Facials Can Be Fatal

by Nancy J. Cohen

  Marla and Dalton exchanged a glance. “So you think they found some buried treasure,” she said, “and sold one or two pieces when they needed money? Until they deemed it safe to sell more?”

  Sam’s gaze fixed on them. “I’d read an interview with Warren where he claimed to be descended from pirates. I called his daughter and confessed my identity. All she knew were the stories her father had told her. So I looked up George’s son, Howard. He’d changed the spelling of his last name, as you surmised. But I still found him. He was reluctant to talk to me. And he said something strange. ‘If only he’d known,’ Howard said about his dad. If only George had known what? That Ralph had fathered a son? Would that have made a difference?”

  “You guessed right about the treasure.” Dalton told him about the journal and his current investigations. “I assume Val hadn’t discovered her father’s book yet when you called her.”

  Sam’s face paled. “Oh, my God. Do you think Howard is going around killing anyone who discovered his father’s crime?”

  “The friends didn’t actually kill Ralph. Their crime, if any, was one of neglect.”

  “But their lack of action killed my father nonetheless. Howard might be afraid the truth would affect his reputation.”

  “Or maybe the boys’ find is more significant than a single chest of gold coins,” Marla suggested. “Tell us about shipwrecks in the area.”

  Sam moistened his lips. “Well now, that’s a favorite topic of mine. Are you ready for a history lesson?”

  “Go ahead,” Dalton said. “It might be important to this case.”

  “The waters around Florida have seen ships flounder for decades, starting with Native Americans who used dugout canoes to travel up and down the coast. As civilization increased, ships and boats became vital to our development. Waterways were the most efficient means to transport people and cargo. Florida became a hub for maritime trade routes, but our waters can be treacherous. Hence we have a large number of shipwrecks offshore.”

  “What about treasure ships from Spanish fleets?” Marla asked, shifting in her seat. The hard wood bottom hurt her derriere.

  An avaricious gleam entered Sam’s eyes. “My estimate is that maybe thirty to forty Spanish ships, dating from the 1500s to the late 1600s, lay at the sea bottom. The Spaniards would pick up gold, silver, jewels, and rare spices from the Caribbean islands and the South and Central Americas. Sometimes, they’d stop at a mint in Mexico before grouping together to return home. Or they’d gather in Havana and leave from there under convoy.”

  “But not all of them made it.”

  “That’s right. They’d get grounded on our reefs or floundered during hurricanes. For example, the Tierra Firme fleet set sail in 1622 from South America. Twenty-eight ships headed home to Spain. They ran into a fierce storm off the Florida Keys. Both the Nuestra Señora de Atocha and the Santa Margarita were lost. In 1985, Mel Fisher discovered the Atocha’s resting place and its treasure.”

  “I’m hoping we have time to visit his museum,” Marla said.

  “Was the other ship ever found?” Dalton’s rapt expression showed his fascination.

  Sam’s face folded into a frown. “The problem with that wreck site, unlike the deeper water where the Atocha sank, is that undercurrents cause shifting sand dunes. The Santa Margarita broke apart in a wide debris field. Through the years, people have discovered many of its relics, including a lead box filled with sixteen thousand pearls.”

  “That’s amazing,” Marla said. “Those ships must have been heavy with all the gold coins, silver bars, and jewels aboard. No wonder they sank. How many more ships like those two remain undiscovered?”

  “Quite a few.” Sam got up to pace the room. “Most of the known wreck sites are charted on maps. They’re part of the state’s historical preserves.”

  “Who owns the salvage rights to a sunken ship?” Marla asked, wondering about laws regarding lost treasure.

  “According to the Abandoned Shipwreck Act of 1988, any historic find becomes the property of its respective state.”

  “Is that what happened when Mel Fisher discovered the Atocha?”

  “He won a case in the U.S. Supreme Court to recover the treasure, but he had to donate a percentage to the state. Anyone who wants to explore a historic shipwreck today has to get a permit. The state won’t always grant it, preferring for history to remain undisturbed.”

