Grandmother Miss Lacy frowned. “Tinks, why on earth?”
“To scare us off the hunt,” I said. “Tinks picked up pork chops for the café the day of the robbery. He used the blood from the butcher’s paper to leave a bloody handprint on Harm’s windowsill—also to scare us.”
Sal clicked my photo of the bloody handprint.
“That was my handprint,” he said. “I can’t stand blood. I wore cheap plastic gloves.”
Crud. Plastic gloves. Why didn’t we think of that?
I turned to Starr. “You’re a professional. Why didn’t you think of that?”
“I did,” he said, making a note. “Didn’t you?”
Gabriel looked around the room. “So, thanks to our junior sleuths, we now know Tinks stole their clue. How nice. Arrest him, please, and let’s open the treasure.”
I smiled at Kat. “You may not have heard about the robbery, because you were sick.”
“That’s right,” she said, her face lighting up like I’d given her a present. “I had a stomach virus that night. I was in bed a couple of days, in fact.”
Gotcha, I thought.
Skeeter handed me a file. “Tinks made a mistake when he was in high school, but you didn’t hear it because somebody kept it quiet,” I said, pacing. “Still, the information was easy to find, for anybody who looked. And even easier for Kat Kline, who knew it from the start.”
Tinks sighed. “I got in trouble showing off for a girl, in high school. In fact, I broke into a house to impress her, and I got caught—by Miss Thornton. Which was easy, because it was her house I broke into. And she was napping in her parlor.”
The café erupted.
“Tinks?” the mayor cried. “A robber? Impossible!”
Tinks bowed his head. “Thanks to Miss Thornton I got off with probation, and even that wasn’t on my record after I turned eighteen. She never told a soul except Mr. Red, and I never went wrong again—until now.”
“Mo, I want to make a guess here,” Harm whispered. He rose. “That crime wasn’t on Tinks’s record, but Gabriel knew about it because Kat told him. And Kat knew because she was the girl Tinks showed off for.”
Good guess, I thought, watching Kat’s face.
Tinks took up the story. “When Kat came back to town, I thought she liked me again. I wanted to help her find the treasure—until Gabriel started blackmailing me.”
“Blackmailing you?” Starr asked, his voice sharp.
“A lie,” Gabriel said.
Tinks looked around the café. “Gabriel said he’d keep my past secret if I did him just one favor. I was standing at the cash register the night Mo called the café and told the Colonel they’d found a mega-clue. I overheard her. I went to Harm’s house and peeked in the window. And I saw the map.”
“You’re why the dogs kept barking that night,” Dale said.
Tinks nodded. “I told Gabriel and Kat, and I went back to steal it. I wore the re-enactor boots and put the bloody handprint on the windowsill to scare you kids off.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Did you steal our map?” I asked.
“No. I went to the back door, and I thought to myself, ‘Tinks, this really is crazy.’”
“Crazy ain’t crazy if it works,” Dale reminded him.
“Exactly. And this wouldn’t work,” Tinks said. “Plus it was wrong. Breaking into a house didn’t impress Kat twenty years ago, and it wouldn’t impress her now. And it wouldn’t settle the score with Gabriel, it would only make things worse.”
Dale stood, Queen Elizabeth proudly rising by his side. “So you changed your mind, which is why your boot prints led up to the house and back,” Dale said, and Sal clicked our footprints-by-the-door photo onto the screen. “But somebody went in. So you weren’t alone.”
Gabriel jumped to his feet. “This is an insult. Kat, let’s go.”
“Sit,” Starr said.
Gabriel sat. So did Queen Elizabeth.
“Good girl, Liz,” Dale said, and looked at me. “So who went inside?”
“Mom had a key,” Harm said, his voice dry and lifeless as sand. He looked at her. “Mom, you took our map, and you took the box of old photos from the hall closet.”
Kat crossed her arms. “It’s a lie. Tinks did it. If the shoe fits, wear it, Tinks.”
“Were they your boots, Tinks?” I asked.
He shook his head.
Skeeter clicked her briefcase open. “Not many people make Colonial boots,” she said. “And none of them have made boots for Gabriel Archer or Kat Kline. I checked.”
“See?” Kat said. “They were Tinks’s. Just like in the photo.”
