Death at China Rose (Sunshine State Murders), page 15
“Can I help you with anything? We don’t get many visitors.”
“No, no,” I said quickly. “I’m supposed to meet with one of the professors, but he’s caught in traffic or something.”
He tilted his head. I could see black spots floating in the sclera of both eyes, like planets around a black sun. “Was your meeting with Jon Monroe?”
“Yeah, how’d you...” I shut up—some detective, huh?
Professor Monroe directed me to his small, comfortably cluttered office.
“Sorry about the misunderstanding, Professor.”
“It’s Jon, and don’t give it a second thought.” He rolled his chair from behind his desk and crossed his legs. “People see a name, and that name always carries a certain set of expectations. If it makes you feel any better, my middle name is Augusto. Would you like a beverage? I’m having coffee.” Jon dropped a pod into the coffeemaker and pressed a button. Seconds later the machine spat out a cup of java.
“So,” Jon said, handing me my coffee, “what does Grubber County’s most famous private eye want with me?”
“Famous?” The sudden chill in the air had nothing to do with the AC. I was damned sure I hadn’t mentioned my profession to him, and I seriously doubted that people in Newnansville paid much attention to their neighbors in tiny Grubber County. Well, I had done my homework, and Jon had done his. After all, it wasn’t like the old days when you had to bust your ass to get the dope on someone. Nowadays all it took was a few minutes and a smartphone.
“Thanks for the compliment, but I’m probably Grubber County’s only PI.” I tried the coffee—good dark flavor.
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Addie.”
I was gearing up for my first question when the professor cut me off at the pass.
“On the phone you said you were interested in pirate activity in Florida.”
“I was mainly interested in buried treasure.”
“Aren’t we all?” In true professorial fashion, Jon laughed too long and hard at his joke. “Before we get to your questions, I have one of my own.”
I kept the smile plastered on my face. These fucking academic types always insisted on running the show. Why fight it?
“I need to know what your connection to Ancy Prince is before this goes any further. Is he your client?”
“I can’t reveal my client’s identity.”
Jon put down his mug. “Then this conversation is over.”
I quickly backtracked. “I can tell you that I’m not working for Prince. I talked to him for background information on a case and wasn’t entirely happy with what he gave me. I wanted to check with another archaeologist.”
This was more to Jon’s liking. “That doesn’t surprise me, as Prince is not an archaeologist.”
“That’s not what he told me,” I said, and then expanded on the lie about Ancy. “I asked Ancy for information about Lafitte’s treasure, which was purportedly buried in north Florida.”
Jon’s eyes narrowed as he considered this. “That seems an odd topic for a PI to be interested in.”
I spread my hands. “It’s for a job.”
“I’m surprised that Prince took time away from his excavation at China Rose to talk to you.”
“You know about that?”
“The archaeology community is a small one. A former student told me about the dig.”
“Actually the dig at China Rose has been cancelled, so Ancy has plenty of free time,” I said.
Jon set down his mug and steepled his hands. “Before we continue, would you indulge me?”
“Sure.” I smelled a pop quiz in the air.
“Imagine you’re walking alone in one of the lost places of the earth—maybe a desert in New Mexico, or a jungle in Peru—your choice.”
“Is this like that cubing thing, because I...”
“No, this is a serious thought experiment.”
“Okay then.” WTF, it was his sandbox. “Let’s say I’m in the desert, I guess.”
Jon seemed pleased at my choice. “Ambling along, you notice an object jutting out of the sand. The object turns out to be an ancient Anasazi pot. What do you do with it?”
Obviously a trick question, but I couldn’t see the trick. I could either take the pot with me, or leave it to the desert. I didn’t care about pots—I collected murderers, not pots. “I’d leave it in the sand.”
Jon leaned in. “Why?”
“I don’t want the hassle. I’m not interested in pots. I’d leave it alone.”
