The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  Kimmie Dee said, “Daddy, will you be able to come see me in the talent contest on July Fourth?”

  Buddy shook his head. Joy’s face was buried in his neck and he could feel her tears wetting the collar of his pajamas. “I got to go back to jail for a while, honey. I won’t be out in time for that. Maybe somebody will make a video for me.”

  “So alone,” Joy said. He patted her back some more.

  Toby, seeing his mother crying so hard, started to wail. Kimmie Dee pulled on his chubby arm and said, “Hush, Toby! Be sweet for Daddy.”

  After a minute, Toby’s face unscrewed. He said, “Dee.” Buddy thought he would burst. What a fine little fellow.

  Joy pulled back and got a tissue out of her bag. She blotted her eyes and said, “I would have come to visit you up there more, but it seemed like there was so much to do around here.”

  “I know, sugar.”

  “We’ll visit every time, now. Nothing else matters.”

  “All right.”

  A nurse came in and pointed to her watch. Buddy said, “Looks like time’s up.” He beckoned. “Come here, Kimmie Dee.”

  She came and stood by the arm of his wheelchair. He squeezed her shoulder. “Kimmie Dee, while I’m gone you help your mama, hear?”

  Kimmie Dee looked like she thought that was a dumb thing to tell her. “I will.”

  “I’m so proud of you, honey. I’m going to come home as soon as I can.”

  “Won’t that be fine?” Joy chimed in. “Having Daddy back home?”

  Kimmie Dee leaned on the arm of the chair. She said, “What about Mr. Stiles?”

  Joy’s eyes narrowed. “That bastard,” she said.

  Buddy took Kimmie Dee’s chin in his hand. “We aren’t going to worry about Mr. Stiles anymore,” he said. “He’s history. Over and done with. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Buddy gave her a hug and kiss and then Joy held Toby up and Toby gave Buddy a wet little smack. Then it was Joy’s turn, and then they were all at the door, waving. Kimmie Dee waved one last time and her eyes met Buddy’s again. It occurred to Buddy, briefly, that he would never really know what went on in her head, and then the doorway was empty and he heard them talking to one another as they walked down the hall.

  40

  “They reckon Scooter killed the Marine Patrolman,” Clem Davenant said. “It’s a matter of finding more evidence. In the meantime, there’s plenty to hold him on.”

  “Good,” Isabel said. After a night in the hospital she was back in the trailer, propped on pillows on the sofa. Clem had brought her home and stayed to tell her the story. “Knowing how much Scooter hated me, I wouldn’t want to stay here if they let him go.”

  “They won’t.”

  “And… what about Harry?”

  “They haven’t caught him yet, but nobody doubts they’re going to. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Clem’s confident tone was irritating. Isabel thought of Harry in his bloody shirt, gliding through the swamp in the skiff.

  Clem stood up. “I’ll be on my way.” He stopped to look at the blue-and-white bottle on its stand under John James’s photograph. “To think this came from the Esperanza, “ he said. “The ship Edward found. Those two salvaging that wreck— it’s like robbing his grave.”

  Feeling argumentative, Isabel said, “The bottle hadn’t been on the Esperanza in years. It was buried out back of here. It was with the rest of the treasure John James and River Pete found and took to Cuba.”

  Clem’s eyes were still on the bottle. “Edward worked so hard. He found that wreck. He never knew what a good job he did.” At the door he said, “Your bruises are healing?”

  “Yes.” Isabel displayed her wrists, reddish purple and flecked with scabs. Her ankles looked much the same. “My ribs are still sore, but that’s about all.”

  “Your ribs? What happened to them?”

  Isabel could barely remember. She had a curved bruise on her ribs. “I’m not sure. I think—” It came back to her. “Oh, right. I was hiding under the house, lying pressed against a raised ridge, a kind of semicircular—” She stopped. She hadn’t thought about it before.

  “A semicircular what?” Clem asked.

  Isabel wanted him to go, wanted to consider her idea alone. “I don’t know. A ridge of hardened dirt, probably.” Except she didn’t really think it was hardened dirt.

