The Treasure Box (The Grace Series Book 2)

by Mark Romang

  Arcadias dropped to his knees on the asphalt. He examined the box and whistled. The box looked old, really old. He studied the latch on the box’s front for a moment and then tried it. It wouldn’t budge. Undeterred, Arcadias slid his knife blade underneath the latch and pried upward. The extra leverage popped the lid open.

  He gasped. His mouth quivered. Arcadias reached inside the iron box, buried his fist into a mound of Spanish doubloons and pieces of eight. He let the gold and silver coins spill out his hand and back into the box, enjoying the metallic sound. Just moments ago he wanted to drive his vehicle into the ocean and end it all, but not anymore. Ecstasy filled his body. He could sing like an opera singer he was so happy. Arcadias knew without a shadow of a doubt he’d just found Lafitte treasure.

  He swiveled his head, scanned his surroundings. Paranoia warned him to be careful. People would kill for what he held in his hands. But he was all alone in the parking lot, just him and that stupid brown pelican. Relax. Take a deep breath. Enjoy the moment, he told himself.

  Arcadias pushed a button on his headlamp. The LED lamp brightened and pushed away the intensifying darkness. And then he saw the note inside the box. It was partially buried by the doubloons. Arcadias pulled the note out gently. There were only two lines written on the rag paper, and they were written in French. The iron gall ink looked well preserved for its age. The calligraphy letters hadn’t bled at all.

  Arcadias took great pride in his Cajun heritage. He could read and speak French fluently. And so he read aloud what the note said, translating it into English.

  “This is only one percent of what I took from the Spanish galleon Nuestra Senora de Cerredos. I buried the rest at North 30 by West 91.”

  Arcadias put the note back into the box and shut the lid. He mulled over what to do. He could go the conservative route and sell off the coins in the box and pay off his debts and child support payments. Or he could take what he held in his hands and finance an expedition to find the entire Lafitte stash.

  Arcadias estimated the value of the doubloons and pieces of eight at seventy thousand dollars, and the amount might even be higher. If he could trust the note as factual, there could be treasure worth upwards of ten million dollars at the coordinates given. To shut up the naysayers he would have to find it all.

  But if he kept the discovery to himself he wouldn’t have to pay taxes to Uncle Sam. And he surely didn’t want his ex-wife to get wind of it. She’d want her child support payments increased significantly.

  Arcadias shook his head. Nope, I’m not telling anybody. Mum is the word, Arcadias. Mum is the word.

  Chapter 2

  New Orleans—3 weeks later

  “I’m afraid I’ll never have a green thumb like you, Annie,” Claire Quigley said as she tamped down the brown mulch around an azalea bush she’d just planted.

  “It just takes time and practice, Claire,” Annie Rafter said. She’d driven up to New Orleans from Copeland earlier in the morning to help her friend with a landscaping project. Claire was a widow and frequently needed help around her house. “A little research will help too,” she added. “Knowing how acidic the soil is and how much sun and water a plant needs is crucial.”

  Claire laughed. “I don’t know how much more time I have left. I’m pretty old, you know.”

  Sweat dripped off Annie’s nose as she dug a hole for another azalea bush. Claire wanted to plant the colorful bushes in a space where a live oak tree once dominated her backyard. “You’re not that old, Claire. You have more time than you think.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right. But I wouldn’t bet on it.” Claire poured water into the freshly dug hole with a watering can.

  Annie placed the azalea bush into the hole. “I need to ask you something, Claire.” Annie lost her mother when she was very young. And even though Claire was old enough to be her grandmother, she’d taken on a maternal role in Annie’s life. She approached Claire whenever she needed advice.

  “Why sure, Annie, ask away. If it’s not about plants…maybe I can help.”

  Annie straightened up and leaned on the shovel. “It’s about Jon and me.”

  The perpetual smile on Claire’s face vanished. “Is everything okay between you two?”

  “I guess so. It just seems like Jon doesn’t love me as intensely as he used to.”

