Chapter One
Eight gold coins gleamed and glinted in the lamplight.
Make that eight gold coins and one silver.
Ellery Page, owner and proprietor of the quaint mystery bookshop known as the Crow’s Nest, let out a long breath and picked up the silver coin, fingertips tracing the unfamiliar size and design. It looked old. Very old. On one side a woman held two wreaths aloft. He could just make out the (Latin?) words SÆCVLA VINCIT and below: VIRTVTI ET HONORI. The other side was etched (engraved?) with the profile of a young man and the words PHILIPPUS D.G. HISPAN INFANS
Dear Reader, you are not losing your mind. Book 7 wAS released before Book 6. Lament at Loon Landing will be released IN OCTOBER.
So… Spanish?
Was the image supposed to be King Philip?
He had no idea. He wasn’t even sure if the coins were real.
Granted, they looked real. The details of the gold pieces—the believably worn engravings, the rough, slightly misshapen edges, even the heft of the coins—doubloons?—felt real.
Seemed legit.
Appearances could be deceptive. But if this was indeed Vernon Shandy’s diving collection bag—and whose else could it be?—was it likely the coins would be fake?
Granted, when it came to the Shandy clan, some kind of elaborate scam was always a possibility, but given Vernon’s untimely and mysterious disappearance in the 1960s…
Eyes still on the small pile of coins, Ellery reached for his cell phone and pressed the contact number for Pirate Cove’s chief of police Jack Carson.
Jack’s phone rang once and then Jack, who also happened to be Ellery’s boyfriend, said, “Hey, I’m not quite done here. Did you want to go ahead and grab a table?”
“Uh… Do you think you could maybe stop by here for a couple minutes?”
Jack’s tone changed. “You okay? What’s up?”
“I’m okay, but…I’d rather not say any more until you get here.”
“Are you being held hostage?”
Jack was kidding, of course, though given Buck Island’s—and Ellery’s—history, maybe anything seemed possible to him.
“No. I’m alone. I…found something.”
Jack said crisply, “On my way,” and disconnected.
Poor Jack. He probably thinks I found another body.
Ellery started to put his phone down, but stopped. If these coins were the real thing, how valuable were they?
A quick search of Wikipedia elicited the following information:
The doubloon (from Spanish doblón, or “double”, i.e. double escudo) was a two-escudo gold coin worth approximately $4 (four Spanish dollars) or 32 reales, and weighing 6.766 grams (0.218 troy ounce) of 22-karat gold (or 0.917 fine; hence 6.2 g fine gold).
Translation please?
More searching unearthed a 1989 Los Angeles Times article and the news that early pieces of eight were handmade and known as cobs. Higher quality versions were machine-made. And Spanish milled dollars were worth about $50 to $350.
So, if a gold doubloon was worth $350. in 1989, presumably it was worth more now?
As a last resort, Ellery tried eBay. As he scanned the listings for gold coins dated circa 1700s (just on the off-chance that these really had come from the legendary wreck of the pirate galleon known as the Blood Red Rose) he sucked in his breath and let it out in a sound typically only heard from maiden aunts when their prize Pekingese tried to, er, get jiggy with a stray.
US $32,500.00
US $39,500.00
US $46,500.00
US $75,000.00
US $124,500.00
“Yikes.”
Watson, Ellery’s the black spaniel-mix puppy stopped gnawing his chew toy to gaze in startled inquiry.
Granted, the coins listed for sale were in mint condition with certificates to prove their provenance, but this answered one question: yes, the items in the collection bag were valuable. In fact, that small mound of metal on his desk probably qualified as treasure.
Pirate’s treasure.
Eight gold coins worth—just taking the low-end figure—two hundred and sixty thousand dollars? People committed murder for less.
Ellery glanced instinctively up at the ceiling entrance to the bookshop attic. Little more than a month ago, someone—and he had a pretty good idea who—had broken into the Crow’s Nest searching for, most probably, this very collection bag.
Alarm coiled down his spine. Never mind the attic. Had he locked the front door? Ellery couldn’t remember.
He rose, left his office, striding past the sales desk, the large oil paintings of pirate galleons battling stormy seas and changing tides, hopping over Watson, who thought this was a terrific new game, down the aisles of towering bookshelves. He reached the front entrance, . He moved to slide the lock. At the same moment the brass bell chimed as someone started to open the door.
Ellery exclaimed in alarm, and slammed shut the door.
On the other side of the divided glass panes, an exasperated Jack called, “You called me, remember?”
Ellery yanked the door open. “Sorry.”
“What’s going on?” Jack ignored Watson who, wishing to claim his share of the welcome, was jumping up and down. “Why are you so spooked?”
“I— It might be easier if I show you.”
Jack’s dark eyebrows shot up. He said cautiously, “Are you going to show me something living or something…no longer living.”
Ellery laughed shakily. “I’m going to show you an inanimate object.”
