“I suppose,” she said, taking a sip of tea and reaching for the top book. “And of course it would be much better for the university to claim the wreck than a treasure hunter.”
That seemed to be the opinion of most people I’d talked to. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve found?” I said as I peeled the first Granny Smith apple.
“You really want to know?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said. “The ship could belong to one of the most illustrious pirates of the Maine coast—or to the man who built my house.”
“I don’t know which one to hope for,” Matilda said.
“How will they be able to tell the difference?” I asked.
“Well, the ship’s bell would be pretty definitive. And if there’s bullion, the dates on the coins will be a dead giveaway. The two ships went down in two different centuries.”
“Assuming they both went down.”
“That’s true,” she said. “It’s never been confirmed.”
“What else could identify it?”
“Oh, any number of things. Tools, shoes—but you’d have to have exhaustive knowledge of the items manufactured in a particular time period. One of the easiest ways is to count the cannons.”
“I’d heard something about that, but I thought it mainly had to do with identifying them.”
She nodded, eyes bright. “It’s wonderful to be able to identify them, but just the number they find can be a clue. Both ships had them. But the Black Marguerite had ten—he was a pirate, after all, so he needed them—and the Myra Barton only had six.”
“I’m confused. Even if they do find the cannons, couldn’t they belong to another ship?”
“They could,” she said. “But it’s unlikely. The only two ships unaccounted for in this area—the only two we could find records of, anyway—were the Black Marguerite and the Myra Barton.”
“How do you count cannons, anyway? I imagine it’s pretty dark down there.”
“It’s amazing what they can do these days. My friend in Portland told me they can do sonar scans of the bottom that look almost like photographs.”
“Hmm. That’s what Iliad’s planning to do,” I said. “They’ve got a big ship coming in with a sonar rig.”
A wrinkle appeared in Matilda’s brow. “Do they know about the number of cannons?”
“I’m guessing so,” I said. “But I wouldn’t volunteer it.”
Matilda closed the top book and pulled it to her chest. “Mum’s the word,” she said.
I finished grating the apples and added a bit of lemon juice to the bowl to keep them from browning. “Are you going to have a chance to show the archaeologists Smuggler’s Cove?” I asked.
“I’m hoping so,” she said. “It depends on the tides.” She glanced at her watch. “And what time they get here. What’s taking them so long?”
“I don’t know, but you’re welcome to keep me company till they get back.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I will.”
As I creamed butter and sugar together for the muffins, I glanced up at Matilda. “Did you find anything else out about Eleanor Kean?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, I’m afraid. We’re lucky to have the documentation we have. For letters to survive for so many years intact is really rare.”
“There are a lot of mysteries on this island, aren’t there?”
She nodded. “That’s what makes history so fascinating. You never know when the missing key will turn up.”
“Tell me more about Jonah Selfridge,” I said as I opened the pantry in search of a bag of walnuts.
“He was a very successful man,” she said. “He started out by shipping local fish to Boston and selling it. Before long, though, he’d expanded to international trade, and kept buying bigger and bigger ships.”
“He managed to marry well, didn’t he?” I asked. “I understand Mrs. Selfridge was quite a catch.”
“Yes,” she said. “Her name was Myra Barton, and she originally came from a wealthy, upper-class family.”
“That’s why he built the house here,” I said, “instead of right by the pier, like most of the others.”
“That’s right,” Matilda said. “Her delicate nose couldn’t tolerate the smell of fish.”
Having smelled the salted herring down by the pier, I couldn’t argue with her logic.
“He must have loved her, if he named a ship after her. Where was she from?” I asked.
“He met her in Boston, apparently. It was a most unusual pairing for the time. Despite the fact that he was a prosperous captain, I can’t imagine the match was one her family approved of.”
“Particularly once they got to know him,” I said. From what I knew of him, he wasn’t a very nice man. Not at all. “And I can imagine Cranberry Island was a bit of a change for her.”
