“Yes, that’s it,” Jan said.
He tapped it once with his forefinger, then looked up at her, eyes shining, and said, “When are we going?”
She hesitated, surprised.
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” Jason asked in her stead.
Godwin gestured around the shop at Betsy, Jan, and Jason, then pointed to himself. “We, as in us. We’uns, us’ns, the people here present.”
“Are you serious?” asked Jan.
“Why? Shouldn’t I be?”
“Well,” Betsy broke in, “the map was stitched by Jan’s great-aunt, the late Edyth Hanraty, and was retrieved from the trash by Jan, so it belongs to her. She gets to choose who, if anyone, comes with her in a search for the treasure. If there is a treasure.”
Jan said, “I’m pretty sure there is a treasure. But I think my mother stitched this map, not Aunt Edyth.”
“Awwwww,” murmured Godwin, obviously disappointed. “I thought it was a really old treasure map. More than a hundred years old. I’ve read for years about there being a treasure hidden on the Big Island, and I thought you had at last found a map to it.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Betsy. “This map was sewn as a lining into a pillow that was found on Edyth Hanraty’s boat.”
“This came out of that smelly old thing? Well, who would’ve thought!” He leaned forward and sniffed gingerly. “It sure cleaned up nice. But then I suppose you and your friend here—”
“He’s my brother, Jason McConnell.”
“Oh. How do you do?” said Godwin.
“Very well, thank you,” said Jason.
“Are the two of you going to dig it up?”
“Maybe,” said Jason, looking at his sister.
Jan said, “You see, there’s this problem of ownership. I showed the map to our mother, and she almost had a heart attack. She pretended she had never seen it before, when it was perfectly obvious she had. So I’m sure she’s the one who stitched the map—or at least she knows what was buried out there. In either case, it was clear she didn’t want it dug up. But I talked with her on the phone this morning. She’s fine with any digging we want to do!”
“She is?” said Betsy, surprised.
“So what’s the problem?” asked Godwin.
“I suspect that when they go out there they’ll find a freshly dug hole, or one freshly filled in,” said Betsy.
“Exactly!” Jan said with a big gesture. “I think she snuck out there and dug it up.”
“Oh, yeah, I can just see our sixty-five-year-old mother holding a flashlight in her mouth while she digs a big hole with a handy spade,” scoffed Jason.
“She digs up her flower beds every fall to plant bulbs and every spring to plant annuals,” said Jan. “She’s a very competent digger.”
“Why a flashlight in her mouth?” asked Godwin.
“Because she’d go out there in the middle of the night, of course,” said Jan. “That’s the best time to go sneaking onto someone’s property to retrieve something valuable the owners don’t know is there.”
Godwin bent over the map. “You’re right. This is on private property.”
“How do you know?” asked Betsy.
“Because only the old Veteran’s Home property out there isn’t in private hands, and this isn’t on Veteran’s Home land.”
“Let me see,” said Jason, coming to the table.
Godwin turned the map for him to look at, saying, “See, the heart is on the other side of the Big Island from the Veteran’s Home.”
“You’re right,” Jason said. He looked up at his sister. “What’ll we do, ask permission to dig?”
“Well, yes, I guess we’ll have to.”
“So you are going to go out and look,” said Betsy.
“Yes,” said Jan.
“Say, what if Jan’s mother didn’t go out there ahead of you?” said Godwin. “Can I come along? Please? Please? I adore the idea of digging up a treasure!”
“Well…” hedged Jan. “I was thinking of asking Betsy to come along, since she’s the one who found the map.”
“But I’ve got a strong back!” said Godwin. “Two of us digging”—he pointed at Jason, then himself—“are better than one.” He bent his right arm to show the muscle that gently lifted the sleeve of his shirt.
“And what is to be the women’s role?” asked Betsy.
“To wipe our sweating brows and stay us with flagons.” He frowned prettily. “Does that mean what I think it means? To offer us cold things to drink?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Betsy, laughing. She turned to Jan. “May we both come along?”
