The Treasure Box (The Grace Series Book 2)

by Mark Romang

  The Treasure Box

  By Mark Romang

  Copyright © Mark Romang 2014

  Kindle Edition

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig, Inc.

  Prologue

  Copeland, Louisiana—1962

  A ballpoint pen clutched in her hand, and a journal balanced on her lap, Rose Whitcomb sat outside in a wicker chair on the lower gallery of her house. She looked out across her stately lawn and vibrant flower beds and gazed far into the distance, searching for inspiration. But the words—always prevalent and dependable on most days—stubbornly resisted her pen.

  Over the years she’d learned to be patient, and so she waited for her emotions to shape themselves into letters and words and sentences. But after several minutes of waiting, a strong breeze blew in from the west and fluttered the pages of her journal, losing her place.

  Rose sighed and shut the journal. Some days the words never do come.

  She closed her eyes and focused her attention on the breeze kissing her face, and on the scent of magnolia blossoms riding the wind currents. She felt a little guilty for lingering so long on the gallery. Her ailing mother might need her inside. But the lovely morning made her reluctant to move.

  With her eyes still closed, she daydreamed of a time in her past, a period when heartbreak seemed far away like a distant land she would never travel to. She would give anything to go back into her past and relive those days. But time always marches forward, never backward.

  The sound of gravel crunching under tires roused her from the pleasant daydream. Rose snapped open her eyes. She saw a car rolling slowly up the long driveway. She recognized the car—a Ford Fairlane. The car belonged to Ned Hoxley, her neighbor.

  Her driveway looped around in front. Ned parked his Ford in the curved part just past the steps and hopped out. He walked up to the steps. “May I join you for a bit, Rose?” he asked.

  Rose felt her heart speed up and thump oddly. Something is wrong, she thought. “Sure, Ned, come on up.”

  Ned climbed the steps and joined her on the gallery. He sat down close by in a wicker chair identical to hers. Ned was two years younger than her.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Ned? It will have to be tea or lemonade. I don’t have anything stronger.”

  Ned took off his fedora. He twirled the hat anxiously in his hands. “I’m fine, you needn’t get up.”

  “What brings you here, Ned? Even though we’re neighbors you rarely visit me.”

  Ned looked at her with sad eyes the color of mud. “Closure brought me here, Rose,” he said solemnly.

  “Closure makes for an odd traveling companion.”

  “They finally found him, Rose. His body…I mean.”

  “Who are they? And who did they find?”

  “German police identified Bobby’s remains. He was only a mile from the Swiss border when he died. Some skiers found him way up in the mountains. He must’ve died from exposure.” Ned shook his head. “He almost made it, Rose. He was so close to safety.”

  Rose felt her lungs deflate like pricked balloons. Bobby Hoxley was her first love. Actually, he was her only love. They were both seventeen when the attack on Pearl Harbor came along and wedged them apart. Bobby joined the United States Army Air force in 1942 and served as a tail gunner on a B-17 bomber. According to what U.S. military representatives told the Hoxleys, Bobby’s plane was shot down during a bombing mission. Everyone aboard the plane parachuted safely to earth, but were all captured by German soldiers.

  Bobby became a POW along with the other crew members aboard the plane. And at one point during the winter of 1944/1945, Bobby and his fellow prisoners were moved to another camp. Bobby somehow escaped during the death march and was never seen again. The U.S. had listed him as MIA for the past seventeen years.

  “I’m so sorry, Rose. I know you loved him dearly,” Ned said.

  Rose didn’t know how to respond. Her eyes welled up. She’d waited faithfully for Bobby to return, refusing to date another man. Before he enlisted, Bobby had asked her to wait for him. So she did.

  “But now you can move on, Rose. You’re still young enough to find someone and have kids. Bobby wouldn’t want you to wait any longer. He’d want you to be happy.”

  “That’s enough, Ned,” Rose said, burying her head in her hands.

  “I’m sorry, Rose. It’s just so tragic; you living here all alone in this big house. It’s too much for you to take care of.”