“I imagine it was. There were only a few families living here then, and once the winter began, there was no going ashore unless it was an emergency.”
“Ashore—you mean to Mount Desert Island?”
She nodded. “And despite her husband’s income, life must have been very hard for Myra. Although by then, at least, there were coal-fired stoves—and a store. A few decades earlier, she would have spent her summer canning fruit and vegetables, and chopping wood.”
“Delightful,” I said. “Well, at least she had a good supply of lobster.”
Matilda laughed. “Actually, believe it or not, nobody fished for lobster back then. It wasn’t considered a delicacy; in fact, it was the opposite. Servants used to write into their contracts that they couldn’t be served lobster more than once a week.”
“Times sure do change, don’t they?”
“Yes they do,” she said. “But some things don’t.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“People seem to always do crazy things for love,” she said. “Eleanor Kean, running off with a pirate captain, only to go down with his ship. And then, two hundred years later, another young woman, leaving Boston to marry a sea captain, moving to a tiny island off the coast of Maine—and losing him at sea a few years later.”
From what I knew of Captain Jonah Selfridge—who had murdered a maid in his house—I thought his wife might have been better off without him. Still, Matilda was right; both relationships ended in tragedy. “It didn’t go well for either couple, did it?”
Matilda shook her head. “Not at all,” she said.
I looked down at the bowl in my hands—listening to the historian, I’d forgotten all about my recipe in progress. As I dug the wooden spoon into the creamy batter, I couldn’t help thinking of Gerald, who had died mere days ago—and the carefully reconstructed photo in Audrey’s room. Had love brought Gerald McIntire to an early death, too?
“Is that them?” Matilda said, pointing out the window. The Ira B was coming into the dock.
“Sure looks like it,” I said.
“I’m going to go and let them know I’m here,” said Matilda, slipping out the kitchen door and hurrying down to the dock. By the time I finished sprinkling streusel on top of the batter and sliding the muffin pan into the oven, Molly was trotting up the path toward the inn with Matilda. I quickly washed my hands and walked out to meet them.
“Any luck?” I asked as I closed the kitchen door behind me. The air was tangy with salt, pine resin, and a hint of wood smoke from somewhere on the island. I could tell from the spring in the archaeologist’s step that their outing had likely been a success.
“The lift bags came in this morning,” said Molly, eyes bright, “and we did manage to bring something up. But I’ll only tell you if you’ll promise to keep it under your hat.”
“I promise,” I said.
Molly turned to Matilda and me. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course!” said Matilda. “And if you have time, it’ll be low tide in an hour; we could go check out Smuggler’s Cove!”
“I almost forgot!” Molly said. “That sounds great. And the water’s calm t
oday, so that should make it easier to get in. I can’t wait to see it!”
“Unfortunately, I’m afraid it will be a bit disappointing.”
“Why?”
“It’s simply a cave that formed at the base of the cliff, and it’s got a few subterranean rooms,” Matilda said with a shrug. “Anything that used to be kept there is gone, but there are some old iron rings buried in the stone, for tying up boats. I’ve tried to date them, but I haven’t had any luck. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
“You never know—maybe with a close examination, something will turn up,” Molly said, her voice cheerful. “Do you think the cove earned its name?” she asked.
“It’s common knowledge that the cove was used for smuggling liquor during Prohibition. But legend has it pirates also used to use it as a hideout—and perhaps even a place to hide their treasure.” Matilda glanced at her watch. “We’ve got a little bit of time. Why don’t we take a look at what we pulled up first?”
“I’ve got some muffins in the oven, but I’ll ask John to take them out when the timer buzzes,” I said.
Once I’d enlisted John’s assistance with the muffins, we followed Molly down to the dock and climbed into the dinghy after her. The face of her enormous watch caught the sunlight as she reached to pull the cord to the motor.
“That is the biggest watch I’ve ever seen,” said Matilda, echoing my thoughts. “It must weigh a ton.”
