Pocketing her keys, she tromped toward the entrance to the church and paused at the statue of Christ that towered over the immersion pool. Unlike its twin located in fifteen feet of water in Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park, this one wasn't covered in fire coral.
Mer entered the vestibule, a corporeal purgatory one had to pass through to achieve the nave. So far, so good. The handle felt warm under her hand. She hoped it wasn't the precursor to lightning.
Inside, she sucked in her breath. It was as if somehow the colors and beauty of the Keys had been captured and set free under the raftered roof. Ocean blues, calming sands, stained glass that sparkled with the vibrancy of reef fish cavorting in the shallows. The room radiated comfort.
No wonder Oscar had sought its shelter.
He sat in the corner, hunched over the pew in front of him, his face hidden. A rosary dangled from between his clasped hands, moving in time to his Hail Marys.
For the first time, doubt crept into Mer's mind. Maybe she should wait outside. It seemed rude to interrupt someone at prayer. But there was something about his posture that stopped her. The slumped shoulders, the bowed head. It was more than an attitude of worship. He appeared defeated. Unmoored.
She knew that feeling. As much as she wished otherwise, the coin could wait. Oscar needed a friend.
Mer sat at the end of his pew. He wore the same rumpled clothes he'd worn the day she met him on the dock.
As if feeling her scrutiny, he glanced up, his eyes big behind his clunky glasses.
"Hey," Mer said softly.
He immediately straightened and slicked back his hair. "Meredith. What are you— I did not know you were Catholic."
Best not go down that road. "I came here to find you."
His brows drew together. "Me?"
"Bijoux told me there was a problem with your paperwork."
He drew his hands into his lap. "The problem is I do not have any."
"That seems a gross oversight for an archivist."
He blinked several times. "Yes."
What was wrong with her? Even when her intentions were good, she managed to say the wrong thing. She tried again. "How can I help?"
He exhaled and his whole body deflated. "There is nothing anyone can do."
"Of course there is. We're two smart people. I bet we can figure out something."
He continued to thumb the beads, although his lips had stilled.
"Why are you here?" Mer asked.
He held up his rosary. "I find comfort in the Church."
It sounded like an honest admission, so why did she think he was stalling? "I meant in the States."
"Ah." He shifted on the pew. "Why does anyone leave home?"
She pointed to the massive stained glass window to their left, depicting Jesus walking on water. "Some leave to spread the gospel. I left because of my research."
"I once told you it was for the adventure."
Something in his voice was off. "You did." She gambled. "But it's probably a sin to lie in church."
"It is a sin to lie no matter the place." A faint smile touched his lips and then faded. "But adventure would not be a lie."
"Nor, I suspect, the whole truth," she pressed.
"No." He removed his glasses and slowly cleaned the lenses with his shirt. "All my life, I have wanted my father to be proud of me."
"You're a scholar. Of course he's proud."
He replaced his glasses. "My father is a man of the military. Not books. My first remembering of him is when he shoots his gun into the air to celebrate the Triunfo de la Revolución— our independence day." He lifted his gaze to the life-sized crucifix suspended over the altar. "My brother was his favorite. He would have followed my father."
"Why didn't he?"
"He is dead." Oscar tilted his head, but his eyes remained on the cross. "That leaves me. Coming to America. There is hope here."
The quiet of the nave pressed around them.
"Many Cubans, they dream of a life in America," he said. "It is not easy for Cubans to fly to America, but they can fly to Ecuador. Many walk the thousands of miles through Mexico to cross the border with other Mexicans." He glanced at Mer. "Like the journey of your coin." He resumed his study of the cross. "But there are many dangers in such a long journey and it is hard for the old. Hard for the very young. It takes money. Many cross into America with little. Coming to America, it cost me everything."
Mer clasped her hands. His was a story shared by thousands.
He sighed. "There is a legend in my country. The Legend of the Thirteenth Galleon. I mentioned it on the boat." His thumb absently stroked a bead. "Not many know of it."
He hesitated so long that Mer wondered if he meant to continue to keep it a secret. "You said it was cursed."
"Cursed. Yes." He picked up the rosary again. "The story begins in the fifteenth century, and tells of an ancient ship that sailed from my country."
Three hundred years before King Philip minted his coin.
"She was a beautiful ship, made all of gold, with silk sails that looked like clouds. Heavy with gold and gems, she was a gift to God—a request for redemption—but then came a great storm and she sank." A profound sadness settled in the lines of his face. "I would need to find that ship to make my father proud." He blinked as if waking from a dream. Disoriented. "I am sorry. What about you? Why are you in the Keys?"
"What makes you think the Keys aren't home?"
"It is my educated guess." Levity returned to his face. "I have seen where you live."
Indeed he had. At its worst. The devastation haunted her, but Oscar waited for an answer. Several reasons came to mind, but they all seemed too personal to share. "I wanted to be warm." A safe reason that had the added benefit of being true. "I spent two years in the Arctic on a research project, but then funding ran out. I've always wanted to dive in the Keys." She shrugged. "Here I am."
"Warm."