“Yes, of course.”
“One problem: we’re open till five. It’ll probably take a while to locate the site, and who knows how long to dig it up. Unless you want us to imitate your mother and dig with flashlights in our mouths, we’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”
Jan said, “Meet us at the foot of Water Street at ten in the morning. Okay, Jason?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve got some things to do today anyway.”
“We’ll be there, complete with flagons!” said Godwin. “Gosh, what’ll I wear? What does one wear to the digging up of a treasure?” He went to refill his mug, mumbling to himself.
Jason asked, sotto voce, “You don’t think he’ll turn up in a bandana and golden earring, do you?”
Jan giggled. “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”
Betsy asked, “How do we get ashore over there? Is there a public landing we can use?”
“Oh, no,” said Jan, “we’ll just pull up to a dock on that side of the island, then knock on the nearest door and ask if we can cross his land.” She looked at her brother. “Your boat or mine?”
“Mine has a bigger motor,” he said.
“Good.” She turned to Betsy. “It’s a red fiberglass Chris-Craft with an inboard engine.”
Godwin came back with a steaming mug of tea in his hand. “What if the owner doesn’t want us to dig on his property? What’ll we do? Or what if he wants a share?”
“Well, what if he does?” asked Jason. “We may have to give it to him.”
“But what if it’s not a very big treasure?”
“That’s their decision,” Betsy interjected. “You and I are not going to share in it.”
“Maybe we can explain what we’re up to, negotiate a fee or something with him,” said Jan.
“I think we shouldn’t tell him we’re there to dig up a treasure chest,” said Godwin. “Just tell him a relative of yours buried something on his property fifty years ago, and you want to dig it up to see what it is.”
“Yeah,” agreed Jason. “We don’t know what it is. It may be a dead dog or a spicy diary.”
“Oooooh, a spicy diary!” echoed Godwin.
“Yeah, written by a girl in her early teens,” said Betsy dryly. “‘I kissed David three times at the sock hop Saturday afternoon.’ Ooooooh, spicy!”
Godwin turned on her, his hands on his hips. “You take the joy out of things, you know that? Now I’m not all excited anymore.”
“If that means you won’t be singing a chorus of ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum’ while you’re digging, I’m happy,” retorted Betsy.
“Heartless woman,” sighed Godwin. “Jan, how about we bring the drinks and you bring the food, and we’ll have a picnic? Then at least it will be something of an occasion.”
“Fine with me,” said Jan. “Come on, Jase, let’s leave these two to whatever they were doing before we came in.”
SUNDAY dawned reluctantly, daylight struggling through a thick layer of dark clouds. It started raining just before Betsy set off for the eight o’clock service at Trinity. The church was relatively new, of an elegant but severe and not very ecclesiastical design. Father Rettger, in green vestments and snow white hair, was a beautiful counterpoint to the dark gray walls and pale stone altar.
His sermons were edifying, the small choir well-rehearsed, the music traditional.
Mar
tin Stachnik was in charge of Trinity’s music. He had learned the organ at a very large cathedral full of echoes and so played rather slowly. Betsy liked that, because Martin, like her, was fond of Bach, and the deliberate pace of his music gave her a chance to better appreciate Bach’s intricate braids of music.
She didn’t stay for coffee but hurried home, ate a hasty breakfast, then changed into jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. She was in the kitchen when her doorbell rang. She went to press the release button that unlocked the door to the entrance hall downstairs. She left her apartment door open so Godwin—it had to be Godwin, who else would come out early on a rainy Sunday morning?—could come in and went back to the kitchen to bring out the bottle of wine and six cans of Coke and two big bottles of water from the refrigerator.
