Berried to the Hilt

by Karen MacInerney

  “Look at that,” I said, pointing it out to Matilda.

  She sighed. “I hate litter. Usually this beach is safe from it, but so many of the kids have skiffs these days, they sometimes come here and have picnics, and then don’t bother to pick up after themselves.”

  “A little late in the year for a picnic on the beach,” I said, zipping my jacket up. The wind was light, but it was still a crisp day.

  “Who knows how long it’s been there?” she said. “Could be someone who doesn’t want to pay to have their trash hauled, too. You never know.”

  “Where’s the cove?” Molly asked, focusing on the stretch of blue water ahead of us. I looked down at the water, catching a glimpse of a ghostly moon jelly as the dinghy cut through the waves.

  “Right up ahead on the left,” Matilda directed her. “It’s a bit of a tight entrance, though—and there are lots of rocks just under the water. I’ll go up to the bow and keep an eye out,” she said.

  “Good idea. Wouldn’t want to damage a fine boat like this one,” she said, winking. We all laughed; the dinghy, whose sides were splintered and dented in a number of places, had obviously seen a lot of rough use.

  Just the sight of Smuggler’s Cove unnerved me. As we puttered closer to the dark hole in the cliffs, surrounded by rocks that jutted through the water like sharp teeth, I found myself clutching the edge of the boat, bracing myself for another dangerous entry.

  “Not an easy approach, is it?” Molly asked.

  “Not at all,” I said. “I almost drowned trying to get out of there once,” I said.

  Molly glanced at me, surprised.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  Molly was a better boatswoman than I, though. With Matilda at the bow, she deftly maneuvered us through the gap, only once grazing a submerged rock. “Another beauty mark,” she said as we passed out of the sunny afternoon into darkness.

  “Kind of spooky in here, isn’t it?” Molly’s voice echoed off the close, damp walls. I could hear the slap of the waves against the stone.

  “Let there be light,” Matilda said, and snapped on the flashlight she had brought. “There are the rings I was telling you about,” she said, training the beam on first one rusty iron loop, then the other.

  “Interesting,” Molly said. “Let’s tie up the boat, and then I’ll take a closer look.”

  Matilda and Molly quickly secured the dinghy to the iron rings, and the three of us hoisted ourselves onto the rocky shelf.

  “Can I borrow the flashlight for a moment?” Molly asked, and when Matilda handed it to her, she knelt to examine the iron loops. “These aren’t that old,” she said. “Probably less than a hundred years.”

  “Oh,” said Matilda, disappointed.

  “But that doesn’t mean they didn’t replace an earlier set that corroded away,” she said, standing up and playing the light across the cave walls. “Not much in here,” she said.

  “The entrance to the cave is toward the back,” Matilda told her, and the beam soon located the gap at the end of the rocky shelf we stood on.

  “Is that it?” Molly asked.

  “Yes it is,” I said. “Careful, though—the floor is really uneven.”

  The three of us carefully made our way back, away from the bit of light from the cave’s entrance, and I found myself grateful that John would come out to look for us if we didn’t make it back in time.

  “There’s obviously some wear here,” Molly said, training the light on the rocky floor. “See how those rocks are worn down? There’s been a lot of foot traffic over the years.” Something glinted in the beam of the light, and she bent down to examine it.

  “What is it?” asked Matilda.

  “A shard of glass,” Molly said, holding it up. “I’ll take it back and see if I can date it.”

  “Could be from Prohibition times,” Matilda suggested, excitement in her voice. “A piece of a broken bottle belonging to one of the smugglers.”

  “Good chance of it,” said Molly, pocketing the shard. “Might even be some residue of the contents.”

