by Carol Pack
“I need some research material about Spanish doubloons,” said the disembodied voice on the other end of the line. “Do you have anything like that?”
Johanna didn’t answer. Instead, she found herself mesmerized by a gold doubloon of her own.
—LOI—
CHAPTER TWO
“Hello? Is anyone there?” The caller on the other end of the phone raised his voice.
“Where do you want these?” Jackson asked. He stood not too far from Johanna, holding two folding chairs.
Johanna raised her eyes to meet Jackson’s gaze, but he didn’t look at her. Instead, he stared at the doubloon in her hand. “Did you say you want to research Spanish doubloons?” she asked the caller.
“Yeah. It’s Larry Farmer over atOnce A-Pawn A Time.I’ve been borrowing research materials from your library for years.”
‘Where’d you get a gold doubloon in this day and age?” She hoped her voice sounded non-committal.
Larry paused a second too long before answering, “An archeologist. At least she called herself an archeologist. She left it here a year ago and never came back to claim it. Now I want to determine its value and sell it, so I can make my money back.”
Johanna thought it very coincidental that someone called her about a doubloon at the exact same moment that one appeared in the library. “Will you be picking the books up, or would you like us to deliver the materials to you? I should inform you that some of the information you want is currently on loan, so we won’t be able to send it all out until the weekend.”
“But I need it right away,” he whined.
Fancy that. He supposedly had the coin for more than a year, but now he wants information about it—right this minute.“I can inquire if the current borrower has finished using those books,” she hedged. “I could let you know, tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks. I’ll talk to you then.”
She slowly hung up the phone. “Do you know anything about this?” she handed the doubloon to Jackson.
“Uh... it looks like a doubloon.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“I guess one of those pirates dropped it last week when they were here.” He handed it back to her.
“I wonder if there are any more?”
“I don’t know,” Jackson mumbled. “I’ll look.” He gave the surrounding area a cursory glance, but nothing caught his eye. “I don’t see anything. I doubt any more of them will turn up.”
“I wonder,” Johanna said quietly.
After they set the last chair in place, Johanna handed Jackson a list of chores to do around the library. She turned away and then turned back, “There’s one more thing. I noticed the back door sometimes squeaks when you come in. There’s a small can of lubricating oil in the cupboard. Please oil the hinges.”
She disappeared into her office and closed the door. It had been six months since she had taken over the duties as library curator from Mal, and in all that time she had never used his diary to access information. He had promised her before he died that she would find everything she needed to know about running the library in the compact book. Now, she hoped it would help her determine the authenticity of the doubloon and what to do with it. She studied the pages, looking for insight.
Jackson’s knock on the door interrupted her. “Hey, I’ve done all the stuff on the list and it’s after 6:00. Is it okay if I go home now?”
“Sure.”
“See you tomorrow?” It sounded more like a question than a commitment.
“Yes.” She watched him leave and locked the back door behind him. Then she returned to her reading. She hadn’t found anything about doubloons, or money of any kind that had been left behind by characters from a book. However, Mal had recorded an incredible number of interesting incidents in his diary. She learned H. G. Well’s Time Machine had once sat right in front of the Information Desk. She read Mal’s description of the incident three times, trying to conjure up an image of it.
The apparatus is magnificent! An ornate brass frame—creating a canopy of sorts—sits upon a hammered metal base, barely a meter and a half in diameter. It’s fitted with delicate pieces of ivory, inset in a sunburst pattern. Settled beneath it, a burnished leather saddle awaits man or beast. And under the saddle, a large cylinder containing a crystalline substance slowly rotates. The controls are in front, where a three-foot high podium of hammered brass and nickel have ivory levers coming out of each side. The podium houses three asymmetrical clock-like devices, one in front of the other, with the furthest one being the largest. Only one displays the hours of the day. The middle one is separated into twelve sections, with small indentations marking each day of the month, while the largest clock is divided into the years making up several millennia. The timepieces are set for the current date and tick quite loudly. Indeed, the entire contraption hums, and the twisted quartz frame that fences in the time traveller, has a softly glowing aura. It is a wonder to behold.
The next paragraph nearly took Johanna’s breath away.
I used the Time Machine to visit my family. Upon my arrival, I faced a great deal of difficulty in trying to keep the machine hidden from curious onlookers. I found little in the way of bushes to hide the device. I finally dragged over a canvas tarpaulin and did my best to cover the machine with it. It invited scrutiny, so I piled some buoys and fishing nets around it to complete my sleight of hand. I chewed my nails for the next few hours, fretting about what would happen if someone discovered the machine and figured out how to use it, before I could return. My mother finally scolded me for being so distracted. I wished her and my father well, telling them I had just remembered urgent business that I needed to attend to, and I departed. Saying goodbye broke my heart, knowing they would both die of consumption the following month. In the future, I must remember not to treat treasures—like the Time Machine—so cavalierly.