“Thank God for that. One more body and people will start to talk.”
Ellery, headed back toward his office, threw over his shoulder, “I’m pretty sure they’re already talking.”
Jack, stopping to pat Watson, replied, “I’m pretty sure you’re right.” He straightened, followed Ellery into his office, stopping short in the doorway. He took a moment to study the litter of water-stained diving bag and coins. “I thought the collection bag was stolen when the bookshop was broken into.”
“I did too. But I decided to finally reorganize the storage closet, and when I started pulling stuff out, I found the bag in the very back.”
“How is that possible?”
Ellery shook his head. “But this explains why Tackle Shandy—or whoever it was— thought it was worth the risk.”
“I’d say so.” Jack sounded grim. “If these coins are genuine, they must be worth a fortune.”
“I did a little comparison shopping on eBay while I was waiting for you to arrive, and this haul could be worth anything from a quarter of a million to more than a million. Depending on where and when the coins were minted.”
Jack’s blue-green gaze held Ellery’s. “A million dollars?”
Ellery nodded.
“That’s a lot of clams.”
“If they’re genuine.”
“Yeah. Okay, well, first things first. This haul is going straight into the evidence locker down at the station. Tomorrow I’ll phone the Rhode Island Marine Archaeology Project in Newport.”
“I’m just going to grab some quick pics.” Ellery held his phone up.
Jack nodded absently. He was studying the ceiling entrance to the attic. He did not look happy.
Ellery moved around the desk, snapping photos of each coin, front and back. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. Once the coins were in the hands of RIMAP, they were no longer his problem. He might never even see them again, outside of a museum—ideally, a Buck Island museum.
He paused to examine one coin, then held it out to Jack. “Can you tell what that says? The tiny writing to the left of HISP? Is that a date?”
Jack held the coin beneath the lamp, squinting at the worn engraving. “Maybe 1611?”
“Could that be right?”
“1611? Yes. If these are the real thing, well, the 1650s to 1730s were the golden age of piracy.”
“You know what this means?” Ellery glanced at Jack, who looked resigned.
“What do you think it means?”
“Everyone seems to think that diving suit we found in Buccaneer’s Bay originally belonged to Vernon Shandy.”
“And the collection bag was part of the suit.”
“Right. And Tackle himself said Vernon was obsessed with finding the Blood Red Rose. That he spent all his spare time hunting for her.”
Jack smiled. “You think these coins are from the Blood Red Rose. You think Vernon found Captain Blood’s ship.”
“Yes. I do.”
“But don’t you think, if Vernon found the Blood Red Rose, he’d have told someone?”
Ellery considered. “Yeah. He would. He’d have to. He couldn’t retrieve her treasure on his own. He’d probably share that information with certain family members. I don’t know that he’d share it with everyone and no way with anyone outside the Shandy family circle.”
Jack grunted. The Shandys were one of Buck islands oldest and most notorious families. They kept themselves to their selves and their relationship with law enforcement was wary at best.
Wary on both sides, truth be told.
Jack said, “If the coins are real—and they look real, I agree, but neither of us are experts—then you could be right.”
“And if we’re right about that,” Ellery said, “then you know what else I think?”
Jack studied him for a thoughtful moment. He sighed. “You think Vernon Shandy was murdered.”
“I sure do,” Ellery replied.
“What’ll you have to drink, gents?” Though the pub was nearly empty, Tom Tulley appeared to be in a jovial mood when Ellery and Jack sat down at their usual table at the Salty Dog.
By October, the tourists were mostly gone and the island was returned to its (in the view of the citizens of Pirate’s Cove) rightful owners. The days were cool and crisp, luminous with autumn’s gorgeous, golden light. The ocean was still warm enough for swimming and it was easy to get a good table in any restaurant or bar without a wait. The chilly nights were fragrant with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. Twilight strolls along the beach were lit by meteor showers and the white, silky filaments of milkweed pods.
“What was that blue cocktail you made for me last Friday?” Ellery shrugged out of his jacket with Jack’s help. Jack had the unobtrusive, courtly gesture thing down to a science. He moved away to hang their jackets on the hooks near the door.
“Blueberry iceberg,” Tom answered. “Libby came up with that recipe. Blueberry vodka, blue curacao, lime juice, and a splash of sparkling water.”
“That was great. I’ll have that again.”
Tom nodded, asked Jack, “How about you, Chief? The usual?”
Jack’s usual was whatever was on tap. He nodded. “How’s Libby doing?”
Tom’s daughter Libby was away at college on the mainland.
“Thriving,” Tom said gloomily. Libby was the light of his life and he missed her dearly.
Ellery, studying the new addition of a blackboard menu, inquired, “What’s the End of Summer Special?”
“Secret family recipe.”
Jack and Ellery exchanged looks. Jack said, “What do you want to bet Fritos are involved?”
Tom looked outraged. “Hey, how dare you reveal my secrets!” He grinned broadly and departed with their drink order.