Molly held up her arm. “It’s much more than a watch, actually—it’s my dive computer. It keeps track of my time down, my oxygen, the time and duration of all my dives … it’s like my second brain. It keeps me safe.”
“Handy,” I said.
“I never dive without it,” she said, yanking at the starter. The motor started on the first try. We crossed the short stretch of water in less than a minute, and soon were boarding the Ira B.
“It’s kind of Spartan,” she said, and I had to agree with her. The Ira B was a small vessel, and the wheelhouse, which was the only ‘room’ on the boat, was cluttered with gear, including scuba tanks, big plastic tubs, and bright orange lift bags. Carl was standing at a worktable, bent over a large, rusty object and carefully chipping away at it with a chisel. He looked up and frowned when he saw me. “What are they doing here?”
“I wanted to show them what we found,” said Molly.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” asked Carl, eyeing me with suspicion. He hadn’t forgotten that I’d mentioned his death threat to the investigators. I felt my cheeks getting warm, and looked away from him. My gaze was drawn to the lift bags. They looked exactly like the one I’d seen under Molly’s bed.
“Everyone’s going to know soon enough anyway,” Molly said. “And Iliad already has the R/V with the submersible and the sonar here. What do we have to lose?”
He sighed. “You’re right, I suppose.”
“Well, then. You have to promise not to tell anyone from Iliad, but we finally managed to bring up the ship’s bell.”
“Wow,” I said, looking more closely at the thing Carl was chipping away at. I hadn’t been able to see it at first, but now that I knew what it was, it was obvious.
“That’s wonderful,” Matilda said. “Any sign of a name yet?”
“Not yet,” said Carl. “But I’m optimistic.”
“Ideally we’d use electrolysis to get the concretion off,” Molly said, “but we’re a little short on time.”
The rough surface of the bell was dotted here and there with barnacles and strings of seaweed. “Hard to believe that was shiny once, isn’t it?” Molly remarked.
“Isn’t it?” Matilda agreed. “It’s amazing what a couple of centuries at the bottom of the ocean will do.”
I looked around the wheelhouse. The wall was lined with plastic tubs, all filled with water and chunks of what looked like debris. No car batteries or jugs of clear liquid, though. And even though the wheelhouse was crowded, it wasn’t overflowing. I didn’t know why Molly had extra equipment in her room, but it wasn’t due to lack of space on the Ira B. “What’s all this?” I asked, walking over to the line of tubs.
“Artifacts we brought up from the bottom,” Molly said. “We won’t know what they are until we have a chance to X-ray them back at the lab. If it’s anything worthwhile, we’ll chip them out.”
“Why are they in water?” I asked, looking into the closest tub. The contents looked a bit like a chunk of solidified mud, with a couple of barnacles attached.
“If they’re left exposed to air, metal artifacts will decay and crumble to nothing. We have to use electrolysis to change the chemistry and make them able to survive in dry conditions. That process can take awhile, though.”
No wonder they wanted to pull up the ship’s bell. I turned my attention back to Carl, who was painstakingly chipping off flakes of what looked like rust. “Are you sure there are letters on there somewhere?” I asked, peering at the rough surface of the object. All I saw was thick, pitted rust.
“There’s no way to know if they survived, but we’re hoping so,” Carl said. “If I can get enough of this off to see even a few letters, we’ll have enough to claim the wreck.”
“Which ship are you hoping it’ll be?”
“Either one would be fascinating,” Carl said. “The Black Marguerite would be more historic, but also more controversial. If it’s the Myra Barton, we should be able to proceed without interference.”
“What about the Selfridges?” I asked. “Won’t they want to stake a claim?”
“I don’t foresee that being a problem,” said Carl.
“You haven’t met Murray Selfridge then,” I said.
Carl gave me a cryptic look, then returned to his work.
As Carl and Molly bent over the bell, I walked over to a small stack of lift bags. “How do these work?” Matilda asked.