  Dalton stood to face the other man. “What about pirates? Did they capture any of these treasure ships?”

  “Oh, yes. Unarmed merchant vessels were a prime target.”

  “I presume the pirates took their loot ashore. What happened to it?”

  Sam pointed a finger at him. “You’re thinking that the chest uncovered by those boys might have been part of a pirate’s stash? There’s one story that some folks take for legend, but it’s based on a real person. A pirate nicknamed Red Ted, because of his lust for bloodshed, plied the waters off the Florida coast. He died in battle with an American naval warship. But when the troops arrived at his camp near St. Augustine, it was empty. No captives, no loot.”

  “Yes, I read about him.” Even to Marla’s own ears, her voice reflected her excitement. “Warren mentioned this guy in his journal. He thought they might have uncovered part of his hoard.”

  “Before his last voyage, Red Ted was getting set to retire. He’d loaded his goods onto a mule train and told his second in command to take it to Key West, where he planned to hole up in his later years. Then a sighting came for one more merchant ship that appeared to be unarmed. He couldn’t resist this last kill and set sail. The vessel turned out to be a warship hiding under a merchant flag, and Red Ted shot himself rather than be captured.”

  “What happened to his mule train?” Marla asked.

  “They were attacked by Indians on the route south. The natives made off with horses and mules and left them with fewer pack animals. They had to lighten their load and so buried some of the chests. They didn’t have much better luck as they headed into swampland and were beset by storms as well as bandits. With dwindling resources, they buried more loads along the way.”

  “Hopefully someone kept track of those locations,” Dalton said in a wry tone.

  “Only one survivor staggered into Key West. He waited for Red Ted until word came that the pirate king was dead. Ravaged by disease, he tried to sell his map but nobody believed him. He headed north, afraid he’d be identified as a pirate and hanged. That was the last anyone heard about Red Ted’s treasure. But the man had a pouch of uncut emeralds on him that provided him with a cushy lifestyle in the end. In my mind, that indicates the tales of Red Ted were true.”

  “And no one found any trace of this loot until Warren and his buddies dug up that buried chest?” Dalton asked.

  “That’s correct.” Sam stroked his jaw. “Warren didn’t have a map in his journal, did he? Because by rights, part of that treasure should belong to me.”

  “Unfortunately, no. To our knowledge, Warren and George never found more gold.”

  “It’s all water under the bridge now, as far as I’m concerned,” Sam said with a shrug.

  “But not for us.” Dalton gestured for Marla to rise. “We have our murder cases to solve. At any rate, it’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Flint.”

  Outside, they strolled toward Duval Street. “Do you want to see if Mel Fisher’s museum is still open?” Dalton suggested.

  “Okay. So do you believe Sam? Do you think he had any further contact with Val or Howard?”

  “I don’t see what he’d accomplish. He couldn’t blame the kids for what their fathers did.”

  “No, but you heard him,” Marla persisted. “He’d want a cut if either of their fortunes were based on the discovery of that chest.”

  “But he hadn’t read the journal. So how would he know what they’d found? He was only guessing.”

  “You have a point.” She studied her map. “We’re going the wrong way. The museum is located on Greene Street
. We have to head back toward Mallory Square.”

  Dalton paid their entry fee inside the main entrance. They wandered through the historical exhibits that took up two floors. Awed by the artifacts, Marla lost track of time.

  The staff chased them out at five o’clock, all too soon in her opinion. This place warranted another visit. She hadn’t seen nearly enough in one hour.

  “Now what?” Marla glanced at her watch. “We still have time before our dinner reservation. I don’t relish walking to Louie’s Backyard. It’s at the opposite end of the island.”

  “Let’s head back to the hotel. We can get changed, and then we’ll take the car.”

  “I’ll meet you,” Marla said, spying a store she wanted to visit. “You go ahead. I have a few stops to make along the way.”

  He regarded her with a bemused smile. “We still have tomorrow morning.”

  “It’s Sunday. These places don’t open early. And we have to head home to be there for Brianna.”

