by Patti Larsen
“I couldn’t care less,” I said, meaning it, though the answer to this particular puzzle felt immensely satisfying. I loved having questions filled in neat and tidy. “I have no intention of sharing, Oliver. Though yes, I have to admit. I’m curious about your motives.”
He hesitated before shrugging those narrow shoulders, the single bright security light casting odd shadows through his thinning hair, over the shiny scalp beneath, making his eyes dark pits, his nose more beaklike than ever.
“Captain Reading is a myth,” he said then, abrupt and with a trace of his old pomposity showing before he shook off his attempt at returning to his arrogant ways. “Not the man himself, but the so-called legend.” Oliver grunted as he heaved himself up onto the stool behind the counter. “And don’t get me started on that Joseph Patterson. The town of Reading was already here and doing just fine before those two vagabonds decided to lie their way into pretending they were anything but a pair of swindling con artists.” He snorted. “Imagine the hubris of a fake privateer carving a compass into the harbor rock.” Gasp. “He didn’t even aim it in the right direction.” Oliver seemed greatly amused by that while I did my best not to choke on that truth.
That compass had come to represent the Reading hoard to me as much as anything else. Crew wore it on his wrist, as his father had. I processed this reveal, wanting to fight against the historian’s steady confidence but knowing I’d lose.
Oliver wasn’t done anyway, anger snapping back into place as he jabbed a finger at the row of books on the counter. “Have you not read my definitive history of our town, Fiona Fleming?”
Um. Oops. “You’re saying Captain Reading wasn’t?”
Oliver snorted and looked away, sniffing softly as if the previous dislodged something needed retrieval. I winced and thought of Robert while the historian spoke again, firm conviction in his voice.
“According to merchantman and privateer records,” he said, “no one with that name commanded any kind of ship, let alone a brigantine. Nor was there a vessel named the Darkling Dragon.” He glared like he expected me to challenge him while I felt my whole body go numb and then tingly. “Maybe if you had actually taken a moment to read my historical records—all thoroughly researched, thank you very much—you would have known not to pursue this ridiculous wild goose chase.”
But, the doubloons! “You’re saying Captain Reading and Joseph Patterson came to Reading, lied about who they were—”
“And sweet-talked their way into our town’s society.” Oliver nodded abruptly, reaching for the middle book which he opened to a page near the front. “At the time, Reading was named Lewisville, after the true founder. That family bought Reading’s story and it was their oldest daughter—a homely spinster from all accounts—who he seduced and married.”
I sagged against the counter, not sure if I should laugh or cry. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” I stared down at the books, kicking myself. I’d had these in my possession at Petunia’s, had agreed to sell them for him. In fact, I’d been handed a bill shortly after my B&B burned to the ground by the very man sitting in front of me for the loss of his product.
“Would you have listened?” He dropped the book to the counter. “No one in Reading listens.”
“I guess they don’t want to,” I said, understanding. “Human nature. We want to be special, don’t we?”
Oliver stared at me, animosity fading. “We can’t all be special, Miss Fleming.”
“And Alistair Markham?” I wondered about Crew’s grandfather, how he’d gotten things so wrong.
The historian grunted something unkind before both hands slapped down on the glass countertop. “That old fool,” he said. “I tried to tell him, too. And your Grandmother Iris. Whatever the pair of them were up to, though, you can bet they had no desire to share with me.”
Was that bitter resentment and a hint of jealousy I heard in his voice? So, if he would ever be honest with himself—not likely after all this time—he felt left out, didn’t he? There was nothing I could do about that. Or was there?
“Oliver,” I said, reaching for my phone, cuing up the photos of the doubloons Gregg found, “there has to be a treasure. Otherwise, where did these come from?”
He took my offering, studied the images a moment, eyes widening until a disdainful smile told me he’d proven his point and I’d given him what he needed to do it. His fingers widened the image before he turned it back toward me and let me see what he’d focused in on. I did while he spoke, all that full-of-himself attitude returning.
