Beached_A Mer Cavallo Mystery

by Micki Browning

  The Keys valued their natives. Mer's grandparents weren't Florida Crackers. Her parents didn't help build the Flagler railroad. Hell, she hadn't even known what a square grouper was until she'd pulled one onto the boat. And look what came of that.

  Mer returned to the kitchen and retrieved her coffee. Despite knowing the reefs better than most locals, she was a mainlander. An outsider.

  Like Bijoux.

  She squinted at her friend, searching for clues to her success.

  "What?" Bijoux asked.

  Scuba instructors were a dime a dozen in the Keys and even though Bijoux paid better than the other shops, Mer made barely enough to cover expenses. She'd never own a home here. The insurance alone would bankrupt her.

  "I am not sure I like that look on your face," Bijoux continued. "It usually means trouble for someone. And as we are alone, well, you can understand my concern."

  "How long have you been in the U.S.?"

  "On and off, about ten years."

  "Do you go home frequently?"

  "Just once, when my mother died. Soon after I arrived in New York." Her eyes took on a faraway look. "I had not yet earned enough money to bring her to the States. Then, it was too late."

  "I'm sorry." A pang made Mer realize how much she missed her own family.

  "You would have liked my mother. She was fierce. Haiti can be a difficult place for one who is not."

  "From Haiti to New York. That must have been shocking."

  "Not as shocking as my new life. New York was my base. I traveled. Mostly Paris. Milan, London. Six months in Tokyo. My booker got me into some of the big shows during Fashion Week." The corners of her mouth lifted. "Even you would recognize some of their names."

  Mer tilted her head. It made sense now. The posture and the poise. The dress.

  "Modeling is a difficult life. I was lucky. I chose to leave. Not all are given that dignity."

  She'd known Bijoux since she started working for the dive shop, but in those months, Mer had come to appreciate her sharp intellect and generous heart—all wrapped up in bright sarongs, headscarves and a regal bearing that made heads turn. Bijoux spoke flawless French, Haitian Creole, English, and probably more Japanese than she let on. But Mer knew little about her friend's life. It was a subject Bijoux rarely broached.

  "What else don't I know about you?" Mer joked.

  "I've been homeless."

  Mer's cup clacked against the counter. "I'm sorry."

  Bijoux sipped her coffee leisurely. "For what?"

  "I didn't mean..." She didn't know what she meant and the confusion unsettled her. "I've always had a roof over my head. I've been hungry, but I've never known hunger." She topped off Bijoux's cup and then her own. "I've seen homelessness, but it's never touched me."

  "Ah, but it has," Bijoux said. "You just never felt it."

  "When did you come here?" Mer asked.

  "I bought the shop two years ago. The transition from New York City to the Keys." Bijoux burst into laughter. "Now that was shocking."

  "You've made it home."

  "Home is not a place, Madame Scientist."

  The last of Mer's savings was earmarked for a ticket to visit her parents at Christmas. But even California didn't feel like home anymore. The gin-clear water of the Keys did. Not the island, but the blue water surrounding it.

  That's where she belonged. That's where she felt at home.

  "I need a boat," she blurted the thought out loud.

  "A boat," Bijoux repeated. "The LunaSea and Dock Holiday are not enough for you?"

  "To live on." Mer tasted the truth in her words and found she liked it. "I need a boat. Here in the Keys. Among friends and fishes."

  "A boat."

  "I don't want to pay rent all my life. I've lived on boats before. I don't own much." She walked around her apartment, assessing. She paused next to the massive walnut desk. "This won't fit. But think about it. I'm a scientist. There's a research center in our backyard. So is the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. Mote Marine Lab has field stations in the Keys. REEF has offices just down the road. I could do it, Bijoux. I could make a life here."

  "You already have."

  Mer pressed her lips together. "No, I've been marking time. I was only supposed to be here until my next big opportunity whisked me back into academia. Then I was going to leave."

  "What is that saying about best-laid plans? I seem to recall you turned down a research position."