By the time he sailed into her place scattering gay hellos and sunlight in all directions, she had the potables and a set of plastic glasses loaded into an insulated bag with a shoulder strap. He was wearing army boots, chinos, a camouflage shirt, and a kepi hat. He was reeking of Deep Woods Off! “I thought of knee pants and a head scarf,” he said, “but the mosquitoes on Big Island are a specially vicious breed.” He reached into a capacious front pocket and pulled out a spray bottle. “Here, use this on yourself before we land. It’s got DEET, which keeps most of ’em away. And re-apply as necessary when the rain washes it off.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But the forecast says it’ll stop raining by ten.”
And, in fact, by the time they were walking up the wooden planks of The Docks, the clouds were breaking up, and patches of blue were peeking through.
Jason’s boat was one of those stacked models that are nearly as high as they are long. It was candy-apple red with silver trim and equipped with a powerful inboard engine. Jason, comfortable in old jeans and faded tank top, helped them aboard and told them to hang on. The boat burbled along quietly until they got out of the “no wake” portion of the bay, then began a baritone yell and smacked its way across the waves to the Big Island.
Betsy tried briefly to converse with Jan and Godwin but soon gave it up. They all three shrugged at one another and sat back to enjoy the ride. Every so often, one of the trio would go up to take a look at the progress but could only communicate satisfaction with a nod and a smile.
In about ten minutes, Jason slowed the motor back to its burble, and the bow of the boat came down enough that they could see they were coming along a low shoreline covered with trees and shrubs. Just about the place where it curved away into a shallow harbor was an old wooden dock, a single walkway about twenty feet long supported on poles. A green lawn came down to the water, shaded by two mature trees, and beyond the trees sat an old cabin fronted by a screened porch. It was a single story, cream-colored affair with a roof that sloped forward over the porch. There was no dog in the yard, so Jason maneuvered his boat up to the dock. Jan, resplendent in yellow clam-diggers and matching shirt, hopped onto it, took the line Jason tossed her, and wrapped it around a pylon, finishing with a half hitch.
Jan said, “Betsy, come with me up to the house, okay?”
“All right,” Betsy replied as she clumsily clambered out of the boat. “Do you know who lives here?” she asked, looking up at the house.
“No, do you?”
“No.”
“Maybe it’s a nice couple with a strong teenage boy who will help us dig,” said Jan.
“Well, let’s go see.” Betsy waved Jan on ahead then followed up to the house. The screened porch didn’t seem to have a door, so they went around to the side—which didn’t have a door, either. The entrance was around back. No doorbell, so Jan knocked on the edge of the screen door.
After a short wait, an old man’s voice called, “Who’s there?”
Jan lifted her voice to reply, “Jan Henderson and her friend, Betsy Devonshire!”
After a minute or two, a wiry old man with wispy gray hair and suspicious gray eyes came out to peer at them through the screen. “What’d’ya want?” he asked brusquely.
“We’d like to talk to you about digging up something on your property—if your property runs along that way.” Jan pointed to the east. “Past your fence.”
“What are you, one o’ them plant collectors? After a fern or somethin’?”
“No, sir. We found an old map and it says something is buried along the shore a little way up from here.”
He began to laugh, just a few “heh, heh, hehs” at first, then more violently, until he had to lean on the doorjamb for support. Jan would have tried to interrupt, but Betsy touched her subtly on her waist, and they both waited until he quit.
“Who sold you the map?” he asked, wiping his eyes.
“Nobody. We found it sewn inside an old pillow.”
Suddenly his eyes were keen. “Can I see it?”
“All right,” said Jan.
“But only if you come out here,” amended Betsy, backing away and touching Jan on the arm to get her to follow.
“Sure.” He came out, a little old man in worn work pants and white T-shirt. Ancient moccasins encased his sockless feet. “My name is Randy Utterberg,” he said, putting out a gnarled hand. “I’ve lived here for seventy-eight years. My granddad built this place, and my dad added the front porch. I was born on the island, and I plan to die here. Which one of you has the map?”
“I do,” said Jan. “We’re not sure who stitched it.” She went into a front pocket and pulled it out. She had run the edge of the map through her sewing machine to stop the raveling but had not cut off any of the loose threads.