Morning sunshine flooded through the window and splashed bright colors on the marble altar. A year ago, she lived in the Arctic. There, everything appeared in sharp relief. No ambiguity. Here, life was saturated. She didn't know what to wring away in order to absorb more.
"Will you stay in the Keys?" she asked.
He cocked his head as he considered the question. "Yes. For the near time." He rubbed his hand over his heart. "Someday, maybe I can go home."
That word again. Home. Oscar had left his, and dreamt of going back. Hers had been destroyed—all because of a coin. A coin she still knew little about. But that was about to change.
"Oscar."
He bowed his head over his rosary. "I am tired. Please. I ask you to leave me to the peace of this place."
"But—"
"All I possess is my pride. I do not wish to also lose it."
She stood. Uncertain. "Do you have somewhere to sleep?"
His fingers tightened around the beads. "I am staying with Bart Kingston."
She didn't know the name, but at least he had a place to stay other than his car. It erased some of her worry. "Will you contact me if you need anything?"
His eyes filled with tears. "You are a kind woman, Meredith Cavallo. I hope I do not have that need."
15
The conversation with Oscar left her pensive. Despite everything that had recently happened, she still had a roof over her head, still had the means to feed and clothe herself. Still had a job. Oscar had his pride, and that had turned into an obstacle for those who wanted to help him.
A loud growl from her stomach prompted Mer to pull into the gas station for another donut, then just as quickly she changed her mind. It wasn't hunger she needed to satisfy.
Her thoughts returned to the coin. Maybe she needed to broaden her search, put it in context to its world. After all, if Oscar wouldn't talk to her, perhaps King Philip would.
At ten o'clock, Rosa unlocked the library door and held it open for Mer. "Hey there. You're back. More coins to research?"
"Switching it up. King Ph
ilip the Fifth of Spain."
"Well, aren't you the edgy one today." She followed Mer to the reference desk and tucked around the counter. "Let me see what we have."
Rosa dug a pencil from the mass of dark hair piled on top of her head and scribbled numbers on a scrap of paper. "Do you need me to show you where it is?"
Mer took the proffered paper. "I can find it. Thanks."
The section on Spanish colonial history consisted of precisely three books. Two more than she expected to find in a small municipal library in the Keys. She gathered them all and found a table by the window.
Years of research had taught her to scan vast amounts of information. Headings, bullets, first and last paragraphs. That's where to hunt for the treasure buried in a document.
As she read, a story of empire building unfolded, but it was the trade routes that caused her to read the passage again.
Mexico.
Oscar had mentioned something about the coin traveling across land like Cubans trying to immigrate. Did he mean a trade route? In the eighteenth century, the Spanish mined precious metals from the Mexican interior and packed them to Veracruz where they were loaded onto ships for transport back to Spain.
And Mexico City had a mint.
She disappeared into the stacks, found the coin catalogue from the day before, and returned to her desk.
Excitement surged through her. She had assumed the M on the coin represented the mint in Madrid. What if it really meant Mexico City? She flipped through the countries and stopped at Mexico.
Her eyes scanned the page and fell upon the four escudos coin first. Identical design but smaller in size.
Then she found the eight escudos "portrait dollar."
Using the eraser end of her pencil, she traced the three entries. Two from 1732 and one from 1733. All were annotated as rare, and no numbers indicated mintages. A note followed the three dates. She read it and dropped her pencil.
"Holy shit."
A woman at the next table shushed her, but Mer ignored her.
She closed the catalog and proceeded to do the one thing that librarians around the world hated: she re-shelved the book. Additional coin catalogs lined the same shelf. Some covered different eras, some specific countries. One specifically detailed gold coins. She pulled that from the shelf and a thin pamphlet fell to the floor.
Coins of the Spanish Treasure Fleets. Underneath the title in smaller letters it read 1715 and 1733.
Mer sucked in a quick breath.
Treasure fleets.
She crossed her legs and sat in the aisle.
It wasn't Oscar's legendary Thirteenth Galleon, but it was every bit as exciting.
The pamphlet rendered the coins in line drawings. The next section described denominations and her interest piqued but quickly cooled when it described equivalencies. Did it really matter that eight reales made up one escudo?
The next paragraph answered her question. An escudo was sometimes referred to as a doubloon. Pieces of eight.
It all clicked. Colonial. A time when pirates roamed the seas, especially along the Atlantic Coast and in the Caribbean. The portrait dollar was a milled coin, while the others weren't, but they were all in circulation at the same time.
"Yo ho, yo ho."
Mer practically levitated to the reference desk. "New topic, Rosa. Do you have any information on nautical archeology?"
"Nautical archeology or treasure hunting?"
"Both, I guess," Mer said. "Local to Florida if there is anything."
"If there's anything?" Rosa laughed. "You're not from around here, are you?"
The observation stung.
"People have always hunted treasure in the Keys." Rosa set down the book she was sorting and disappeared into the stacks. "We have a couple of books on the various fleets that beached along the Keys and further up the coast. You know that's why the Jupiter area is called Florida's Treasure Coast? Right?"