  The smile reappeared on Claire’s face, a knowing smile. “Oh, it sounds like you’ve reached the end of the honeymoon phase. Now you’re in the realization phase.”

  “Can you elaborate on this realization phase, Claire?”

  “When the romance and passion of the honeymoon phase ends you come to realize your spouse isn’t perfect, that they have all kinds of flaws and bad habits you’re going to have to live with for the rest of your time together. The D word comes onto the scene at this time. And I’m not talking about divorce. I’m referring to disappointment.”

  Annie pulled back her caramel-colored hair and put it into a ponytail. “Jon has hardly any flaws. There’s only one habit of his that bothers me. I guess I’m resentful of all the time he spends painting. I feel like he loves painting more than he loves me. We both work at home but he’s in his art studio all day long. I rarely see him.”

  Claire nodded. “Men are different creatures. Women deal with the complexity of their thoughts and emotions by talking them through, usually with other women. But men simply bury themselves in their hobbies. It’s how they work things out. Some men hunt and fish, others golf or tinker on old cars. Jon paints.”

  “I just wished he looked at me the way he looks at his paintings.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Annie. And I’ve seen the way Jon looks at you. He can’t take his eyes off you. The desire in his eyes makes me blush.”

  “Oh, Claire, you exaggerate.”

  “No, I’m speaking the truth. Jon loves you dearly. I know he would gladly step in front of a bullet for you.”

  “I guess I’m simply the jealous sort. Luckily I don’t have to worry about other women, just paint tubes and canvases.”

  “Jon is a gifted artist. God gave him his ability to create masterpieces. And I believe God wants Jon to paint. It’s who Jon is. Take away his paintings and he’s not the same person at all.” Claire touched Annie on the shoulder. “Can I ask you something personal?”

  Annie nodded her head warily.

  “How is your love life?”

  Annie blushed. “Its fine, Claire, we’re trying to have kids. And Jon seems quite happy with the whole process.”

  “Okay, good. Unless one of you is sick or injured, keep the lovemaking a priority. Dale and I had an active love life throughout our marriage. Without it we may not have stuck it out. There are two main components to a happy and lasting marriage: a mutual and vibrant faith in God and an active love life. And you must keep the components in that order. There are other things that will help too, like a positive and forgiving attitude, but those are the two biggies.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” Annie said. She looked at her older friend. Claire’s muumuu hid her plump figure, but could barely contain her giant bosom. With her gray hair piled up on her head, Claire resembled Aunt Bee from Mayberry.

  Claire shook her head. “Oh, it’s not easy being married, Annie. It takes a whole lot of effort. Sometimes it’s the hardest work you’ll ever do. But it’s worth it. Say, I just thought of something that might help you.”

  “I’m game for just about anything.”

  Claire set down her watering can. “Every since I’ve known you, Annie, you’ve talked about how you intend to write a book someday. Why don’t you ask Jon if you can have a small corner of his art studio and make it into a writing nook? That way you’ll be spending more time with him. As it is now you’re in the main house all the time while he’s in the studio at the other end of the yard.”

  “But I can’t spend all day in the studio. I have to clean rooms and get them ready for the guests.”

  “I understand, Annie. But you c
ould probably spend an hour or two with Jon. That beats no time with him.”

  Annie smiled briefly. “You’re right as usual, Claire. I should do that. But there’s something else bothering me.”

  Claire nodded her head. “I think I know what it is.”

  “You do?”

  “It’s written all over your face. The miscarriage you suffered two years ago is still crushing you.”

  Annie looked down. Her eyes filled up. “I don’t understand why God would allow this to happen. Babies are aborted every day, and countless more are born to deadbeat parents who will never love them. It’s not fair. I think Jon and I would be good parents. So what gives?”

  Claire moved forward and embraced Annie. “You’re right, Annie, it isn’t fair. The world can be a dark and unforgiving place sometimes. Dale and I tried repeatedly to have kids but I could never get pregnant. I fumed at God for probably thirty years before the anger and pain went away. I know that doesn’t help lessen the pain, but I do know how you feel, Annie.”