  Excitement tingled through Mer's veins. She dumped the dregs of the coffee beans out into the trash, grabbed a sponge and washed the coffee beaker vigorously. "Exactly. I turned down the offer." She stopped mid-swipe and turned off the water. "Why did I do that?"

  "Are you asking me or are you thinking aloud?"

  She abandoned the coffee press in the sink and dried her hands on her shorts. "I wanted to explore another side of my life. I wanted a community, a family. I wanted to see if things would work out with Selkie."

  "He cares for you very much."

  "He does." For a moment Mer wished she didn't care. "But I never forgave him for how things ended."

  "It is not so long ago that it can't be addressed."

  Tears threatened. "This is for an offense that took place years ago."

  Bijoux answered slowly. "That is a long time to harbor ill feelings."

  "I didn't realize..." Mer picked up the sponge again and lowered it into the coffee pot. Bubbles formed along the water's edge and leisurely burst one by one. "Selkie is an honorable man—overprotective, but driven by good intentions. He apologized. I accepted." She poured the soapy water over the plunger. Coffee grounds peppered the bottom of the sink. "I accepted, but I didn't really forgive. I certainly didn't forget. I just knew he'd run away again. From me."

  "He does not strike me as the type of man to run away from anything."

  "Not anymore." She splashed water to wash the remaining grounds down the garbage disposal, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "And he can't run away from me...not if I run away first."

  "Sometimes we forgive people so we, ourselves, can move forward."

  "Sometimes," Mer mused aloud, "forgiveness requires taking a step back."

  34

  Sunday dawned gray but dry, and everyone assembled for another day of hide-and-seek with the treasure galleon. By the fourth dive of the day, Mer was ready to concede that the galleon was winning. Not that she wanted to give up the hunt, but it seemed fair to acknowledge that a three-hundred-year head start certainly lent an advantage.

  As a researcher, she'd spent a considerable amount of time searching—for answers, for specimens, for funding. Even in her field of study, octopuses were notoriously difficult to find. Yet nothing prepared her for the mind-numbing task of searching for buried treasure and swinging a metal detector back and forth.

  She adjusted her grip and finned to a new spot around the edges of the reef. Back and forth. Her arm ached with the repetitiveness of it.

  Mer had been four years old when she first saw the ocean. She'd stood at the water's edge and giggled as the surf rolled over her toes. She'd tagged along behind her brothers as they explored the tide pools. Everything moved. Crabs skittered. Soft anemones closed around her finger when she poked them.

  The water had pushed a shell toward her. When she picked it up, a tiny octopus squirmed across her hand. Fascinated, she held still, watching it bunch and pull its way across her skin. She dipped her hand back into the water and the sea creature swished its legs together and jetted into a crevice.

  From that moment, she'd been hooked.

  Even today, being in the ocean humbled her. Underwater, she had to acknowledge her deficiencies. She couldn't see without a mask, couldn't smell. Touch was experienced at a distance, through gloves, or wrinkled fingertips, if at all. The sea tasted of salt and grit. Water muffled sound, hid its origination.

  The metal detector squealed. Mer jerked to attention and spied a little garbage heap of shells beside a sm
all crevice in the coral. A midden. Few creatures in the ocean tidied up after themselves as octopuses did, and often the first clue to their whereabouts was the stack of empty shells and crab carapaces piled neatly outside their dens.

  She set down the metal detector. After nothing but recovering trash, she needed an octopus to brighten her day. Hovering over the reef, she peered into the crevice. A single eye stared back at her, its horizontal pupil looking like a dash painted across a white marble.

  Mer smiled so widely that water crept into her mask.

  The octopus' gill slit fluttered as it drew water in and out to breathe. Its color remained neutral, a sure sign she hadn't startled it.

  She removed her glove and placed her naked finger at the edge of the den. Two of its arms uncoiled and settled on her skin, the suckers tasting her. Curious.

  Octopuses had personalities. Some were shy and retiring, others bold and inquisitive. Gently, she drew her hand back, hoping to coax it out of its den.