“You’re honest,” Jon said, sitting back in his chair. “A lot of people would take the pot home and put flowers in it.”
It was my turn. “What does this have to do with Ancy Prince?”
He drained his coffee and rolled his chair nearer. “I wanted to see what kind of person you are—there are two only kinds, you know.”
“I know.”
The dark eyebrows shot up, but he stayed on point. “One kind of person would take the pot and the other would leave it alone. I’ll grant you that most people would be conflicted—real-life decisions are not as simple as a thought experiment. But with Ancy Prince, it is simple. He would have taken the pot, and gutted the ground for more, until there was nothing left.” Jon had spoken calmly, but there was cold fury behind the words.
“I take it you and Ancy have a history.” It wasn’t exactly a stab in the dark.
“No, no, not really. I know Ancy primarily by reputation.” Jon smiled the way a hyena might. Despite his protestations, these two hunters of the past shared a common history, one that cut both ways, a dagger.
I drank coffee, thinking how to proceed. “After talking with Ancy, I did have...doubts about him. I mean, that business of his doesn’t seem completely legal.”
“Worldwide Earth,” Jon said in a pained tone. He explained that Ancy scoured the world for plunder—he either illegally dug it from the ground himself or bought it from people as unscrupulous as he. Then he transported goods back to the States to sell to the highest bidder. “Even if his actions are marginally legal, they are certainly unethical.”
“But you believe he’s crossed the line, legally speaking.”
Jon nodded. “Unfortunately I have no proof that he’s importing contraband.”
“But you have an idea of how he’s doing it,” I prodded.
“It’s the old, tired bag of tricks—bribery, forged documents, mislabeled objects, you name it. Until now, Prince has been smart enough to fly under the radar, that’s why he’s stayed in business this long. It’s risky, but he’s well compensated. Have you seen that mansion of his? And he stockpiles muscle cars the way my five-year-old nephew collects Hot Wheels.”
“I’m glad it’s not personal between you two,” I said drily.
Jon’s strange eyes fixed on mine. “Enough about Ancy Prince—you wanted to know about buried treasure.”
“First question—is pirate treasure for real?”
Jon’s smile widened. “Of course it’s real. There were pirates and they did have treasure. Now, if you’re asking me if any is buried in north Florida—that’s another question.”
“Consider it asked.”
The thick eyebrows bunched together. “The short answer is yes. Historically, Florida was rife with pirate activity—both Gasparilla and Black Caesar had headquarters at Charlotte Harbor. Amelia Island was another hot spot—at different times a lot of famous pirates sojourned there—Blackbeard, Kidd, Lafitte. Factor in several wars, Spanish conquistadores, as well as French explorers, and you’ve got a witch’s brew of potential mischief.” Jon folded his arms and leaned close. “You see, Addie, treasure doesn’t stay buried—it moves around. It gets found, stolen and buried again.”
“I’m glad you gave me the short answer,” I said. “What about Jean Lafitte? Was he active around here?”
Jon sighed theatrically. “Everyone always asks about Lafitte’s gold, but there’s no evidence that Lafitte or his men ever ventured this far inland. Still, there are several local legends about Lafitte’s treasure, one of which may even hold a speck of truth.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Near the turn of the last century, a man by the name of Cole Bard and his partner started excavating at Fool’s Bluff in north Florida. For whatever reason, they were convinced that Lafitte had buried his gold there.”
“Fool’s Bluff seems an apt name.”
“Maybe, but sometimes even fools get lucky. Three months into the dig, Bard quit. After selling his share to his partner, Bard moved to Newnansville. Shortly after arriving, he started spreading money around like it was compost. He invested in all sorts of businesses—a bank, hardware store, you name it.”
“How did Bard explain his sudden wealth?”
“He didn’t.”
“Didn’t anybody ask questions?”
“People asked, but Bard didn’t answer.”
“What about the government?”
“This was before income tax. It was a simpler time, at least for scavengers. To the end of his life, he remained silent.”