  “I’m not alone. My mother is with me.”

  “But she’s so sick. She won’t last too much longer. And then you’ll be alone. Bobby wouldn’t want you to live like a hermit.”

  “I think you should leave now, Ned.”

  Ned stood up. He put his fedora back on. “I’ll let you know about the funeral arrangements. The service will be soon, within the next few days. The plane carrying his body landed in Baton Rouge yesterday.” Ned lingered on the gallery. “I’m so sorry, Rose. Bobby was the salt of the earth.”

  “Goodbye, Ned. Thank you for telling me the news, however dreadful.”

  Ned started to walk down the steps but stopped in his tracks. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot.”

  Rose looked up. She watched Ned pull a folded-up piece of paper from his trousers.

  “This was found on Bobby.” Ned looked at her sheepishly. “It’s a letter to you. I didn’t know at first it was for you until I started to read it. I’m sorry about that.”

  Rose took the letter from Ned’s hand. “Thank-you,” she mumbled as she immediately unfolded the letter and stared at Bobby’s penmanship. She barely noticed Ned walk down the steps and get into his car, didn’t hear him start up the Ford and drive off. And as a lump formed in her throat, she started to read.

  My Darling Rose,

  You were right when you said I would get myself shot down. We had just finished a bombing run—taking out a munitions depot and a bridge—and were headed back to the airfield when a squadron of Messerschmitt Bf 109s dropped out of the clouds and lit us up. When it became clear our crippled plane wouldn’t make it back to the airfield in England, we all bailed out and parachuted safely to the ground.

  We stayed in the countryside while we were free, sleeping in the woods and sometimes in barns, once in a church. But German soldiers caught us five days later. They took us to a prison camp. They beat us and starved us to the point we all longed for death. Days and weeks and months went by. It seemed so hopeless. I really thought I would die in that camp.

  The only thing that kept me going during my imprisonment was memories of you. I often think of that last party at your parent’s house, the one before I shipped off. That was the best night of my life. I can still hear the band playing; can still feel you in my arms as we danced. And I often think of the secret room we found near the attic, and the mystery box inside. I don’t know why, but I’m obsessed about it. I guess we’ll never know what treasure lay inside the box.

  Eventually the war started to turn against Germany. We could tell this by the worried looks on our captors’ faces. And when the allied forces closed in near the border, the Germans moved us to another camp. Despite our weak and poor conditions, we were forced to walk miles to our new prison camp in the dead of winter. Many other prisoners died during this time. This is when I decided to make a break for it. My goal was to get to Switzerland, contact my superiors and rejoin the war.

  I underestimated how hard this would be, and didn’t take into consideration my fragile health. Even as I write this letter to you, I am lost in the Alps somewhere. I haven’t eaten in days. I’m too weak and too cold to move. I know I promised to come back to you, and my heart literally aches to be with
you, but I can’t, Rose. I’m dying.

  But don’t feel bad for me. It’s beautiful up here in the mountains. The snow is sparkling. It’s like I’m already in heaven. I can hear angels singing hymns.

  You don’t have to wait for me any longer. You’ve waited long enough, Rose. It’s my turn to wait for you now. We’ll dance in heaven, I promise.

  Love,

  Bobby

  ****

  With shaky hands, Rose brought the letter up to her chest and pressed it against her shuddering heart. A piece of her soul was trying to escape. She knew it was Bobby. He wanted her to let go. But she didn’t want to. Letting go meant saying goodbye. And she couldn’t bear the thought of moving on. The memories of Bobby and their last days together were etched in her mind. They would never fade.

  Rose took a deep breath, braced herself for the tears she felt coming. She hung her head, and the tears fell like rain.

  Chapter 1

  Grand Isle, LA—present day

  Arcadias Charbonneau peeked at his gas gauge and scowled. His dented Ford Ranger surely ran on fumes and nothing else. The gas gauge needle hunkered far below the E, and had been there nearly all week.

