“You are both too kind. Thank you. I guess I’m a little low on funds at the moment. Next time I see you, Frank, I will pay you back.” A casual lift of frail shoulders.

  “You don’t have to,” Frank said. “We’ve all been there. Take it easy, Silas.”

  “I will...Frank.”

  Frank laid a ten dollar bill on the counter. As the old man gobbled down the first donut Frank leaned over and whispered near Kate’s ear. “Send a few more donuts and another coffee along in a bag with him when he leaves. On me.”

  Kate tilted her head enough for him to know she understood and murmured, “Was going to do that anyway.”

  Frank snatched up his box of donuts and his cup and went out the door. He had business at the city hall and then a return visit to the newspaper. And he couldn’t be late for supper with Abby and Nick. At least now he had clues to follow up and direct him on his search. The legend of Bartholomew’s lost treasure had gotten under his skin and he knew he wouldn’t rest until he’d learned more. It wasn’t just the old mystery Glinda had presented to him which intrigued him, it was the whole treasure thing. He already had plots and possibilities swirling around in his head for his new mystery book to incorporate it. He’d been searching for a plot device for his new book for a long time and he knew buried treasure was it. Not to mention, since he’d been a child he’d loved the tales of pirates and buried treasure, Black Beard and Captain Hook. He’d once dreamed of going out to sea himself to look for sunken ships and what treasure they might have carried. Instead he’d grown up and had become a cop.

  In the city hall’s records department, to his surprise but not shock, he confirmed it was Bartholomew Masterson who’d built Evelyn’s house in the year nineteen thirty-eight; earlier than he’d thought. So when he returned to the Journal he knew he needed to look in the microfiche boxes for the late nineteen thirties and early nineteen forties to perhaps discover any articles about the reclusive Masterson and his legendary treasure.

  But after two hours of digging through dusty microfiche boxes stacked willy-nilly with no regard to dates he realized it would be more of a job than he’d expected. “I’m cutting out for the day, Samantha,” he updated her as he came out of the storage room. His hands were filthy and he was covered in dust. He’d need a shower before supper. “If it’s okay with you I’ll come back tomorrow and keep rummaging.”

  “Good timing. I was just coming to look for you. Sure, come back anytime. No luck, huh?” Samantha looked as if she were getting ready to leave as well. She had her jacket on and her purse in her hands.

  “No luck. There’s too many boxes. And your microfiche machine doesn’t want to cooperate. It keeps dying on me.”

  “It’s really old, what do you expect? I’m surprised it still works at all. I open the doors tomorrow at nine.”

  “I’ll resume the search tomorrow morning...sometime.” He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and tapped in a number. “Right now I need to order a pizza and cheesy bread from Marietta’s, pick it up, and get home. Abby gets cranky if supper is too late.”

  “That she does.”

  He put in his order and hung up.

  “You and Kent need to come out for a visit soon. We haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “I know. Possibly this weekend we’ll drop by.”

  “Give us a call first to be sure we’re home.”

  “I will. Take it easy Frank.”

  “I will.”

  Samantha led him out the door and the two went different ways.

  Chapter 3

  “MYRTLE, HAVE YOU SEEN your niece since yesterday? Has she seen anything else which might help us find out more about her ghost sailor?” Abigail was putting her sketch book and colored drawing pens away, tucking them into the bottom drawer of the antique sideboard in her kitchen where she kept her art supplies.

  “I haven’t been there or talked to her yet today. I’m going over for supper, though. We always share suppers on Thursday nights. It’s our thing. We visit, play a card game or watch a movie together and I frequently spend the night in her guest room. I think she’s making lasagna tonight. She makes a mean lasagna. She puts a ton of cheese in it. And you know I love cheese.” Myrtle was sitting at the table watching Abigail. “I haven’t even told her Frank suspects the ghost is the original builder of her house. I’ll tell her tonight.”

  It was two-thirty in the afternoon and outside it was raining, not a heavy rain, merely a light sprinkling so prevalent in early spring.

