by Ben Zackheim
Clinkclink. She's mixing the drinks in the kitchen.
I'm really so dying here! Please squeeze lemons faster, Mrs. Smiley.
I try to lose myself in my surroundings. I see the same bold geometry of the Art Deco style on her walls. And even the molding that runs across the walls is geometric, with elegant and etched symbols. To my eye, the shapes are dancing from corner to corner. It's so beautiful that I take a picture of one wall with my iPhone.
Suddenly, the fake-cheerful face of our hostess enters my small screen. She has a silver platter of cups, overflowing with lemonade.
"Thanks, Mrs. Smiley," I tell her.
Mrs. Smiley places the platter on the table. Her shaking hands hold up two glasses. "Come. All of you. Take one."
"You don't need to convince me," Wiley says, snatching a glass and inhaling half of its contents before he even sits back down.
"You drink like a fish out of water," Marie hisses.
Wiley leans back in the couch and tries to act like their fight isn't bugging him. He's a bad actor. "You're just jealous that I was right about the treasure."
"What do you know about the treasure?" Again, Mrs. Smiley's face gives away a fear of something. Something I hope she's ready to get off her chest.
Wylie shrugs. "Nothing, really. But I called it right when I said that the tunnel has a treasure in it."
"Ah, I see." Mrs. Smiley sits, tired. She pops off her tennis shoes with her toes and leans back. Then she looks straight at me. "Alas, there's no treasure in the tunnel."
"HA!" Marie yelps, then looks a little embarrassed. Good. They're both acting like toddlers.
"But it was a good guess, Wylie," Mrs. Smiley says. "I've made a ritual out of exploring the tunnels since my husband died. I wanted to try one last time to find it. But now I know for certain." She sighs. "There's nothing there."
"Mrs. Smiley," I ask, gently, "how can I help you?"
She might be struggling with second thoughts. She leans forward and puts her elbows on her knees, glaring at the rug. I'm thinking that she might be struggling with second thoughts.
Wow. What is she hiding that scares her so much?
"You have my old book about Massachusetts treasures, Shirley, so you may have read about Captain Stringer." My heartbeat accelerates. I nod. "Well, he's an ancestor of mine. On my father's side. The treasure he found was a fortune even by today's standards. Just a dozen of the gems have kept this family going for decades. But now, those gems are cashed out." She meets our stares and smiles. "I'm sorry. I've gotten ahead of myself. Let me start from the start."
She sits up straight and flattens her gardening pants, as if, all of a sudden, appearance is everything. Maybe she's worried that she's about to sound like a loony, so she doesn't want to look like one. I sympathize. I find myself in that position a lot in my line of work.
"When the pirate Captain Stringer returned to England with his new fortune, he shacked up in London. Everyone was abuzz about the newly wealthy sailor. Most people knew he was a pirate, but that just added to his mystique. It should have been a happy time for him. Wealth beyond measure, handsome. But he was miserable. The story goes that he lost his voice forever upon cashing the first gold coin. After that, he was convinced he was cursed. He didn't trust anyone. Maybe it was because he didn't want anyone to be hurt by what he'd brought to London. Maybe the life of a pirate haunted him. Going from nothing to wealthy cannot be easy for everyone. Regardless, he found but one friend. A Captain Lock."
"He's a relative of mine," I say. That wiped the "I hate Wylie" frown off of Marie's face super-fast.
"That's right, Shirley," Mrs. Smiley says. "How long have you known that?"
"Since last night."
"Ah, you're parents told you, did they?"
"Only after I read Captain Stringer's story and asked them about it."
"Excellent." She beams at me, as if I've proven worthy of something.
"In the tunnel, you told me I could help you," I tell her. "I know you wrote my last name in the book. Why didn't you come to me?"
She smiles. "I knew you were sharp! Yes, I've heard gossip about your adventures around town. You'll make quite a detective one day. I have a feeling you'll surprise me in the next several minutes."
That's a challenge, if I've ever heard one.
