Heinous Habits!

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “Well, gold’s hard to beat when it comes to finding treasure that makes a splash. Maybe Father Bede found something that could have made a major contribution to someone’s wallet. Bede might tell us if we ask him.”

  “Could be. Let’s ask Bede. What do you think ‘contentious’ means?” I almost mumbled that last question. Brien had a quick and definitive answer for me.

  “A battle of words—a gazillion big ones hurled at each other. Professors are like word warriors. Words are mightier than swords, you know.”

  “I’ve heard something like that. What’s also interesting to me is the fact that the words written on that fragment of parchment found in the caves are in French. That also happens to be Charles de Foucauld’s first language.” I shrugged. “It’s a stretch to rely on that alone to make a connection between that dig in Algeria years ago and a scrap of parchment paper Brother Thaddeus found recently. Odd though that the text wasn’t in Spanish or Latin if it's a remnant from the monastery's past. The monks arrived in this area long before Charles de Foucauld would have been roaming around the Middle East and North Africa. What does your sixth sense tell you?”

  “That your snooping abilities are excellent!” He leaned over and gave me a kiss that meant “A for excellence” as far as I was concerned. Brien leaned back in his chaise and sat there, quietly, as I went back to snooping. Minutes passed in companionable silence when I suddenly hit pay dirt after another round of digging.

  “Well, love me tender and call me Elvis,” I said much louder than I had intended.

  “Elvis? Where?” Brien, who must have dozed off, jumped from his seat. The belt from his bathrobe caught on the chaise. It yanked him back down into his seat. Somehow, he flipped the lounge chair and landed on his behind with that chaise on its side, still attached to his belt. “There’s no Elvis, is there?”

  “No,” I said as I got up out my chaise and went to check on him, trying not to laugh. “Are you okay, Moondoggie?” He said yes. As soon as I believed him, I laughed. “That was an amazing stunt. I’m glad you lived to tell about it.” He laughed, too, and that made me laugh even more.

  “Maybe not amazing, but it was surprising. Nothing’s broken. No harm. No foul," Brien said as he sprang to his feet and righted that chair. "Why were you yelling about Elvis?”

  “I didn’t mean to shout. Let me get you a cold beer, and then I’ll show you what I found.” When Brien was sitting comfortably on that chaise, again, with a frosty “brewski” from the mini fridge in hand, I showed him what I'd found.

  “Look!” I said.

  “Uh, I still don't see Elvis. Wait! It’s that nasty tourist we bumped into this morning, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. This photo was taken in Old Town. He’s standing in the audience while the Conservancy Group is holding a press conference. They're announcing their intentions to clean up the Grove. By ridding that area of unwelcome visitors, they hope to make the welcome ones feel more welcome. Not in those words, but you get it, right?”

  “Sure, I guess. I could see how he might be interested in what the Conservancy Group was planning. Jerry pretty much told us he didn’t feel welcome in San Albinus when we talked to him about that flyer he dropped—not just because of us surfers but because of that dirty monk business.”

  “Odd to be so civic-minded as a tourist, but what do I know? Take another look after I zoom in.” Under the man’s arm was a sheaf of paper. When I enlarged it, you could see Jerry had a thick stack of those mad monk flyers tucked under his arm.

  “No way! Do you think he knows who made those flyers and stole them from the dirty, mad monk?”

  “It could be. Or what if he is the dirty, mad monk? Or what if those flyers weren’t just being distributed by that hooded crusader but had a little help from a friend of the Conservancy Group?”

  “Well, if you think about it, where would a beggar get the money to make up flyers and copy them? Flip me on the floor and call me Elvis!” Brien raised his hand as if expecting me to high five him. “That’s not what you said, I know.” I set that laptop down, high-fived him, and tousled his damp hair.

  “Close enough! Maybe this whole mad monk business is part of a plan to stir people up about vagrants and drifters so the Conservancy Group can get the monastery to get rid of the surfers.”

  “Why would they want to do that?”