  “Frank hopes the ghost will revisit her again and will reveal more. He’s really into this buried treasure story now. He wants to use it for his new book.”

  “Surprise, surprise. That man takes everything that happens to us,” Myrtle complained good-naturedly, “and puts it in his books. That’s why they all sell so well. We lead interesting lives, we do.” Now the old woman smiled devilishly.

  Abigail was standing at the kitchen window above the sink, gazing out into the rainy woods. She’d brought the dogs in when the rain had begun and they were in the other room somewhere doing whatever it was dogs did. It was quiet so the dogs must be behaving themselves or napping. It made sense, they were old. Their days of exuberant mischief were mostly over.

  As usual, Snowball was curled up sleeping in her cat bed by the oven. The creature loved to sleep somewhere warm on rainy days. She’d wake up when Abigail started making supper. Abigail glanced over at the cat. The critter was four furry paws up and tummy showing. It’d make a cute picture but Abigail restrained herself. There were already enough cute pictures of Snowball on her Facebook page. She didn’t want the world to think she was cat crazy, even if she was.

  “Yeah, we lead such interesting lives,” Abigail joked sarcastically.

  Myrtle threw her a haughty glance. “We do at times. Murder mysteries seem to attach themselves to us like we were magnets. Killers, too. Ghosts. People come to us for help. No small things. I’d call that interesting.”

  “If you say so.”

  Myrtle changed the subject. “How did Miguel like your sketches?” She plunged on. “You met with him earlier today, right?”

  “I did.” Abigail joined Myrtle at the table. “And he loved my drawings, my concept for his restaurant. He okayed them and everything I suggested on the spot.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “Sorry, he kept them to show to his family and his workers. I should have made copies on my copier but was in such a hurry this morning before I left adding last minute touches to them, I didn’t. But...I did snap a few photos on my iPhone before I left them with Miguel.” Abigail reached back, picked her phone up from the counter and showed the pictures to Myrtle.

  “They look nice. Great like everything you do. Lots of bright cheerful colors and smiling people. What, no sombreros? Donkeys loaded with pots? No Mariachi bands?”

  “No, none of those. I want this to represent and reflect Mexico today. Modern. Even if it’s a quaint village representation.”

  “Humph, they still have Mariachi bands in Mexico today. I like Mariachi bands,” Myrtle grumbled in her little old lady pouty voice. “And little donkeys carrying pots.”

  “You also like delicious food and South of the Border has marvelous food.”

  “We’ll have to go there one day for lunch.”

  “We will. I’ll be there a lot because I’m starting the mural right away. Miguel offered me an excellent payment for doing it and I accepted.” Abigail was happy with the commission and the coming work. She was always happier when she was painting something somewhere.

  “Well, make sure you leave some time for our new buried treasure ghost mystery. I’m sure there will be more developments here real soon. Glinda doesn’t mess around. She’ll have more clues for us and we’ll be on our way, I bet.”

  Abigail inwardly sighed but kept a pacifying smile on her face. She knew Myrtle lived for their little adventures and Frank wove them into his murder mysteries–but Abigail not so much. She was tired of running from criminals or her and her friends hiding from murderers. She’d had more than enough of that to last a lifetime. She was not living in a crime drama, though Myrtle would probably like that. Then an idea occurred to her. “You know that world cruise you keep saying you’re going on? You ought to book one of those mystery trips where they preform nightly mysteries for the passengers to solve. You’d like that.”

  Myrtle’s eyes lit up. “Now that’s a darn good idea. I’ll have to look into that. I’d be good at it. Probably solve all the mysteries right off. But just to let you know, I’ve postponed going on that world cruise for a while.” She was getting up from the chair. Dressed in one of her long dresses, she’d layered under two sweaters and a thin rain coat; on her head was one of her woolen sock caps. She grabbed an umbrella which had been hanging on the back of her chair. It looked like one of Claudia’s giveaways.