  By the time she returned to the hotel, her arms were laden with packages. She rushed to get dressed for dinner in time for their seven o’clock reservation. She hoped Louie’s Backyard lived up to its reputation.

  She wasn’t disappointed. Palms shaded the sign out front identifying the Victorian house originally built in the 1900s by a wealthy sea captain. Converted into a restaurant in 1971, it was further renovated by new owners and now was listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

  They stepped up to a covered veranda with white columns where a series of rocking chairs invited guests to linger. As they entered through the front door, a hostess greeted them. High ceilings, crown molding, and polished wood floors gave the place a homey ambience. A staircase rose to a second level, where the restaurant’s Upper Deck served small plates and a selection of wines.

  They’d requested a table in the outside dining area at the rear of the house. Their white-clothed table held wine glasses, bread plates, and a glass-enclosed oil candle. They faced east and the Atlantic Ocean. The view to the side enchanted Marla with its sandy beach and graceful coconut palms, but she couldn’t see the water stretching out to sea. The sky had darkened, and the moon didn’t provide enough illumination.

  After they had sampled their first glass of Chardonnay, they placed their orders. Dalton chose the miso-glazed grilled yellowfin tuna, and Marla ordered potato and olive crusted salmon. Dalton, sitting next to a potted red croton plant, reached for a slice of crusty bread.

  “We forgot to ask at the hotel about Lora,” Marla said, not allowing the ocean breeze to distract her. “What was the credit card charge that led you here?”

  “It was a bar bill. Oddly enough, we didn’t see any room charge.”

  “Hmm, just like the night of the ball. We should speak to the manager who was on duty that night.”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday. Let’s hope he’ll be there. If not, somebody else might be able to clue us in.”

  Marla took a sip of the wine. “Speaking of clues, what did we learn this afternoon?”

  Dalton fingered his water glass. “I don’t think Sam had anything to do with the murders. He’s more interested in learning the truth about his father than leading a wild goose chase for a legendary pirate treasure.”

  “But what else do you think Nadia meant with her message? If not pirates, then that brings us back to Pilates.”

  “I know, and I’m not sure.” His brow furrowed. “It’s possible Howard believed there might be more gold coins hidden out there, but why kill Val? Because she’d learned about what his dad did so long ago? Or because she might want a cut of the treasure?”

  “We should have shown Sam the photos Jason sent me.” Her breath hitched. “Omigosh. Sam looks like the other guy in the picture with Howard.”

  “Let me see that one again.” Dalton took her cell phone when she handed it over. He squinted as he brought up the photo images. “You’re right. It’s Sam without his beard.”

  “Does this mean he lied to us? He must have been there the night of the fundraiser.”

  “So he spoke to Howard at the event. Just because Sam was present doesn’t prove anything. He could have come to gain news about his father.”

  “Then why not tell us he’d met Howard in person that night?” Marla bit her lower lip. “You know what I’m thinking? Jason sent us this photo. What if his research led him to Sam, and he realized Sam and Howard knew each other?”

  “And then one of them killed Jason? For what reason?”

  “Maybe they’re both on the trail of buried treasure, and Jason discovered their plans.”

  “It bears further investigation, but not tonight. Let’s focus on us.” His hand snaked across the table and grasped hers. “We’re having a romantic dinner. I want to enjoy my time alone with you.”

  “Tell me about it. We rarely get to have private time together anymore.”

  His brows waggled suggestively. “I suggest we take advantage of it. But there’s one topic that concerns me. Don’t you think it’s time you went off the Pill?”

  “What?” She withdrew her hand.

  “You’ve been on it for a long time. We don’t know the long-term effects. And if one day you decided to, you know, expand the family, it could be difficult. Your body would need time to adjust.”

  Oh no, we are not having this conversation now. “I’ll think about it,” she said in a chilly tone. Any romantic notions she might have had fled into the night.

  He studied her face. “I’m only saying you might change your mind in the future, and then you could have difficulty getting pregnant. And it’s a healthy choice to stop taking hormones. We’ll use other means for birth control.”

