“Aren’t public displays of affection on religious ground kind of...inappropriate?” she whispered, secretly wanting to kiss him back.
“Probably.” Jordan sighed and released her. “Come on. Let’s get down to business.”
* * *
THE MISSION LIBRARY and archives room smelled of old parchment and ancient wood. The older adobe walls kept the room cool, while striped rugs, hand-woven for the museum, brightened the dimness. Even the recently added desk and file cabinet were worn and old, easily fitting into the comfortable ambience. The only jarring note was the tropical floral shirt of the silver-haired, tanned gentleman manning the desk. His name tag read Marcus—Mission Volunteer.
“Hello, again, miss,” Marcus said warmly, rising from his desk. “Welcome back.”
“You remember me?” Aurora asked. The Mission received scores of visitors every day. Even the library had a regular pattern of traffic.
“I remember all the trouble you caused me, young lady.” Marcus thrust out his hand to Jordan; the two men shook hands and exchanged names before he addressed Aurora again. “You don’t know the trouble I went through to get these archives back in shape, miss. You really scrambled them up.”
Aurora bit her lip. “I apologize.”
“‘Oops,’” Jordan whispered in her ear. “Or was that ‘whoops’?”
Marcus waved them toward the wooden, Spanish-style bench, then sat down himself. “Actually, the problem came to light when the next person came in wanting those same documents.”
Jordan and Aurora exchanged glances. “Who?” Jordan asked.
“A most unpleasant man. Very rude.” Marcus reached for the old-fashioned ledger and flipped through the pages. “Ah, yes, here it is. Juan Cierva.”
“John Doe?” Aurora translated.
Marcus’s lips drew together in a thin, disapproving line. “I spotted the alias myself. Which is why I never called him back when I did find the papers he requested. Something about him and his phony name bothered me.”
Aurora shifted uneasily, having borrowed her mother’s name for her own alias. “He left you a phone number?” she asked. “Can we have it?”
“Both that—and the archival documents—are with Bishop Vincente. Like I said, I didn’t trust the man. The bishop asked to be notified if Mr. Doe, or anyone else, asked about those particular papers. You’ll need to see him.”
“I’d like that,” Jordan said before Aurora could protest.
Marcus went to the phone and made a quick call. “He can see you now, in fact.” Marcus circled a location on a tourist map he took from the stack on his desk. “Across the courtyard, take a left at the fountain and down the breezeway. He’s waiting.”
Outside in the sun again, Aurora glanced at the map, then nodded. “I know where to go. I just hope he doesn’t charge me with fraud for not signing the register correctly myself.”
Jordan let her lead. Somehow his hand found itself around hers. “How could anyone argue on a day like this? It’ll be all right.”
Aurora took heart from the words. Because they came from Jordan, she could almost believe them.
Jordan dropped her hand as they entered Bishop Vincente’s office. Unlike the library with its simple coziness, this room had an aura of reverence, of dignity and power. Especially power, Aurora thought.
Jordan’s next action confirmed it. He bent over the bishop’s ring, kissed it and introduced himself.
The bishop lifted his hand to Aurora. She didn’t kiss the ring, but did politely shake his hand while introducing herself.
“Please, my children, have a seat.”
The two men chatted, exchanging pleasantries. Aurora felt the odd person out, so she let Jordan deal with the preliminaries. Finally they spoke of the archival documents in question.
“Ah, yes, the San Rafael file made for fascinating reading, my children.” The bishop steepled his fingers in front of him on the massive, imposing desk. “Tell me more about your connection to this ship, Señor Castillo. I assume you are a descendant of the original family?”
“I am, Your Excellency, which is why I must ask for your discretion regarding what I’m about to tell you.”
The bishop nodded. Jordan looked toward Aurora for her confirmation. Aurora shrugged. I’m in foreign waters here. You’re doing okay so far.
Jordan spoke of the ship and his family’s history, concluding with “You and I both have papers proving Castillo ownership before and after 1809, when the San Rafael went down.”
“I understand from the archives that the ship sank with a full cargo.”
