The front door to the shop opened and a beat later Josh poked his head into the kitchen. “Ahoy there,” he said. “Permission to come aboard and procure cupcakes.” His attention immediately moved to the fragment of silver on the counter. “Is that part of a doubloon?”
We all shrugged. We didn’t know.
“My knowledge is limited to museum fakery and Google,” Josh said, “but it looks to me like a Spanish doubloon.”
“What does Google have to say about it?” Diesel asked.
“I don’t know,” Josh said. “I don’t read the text. I just look at the pictures. You should show it to Quentin Devereaux. He’s a professor at Salem State, and he’s the resident consultant for the Pirate Museum.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Diesel said. “Devereaux was the expert Martin Ammon turned to when he inherited the Palgrave diary. Who’s going with me?”
“I will!” Glo said.
“No, you won’t,” Clara said. “You have to wait on customers.”
“You and you,” Diesel said, pointing to Josh and me.
“Aargh,” Josh said. “I’m due at the museum at noon.”
“And I need to do something with my hair and get something to wear,” I said.
“No problem,” Diesel said. “This won’t take long.”
—
Salem State University has been around, under one name or another, since 1854, when it was called Salem Normal School. I thought the juxtaposition of “Salem” and “Normal” had to be considered ironic, even then. Salem hasn’t been normal for a long, long time.
With all the construction and parking lots and gleaming glass buildings on campus, Salem State looks like any number of colleges that are springing up, like shiny mushrooms, all around the country. The Sullivan Building is the only old structure still standing, its red bricks and turrets lost in the middle of the north campus, as if someone forgot to tear it down and replace it with gleaming chrome.
Professor Devereaux’s office was on the second floor. He was at his desk, bent over a book, when we walked in. His hair was streaked with gray, his frame was lean, and his face was lined and dotted with gray stubble. He was wearing an ancient tweed sports coat over a pale blue button-down shirt.
“Yes?” he said, looking up at us.
“We be lookin’ for some answers,” Josh said.
“Do I know you?”
“I work at the Pirate Museum,” Josh said.
Devereaux nodded. “That explains a lot.”
There were two old buckles, some ancient coins, and a battered copper telescope on Devereaux’s desk. On the wall behind him was a pirate flag. Not the usual skull and crossbones of the movies, but rather a white skeleton plunging an arrow into a red heart dripping fountains of blood.
“So what do you want to know?” Devereaux asked. “You want to know about pirates? I could tell you things that would shock you. Pirates had the first representative government in all of Europe. The captain and the quartermaster were elected periodically by the crew. All the hands got an equal share of the booty. They even had workers’ compensation. Pirates placed a portion of their plunder into a central fund that was used as insurance for any injuries sustained by the crew. On occasion, women were even welcomed as members of the crew. Pirates were quite socially advanced for their time.”
“Except for the raping and pillaging,” Diesel said.
Devereaux nodded. “They did engage in some classic activities.”
Diesel showed Devereaux the piece of coin. “What can you tell me about this?”
Devereaux studied it through a jeweler’s loupe. “It’s Spanish.”
“It’s a doubloon, right?” Josh said.
Devereaux shook his head. “No. It’s a fragment of an eight-reales silver coin, commonly called a ‘bust dollar.’ It’s got a bust of Charles III on it, and was considered legal tender in the U.S. until 1857.”
“Why is it cut like a pizza?” I asked.
“It’s how you made change,” Devereaux said. “Coins were often cut into pie-shaped sections, or ‘bits.’ If you had two of these pieces you’d have two bits. Do you know any of the history associated with this piece of the coin?”
“We think it was passed on by a pirate named Bellows,” Diesel said.
“Palgrave Bellows,” Devereaux said. “The Gentleman Corsair. He was a middle-aged silversmith from Rhode Island who suddenly decided to take up piracy. His captives reported that Bellows continued to wear the powdered wig of a gentleman even after years in the tropical sun. The curly white wig contrasted vividly with his swarthy skin and made Bellows a striking figure indeed. They called him the Last of the Roundsmen.”