“Stitched?” He took the map from her. “Well, I’ll be dipped, it is sewn, like embroidery!” He laid it over an outstretched hand and slid it this way and that, studying it. “Yep, it’s a map, all right,” he said almost immediately, then went into a trouser pocket to pull out a shiny red metal tube about an inch in diameter and seven inches long. “Open that, one of you,” he ordered.
Betsy recognized it and pulled it apart into two unequal lengths. Inside was a pair of small reading glasses. She unfolded the temples and handed them to him. He put them on and resumed looking at the map.
“Look for a small red heart on the north side of the Big Island,” directed Jan, and he did.
“Sure enough,” he said touching it. Then he walked out and around to the side of his cabin, looking up along the shore. “Somewhere between the big old tree and my fence line, I guess,” he murmured, looking at the map, then the shoreline, then the map again.
His eye was caught by the shimmer of sunlight on Jason’s boat, and he scowled. “Get away from there!” he shouted, gesturing at the boat. “Private dock!”
“No, they’re with us,” said Jan.
“Oh.” He waved as if to erase the gesture and shouted, “Never mind!”
Jason, with Godwin beside him, waved back.
“They’re our muscle,” explained Betsy. “Going to dig the hole, with your permission.”
“What do you expect to find?” Randy asked.
“We have no idea,” said Betsy.
“The problem is,” said Jan, “it’s on your property, so legally, it’s probably yours. On the other hand—” She reached out and expertly snatched the map away. “The exact location is known only by the owner of the map.”
He looked at Jan a considering moment and then said, “I’ll split it with you, sixty-forty.”
“If we get the sixty, done,” said Jan.
“If you’ll do the digging, agreed.”
“I’ll go get the muscle,” said Betsy, and she hurried down to the boat. “He says we can dig. Bring the spades.”
Randy had an old pickax in a shed in back of the house, which he brought along as they started up the trail. “The map says this is a road,” said Jan, looking around.
“Used to be,” agreed Randy.
“What happened to it?” asked Betsy.
“Winters, ice, wind,” he replied.
“I don’t understand,” said Jason, trying to smack
a mosquito around the spade he was carrying. Godwin produced the spray bottle of Off! and began dampening Jason’s bare skin, of which there was a considerable amount.
“The shoreline of the Island is always changing,” explained Randy, coming to a halt and looking around. “The ice builds up along the shore and the wind pushes it, and the land retreats. Other times, it rains a lot, and the land washes down, maybe builds a beach. Then the ice comes along and pushes it up and builds dry land. Something’s always happening to the shoreline. There used to be a one-lane dirt road along here when I was a boy, but it got squashed over a couple of hard winters, and now it’s just this path.”
“Interesting,” said Betsy, looking around. “Godwin, stop it.” The young man had finished spraying Jason and had begun on her.
“If the shoreline’s changed so much, how are we going to figure out where to dig?” asked Jan.
“Well, let’s see what kind of a mapmaker embroidered this map,” said Randy.
They spread the map on the path and stooped to look at it. “Well, I’m guessing that old dead tree down there is the big tree on the map,” said Jason, looking at the real tree and the stitched tree.
“Very likely,” agreed Randy. “That was the tallest tree on the Island for as long as anyone can remember. It died about four years ago, and someone’s going to have to take it down pretty soon, or it’ll fall in a storm and do some real damage.”
“Is there a house down there?” asked Betsy.
“Yes, on the other side of it, used as a vacation place by the owners a couple weeks every summer. The tree’s on their property.” Randy studied the map. “Here’s my place,” he said, pointing to the dock. “The treasure is closer to my place than the big tree—which is good, because my property ends about forty feet from where we are right now.” The old tree was about sixty yards from them.
“Yes, but how do we figure out the exact place to dig?” asked Jan.
“Well, we probably won’t get it right the first hole we dig,” said Randy. “See, here’s what’s probably supposed to be a row of four bushes, but the swamp ate them years ago.”
Sins and Needles Page 23