Johanna carried the diary upstairs to her apartment. She hastily made dinner, but remained so engrossed in Mal’s observations, she barely touched her food. When she next glanced at the clock, it was nearly 3:00 a.m. She put the book down and yawned. “Where am I going to find something that tells me if the doubloons are real?” she asked aloud.
The pages of the diary began fluttering, and she watched wide-eyed as they fell open to a specific entry. All thoughts of sleep evaporated. Johanna grabbed the book and began to read. Mal wrote about a file of newspaper clippings that he dropped one day while straightening out the archives. It contained articles on John Dillinger, a notorious bank robber who had died in a hail of bullets outside a Chicago theater in 1934. The dropped file opened up to a story about a daring robbery. Mal said he saw one of Dillinger’s men running in his direction and without thinking, he tripped the gangster. The man dropped a moneybag before Mal scooped up the file, and although everything else disappeared, the bag of cash remained.
Mal deliberated on what to do with the money, but had a quandary on his hands. He did not know how to return the money to the bank. He did not want to return the money to the bank robbers. And if he spent the money, he risked being arrested if authorities connected the bills to the robbery.
The entry ended.
“That’s it?” Johanna complained. The passage didn’t tell her what happened to the money, and the next entry detailed some mischief caused by Mark Twain’s character,Huckleberry Finn.
“Mal, what did you do with the money?” The pages in the diary shuffled once more to a much later date.
As I stretched to replace a war novel on a high shelf, I lost my grip and the book toppled to the floor. It opened up to one of the last pages, and instantaneously an explosion blew away part of the roof. Luckily, no other buildings sustained damaged, but that didn’t stop neighbors from calling the authorities, who came nosing around the library asking questions. I managed to convince them a faulty gas stove caused the explosion. However, the inspectors turned out to be the least of my problems. What could be worse than a library without a roof during rainy s
eason? I needed it repaired quickly, but didn’t know where I would get the money to do so. I asked construction workers from Eric Hodgin’s book, “Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House,” to help out. Unfortunately, they needed slate tiles to complete the job, which Mr. Blandings hadn’t used. I took a risk and deposited the Dillinger money in a local bank. Surprisingly, they didn’t ask where the old bills came from. Instead, the assistant manager teased me saying, “What’ve you been saving this in your mattress?” He laughed at his own joke and I laughed too, if only out of nervous relief. I used the bank heist money to buy roofing supplies, and completed the job before the weather turned against us.
Mal’s answer made Johanna feel a little better, but did not ease all her fears. Sure she could invest the doubloon in the library; maybe even use some of the money to pay for refreshments for the public reading they planned to hold. But what about the doubloon at the pawn shop? Its existence worried her. She got out of bed and went down to her office, where she had locked the gold piece inside a secret compartment in her desk. She took it out and studied it, before looking for a book on the valuation of old currency.
When she opened the book, an expert in a three-piece suit appeared. He blanched when he saw Johanna and turned his back to her. “Madame, I’m not sure what I’m doing here, or why you are clothed in such a provocative way, but if you think you can sully my reputation by compromising me, you’ll be sadly mistaken.”
Johanna shut the book and checked the publication date. The book was old, but notthat old. The thought of a coin dealer who sounded like a throwback to the previous century made her laugh. She went upstairs to dress, before returning to her office to try again.
William Pierpont Davidson reappeared and looked Johanna up and down. “Well, that’s better,” he huffed.
“Sir, I would like your expert opinion on the value of this coin.” She handed him the doubloon.
He looked at it carefully. “Is this a commemorative coin of some sort?”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s a beauty,” he replied. “Right down to the detail of its slightly irregular shape.”
“Why do you question its authenticity?”
“If it’s a commemorative coin, then I’m not questioning anything. However, this coin looks much too newly minted to be authentic. It is styled like doubloons from the 18th century, but it is not discolored at all. Even though gold doesn’t oxidize, a coin such as this one would still show some kind of patina and wear, unless completely sealed from the elements shortly after being struck. Considering that you just handed it to me without any type of protective covering and without using gloves to shield it from the oils or dirt on your hands, tells me you don’t particularly value this coin.”
“Oh! But that never occurred to me.”
“Where did you get his?”
“I guess you could say I found it under the sofa. I don’t know how long it was there. I only found it after we moved the furniture.”
“I don’t suppose the sofa is two-hundred fifty years old?”
“No. At least I don’t think so.”
“You don’t know how old your sofa is?” he asked with a touch of sarcasm.
“The sofa arrived here long before I did,” she answered impatiently.
“If this proves real, it would be worth a pretty penny. But as I said, it’s a tough sell, because its condition appears to be way too good for it to be authentic.”
“That doesn’t help me at all.”
“That’s the best assessment I can make outside my office.”
Johanna picked up the book and closed it. William Pierpont Davidson disappeared. She bundled a similar (but un-enchanted) book with some coin auction catalogues and blue books. She planned to have Jackson babysit the library while she delivered them to the pawnbroker. She wanted to get a look at Larry Farmer’s doubloon and learn a little more about it. She shuddered when she realized that leaving Jackson in charge of the library was probably what got her into this predicament (if the sudden ownership of a gold doubloon could be called a predicament) in the first place.