She picked up the bag, which was an inverted triangle, and pointed to the strap on the bottom. “You attach this to the object you want to lift,” she said, “and then you fill the bag with air from one of your hoses, and it floats the object to the top of the water.”
“Clever,” Matilda said.
“It’s actually tough to get it just right,” she said. “Like Carl said the other day, If you put too much air into it, it goes up too fast, and can drop the artifact. That’s what he was worried about with the bell, but we made it work.” She grinned.
“Amazing,” Matilda said, then glanced at her watch. “I’d love to stay and see more, but if we’re going to make low tide, we’d better get going.”
“Do you want to head out to Smuggler’s Cove with us, too?” Molly asked me.
I suppressed a shiver. My memories of that dark, dank place weren’t particularly pleasant. On the other hand, it would be fascinating to be on hand if Molly found something relevant. “I think I can make it,” I said. “Can we make a quick stop back at the inn, first?”
“If we hurry,” Matilda said.
“What about you?” Molly asked Carl.
“I’ll trust you to make the first run. I’ve got to keep working until I find something,” he said, barely looking up from his work.
“We’re off then,” she said, and leaving Carl to his chisel, we clambered back down into the dinghy.
Within five minutes, we were back at the inn dock. “Let me just make sure the cake and muffins are out of the oven and I’ll be right back down,” I said to Molly and Matilda.
John was taking the muffins out of the oven when I hurried into the kitchen. Thankfully, they looked perfect—golden brown on top, with crannies where the butter had melted into the batter—and the kitchen smelled divine.
“Back so soon?” he asked.
“The university team brought up the ship’s bell today,” I said. “I went over to take a look at it, and now we’re going to show Molly Smuggler’s Cove.”
“Who’s we?” he asked.
“Matilda and I. Want to come?”
“Last time you and I were there, things didn
’t go so well,” he said. He was remembering a time not long after I moved to the island, when I’d been cornered in the cove by a murderer and had almost drowned trying to get out.
I shivered thinking about it, but shooed the memory away. “It was touch-and-go,” I admitted, “but thanks to you, it turned out just fine,” I said, remembering how John had gotten there just in time to haul me out of the water. “Thanks to you, I’m still here.”
He looked hesitant. “I was going to work on my portfolio, but I’m not comfortable with you going out there by yourself.”
“I’m not by myself. I’ll be with Molly and Matilda. Do you really think either of them is the murderer?”
“The only one with a motive is Molly, and she doesn’t seem half as concerned with the wreck identification as her partner,” he confessed. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll walk down with you so they know I know where you’re going,” he said. “And if you’re not back in forty minutes, I’ll come find you.”
“You’re really that worried?” I asked.
“Better safe than sorry,” he said. “And you draw trouble like a magnet.”
I glanced at the Bundt cake pan. “If you’re going to be here, could you take the cake out of the pan and cool it on a rack in about twenty minutes? I’ll glaze it when I get back.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “I’ll even sample a slice.”
I laughed. “You’re so self-sacrificing. But it’ll be better if I’ve glazed it before you try it.”
“I suppose I can wait a little bit longer, then,” he said, grinning. He proffered an arm. “Shall we?”
“With pleasure,” I said, and together we walked down the path to the dock, where the Ira B’s dinghy was waiting for us.
_____
It was a calm, beautiful day, with only a slight breeze off the water, but I was still apprehensive about the approach to the cove. We passed by the beach where the black-chinned terns nested every year. It was the only sand beach on the island, but virtually unreachable except by boat; I’d fallen and gotten stuck on a cliff ledge trying to climb down once, and had never been brave enough to try it since. John occasionally took Mooncatcher over after a storm, to pick up any driftwood that washed up on the beach, but it was not a popular destination. The terns’ nesting season was over now, and the sandy beach looked deserted. As we passed it by, however, I noticed something like a black plastic garbage bag peeking out from behind one of the rocks.
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