  We followed her deeper into the subterranean cavern. Molly was nothing if not thorough; she ran her flashlight over every inch of the walls and floors, touching rocks, peering into crevices. She picked up a few odds and ends; a bullet casing, a penny minted in 1938, and a few more shards of glass, but nothing that would tie the cave to Davey Blue. As she pored over every inch of the cave, I was keenly aware that the slap of the waves was growing louder. The tide was starting to come in; the longer we tarried, the harder it would be to slip through the narrow opening. Molly seemed unperturbed, but I found myself wiping my sweating hands on my jeans. Smuggler’s Cove had bad memories for me; I didn’t relish the thought of spending ten hours in it, waiting for the tide to drop again.

  “I think we’ve got to call it a day,” I said finally. “Tide’s coming in. And if we don’t get back to the inn in the next fifteen minutes, John is going to come after us.”

  “Give me just five more minutes,” Molly said, sounding utterly engrossed in her search of the cavern room. I waited patiently as she continued her examination of the deepest part of the dark cave. I was about to tell her five minutes were up when she said, “Hello. What’s this?”

  Matilda bent closer, peering at the wall. “It looks like letters,” she said. “Carved into the rock.”

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell,” Molly said, moving the light closer. “Looks like initials …” She laughed suddenly. “It’s love graffiti!”

  “What?” I asked.

  “You know. John loves Sally—like the things teenagers spray paint on bridges, or carve into trees. I think it’s two sets of initials.”

  “One of them is E.K.—could be Eleanor Kean!” Molly said, excitement in her voice.

  “That doesn’t explain the other one, though,” Matilda said, pulling a digital camera out of her pocket and snapping a few pictures. “Who the heck is AT?”

  “Good question,” I said. “Kind of shoots down the Davey Blue theory.”

  “Unless there was someone else on board his ship that she fell in love with,” Matilda suggested.

  “It’s too bad there’s no easy way to tell how long ago this was done,” Molly said. “Could be last year, could be five hundred years ago. If we could tell what tool was used …” she trailed off.

  “Looks like whoever did it had some time on their hands,” Matilda said, rapping her knuckles against the cave wall. “This rock is hard stuff.”

  “Maybe they got trapped in here waiting for low tide,” I said, only half in jest. As I spoke, a particularly strong wave slammed into the rock walls, then retreated with an eerie sucking sound. “We really have to go,” I said. “If we don’t get out of here soon, we’ll have plenty of time to do our own rock carving.”

  “She’s right,” Matilda said. “We can come back tomorrow if you’d like.”

  Molly sighed. “I suppose you’re right—but I hate to leave so soon.”

  “If we’re going to go, let’s do it now,” I said, resisting the urge to grab Molly’s sleeve and drag her to the boat. Finally, she turned and sauntered back toward where the dinghy was tied up. She stopped in surprise when she saw that the opening to the cove had already shrunk.

  “I didn’t realize the tide came in so fast!” she said.

  “It does, and it’s still coming,” I said, feeling dread rise in my throat. The three of us hurried into the boat.

  “Shoot,” said Molly. “I forgot to snap a picture of this area.”

  “We can do it tomorrow,” I said. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”

  I had the ropes untied in record time, and waited with bated breath for Molly to start the motor. She pulled it twice, and it didn’t catch. She was about to pull the cord a third time when a huge wave pounded into the cove, filling two-thirds of the opening. The boat yawed drunkenly, slamming against the stone shelf, and Molly’s flashlight clattere
d to the bottom of the boat. The cove was darkening by the second.

  She pulled the cord three more times, to no avail, and I began looking in vain for oars. Then, finally, the motor caught.

  “Wait until the next wave,” she said. “When I give the word, let go of the ropes, and we’ll make a run for it.”

  We didn’t have to wait long. Seconds later, another big wave almost eclipsed the cave entrance. I held tight to the ropes as the boat strained to break free. The wave had barely subsided when Molly barked, “Now!”

  I let the ropes drop and Molly gunned the motor, hurling the little boat toward the small entrance. We were at the narrowest part, just before the opening, when a rogue wave pushed us sideways, right into the wall. Molly swore and swung the rudder around, but there was a cracking, grating sound as the side of the boat scraped against the rough rocks. Then she gunned it again and we shot out of the cove into bright daylight, right ahead of another breaker.