  “I don’t know yet. Even without convincing the Abbot to act, they’ve been remarkably effective. Sanctuary Grove’s been losing residents like Willow and Mick over the past few weeks. More people left today. Even Bede’s cleared out. It must be a ghost town down there tonight.”

  “I don’t know about the one running around in San Albinus, but the monk in the caves today was scary. If he’s a fake, he’s a good actor. It could be for the best that the surfers are gone until he’s caught.”

  “That’s true. I wouldn’t want to sleep in Sanctuary Grove. I’m grateful the cops are patrolling those ruins, too. There was something truly off about the way that madman screamed. Not just good acting, but an Academy Award winning performance. Kudos to whoever created that mask or did his makeup.” I shuddered as that face I’d glimpse flashed before me. “Yikes, what if it wasn’t a mask? Oh gosh, let’s hope it was a mask.”

  I had intended to say more when a knock on the door interrupted me. Thank goodness, I had put that laptop down, or I might have dropped it. I jumped up out of my chair. Brien did, too. This time without the pratfall, although we collided as we both tried to slip through the sliding doors from the patio.

  Maybe we are a couple of knuckleheads, I thought. I yielded to Brien who dashed to the door and peered through the peephole. He was as wary as he had been the night a courier had delivered that package from Brother Thaddeus. “Now what?” I muttered, doubting we could vanquish any trouble waiting on the other side of that door with a war of words.

  13 A Dead Monk

  “Whew! It’s Mick and Willow.” He slid the lock back and opened the door. “Come on in, you guys. We’re glad it’s you and not the monk of death.”

  “Dude, you must have heard what happened already. We weren’t sure they allow news up there at the monastery.” Brien shut the door and answered Mick speaking as the voice of authority.

  “You’d be surprised at all the stuff that goes on up there.” Brien was bobbing his head. Mick was staring and began to mimic Brien’s head movements. Willow looked at me.

  “We could make little surf dolls just like them for dashboards, couldn’t we?” She had a point. I was almost certain we had not heard the news they were here to bring us.

  “What news are you two talking about?” A queasy feeling settled into the pit of my stomach. Had those habit-clad loonies struck again? It’s as if Mick was still transfixed by Brien’s gaze and responded only to him. At least Mick’s head movements had switched direction. Back and forth now, as if what he had to say was a dirty, rotten shame.

  “Not the monk of death but a dead monk, Brien.” Fortunately, Willow jumped into the conversation to explain.

  “They found that guy in the dirty monk getup about an hour ago. Beneath an overpass, dead.”

  “Dead? How?”

  “Drug overdose.”

  “Yeah, he was tagging the supports beneath that overpass with that ‘the end is near’ graffiti. Man, was he right about that—his end was near, anyway. Prophetic, huh?” Mick asked.

  “Uh, no. A prophet would have avoided taking that dose of whatever it was that killed him.”

  “Good point, Gidget.”

  “Excellent,” Brien said echoing Mick’s sentiment.

  “Did they say how long he’d been dead before they found him?”

  “Great question!” I wanted to hear the answer, too.

  “Not exactly. This morning some time. Dot Hayden, the local newscaster, made a point of saying the police might have found him earlier if it hadn’t been for the fire at the monastery. Police and firefighters were up there and then down in Sanctuary Grove most of the
morning. You two know all about that though, don't you? Sorry I didn't get down to the beach to show you around the village. I'm still not used to having to be at work at a specific time. I'm always running behind.”

  “Don't worry, Willow. I assumed it was something like that or that you couldn't get near there because they were trying to keep onlookers away. If he died this morning, he’s not our monk of death then, is he, Brien?”

  “Nope. Do you have time for a beer? We’ll tell you what Kim’s talking about.”

  “Sure! I could use a beer.”

  “Me, too,” Willow added.

  “How about a beer and then let’s go get dinner?”

  “Not dressed like that, I hope.”

  “No, Mick. Nobody goes to dinner in a bathrobe. Not even someone who looks as awesome in one as Gidget.” That sweet comment from Brien saved Mick from some heavy-duty eye rolling that would have been followed by a glare.