  She went to the window and watched Clem’s car pull out of the drive. Then she changed into jeans, sneakers, a long-sleeved shirt. She tied a bandanna around her hair to keep the cobwebs out. Under the sink with the other household tools she found a gardening trowel.

  The afternoon heat was sultry and invaded her too-heavy clothes as soon as she stepped outside. The heat, and perhaps a leftover emotional kick, made her dizzy as she walked toward the house, and she stood by the back steps a few minutes, gathering her determination. Then she got down on her hands and knees and maneuvered herself through the opening between the sagging lattice barrier and the back steps, into the dim space where she and Kimmie Dee had hidden. The dirt, the spider webs, the buzzing of insects— all were as they had been.

  Stretched on her belly, she ran her fingers lightly across the dirt. This was the place, she thought. Here, or maybe a little more to the right.…

  There it was, the semicircular ridge. It was definitely not dirt. It was hard, metal. It wasn’t surprising that her ribs had been bruised by pressing against it.

  She began scraping with the trowel.

  At first the dirt moved easily, but a few inches down it was packed firm. She continued to scrape. The ridge, she saw, was not a semicircle at all. It was a circle, of about the same diameter as she could make with her curved arms.

  By the time she had dug down a foot, it was clear that she had found a cast-iron wash pot. She remembered that a cast-iron pot had been lost, presumably washed away, in the storm of 1922. If it had merely been tumbled under the house by the water, surely it would have been found. Enough note had been made of its absence so that Merriam remembered it.

  Isabel scraped at the packed dirt. Her hands and clothes were filthy. She worked doggedly, hacking away, until a particularly stubborn and immovable patch of dirt wasn’t dirt at all, but ragged burlap.

  She peered into the pot’s black interior. The burlap was half-disintegrated. She pulled at it and a strip gave way, exposing more burlap. She pulled at that. As rotten as the first piece, it tore.

  Gold gleamed underneath.

  She was cold. Her teeth chattering, she reached out and touched a gold coin, a thick coin with uneven edges like the one she had seen at Addison Bainbridge’s house. The coin, with what appeared to be quite a few others like it, was wrapped in a burlap packet.

  Feverishly, she dug with her fingers to loosen the packet. Her fingers touched burlap again. There were other packets underneath.

  Tears filled her eyes as she looked down at the pile of coins in its tattered wrapping. John James hadn’t taken the treasure to Cuba with him after all. John James had given Merriam a letter, and Merriam had lost it. Now, Isabel could start to imagine what the letter had said: I must go away, but if you dig behind the back steps— Had he planned to return? I urge you to maintain secrecy, so it doesn’t benefit only my creditors—

  Her cheeks wet, she gathered up the opened packet of coins and, holding it close, edged out from under the house, inching forward on her elbows.

  If only Merriam had known. If only she had known, everything would have been different. Resentment at Merriam’s death vibrated in her. How could it be that Merriam would never know?

  The man in the hood.

  Scooter had told her he never wore a hood when he was diving.

  She sat on the back steps and put the coins in her lap. They were as bright and beautiful as if they just been minted. She freed them from the disintegrating burlap and counted.

  Twenty. Twenty gold pieces were lying on her shirttail. There were more still in the wash pot. Many more.


  Why should I believe what Scooter said? But she did believe him. She believed him because he hadn’t known why she was asking. He hadn’t known Merriam had talked about a man in a hood.

  She doubted he had even known that Merriam was staying at Bernice Chatham’s. But others had.

  The coins clinked when she stood, holding the bottom of her shirt to form a bag. She started to run, jingling at every step. She had to get to the telephone. She had to—

  “You found it, I see,” a voice said.

  She whirled. Ted Stiles was leaning against the corner of the house, grinning, his hands in his pockets. He said, “You sure were occupied. I could have ridden down here on an elephant.” He took a step toward her. “From what Scooter is telling down at the jailhouse, I gathered Harry Mercer didn’t get away with the whole thing. Some story about a porcelain bottle, and stuff buried on the property. Seemed worth keeping an eye on the activities around here.”

