by Dana Mentink
Spyglass Lane Mysteries presents:
The Finny Series
Book Three
Treasure Under Finny’s Nose
By
Dana Mentink
Copyright 2012
Spyglass Lane Mysteries
Smashwords Edition
Discover other Spyglass Lane titles at SpyglassLaneMysteries.com.
Published in association with MacGregor Literary Inc., Portland, Oregon.
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Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Dedication:
This book is dedicated to my two finest treasures, Emily and Holly. I thank God on bended knee for entrusting me with His precious angels.
Chapter One
“Your ship went down in a violent storm. You’ve spent three days clinging to the wreckage, watching the people around you die from exposure and exhaustion. You finally struggle to shore and collapse there, unconscious until the sun warms your body, easing you back to life. What is the first thought that fills your head when you open your eyes?”
Ethan Ping leaned forward in anticipation.
Ruth Budge heaved a sigh. “I want Milk Duds.” She felt only a sliver of guilt as Ethan, her director, slapped his clipboard against his thigh. The man couldn’t be more than twenty-two and a college student to boot. How could he understand a forty-eight-year-old pregnant woman? Come to think about it, how could she? The only thing she knew for certain was if she didn’t get some Milk Duds soon, she was going to have to put the director in a half nelson. Re-enacting the life of the indomitable Indigo Orson could wait. She was a desperate woman.
Ethan continued to stare at her in exasperation, the leaves of the oak behind him silhouetting his dark hair in green. His slender eyebrows drew together in a single line above his almond-shaped eyes. “Mrs. Budge, I know you are having a bit of trouble concentrating.”
He didn’t know the half of it. She was pregnant and just months away from her forty-ninth, yes, forty-ninth, birthday. If her life were a novel it would be ridiculously improbable. She might very well be the oldest known mother in the Western Hemisphere. Then a kick from somewhere in the vicinity of her kidney reminded her that it was all too real. Ignoring the heartburn that plagued her regardless of what she ate, she tried to listen to the young filmmaker.
“We’ve got a deadline on this reenactment project, Mrs. Budge. It has to be finished by the end of June, or we’re not going to make our deadline. I don’t mean to pressure you or anything, but Reggie here needs to get the footage.”
Reggie, a tall man with cocoa skin, waved at her. He rested the giant camera on his shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all.
She waved back and resisted the urge to curl up on the ground where she stood for a nap.
Sandra Marconi, a chubby blonde with her arms full of binders, interrupted. “Maybe Mrs. Budge just needs a little break, Ethan. Ruth, why don’t you go sit in the sun for a minute.”
Ruth didn’t need a second invitation. The spasm in her back was working its way up her spine and into her shoulder blades. She eased onto a lawn chair that sat in a precious spot of early summer sun and closed her eyes. The warmth lulled her into a comfortable haze until the sound of a bell startled her.
Alva Hernandez wobbled up the path. He rang the bicycle bell again before he dismounted and hobbled over, a red toolbox in his gnarled hand. “Hello, sweet cheeks. What’s shakin’?”
“Hello, Alva. Did you help Monk load up?” Monk, her husband of almost two years, had reluctantly left on a trip to care for his ailing father. She hoped it was reluctantly, though with the state of their house and her propensity to burst into tears every five minutes, maybe he viewed it as a respite. He was a patient man, but she knew sometimes he was at a complete loss about how to handle her kaleidoscoping emotions. She really couldn’t help him with it as she was confounded by her emotional state herself.
“Yup, I helped your hubby stow his gear.” Alva shoved his stringy white hair out of his eyes. “He’s off to the airport. He assigned me a mission ’fore he left, though. I ain’t had a mission since Korea.” His filmy eyes sparkled. “Ain’t that something?”
Ruth smiled at the enthusiastic octogenarian. “What’s the mission, Alva?”
He started. “Oh yeah. I’m to be your, what’s it called again? Oh yeah. Your ninny.”
“My what?”
“Ninny. No, that don’t sound right.” He scratched his chin. “Give me a second here. Oh, right. Nanny, not ninny. I’m to take care of you and the little bun in your oven until Monk gets back. I’m to help you with the birds and make sure you get enough food and all that. Help you tie your shoes iffen the baby swells you up too big and the like. Stuff like that.”
Ruth suppressed a groan. Alva was indeed a help with her crabby flock of disabled seagulls, and he often lent a hand tracking down an AWOL bird. The man was half a bubble off plumb, but he was devoted to her. Still, she really just wanted to climb in a hole and disappear. The thought of having a personal attendant until Monk returned didn’t appeal to her at all.
Alva set the toolbox on the ground and snapped open the lid. It was crammed to the brim with candy. “I put me together a survival kit. Whatcha want? Kisses? Chocolate bar? Tootsie Rolls? The peanut butter cups is squashed so they ain’t good anymore. How about a package of gumdrops?”
Ruth’s spirits picked up. “You don’t possibly have any Milk Duds in there, do you?”