  Annie let out a deep breath. “But I need to get over this resentment, Claire. Jon and I are going to take custody of our adopted newborn in three weeks. I want to be able to love this baby as if she was my own.”

  “You’ll make a fine mother, Annie. This baby is so fortunate and blessed to be coming into your home.”

  “I just hope the teenage mother doesn’t change her mind at the last moment and keep the baby. I don’t think I would handle that very well.”

  Claire squeezed her harder. “I’ll pray night and day that the mother doesn’t do that. But I want you to promise me something.”

  “I hate making promises.”

  “This one will be easy to keep. I want you to promise me, Annie, that I’ll be your number one babysitting option. No matter how often you need me, I’ll be there.”

  Annie smiled. “You’re right, that’s an easy one. For that matter, you’ll be our only babysitting option, Claire. We’ll even call you Nana.”

  Chapter 3

  Copeland, Louisiana

  Arcadias Charbonneau parked his vehicle at the end of a long, tree-shaded driveway. Looking through binoculars, he sat in a rented Chevy pickup truck and studied the nineteenth century plantation house from a safe distance, admiring its architectural splendor and carefully maintained grounds.

  Someone has sunk a great deal of cash into this house, Arcadias thought. The Greek-Revival style house looked as if it were built only yesterday. He didn’t see any decay, and the paint looked fresh. Double galleries with Doric columns soaring to the roofline fronted the mansion. Well-tended flower gardens surrounded the house, while magnolia and live oak trees lined the driveway.

  If a car didn’t sit in front of the house, and if a sign at the end of the driveway didn’t say Whitcomb Bed and Breakfast Inn, Arcadias could almost imagine he’d traveled back in time to a simpler era, back into the early 1800s. A carriage house sat about fifty yards from the house. All that was missing from the historical property was a row of slave quarter shacks.

  Arcadias shifted his binoculars away from the house. He studied the acreage to the west side of the house, where the lush yard ended at a vast tree-studded field and beyond that the swamp better known as the Atchafalaya Basin. Having studied the history of the house for the past several days, Arcadias knew he looked at what was once a sugar cane field. He could see the remnants of a sugar house, a building where the juice was removed from the cane stalks and converted into raw sugar.

  Pecan trees had all but overtaken the sugar cane field where Rutherford Whitcomb made his fortune so many years ago. Sugar production had had pretty much stopped at the place around 1900. But there is still a fortune to be made here, Arcadias thought with a crooked smile.

  Today was actually his third visit to the property. To avoid suspicion he’d driven here in a different rental vehicle each time. And before each visit he’d plugged the coordinates from the treasure box note into the vehicle’s GPS system. He was brought here to the plantation house every time.

  On his first visit Arcadias knocked on the door and asked the attractive woman who answered if he could relic hunt on the property. She smiled and politely turned him down even though he assured her he wouldn’t damage her yard in any way.

  During a treasure hunt, Arcadias always cut a u-shaped divot into the ground whenever his metal detector got a hit. The divot always laid back down nicely, the grass no worse for wear. But he couldn’t persuade the woman to give him a chance.

  So now he had to resort to disingenuous methods. But one way or another, he would recover the hidden Lafitte treasure. If he had to tear down the house board by board to find the treasure, he would do it.

  And the hunt would begin tomorrow night.

  Chapter 4

  The next afternoon

  I hate deadlines, Jon Rafter muttered under his breath for the thousandth time. He was no longer just a nameless painter struggling to make his work known. He now possessed a new title, a handle he found intriguing, if a bit odd: art conservator, or more commonly known as art restorer.

  For years he’d been painting biblical scenes, employing techniques used by the Italian Renaissance masters, some famous and others lesser known. And now by what he could only attribute to providence, he periodically found himself restoring works by the very artists he emulated.

  Seated on a stool at a large table, Rafter peered through a long reach microscope at an Armando Bertocchi painting. Bertocchi acquired minor notoriety for painting scenes from the Old Testament. Although not as famous as his peers, Rafter admired Bertocchi’s use of light and his uncanny ability to add texture to his backgrounds, giving his works a 3D effect.