And that’s the reason you gave me those photos, I thought. Proof of Tinks’s boots.
“Those boots rotted away years ago,” Tinks said.
I nodded to Skeeter. “Were there orders for size twelve men’s boots?”
“I found one rush order placed by Rhonda Baker, a week before she and Gabriel came to town.”
Mr. Red closed his eyes and shook his head.
“A lie,” Kat said over the café’s cries.
I reached in our evidence box. “Is it? We also found this scrap of fabric on the dog pen, the night you robbed Harm and Mr. Red,” I said, lifting out the thin strip of shiny, royal-blue fabric. “Can or may I see your jacket, whichever is correct?” I asked.
“No,” she snapped, folding her jacket on her lap. “Not unless you have a warrant.”
I turned to Sal’s mom. She’s short and dresses good, same as Sal.
“Mrs. Jones?”
Sal’s mom stood and adjusted her beret. “I mended the lining in that jacket for Kat,” she said. “The fabric I used is so close in color and sheen, only an artist could tell the difference.” I passed the evidence bag to her, and she examined the fabric I’d found at the crime scene. “This is the original, Mo.” She wrinkled her nose at me and sat down.
“Thank you for that expert testimony as a third-generation seamstress. And here’s my photo proving the fabric was caught on the wire by the dog pen,” I said as Sal clicked our next slide into place.
The café looked at Kat, who shrugged. “I used my key to enter my childhood home, I claimed some personal things, and I snagged my jacket. So what? I didn’t take your map.”
“Maybe you should have,” Sal said. “A map just a few years younger than the Desperados’ recently sold for $460,000. Of course, its art was better, but it wasn’t written in poison ink by Blackbeard’s ex.”
$460,000? I went dizzy.
“You did take it, Kat,” I said, reclaiming my legendary balance. “But Tinks wanted to leave it. You two skirmished by the dog pen,” I said, and Sal showed our trampled-grass photo. “The map went flying, and you lost it in the dark. The dogs barked, Mr. Red shouted, and you ran, snagging the plastic wrap on the last piece of our map. The piece with the riddle. You ran away with the poison ink clue, Kat. And the ink made you sick.”
Mrs. Little looked oddly pleased. “The ink worked. You’ve admitted being sick.”
“Tinks? You were at the mayor’s the night we unveiled the portrait of Tupelo Mother,” I said. “The one that got stolen, along with the mayor’s coins.”
The Colonel stepped in. “Tinks didn’t have to tip anybody off about the portrait,” he said. “The mayor bragged to everybody in the café.”
The mayor hung his head.
“Yes, let’s discuss the portrait,” I said. The Colonel headed for the kitchen, right on cue, as Tinks faced the crowd.
“First I want to say I made mistakes,” Tinks said. “But when I saw a chance to make things right, I did. I helped the Desperados dig for treasure. I borrowed Gabriel’s scuba gear and risked my life for them.”
Gabriel jumped up. “He stole my gear. Arrest him.”
“Sit down,” G
randmother Miss Lacy snapped. “I refilled those tanks myself. You’re not even out the price of air, you unctuous peacock of a man.”
Unctuous? We all turned to Sal.
“Unctuous means he’s a creepy, groveling suck-up,” she said, her red curls glistening.
“Extra credit for vocabulary,” Miss Retzyl cried.
Harm leaned close and whispered: “Why is Gabriel here? It can’t just be curiosity. He can read about our treasure in tomorrow’s papers,” he added as a reporter shuffled in.
Harm’s right, I thought. Gabriel has something up his sleeve. But what?
“Gabriel Archer played us,” I said, hoping to flush him out.
“He didn’t play me,” Mrs. Simpson said, filing her nails.
“Especially you, Mrs. Simpson,” I said. “Gabriel came to town in a hotshot car, which impressed you, and said he was from an old family in Virginia. But according to Starr’s background check, this Gabriel Archer is Gabriel Smitty Archer from Charleston, West Virginia.”
Harm jumped up and paced. “Gabriel told us he worked with his young niece, so you knew he’d work with a kid—like Anna. But according to Starr’s report, Gabriel has no family—and no niece. He conned you, Mrs. Simpson. You invested in his dig and he made Attila his intern. Every kid alive wants to find treasure—including Anna.”