“Yes, but we don’t know if the bullion is recoverable. The ship’s on a ledge, the wood is long rotted, and if the cargo’s slipped off the ledge, it’ll be too deep for traditional scuba recovery—if we can even find it.”
“So the payload is yet to be determined?” the bishop asked.
“Exactly.” Jordan went on to discuss his partnership with Aurora, their salvage rights, his beating, Aurora’s saving him and the jailing of her family.
“Trying times indeed,” the bishop said. “I will pray to El Señor on your behalf.”
“Thank you, Bishop,” Aurora said, knowing El Señor meant “The Lord.” “However, we need more than divine help here. We need to remove the archives from the public—at least until we track down whoever’s out to harm us,” she said bluntly. “And we need the phone number of your John Doe.”
The bishop leaned back in his chair, separated and steepled his fingers again and didn’t respond.
“Is that a problem, sir?” Aurora asked.
Jordan flashed her a warning glance, then focused on the bishop. “We Castillos have always taken our obligations to the Catholic Church very seriously. Of course we wouldn’t undertake a mission of this magnitude without her blessing—and participation.”
“Participation?” A sneaking suspicion made Aurora sit straight upright. Hey, wait a minute!
Jordan ignored her. “And although my partner here is not a member of the Church, she, too, humbly requests your blessing.”
This is gonna cost me, I can tell.
“I’d like to donate ten percent of my share of the profits to the Church, Your Excellency. Five must go to my home archdiocese of Boston, but I see no reason why the other half shouldn’t go to your fine archdiocese of San Diego.”
The bishop nodded, then turned his gaze toward Aurora, as did Jordan.
“This is a shakedown?” Aurora said incredulously. “By a padre?”
“Bishop,” Jordan corrected in a wry tone.
“Whatever. You should be ashamed of yourself, Your Excellency.”
“I have no shame in begging alms for those less fortunate than ourselves, señorita,” the bishop said calmly.
“You mean blackmailing those who are more fortunate than— Ouch, Jordan!” He’d actually kicked her!
The bishop shrugged, then flipped through some papers on his desk. “My poor Bethlehem House needs much work,” he said with a heavy sigh. “There is never enough money for our orphanage or the many children we shelter and educate. And the cost of health care today...” The bishop shook his head.
“This is crazy,” Aurora protested. “Are you saying you won’t help us if we don’t—” Jordan kicked her a second time.
Aurora rose from her chair and moved away from both men. “I’m all for charity, but this forced donating is...is...”
“We help all children in need, no matter their religion.”
“Fine. Then you won’t mind if I earmark half of my donation to a Tijuana orphanage.”
“And the other five percent?” the bishop asked, staring intently at her. Jordan’s face was poker-straight, she noticed. He remained politely in his chair, since the bishop had not yet stood.
“I suppose that can go to your Bethlehem House,” she conceded. “And that’s five percent of the profits—if we get profits. The deal’s null and void if I come up empty-handed.”
The bishop cleare
d his throat, and Jordan rolled his eyes.
Aurora continued, “I suppose you’ll want all this in writing? Of course you will. Okay, here’s the deal. You’ll turn over the documents to us and we tithe ten percent from net, not gross, earnings—if we have any. You agree to give Jordan ownership of any paperwork concerning the San Rafael, keeping silent your knowledge of same paperwork, and we’ll sign it. Oh, and don’t forget to give us the telephone number for that John Doe.”
The bishop rose from his seat, followed by Jordan. “Shall I give you my blessing as you begin this endeavor?”
“Just give me the papers,” Aurora grumbled under her breath. Both men heard her. Jordan choked back a laugh.
Minutes later the men were exchanging addresses, information and lawyers’ numbers. Jordan stayed for the blessing. Aurora didn’t. She determinedly headed outside into the sunshine, where she could breathe in the scent of flowers and citrus trees, and the spray of the tiled fountain soothed her ears.
Jordan caught up to her about ten minutes later, a large envelope tucked under his arm. He reached for both her hands, pulled her close and kissed her full on the lips.
“What was that for?” Aurora asked, still irritated about being fleeced by the bishop.
