Too Much Stuff

by Don Bruns

  “Diego,”—like a nurturing mother—like someone who was looking out for his best interest, like someone who wanted a one-hundred-thousand-dollar commission, “you get to keep the sand. And I know how it’s important to renourish your beach. It’s really a win-win proposition. It’s going to work out very well for you.”

  The man frowned. “It is a worthwhile project, but—”

  “We’ve brought yellow tape to cordon off this area. We’ll run it from the building to a post out by the water. For safety reasons, you understand. We can’t have people anywhere near us.”

  “And you’re going to do this when?”

  “Around eight or nine o’clock this evening. While we can still see, but most of your guests will not be outside.”

  He was biting his lip. “A backhoe and a dump truck. It seems like an awfully big undertaking for a practice session.”

  “Think about this, Diego. If the sand works, you’re going to have what may be an award-winning sculpture on your beach tomorrow. You’ll have it as long as you can preserve it. And, as the boys compete in national and international competitions, you’ll be able to say that Cheeca Lodge had the first. The original sculpture. A giant sand sculpture of a futuristic seahorse.”

  “Okay, okay. We want to do this. We’ll make sure that we keep people away from your operation. Just put the rest of my beach back the way you found it.” He let out a deep breath. “Please?”

  She smiled and touched his arm. “You’re not going to regret this, Diego. It could be a huge project.”

  He was worried about the temporary truck and backhoe loader on his pristine beach, but dead people were right beneath the surface. I was just hoping that we didn’t unearth any of them.

  We hung out by the pool, Em in her white shorts and blue halter top, James and I in cutoffs and sandals.

  “I still don’t see how we’re going to load ten crates.”

  “If those crates are really there,” I added.

  “Dude, you found one.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ten crates, about two hundred pounds each,” Em said.

  James just smiled, taking a swallow of his beer. “Hey, this Sanko chick has got us this far. Ingenious, I say. Really.”

  “High-end sand sculpting. I saw some of those down on South Beach one year.” Em sipped a rum and Coke. “Angels, naked women, Neptune, sea serpents, castles. The ideas were fabulous.”

  I’d made several sandcastles as a kid. Small ones, using milk cartons as molds, but the role we were playing took things to an entirely different level.

  “I want to know what happens tomorrow when Diego comes out here and there’s no sculpture. I mean, what happens when he calls Maria and says, ‘Hey, where’s my one-of-a-kind world-famous sculpture?’”

  I didn’t want to be here to find out.

  “Maybe the sand wouldn’t bond, or one of you got sick. You had a fight and broke up, you decided not to share your idea with the world at this time. Come on Skip, James. You’re both born storytellers,” Em said. “Surely you can think of a dozen reasons for why there’s no sculpture tomorrow morning.”

  James was silent for a moment. He had picked up a cheap cigar from a shop up the street and lit it, puffing until the smoke streamed from his mouth. He quenched his thirst with the last swallow of beer and looked at me.

  “Wonder if there’s serious money in sculpting sand, Skip.”

  “James, we don’t know the first thing about sand sculpting.”

  “Think about it, amigo. No bosses. You get to play in the sand and water all day,” he glanced at Em, “work on a beach surrounded by bikini-clad girls who are oohing and ahhing about your work.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Maybe not. I say we at least look into it.” He lay back and closed his eyes. “I Googled it, Skip. Fifteen to thirty thousand in prize money in these contests. And you’re kind of like the rock stars of the beach, huh?”

  “James, we’re about to embark on a project that could gross us two million dollars. And you want to play around on the sand for fifteen thousand dollars?”

  I know, it sounds absolutely crazy, but James is always half serious about his business ideas. Myself, I didn’t want to travel the world with a butter knife, cutting and smoothing lifeless sand into art forms.

  It was eight o’clock when James and I ran the yellow tape from a pole by the building to a pole by the ocean, effectively cordoning off our section of the beach and the little cemetery.

  At nine, the dump truck pulled up followed by a flatbed truck with a backhoe loader on the back. I have to admit I got a chill. Funded by Mrs. Trueblood, Maria Sanko had gotten us everything we needed.

  Em, Maria, and James watched the perimeter. I supervised the dumping of a load of sand. After we’d created a mountain of the silicate and dirt, I helped the two drivers roll the tractor off the flatbed.

  As advertised, the machine had a backhoe on the rear, and a bucket loader on the front. You could dig up the wooden crates with the hoe, then lift them into the truck with the front-end loader. Pretty cool.

  The driver of that vehicle reached over to the passenger seat and pulled out my metal detector. The JW Fishers metal detector.

  I was convinced we’d be stopped. There was no way that anyone was going to allow us to dig up ten wooden crates and then load them on a truck. We were crazy to think that Maria Sanko had a good plan. It was a terrible plan. And on top of terrible, there was a great chance that the crates would be rotted, so we’d be faced with everyone seeing that there were crates of gold bars surrounding the old cemetery.

  If there was any gold. Hell, I’d probably found a metal casket that had been buried in the last seventy-five years. This was a bad idea, a very bad idea and I—

  “Hey, kid, where do you want me to start digging?”

