats for Rent: Autumn Special. “And, I’ve got just the idea for a date.”
The Knights Templar had always conjured up images of heroic deeds, men of purpose and daring willing to lay down their life for their sacred cause. John Kilkenny had never before thought he was a guardian of such treasure buried within the Island’s mound. In fact, he did not have access to the chamber. It was only on occasions such as two nights ago that he was allowed entrance and even then just to deposit a prisoner.
“You see, John, it was my blood you might say, my Viking ancestors who first made their way here. And, if they were never able to return, they were sure to chart a course so others of their stock could. That return would come almost four hundred years later. My direct ancestor, probably the greatest of our line, Henry Sinclair, Duke of Orkney, a Templar Knight, took to the seas in 1398 to retrace the steps his Viking forefathers had forged centuries before.”
“One hundred years before Columbus,” Kilkenny whispered in awe. “But, sir, isn’t this a point of pride. Shouldn’t this be shared with the world?”
Sinclair’s face clouded with anger. He rose from his chair and walked to the bay window which offered a view upon the now serene blue waters of the Atlantic. There was a reason he kept his trusted aide in the dark on certain matters. But now the tide was turning against him, his order, and all they represented.
Regaining his composure, he turned to Kilkenny with his jaw set. “John, it is time I include you in an ancient tradition.” In any case, as a member of the Masonic Order it was his duty to build men. Well, John Kilkenny had paid his dues. “On Friday, 13th October, 1307, surprise arrests were made all over France. Most Templar property was seized. But not all! Heroically, the Templar Fleet, with much treasure, escaped and made an epic journey finding refuge in Scotland. And here, my friend, is where our story begins.”
Julia Beckham took a deep breath as she strode up the immaculately groomed path which led to the back doorway of Captain Mick Beckham’s home. She had no interest in being seen. Her great-uncle’s purely financial motives sickened her. Julia m
uch preferred the principled side of the street.
Inside, she made her way up to the second floor study. The bay window perfectly framed the orange glow of a Cape Cod sunset. It oozed romance. She thought of Dan. Last night had rekindled a flame which burned long ago. But she was playing a dangerous game where romance had no role. Dan Burdett was a pawn. She adjusted the telescope and positioned it to view beyond Woods Hole and out onto the Elizabeth Islands. Another powerful emotion welled up. Pride. Honor.
“It is beautiful.”
Julia, startled, abruptly turned around.
“The view that is,” Mick Beckham said. “We’ve much to talk about, Niece.”
He always referred to her with that simple handle, ‘niece.’ It was cold and unsettling. These were words that could be used to describe the man. “Well, Uncle, I do believe I’d like to revise the parameters of our original agreement.”
The Captain nodded and motioned for Julia to sit. “I thought that your sense of loyalty would raise its ugly head at some point. Naturally the gratitude of the most recent home sales I arranged for you would fade once the money met the bank account. So, in recognition of this, I took out an insurance policy.”
Julia Beckham fidgeted. “What could you possibly be talking about?” But the Captain’s cool demeanor sent a chill up her spine. She was dealing with a treacherous man.
“Two months ago, you may remember, at Wychmere Harbor, a burglary took place.”
Of course she remembered. 24 Wychmere Harbor Drive, a prestigious address, was one of her more profitable sales. She had brokered the sale, for a cool two million dollars, only five years before. This was more than a simple burglary. Several priceless museum-worthy objects had been stolen. Among them was an object of immense historical value. The robbers had absconded with a Ming Chinese time piece. It was meant as a gift from the Qing Dynasty Empress Dowager, Cixi, to President Abraham Lincoln. The sunken ship, a Boston Clipper, had been discovered off the Cape Cod coast and the home’s owner had funded the dive which delivered a treasure trove of items from the famed China trade expeditions of the 19th century.
Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1) Page 4