  I should just drive right into the ocean and end it all, he thought. No more money worries.

  He originally drove to the ocean on a whim, unable to resist a strong urge to comb the beach. And now he didn’t know if he would be able to make it back to his apartment. Only 43 dollars sat in his bank account. And out of that paltry amount he needed to somehow pay his overdue rent and electric bill. He also owed two months of back child support payments. As far as he knew his ex-wife hadn’t reported him yet, but that might change if he missed another month’s payment. So filling up his “trusty rusty” slid far down on his priority list.

  Arcadias took his foot off the gas and allowed the Ford to coast into the beachside parking lot. He glided into the first open spot. Only two other vehicles sat in the lot. Arcadias shut off the truck’s sputtering engine. He carefully moved his feet so he didn’t put them through the rusted-out hole in the floorboard, and hopped out. Out of all the vehicles in the world, he had to somehow wind up with one from Minnesota. Rust ate at the small pickup truck like spreading cancer.

  Arcadias reached into the truck bed and pulled out his beloved Fisher F75 metal detector. The expensive metal detector was probably the nicest thing he owned, and it definitely ranked as his most prized possession.

  Arcadias measured the descending sun. He figured daylight would stick around another fifteen minutes. High cirrus clouds streaked the sky over his head. Conditions were perfect for a spectacular end to the day, but Arcadias wanted the sun to hang in the sky a little while longer and give him a chance at discovering hidden treasures. Finding buried coins, jewelry, and historical items made him come alive. His passion for relic hunting couldn’t be quenched no matter how much time he devoted to it.

  He’d once held an important title: Professor of Louisiana History at McNeese State University. And over the years people had called him many colorful names, mostly derogatory ones. But the only title he took pride in, and the only name or title that truly summed up what he was all about was: Treasure Hunter.

  Holding the metal detector with his right arm, Arcadias walked out onto the 7 mile long beach. Sand squished under his bare feet, burrowed up between his toes. Over the years he figured he’d scanned every square foot of the Grand Isle beach in his never-ending search for Jean Lafitte’s buried loot. He’d also searched nearby Grand Terre Island where the infamous pirate based his shady operations back in the early 19th Century.

  But other than digging up a few items of broken jewelry and countless dimes, pennies, quarters and buttons, he’d found nothing belonging to Jean Lafitte. Arcadias often wondered if his obsession with Jean Lafitte was worth it. His incessant metal detecting cost him his marriage and professorship at McNeese State. Even worse, his fifteen-year old daughter wouldn’t even speak to him.

  All told there are thirteen suspected sites where Lafitte may have stashed his vast fortune. Arcadias had searched each site thoroughly. One of the sites is Contraband Bayou. This particular bayou cuts through Lake Charles, Louisiana and right through the campus of McNeese State University.

  Once admired and esteemed among his peers at the university, he eventually became a laughingstock. Near the end of his tenure his students often sat without an instructor in his classroom for most of the class while he scanned the nearby bayou shores with his metal detector.

  Arcadias blinked away the bad memories. He shook his head defiantly. His shaggy brown hair flopped on his head. I’ll find it someday. And then they’ll have to eat their words, he thought as he waved the metal detector’s coil back and forth over the sand, the muscles in his forearm rippling.

  If nothing else his relic hunting hardened his body, making him physically fit. He sported powerful forearms. His legs and back were also strong from constant squatting and stooping, and he possessed the agility and balance of a fencer from walking thousands of miles on shifting sand.

  And yet he looked ten years older than his actual age. The sun had bronzed his skin into leather, while ocean winds chiseled deep furrows onto his brow and around his ash-colored eyes.

  Arcadias listened intently to the Fisher F75 chatter away. The other people on the beach—a young couple and an artist toting a canvas under an arm—climbed into their cars and drove off, leaving him alone. Only a brown pelican, a flock of seagulls and a few stone crabs near the surf kept him company.