"I'll get to the reason why I didn't reach out to you in a moment. First, I feel you should know the full story. Your ancestor, Captain Lock, was an English captain of a military ship. It was his job, for several years, to track and kill pirates. Especially pirates who were once navy officers. Stringer was just such a man. Captain Lock and Stringer were adversaries, but they were also respectful of one another. They loved the ocean and they moved around it with equal skill. But it was likely the time that Stringer saved Captain Lock's life that bound the men's destinies together."
"What happened?" Wylie asks. His eyes are like a kid who's reading Harry Potter for the first time.
"Captain Lock battled one too many pirates at the same time. One clear summer day, Stringer's pirate ship was spotted and pursued by Lock. The pirate knew he would be overtaken and he knew that he had only one chance to avoid a fight with a superior ship. The pirate captain directed his second in command to sail into an area where he knew another pirate ship was at rest. He gambled that Lock's eyes would be bigger than his tummy, and he'd then have two pirate ships to deal with. Stringer also knew that the inevitable confusion amongst Lock's crew upon seeing a second pirate vessel would be to his advantage."
"Good thinking," I say.
"Yes. He was right. Once Lock spotted the second pirate, he foolishly decided to engage both ships. He lost, horribly."
"Wow-oh-wow," Wylie mutters, without knowing it.
"From the cold of the ocean, with his arms wrapped around what was once his ship's mast, Captain Lock witnessed Stringer defeat the other pirate scoundrel's ship. His second victory in one day."
"Wow-oh-wow," Wylie said again.
"Oh wowwowwow," said Marie. She's impressed with the story, too. But she isn't so impressed that she'd miss out on a chance to rib Wylie. Again, the ribbing is crueler than usual. Wylie shoots her a frown. I don't think I've seen him this angry before.
Mrs. Smiley either doesn't notice the acid mood in the room, or she doesn't care. She goes on, without losing her groove at all. "Luckily for your ancestor, Stringer didn't abandon Lock and his crew. Instead, he pulled them aboard. A pirate who was assigned to night watch insisted that the two men drank together in the galleys. In the end, Stringer dropped the British sailors on an island called Las Roques and went about his shenanigans."
"So cool," Wylie mutters, shooting a glance at Marie, clearly hoping she won't pounce.
"When the treasure was found, Stringer, who had been disowned by his family, knew that Lock was the only man he could trust. After all, Lock owed Stringer his life. He offered a huge sum for Lock to retire from the navy and care for his estate."
"What could a captain do for his estate? Was he also a lawyer?" I ask.
"Oh, no, nothing like that. Lock's primary role was to trade in the treasure for cash. Something that Stringer would never do again after losing his voice. Captain Lock was not a superstitious sort; he was all logic and reason. You'd have liked him, Shirley. For every trade he performed, Lock was allowed to skim ten percent. That's a tidy sum over the ten years that he worked for the Pirate of Leisure, as Stringer was known in social circles."
"When Stringer's health became poor, he called on his old friend to plan the will. But Lock was surprised by the discussion, which was always written down on sheets of paper since Stringer couldn't speak. Instead of talking about who to leave his fortune to, Lock was obsessed with hiding it. He would invite royalty and dignitaries to his house to discuss how they protected their stashes, but none of their plans were worthy. He once wrote, "I will not leave this snake in the grass for another to step on." The pirate felt strongly, with all the dim life left in him, that it was his duty t
o make sure the treasure was lost forever."
Mrs. Smiley shifts in her seat. She's getting uncomfortable. I lean forward. Here it comes. The secret that scares her so much...
"Lock made a plan. It required two people to know one clue each that, when used together, would lead to the location of the loot. For generations now, one member of the Stringer family and one member of the Lock family has held his or her clue close."
"I thought Stringer's family abandoned him," I say.
"They did, yes. But Lock was charged with tracking down one relative who would do the honorable thing, in exchange for a sum large enough to insure silence. He found a cousin of Stringer's, whom the pirate had always been fond of, Ewan Stringer. Ewan was the first in a line of what we've always called protectors.