  The Bertocchi painting Rafter worked on belonged to a private collector, and depicted Delilah seducing Samson. Bertocchi painted the piece in 1527. Lucky for Rafter the painting had only been restored one other time. He needed only to remove one layer to get down to the original brush strokes. And after nearly two months of work, he finished the cleaning and varnishing process yesterday. Now came the fun part.

  Using a small scalpel, Rafter applied specks of tinted varnish to places where original paint no longer existed, one dot after another dot in a row using a stippling technique. He couldn’t deny the process brought new meaning to the word tedium. But he couldn’t let his guard down for even one second. If he did he would ruin a masterpiece.

  Rafter applied varnish dots to Delilah’s nose. The years hadn’t been kind to the Philistine woman from the Valley of Sorek. Missing paint on her face made it look like she suffered from eczema. But when he finished she would look beautiful and seductive once again.

  Rafter became so focused on the restoration process he barely heard the door to his art studio open up and close shut with a bang.

  “I’m glad to see you’re hard at work on the Bertocchi painting, Jon.”

  Rafter lifted his head from the microscope. He looked at Cameron Ross, an art dealer and gallery owner from Boston. Rafter considered Ross a close friend. They shared the same interests in art, and could talk about it for hours. Rafter rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been working on it nonstop since you brought it to me, Cam.”

  Always dressed to the nines, Cameron adjusted his bowtie. “That’s good. The owner keeps calling me and asking when it will be finished. He wants to auction it off along with some other pieces from his collection. I can’t stall him much longer.”

  Rafter stood up and stretched his legs, stiff from sitting on the stool for so long. “Barring any unforeseen setbacks or emergencies I should have it done a little before the deadline.”

  A deep-chested bark suddenly erupted from the back of the studio. The sound of nails click-clacking on the concrete floor followed the bark. Rosie, a Newfoundland, appeared and trotted up to Ross and began sniffing his pant legs.

  “She never has liked me,” Ross said, his face turning pale as he eyed the giant dog.

  Rafter smiled. “Rosie doesn’t care too much for city-slickers,
especially if they’re a Yankee.”

  Ross looked at him suspiciously. “I still detect a faint New York accent in your voice, Jon. You can deny it all you want, but I know its there. So don’t be calling me a Yankee.”

  Rafter laughed and made his way over to a coffee machine. He poured a cup. “Would you like some coffee, Cam?”

  Ross didn’t answer. He stood in front of a painting hanging on the wall. He examined it closely, his hawk-like nose inches from the canvas. “Is the donkey talking in this painting?”

  Rafter sipped his coffee before answering. “Are you familiar with the story of Balaam and his talking donkey?”

  Ross continued to study the painting. “Jon, you know I’m not a believer. And you know I don’t own a Bible. So how would I know anything about a talking donkey?”

  Rafter grinned slyly. “Well, I thought you might know about Balaam’s talking donkey since Rembrandt painted a scene based on the story back in 1626.”

  Ross turned back around and faced Rafter. “Okay, you got me there. But why did you decide to paint it?”

  “A man not far from here raises donkeys. He asked me to paint it for him.” Rafter set his coffee down and walked up to stand by Ross. “This is actually the second version I’ve painted. Rosie ate the first one, so I had to paint it over.

  “The story is found in the book of Numbers. Balaam is a sorcerer, and he was summoned by King Balak of the Moabites to curse the Israelites as Moses led them toward Canaan. On the way Balaam’s donkey saw an angel standing in the path and holding a sword. The donkey became frightened and turned off the path. Balaam grew angry and beat the donkey.

  “The angel appeared twice more, prompting the donkey to stop and lay down. Balaam beat the donkey harshly each time with his staff. And then the Lord opened the donkey’s mouth. The donkey said, ‘What have I done to you to make you beat me these three times?’ Balaam and the donkey then began to argue with each other. Finally, Balaam’s eyes were opened and he saw the angel standing in the path.”