  We all moved out to the lanai and sat down at a small round table. Brien brought chips to go with that beer. Guacamole dip, too. One of the smart things they do here at the resort with the guest profiles they create is use that info to stock your suite ahead of time. Maybe I could enjoy being part of the crew who managed the guest profile data. It does make your stay more pleasant. As I reached for those chips, Willow suddenly exclaimed.

  “Wait! We have more news. Before you fill us in on what happened at the monastery, Mick and I have something for you.” Willow dug through a tote bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. She spread it open and flattened it onto the table. It was a photo of the cove. A section of it anyway, that had been blown up to enlarge details.

  “X marks the spot,” Mick said poking at an X on that picture. I was almost certain I recognized a couple of landmarks near that X.

  “That’s down in the cove not far from where you took that dive off the cliff, right Willow?”

  “Not far from there at all. The scale is hard to judge from looking at this picture. We had lunch in San Albinus today and then went to Nonesuch Nautical just like you suggested. When we asked the store clerk for a marine map of Corsario Cove the guy told us we should get an app that provides free nautical charts. He said something about those making boating a lot safer."

  "Yeah, it started to get real complicated real fast. I told the guy behind the counter that we didn't need anything fancy since we don't own a boat and just wanted to locate a spot in the cove."

  "He was so helpful once we showed him those coordinates you gave us. That guy figured out where that spot was in a flash. He printed out this photo, marked it up, and described the location for us using those outcroppings of rock at the bottom of the cliff. There and there,” she said pointing at different spots on that photo.

  “He’s familiar with that lagoon and the cave entrance, so that helped him locate it for us, too. Anyway, it’s about fifty yards south of that cave, out beyond the rocks where he says the water's maybe 15 or 20 feet deep.”

  “Well, that’s not likely to be the site of a shipwreck, is it? Mitchum confirmed those Krugerrands we found came from a boat that left Miami loaded with contraband and went down before reaching its scheduled destination in San Francisco. It made sense to me that Owen took the gold but marked the site so he could go back and claim other valuable cargo left behind—more gold or drugs maybe.” I was stumped. Willow seemed to agree with me.

  “Even if that boat had sunk there when it went missing back in the eighties, that close to the rocks and the way the waves churn around, you couldn’t expect to find much now. It's another mystery from poor, dopey Opie."

  "What I find mysterious, Willow, is why he bothered to save coordinates for that spot at all. That location's not hard to remember or find again,” Brien said.

  “Not like out in open water where you don't have all those landmarks to help fix your position," I added.

  "What if those coordinates on his GPS device don’t mean anything except that it was the last place he happened to visit in his stolen dinghy before his life fell apart. Fell apart, get it?”

  “Yes, Mick, we get it. That’s a good hunch, though.” Brien and I knew all too well how Opie met his ignominious end after being hurled into the resort pool dressed as Santa. We had just left that pool minutes before.

  “I don’t understand it. You saw Opie with that diver returning from some trip they’d taken in his dinghy. They must have gone somewhere else that day, right? That guy wouldn’t have needed all the gear he had with him if Opie had taken him to the spot on that photo.” Mick frowned as he considered my question.

  “Maybe Opie tricked him. Told him they were going diving and the guy showed up with gear he didn’t need.”

  “There’s more to it than that. If Opie had taken the diver to the spot marked on that photo, why would that diver and his buddies have been so desperate to get their hands on his GPS? They wouldn’t have needed it! He must have taken that guy to a different site—out in the middle of nowhere." As I spoke, I felt more certain about the matter.

  "Well, Mick didn't see Opie take anyone anywhere that morning. Who knows what happened?”

  “You could be right, Bro. Opie was crafty, wasn’t he?”

  “We'll never know for sure. Opie's dead,” I replied.

  “Aye! Dead men tell no tales,” Mick said in a lousy pirate voice.

  “That diver isn’t dead. He’s in prison. Maybe we could ask him what happened or get Mitchum to do it.” Brien didn’t sound like he believed Mitchum would do that. Nor did I.