  “Oh, yes?” Abigail didn’t like the sound of that but on the other hand she wasn’t sure she wanted to encourage the world cruise thing, either. Myrtle had a habit of getting into trouble wherever she was, but at least if she was in Spookie, she, Frank and Glinda could keep an eye on her. If she were thousands of miles away on a cruise ship that wouldn’t be as easy.

  “Yep. That Caribbean island with warm sand and sun or one of those mystery cruises will just have to wait. I have a mystery to solve, a wrong to right, an adventure to seek closer to home. I have the premonition it’s going to end up being a really big thriller, too. And murder will be involved.”

  Oh boy.

  Myrtle appeared to recall something. “Where did you say Frank was?”

  It would be fuel to the fire, but Abigail chose to tell the truth. “He’s at the newspaper attempting to learn more in the archives about the man who built Glinda’s house, feeling that the ghost who appeared to her is connected to her house or her land somehow. He’s also looking for any articles which might ever have been written about the builder or touched on him. Frank called me a while ago and told me he thinks he’s discovered the builder’s name. It’s Bartholomew Masterson.”

  “Bartholomew Masterson is the fellow who built the house Glinda now lives in and Frank believes he might be Glinda’s ghost?”

  “Possibly. He’s still digging around in the archives and asking around.”

  “Hmm, the name somehow sounds familiar.” Myrtle cocked her head as if she were listening to something far away. “As if I’ve heard it before.”

  “Maybe Evelyn mentioned him over the years as having been the original owner of her house?”

  “She could have. But my old brain doesn’t remember it if she did or not. Evelyn said a lot of things all the time, she talked way too much, and mostly I never listened. Bad me. Now that she’s gone, I wished I would have. Most of the stuff she said was silly, about her menagerie. Dog, dog, dog. Cat, cat, cat. This critter this or that critter that. Blah, blah, blah. But the name really does strike a chord somehow. I’ll have to ponder on it.

  “Well,” Myrtle announced. “I got to be going.”

  Abigail smiled. “You’re off to pester Frank at the newspaper, aren’t you?”

  Myrtle smiled back. “You know me so well, Abby. I’m off to help him look. This is my adventure, too, you know. It was my niece the ghost appeared to.”

  Then the old woman was gone, leaving Abigail to shake her head as she so often did when it came to Myrtle. Though she had to give the old woman credit. To be in one’s nineties and still be so involved in the world was a rare thing.

  GLINDA WAS SLEEPING, she knew she was sleeping...she was in her bed, two of her cats, Amadeus and Ebony, curled up beside her. She awoke for a moment and then slipped back into her slumber. Aaah, so nice to be safe and warm, her bed was so soft. Outside the night was singing, full of crickets, frogs and mournful small creatures scurrying from bush to tree in the dark. An unfamiliar sound made her open her eyes and look where Amadeus wanted her to look. Framed in her window she glimpsed the full moon, its light filling her room and softening the world outside. Another strange noise from outside somewhere. It sounded like...the ocean and a...ship’s bell or something like it. Weird.

  Amadeus hunkered above her and meowed. One of his large paws touched her chest, his gaze going to the window. What did he want? He jumped to the floor and padded to the door, looking backwards at her. He wanted her to follow him.

  She rose from the bed, put on a robe and the mule shoes she used for going outside, and left the house. The moonlight illuminated everything almost as clear as if it were day. Her yard and the surrounding woods stretched out before her in the night. The rain had ceased but had been replaced with a thickening mist covering the ground and creeping up the trees. She’d learned to love the fog in Spookie in all its incarnations. Sometimes it was as fine as spider webs, clinging to the grass, trees and shrubs and sometimes it was a fluffy gray blanket hiding everything in its path. Tonight it was swiftly becoming the blanket, but so far restricting itself to the ground. For now. The thought crossed her mind she shouldn’t stay out too long or the fog would hide the forest world completely and she’d be trapped, lost, and unable to find her way home.