“While these coins might be real,” he said, “there is no way they came on board the Darkling Dragon or as part of any Reading hoard.” He pointed, jabbing at the screen, while I shook my head and frowned. I had no idea what he wanted me to see. I shouldn’t have worried. Oliver sighed so heavily and with such drama I shot him an annoyed expression while he crossed his arms over his chest and looked down that beak nose at me. “The date, Miss Fleming,” he said. “On the coin. What is the date?”
“1794,” I said. Then stopped. Inhaled. Said a very naughty word, while Oliver chuckled.
“That’s correct,” he said. “And considering the fact the so-called Captain Reading arrived in our town in 1739…”
I looked up from the image, heart constricting, a very sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “There’s no way this coin could be part of his hoard,” I said.
“Unless he was also some kind of time traveler,” Oliver said. “You’re welcome.”
***
Chapter Twenty Five
I wanted to argue, was going to show him the photo of the coin from Grandmother Iris’s music box, and decided against it. “There’s no record of Captain Reading leaving town, then? Maybe making a few privateer voyages after the fact?” I was reaching for straws that never existed and I knew it. But damn it, defeat? Tasted like old dust and bitterness.
“You know the answer to that,” Oliver said, snarky enough I could have choked him. “Nor could he have gone to sea at well over one hundred years old, unless he was also an alien.” That amused him to no end. “Honestly, you really believed the treasure existed and no one found it after all this time?”
“There’s a map,” I said.
“I had a look at that map of yours,” he responded while I protested with a silent glare. Oliver winked slowly, leaning forward over the glass. “You think I didn’t know, that day here in my own store, what you thought you’d found?” He chuckled again, the light behind him making him appear as some evil goblin huddling behind his counter, in the market for my soul. “It’s a fake, Miss Fleming. I studied it carefully when I retrieved it from Peggy Munroe’s possessions. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to create a map to something that never existed.”
Okay, now I was going to have full on heart failure and I had no idea if I could trust Oliver to call 9-1-1. “What?” Wow, Fleming, how articulate.
The old historian seemed to recognize he’d taken me about as far down the road to reality as he could at the moment without putting my life at risk and backed off, shaking his head, the wisps of his white hair trembling over his shining scalp as if tasting the air. “I’m sorry. I truly am. But I have always personally preferred the facts, Miss Fleming. You have them now. The question is, what are you going to do with them?”
I stared at him a long moment before shaking off my stunned acceptance. Because there was no argument I could present. Sure, I’d do my own research, but Oliver had no reason to lie to me. In fact, he took such pleasure in crushing my dreams it was pretty clear he was telling the truth as he knew it.
Never mind he had no problem spreading terrible rumors about Fiona Doyle I knew were false. Or, did I? At this point, could I believe anything I thought I knew?
Discouraging and disheartening in light of everything that came before.
So, if that map wasn’t Captain Reading’s guide to his treasure, where did it come from? And who created it? What did it point to on the Patterson property and what was I go
ing to do about it?
I swallowed hard, past the sour taste in the back of my throat, and pulled myself together, pocketing my phone. “I do have one question,” I said. “How did you manage to avoid getting caught all this time? The cameras…” I trailed off while Oliver shifted uncomfortably on his stool.
“Denver,” he finally blurted his grandson’s name and I inhaled in understanding.
“Your tech wizard grandchild can’t say no to you, apparently,” I said.
Oliver shrugged, looked slightly embarrassed. “We’d only just found each other,” he said. “I told him everything, about the fake captain, and he agreed to help me circumvent the cameras.” He grinned then, suddenly, the expression altering his face from sullen old goat to gleeful teenager who’d pulled the prank of the century under everyone’s noses. “You have to admit, it’s been hilarious.”
I giggled, couldn’t help it, needed the release of stress and found myself laughing out loud a moment later, struggling for breath while Oliver laughed with me, wiping at tears that I caught streaming down my face. Because he was right. It was the funniest thing ever.
When I finally exhaled my last snorting chuckle, Oliver handed me a tissue which I took with a smile of thanks. He beamed back at me and I wondered if, from now on, I’d have a different outlook when it came to the old historian.