  It released its hold.

  Mer placed her hand a bit further from the den and waited. This time the arms that reached out did their best to pull her in, twining around her wrist, touching the neoprene of her wetsuit, but returning to her naked skin.

  Finally, it emerged, flowing like a waterfall over the coral. Octopus vulgaris. One of the few octopuses that ventured out onto the reef during the day. Mer automatically checked its third right arm for a ligula, but the suckers went all the way to the tip. A female, then.

  The octopus settled next to the metal detector, as if reminding Mer of her current job.

  Fine. She picked up the detector and swung it over the section of reef that held the den. It alerted again, the noise harsh in her ears.

  The sound must have bled beyond her headphones. The octopus flashed red and jetted a short distance away before spreading her mantle and mimicking the colors of the corals. Mer set aside the detector, not wanting to distress her new friend, but not knowing what to do next.

  Most likely, the detector had alerted on yet another piece of trash, either drawn into the den by the octopus, or something that had spent so much time in the ocean that coral had encased it.

  A third possibility occurred to her. She ascended a few feet to be able to study the crest of the reef. Crevices slashed the top. Small items could fall through the reef, and remain protected from discovery and the rigors of surge.

  She bit her mouthpiece, swam back to the sand, and pushed the disk of the detector under the ledge. She listened to the alert as she waved the device back and forth. Each direction rewarded her with a tone.

  Digging her flashlight out of her pocket, she shined the beam under the ledge and pressed her cheek as close to the sand as her equipment allowed.

  Nothing.

  Not that she'd expected to discover a chest overflowing with gold and jewels, but it would have been nice.

  Still, something had triggered the detector.

  She peered into the darkness again, her gaze following the glow of her light. No morays. Normally passive creatures, an eel protecting its territory could take off a finger, and she'd grown rather attached to hers. She drew her glove back on and worked her arm into the crevice.

  Her hand dug into the sand and sifted the grains through her fingers. The soft particles covered a hard stratum that resisted any attempts to explore further.

  Her computer beeped, reminding her that in a few minutes, she'd have to rally at the line with Phoenix and they'd head up. Call it another day. Check off another site on the map.

  Several feet away, the octopus watched her.

  Mer floated back up to the level of the cephalopod's den. Octopuses tended to relocate every couple of days. The hunting must be good here, at least in terms of crabs.

  The scientist in her couldn't resist and she wiggled her hand into the lair and patted around. Loose shells shifted under her fingertips. The octopus moved closer and flashed red with excitement.

  She stilled, barely breathing.

  Octopuses piled their leftover shells outside their den.

  Carefully, she scooped up the objects and slowly withdrew her hand.

  For a moment, she stared at her closed fist, afraid to open it. Afraid to confirm that she'd found a slovenly octopus that had forgotten to take out the trash. Until she opened her hand, she could be holding anything—the underwater equivalent of Schrödinger's cat—she held both treasure and trash. Slowly, she unfurled her fingers and almost inhaled her regulator.

  Three gold coins sparkled as brightly as the day they were minted.

  In Mexico.

  In 1733.

  35

  Phoenix was right. Finding treasure was far more enjoyable than searching for it.

  Mer stared at the coins for over a minute, marveling at the pronounced milling along their edges and the detail of the portrait. Finally, she set the portrait dollars on the reef and with shaking hands she unhooked her surface marker buoy from her vest. It took three tries before she managed to clip the line from her reel to the bright orange tube. She released a small blast of air from her alternate regulator into the bottom of the inflatable buoy and set it free. The reel unspooled and the buoy gathered speed as it neared the surface.

  Suspended in the water column, Mer turned onto her back and let the surge rock her. The surface gleamed sixty feet above her, a shimmer of blue and gray with stray sunbeams piercing the water in angles. She was the only person in the world who knew beyond doubt that the Thirteenth Galleon had metamorphosed from legend into history. The three portrait dollars confirmed it. And for just a moment, she wanted to hold the stunning knowledge close.