  You’re hoping we’ll slip up, and I’ll carry another little Vail inside.

  “I’ll give it serious consideration, but you know how I feel about having more kids in our household.” A vision of tiny Luke came to mind. She mentally sniffed his baby scent and kissed his adorable toes.

  No, Marla, don’t go there. If you do, you’ll lose twenty years of your life.

  But what would she gain? The joy of watching your children grow to adulthood, their friendship as you got older, and their offspring to remember her after she passed on. Was she willing to risk the pain along with the pleasure? It’s not in my cards, thanks.

  “So did I tell you my mother is dating someone new?” she said in a bright tone to change the subject. “I’m relieved she’s gotten rid of Roger, but don’t you think it’s too soon for her to be jumping into another relationship?”

  Dalton took a moment to answer, sipping his conch chowder while Marla munched on a leaf from her Boston lettuce salad. “I don’t think you’re in a position to judge your mother’s actions. If this guy makes her happy, that’s what counts.”

  Marla bristled at his attitude. “She has to watch out for scam artists who prey on widows. I merely have her best interests at heart.”

  “Do you?” His sharp gaze pinned hers. “Or is it still difficult to accept that Anita might like another man besides your father?”

  “Of course I want her to be happy. This man, his name is Reed, is a retired literature professor. He isn’t Jewish.”

  Dalton pretended to be shocked. “Oh, my, what is the world coming to these days?”

  She gave his hand a mock slap. “Like we should talk. You’re right, I should be glad for her. But I’ll feel better about it after we meet the guy.”

  “I know. It’s your strong protective instinct speaking.”

  Marla’s fingers crawled up his arm. She didn’t want his thoughts to slide to her motherly instincts next. And so she flirted with him for the rest of the meal.

  When they got back to the hotel, playing in the room was the sole thing on their minds. And so it wasn’t until Sunday morning that Marla regained her senses and remembered their purpose in coming to Key West.

  “We should see which hotel manager was on duty that evening,” she told her husband, after reminding him of the bar
bill engendered by Lora Larue.

  They stood by the front desk where Dalton had gone to check out. Marla guarded their luggage while he settled the bill. The airy lobby had ceiling fans, potted palms, and furniture cushioned in tropical prints.

  They’d had breakfast in the restaurant overlooking the water. Key West easily seduced its visitors into languor. The island ambience made you want to don flip-flops, sit on a bar stool, or lie in a lounge chair all day.

  A yearning for travel gripped her. She’d always dreamed of going to Tahiti. Marla still kept a list of places to visit when her schedule lightened. How could Dalton even harbor the thought of having more kids when the world awaited them?

  He made their inquiry at the registration desk, and the clerk scrolled through his computer records. “The manager was Paul Otero on that date. He’s just coming off night duty and might still be on the premises. Would you like me to ring him for you?”

  “Please, I’d appreciate it.” Dalton tapped his foot while waiting for a response.

  A few minutes later, a middle-aged guy in a rumpled suit headed their way. He had tired eyes and a sagging jowl. Dalton introduced Marla and identified himself as a detective from Broward County.

  “Do you know a woman named Lora Larue?” he began, spelling out her name.

  Mr. Otero’s face paled, and he glanced toward the front desk. “Um, I’ve met a few ladies by the name of Laura. What do you want to know?”

  “This person stayed here as a guest and recommended the resort, but when I asked her the room cost, Lora said she didn’t pay for her accommodations because her visit had been comped.”

  “Is that right?” Otero drew a finger around his collar. “Do you have the date when she checked in? Maybe she was a conference speaker or here on other business, and her company paid the tab.” He had the desk clerk check their files. “I’m sorry, there isn’t any such woman registered on that date.”

  “If Lora was here on business for Friends of Old Florida,” Marla said, “they would have paid for Lora’s room. But wouldn’t it still be registered under her name, even if she didn’t get a bill? Hotels always ask for your credit card for incidental charges.”