Missing Witness (6 page)

“Disproving criminal charges that are three hundred years old is a pretty tall order.”

“That's what Boggs Beckford, my prior attorney, told me.”

“He's the one who was seriously injured in the car accident?”

“Yes,” Joppa answered solemnly. “And there were some disturbing, suspicious circumstances in that accident.”

“I suppose I could talk to Mr. Beckford,” Will remarked as he wrapped up the meeting. “See if he can shed some light on this case. Then I'll decide whether I can represent you.”

Will was less than excited about this strange probate case. And the timing was not optimal. He wanted to spend the summer at Fiona's side, encouraging her to rest and awaiting the birth of their first child.

He figured he'd look up Boggs Beckford the next day and, barring anything unusual in that meeting, would get back to Jonathan Joppa, telling him that he didn't feel comfortable taking on this impossible case.

Whatever mysteries surrounded the life and death of Isaac Joppa,
Will thought to himself as he drove away,
are probably lost forever at the bottom of the ocean. And who is going down there to get the answers?

7

T
HERE WAS AN EERIE MYSTERY ABOUT
the ocean at night. The moon was bright, but covered behind a layer of clouds, casting only an occasional glint of golden moonlight on the surface of the rolling ocean.

Blackjack Morgan knew the sensation well.

Morgan did his best illegal salvaging at night, under the cloak of darkness. But tonight he did not have his well-equipped ship,
Coastal Princess,
for his salvage operation at the site of the
Bold Venture
.

He knew that Dr. Rosetti would be on the lookout for his illicit attempts to get down to the bottom of the ocean, where the
Bold Venture
lay—ruined timbers and rusting iron and brass.

That's why Morgan and his crew were coming at night. And why, rather than using the sixty-five-foot salvage boat, Morgan had decided on a small skiff with an electric motor for minimal noise.

But the rolling ocean was pitching the small craft considerably.

Carlton Robideau was steering the skiff from the arm of the outboard motor.

Orville Putrie, operating a small pen flashlight, stared down into a geophysical positioning scope on his lap.

“Putrie,” Morgan growled in a gruff whisper, “where are those coordinates? How close are we?”

“Just a minute…just a minute…” Putrie whispered. Then he pulled his baseball cap close down tighter on his head and wrapped the collar of his jacket closer around his neck against the ocean breeze.

Robideau was struggling at the motor, trying to keep the small boat cutting into the waves, rather than being tossed sideways. And with each wave the skiff lurched, jouncing Putrie's GPS system off of his lap. And each time, Putrie would give out a low curse.

“Putrie, get it on…get the coordinates and lock us in. I want to dump Robideau in there and start diving now,” Morgan said.

“Hold on…almost…”

“Now, Putrie—now.”

“Give me a break here…”

“I'll give you a break,” Morgan growled. “How about I start breaking your fingers one by one until you get us to the site—how about that?”

“Got it,” Putrie exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.

“You sure?”

“Oh yeah,” Putrie said with a crooked little smile. “Oh yeah—oh yeah.” Putrie caressed the GPS scope. “We're there. We are absolutely there.”

“Cut the engine. Drop anchor, Robideau.”

Robideau quickly rotated the grip on the handle and cut the engine. He flipped the handle back and slipped the anchor over the side.

Robideau was already in his wet suit, and he slipped into the harness of the air tank. He donned his mask after he wet it with some water. Then he attached the underwater magnetometer onto his diving belt.

Morgan handed him the underwater lantern.

Robideau slipped on his flippers, stuffed the mouthpiece of the air hose into his mouth, and gave the thumbs-up signal. Morgan handed him a large aluminum crate connected to a nylon tether line. The tether line was connected to a pulley anchored to the floor of the skiff. The line would serve the purpose of not only retrieving any artifacts found at the site, but also being Robideau's guideline to return.

Both Morgan and Putrie moved to the starboard side of the skiff as Robideau gracefully swung himself over the side of the boat and into the water.

Then the diver disappeared from sight as the nylon tether rapidly began rolling off the pulley.

The two sat quietly in the bobbing and rolling skiff, watching the coiled tether line on the pulley diminish in size, as it unwound in a high whine. The tether line started slowing down. Then, after a few more minutes, the pulley stopped.

Then, after almost an hour, Morgan saw a yank on the line, and then another pull. That was the signal.

Morgan told Putrie to start to attach the handle on the pulley and begin reeling in the line.

After a few minutes, Putrie began complaining that it was heavy. Morgan smiled and shoved him aside.

Morgan grabbed hold of the handle and began furiously winding in the line with the basket connected to it.

“There's something in this basket,” Morgan whispered with a hushed sense of excitement. “It's heavier than when it went down. There's something in it.”

Robideau surfaced before the basket. He placed one hand on the side of the boat, pulled out his breather, and spoke something indecipherable.

Then the basket surfaced. Morgan leaned over to gaze at the contents even before it was lifted in, moving so quickly that he almost capsized the small craft.

He yanked the basket out, and he could see immediately that there was a dark, square, corroded object in it. He set it down in the bottom of the boat, unlatched the top of the crate, and grabbed the small pen flashlight from Putrie's hand.

Robideau had both arms over the side of the boat and was calling for Morgan and Putrie to help him in.

But Morgan was ignoring him, reaching into the basket.