  The ramifications of the find would fall to someone else. She had a coin, and that meant Oscar would be safe. Her part would soon be over. Archeologists and historians would be busy for years and Phoenix would be in at the ground floor.

  The dive computer alerted again. Time to go up. Phoenix would already be at the line or perhaps on her safety stop.

  Still, she hesitated. Plenty of air remained in her tank and this was a moment to treasure.

  Finally, she flipped over and wound the reel around a rock, careful not to damage any coral. They had the GPS coordinates for the site, but this reef wasn't familiar. The buoy was as close to marking an X on a treasure map as she could do.

  Edging closer to her den, the octopus reclaimed one of the shiny portrait dollars. The suckers passed the coin toward her mantle as if it were on a conveyor belt. Gathering the remaining two gold disks, Mer tucked them into the pocket of her vest.

  The octopus dropped her coin—no longer interested in an item that wasn't edible—and jetted away, disappearing into another crevice. Mer turned the coin over in her palm. Perhaps she should leave it as tribute. Compensation. A gift for another diver to discover, so someone else could experience the level of elation that goes with plucking gold from a sea of blue. Phoenix would call her crazy for leaving such a valuable artifact behind, now that she had already disturbed it.

  She returned the coin to the den. It wasn't the first time someone had considered her crazy, and probably not the last.

  Now it was time to share the news.

  The anchor line rose out of the sand as Mer drew near. Phoenix hovered halfway between Mer and the boat, already on her safety stop. Mer ascended slowly, her bubbles outpacing her. At fifteen feet, her computer automatically started to tick away the seconds.

  Phoenix glanced at her own gauges and signaled to Mer that she was heading up.

  The desire to share the news almost prompted Mer to delay her, but the very real possibility of removing the coins from her pocket and having them slip through her fingers convinced her otherwise. Two and a half minutes more and she could share the news on deck with Leroy, too.

  The growl of a boat engine made Mer look up in surprise. The Dock Holiday rocked on the surface and Phoenix's silhouette disappeared as she pulled herself onto the boat.

  The noise increased. Even underwater, Mer could tell th
at the boat was traveling fast.

  Idiots.

  Dive graphics on the Dock Holiday clearly identified their vessel as a scuba charter and Leroy always flew a dive flag when he had divers in the water. Other boats were supposed to give them a wide berth—or at the very least, greatly reduce their speed. The approaching boat was doing neither.

  Mer glanced at her computer as the final seconds of her safety stop elapsed. The roar of the engines surrounded her. When she looked up, the hull of a long narrow boat came into view. Three engines churned the water behind it as it swung a wide circle around the Dock Holiday. The wake buffeted the smaller charter boat from all sides, and the swim ladder stabbed into the water.

  Her stomach roiled. She'd seen a boat like this before. The day she and Leroy had found the square grouper.

  The buoy. She closed her eyes inside the mask and groaned through her regulator. Surface marker buoys served two purposes: to broadcast a diver's position or mark an area. If Bart learned she'd found the treasure, everything would change, and he'd have no reason to fulfill his end of the bargain regarding Oscar. Worse, he'd eliminate witnesses. And two of her friends were already in the line of fire, topside.

  Mer descended and retraced her path to the reel. Fear quickened her breaths and she tried to calm herself to conserve air. The deeper she swam, the sooner she would run out of air—but she didn't want to get anywhere near the slicing props, nor did she want anyone on the boat to see her. They had probably already noticed the marker, so her only hope was that they were too busy circling the Dock Holiday to record the GPS coordinates.

  She unsheathed her dive knife. Holding the titanium blade gave her a modicum of comfort. The yellow reel stood out in marked contrast to the sand-colored rocks that pinned it to the ocean floor. Mer sliced through the string attached to the buoy and the surface marker floated from the site.

  The reel presented another problem. If she left it in place, and the boater above had marked the spot, it would act as a neon sign with a "Look Here" message. If she took it with her, the severed string might raise questions she'd rather not answer.