Once A-Pawn A Time appeared poorly lit, even though its corner location allowed it to have windows on two sides. A sign proclaiming the shop’s name hung from a cantilever arm protruding from the corner entrance, with the requisite three gold spheres suspended at the bottom. In one window, a tarnished tuba hung from the ceiling along with other musical instruments. Beneath it, a child’s train on an oval track sat motionless amid miniature plastic houses and rubber shrubbery. The window on the other side sported a set of golf clubs, a number of hand tools, and a kayak dangling from ceiling chains.
Bells above the door jingled when Johanna entered the shop. The proprietor stood to greet his customer. “Can I help you?”
Johanna looked around. Her eyes settled on a man’s face peering at her over a high counter. “Larry Farmer?”
“Yes,” he said warily.
“I’m from the Library of Illumination. I brought the books you requested to research a gold doubloon. I can’t tell you how exciting that sounds! Imagine a gold doubloon in this day and age. Why, it must be worth a fortune!”
“Yes, yes,” he smiled at her against his better judgment. He didn’t want anyone to know he might have something valuable, but he got caught up in her enthusiasm.
“I’m Johanna Charette, the curator of the library. I know I must sound like a gushing schoolgirl, but do you think I could have a peek at the doubloon? I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
She was young and pretty, and he fell for her spiel. “I’m not sure what I’ve got, Johanna. It may be a trinket from a recent Mardi Gras, or a game token. But it won’t hurt anything to let you have a look, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“In case it does have some value, I don’t want to end up getting burglarized. So you have to promise me you’ll keep it a secret.”
She nodded her head. “Sure. I understand.”
Larry disappeared into the back room and unlocked the safe. He returned with the doubloon, wrapped in a bit of flannel. He held it up for Johanna to see, but far enough away so she could not reach out and touch it.
“Wow,” she said, “It’s beautiful, and so shiny. Something that shiny has to be real.”
The pawnbroker shuddered. The doubloon’s shiny, new appearance was the exact reason why he questioned its legitimacy. “Remember our agreement, Johanna.”
“Mums the word,” she said. “Should I come back on Saturday for the books?”
“Hmmmmm...” Larry paused. This woman claimed to be the curator of the library where the kid found the coin. She seemed kind of young to be a curator, but what did that matter? If he wanted to see the source of the doubloon, he would have to come up with a good excuse to get a look at the library’s rear yard. “Tell you what, Johanna. Since you were nice enough to bring these books to me, let me return the favor and deliver them back to you on Saturday.”
“Okay, Larry. I’ll see you then.” She smiled at him and left.
Johanna felt dirty. She winced at the thought of flirting with the pawnbroker, just to get him to show her the doubloon. It worked, but really, she ridiculed herself for sinking so low.
His doubloon had been identical to the one she now held in her hand. She could only surmise that Jackson had found one when he cleaned up after the pirates and had hocked it. Her ethical dilemma returned.Who is the rightful owner of the doubloons?Surely neither Johanna, nor the pirates could claim that right. The true owners were long dead and the doubloons’ provenance could not be proved. Is it a case of finders-keepers? Under old maritime law, the first person to lay claim to an abandoned object, became the treasure’s owner.
Her main problem would be keeping it a secret. She imagined people breaking into the library and opening books to reap the rich rewards they might hold. She could imagine them destroying Carl Wheat’s Books of the California Gold Rush in their lust for loose nuggets, or volumes
of Greek Mythology recounting the tales of Midas and his ability to turn everything he touched into gold. The thought of such mayhem made her tremble. But she calmed down knowing intruders would have to figure out how to gain entrance to the library, which could be tricky.
She had a duty to protect the library at all costs, and the first step was to find out how much the pawnbroker knew about the origin of the doubloon. That meant grilling Jackson.
All weekend, Johanna labored over how she would approach the teen. She planned to be direct. She would not accuse him of anything; indeed, she could blame him for nothing, other than a sin of omission. She wanted him to work with her, not against her, and planned to tell him that if he found any more doubloons at the library, he could keep them. She paused.What am I saying?She certainly didn’t want to give him a reason to re-open the book, or others like it, in her absence.That would never do. There had to be another way.
—LOI—
CHAPTER THREE
On Monday, Johanna received a message saying Jackson had been sent home sick and he would not be able to fulfill his work commitment. She called the school, asking for more details, but the secretary told her they could not release personal information about their students. The only way she could learn more would be to visit Jackson at home.
She recalled a conversation she had once had with Mal about how easy it would be to find someone to watch the library. All she had to do was open a book and ask the protagonist for a favor. He had suggested Mary Poppins; however, Johanna felt she would prefer leaving the library under the watchful eye of someone else. She opened the P. G. Wodehouse bookMy Man Jeeves, and when the valet appeared, Johanna explained her dilemma. Jeeves agreed to take care of the library until she returned.
