He dropped his hand to the doorknob. "Before you even know I'm gone."
Which was a lie. She knew he was gone the moment the door clicked shut. The house echoed with emptiness. Or maybe that was just her heart.
She ate her eggs outside and was amazed to realize she was hungry. She cleaned her plate and contemplated her day. She could go back to bed, but, if you counted passing out, she'd already slept over fourteen hours. Oscar might be at St. Justin's but on a Sunday morning, so would a thousand other congregants. Best wait until tomorrow for that. The library was closed. Besides, she'd already scanned every book on Colonial history, treasure hunting, and coin collecting it had. That left the History of Diving Museum. The librarian had mentioned it had a book collection.
She opened the Internet browser on her phone. The museum opened at ten o'clock.
* * *
The first thing that came into view was the massive dive helmet on the History of Diving Museum sign. The second was the sprawling underwater seascapes that covered the building with manatees, manta rays, and whale sharks.
Inside, the lobby served double-duty as the gift shop and smelled faintly musty, a holdover of things recovered from wet environments.
An older couple waited at the register. The museum docent took their cash and turned all the bills until they faced the same direction before filing them into the drawer. When it was her turn, Mer paid her admission and then located the book display.
The shelves held a variety of books: personal essays, biographies, sea creatures, reef biodiversity, and equipment. On the bottom shelf, she found books on the Spanish treasure fleets. Mer pulled one from the shelf and flipped through the pages.
"If you're interested in treasure, you should try lifting the silver bar we have inside," the docent said as she hovered behind Mer.
"You have a display on this?"
"Oh, yes. Art McKee and his crew worked the coast down here." She plucked a paperback from the display and moved it over two books. "He's considered the granddaddy of all Florida salvage divers." She held out her hand. "I'll hold that book for you if you like. I highly recommend going through the displays first. If nothing else, you don't have to carry anything while you're looking." She curled her fingers several times until Mer handed over the title.
A second employee came out of the back carrying a carton. "Hey Dr. Mer." Gabriella Talbot set the box on the counter. "Sore?"
Sometimes Mer forgot how small Key Largo really was. Tourists overwhelmed the roads and created crowds, but a mere ten thousand or so people called the island home. And outside of the resorts, it wasn't unusual to run into familiar faces. "A little."
"I figured. Well, welcome to the museum. First time?"
"Actually, yes."
"You'll love it." Gabby opened the flaps. More books.
The docent slid the box away from Gabby. "Why don't you show your friend around the exhibit?"
"Sure."
Gabby held open the hatch-shaped door and they plunged into a hallway dedicated to the earliest accounts of diving. At any other time, Aristotle's description of a diving bell would send Mer into geek nirvana. Today? Not so much. She was on a mission to find clues. Gabby, on the other hand, wanted to point out every information placard.
"You don't have to babysit me," Mer said.
"No worries. This way I won't have to listen to her tell me how I stocked the books wrong." Her hair brushed her shoulders. "I come back here all the time."
"She mentioned a treasure room?"
"Just beyond the South Florida displays. Go ahead. I'll catch up."
That was all Mer needed to hear.
Mer loved museums. Like Gabby, she tried to absorb every snippet of information the curators deemed worthy of knowing. She promised herself she'd return when she could study the exhibits, but at the moment, her pace rivaled a baitfish evading a barracuda.
She practically skidded into the display. The area wasn't much larger than a living room, but the walls were lined with display cases bursting with artifacts. A magnetometer hung from the ceiling over a blue banner exalting Treasure! The far wall had a life-size diorama of a diving-helmet-clad salvor wielding a metal detector over a pile of ballast stones.
A video about the Spanish fleets played on a loop in the corner. She held the old-fashioned telephone receiver against her ear and caught the video mid-narration. She listened through the end and it automatically restarted.
A lot of the information she already knew. Twice a year, Spanish fleets had left their homeland laden with European goods and set sail for the New World. There, they offloaded the European goods and picked up New World goods to take back. Preyed upon by other nations and pirates, Spain developed a convoy system, consisting of armed escorts for the merchant ships.