“That may be the only way Anna’s normal,” I added.
Mrs. Simpson shrugged. “Anna needs to learn responsibility. And she’s getting chubby. I thought the exercise might help.”
Attila’s face went fire-truck red. “Mother, please,” she whispered.
I hate Mrs. Simpson.
“Attila’s the perfect size for a mortal enemy,” I snapped. “Leave her alone.” I wheeled and pointed at Gabriel. “Gabriel needed your money. He’s broke. Bankruptcy cases are public record,” I added, and Skeeter flipped a file onto the table.
“Broke?” Mrs. Simpson said. “Gabriel Archer, you owe me ten thousand dollars.”
“I don’t,” he said. “Read the fine print, sweetie.”
Dale turned to Miss Retzyl. “Gabriel isn’t the kind of person you want to marry.”
“Marry?” she said. “Who on earth would marry a man like Gabriel Archer?”
Kat, maybe, I thought, watching her.
“Is that it, Desperados?” Starr asked. “I need time to sort these charges.”
“There’s one more thing,” I said as the Colonel walked in carrying the rectangular bundle we’d saved from the aircraft at Gabriel’s camp. Dale settled it on the counter, and whipped its cover away.
“Presto,” he said. “Tupelo Mother. She’s home from being stole.”
Mrs. Little gasped, her eyes filling with tears.
“You stole that?” Kat said, glaring at Gabriel. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Because he didn’t plan to cut you in,” I said.
“I’d like to know where my finds are too,” Attila said, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m responsible. I worked hard on this project. I found the buttons, a sword hilt, two pistols from those graves. Knives, coins . . . Where are they and when do I get paid, Gabriel?”
Sal placed a file on the evidence table. “All those things are valuable, Anna,” she said. “Here’s my appraisal of the things the Desperados discovered in the trunks in the Littles’ attic. Clothes, tools, a peg leg . . . That little tapestry purse alone is worth thousands. As for this painting, Tupelo Mother, painted in 1727. It’s homemade paints on poplar wood. With an unknown model, my appraisal sets the value around twelve thousand dollars. But if it’s a portrait of Mary Ormond—Blackbeard’s fourteenth wife—it’s worth triple that. At least.”
“As for your finds, Attila, they’re being sold on the black market by a tall pilot with a bite mark on his arm,” I said. “Detective Starr, did you run the airplane numbers we gave you?”
“I did. We found Gabriel’s accomplice as he landed in New Jersey with Tupelo Landing’s artifacts. Plus the things from the Littles’ safe. I’ll make sure it all comes home. And you,” he told Gabriel. “Stay where I can see you.”
“Everybody to the parking lot,” I said. “It’s time to open Blackbeard’s treasure.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Treasures
Moments later, Harm and me scrambled onto the back of Lavender’s pickup, by the weird copper cube, as the crowd surged around us. Dale scampered up as Grandmother Miss Lacy snapped our photo.
I raised my hands and the crowd settled. “We’d like to thank everyone who helped us, including Miss Retzyl in case of extra credit,” I said. “Harm?”
Harm lifted a hatchet from Lavender’s toolbox. A few whacks later we peeled the cube’s copper sides down, revealing a tangle of crumbly coconut fibers. We raked them away. The sun glistened on a perfectly preserved mahogany chest carved in a comet burst of Xs and Os. “I’ve seen that design on your parlor chair, Myrt,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said.
“It’s Peg-Leg’s signature pattern,” Dale said, trying the lid. “No keyhole,” he said, frowning. “Just a brass carving where the keyhole should be.” He squatted and peered at it. “The reverse image of Blackbeard’s seal—a skeleton stabbing a bleeding heart.”
The reverse image? I lifted the ring from our evidence box and pressed the seal into the carving. “Please work,” I whispered, turning it. The latch popped open.
Grandmother Miss Lacy sprang to the running board as we opened the chest. Click.
Dale’s shoulders sagged. “Another dress.”
“Silk,” Sal said, her eyes glowing. “An eighteenth-century party dress.” She frowned. “With a square of calico pinned to it—with brass pins.” She gasped. “Mo, this calico was cut from the attic dress. The calico dress is worth eight thousand dollars to any museum in the country. And this one is silk. This square of calico proves this is Mary Ormond’s dress too,” Sal said. “It’s worth a fortune.”