  I’d never been so thankful to see the sun before.

  “That was a close one!” Matilda said, inspecting the side of the boat for damage.

  “How bad is it?” Molly asked.

  “It’s caved in a little,” Matilda said, “but it should hold. You’ll probably want to replace some of the wood before you take her out again.”

  I looked down at the jagged hole in the side of the boat, and thought what a shame it was that Eli wasn’t on the island; he’d get her fixed up in no time. The hole was high up, so water only sloshed in when there was a wave, but there was enough water accumulating in the bottom of the boat that I reached for the bailing bucket. The recycled bleach bottle bottom was sitting on top of a plastic lid that looked just like the lids on the tubs I’d seen in Molly’s bathroom.

  “What are these for?” I asked, picking up a lid and showing it to Molly.

  “Oh, that’s just a lid to the tubs we keep the artifacts in,” she said after a quick glance.

  “But the tubs in the Ira B were bigger than this,” I said, watching her closely.

  She shrugged. “Maybe it’s left over from the last researchers. We have to share the boats, unfortunately—and people leave all kinds of things behind. There are a couple of lockers down there that people forget to clean out. Once I found a huge dried squid someone had left below decks. It reeked like you would not believe!”

  “I’ll bet the smell lasted for weeks,” Matilda said, wrinkling her nose.

  “It did,” she said. “Sometimes I still think I smell it. Kind of put me off calamari.”

  I set the lid down and began bailing, still not convinced it was a leftover from a previous user. “Do you ever dive from the dinghy?” I asked.

  Her eyes darted to me; I sensed the question made her uncomfortable. “Why would I dive from the dinghy when I have the Ira B?” she asked. “Many times, we don’t even have the dinghy with us; we only towed it along because we figured the dock would be too short for the Ira B to tie up.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just wondering.”

  “You could, though, couldn’t you?” asked Matilda.

  “I guess so,” she said. “But I never have.” Her eyes didn’t meet mine; they were focused instead on the water in front of us. Another skiff was headed toward us: John. I waved to him, and he hailed me back. His teeth shone white as he smiled.

  “He was coming out to find us, wasn’t he?” said Molly, who was less concerned than I was by the water level in the bottom of the boat.

  “Looks like it,” I said, emptying another jug of water over the side.

  “You two are a wonderful couple,” Matilda said, smiling at me. “Have you picked a date yet?”

  “We’re thinking February,” I said.

  “Your sister in California might have a hard time making it out here if the roads are bad,” Matilda said.

  “Exactly,” I said, and winked at her.

  “You make it out okay?” John called over the thrum of the motors.

  “More or less,” I yelled back, brandishing the bailing bucket.

  “Find anything?”

  “Just some initials carved into the wall,” I called back. “Did you remember the cake?”

  “I’m just headed back to do it now,” he said, looking a bit sheepish.

  He’d forgotten, in other words. Matilda and I exchanged a knowing glance. “Thanks,” I called to him. “See you shortly!”

  He waved, then turned Mooncatcher back toward the inn.

  “It’s like you’re married already,” said Matilda.

  I laughed.

  Fortunately, the dinghy made it back to the inn without springing any more leaks, and I climbed out onto the dock, thankful to be back on land, then reached back to help Matilda out of the boat. “What are you going to do about that hole?” I asked Molly, who was inspecting it with a frown.

  “It doesn’t look too bad. I’ll nail some wood over it for now,” she said.

  “We’ve got scrap wood in John’s workshop if you need it,” I said. “Why don’t I send him down to help you find some that will work?”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling. “That would be great.”

  As I walked back up to the inn with Matilda, I glanced back at Molly, who was watching us as we climbed the path. She shaded her eyes from the sun, and the sunlight glanced off the face of her watch.

  There was something she didn’t want us to know. And I was sure it was connected with that plastic lid—and the strange equipment I’d seen in her room.