  “Go to hell,” Isabel said. Ted Stiles. Absurdly, Kimmie Dee’s letter came into her mind: I don’t like Mr. S.

  “No, really,” Stiles said. “This is the best time there is. Not a soul in the world knows it’s been found except you and me.”

  When he took his right hand out of his pocket, she saw that he held a gun.

  Fighting to keep her breathing even, Isabel said, “I thought you were some kind of investigator, working undercover. That’s what Clem told me.”

  Stiles chuckled. “I am. And when you’re talking about Spanish gold, that’s something worth investigating.”

  They were face to face, Isabel clutching her shirttails. He reached down and picked up a coin. He turned it in his fingers, studying it, then slipped it in his pocket. “I tell you what, Miss Isabel. You’re coming along with me.” He pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, and handed it to her. “Tie those coins up first.”

  Isabel knelt and spread the handkerchief on the ground. Constantly aware of the gun pointed at her head, she piled the coins on the handkerchief, twisted it and tied two of the ends together to make a pouch.

  “Nice,” Stiles said. He took the bundle from her. “Now, what we’re going to do is, we’re going to walk down to the lighthouse. Stroll down, like we wanted some fresh air before dinner.” He gestured with the gun. “This is going to be in my pocket, pointed at you. Let’s go.”

  The day was waning. They walked up the drive under the rustling palms and turned toward the lighthouse. There were no houses in this direction, only the dense palmetto woods, with overhanging live oaks and towering pines. Along the shore the waves boomed.

  “You knew where Merriam was. You kept asking about her,” Isabel said.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You knew Scooter and Harry were salvaging. Clem said Buddy Burke told Darryl Kelly, trying to make a deal. Darryl Kelly must have told you.”

  “He thought it was a joke,” Stiles said. “If it was such a damn joke, why was he checking it out? My guess is that he wanted it, too.”

  “He caught you, so you killed him. Merriam saw you.”

  “I hadn’t found anything but a couple of cannonballs. I would’ve just as soon nobody had to get hurt, but it didn’t work out that way.”

  The intensity of her anger demolished Isabel’s fear. “You didn’t want to hurt anybody? You tracked down a helpless, sick old woman and murdered her!”

  “She saw me,” Stiles said. “I wish she hadn’t, but she did. I had to do something, so she didn’t come to herself and start talking. I quit after that. Let Harry Mercer and his deckhand take it out, and I’d get it later.”

  “That’s right,” Isabel said. “What would they do? Call the law?”

  They reached the barrier and skirted the sandy knoll where the lighthouse stood. Laboring through the dunes, they came out on the opposite side of the peninsula. In a hidden inlet a blue boat with a ragged canvas roof was pulled up on the sand.

  Stiles said, “Now, what you’re going to do, Isabel, is push this boat out into the water. I’d be a gentleman and do it myself, but I’ve got to keep an eye on you.”

  Push the boat out, so he can take me out and kill me. Dump my body on the shoals. Just what he did with Darryl Kelly. The gun was out of his pocket again. “Go on, now.” She pushed the boat’s bow. It scraped along the sand and floated out into the listless surf. Stiles waded after it, heedless of his shoes and pants legs. He tossed the coins in the boat and jumped in himself. “Keep pushing,” he said. “Take it out about waist deep.”

  The water was warm. Waves broke around Isabel’s body, soaking her sneakers and jeans. She pushed the boat as Stiles watched her over the side, following her with the gun. When the water had reached her waist, he said, “That’s good. Deep enough to let the motor down. Get in.” He extended his free hand, and she clambered over the side. The boat had crosswise, benchlike seats. Stiles was sitting in the stern, beside the motor.

  This, Isabel knew, was the only time she would have to do something. Stiles had to let the motor down and get it started. After that, there would be no more distractions until they were far enough from shore for him to shoot her without anyone hearing.

  Stiles, in the back, was lowering the motor. Under the seat between the two of them lay the bundle of Spanish coins, where it had fallen when Stiles tossed it in the boat.

  Isabel bent over and put her head on her knees.