  “If we tell him what we learned about those coordinates, we’ll get an ‘I told you so’ or something like that. He’ll be more convinced than ever we’re wasting our time. Mitchum had a hunch from the very beginning that GPS device was some version of the Maltese Falcon.” I can’t explain it, but I felt disappointed. Maybe it was just the depressing thought that Mitchum had been right in mocking us for our attempts to find the darn thing.

  “The what?” Mick asked.

  “You remember, honey, don’t you? We watched that movie together where everyone’s chasing after a lost falcon statue that’s supposed to be encrusted in jewels. You loved that Sam Spade character.” Willow grabbed a handful of those chips, sharing them with her “honey.” Would I ever get used to hearing Willow refer to Mick in that way?

  “Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. They never did find the right bird statue. Only a fake. Still, it was an excellent movie.”

  “Yes, it was,” Brien added. “Humphrey Bogart is a righteous private eye.”

  “Well, thanks for the help figuring out where those coordinates lead. If we go surfing in the morning, Brien and I might as well go look. If not, it’ll wait a day or two until we get out there. No rush, I guess.”

  “Where do you want to eat?” Brien’s true to his Cali roots. Planning where to go to eat while you’re eating is pure Californian.

  I suggested the El Conquistador Steakhouse. An expensive choice, but once Mick and Willow agreed to let us pick up the tab, Brien called and made a reservation. Since hotel management was paying for our stay at the resort, we could afford to buy dinner. It was a little surprising that we got a table on such short notice, but there had been a last-minute cancellation.

  El Conquistador is a pretentious new restaurant on the Promenade in Old Town. Before he died and left most of his holdings to the monks, that wealthy Spanish landowner lived in a sprawling hacienda. The hacienda's paved patio and promenade built around an ornate fountain had taken up much of the square at the center of Old Town. That hacienda was now a museum. The chapel he had built still stood opposite and was used for weddings and other celebrations.

  None of us had eaten at the restaurant before, but we’d all heard they serve excellent food with attention to Spain’s steak culture. Their claim to fame is the “chuleton de buey,” a very thick cut bone-in rib steak, often meant for two. I could never eat the whole thing myself, but Brien could. Mick, too. Willow and I could share one or order something else
not on the carnivore side of the foodie fence.

  My real motive for dining at that restaurant had more to do with its pretentiousness than its food. An article I had read on the Internet today claimed it’s a favorite watering hole for local bigwigs. Even more interesting was a picture accompanying another article that featured the Mayor of San Albinus, the head of the local Chamber of Commerce, and members of the Conservancy Group wining and dining two gentlemen identified as consultants from the PR firm in San Francisco. According to the author of the article, they were hired to give San Albinus’ public image a facelift.”

  What do you charge for a surgical procedure like that? I had wondered. If there were fence-sitters among that cozy bunch of citizens concerned about the cost, would the recent bouts of mayhem have persuaded them to get off the fence and pay whatever price that PR firm asked? If so, it worked because a more recent post had announced that the PR firm was already onboard.

  That PR firm’s mission wasn’t going to be any easier after today’s events. Arson and even murder if that dead monk had some help leaving this world to meet his maker in the next. There ought to be plenty of buzz among the carnivores assembled at that watering hole tonight. They had a big playdate scheduled for this evening. With any luck, I'd smell a rat.

  “Okay, spill the beans. We ran into Misty going into Nonesuch Nautical as we were leaving. Look what she gave us,” Willow said picking up a copy of Surfari Secrets. “She was dropping off books at the store.”

  “It’s signed, too. Show them, Willow.” Willow flipped open the cover to reveal a nearly illegible signature near her name on the inside cover page.

  “Misty Nichols,” I read aloud as I passed the book on to Brien. “I don’t think I heard her last name this morning.”

  “Cool,” Brien said as he flipped through the pages of the book. “Pictures, too! Signed by a real author. That’s a keeper.” Mick gave Brien a thumbs-up.

  “You think so? I was going to see what we could get for it on eBay.” He shrugged. “If you say keep it, we’ll keep it.”