by Edwin Dasso
“Hopefully nothing,” Ben replied.
Reg got a puzzled look on his face. “Then why are you here?”
“I thought you might like to do a bit of treasure hunting. I’d pay you of course!”
“And where is this treasure?” Reg asked with not a trace of interest.
“Meyer’s Lake. Shallow part.”
Reg burst out laughing. “Got me. For a minute I thought you were serious.”
“I am.”
“Well, as far as I know, Spanish galleons full of gold did not cross Meyers Lake on their way to Spain.”
Ben was getting a bit irritated. “It’s not a treasure like that. It’s an artifact from the early days of the American colonies. We were out on a pontoon boat party on the lake a couple of years ago, and a friend of mine from the Cleveland Museum of Natural History was showing me some artifacts his teams had dug up in Powhattan, Virginia. The party was celebrating his return. The items were priceless, but he said they were durable, so he let us handle them. I was holding up an old ceramic mask in the afternoon sunlight to get a closer look at the detail when a ski boat roared past us and the wake caused our boat to rock wildly. The mask flew out of my hand and into the murky water below.
Surely your friend had divers try to retrieve it?”
“I marked the GPS coordinates,” Ben said, “for that very reason, but he wasn’t particularly interested. He said he wasn’t even sure if it was from the correct time period and might have been of much more recent vintage. Anyhow, I’d like for you to try and retrieve it so I can give it back to my professor friend. His 50th birthday is this coming Sunday and I’d like to give it to him.”
“You sure believe in spur of the moment treasure hunting!” Reg replied with a laugh. “You say you have the coordinates?”
“Yes,” Ben replied as he pulled out his mobile while Reg produced a map of Meyers Lake.
“Looks like it’s pretty close to 12th Street. According to this map, depth at those coordinates is about eight feet. As long as it is still there and close to those coordinates, we should be able to find it quickly. I’ll round up a couple of local divers. They will love this!”
As soon as Ben drove away, a man exited a blue sedan and walked into the dive shop. He saw a man at the back counter. He pulled out his badge and said, “I’m Detective Max Fetterman. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about the man who just left.”
“Yeah, sure,” the man replied. “This sure has been a crazy day!”
“How so?” Max asked.
“The guy that just left asked me to retrieve something he said he had dropped into Meyers Lake. Some kind of historic relic. I mean, come on!”
“You didn’t believe him?” Max asked.
“If they are paying cash, it doesn’t matter. What’s crazy is that you walk in right after he left. You tailing him or something?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” Max said with a frown. “What are you supposed to find?”
“Some old mask he says that was supposed to go to the Cleveland Museum of Natural History but ended up at the bottom of Meyers Lake. Crazy – the guy had GPS coordinates.”
“Ok, listen, I need you to do exactly as I say. We have reason to believe that this guy is forging artifacts. He buries them in lakes and quarries to give them that aged look. Supposedly the acidity of Meyers Lake is perfect.”
“Jesus. I had no idea.”
“He’s a bad apple. His front is Angelo’s House of Pasta out on West Tusc. That’s where he launders the cash.”
“I know the place. I eat there a lot. You sayin’ I shouldn’t eat there?”
“Naw, food’s great, but he is rotten to the core.”
“So, what do I do?”
“Did he give you a number to contact him at?”
“Gave me two. A mobile and a landline – he said that was his office.
“Let me see,” Max asked.
Max studied the numbers. “The landline is the restaurant. I want you to call him on that number if you find something. Got it?”
“Yeah,” the owner replied with a bit of fear in his voice.
“You do what I tell you and you’ll be ok,” Max said as he exited the store.
9
Friday, August 16th, 10:00 AM
Ben felt a new confidence as he exited his condo and took his usual drive down Lakeside Avenue to work. As he turned right at West Tusc. He noticed the Goodwill Store on the South side of the street. He made a deft move into the left turn lane and crossed the eastbound lanes and pulled into the parking lot.