  Arcadias glanced at the sky and the magnificent sunset. His exposed skin turned pinkish red and lavender as the sun cast its fading light. The metal detector sang out a long strident note. He looked at the display screen, noting the depth. It’s probably a dime, he thought.

  He bent down and pushed the sand into a heap with his pinpointer. He spotted a small coin and held it up to his eyes. He let out a whoop when he saw he held a wheat penny from 1914. He noted it had a D on it and figured it might be worth one-hundred and sixty dollars. It wasn’t Lafitte treasure, but at least he could pay his electric bill now. Things were looking up.

  He always ran into hard times when the tourist season ended. Arcadias owned and operated a small treasure hunting shop in town. He rented out metal detectors to people wanting to comb the beach. Fifty dollars rented you a metal detector for an hour; one-hundred dollars rented you one for three hours.

  Some days he got no takers, other days he rented out all his metal detectors. It was hit and miss business at best. But if he could just hang on a few more weeks his dire financial situation might improve with the coming season.

  Smiling like a kid with a new toy, Arcadias dropped the century-old penny into a pocket in his cargo shorts. I wonder if there are any more laying around here. For a moment he forgot all about how close he was to losing his business and becoming homeless. To save money he lived in a cramped backroom at his treasure hunting shop and ate ramen noodles for sustenance. He kept telling himself it was only temporary. One day soon he would be wealthy and not have to worry about paying bills.

  Arcadias continued to wave the coil over the sand in the same general vicinity. But then he stopped when he felt a strong urge to urinate. BPH symptoms sent him running for the toilet more frequently than he liked.

  Arcadias sighed and turned off his metal detector and hurried over to a small thicket of oak and hackberry trees standing in a marshy area about forty yards away from the parking lot. He took cover behind an oak tree.

  After he finished his business and zipped up his shorts, he picked up his metal detector and turned it back on. The metal detector immediately went crazy, growling in low tones. The low tones indicated iron or gold, and he stood right on top of it. The screen on the Fisher predicted the object lay eight inches below the surface.

  Arcadias dropped to his knees and began digging with his knife. He worked quickly. Darkness fast approached. He periodically stopped digging to aim his pinpointer over the area.
The pinpointer looked similar to a magician’s wand, and amounted to nothing more than a mini metal detector.

  The pinpointer let loose a steady shrill note. I’m right on top of it, he thought. Arcadias slowed his digging. He loosened the sand/soil mixture carefully. His knife soon clunked against something metallic.

  “It’s some sort of box,” he said aloud as he viewed two corners of a small iron box sticking up through the soil. Arcadias sped up his digging. He dug furiously like a dog trying to catch a mole in the backyard. Excitement made his body shake. He couldn’t believe other relic hunters had somehow missed the buried object. His intuition told him he’d found something significant, perhaps something valuable.

  Part of the iron box lay buried underneath a tree root. Arcadias had to dig fairly deep to extricate the box. The box had also shifted while in the ground. It lay vertical, forcing him to dig deeper. Arcadias wished he had his shovel, but the garden tool was in his truck bed and he didn’t want to go back. He made do with his knife and pinpointer. And at last he freed the box.

  Arcadias lifted it out, grunting with the effort. Dirt clung to the box, encasing it. He swept the box off the best he could; tapped at with his knife to knock off perhaps a century or more of dirt. He guessed the iron box measured approximately 10 inches wide by 6 inches tall by 12 inches long.

  Arcadias felt his heart pound. He steeled himself against disappointment. So many times in the past he’d been excited about a find only to be crushed by the inevitable letdown. He shook the box gently. The box rattled, its sound unmistakable like coins clinking in a coffee can. Giddiness welled up inside him. Laughter burst out his mouth.

  He stood up and carried the heavy box with two hands back to his truck, temporarily leaving his metal detector behind. He needed light to see what he’d found. At the truck, he set the box down on the ground and yanked open his door. He reached behind the seat and hurriedly dragged out a headlamp, praying the batteries inside still had life. The light flipped on and he slid the lamp onto his head with shaking hands.