  I didn’t want him to start digging at all. I was ready to call the whole thing off. Of all the hare-brained schemes—

  “Here.”

  I walked off the spot where the metal detector had gone off.

  “Man, be careful.”

  “We’re going to scrape away one layer at a time. Inches. I understand the sensitivity of what you’re doing. You’ve got some ancient wooden cases and you don’t want to destroy them.”

  A very cool operator.

  While he scraped, I swept the detector ahead. Nothing. Farther. Nothing. So possibly Mrs. T. had spent a lot of money on a project that was not going to produce anything. I swept farther ahead and there it was. The sound came out of nowhere and scared the crap out of me. I actually jumped. The siren was loud in my ear and very fast. Woooo, woooo, wooo, wooo. I felt a chill up my spine.

  Clenching my teeth to keep from grinning, I fanned it length-ways and it stayed loud for over a foot, then tapered off.

  Two possible miniature coffins. I glanced up at the windows facing the cemetery plot. They were dark. Behind the black glass could have been the eyes of two private detectives, watching our every move, but I could see nothing.

  “Kid.” The driver was motioning to me.

  “Yeah?” I was anxious to find the next one.

  “There’s a wooden crate. Just like you said. Do you want me to work around it and put it in the truck? Time to decide.”

  There was no question.

  “Yeah. Dig it up.”

  “Tell you what, just a point I should make.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If this is bodies we’re diggin’ up, there’s a pretty stiff penalty for that.”

  “These crates aren’t that big.”

  “I probably shouldn’t admit to this,” he paused, “but I actually done that before. Dug up a body. Just don’t ask why.”

  He pushed the backhoe into the earth, pried up the wooden box, then turned around and lifted it with the front loader. It looked right. Pretty much the dimensions that were outlined in Matthew Kriegel’s letter. And hopefully there was two hundred pounds of gold inside. We’d know soon enough.<
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  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  They came up one after another. Box after box and I was ready to scream. James and Em left their posts periodically to run over and see the wooden crates.

  “Team, we’ve got to make sure no one gets close to this site.” Maria would motion for them to go back and guard the borders.

  “Don’t know what’s in these that you want, but the boxes are well preserved.” The dump truck driver stood there, puffing on a cigarette.

  I was in awe as I ran the detector over another box buried about five feet below the surface. The boxes were in great shape.

  “Silicate.” Maria Sanko had walked up and heard his comment.

  I pulled out my earplug. “What’s that?”

  “Sand is made of silicate. It’s the prime ingredient of beach sand.”

  “And?”

  “Under the right circumstances it gets into wood and literally petrifies it. Silicate is probably what has preserved the wood.”

  The lady was a fount of knowledge.

  After five boxes we huddled together, high-fiving and slapping each other on the back. The two drivers must have thought we were crazy.

  “Guys, here’s my new idea.”

  Her original idea had been a winner, so we were eager to hear the latest.

  “Let’s have Hank fill in the holes with fresh sand. I’m simply going to tell Diego that we had to push the sculpture back one night. Something came up and we need another evening.”

  I pointed to the truck, loaded now with five identical wood containers, metal banding strapping the lids on tight. “But we’ve already got five of them in the truck. Why not go for—”

  Softly, she said. “We’re not sure what’s in those boxes. And we can’t be sure until we get to a more private location. We’re taking them to this warehouse that I rent and we’ll see if we’re on the right track.”

  The evening air had cooled, and Em shivered. I put my arm around her, and looked at James.

  “Sure. Maybe we’ve pushed our luck enough for one night.”

  No one had bothered us. No one had come to watch the two sculptors at their task. Thank God.

  “Then it’s agreed? We’ve gotten this far, let’s not tempt fate.”

  Everyone nodded their heads as our two drivers stood off to the side.

  “If we have success,”—even in the dark I could see the gleam in Maria’s eye—“we will ask to come back tomorrow night. I don’t think your banker will argue about spending the money for one more evening of digging.”

  “Damn,” James whispered. “This is so much worse than waiting for Christmas.”

  James, Em, and I headed for our box truck. Maria got into the dump truck to give the driver directions and to make sure that he followed them. Right now we couldn’t trust anyone.

  Our guy with the backhoe smoothed the old and new sand from our pile into the craters we’d created.

  “They were heavy.” James kept his eyes on the road, following Maria and the wooden crates. “I tried just lifting a corner of one. I’d bet on two hundred pounds. Ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ve struck gold.”

  Em grabbed my thigh and squeezed. “I think there’s one heck of a chance. I mean, it was just too perfect.”

  “We should have loaded them all.” I wished we’d taken that risk.

  “Skip,” she nudged me, “if there’s something else in those crates, the remains of someone’s pet, or god forbid a small child, we’d have had to bring all ten caskets back and rebury them.”

  “Yeah. Well—”

  “Dude, we’re gonna be rich. I can feel it this time.”

  I felt it too. There was electricity in the air. Everything pointed to our really having found the mother lode.

  “We’re buying a new truck, partner.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And quitting those horseshit jobs we’ve got.”

  “Amen.”