He walked in and immediately turned toward the housewares section. He had an eye for fine things, and he knew what he was looking for. He held up a crystal cocktail glass and ran the fingers of his right hand over the edges. Sharp – meant it was hand cut. He rapped the end of his right index finger and listened to the glass ring. Lead crystal. He checked the bottom of the base but saw no markings. He didn’t care, it was hand cut crystal and would suit his purposes. He picked out two fine English Devonshire porcelain plates. He already had silver that was handed down to his wife and his mother in law had never asked for it back. He would steal a couple of fine linen napkins from the restaurant, and of course, he would have Rinaldo prepare a special dish. If things went as planned, Dinner that night would be epic. It would be a catharsis and a new beginning. It was time he shed the old Ben and learned to walk in the sun.
At 6:16 that evening, the night manager entered Ben’s office and saw the owner hunched over his desk. “Phone call for you, Boss. Some guy says he found something of yours in the lake. You wanna take the call?”
“Yes, thanks,” Ben said as he turned away from the spreadsheet on the computer screen. He picked up the green handset. “Hello, this is Ben.”
“Ben, sorry to call you at work. Just wanted to let you know that we found the mask. Funniest dam thing – it had all these dead fish around it. Maybe some kind of lead poison from the clay or something. Anyhow, I got it in the store. That is a weird looking thing!”
“I’ll come by and get it. How much you want?”
“Money! Hell, you don’t have to pay us. We had a heck of a good time. How about you comp us a couple of meals at your restaurant?”
“Done. I’ll see you in a little while.”
Ben walked out of his office and into the busy evening kitchen. “Frederico,” he said to the head chef. “When you get a moment.”
A moment later, Frederico came up to Ben with a worried look on his face. “We are going as fast as we can. Are the customers complaining?”
“I’m not complaining,” Ben reassured the chef. “I know you are busy, but I am having a special dinner tonight. Make me up a couple of special pasta dishes when you get a chance. I’d prefer angel hair pasta with a garlic rich marinara sauce and some fried medium peppers on the side. Couple of rocket lettuce salads with house dressing and a bottle of our best Chianti.”
“You got a date boss? Gotta say I am glad to hear it.”
“It’s a getting reacquainted dinner. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Your meals should be ready in about twenty minutes,” Frederico said. “I’ll make them extra special.”
“We’re looking forward to it. Ring my office when they are ready.”
Ben went back to his office and finished entering the prior month’s expenses into QuickBooks to send off to his accountant, Marian Smith over in Massillon. She kept urging him to buy the building as the depreciation and interest would be a greater expense than the monthly rent, and he was ready to approach the owner with an offer. He had fifty thousand cash in the bank, and he hoped the owner would take a 6 percent note for the balance.
The phone rang and Ben grabbed it after the first ring. “Frederico?”
“Yeah, Boss. Your food and wine are waiting by the back door. You have a great time tonight, OK? Wish me luck in the kitchen – it is crazy here tonight!”
“I know it will go smoothly with you in the kitchen,�
� Ben replied. “Remember, triage and breathe. Thanks for the food.”
Ben logged off the computer, donned his blue linen sport coat, and went to pick up his food. He looked in the bag and saw that Frederico had included some tiramisu along with the rest of the dinner. He picked up the wine bottle and looked at the label. Milano Estates reserve. It was a Chianti that would suit Hannibal Lecter.
Ben drove north on Whipple avenue, and he heard sirens as he passed Fourth Street. He kept on toward the dive shop and thought the worst. He was relieved that the store was OK, but he saw orange flames dancing behind the buildings in the dying July light.
“What’s going on?” he asked as he walked toward the back of the dive shop.
“Marina’s on fire,” the dive shop owner replied. “Must be a couple of dozen boats plus the dock on fire.”
“My God, I live over there! Is it the marina by the condos?”
“No, it’s the separate one. The one where we keep the dive boat.”
Ben’s face went white. “It can’t be happening again! It can’t be real!”
“What are you talking about man? I’m the one who’s boat is burning up. Do I look worried. Nope, I got insurance. Anyhow, here’s that mask you asked me to find.” The owner opened a small plastic cooler and opened it. “Take a look.”
