by Ami Diane
“Hey, I was looking for that.” Flo scooped it up and gave it a quick peck on its purple chrome surface before narrowing her eyes. “You pinched one of my guns, poodle head?”
“No.”
Flo continued to stare.
“Maybe. Okay, yes. But only because I needed the means to defend myself.”
A smug smile created deep divots in the old coot’s cheeks. “Finally coming around, I see.”
“Just be grateful I left that part out when giving Chapman my statement. I figured I owe you that much, despite the fact that I couldn’t see right for several minutes after. Thank you for that, by the way.”
“Interesting. What happened?”
After sucking in a tired breath, Ella explained how everything had appeared upside down.
“Ha, so it worked. I’d been searching for a subject to try it on, but couldn’t find a brave enough volunteer.” She shot Wink a glare.
The diner owner threw her hands in the air. “I told you, I’d be happy to shoot you with it.”
“So, it was intended to do that? Make everything all—” Ella crossed her eyes “—topsy-turvy?”
“‘Course it is. Right, Will?”
The inventor, who’d been picking at a scratch on the table, ducked his head. “How’s that?”
Ella gasped. “William Jade Whitehall—”
“Wrong guess again. That’s not my middle name.”
“—you owe me breakfast.” After taking a moment to revel in his discomfort, she pointed at the weapon. “How’s it work?”
He looked up, seemingly relieved at the change of subject. “Our eyes actually see images upside down, and the rods and cones encode what we see into messages that get sent along the optic nerve where the brain interprets them, hereby flipping the image right-side up once again.”
He reached for the weapon, but Flo quickly drew it away, tucking it into her brazier, ensuring no one would try to reach for it.
“Anyway, that gun shoots out tightly-grouped pulses of light in a specific pattern of wavelengths that temporarily disrupt these electrochemical signals along the optic nerve. That’s the simplified version, anyway.”
Ella had begun picking at her scone again, nodding her head. When he finished, she said, “So, how does it work again?” Will let out an exasperated sigh before she added, “I’m kidding. That’s very cool. But here’s a question: why the deuce does she have this technology?”
Flo grinned.
“Because,” Will said, his voice pained, “I needed batteries, and she’s got a stockpile of them.”
“You made a deal with the devil for batteries?”
Jimmy, who’d been quiet during this exchange up until now, thudded his palms onto the table and glared daggers at Flo. “You’ve been withholding batteries? You were supposed to report your stock years ago to the committee.”
“Why? So they could take what’s mine? It’s not my problem people failed to have a supply—”
“Hoarder,” Ella said, masking it loudly with a cough.
Flo growled, “I’d be happy to share, of course, for trade. They ain’t free.”
Before the conversation could proceed, getting threatening close to the divisive topics of capitalism and socialism, a voice called from the distant entrance hall.
CHAPTER 30
THE THUD OF boots preceded Chapman’s entrance into the kitchen. He held his derby hat in his hands, his thick gray hair swept back with a pomade of some sort.
“Thought I’d find you all here.”
“Good guess, Sherlock.” Flo took up her nail file again, her topsy-turvy gun suspiciously absent. Beside her, Wink dug her elbow into her best friend’s side.
Ella used her foot to scoot out the empty chair opposite her. He took the cue and sat, groaning along with the chair.
“Well?” she said when he didn’t speak. “Did she admit to killing Darren?”
“She did,” he paused to thank Rose as she set a cup of coffee in front of him. Sipping, the man took as long as winter before speaking again. “And her prints match the set I found on the cannonball. This is what I’ve gathered after having a spell with the both of ‘em. When Mr. Herrera’s ship crashed, the treasure was still aboard—”
Flo interrupted. “Who’s Mr. Herrera?”
“Diego,” Ella answered then shushed the boarder.
“He was the last of his crew,” Chapman continued, “or so he claims. The others were thrown overboard. I don’t expect we’ll ever really know for certain if that’s true.
“Anyway, he thought he’d crashed off the coast of Florida. He stumbled around his new surroundings in search of help when he came across a horse in the field, Six’s buckskin is my guess. And, despite his injuries, he moved the treasure. Buried it in the forest just behind the greenhouses. By his account, it took several trips, and he was near passing out when he went back for his last load.
“That’s when Ms. Heinzman happened upon him. The last load held that painting she so badly wants. She wanted to take him to get medical attention then and there, but he refused to leave behind the rest of the treasure.
“So, together, they buried the last lot. He didn’t want her knowing about the rest, so he guided her to bury it in a different spot. And she figured she’d approach him later, after he’d recovered, about the lost artwork he had.
“Anyhow, you know the rest. The sailor convalesced at the inn quickly. The moment he felt well enough to ride, he borrowed a neighbor’s horse, went to both treasure sites, and moved them deeper into the forest.
“Around that time, Ms. Heinzman said she went looking for the painting where they’d buried it. She claimed she just wanted to see it again, had no ill intentions, but all she found was fresh, overturned earth.
“When she asked Mr. Herrera about it, he shrugged and spoke in Spanish, a language she only knew a little. Word of the pirate and his treasure spread. And soon, too many others were pestering him about his buried gold. He moved out of the inn, only to be seen on rare occasions since.”
“What about food? And water?” Ella asked.
“Well, after his short supply ran out, he snuck into town during the night and met up with her. Through their language barrier, he set up a deal with her to supply him with the essentials. At first, she did it out of the goodness of her heart, but I suspect she had an ulterior motive.”
“She thought she could get the location of the painting from him,” Ella supplied.
“That’s my guess. During that time, the teacher got to know him, tried to learn more of his language, taught him hers, all the while, pressing him about the painting.