Harm whistled. “A dress too dangerous for Tupelo Landing, and too cherished to burn.”
“Slippers,” Sal breathed, peeping in the trunk. “From England.”
I lifted a rectangular package wrapped in oilcloth. “Another portrait,” I called, unwrapping it. A sharp-faced girl stared at me: hooked nose, green eyes, long blond hair. She wore the party dress we’d just found—and a necklace of glittering emeralds.
Harm read the name on the back of the canvas. “Mary Ormond, 1716.”
I glanced at Mrs. Little, picturing Grandmother Miss Lacy’s photo of her as a girl. Then I pictured the portrait of Tupelo Mother 1727, from the attic, and looked at this portrait.
The hair on my arms stood up.
“This is the girl from the first painting,” Dale said, staring at the new portrait. “Only in the first portrait, she had short brown hair and wore a plain brown dress. Not long blond hair and a party dress with jewels.” Dale looked at me, his eyes wide. “Mary Ormond went incognito. She buried this stuff to stay safe. She invented her own Witness Protection Program.”
“Incognito! Excellent word choice,” Miss Retzyl cried. “Extra credit.”
“You are indubitably correct, Dale,” I said, and looked at Miss Retzyl. Nothing. I pressed on. “Dale’s right. Blackbeard’s crew was looking for this Mary Ormond,” I said, hoisting the new portrait high. “She cut and dyed her hair, going Colonial drab,” I said as Harm lifted Tupelo Mother.
A big-haired twin scrambled onto the tailgate. “Mary Ormond probably used mayapples to dye her hair that mousy brown color, but there’s no excuse for those eyebrows. Tweezers were invented in 3000 BC.”
I smiled and said words I never expected to say: “Thank you for that expert opinion, Crissy or Missy.”
As the crowd applauded the twin off the tailgate, Harm reached into the chest and lifted a silver cup. “Blackbeard’s chalice. Just like Miss Thornton’s book said.”
>
We’re on a roll, I thought, reaching in and untying a small oilskin bundle. Crud. Mary buried a doll in a death-trap treasure pit? Was she mad?
“Excellent!” I cried, holding it up. “A doll!”
“She’s a beauty. And valuable,” Bill Glasgow called. “That’s French porcelain.”
“Dolls aren’t treasure,” Mrs. Little shouted.
I looked at Miss Retzyl. “This doll’s valuable, but it meant more than gold to Mary Ormond, a girl married off to a seadog sociopath. If I understand metaphor, and thanks to Miss Retzyl I do, this doll is Mary’s childhood, kept safe from Blackbeard.”
Miss Retzyl gave me a thumbs-up. Extra credit. Yes!
“What else?” Mrs. Little shouted. The trunk stared at us, empty.
“Mo,” Harm whispered, “remember the attic trunk? Peg-Leg built this one too.”
We examined the trunk’s corners. “Thank you, Peg-Leg,” he whispered as one gave way. A door in the trunk’s floor scraped open. Mary’s emerald necklace—the one in her portrait—sparkled up at us from a thick bed of rubies and gold jewelry.
I lifted the necklace, emeralds dripping from my hands.
“Emeralds,” Gabriel said, working his way to us. “Magnificent.”
Mrs. Little slammed her cane against the tailgate. “Don’t touch it, thief.”
“Hey!” I shouted. “Don’t ding Lavender’s truck.” I grabbed her cane and whacked the chest, just like she hit the trunk in the attic. A hidden door scraped open in the wall, and a scroll belly-flopped to the trunk’s floor. I unrolled it. “A message from Mary Ormond,” I said.
“Please, not another curse,” Dale muttered, closing his eyes.
“A confession,” I announced, and the crowd went quiet as snowfall.
Our Confession
On this sad day—July 20, 1719—I, Mary Ormond, and my husband, Peg-Leg, make the following confession. Around noon we left our home and rowed across the river, for a picnic on the bluff. We landed at a low, friendly spot known for good fishing.
“The old fish camp,” Dale said, and the crowd nodded.
The Law of Finders Keepers Page 24