Dr. Babbs didn’t see the humor. “It made him seem harmless. With Civil War diggers, it’s different. They’re always after a payroll in gold that sank. Or was thrown overboard-that’s the most popular story in Florida. I don’t know what Theo’s true intent is, but he’s not going to make a member of the science academy look like a fool and get away with it.”
Birdy saw that as her opening but prefaced it by saying the property owner’s attorney had mentioned a bank robber from the 1930s. “I believe in being up front with the facts, Dr. Babbs.”
“Call me Leslie,” he said. “That’s good news, actually. Knowing there’s a kernel of truth might help when I have to explain this mess later.”
Birdy decided it was time. “Okay, then. Now… Leslie, do you mind showing me where Theo did this unauthorized dig? If he stole something, depending on the value, we might get a felony charge.”
“Just you?” The archaeologist made his meaning clear by looking from Belton to me.
Birdy said, “That’s up to Hannah. I want to pursue this, but we had plans for later.” She sought me for permission.
The whole time, I’d been wondering about Dr. Babbs and his credibility. I didn’t doubt his credentials, but was disturbed by how easily he’d been taken in. His story didn’t make sense. Trust Theo because he was hunting stolen money, not Civil War treasure? There had to be another reason. Birdy might find out.
“We’ll meet for dinner later,” I told her, then partnered up with Belton while Birdy and the archaeologist continued to talk.
Dr. Babbs, as we walked away, said, “Know what’s sad? That young man had everything going for him. He was a decorated Army Ranger and a commercial pilot. Did you know that? But then got laid off. Post-traumatic stress syndrome, he said. But I think drugs might be an issue.”
Birdy, managing to keep a straight face, replied, “Really?”
“Do a background check on him, that’s what I suggest. The night we had cocktails? I might have gotten a little carried away, I admit it. But if Theo claims…”
I didn’t hear the rest, but did hear Birdy respond, “Really?”
10
A mile south of the old railroad bridge, where cypress and mimosa trees draped moss over the river, Belton switched places so I could see the boat’s sonar screen. Carmelo, at the wheel, jabbed a finger and said, “Fish,” while I shaded my eyes.
Cartoonish fish icons, which always make me wince, appeared in pixelated yellow around a red rectangular object. The river bottom had varied in shades from white to gray in the shallows, but here, in this shaded oxbow where depth dropped to fourteen feet, it was black.
“Hard bottom,” I told Belton.
“I think it could be a sunken boat,” he said, meaning whatever was below us. “Or the remains of a dock. But wouldn’t that have rotted away years ago?”
“Floated away, more likely,” I said, then asked something I’d been wanting to ask. “You said you did a lot of research. Was this always called Telegraph River? I can’t find it on old maps.” I was thinking of Capt. Summerlin’s journal. In summer of 1864, he and friends had explored a north branch off the Caloosahatchee in the twenty-five-foot dory Sodbuster. Summerlin’s concern about spies had caused him to scribble out the tributary’s name. When the page was held up to a light, however, I could make out four letters-JOPO. Possibly JOPE, or even TOPE, because Summerlin’s old-time penmanship placed triangular stems on some letters. I was tempted to get the journal from my backpack and show Belton but wasn’t ready to risk that quite yet.
Belton replied, “That’s because the river’s not on maps before 1900. Not named, I mean. The telegraph service to… well, it’s a town north of here… wasn’t completed until the 1880s.”
“Arcadia?” I suggested.
“Yes… No… Wait, I can’t remember for certain. I used to have a good memory, but I lose things so quickly now.” He told Carmelo to swing the boat around so we could have another look at the bottom, annoyed with himself. He used a handkerchief to wipe his face. Soon the rectangular object reappeared, along with cartoonish fish icons. “A failing memory is bad enough,” he said, “but when your body falls apart, it’s downright humiliating-especially when I’m with a beautiful woman.” He looked at me to see how that was accepted.
I laughed. “Stop flirting and tell me why you think it’s a boat.”
He put his hand on my shoulder to study the sonar but removed it when he stood. “I’m going to trust you with something-but not right now. Okay?”
“A secret?”
He motioned me away from the console and spoke into my ear. “Just between us. Carmelo doesn’t know and I don’t trust him as much as you think. I’ve got to be careful.”
I said, “I think you’re still flirting. If you are, it’s a pretty good approach.”
He smiled, a man with bright blue eyes who had been muscular and good-looking in his day. “Let’s just say I hope it’s a boat. Wouldn’t that be fun? I wish to heavens I was a better diver-or not so damn old.” He sounded wistful.
Carmelo, riveted to the screen, repeated, “Lots of fish. You want the girl to fish, Mr. Matás?”
Three times he’d asked that question over the engine noise but this time seemed to think it was a fresh idea now that we were idling in water that was black as oil but clear when I looked straight down if the sunlight hit it just right.
“No, thanks,” I told Carmelo, then reconsidered. I had never met a simpleminded person who owned an expensive red Bass Cat skiff outfitted with dual electric trolling motors that could pull the boat along as fast as some gas engines. It crossed my mind that a captain didn’t have to be smart as long as he produced results. I didn’t want to believe that. If I was right, Carmelo was either acting or the boat did not belong to him. As a test, I asked, “What kind of fish are we talking about?”
“Big-assed.” Carmelo laughed. “See?” He pointed to the fish icons that stacked and rematerialized like targets in a video game.
Had our guide said big-assed or big bass? I gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Bass are fun on top of water plugs. Not that I’ve caught many. Is it best to anchor? Or do you use the trolling motors and cast into eddies?”
“Yes,” Carmelo replied.
Belton chuckled at that. “We’ll go ashore same place as yesterday.” He pointed. On the east bank, two jagged pilings, black as dinosaur teeth, showed where there had been a pier. Presumably, it had serviced the homestead I’d seen in photos. The pilings were only a few boat lengths upriver from the sunken object.
I remarked, “If a boat sunk at the dock, it could have drifted down. You might be right. But, Belton, this water’s not that deep. You don’t need tanks to find out, just a mask and fins. Doesn’t Carmelo free-dive?”
Carmelo, who had a tough-guy face to begin with, became positively fierce. “Nope. Ain’t gonna swim. Don’t tell me again.”
I said, “I wasn’t ordering you, it was a question. Are there gators around?” I hadn’t seen any, but there had to be a reason.
Belton, getting impatient, said to Carmelo, “I’ll take the wheel. Why don’t you untangle some of those ropes so we can tie up?”
Carmelo did, but I heard him mutter, “Girl… stick your hand in that water, you find out.”
AFTER EXPLORING the bricks and boards and fences of a homesteader’s vanished dream, I did it-stuck my hand in the river. I am too comfortable outdoors to be spooked by the power of suggestion, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. First, I stirred the water with a stick. It was black as a winter night, clear as gel.