“If he didn’t break any laws, why not admit it?”
“You’re forgetting the partner.”
“Duh,” I said, slapping my forehead, Homer Simpson style.
“The partner had his suspicions, but at the end of the day couldn’t prove anything.”
“What happened to the partner?’
“Lost to history, like so much else.” Jon rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Everything I told you is fact. If you’re really interested, the Jameson Museum has an entire section dedicated to the story.”
He’d told a hell of a tale, but was it tall or short? If I believed Jon’s story, then maybe buried treasure on China Rose wasn’t just foolishness, as Moss and Charlie insisted.
I felt a frisson of excitement. In my business it often came down to money. People never have enough of it, and even when they do, they’ll lie, cheat or even kill to stuff their pockets with more. Ancy smelled a big payoff at China Rose. And maybe he wasn’t the only one.
Was money—in the ethereal form of Lafitte’s gold—at the heart of the brutal attack on Harry Pitts?
“I have a class at ten.” Jon started gathering papers. “If I’m as much as even a few minutes late, my students use that as a pretext to leave.”
I doubted that. His students probably loved him, and why not? He was a spellbinder, as all good teachers were. We exchanged business cards and shook hands.
“Remember what I said about there being two kinds of people. For your sake, don’t forget what kind Ancy Prince is.”
“Are you saying Ancy is dangerous?”
“Take it any way you like.”
Jon was right in that people were divided into two major types, but it had nothing to do with picking up pots in the desert. For my money people were divided between those who killed and those who didn’t.
And it was my job to sort them out.
Chapter Fourteen:
Sins of the Fathers
Walking back to the Vic, I checked my phone—still nothing from Angie. I checked MapQuest—the Jameson Museum that Jon had mentioned was on Main Street, less than three miles away.
Ten minutes later I was at the Jameson, yapping to a docent. “I was told you had some material on Cole Bard and Lafitte’s gold.”
“Such a fascinating story!” The stout woman clasped her hands together. “I just need your identification and there’s a twenty-dollar fee for every hour of research.”
“I doubt it would take an hour.”
“That may be, but it is a minimum fee.”
“Can I get a receipt?”
The woman made copies for me—at a dollar a page—and I was on my way. I’d intended to drive immediately to Ancy’s but was too curious about what I’d just purchased. I found a shaded bench in the museum’s small formal garden and flipped through the short stack of papers.
The articles had been culled from newspapers and periodicals, ranging from 1905 to 1953. A quick scan provided supplementary details to Jon’s narrative.
Cole Bard’s partner was a man by the name of Ernest Jenks. They’d been working at Fool’s Bluff for two months when Bard quit. Jenks bought him out, but when he heard about Bard’s spending spree in Newnansville, Jenks assumed that Bard had found the treasure and taken off with it. Even though there wasn’t much new information, the material provided a window into the cultural past.
The remaining articles were mostly sycophantic odes to Cole Bard that glossed over the mysterious source of Bard’s wealth, although there was an occasional dissonant note. At the end of one piece the author had slipped in this doozy: “No matter the whispers, Mr. Bard’s sound investments have benefitted Newnansville.”
History was a story of winners and losers, and history’s judgment was on full display in the two men’s obituaries. Cole Bard’s flowery obit was a lengthy and glowing recitation of a virtuous life spent in the making of money. Jenks’s summing-up was a single short, almost brusque, paragraph. Born 1865, died 1940, survived by his daughter and her two children, Henry and Etta. My eye stopped, as did my heart. I read the last sentence again: Mr. Jenks is survived by his daughter, Eula Lee Pitts, and his grandchildren, Henry and Etta.