The narrator explained that the fleets split in the Caribbean. Some ships headed to Cartagena and Portobelo, while the others sailed for Veracruz. When they had exchanged their cargos, the ships rallied in Havana and embarked on the return trip together, under guard.
Havana.
In 1733, the Spanish fleet had embarked on their voyage home from the Cuban port on Friday, July thirteenth.
From Havana.
Where Oscar worked in the archives.
Skipper had said there wasn't any record of a thirteenth galleon in the Spanish archives. A tingle shot through her body and raised the hair on her forearms. What if the records were someplace else?
Someplace like Havana.
* * *
Mer gathered all the books they had on the treasure fleet and carried them to the register.
Could there really be a link between the coin she'd found and the Thirteenth Galleon? The discrepancy in time bothered her. Oscar had said the legend began in the fifteenth century, and the coin hadn't been minted until 1733.
Unless Oscar had lied.
The clerk tucked a flier into the bag and it jutted out the top. "It's late notice, but considering your purchase, you may be interested." She lifted the bag and handed it to Mer. "The International Society of Maritime Archeology is holding its annual fundraiser. Winslet Chase is speaking."
"The event's tonight," Gabby added.
"Who's Winslet Chase?" Mer asked.
The clerk's eyes turned dreamy. "He's a modern day treasure hunter—and really good looking. Also the foremost authority on everything you just bought."
Mer glanced at the flier. "A thousand dollars a ticket?"
"It doesn't matter," Gabby said removing the flier. "I called for one of the museum patrons yesterday. They're sold out."
"At a thousand dollars a pop?" Mer paid just over a grand for her apartment and that covered a whole month. "Who has that kind of money to spend on a dinner?"
"It is black tie," Gabby said, as if that justified the expense. "Do you own a gown?"
"No."
"Then it doesn't really matter what it costs, does it?"
The girl's logic was unassailable.
"Besides, like I told you, it's sold out. Too bad, though," Gabby continued. "The keynote sounds interesting. The lore of treasure hunting."
Mer still couldn't get beyond the price tag for the event. "Treasure hunting has always been alluring," she said absently.
"Not lure," Gabby said. "L-o-r-e," she spelled out the letters.
"Let me see that." Mer snatched the flier from the teen's hands.
The Lore of Treasure Hunting and How It Informs Nautical Archaeology. The headline framed a photograph of a handsome man in profile with wind-tousled hair, his eyes searching an endless stretch of ocean.
"No way," Mer whispered.
"Told you it sounded interesting."
Mer barely heard her. "I need to get in."
19
Bijoux opened the door to her home, but before she could speak, Mer blurted, "I need a dress."
Her boss opened the door wider. "From what I've seen of your wardrobe, you could use several."
"This one has to be nice enough to make the door
guy overlook the fact that I forgot my invitation."
"Forgot?" Bijoux fluttered her hands and the jade bracelets on her wrist clacked. "Never mind. I suspect I do not want to know."
"Probably not." Mer walked into the living room. Most everything had vintage appeal; plush pillows, lush fabrics, and the occasional contemporary piece brought it all together with an inviting warmth that reminded Mer of Bijoux herself.
Bijoux pursed her lips and studied Mer as if she were a side of beef. "I need more information. Cocktail? Business casual? Red carpet? Cannes?"
"The Annual Gala for the International Society of Maritime Archeology."
"Your wetsuit won't suffice?"
"Last year's event was in Paris. At a little place called the Ritz."
"No neoprene then." Bijoux's finger tapped faster. "Where are they planning on holding it this year?"
"The Florida Keys Art Museum."
"That is not the Ritz."
"The guest list includes three Academy Award winners, two current senators, one former president, and Don Shula."
The tapping stopped. "Who?"
"Former Miami Dolphins coach."
"Ah. Local flavor."
"No, that is provided by Chef Hervé of Maison du Soleil," Mer said.
"No expense spared. When is this soirée?"
Mer dropped her chin. "Funny thing, that."