“He’s in a good mood,” Ellery remarked.
“It’s October. Everyone cheers up once the tourists leave.”
Which seemed counterintuitive for a community that pretty much subsisted on the tourist trade, but even with only one summer under his belt, Ellery got it. Buck Island during tourist season was a different planet from Buck Island the rest of the year.
He and Jack chatted about the ongoing renovations at Captain’s Seat. The previous month, Ellery had finally received a nice chunk of change from Brandon Abbott’s estate, allowing him to move ahead with crucial if unglamorous things like electrical repairs and replacing the roof.
Tom returned with their drinks. They both ordered the fish and chips, to Tom’s disappointment, and then, as he once more departed, clinked their glasses.
“Cheers,” Jack said.
“Yo ho ho,” Ellery replied. He sipped his cobalt cocktail. “Mm.” The tart sweetness of the cocktail and the crackling warmth of the nearby fireplace were the perfect pairing for a chilly autumn night. He sighed. “I have to say I’m very relieved you-know-what is you-know-where. The thought that it was just lying there in that cupboard all this time makes me feel a little queasy.”
“Any chance that it wasn’t in the cupboard the whole time? I thought Felix said he left it out on a storage shelf.”
“He must have been mistaken. It was his last day at work and his last day on the island, so no wonder he was distracted. When I asked him, he barely remembered Cap giving him the bag at all.”
Jack made a noncommittal noise and sipped his beer.
“Whoever broke in would have to have been in a hurry.”
Jack conceded, “The assumption would be you had looked in the bag and so it was unlikely to have been left in the shop at all.”
“Exactly!”
Jack studied Ellery for a moment. His smile twisted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First off, there’s no proof the collection bag you found belonged to Vernon Shandy. The assumption is the deep dive suit was his, but there are plenty of other divers on this island. No one knows for a fact who hid that suit in the warehouse with the Historical Society’s collection. Or for what reason.”
“To hide those coins,” Ellery said.
Jack shook his head. “That’s an assumption.”
“It’s a working theory. And it’s the most logical.”
“Maybe. But let’s say you’re right. Let’s go with your theory that the suit belonged to the Shandys and that the suit was stashed away to hide the coins.”
“Doubloons.”
Jack laughed. “You really do love the idea of pirate’s treasure, don’t you? If your eyes were any shinier, they’d be glowing.”
Ellery laughed and sat back in his chair. He shrugged. “Okay, yes. I do love the idea of pirate’s treasure.”
“Especially pirate’s treasure with a mystery attached.”
Ellery couldn’t help pointing out, “Wouldn’t all pirate’s treasure have a mystery attached?”
“Hm. Good point. But here’s what I was getting at. Even if we go with your theory about who owned the collection bag and why it was concealed, it still doesn’t prove those coins came from the Blood Red Rose.”
“Ah. Okay. You’re right.”
“There are a lot of wrecks in the waters around this island.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll give you that one.”
Jack laughed. “Thank you. And finally, even if your theories are correct about who owned the diving suit and collection bag, where the coins came from, and why they were hidden in the Historical Society’s collection, there’s still no proof that Vernon Shandy was murdered.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ellery objected. “Something happened to him.”
“Something, yes. He left the island, that’s for sure. But the surrounding circumstances are unknown.” As Ellery opened his mouth to debate this, Jack continued, “And there are plenty of reasons the Shandys might want to conceal those circumstances.”
Tom returned to the table bearing platters of golden deep fried fish, crispy french fries, and tangy coleslaw. He set the sizzling plates before them. “Another round?”
Jack asked Ellery, “Are you driving back to Captain’s Seat or staying over?”
There had been a time, not so long ago, when Jack would not have so casually or so openly asked that question.
Ellery smiled. “If Watson and I haven’t worn out our welcome?”
Jack gave him the slightest of winks and said to Tom, “Another round, thanks.” He added to Ellery, “We can always walk home.”
Tom gave Ellery a droll look. “Coming right up!”
Tom departed, Ellery and Jack reached for the salt and pepper shakers, exchanged the vinegar bottle, repositioned the little jars of tartar sauce.
Jack broke off a piece of fried cod and said, as though there had been no interruption, “I’m not trying to bust your balloon. Obviously, there’s an element of mystery surrounding these events. It just doesn’t automatically, inevitably indicate murder.”
“Well, no, of course not.” Ellery chewed thoughtfully on a french fry.
Jack observed him for a moment. “Which isn’t going to stop you from poking your nose into other people’s business and asking a lot of awkward questions, is it?”
Ellery’s brows shot up in surprise. “Me? Come on, Jack, whatever happened to Vernon Shandy is none of my business. Anyway, whatever happened, it was over half a century ago. Nobody’s going to remember anything this long after the fact. Assuming anyone involved is still around. Which is unlikely. Right?”
Jack sighed, shook his head. “That’s what I thought.”