“Roundsmen?” I asked.
“Bellows was one of the last buccaneers to sail the Pirate Round. It was a route that started in New England and went all the way across the Atlantic to the coast of Africa. Then down past the Cape of Good Hope, through the Mozambique Channel to Madagascar. The pirates were nothing if not intrepid,” Devereaux said. “They often went round to the Red Sea, which put them in an ideal spot to intercept the shipping of the Mughal Empire. You’ve heard of the Gunsway, of course. The Gunsway was a trading ship belonging to the Mughal emperor, and it contained untold riches.”
“How much be untold riches?” Josh asked.
“A lot. Some say the treasure even included the legendary Blue Diamond of Babur.”
Josh sucked in some air. “The Blue Diamond of Babur. I like the way she sounds. I wouldn’t mind having such a treasure.”
“It might come with a price,” Devereaux said. “It’s told that the diamond carries a dreadful curse to all who don’t worship the demon Mammon. Legend has it that a magical stone imbued with the power of greed, and the Blue Diamond, were kept in a Mughal temple dedicated to Mammon, the Prince of Avarice. In the center of the temple was a large idol representing Mammon, and the Blue Diamond was the heart of the idol. The diamond and the stone are said to be forever wed, and the diamond glows blue when it’s near the stone.”
“Ah,” Josh said. “ ’Tis a fine fairy tale.”
Devereaux smiled. “It is indeed. And the tale gets even more interesting. During a time of war, the decision was made to move the stone and the diamond to a safer location. While they were being moved with the rest of the treasure of Mammon, pirates plundered the ship and stole the stone and diamond.”
“Would that be Palgrave Bellows and the Gunsway?” Josh asked.
“It would,” Devereaux said. “Bellows boarded the Gunsway and took her back to New England, where it was said he hid the treasure on an island off the coast of Maine. That he even made a map in special code, so no one person knew where it was.”
“Was the treasure ever found?” Josh asked.
“Never found,” Devereaux said. “Estimated to be around one hundred and ninety million dollars in today’s money.”
“That would be worth a hunt,” Josh said.
“Perhaps, but it could just be a myth,” Devereaux said. “A two-hundred-year-old rumor fueled by the ramblings of a crazy pirate and his diary.”
“Aargh,” Josh said. “Is our piece of coin valuable?”
“It’s not worth a great deal of money, if that’s what you mean,” Devereaux said. “It’s just a single bit, and it looks to me like a counterfeit. Might I keep this bit for further examination?” he asked Diesel. “I am intrigued.”
“I’m afraid not,” Diesel said. “I’m also intrigued.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“So what do ye think?” Josh asked when we got to the car. “He’s a smart one, right?”
“Right,” Diesel said, sliding behind the wheel.
“A hundred and ninety million be a worthy treasure,” Josh said. “I could stop talking like a pirate if I had such a treasure.”
“You could stop talking like a pirate without it,” I said.
“Ah, ’tis not that easy,” Josh said. “A lad doesn’t just lay aside the role of a pirate.”
I
checked my watch. It was almost noon. “It’s also hard to lay aside the role of prospective cookbook author. I need to go shopping.”
“Aargh,” Josh said. “And I’ll be walking the plank if I’m late for work.”
“See if you can find out how the museum happened to be in possession of Peg Leg’s body,” Diesel said to Josh.
“Aye, Captain,” Josh said, getting out of the car. “I’ll give you a full report.”
“Will you be working all day?” Diesel asked.
“No. ’Tis a part-time day at the museum. I spend an hour or two helping to get things set up, and then I walk the streets to make some spare change posing for pictures.”
Diesel watched Josh walk away before turning to me. “Clara said there were a couple pieces of the coin in the peg leg, but we only have one. Call Nergal and ask him if he’s come across another piece.”
I placed the call, and after a short discussion about cupcakes I asked him about the pieces of coin.
“Sorry,” Nergal said. “No second piece. I did a thorough external exam and a full-body X-ray and nothing else turned up.”