“You do beat all.” Jordan smiled. Then he began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she hissed.
Jordan slid an arm around her waist. “You. And keeping His Excellency down to ten percent. I figured he’d hit us up for at least fifteen, and I’d have given him twenty if I had to.”
“I wouldn’t. I don’t care if he is a man of the cloth. I mean, I’m all for helping orphans and the poor, but his methods leave something to be—”
Jordan silenced her with a second kiss. “The best part is that except for the bishop, you’re the only one who’s seen the originals. According to the sign-out log, no competitors have checked out the details—nor will they. I’ve got photocopies and he’s putting the originals in the Mission safe.”
“Good. We can study the documents at our leisure and get the information I didn’t manage to translate.”
“Let’s go back to Oceanside. We have a salvage operation to plan,” Jordan said cheerfully.
“I’m right behind you, partner.” As they walked back to where they’d parked, Aurora asked suddenly, “I didn’t miss anything else, did I?”
“The bishop said he’d get his staff working on an exact translation for us.”
“Hmm,” she grumbled. “Figures he’d look out for his cut.”
Jordan shrugged. “Let him. It’s a difficult job, with that delicate parchment and faded ink, not to mention the antique handwriting. I’m pretty familiar with formal Spanish, but this defeats me.” He smiled at Aurora as he added, “His Excellency also said he’d pray for your family.”
“Let’s hope his prayers help,” she murmured.
“And that Donna can track down John Doe’s phone number,” Jordan added. “If he’s involved with the attack on me, I have a score to settle.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ruby’s Diner, Oceanside Pier
7:30 p.m.
THE SUN DIPPED LOW in the sky as Aurora finished the last of her ’50s-style burger and fries. She and Jordan sat in an old-fashioned booth inside the popular ice-cream parlor, which was located at the very end of the pier. Through the windows to one side, they could see amateur fishermen vying with the sea lions and sand sharks for mackerel and sand crabs. On the other side, the outside snack shack did a brisk business selling clam chowder, hot chocolate and coffee.
After visiting the Mission, they’d stopped by to see Donna and drop off John Doe’s phone number. Next came a visit to the lawyers, and finally, the sixty-mile drive north to the city of Oceanside and the Harbor District. They’d missed lunch and opted for a served meal rather than fixing one on Aurora’s boat.
Aurora slurped the rest of her root-beer float through her straw. Jordan had ordered a soda. She watched the sunset while he finished the last of his steak-and-cheese sandwich and onion rings.
“A good day’s work, yes?” he said. “Good news about Gerald, we got copies of the documents, plus had them removed from public view, and a gorgeous sunset to boot. Tomorrow we start planning our salvage operation.”
Aurora nodded. “I figure we can be on the water diving in two or three days if the weather holds. By the end of the week anyway. It depends on Donna’s work schedule—and Neil’s. Since we want to keep this operation small...” She finished her drink and shoved the old-fashioned soda-fountain glass away. Propping her head on her hand, elbow on the table, she gazed out the windows again as Jordan finished his meal.
“Tired?” Jordan asked.
“A little,” she admitted. A lot, she thought. All this stress and worry is killing me. “But take your time. I’m in no rush.”
“I’m done here anyway. Ready to go?” he asked.
“Yeah...” Her voice came out sounding odd.
“Anything wrong?”
“Looks like there’s a fire at the harbor,” she said. “I’m not sure—it’s not dark enough to tell—but I don’t like the looks of it.”
“Where?”
She gave him the landmarks up the coast. “A little close to home,” she said anxiously.
“You may be right,” Jordan said. “I’ll get the check.”
“We can take the tram back to the parking lot. I need to see what’s up.”
They caught the little tram the diner used to transport passengers who didn’t want to walk the quarter-mile length of the pier. Once off the tram at the beach parking lot, Aurora took the truck keys from Jordan and drove to the harbor along a road that was as quick as it was unfamiliar to him.
By now, the setting sun had dipped halfway below the waterline, and the glow of the fire could be seen more easily. Emergency vehicles, both watercraft and traditional vehicles, filled her usual parking area. Aurora left her truck in the public metered lots, and the two of them hurried toward the commotion.