  She’d lost sight of her feline guide, had stopped, and called out into the dark. “Amadeus, where did you go?” He meowed and must have waited for her because there he was at her feet.

  “Why are you dragging me out here, you silly puss? It’s chilly and wet. Amadeus!” She was shivering. She should have grabbed a coat but she’d been in such a hurry to tail the cat, she hadn’t thought of it.

  Amadeus had bounded ahead through the brush and, with an exhaled breath, she continued to run after him. He seemed insistent she follow, so she would.

  She saw the graveyard first. It was eerie beneath the full moon above and with the surrounding woods in deep shadows. It was a good thing graves and tombstones didn’t bother her. She talked to the dead often enough that their final resting places didn’t unnerve her or too much anyway. Night birds were chirping in the branches around her. It was still a spooky place.

  Amadeus was perched on one of the rails of the gazebo. His tiny silhouette stark against the night’s background. A small cluster of early fireflies were flickering around the animal.

  Glinda went up the steps and once inside the structure sat down on one of the benches. The wind was whipping through the openings and she could smell the musky wet earth, mud and tree bark. Nature. She loved that smell. Amadeus jumped into her lap. The fireflies flew away into the woods.

  Again she could hear an ocean’s waves and what she believed was a ship’s bell. Ringing. Ringing. She closed her eyes and that is when the trance overcame her.

  Now the ringing bell was louder, nearer, and the sound filled the air around her. She was no longer in the gazebo. It was as if she were seeing from another’s eyes. She was on the ocean–which would account for the splashing of the waves she was hearing–and there was water everywhere. She felt the ground shift beneath her, a sort of rocking motion, looked down, and realized she was on a deck of some kind. She wasn’t really knowledgeable about ships and things that sailed the seas so she had no idea exactly what sort of vessel it was. Her eyes scanned to her left and the right, up into the clear blue sky and down. Yes, she was on a ship and by the looks of it, an older, smaller ship; not one of those huge shiny metal and plastic cruise ships, either. The wooden decks were scuffed and nicked with years of boots treading across them. The paint around her on the walls and enclosures were flaking. There were three masts rising above her into the sky, canvas whipping in the breeze, so the ship was a sailing vessel of some kind. On one of the circle-shaped life preservers there was a name: Black Ghost. So the ship was called the Black Ghost.

  She could hear men talking and whispering around her, yet when she looked there were only shadowy figures moving about the deck. Working men from another time. It was hard to see them in too much detail, but they appeared to be dressed as perhaps sailors would have been in the early twentieth century. They weren’t in uniforms, so they weren’t soldiers or military and they didn’t look to be pirates, merely seemed to be normal men of the time laboring on a ship. But was it a fishing ship or an exploration vessel?

  Then some of the conversations became audible, as if someone had shifted the dial on a radio and finally found the true channel. The voices came through clear.

  “That treasure is there, I tell you,” one shadow was saying to another. “The ship, the Sea Lord, went down on the sharp reefs around this island during a terrible storm and with it the shipment of gold supposedly for the war effort in England. It never got there, of course. Soon after it left America’s shores the ship was smashed to smithereens on the rocks, all men on board vanished, died, most likely. I have been hearing about it for years. The wreck is down there in shallow water among the fish, rocks and sand. Easy to salvage with divers. Chests and bags of gold ingots and old Spanish coins stolen, though no one knows from who. But those who speak of it say the treasure is cursed. That’s why the ship sank and the treasure was lost and not for the first time. So anyone who touches any of it is fated to die. That’s what they say.”

  “Who cursed it?”

  “No one knows. Could be the pirates who are rumored to have first collected it years past or the original owners whoever they were. This is an old treasure. Long lost and recently found.”

  Another shadow floated up to her, or to whomever she was supposed to be in the vision. “Bart, the captain is calling us all together for a meeting. Now.”

  She heard her lips mouth the response, “We must be close to where the Sea Lord went down, Owen, my brother.” A pause. “We’ve found it. After all these months searching for that treasure the captain must believe we might have found it.”

 

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