“I’m confused about the coin,” I said to Diesel. “My ability is very specific. I only feel vibrations from a SALIGIA Stone, but I felt a very faint vibration from the sliver of coin.”
“I’ve seen depictions of the Blue Diamond,” Diesel said. “When it was set into the idol it was encased in an elaborate silver setting. Palgrave Bellows was a silversmith, and I’m guessing he fashioned the counterfeit coin out of the diamond’s silver setting. Then he made a map that could only be read with the help of the coin.”
“Very clever.”
“So do you really need to go shopping for something to wear when you meet Ammon?” Diesel asked.
“I suppose. I haven’t exactly got a closet filled with clothes that are appropriate for gazillionaire meetings.”
“Where do you want to go?”
I would have preferred to go to the mall or at least T.J. Maxx, but time was short, so I settled for downtown Salem.
“There’s a small boutique on Derby Street where I might be able to find something,” I told Diesel.
Twenty minutes later I was standing in a dressing room in my underwear, staring at a pile of discarded blazers, skirts, and tops.
Diesel knocked on the changing room door. “How’s it going?”
“Not good. Everything I try on makes me look like Miss Hathaway from The Beverly Hillbillies.”
“Incoming,” he said, tossing a shocking pink fitted jacket with a matching tank top and simple black skirt over the top of the door.
I tried them on and they were perfect.
“How did you find this?” I asked him.
“I undressed the mannequin in the window.”
I should have guessed. Undressing women was probably one of his many exceptional abilities. I took my new clothes to the register and maxed out my credit card. We dumped the bags in the car and walked over to the Pirate Museum to see if Josh had learned anything helpful about Peg Leg Dazzle. I was moving on autopilot alongside Diesel, thinking about my meeting with Ammon, when a guy burst out of the Pirate Museum and slammed into me. We both fell to the pavement, and I realized that the idiot who knocked me over was Steven Hatchet, Wulf’s minion.
Hatchet jumped to his feet, straightened his hammered metal helmet, called me a “stupid wench,” and took off at a run down the street.
Diesel gave me a hand up. “Are you okay?”
“The whole ‘wench’ thing is getting old. And I think I skinned my knee.”
“I could kiss it and make it better.”
“That would be hard to do since I’m wearing jeans.”
“Yeah, we’d have to wrangle you out of them.”
“Jeez Louise.”
“Just a suggestion,” Diesel said.
The museum door was still open, and I could hear sea shanties playing inside. We stepped into the foyer and Josh came forward to greet us.
“Ahoy, mateys,” Josh said. “Welcome aboard.”
“Ahoy,” I said. “I was just knocked over by a moron who was running out of the museum.”
“Aye. He was rude in here as well, waving his sword, threatening the museum manager, demanding information on the poor soul in the cage.”
“What did the manager tell him?”
“That the museum got the pirate in the cage from a haunted house in Salem Willows. If you’re looking for more pieces of the coin, it would be a good place to start. I asked the manager if there were any fragments in the packing when the exhibit arrived, and he said there weren’t.”
“I’m not familiar with Salem Willows,” Diesel said.
“I’m going off my shift,” Josh said. “I can show you how to get there. It’s one of my favorite places. And just in case that rude red-haired scurvy swab is there, I’ll put him in his place.”
Josh whipped out his cutlass and slashed the air.
“Great,” Diesel said. “Just dial back on the slashing in the car, okay? It’s a loaner.”
“You can drop me off at the bakery on your way to the Willows,” I said to Diesel.
“Not gonna happen,” Diesel said. “I need you.”
“You have Josh.”
“Lucky me,” Diesel said.
“I need to do something about my hair.”
“Your hair looks great.”
“It has cake frosting in it!”
“Yeah, it’s making me hungry.”
“They’ll have food at Salem Willows,” Josh said.
“Done deal,” Diesel said, wrapping an arm around me, dragging me along.