Heart thumping, I searched the phrase Fool’s Bluff on my phone and soon had my answer. Fool’s Bluff was a bull’s-eye in the dead center of China Rose Fish Camp. My God, the connection to Lafitte’s gold went deep—blood-deep. Until that moment none of this had been real. Lafitte’s gold was something out of Stevenson. Fool’s Bluff was the Lost City of Z, an El Dorado that existed only in the minds of those besotted with dreams of golden treasure. But now...
Sweat rolled down my back. It was all connected—a trail of blood and gold that had begun at Fool’s Bluff and continued to this day. Harry’s murder was part of it, but there was so much else.
I walked back to the Vic, checking my phone on the way. I still hadn’t heard from Angie, which was troubling. Even if she’d struck out with Ancy and Rose—a big if—she would have called or emailed with an update. Still, it hadn’t been that long—maybe one of the Shaughnessy rug rats skinned a knee or something. I sent a text. If I didn’t hear from her by noon, I’d give a ring.
In the meantime, it seemed a shame to leave Newnansville without saying hi to my new friends Ancy and Georgia.
* * *
This is a mistake, I thought, staring through the cast-iron bars. The big white house sat several hundred yards back, looming over the formal landscape like a Mount Vernon wannabe. I started to press the call box, but stopped—once Ancy heard my voice, he’d never open up.
I sized up the situation. The Vic was parked parallel to the fence, well back from the road. The fence was tall but climbable, and I didn’t see any No Trespassing signs posted or patrolling Dobermans on the other side. Once I scaled the fence I was in. But did I want to be in?
Besides the fact that it was trespassing, an unannounced meeting with Ancy might blow up in my face. And Ang was still incommunicado so I had nothing to use for leverage.
But was that true? Jon had given me plenty on Ancy, and if I needed more, I could make it up on the fly.
The fence was a bit more of a challenge than anticipated—I fell on my butt in the soft dirt when I landed on the other side—but I managed to make myself presentable by the time I reached the massive front door. As I waited for someone to answer the bell, I belatedly wondered if it’d all been for naught—for all I knew the little Princes were out scavenging treasure. But then the door opened. I smiled at the tall cool blonde, but she didn’t smile back.
“Hello again, Mrs. Prince,” I said quickly, taking advantage of her confusion over my sudden appearance. “I’m a private investigator and I need to talk to your husband—it’s in his best interest.”
“How did you get inside?” she demanded, coming out of her stupor.
“The usual way,” I said.
“Georgia? What’s all this?” Ancy stopped short. “Oh, it’s you.”
Georgia Prince wheeled on her husband. “This woman—this private investigator—wants to talk to you. What have you been up to, Ancy?”
Ancy’s dazed eyes stared at Georgia. “I’ll take care of her.”
“You do that!” Georgia wheeled, her stiletto heels tapping out a machine-gun rhythm.
Ancy smiled at me. “Georgia’s a mite tense these last few days. We can talk in the den.”
As I followed, I wondered why Ancy was being so pleasant. It might have something to do with the booze I smelled, but I also knew that being pleasant was a con man’s bread and butter, his most effective weapon. After depositing me on the sofa, Ancy gestured at the well-stocked bar.
“I’m good.” It was barely eleven, a little too early for me.
“Are you sure?” Ancy flashed a thin smile and lofted a bottle of Macallan’s single malt. Tempting, but I resisted. Ancy poured a neat scotch and sat in an armchair. I took the sofa. Ancy drank deep. “I already told the police everything I knew about Harry’s murder, which wasn’t much.”
“I do want to talk to you about the night Harry was murdered, but before we get to that, I’d like to talk about your work.”
Ancy’s handsome face registered bland surprise, but he nodded.
“What were you really looking for at China Rose Ridge? And don’t tell me it was Lafitte’s gold.”
Ancy giggled, his face bright with delight. “I told Harry I was digging for Lafitte’s treasure. Have you heard the story?”
Had Ancy just admitted that Lafitte’s gold was bullshit? “Yeah, but my expert on the subject told me it’s highly unlikely that Lafitte planted any treasure this far inland.”