A long sigh escaped Bijoux's lips. "So...it is tonight?"
Raising her eyes again, Mer grabbed Bijoux's hands. "I really need your help. I can't do something like this on my own."
"Why do you want to go?"
"The speaker is Winslet Chase."
"The treasure hunter?"
Mer nodded. "Rumor has it, he's located a wreck that would make every other treasure hunter's find look like couch change."
"Why is everyone so obsessed with treasure?" Bijoux waved her arms. "Never mind. What time is this event?"
"Two hours."
"Evidently, Madame Scientist now believes in miracles."
"It isn't a miracle when you call in the best."
"That." Bijoux poked a painted fingernail in Mer's face. "That is how you are going to get past the doorman without an invitation. Remember how to do that." She dropped her hand. "Now, wait here."
A moment later, Bijoux returned holding a sapphire blue dress suspended from a padded silk hanger. "It is essentially strapless, so your shoulders shouldn't be a problem."
"What's wrong with my shoulders?"
"Nothing. Most models don't have as much upper body strength as you do."
"I lift tanks."
"Yes. And models lift jewelry." She slid the dress from the hanger. It rippled like the Atlantic on a calm day, catching the light, reflecting the clouds.
Mer caught her breath. "It's beautiful."
"Try it on."
The front of the dress appeared self-explanatory. Whaling constructed a rigid bodice, but the low back didn't appear to have much of anything except a single horizontal strap that seemed too thin to hold everything together. "I don't know how."
Bijoux opened a narrow zipper that Mer hadn't seen.
She read the name on the label and gasped again. "I can't wear this. Even I know that name."
"Of course you can," Bijoux said.
"If something were to happen to this dress, I couldn't afford to fix it."
"It was a gift from the designer."
"You know—"
"Yes. Are you going to try on the dress, or just wear the shorts you've got on?" She turned her back to Mer to give her a modicum of privacy.
Tiny crystals covered the fabric. Clutching it to her chest for just a moment, Mer reveled in the princess feel of the gown. She smoothed it over the couch, and then kicked off her shoes and shucked off her clothes. The heavy fabric slid down her body, the silk lining cool against her skin. She pulled the little zipper, but couldn't get a grip without the front of the bodice falling forward. The straps hung limp. Mer was completely flummoxed. "I need your help."
Bijoux faced Mer again. "The hair will be next. One thing at a time."
Holding the bodice up with one hand, Mer patted her unruly waves. "What's wrong with my hair?"
Bijoux levered the zipper and the fabric snugged around Mer's hips, leaving the rest of her back bare. "You cannot wear a dress like this with hair like that." She stepped in front of Mer and took the straps. "Pretend these are armholes and slide your arms through."
Mer did as she was told. Bijoux connected the concealed clasp and adjusted the straps so they lay flush across her shoulder blades.
"Now. Let me see."
Fabric pooled at Mer's feet. The bodice swept low across her chest and a rectangular cutout revealed more of her cleavage than most bikinis.
"Perfect," Bijoux said.
"Dragging three inches of material is hardly perfect."
Bijoux extracted a pair of strappy sandals from a felt bag.
"Oh no." Mer backed away from the horror in Bijoux's hand. "I trip in sneakers. There is no way I could pull that off."
"There's no time to hem the dress. This is your only alternative."
"I'll kill myself in those."
"You Americans. Always so dramatic. They are just shoes."
"They're stilettos. Last time I checked those were considered dangerous weapons."
"Wear these and the doorman won't even notice you don't have an invitation. They are Christian Louboutins. Commonly known as leave-ons."
"Why is that?"
"Because you can take off everything else." Bijoux thrust the shoes into Mer's hands. "Put them on."
Very gently, Mer settled onto the couch and bent over to buckle the tiny strap around her right ankle. The sandal molded to her foot and her calf muscle popped. "My feet hurt already."
"You must stand before you can claim that. Besides, a little sacrifice will remind you of your goal."
"My goal is to speak to Winslet Chase. See if he's heard of the Legend of the Thirteenth Galleon."