—
Salem Willows is a derelict Coney Island–type of seaside amusement park that sits on a small spit of land stretching into Beverly Harbor northeast of the city. I thought it looked sleazy and disreputable and retro charming.
“Aargh,” Josh said, spreading his arms wide. “Housed on these grounds ye have the largest collection of vintage pinball machines in all of Massachusetts. ’Tis a vast treasure that includes a 1960 Official Baseball, which, in my pirate opinion, is the finest arcade game ever made. Plus there be Skee-Ball, classic videogames, redemption games, claw crane games, electro-mechanical games, air hockey, rail shooters, as well as Dance Dance Revolution and Drummania.”
We were standing at the edge of the parking lot, taking it all in.
“What are we looking for here?” Diesel asked.
“Dr. Caligari’s Cabinet of Terrors,” Josh said. “ ’Tis the wreck of a house standing in the lee of the arcade.” He tipped his nose up and sniffed the air. “I doth smell something tasty, and I be craving a bite of food.”
Diesel gave him a twenty-dollar bill. “Lizzy and I are going into the terror house, and you’re in charge of lunch. And if you don’t stop talking like a pirate I’m going to punch you in the face.”
“Okay then. Good to know,” Josh said.
A big headless guy was at the Cabinet of Terrors entrance, selling tickets. His head was sitting on the floor by his feet, and I could see his eyes through the mesh in his shirtfront.
“If you want to go in it’s three bucks a head,” the guy said to Diesel.
“Really? A head?” Diesel said.
“The irony is not lost on me,” the headless guy said.
Diesel bought three tickets and asked to see the manager.
“Who wants to know?” the headless guy asked.
“I do,” Diesel said.
The headless guy lifted a walkie-talkie to his chest. “Spencer. Somebody to see you. Business.”
A crackling voice came over the walkie-talkie. “Send them in.”
The headless guy gestured with his thumb. “He’s in there somewhere.”
Josh ran up and handed us corn dogs.
“Meat on a stick. My favorite,” Diesel said.
I took a bite. It was a little like eating fried sand until you broke through to the hot dog. Once you did that, though, it was pretty good.
“Careful where you drop the food,” the headless guy said. “We don’t want no more rat problems than we already got.”
He buzzed us in, and the front door automatically opened and closed behind us. The interior was pitch-black, and screechy old-fashioned horror-movie music blasted out at us. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room. Blood was splattered on the walls and a hooded figure stood by the sofa, where a dismembered body lay in picturesque disarray.
Diesel looked over at the man in the bloody hood. “Are you the manager?”
“No, man,” he said. “He’s in the back. He’s playing the killer clown today, ’cause the regular killer clown got food poisoning. Oh, and ‘Beware the Birthday Party.’ ”
We rounded the corner and went into the dining room where a bunch of corpses sat at a table. A skeleton of a turkey was the centerpiece. A banner over the table read HAPPY THANKS-KILLING.
“What’s next?” I asked. “ ‘Happy Horror-ween’? ‘Merry Christ-massacre’? ‘Happy Kill-ombus Day’?”
“ ‘Happy New Year’s Evil,’ ” Josh suggested.
“ ‘Slash Wednesday,’ ” I said.
“Are you done?” Diesel asked.
“I think so,” I said. “No, wait. ‘Happy Ground-up Hog Day’?”
We walked through the Hall of Mirrors and finally reached the children’s birthday party. Not so much scary as having a high ick factor. The balloons were bloodstained, the streamers were dotted with ants and spiders, and the birthday cake was moldy and had an animatronic rat poking his head out of it. A broken doll sat at the table. The doll’s one eye gleamed in the candlelight. A fat clown stood behind the doll. His face was white with black diamonds painted around his eyes. He had a red nose and a dirty orange fright wig, and his belly was busting out of his clown suit. He looked like a clown who should cut back on the pork chops.
“Are you the manager?” Diesel asked him.
“Yeah, I’m Spencer Rossitto. Are you the guy that wanted to talk to me?”
“I’m looking into the origin of the pirate skeleton that was sold to the Salem Pirate Museum.”
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