“Oh, no! It’s coming from my slip,” Aurora cried.
Jordan followed her to the gate, only to be stopped by law-enforcement officials. Aurora pulled out her dock key. “I moor on P dock,” she said and recited her harbor parking ID number to prove it. “Is there anything I can do to help? Is anyone hurt?”
“Stand back, miss,” the Harbor Patrol officer ordered. “Stretcher coming through.”
Despite the failing light, Aurora recognized the coughing patient, oxygen mask over his face. “That’s Keith,” she said to Jordan.
“Who?”
“My slip neighbor, the one who docks next to me. The guy whose lines I’m always having to fix.” Aurora turned back toward the officer. “Is he badly hurt? How’s his boat?”
“Not bad. His boat’s fiberglass, and your neighbors pulled him out before the fire spread. As far as we can tell, he was drinking and smoking and passed out with a lit butt. He was lucky.” The officer, named Elliot according to a tag he wore, cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you weren’t as lucky, miss. If you’ll come with me...”
Aurora didn’t wait to be escorted. She ran down the sloping ramp to the waterline and concrete slips. The red lights of fireboats flashed and reflected off the water, while various emergency personnel moved aside to let her pass on the narrow throughway.
She saw the smoldering fiberglass of her neighbor’s boat still riding above the flames. Her nose burned from the smell of debris and flame retardant. Her eyes burned, too—but not for the same reason.
There was nothing left of her own craft. The proud teak and mahogany hardwood of Neptune’s Bride was gone, in its place a mess of blackened, floating debris. She knew that what remained of the hull and the engine lay at the bottom of the harbor. With crafts docked so close to one another, and with the usual seaside breezes, plus the flammability of water-resistant wood, no one seemed surprised that her downwind craft had suffered.
Slip neighbors hurried to her side, assuring he
r that they’d managed to save all her maps and some of her dive gear. They promised to load it into her truck as soon as they’d cleaned it up. Officer Elliot murmured sympathy then asked for her boat registration numbers and a phone number where she could be reached.
Aurora couldn’t answer. She heard Jordan give Donna’s phone and address to Elliot and still couldn’t answer. Fists clenched, she stared at what was left of her ship. First her family had been taken away; now her home and her livelihood. As for her neighbor smoking and falling asleep—she wondered if that wasn’t just a convenient story, but wasn’t calm enough to ask. Keith did like his beer, but she’d never seen him smoke before, not on the boat anyway. He might be untidy, but he wasn’t a total fool—even though the police seemed to think he was.
Aurora heard nothing as those around her tried to help with awkward pats and offers of assistance. Finally she felt Jordan’s arm slip around her waist. Her eyes meeting his, she said aloud what was running through her mind, over and over again.
“This was no accident.”
* * *
THE SOUNDS AND SMELLS of traffic, lawns watered at night and general beachfront suburbia hit Aurora as she parked her truck in the darkness of Dorian’s Oceanside driveway.
“Here we are,” she said to Jordan, forcing a note of the commonplace into her speech. “This is Dorian’s house. Better than a hotel, and you can’t beat the price.”
Jordan didn’t open his door. Instead, he took Aurora’s hand. “You don’t need to put on a stiff upper lip for me,” he said sympathetically.
“And what would you have me do, Jordan? Sob? Scream? Shake my fist at the sky?”
Jordan exited and came around to open her door. “After the hurricane, I did.”
She locked the truck and fumbled with the keys on her ring. “You lost family. Mine are still alive. I refuse to shed tears over some burned wood and brass. Anyway, it’s only seven years old, so it’s insured.” Her voice wavered a bit despite the resignation of her words.
She’s in no mood for sympathy, Jordan realized as he followed her into Dorian’s house. Not yet. Personally, he was having a hard time controlling his own emotions. He wanted to take Aurora into his arms and kiss away her pain. He didn’t, but only because he knew she would refuse his sympathy. He felt it, nonetheless.
Found at Sea Page 10