He certainly seemed altered by our exchange of amusement, wriggling like an excited puppy on his stool. “Denver’s a good boy,” he said. “Rigged some kind of loop that runs every night, tapes a new version once a week automatically so the season change doesn’t interfere.” Oliver jerked a thumb behind him, at the narrow door behind his back. “I have the gear here, but I have no idea how it works.”
A sudden surge of inspiration hit me. “Is Denver in town?”
Oliver shook his head then, sagging a bit. It was clear he was attached to his grandson, missed him. “He and Alice are out on some kind of case of hers.” He sounded like he didn’t approve.
Right. Alice Moore, our local transplanted medium and paranormal debunker, was running her own investigation service, though hers had less to do with the living and more to do with the long dead. But, from what I’d heard from Dad and a few others she’d been running into her own rash of murders fresher than anyone hunting ghosts should have been forced to deal with. I’d lost track of the pair of them, shame on me. Not that life hadn’t been super busy and I had lots of excuses. Still, it would be nice to reconnect and catch up on what had been happening on their end.
“Can you put me in touch with Denver?” Because, if I wasn’t mistaken, the camera angle? Took a very clear shot of town hall.
“Of course,” Oliver said. “Why?”
“Do you know if he keeps the real footage or not?” Please, let him keep it.
Oliver seemed confused then shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”
I nodded, a bit hopeful. “Can you have him call me?” I scribbled my cell number on the back of one of Oliver’s business cards. He scowled at the use of his stationary but nodded.
I left Oliver then, heading for home, mind spinning as much as it had been when I took my walk earlier that night. Except, of course, I had entirely new things to mull over. But I wasn’t going to do so alone.
Instead, I texted Crew, Dad and Liz and told them to meet me at the annex, bypassing the house I shared with my husband, entering the foyer as the two investigative men in my life arrived out front and joined me. Liz, in the meantime, was descending the stairs from the room she was using, joining us in the sitting room while I paced the length of the space and told them what Oliver told me.
“But my grandfather—” I hated the stricken look on Crew’s face, the way he rubbed at the tattoo on his wrist. “My dad.”
My own father looked sullen, angry, but nodded abruptly. “I already knew about this,” he said. “I never believed Oliver, Fee. But I should have listened.”
Crew stared at Dad like he’d suffered the worst betrayal ever. “Why would my grandfather devote so much time and effort to a lie?”
“And,” Liz said, voice quieter but face set in her typical cool professionalism, “if the doubloons aren’t from the treasure we’ve been seeking, whose are they and where did they come from?”
I stopped in my tracks. “That’s an excellent question,” I said, kicking myself I hadn’t gotten far enough into my own thought process to ask it. “Did Gregg plant them? Bring them with him to seed the lake bed?” Was that his real game, pretending treasures were real? “But if so, why bother? And if he was working for Blackstone, what possible purpose would they have for pretending the Reading hoard was real?”
“I should note,” Liz said, “I’ve been digging into the Tortuga crew and I’ve uncovered some uncomfortable truths about Anja Härle.” She settled deeper into the cushions of the sofa, feet beneath her, pajamas that same dark blue as her suits, ponytail about as perfect as she usually wore it. Even ready for bed she looked like an FBI agent. “Most notably, that she took a great deal of effort to hide the fact when she was a new dive master, she lost a student in what should have been a routine dive. And while it was never proven to be her fault, Anja went to great lengths—including changing her last name—to sidestep her history.”
Crew whistled low. “Sounds suspicious,” he said. “Why hide if it wasn’t an accident?”
“She claimed it was,” Liz said. “However, it couldn’t be proven either way. Though, I should point out the young man had an altercation with Anja on several occasions while he dove with her and the cause of death was decompression sickness brought on by rapid ascent.” Liz met Crew’s eyes, then mine again. “Apparently she claimed he refused to listen to her during the dive and that all attempts she made to stop his ascent failed, that he panicked and overpowered her.”
“Plausible,” Crew said. “If he was bigger and stronger than her.”