  “Sit up,” Stiles commanded. He had put the gun down next to his leg while he adjusted the motor.

  “I’m sick,” Isabel said.

  “If you’re going to puke, do it over the side.”

  Not a bad idea. Clutching her stomach, Isabel slid off the seat and, on her knees, struggled to the side of the boat making retching sounds. She was now in a position to reach the coins, and Stiles was in her peripheral vision. When she saw him turn to the motor, she slumped and grabbed the bundle. Her fingers closed around the knot.

  Isabel pushed up to the middle seat. She was aware of Stiles’s head turning as she lunged toward him. She drew back the bundle of coins and smashed it into his temple.

  He gave a wheezing gasp. She could smell him, smell sweat and tobacco. She drew back and hit him again. His face dark red, he slipped sideways off the seat.

  Isabel threw herself forward. Her fingers closed on the gun.

  41

  On his second day out, Harry got a job as a deckhand on a boat called the Carina. Rich people on vacation. The guy they’d had before got drunk once too often. They were planning to end up in Key West after a while. Once Harry got there, he was going to be a dive bum. Maybe that’s what he was meant to be all along.

  He had the coins with him, still in the tackle box. The rest of the stuff he’d stashed in a safe place.

  Treasure diving was what Harry really wanted to do. He was planning to hook up with an outfit in South Florida. Quite a bit of it went on down there, from what he had heard.

  After a while, when he got himself in order, Harry would go back to Cape St. Elmo, sneak back, and see Isabel. She’d be sick of the place by that time and ready to come with him. Harry imagined a house down in the Keys, a simple place on the water, with a deck. He could see Isabel on that deck, her feet up, her sketchpad on her knees. She would be concentrating so hard, she wouldn’t hear Harry coming up next to her, wouldn’t know he was there until he touched her. Then she’d smile and put her drawing away. They’d sit in the dusk, watching the sun set far out over the water.

  This was Harry’s new life. Across the way, Harry could see the lights on shore, bright points marking places he didn’t have to go to, where he wasn’t expected or known. He had a tackle box and some gold coins, and all the time in the world.

  Epilogue

  It was midafternoon on the Fourth of July. On a wooden platform in the St. Elmo Municipal Park, a man was playing “My Darling Clementine” on the harmonica. The bleachers were packed, and the smell of grilling hot dogs wafted from an open barbecue pit. Behind the bleachers, children and dogs cha
sed one another. From the top row, Isabel Anders and Clem Davenant watched the talent show.

  The wash pot had contained two hundred Spanish gold coins. All of them were legally Isabel’s, since they had been found on her land. They were worth a lot of money. That was good news, but it was only the beginning of a complicated story. The house and the woods around it were now a historic site, and with Isabel’s permission excavations would be done on the property by archaeologists. The place had to be protected from freelance treasure hunters who had learned about Isabel’s windfall. Who knew, after all, how much Spanish treasure was still buried in the woods? The site of the Esperanza, too, would be excavated by the State’s underwater archaeologists. Clem had suggested that when the work was finished, the place would be used as a recreational diving site, in memory of his son Edward. All of this was in various stages of planning. Isabel was working with Clem on dealing with the myriad legal details.

  And what about the house? That remained to be decided. Isabel didn’t want to live there again, but neither did she intend, ever, to sell it and the land to developers. At the moment she and Clem were looking into donating the house and land to the state, with some idea that the house might be refurbished and used as a museum. That possible development was a long way down the road.

  In the meantime, Isabel had left Merriam’s trailer and rented a cottage on the beach, still on Cape St. Elmo but closer to town. She was going to be here for a while. She wasn’t sure it would be forever. That, too, remained to be seen.

  Ted Stiles, now in custody, was a fixture in her nightmares. Often she dreamed she had shot him and woke up wishing it were true. In life, she had brought him in with monumental calm, having been pushed to a place beyond emotion. In her sleep, she screamed obscenities at him and slashed at his eyes with her fingernails.

  Working on The Children from the Sea had helped. She was almost finished with it. She thought it was macabre enough to please most children.

  Harry was still at large. The police continued to claim he would be caught any day.