He foraged around in the bottom. “Aha. There you are, sweet cheeks. I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”
Ruth mentally retracted any unenthusiastic thoughts about Alva’s nannying. “Thank you, Alva. You are a lifesaver.”
He cocked his head and began to rummage in the box again. “You want a Lifesaver? I got them, too. Cherry, butterscotch, them purple-colored ones. . .”
“I’m fine with these, Alva.” She tore open the package and ate greedily.
Sandra squeezed into the chair next to Ruth. “I’m sorry about Ethan. He’s really a brilliant guy, but he’s driven, so delays make him crazy.”
Ruth sighed. “I don’t mean to criticize, but why did you ask me to do this reenactment business anyway? I mean, for one thing I’m not Hispanic and I’m not an actor. I’m just a vermiculturist.”
“What’s that?”
“A worm farmer,” Alva piped up. He offered a bag to the woman. “Candy corns?”
“Uh, no thanks. Well, as you know, this is the anniversary of the wreck of the Triton right off the coast there. At least that’s what our research lends us to believe.” She pointed down the slope to the foam-capped ocean. “Our project is to take a photographic record of the wreck, but Ethan thought adding a dramatic reenactment would punch up the human interest element.”
“I agree,” Ruth said, “but why don’t you get a real actor?”
Sandra twiddled with the binder. “Because you have to pay real actors, and our budget is stretched as it is with the underwater photography gear. We’ve got every available dime invested in this project, believe me, and there’s just no wiggle room. Besides, your public relations gal told us how versatile you were.”
Ruth coughed. “My what?”
“
Tiny lady with a loud voice. Maude something.” Sandra snapped her fingers. “Maude Stone, I think it is. She found out we were coming to Finny and contacted us to see how she could be involved. We told her we needed an actor. She suggested herself at first, but we didn’t think that would work since her leg is in a cast.”
“As soon as I get hold of her, she’s going to need a cast for the other leg,” Ruth grumbled.
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
A bird swooped overhead and headed toward the water. The women looked up into the brilliant blue sky over the ocean. A small boat bobbed in the water. Ruth could just make out the banana yellow cap of Roxie Trotter, a relative newcomer to the town. The wind picked up, toying with the oak branches above their heads.
“Do you get many tourists in June?” Sandra asked.
“Some, but fall is better weather-wise because there is much less fog.” Ruth pointed to Roxie’s boat. “Roxie started up a fishing tour business a year ago. She said her business booms in the fall.”
Sandra tipped her face to the sun. “It is beautiful in Finny right now. The vegetation is so lush, almost tropical. Once the fog burns off, everything sort of puts on these dazzling colors.”
“Yes, it is nice here.” Ruth inhaled the tang of salt air. “Even in the winter you can still find good weather in northern California. From the top of Finny’s Nose, you can see all the way to the Farralon Islands when it’s clear.”
She had a sudden flashback to standing on top of the mountain three months back, when the pieces of a murderous puzzle fell into place. She shuddered, reburying the memories of that awful time back where they belonged.
Sandra laughed, gazing at the vibrant green outline of the tall peak. “I’ve never stood at the top of a nose before. You’re right. The thing really does look just like a nose.”
“If you look at it upside down, it’s the spittin’ image of Richard Nixon,” Alva added, around a mouthful of candy.
Sandra gave him an incredulous look.
Ruth could only shrug at her.
Reggie took the camera off his shoulder and sauntered over. “Hey, ladies. We’ve lost the light for today. We’ll have to pick it up tomorrow.”
Ruth tried to look disappointed, but her feet were shouting a silent yippee!
Sandra handed her a binder. “Why don’t you read up on Indigo tonight? I think you’ll find her inspiring. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Budge.”
Ruth finished her candy and took her nanny’s arm.
The comforting smell of furniture polish greeted her back at the cottage. In spite of the emptiness she felt at Monk’s absence, she was relieved to be home. After making her way carefully around the piles of sheetrock left by Carson the contractor, Monk’s crazy Italian bowling buddy, Ruth snuggled on the sofa with a cup of tea. She opened the binder and read the prologue.
Isabela Ortiz was a Mexican servant in the house of Mr. Edward Orson. She accompanied them on a steamship which departed from New York in 1851 en route to San Francisco. The ship was overloaded with coal, and only fifty passengers were on board when the ship collided with another steamer, which sustained only minor damage. There were twelve reported survivors of the Triton passengers and crew. Eleven were picked up six miles south when the tide carried them to a rocky outcropping. Isabela, separated from the other survivors, made it to shore in a different location. Fearing persecution from the white miners, she took the name Indigo Orson and lived as a man.
Imagine, Ruth thought. Surviving a wreck, washing ashore, and assuming a new identity. She pictured the Finny shoreline, rugged, cold, inhospitable for much of the time. Isabel was indeed a force to be reckoned with to have carved out a life here. She skimmed the first few pages until a photocopied passage caught her eye. The script was loopy and hard to read even when she held it to the light.