"I didn't." On impulse she asked, "Have you ever heard of the Legend of the Thirteenth Galleon?"
The librarian didn't even break stride. "I'm not familiar with that one. Maybe it sank in the Carolinas. There are a bunch of wrecks up there, too." She studied the numbers on the bottom of the spines. "Okay, you start here." She dragged her finger over two spines. "And end here. We had more, but every time we get a new title, someone adds it to their personal collection."
The two books sagged against each other.
"You can find more books at the History of Diving Museum in Islamorada. But if you really want to know about treasure hunting, you should talk to Skipper Biggs. He's worked the coast here for years."
"Where can I find him?"
"He owns the Bilge. Just don't go there by yourself."
The Bilge. Wonderful. Still, she had been there once before and had lived to tell the tale.
* * *
Mer called Detective Talbot on her way to the Bilge and was surprised to connect with the man rather than his voicemail on a Saturday morning.
"You're never going to believe this," she said.
"Try me."
"The coin I gave you? It's worth fifty-four thousand dollars."
Talbot whistled.
She could barely contain her excitement. "There are fewer than a dozen known to exist. It needs to be in a museum, not an evidence locker."
"Need I remind you that it's evidence?"
"Of what? Seems to me it's found property. That makes it mine, right? I mean if no one claims it. And frankly, I can't imagine too many people wanting to explain to the police how their rare coin ended up in a bundle of drugs. I'll waive my right to it. Give it to a museum."
"You draweth out the thread of your verbosity finer than the staple of your argument."
"Quote Shakespeare all you want, Detective. There's nothing wrong with my argument."
"Except that the coin is still evidence."
She rolled her eyes, but was unwilling to admit defeat. "What do you know about Philip the Fifth?"
"Based on the coin, I'm pretty confident he was King of Spain in 1733."
"Nothing gets by you, does it?"
"I'm a detective."
Mer pulled into the gravel lot of the Bilge and parked next to a paddle shop, facing the bay. "Philip had a difficult time of it when he took over the Spanish throne. For one, he was French."
"I can see how that would be problematic."
"Hence the War of Spanish Succession which pitted just about all of Europe against France, Spain and a handful of German States."
"How do you know all this?"
She wanted to believe his voice was tinged with admiration, but suspected it skewed more toward skepticism. "Library."
"Is this what you do for fun?"
Two boats were already tied up to the small wooden dock behind the bar, their owners relaxed on the patio, drinking. She wondered if they'd mind if she joined them.
"I think we can agree that wars are expensive," Mer said.
"If they're anything like divorces. Yes."
"Imagine losing whole countries in the property settlement." She drew a big breath. "Well, to augment the royal coffers, Spain had set itself up in the New World. They controlled most of South America, Cuba, significant ports in the Caribbean, parts of Florida."
"Is this where you get to the treasure fleets?"
She sputtered to a stop. "You know about them?"
"I've been diving off the coast of Florida my whole life. Of course I know about them."
All her enthusiasm ebbed. "Oh."
"But you encapsulated two hundred years of Spanish Colonialism brilliantly," he added as consolation.
So she had that going for her. "Is this like a square grouper—everyone knows about them but me?"
"Kind of."
Mer leaned her head against the steering wheel. "Was there any part of this you didn't know?"
"That I had a fifty-four thousand dollar coin in evidence."
Mer cut the engine and the air conditioning stopped.
A young couple carried kayaks to the small launch at the water's edge.
"I suppose you know about the Legend of the Thirteenth Galleon, too."
"Nope, that's a new one. What about it?"
"Never mind, not important." She slammed the door a little too hard when she got out. "Well, this conversation didn't really unfold as I thought it would, but what do you think?"
"About what?"
The man was impossible.
"You have a very valuable Spanish Colonial coin in your possession that dates from the same year that a fleet of Spanish galleons wrecked along the Florida Keys." She leaned against the side of the Subaru. "A treasure fleet. Doesn't that spark your curiosity?"
"What sparks my immediate interest is the Florida—Florida State game that starts in an hour."
"What about all the other coins?"
"Last I knew we just had one."
"Exactly. Where are all the other coins from that year?"
"I'll keep an eye out. If any of them show up on the field, I'll let you know."
Growing up with two older brothers, she'd learned at a young age not to get between a man and his football. She might be able to talk reason to him after the game, but now? Not a chance.
"Go 'Noles," she said.
Hopefully Skipper Biggs wasn't a football fan.
16
The Bilge occupied waterfront property, but no one would ever mistake it for a romantic rendezvous. No one ever went there for food, either. They didn't serve any.
Mer stood at the threshold until her eyes adjusted to the murk. It looked every bit as dank as the first time she'd visited. The gloom reminded her of the surging darkness of a deep wreck. Benign if a diver took all the appropriate safety precautions, dangerous to the uninitiated.
The room appeared empty, although she couldn't be sure with all the shadowed nooks and crannies. She headed toward the bar. A dull brass rail girded the dark wood. As she neared, a cragged man of indeterminate age blustered through the door of what appeared to be a small office to the right of the wall of bottles.
Beached_A Mer Cavallo Mystery Page 10