"So you're the protector for the Stringers, and who is the protector for Shirley's family?" Marie asks.
I interrupt. It's a hobby of mine. "She's not the protector for the Stringers, and she doesn't know who's on duty in my family."
Mrs. Smiley grins, pleased. I explain myself to Wylie and Marie, who are glaring at me like I grew a second head.
"If she was the protector for the Stringer family, then she'd possess one half of the clue and come to my family for the second clue. She wouldn't be blindly searching the tunnels for a treasure that could only be found by knowing both clues. My guess is that you were determined to find the Stringer half of the clue before approaching my family.
"Correct. If I'm going to find the treasure, then I need to find out what the Stringer clue is. Your family's protector won't give me the time of day unless they know they're talking to their partner."
"I also assume, since you're aware of my previous cases, that you wanted to know if I am the protector and, if not, hire me as a detective to find the second clue from one of my family members. Was your husband the Stringer family's protector?"
"My goodness, Shirley. You're beginning to scare me with your insights."
"Welcome to the club," both Marie and Wylie say together. Their voices trail off as they realize they're saying the same thing at the same time. Usually, when they jinx each other, they smile. But now, they force their frowns.
I roll my eyes as they glare at the floor.
"Well, it's a bit of a stretch on my part," I say, "But Mr. Smiley must have been the protector since you don't know where the treasure's clue is, and yet you're looking in your own backyard for it. But if Stringer was your ancestor, then why was your husband the protector? He's not a direct descendant. I thought the protector had to be a Stringer."
I think I've asked the wrong question. Our kind hostess' face goes sour. I can't tell if she's mad or about to cry again.
But I can tell that she doesn't want to answer the question.
"Please, Mrs. Smiley. I just want to help."
The doorbell rings.
She gets up quickly, relieved to have an excuse to stop talking.
I close my eyes, frustrated. I've lost her.
Chapter Eight: Wylie vs. Marie
Within seconds of leaving, Mrs. Smiley returns to the living room entry with a pale, large man in a nice suit. He waddles in behind her.
I go into my analysis mode. Let's see ...
Not a traveling salesman. She wouldn't let him into her home so fast.
He's not here to do a home improvement job. Not while dressed like that.
He could be her lawyer, but Mrs. Smiley clearly doesn't like him at all. Still, maybe she doesn't like her lawyer. It happens.
Okay. If she introduces us, he's the lawyer. If not, he must be from the...
"Children," she says, softly. She's clearly not about to introduce us. "I hate to be rude but..."
Bingo! He's from the bank.
"Are you from Greenfield Savings Bank?" I ask politely.
"HA!" the man belts out a fake laugh. His smile, which is even less charming than mine, fades. "If I was Greenfield Savings I'd be wearing shorts." He turns his lazy stare at our hostess. "Listen, Mrs. Smiley, I don't have time for one of your drinks. I'm here to let you know that I just left a spectacular meeting with the house buyer. He's ready earlier than we thought, and we're going to take his offer on the house. I'll be in touch with your lawyer this afternoon."
Mrs. Smiley has her hands clasped together in front of her. She's kneading her palms, nervous. I wish we weren't here to see this.
"We'll be going," I say.
But Mrs. Smiley doesn't even know I'm in the room anymore.
"Will the purchase price cover my debt to the bank?" she asks him.
The banker-with-no-name paints on his sad face. "As expected, I'm afraid not. You will owe something, even after the sale is complete."
"How much?" she asks. Her voice is breaking up.
He lets loose a thin smile. "You can check with your lawyer later today for details. We'll have them ironed out by then."
"How much?" She repeats, firm.
He gives her his first real smile. "A lot." He leaves without a goodbye. What a classy guy.
Silence. No one knows what to say.
"Well, that was certainly embarrassing," Mrs. Smiley finally manages.
"I want to help you," I say.