Why am I alive? I can only think it to be the grace of God. He must have His own plan, to save me, a worthless servant, and let the others die. It is a miracle to have my tiny book and stub of pencil to write with. The ship broke like an old matchstick with a terrible groaning sound. Señor Orson was crushed by falling wood, lifted in a mighty wave. He looked surprised when the beam hit him. All his money couldn’t do him any help then. Down he went, the waves swallowed him up as if he’d never existed.
Señora Orson and I clung to a piece of wreckage. She looked so lost, poor niña. I tried to comfort her, but she never had an idea how to take care of herself, that’s why she had me along on the trip. She could not understand that her husband had been killed right before her very eyes.
I knew from the moment Señor Orson determined to sail to San Francisco with his precious box that we would be thrown into trouble. And so desperate he was to go that he booked passage on this coal-filled tub. Why oh why couldn’t he have waited until a right proper ship was available? It was a doomed trip from the very start, and Señor paid a terrible price in more ways than one.
Poor Señora Orson. After the boat cracked into pieces, she just kept on asking if it was safe. When will we get home, she asked over and over. I looked out at the terrible wide ocean and all the poor dead folks floating like corks around us. I felt the tug of the current and the whack of the sea creatures that would touch my legs where they dangled in the water. What did it matter then? It was all in God’s hands and He cares little for treasure.
Treasure? What kind of riches would have caused Orson to risk it all and take passage on the coal ship?
The phone rang. Ruth jumped.
“Hello, gorgeous. How are you?” Monk’s voice boomed across the line.
“I’m not gorgeous. I’m big and fat, and I have eaten my body weight in candy today.”
“Now, none of that kind of talk. You’re always beautiful to me. Did Alva help you with the birds?”
“Yes. They’re all fed and tucked in for the night.”
“How’s the drywall repair coming along?”
“I only know Carson’s been here because there’s a gaping hole in the baby’s room and a pile of sheetrock in the middle of the living room floor.”
He snorted. “Who would think termites could cause so much damage?”
“Carson could give them a run for their money. How is your father?”
“He’s on the mend. Doctors say he’ll be home in a few days. That means I will, too. I can’t wait to get back to you.”
She felt trembly inside. “Is that really true, Monk? Even though I am the oldest expectant mother on the planet?” And the one child I had decades ago is a virtual stranger? She pushed the thought away.
“Listen to me, Ruthy. You’re my darling. I don’t know why the good Lord decided to put us up to this parenting thing so late in the game, but He knows what He’s doing. I love you and we’ll face everything together.”
She could picture him there, his giant hands cradling the phone, his eyes warm and gentle. “I love you, Monk,” she said softly.
“I love you, too, Ruthy. You just give Junior a pat for me, and I’ll call you again tomorrow.”
“Okay. I’ll pat somewhere around my pancreas. I think that’s where Junior is wedged right now.”
His laugh echoed in her ears as she hung up and headed for bed.
Though her body was steeped in fatigue, she could not get to sleep. Every time she found a comfortable position, she’d feel a strange flutter of movement. Maybe it was gas, as everyone seemed to believe. The infant was barely three months along, so how had it managed to expand her waistline and grow big enough for her to feel it so distinctly? She remembered an old black and white horror movie about a woman who had given birth to an octopus- like creature that immediately set out to conquer planet earth. She hoped this child would at least fix the sheetrock before he or she embarked on world domination.
Finally, somewhere after two a.m. she got up and fixed herself more tea. She looked out of the front window toward the inlet where Indigo’s ship had foundered so many years ago. Was it a dark night like this w
hen Isabel found herself in the sea? Was there only a sliver of moon to light the way to shore?
Ruth started to put down her cup to return to bed when she saw it.
A tiny flicker of light, dancing under the waves like a fallen star.
Chapter Two
Ruth steeled her stomach as she sprinkled scraps on the worm bed. In the pre-dawn gloom she watched the surface of the soil undulate with happy wiggling bodies. She tried not to inhale the scent of vegetable peelings and loamy soil. The standing monthly order at Pete’s Fish and Tackle had to be filled whether she was nauseated or not. The birds rustled and squawked from their pen in the corner of the yard. She counted eleven beaks. It was always a relief to know that they were all present. Not too long ago poor Ulysses was mutilated by a deranged killer looking to send a message to Ruth. The bird hadn’t survived, and she still looked for his fuzzy head in the gaggle.
The feathered brood was founded by her late husband, Philip, who just couldn’t stand to euthanize the numerous avian victims brought to his veterinary office, and since they were unable to fly, there was no hope of releasing them. He named them all after U.S. presidents, except for Martha, who was the first lady of the bunch.
Grover pushed his way to the gate and inclined his pearly head for a scratch. He was knocked aside by the larger Milton, who flapped his white wings and gave her a “Where is my breakfast?” honk.
“You don’t get your breakfast until I get mine, you greedy bird. Then we’ll go for a walk, if you can behave.” After a virtually sleepless night, she wondered how she would find the energy to walk.
Her breakfast, as it turned out, was dry toast and decaf coffee. She had doubts that even that simple meal would stay where she put it. With grim determination, she donned her warm jacket with the ever-present bag of corn chips in the pocket and went outside to gather the squadron.