Ben looked down and saw the evil looking mask he had thrown in the lake years before. It was covered with mud and algae, but he would recognize the garish features anywhere. “Thanks,” he said with a quiver in his voice. “What do I owe you?”
“Well, if that thing has a curse on it, and if I didn’t have insurance, then I would say a new boat. But, a hundred bucks for beer tonight should cover it. You should join us – boys would love to hear more about the ceramic mask. They said it looked creepy as hell sitting there in the mud. We’re meeting at nine over at Watson’s on Whipple Avenue. Come join us!”
“Love to, but I have a special dinner at home tonight.” Ben pulled two one hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and handed them to the owner. “For beer and other expenses,” he said.
“Thanks, friend,” the owner said as he handed the cooler to Ben. “You should try scuba sometime. You would love it!”
“I’ll think about it,” Ben replied and walked out of the dive shop. He tried to exude as much machismo as he could, but inside, he was shaking. Suddenly his bold plans were crumbling, but he had to face his fears.
The fire at the marina was still raging when Ben arrived at his condo. All the gasoline in the boats made it extremely dangerous for the firemen to approach to flames and they were basically keeping it from spreading.
Ben made two trips from his car to his condo. He first took the food and the wine, and on the second trip he brought the cooler containing the mask. Even through the plastic top, Ben could smell the lake bottom rot still clinging to the ceramic mask. He put the cooler down by the kitchen sink, then reached in and grabbed the slippery ceramic mask. It was surprisingly warm. He put it in the bottom of the single compartment white composite sink and ran the water until it was hot. He pressed the button on the pull-down sprayer and sprayed a hard stream of hot water onto the mask. Years of crud began to wash off and the reddish color of the glaze became apparent.
Ben turned off the water and squirted blue dish detergent on the mask, then began to scrub with a soft vegetable brush. More red appeared. Ben had not remembered the mask being red at all, but the more he scrubbed, the deeper the hue until it was almost the color of dried blood. Ben’s imagination began to run wild, but he refused to believe the marina fire was caused by the piece of ceramic. Just a coincidence, nothing more.
When Ben was satisfied with the cleaning, he rinsed the mask off once more, then dried it with a blue dish towel buttoned to the oven handle of his stove. He had to admit it was beautiful. Hell, maybe it was some sort of ancient relic. Ben carried the mask to the dinner table and put it on a yellow bamboo placemat at the seat next to the patio door. He started to go get the food, then he looked at the front of his white shirt. There was lake crud all over it.
“Mask baby, I wanna spend time with you, but I gotta go shower first. This is a special night for us.” Ben tried to hide his fear and he was terrified of going into the shower and closing the shower curtain between himself and the red ceramic dinner guest. He didn’t want to end up dead in the shower like his wife.
Ben let the water run hot and long, and he didn’t hear the slight noise as someone crawled from under the bed. The intruder had rehearsed well but had not counted on two portions of pasta. He looked at the table and saw the red mask with its own dinner plate. He just shook his head. He pulled out a vial full of Ben’s medicine from the time of his wife’s death. Better be safe, the intruder thought and opened up each container of pasta and poured half the powdered medicine in each, then stirred it around with a spoon from the silverware drawer and took a tiny taste of each. The marinara sauce heavy with garlic masked any taste the medicine might have. The intruder rinsed off the spoon and dried it, then put it back in the drawer. He took the empty medicine bottle along with some others and put them in the trash can under some dirty paper towels.
The intruder heard the water stop, then the shower curtain slide open and Ben’s feet hitting the bathmat. The intruder tiptoed back into the bedroom and slid back under the bed. Closets were too iffy as one could never tell which one Ben might open.