Marie nods her head. "We all do, Mrs. Smiley."
"You're sweet. All three of you. But what's done is done. I couldn't make my payments, and I made some bad deals with the bank, so they own my house. And now they are going to sell it." She says it as if she's talking more to herself than to us.
"They don't own it if you can pay them back, right?" Wylie leads her to her chair, and hands her a fresh glass of lemonade.
Marie nods, forgetting her anger at Wylie for a moment. "If there really is a treasure, I bet it could pay the whole thing off easily."
"Oh, there is a treasure, but..." She hesitates. Then, as if tired of her own delicacy, she gestures for us to sit down. "But I am a fearful woman. And fear is what made me give up my role as protector. And fear is what has stopped me from using the treasure to save my home."
She shakes her head, disgusted with herself. I know what's wrong now.
Oh, Mrs. Smiley...
"You believe in the curse?" I ask.
"I do, Shirley."
"But..."
"I'm aware of the arguments, young lady. I had them many times with my husband. Frank wasn't afraid of anything. That's why he was the perfect person to take over as protector. We were young and my father, the previous protector, had been killed in a car crash. He bequeathed the responsibility to me via a detailed letter that was delivered by his lawyers upon his death. Me, a newlywed, with child. It was horrifying to ponder what the curse could do to all that I was trying to build. I put the letter back in the envelope. I never read the page that, I assume, had the clue written down on it.
"I hated my father for weighing me down with the burden. I became paranoid, terrified when my husband left the house. I wouldn't even take our son out to the playground. I had to tell Frank the secret, eventually--once the pressure started to destroy our marriage. I know it sounds insane. I'm aware of that. But fear isn't logical. And this was a fear that spoke to my gut, to my instincts as a mother and wife. So I told Frank everything. About the treasure, the curse, the role of the protector. And after trying to convince me to shed my fear as if it were just a jacket ... oh, I was so angry at him about that. He just didn't understand. It still makes me angry. Anyway, Frank took it upon himself to read the rest of the letter from my father and protect the Stinger's half of the clue."
"And you don't recall anything he ever said that could be seen as a lead for me to follow?" I ask. I'm worried that this trail is really cold.
"He never wanted to burden me with it because he saw how upset it made me. I think my pig-headedness made it taboo even to talk about it. The pressure I must have put on that man."
"Maybe he told your son," Wylie says.
"Sam? No. I asked him. I considered whether he would lie to me. A good protector would. But he'd never
let me lose my home. He'd cash in a piece of the treasure before he'd see me kicked out of the house that he grew up in."
"Wouldn't Frank have left a clue in a place that's obvious to you but no one else?"
Mrs. Smiley smiles. "A clue to the clue? Don't forget that the secret he was hiding started two hundred years ago. Who's to know if it's even around here? It may have been a poem that Frank memorized and it died with him. Do you see? The problem is I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for. It may be a map, but it could be something else. It could be anywhere and it could be anything. That's not a good starting point."
"But you think it's in Shelburne Falls. In the tunnels."
"I'd see Frank disappear into that hole in the backyard from time to time, but I never asked what he was up to. I've assumed for decades that he was checking in on something or maintaining something. But it looks like I was wrong. Ever since I found out I was penniless, I've been down there looking for the Stringer clue, hoping I'd have the courage to save my own home, should I find it."
The silence that follows is awkward. I can see that she's embarrassed by her fear, but she also won't apologize for it.
"I think I need some time to think," I say, standing.
"Oh, there's no pressure on you, Shirley. Maybe if we'd had this discussion a month ago, something could be done. But it's my own fault."
"Mrs. Smiley. I'm on the job." I smile, and leave the house with Wiley and Marie following.
As we walk through a lovely cool breeze, I wonder if they believe me. I don't. I'm not nearly so confident this time around.
"Do you think we can help her?" Wylie asks me.
"I don't know. I hope so. She gave us a great story, but not a lot of details. So much happened in the distant past that... it's possible this case is chilly cold."