  “And you’re going to buy me some expensive jewelry, and not those crappy sea-creature jewels. Got it?” Em punched my shoulder.

  I got it.

  “We’ll buy a fleet of trucks, Skip. Start that rent-a-truck business we talked about.”

  “How about your restaurant on South Beach?”

  “That, too. It’s going to be a party place.”

  “Em, James, there might not be any gold in those boxes.”

  We all three laughed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  We’d driven about four miles south when the dump truck’s turn signal flashed right. James slowed down and turned off onto a crushed-shell road. The half moon was brilliant in the black sky as we followed the narrow path for two hundred feet, then saw a row of metal huts. A dim spotlight hung from the main building of the complex. The truck in front stopped, so we braked and stepped out of the vehicle.

  I can truthfully say this was the most exciting, exhilarating time in my young life. I had never felt such a mixture of anticipation, fear, and confusion. Even Em, who was used to money, used to developing big projects, was shaking. We were about to discover what our treasure was.

  “How are we going to unload?”

  I shrugged my shoulders as Maria Sanko came around the side of the main building, riding a bright yellow forklift.

  “Question answered, son.” James grinned. We’d made a wise choice in finally confiding in her.

  We worked getting the boxes off the truck, then sent the dump truck driver on his way. I did have thoughts that he might come back. If he suspected there was a big score, what was to stop him? But he waved and left the little storage facility, pulling back onto the highway.

  In the yellow light, the four of us stared at the five crates lying an equal distance from each other on the ground. I’d never seen a prettier sight. There was a moment of silence, then my cell phone rang.

  “Damn.”

  “Who is it?”

  I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Well, answer it.” Em was staring at me.

  “Hello.”

  “Skip Moore?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Mary Trueblood.”

  I let out a long sigh of relief.

  “What have you found out?” Lots of tension in her voice.

  “We’re just getting ready to open the first five crates.”

  “Five? Not ten?”

  “I’ll fill you in later.”

  Maria produced a pair of tin snips and started working on the first crate. Four corroded metal bands wrapped around the boxes and she cut each one. They were thin from the years of exposure and separated easily.

  “Mrs. T., we’re getting ready to open the first crate.”

  She was silent, probably praying. Forty-four million dollars in precious metal. I couldn’t fathom that kind of wealth.

  James and Em walked over and pulled on the lid. It wouldn’t budge.

  “Here, look.” Maria pointed to the edge of the lid. “It’s nailed shut.”

  “Whoever packed this wasn’t taking any chances.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Now what do we do?”

  “Take this wrecking bar,” she picked up a crowbar from the ground, “and pry it open.”

  “What else do you have in your bag of tricks?” James asked.

  “Hey, I’m here to help you guys.”

  “And you’re here for one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “That, too.”

  “It’ll be just a minute, Mrs. Trueblood. We’re working on getting the top off. Do you want me to call you back?”

  “No. I’m staying on the line.”

  I slipped the phone back into my pocket, still connected, and went over to help. James took the first shift and he wedged the bar into a thin crease between the top and the side boards.

  “This wood is solid.”

  “Almost like petrified?” asked Maria.

  “Yeah.”

  “Silicate,” she said.

  He pried and worked that bar. We heard a creak and knew that the wood was s
eparating. Slowly.

  Occasionally we heard traffic from the road a couple hundred feet away. A rumbling truck, a car with a bad muffler, a motorcycle, a diesel engine bus. We were aware of them, but concentrating on the task at hand.

  “I wish I had more of those pry bars,” Maria said.

  I was working it, Mary Trueblood still connected in my pocket. I’d pry and hear the creak, and the top would be just a little looser.

  Half of the top was now almost free. Em took the bar and started working on the end of the box. For a slight girl, she’s strong. She put her weight to good advantage and worked her way around to the far side.

  “There’s got to be an easier way,” I said.

  “More wrecking bars,” said Maria, “but the Ace Hardware is closed.”

  “Let me take it again.” James took the metal bar from Em and started prying, going faster now that the wooden top was almost free.

  “Keep on prying, folks.”

  The sinister voice stopped us in our tracks.

  “And when you’re done, step back from the wooden box.”

  We all spun around, for the first time seeing the two scruffy guys in the dim light. The dark-haired one with the three-day growth on his face held a pistol, aimed right at Emily.

  “Markim and Weezle?” James had a frozen look on his face.

  “Keep prying that lid.”

  “Or is it Markim and Stiffle?” I asked.

  The other guy, a little chubby and with lighter hair stared at me. “Stiffle is Weezle’s brother. Was Weezle’s brother.”

  “Twins?” I knew it was no coincidence.

  “Keep prying.”

  James set the bar, and I watched him, his hands now shaking.

  “Adopted?” Em studied the duo.

  “Yeah. Different families. Different last names.” Weezle sneered at her, the gun never wavering. “My brother was an idiot. We sent him to find the translation for that letter the Trueblood lady gave us.”

  “Whoa. She gave you the letter.”

  “We couldn’t figure it out. Didn’t have the code. When you two showed up with her, we figured that she’d translated it.”

  “And that we had the translation?”