Ben walked into the bedroom and put on blue boxer briefs, a ruffled front white shirt and calf length summer weight black dress socks. He pulled on his black tuxedo pants with the sateen stripe down the side, put on his red silk braces and attached them to the buttons on the inside of his trousers, then fastened his trousers. He put on matte patent leather loafers, then his cummerbund and bowtie. Finally, he put on the tuxedo jacket and looked at himself in a mahogany framed door mirror. He smiled at what he saw. He remembered the New Year’s Eve Party at the Moonlight ballroom, the last dance before the fire that destroyed it. He and his wife had danced all night to Dick Pokra’s orchestra out of Cleveland and that is where he learned to polka.
He went to the bathroom, splashed on some Homme du Mer cologne, and headed for his date in the kitchen. Somehow, he felt invincible in the tux.
He was relieved that everything looked the same in the kitchen. “So, Ms. Mask, we meet again. I think we got off on the wrong foot, so I want to make things right. He uncorked the Chianti and poured two glasses, one of which he placed to the right of the mask. “I hope you like red.”
He opened the bag Frederico had packed and looked at the containers of food. On one was written Angel hair pasta garlic marinara and the other said marinara and aged parmesan. “I can’t keep calling you Mask. How about Yarni? Dark and mysterious. Garlic or parmesan?” Ben waited a minute, thinking Yarni might answer. “You want me to choose, OK. You’re old school. Let the man make the decisions. I kinda like that about you. I’m saying you are a cheese woman, and I am going to have some too as I don’t want to offend you with garlic breath. We’ll have the salad later. I prefer diving into the main course with wild abandon.
Ben heated up the container for two minutes in the microwave, then scooped out two steaming platefuls of pasta. He placed one in front of Yarni and the other one at his seat. He took the paper carton back to the counter, then returned to the table and sat down. He raised his glass to Yarni, “Bon Appetit. To a new beginning!” He looked over at his dinner guest and saw the orange flames still raging behind her. It was a fitting setting. Fire made all things pure again.
“Eat up!” Ben said to Yarni as he took a huge bite of pasta. “My God this is good. I will have to thank Frederico tomorrow. I may even give him a raise. Yarni, please, take a bite.” Ben finished his plate in less than five minutes, then looked over to see that Yarni’s was still full. “You don’t like it? Frederico will be displeased. I am going to get some more.”
Ben got up from the table and almost fell on the floor. “What the hell is wrong with my legs!” He m
anaged to make it to the white granite kitchen counter and rested on it. “My legs feel like lead. Yarni, did you do this?” He felt a strange taste and bile rose in his throat. “What the Hell! Jesus, I’ve been poisoned!”
Ben grabbed his cell phone and looked in the contacts under F. No Fetterman. “Jesus, why don’t I have his number?” He dialed 911.
“Hello, what is your emergency?”
“I need to talk with Max Fetterman of the Canton Police Department.”
“I can’t connect you.”
“Please, it’s an emergency! Can you transfer me?”
“You will have to dial them direct, 330-687-9000.”
“OK, OK. Jesus.” Ben tried to remember the number as he dialed. Finally, the phone rang on the other end.
“Canton Police Department. How may I direct your call?”
“I need to talk with Detective Max Fetterman. It’s a matter of life or death!”
“What department does he work in,” the young female voice asked.
“Homicide, he works in homicide!”
“Ok, settle down, I will connect you.”
“Homicide, Merch. How may I help you?”
“Thank God! I need to reach Detective Max Fetterman!”
“Who?”
“Fetterman! Detective Max Fetterman!”
“I’m sorry sir, there is nobody by that name that works here.”
“You must be mistaken!”
“I’ve been here 15 years, Merch said. “I know who works here!”
Ben felt reality slipping away. He looked toward the bathroom and saw the shower curtain opening. A hand covered in a blue nitrile glove appeared. “Help!” he yelled into the phone, but the line was dead. He tried to dial 911, but the keys were too blurry. He felt his legs give way and he slipped down the wall while his failing eyes made out the all too familiar face he knew as Detective Max Fetterman.
Max pried the phone from his hand, and Ben felt his only chance of survival slip away. He managed to raise himself against the wall and saw the orange light of the dinner candles shining off the mask like dying sunlight. I’m coming for you darling ran through his head and then he fell to the floor in a final cascade of death.