The object was rectangular, about a foot by eight inches. It was covered in barnacles and thick corrosion, giving it a blackish red color. There was a large blob of corroded metal on one side. Morgan grabbed his penknife, opened it, and began scraping the barnacles and corrosion off the heavy iron object on the front of the box.

He held the penlight in his teeth, casting the light beam onto the box as he scraped away the ancient collections of sediment, iron oxidation, and the deposits of hundreds of years of marine life that had attached itself.

He then moved his penlight closer to reveal the object under the barnacles and the corrosion.

It was an ancient-looking lock.

The keyhole, though misshapen, its edges lined with rust, could still be clearly seen.

“What have we here?” Morgan whispered in exquisite delight. “Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes. What have we here?”

8

“I
T
'
S SO QUIET ON THE BEACH THIS MORNING
. Hardly anybody's out walking.”

“That's right. Look at the birds standing there in the sand. They're all looking in the same direction. Like they're hypnotized. Are those seagulls or terns?”

“I think they're terns. I think the smaller ones are terns.”

“Oh, look at that one. That big, curlicue black seashell. Would you do your pregnant wife a favor and pick that one up too?”

Will was barefoot, carrying a plastic bucket along the seashore. He bent down, picked up the shell, and added it to the collection already covering the bottom of his bucket.

Fiona was barefoot too, carrying her sandals in her hand. She was walking just at the edge of the waves as they washed over the sand, enjoying the feeling of cold water and wet sand between her toes.

“So tell me again, why are we collecting these shells?” Will asked with a smile.

“Because I'm going to use them to decorate our garden.”

“Back at home—back in Virginia?”

Fiona nodded.

Will reached his hand over and touched Fiona's belly, stretched tight with pregnancy.

“So how's Junior this morning? Is he enjoying our walk as much as we are?”

“What makes you think it's a he?”

“Well, then tell me—is
she
enjoying her morning at the beach?”

Fiona nodded vigorously and cupped her two hands around the underside of her belly.

“And the doctor did say there wasn't any problem with walking, right?” Will said with some concern on his face.

“Darling, you were there with me when we spoke to him. Remember? Back in Virginia? He said walking was fine. No strenuous lifting. Let him know if there's any more spotting. And Dr. Yager down here, she said the same thing. I just love her. I'm so glad she agreed to deliver the baby and take me as a patient for the summer.”

“Well, I guess we're okay. When was the last time he kicked?”

Fiona laughed and then replied, “Well, the last time
she
said hello was early this morning. In fact,
she
was playing me like a snare drum.”

With that, both of them laughed.

It was a mild day, no whitecaps, with only a moderate breeze. The ocean was turquoise along the shore, slowly fading into a deep, dark blue beyond the sandbars.

“So, are you worried at all about things with the pregnancy?” Fiona asked.

“No,” Will answered firmly, “God's in control. This pregnancy is going to go through perfectly. We're going to have a healthy, perfect child.”

“Really?” Fiona looked at Will as they walked, searching his face.

Will paused a minute.

“Well, I know that God is in control. And I really feel, down to my bones, that everything's going to be all right. But I do worry from time to time. I suppose that's natural.”

“Me too. Exactly. You know I find myself constantly praying Hannah's prayer. You know, the one from First Samuel—‘For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my petition which I asked of Him.' ”

“Which is why I thought it might be nice for you to take the time to do some music composition. I want you to do another recording session next year. You said that you had to work on some new songs. You've got a piano in our cottage that's actually in tune. But I haven't seen you sit down once to work on your music.”

“There's a practical problem there. My belly's so big I can hardly bring myself up to the keyboard!”

Will chuckled and nodded.

“Who is it that you're supposed to interview this afternoon?” Fiona asked.

“Boggs Beckford. He's the attorney laid up in the hospital. He had been representing Jonathan Joppa until his car accident.”

“So, tell me, how do you think the case is shaping up?”

“One thing I'm sure about,” Will said with a slight degree of resignation. “This case could be a whole lot more complicated than I initially
thought. In order for me to win this case for Reverend Joppa I would practically have to turn into an expert in eighteenth-century piracy, not to mention English maritime law. Plus, I'm down here on the Outer Banks without my legal staff.”

“I have a wonderful suggestion for you,” Fiona said with a beaming smile that revealed the dimples in both of her cheeks.

“And that would be…” Will said with a half-smile, eyeing Fiona suspiciously.

“Make me your paralegal,” she blurted out enthusiastically. “I'm a quick learner. And I've studied your law practice since we've been married. And I helped you with Da's lawsuit when you represented him. It would be great fun. We could do it together. And I'm down here with you for the summer anyway. So how about it?”

“Whoa. Wait a minute. You're supposed to be taking it easy this summer. It's bad enough that I might end up handling a complex lawsuit rather than deep-sea fishing or lying on the beach with you every day. I don't want to drag you into this.”

“Will, don't you see?” Fiona continued with excitement. “It wouldn't be work for me. And it wouldn't be physically strenuous. I could do some private detective work for you. Research. Talk to witnesses. Look over paperwork.”

Will stopped walking, and so did Fiona. He looked into her beautiful, smiling face.

“You make a very persuasive argument, counselor,” Will said, evoking a laugh from Fiona. “But the court is going to have to take your motion under advisement.”

“You know, it's interesting how you use legal double-talk when you want to cover up a blatant act of evasion!” Fiona jabbed him in the side with her elbow.

“Seriously, honey, I promise to give it some thought.”