“For the next couple years, she supplied him with food and water and taught him English. He’d holed himself up in an extensive cave system that’s behind the east Twin Hill. To show his appreciation, he gave her gold jewelry periodically.”
The cross necklace, she thought.
“I think he genuinely thought they were friends, and maybe on some level, she thought so, too.”
“All the while,” Ella said, “she was using him.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Quid pro quo.”
Flo looked up from her nails. “You can’t just make up words, poodle head.”
Ella rolled her eyes and muttered about the old woman needing to read more books under her breath while Wink told Flo to zip it.
“Get to the good part, lawman,” Flo said, ignoring them both.
“And by ‘good part’, you mean where a man died?” Ella asked.
Chapman cleared his throat. “Patience, Flo.”
“Insufferable woman,” Flo murmured.
“He didn’t mean the councilwoman,” Wink cut in.
Chapman fidgeted with his hat, waiting for them to finish. When the table had fallen silent again, he continued. “Ms. Heinzman, from the sound of it, became obsessed with the painting. Really built it up in her head. She even teamed up with Mr. Alexander to try to find the treasure. They agreed to
use her connection to the sailor to set up a meeting between the two of them at the shipwreck. She also lied and told him she’d seen a treasure map but that the pirate still had it. Anyway, the plan was, Mr. Alexander would lie in wait, and they’d corner the pirate until he outed the location of the treasure.
“But then she overheard Mr. Alexander telling the missus that he’d cut her out once they found the treasure. She confessed that it was at that moment that she planned on doing him in.
“At their meeting, before the pirate got there, she climbed onto the deck of the ship, waited for Mr. Alexander to walk below, then dropped a cannonball atop his head.”
Ella winced. “That explains the blunt-force trauma.” But not the post-mortem rope marks around his neck. “So, he was hanged after that?”
Chapman nodded. “Yep, looks like it.”
“Diego did it, didn’t he?” At the sheriff’s suspicious glance, she added, “the rope burns on his arms, remember?”
“That’s right. Once she killed Mr. Alexander, she ran. The pirate arrived for their meeting only to find Mr. Alexander’s body instead. He knew he’d be fingered for the crime, but he also saw an opportunity.”
“If everyone thought he was dead,” Ella said, “they’d stop hunting him.” Chapman nodded. “But how’d he know someone would come along and see the body soon after?”
“It’s a popular spot right now. The terrain creates a perfect shoreline. It was only a matter of time before Mr. Alexander was discovered. He only needed one person to witness the dead man in his clothes before the rumor would spread that the pirate was dead.”
“And that’s what happened,” Will said.
“After you left, Ms. Barton, the sailor cut the man down and disposed of his body. Obviously, not very well.”
“Why not just throw it in the ocean?” she asked. Her stomach turned at the callousness of both Diego and Maria.
“Like I said, he knew he’d be blamed for the man’s death, or at the very least, his disappearance. And the switch with the body bought him time. He thought Six was behind it. That’s why he dumped the body on Six’s property instead of the ocean. See, he needed the body in order to throw suspicion off himself.”
A shadow passed over the picture window so quickly Ella wondered if it had been her imagination. A bird probably.
The glass vibrated as a feral noise rose up, causing all the hairs on her arm to stand on end. The noise continued, a throaty screech.
Nobody moved.
When the noise finally died, Ella cleared her throat. “That lawn mower sure sounds like it could use a good mechanic.”
“El, I don’t think that was—” Will’s mouth stopped moving as she pressed her finger to his lips.
“Sh, let me have this one.” As it was, she was going to have nightmares for a week.
The roar rose again, this time from a different direction, deeper and more guttural. A chill went to her bones.
When the animalistic cry finally died, the glass stilled. Whatever had made that sound had to have the lung capacity of a blimp.
“Yep,” she said, her voice small and shrill. “Sounds like a bad motor.”
The floor vibrated with what felt like an earthquake. Something dark darted past the inn. Then another.
Like a wave, everyone rushed to the window, pressing their noses to the glass. Unless lawn mowers suddenly had reptilian skin and ran on two legs, the bellow had not caused by yard equipment, and she was forced to reconcile with the fear that had been growing in her chest since she’d first heard it.
She swallowed. “Holy Jurassic Park! Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes,” Will answered.
Well, this was going to be interesting.
Hello dear readers,
I wanted to make a quick note of two things. First, when I began research for this story, searching for the perfect artist’s paintings to reference, I came across Christ before Pilate and couldn’t believe it. Once I saw the finger gun, I knew then and there that Luis de Morales’s work was the one.
I took creative license with the lost painting. There is no rumored painting by Morales that has gone missing. Furthermore, I creatively imagined paintings and tapestries amongst the artifacts being shipped from Spain. Nevertheless, the 1715 Treasure Fleet was real. It’s a fascinating story, and if you’re at all curious about it, I highly recommend researching this snippet of history.
Secondly, I am going to get a bit personal and overshare as I am wont to do from time to time. While writing this book, my mental health issues reared its ugly head. Some days, it was a severe struggle to write. Hence, this book took longer than I would’ve liked, but I was battling the shadows that haunt me.
My stories are far-fetched and silly, but it’s my way of coping with the world. Life is serious and hard enough as is, and I’ve found it of upmost importance to learn to laugh in all situations. I hope you find refuge and comfort in the silliness as much as I do, and I hope these books make you smile.
If you or someone you love struggles with any sort of mental health issue, know that I applaud every human fighting this battle. I support you and fight alongside you. You are not alone. Learn self-care and guard it like your life depends on it. Be kind to yourself, and, please, be kind to others.
Ami Diane
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