"And you must wear the shoes to do that."
"These shoes scare me."
Bijoux clucked her tongue. "Says the woman who dives with sharks. For fun. Now we must tend to those toenails."
* * *
The woman at the door had an air of affluence more cloying than her perfume. Any last vestiges of hope that Mer's borrowed leave-ons would get her across the threshold withered.
One couple stood in line ahead of her. The man's burgundy cummerbund matched his wife's gown. She'd slung a fur stole nonchalantly across her shoulders—a completely unnecessary accessory given the evening heat. Thank goodness Mer's own gown was strapless. She could already feel beads of sweat rising. But that was nothing compared to the discomfort radiating from the borrowed red-soled shoes of Satan. Bijoux had told her most women would kill to own a pair. Mer was ready to kill anyone who delayed her from taking the damn things off.
And that job belonged to the four-foot-ten-inch kewpie doll guarding the door.
The line behind Mer stretched back to the limos. Everyone held heavy cream parchment invitations. Everyone except Mer.
The couple ahead of her moved inside and a wash of blessed air conditioning breezed across Mer's shoulders.
Ms. Kewpie smiled at Mer from a face that looked as if all the wrinkles had been ironed out of it. "Welcome to the International Society of Maritime Archeology fête." Her accent was Bostonian, and Mer wondered briefly if she had come over on the Mayflower.
"Good evening."
"May I see your invitation, please?"
The dreaded question. The one Mer had spent two hours trying to figure out a plausible way to dodge. "I'm sorry, I left it in my limousine." Which was probably the first time her eight-year-old Subaru had ever been thought of in those terms. She'd parked it in the back lot with the service trucks, drawing a look or two from the tuxedoed waitstaff. The walk to the front in heels had nearly crippled her.
"Oh, that is a shame. Let me check our guest list."
She consulted an iPad. "Your name?"
The woman held the tablet at eye-level, which gave Mer an unimpeded view of a blurry screen. No help there. For a split second she considered dropping one of the Robber Baron names, but no self-respecting Vanderbilt, Carnegie, or Rockefeller would toddle like a newborn on four-inch heels. "Meredith Cavallo."
"Cavallo. Cavallo. Ca-vall. O. I'm sorry, could it be under another name? Your business, perhaps?"
"No. Dr. Mer Cavallo. Please check again."
"I am sorry, Dr. Cavallo. Perhaps your chauffeur could bring the invitation to the door? I'm sure we can resolve this as soon as I see the invitation."
A shadow passed behind the tiny woman and Mer craned her neck to look in the face of a very serious, very large, very intimidating doorman. Put a Super Bowl ring on his finger and he could have been one of Shula's defensive linemen.
"Nice shoes," he said.
Mer smiled. He did not.
"Thank you, I'll just walk back and get it myself," she said.
Ms. Kewpie didn't respond, but instead turned and held out her hand to accept the next guests' invitation. "Welcome, Mister and Missus Morgan. Enjoy the festivities."
Maybe she should have dropped an industrialist's name after all. It worked for the Morgans.
Mer clutched the railing as she descended the stairs and stepped onto the gravel path. Great for flip-flops, not so wonderful for heels. But every place in the Keys had gravel pathways. Dig an inch below the topsoil and the whole archipelago was one big chunk of oolitic limestone, which a mere hundred-and-fifty-thousand years before had been a living coral reef. Give or take a millennium.
Her heel turned slightly and her ankle absorbed the shock. "Wear the shoes, Bijoux said. You'll be fine, she promised. Right."
The Subaru came into view and she extracted her keys from the tiny silver clutch Bijoux had insisted she carry. A curl escaped Mer's simple chignon, and she blew it out of her eyes. How on earth did she think she'd bluff her way into an A-list event? A doctorate didn't count for anything when the yardstick measured wealth.
One of the catering guys leaned against the back wall of the building and took a deep drag on his cigarette while he watched Mer's painfully slow progress across the treacherous terrain.
Beached_A Mer Cavallo Mystery Page 12