“And yet,” Liz said, “according to the dive shop manager, the young man had been diving for several weeks and had never shown signs of panic in the past.”
“I’ve seen experience divers lose it out of the blue,” Crew said. “Still.”
Silence fell while we all chewed that over.
“Since Gregg seemed to like to hold things over people,” I said at last, “could he have known about Anja’s past? Been using it against her?”
Crew nodded. “If MC didn’t know, if Anja was hiding it because she was guilty and Gregg could prove it…”
“He did know.” We all turned, shocked, to find Anja in the doorway. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her long hair tangled around her, bangs heavy over her eyes, hands trembling as she swiped in angry motions at the moisture on her face. Half furious, half guilty, at least that’s how it looked to me.
“Who you were,” Liz said, “or that you killed that young man?”
Anja’s whole body jerked and she chopped at the air in a violent motion of rejection before stumbling a little. Dad rose, helped her sit down, while the young woman sobbed a moment. When she inhaled a shaking breath, she accepted the tissue Liz offered in her calm and focused way.
“I didn’t kill him,” she said, voice trembling. “It happened exactly the way I told my boss, all those years ago.” Anja inhaled, squaring her thin shoulders, head back, defiant if sad. “He starting hitting on me from day one, moment one, and I told my boss I wasn’t going to put up with it. He wouldn’t stop, was putting other divers in danger because he was forcing all of my attention on keeping him from… being inappropriate.”
Yikes. “And your boss wouldn’t help?”
Anja shrugged, tearing the tissue apart in long, thin strips, voice falling to a dull acceptance. “Sometimes you just have to put up with it. And I did.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, met my eyes, perhaps sensing my sympathy. Because yes, I was sympathetic. If she was telling the truth. “That day, I smelled the beer on his breath. I knew he’d had too much to drink. And from the way his pupils were dilated, I suspected he was on somet
hing else. Maybe cocaine.” She shrugged then, helpless, hopeless. “I was so young, just certified. I didn’t know how to handle it, didn’t handle it well.” She sat back, exhaling long and slow. “I tried to convince him not to dive, told my boss he shouldn’t be in the water, but no one listened. And so, I went down with him.”
“What depth did he lose it?” Crew’s own sympathy wasn’t hard to read.
She nodded to him as if in gratitude for listening and thought about it a moment. “I think we were at sixty feet. He was pushing his depth, wasn’t on the right mix for any deeper, but he seemed disoriented and swam away from me. I chased him, managed to get him turned around. But then he panicked.” She stared into the distance like she was reliving it, likely did on a regular basis. “I saw it in his eyes, couldn’t stop him. By the time I reached him he’d had a seizure. Spit out his mouthpiece and drowned.”
I cleared my throat in the silence that followed. “Anja,” I said. “That’s exactly how Gregg died.”
She met my gaze with her own full of fear and sorrow. “I know,” she whispered. “But I swear, I had nothing to do with it.” She shuddered, hugging a throw pillow as if it could protect her from the past. “I’ve lived with this for years, had nightmares about it. It wasn’t my fault, but it was, ultimately. I was his dive master.” Her lower lip trembled, more tears threatening. “I could never, ever, do that to someone on purpose. Not ever. I can barely live with the accident. Murder?” Anja swallowed heavily as if the very thought made her want to throw up. “Never.”
“So what was Gregg using against you?” Liz’s turn to shift the conversation.
Anja settled again, clearly had lots of experience shunting aside the memory of the dead diver. “He never actually told me himself, had Martin do it.” Hmmm. That was odd. “Fee, you saw the end of that argument, in the dive shack.” I remembered, let her continue. “Martin claimed Gregg had evidence I’d been negligent, showed me a fabricated statement from a diver I worked with. Said he could come up with a few other sets of testimony that would ruin me and probably put me in jail.” She looked miserable enough I believed her. “I know this makes me sound guilty. Anyway, Martin said Gregg wanted me to leave Tortuga Divers and join another team. To do for him with them what Chantal was doing with MC.”
