I liked her. Understood why Tomlinson—Tommy, she called him—had been spending time here, but I didn’t understand why he’d been reluctant to discuss her. The age difference, maybe? No one has ever called the man shallow.
“Would you like another highball, Doc?”
“No, thanks. Water’s fine.” I’d mentioned the wreck a couple of times, thinking she’d want to discuss it. So far, no luck, and I tried again. “Chessie, I’m still not clear about your interest in the artifacts our pal found.”
My impatience received a wave of dismissal, and a smoky chuckle. “There’s time for that. Do you mind? I’d like to get to know each other better.”
It struck me that she was eager for company and didn’t want to let me go. I found it mildly irritating: She’d invited me to discuss a specific subject, but was behaving as if I’d accepted a social invitation. We seemed to perceive time differently.
The age difference maybe?
W e were on the balcony, now, where I’d watched her dance with Tomlinson. She stood at the rail. I sat in a deck chair, listening to the Gulf of Mexico pound the beach below. Clouds scudded overhead, reflecting pale starbursts from Sanibel Lighthouse.
Heavy seas out there in the darkness. We would not be diving tomorrow.
“I was dying to ask before but didn’t. What happened to your face?”
“I’m surprised you waited this long.”
“It would have been impolite. We didn’t know each other. Indelicate—it’s a word one seldom hears these days.”
I said, “During the hurricane, I got hit by something. Debris—something in the wind.”
The woman replied, “Really.” Not a question. She didn’t believe me, and it took me aback.
We’d exchanged the sort of information people trade when they’ve met. Her family had owned this house forever—called Southwind because that’s the direction it faced. Some of her happiest childhood memories had been here. She’d been in her Manhattan apartment when the hurricane hit. October was when she normally returned to Florida, but she came early because of the storm. Yes, the damage was terrible, and the aftereffects: homeless people; islanders out of work. Tomlinson? She met him on the beach a few days after the storm.
“Another lost soul wandering,” she told me. “It’s unusual for me to talk to anyone because I go out only at night. Even on an island like Sanibel, I suppose it’s dangerous for a woman alone. But…the storm was a reason to be friendlier, somehow. Or am I being a sap?”
She couldn’t go out during the day, she told me, because of a skin condition. Doctor’s orders. First she freckled, and then the freckles quickly turned to skin cancers. She didn’t say it, but I suspected the malady was xeroderma, a condition first documented in Guatemala, where I’ve spent a fair amount of time.
“You’re not a sap,” I told her. Then I glanced at my watch for the first time. She noticed.
“The wreck your friend found,” she said immediately, “how far off-shore is it?”
It took me a moment to react. “Shouldn’t you first tell me why you’re interested? I don’t have a lot of experience, but I’ve heard that treasure hunters try to keep their secrets secret.”
The woman turned, saying, “Fair enough,” her voice a forbearing smile. Above her shoulder, I could see the new moon magnified by the horizon’s curvature. It was huge, an orange scimitar, as pointed as a cat’s pupil.
“Tommy described some of the things you found. German war medals, one with diamonds, I think he said.”
“Nazi war medals, yes. That’s right.”
“Do you think there’s more to be found?”
“I have no idea. There’s wreckage. We plan to dive it and have a look.”
“When?”
“We wanted to go tomorrow, but”—I nodded as the wind stirred the bare tree canopy, and motioned toward the beach where collapsing waves made a waterfall rumble—“the weather’s terrible, so maybe the day after. It’s supposed to be calmer on Saturday, then it’s going to get bad again.”
She used both hands to hold her glass, a heavy crystal tumbler. She lifted it to her lips. “Do you really believe the wreck was buried by a hurricane?”
“I think you misunderstood Tomlinson. I believe it’s possible that it was uncovered by the recent hurricane. In this area, the Gulf of Mexico is sand bottom. Picture a desert hidden by water.”
She smiled, head tilted, thinking about it. “What a lovely image. Sand dunes. Sheiks riding sea horses. Turtles paddling around the Sphinx.”
“You’re right about the sand dunes,” I said, trying not to show my impatience. “Wind creates underwater currents that are proportional in strength. Dunes shift; the bottom changes.”
“Then your wreck could have also been buried by a hurricane.”
“Yes,” I said. I stood and looked at my watch again. “I suppose so.”
“Dr. Ford”—her tone was instantly businesslike—“I have a proposition to make you. You and your friends. I would like to finance your…? What would you call it—your ‘recovery expedition’? You yourself told me that the man who found the wreck is out of work. And what you’re proposing to do—excavate and salvage—sounds as if it could take weeks, even months, to finish properly.”
She was facing me. There was a percussion flare of lighthouse and clouds behind her, as she continued, “I would pay him a salary—whatever you say is fair—plus all related expenses. There was another man you mentioned, a fishing guide.”
“Javier Castillo.”
“That’s right. We could hire him, too. You put in your time and expertise, organize a team, and I’ll fund it…within reasonable limits, of course. Would you also expect a salary?”
“No. I have my own work, but I find this interesting.”
“Wonderful! An even better deal for me.”
I was looking into her face, lips still full, those dark eyes, thinking: Yes, at one time an extraordinary beauty. I asked, “What would you expect in return, Chestra? Odds are slim we’ll find anything else valuable.”
Her laughter was unexpectedly theatrical. “Are you asking what share of the profit I expect? I don’t know…whatever’s fair, I suppose. But that’s not why I want to be involved. It’s so exciting—shipwrecks and treasure. I want to be part of it. Show me what you’ve found; what you find. Stories to take back to New York—that’s what I’ll get in return. I want to finance stories that will keep me warm all winter.”
Theatrical. Yes, that described her.
I said slowly, as a statement: “You don’t want anything in return? No matter what we find, it’s ours?”
“Well,” she said, turning away, “I would expect to at least see what you brought up. There might be one or two small items that I’d want to keep…as mementos.”
“The diamond war medal, for instance?”
“No,” she replied immediately. “Not that. You and your team can sell it, split the money, I don’t care. One or two small things…” Her voice drifted for a moment before she caught herself, and smiled. “I wouldn’t take anything of value. Just mementos. And the fun of it!”
Theatrical—my impression hadn’t changed. I placed my glass on a table, looked at her, and said, “Really.” Using the same word, the same tone that she had before, to let her know I thought she was lying.
I checked my watch: 11:25 P.M. I told her I had to leave.
12
It was nearly midnight. Bern Heller could still hear the bulldozer as he sat in his condo. He was going through his grandfather’s papers, taking a few at a time from the briefcase, then moving them to a file, or the trash.