  _____

  It took fifteen minutes for me to get Matilda on her way home. John was down at the dock with Molly, helping her nail a patch on the hole in the dinghy. I hurried to the front desk and grabbed the skeleton key, then took the stairs two at a time. I wanted one more look at Molly’s bathroom.

  The “Do Not Disturb” sign no longer hung on the door—curious, I thought. I quickly slipped the key into the lock and stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind me.

  The stack of books still lay scattered on the desk, and I did a quick scan of the room, looking for anything unusual. Everything appeared as I had last seen it. I crossed the room to the bathroom—and that’s where I found my surprise.

  All of the equipment I had seen just a few days ago was gone.

  I rocked back on my heels, confused. Where was the car battery, the jugs of liquid, the tubs?

  Then I remembered the lid on the bottom of the dinghy. It hadn’t been left by a previous researcher; it had been left by her as she moved her equipment. But where had she moved it to? The Ira B?

  I quickly checked the closet, just to be sure, and even looked under the bed. The lift bag was gone from her suitcase, and everything appeared to be in order. Then I hurried out into the hallway, locked the door, and headed out to join John and Molly at the dock.

  John had just finished hammering a chunk of plywood into the hull of the boat, and stood up as I jogged down to where the dinghy was tied up.

  “Looks like you got that fixed up,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Molly said, smiling up at him. “I should probably go and see how Carl is progressing.”

  “Mind if we come along?” I asked. “I’d love to show John the bell you brought up.”

  “I heard you managed to pull it up,” John said.

  “The lift bags finally came in,” she said. “It was touch and go with the currents, but we got it up safely.”

  “Carl is chipping away to see if he can find the name,” I said. “You really should see it.”

  “It sounds amazing,” he said. “Why don’t we follow you over in Mooncatcher.”

  “Okay,” she said, smiling up at John. “Thanks a million for your help, by the way. Hard to bail and steer the boat at the same time.”

  I joined John in Mooncatcher, and together we motored over to the R/V. We both followed Molly up to the wheel room, where Carl was still chipping away at the bell.

  “Any luck so far?” Molly asked.

  “I got a T,” he sa
id, his voice excited.

  John peered over his shoulder. “You’re right—I can see it there. That’s amazing!”

  “I can’t make out the letter next to it—hoping it isn’t too corroded to read.”

  “All we need is a letter or two more, and we should be able to ID it,” Molly said.

  “I just hope we find it in time,” Carl murmured.

  “Um … I hate to ask, but can I use the head?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Molly said. “It’s right there,” she said, pointing toward a door at the front of the wheelhouse.

  “Thanks,” I said, disappointed. I was hoping for an excuse to nose around the boat. I was dying to know if she’d moved the equipment to one of the storage cabinets.

  Carl was still chipping miniscule piece after miniscule piece when I stepped out of the head a few minutes later. John was peering into the tubs of water. “What are these?” he asked.

  “Those are concretions,” Molly said, and I took advantage of the distraction to saunter out of the back of the wheelhouse and head down the short flight of steps to the belly of the boat. I was determined to find out where Molly had stashed all of the equipment.

  Below decks it was dim, and smelled like motor oil, gasoline, and fish. The wall beside me was lined with a row of what looked like storage lockers. I opened the first one and peeked inside; it was stuffed with life jackets. The second was filled with ropes, and the third housed something that reminded me of an old desktop computer.

  “That’s a salinometer,” said Molly quietly.

  I jumped at the sound of her voice, and turned to look at her. She was framed in the doorway, blocking out most of the light. “We wondered where you’d gone. Can I help you find something?”

  “I was just looking around,” I said, closing the locker behind me. There was one more to open; I was dying to look inside. I glanced at Molly, then decided to go for it. “What’s in here?” I asked, pulling the latch and opening the door. A red cylinder rolled out, squashing my toes. I yelped in pain and stepped back.