Pieces of Hate (A Wendover House Mystery Book 4) (9 page)

Ben arrived, with donuts, while I was throwing a last bucket of bleach
and water over the planks of the porch.

“Phew,” he said. “Isn’t it a little late for spring cleaning?”

“Last night a bunch of seagulls took shelter from the storm.
On the porch.
And had a poop festival.
And that damned seaweed smells like the public dump.”

“That it does.
Never seen the stuff before.”
Ben
grinned and knelt to pet Barney. He was in a really good mood and I hated to
spoil it, but last night had forced me to make a decision. “I was so tired that
I absolutely passed out last night. The storm didn’t bother me a bit.”

This was strange. I also had been very tired, but the storm had kept
me
awake
most of the night, a cacophony of noise that
intruded on my dreams.

“So, what news from the mainland?”
I asked,
changing the subject.

“The radiocarbon dating came back. The box is the right age and the
gold is from the right place. Everything looks real.” Then his brows drew
together. “Except the monkey bones—and they
are
monkey hand bones.
Spider monkey from Mexico—
Ateles
geoffroyi
vellerosus
.
Those are more recent.
Only
about ten years old.”

I blinked.

“But how…?”

“Damned if I know. But everything else is exactly what it should be.
My friend would like to bring in someone from the Smithsonian to verify his
tests.”

“No.” I said this before my brain could catch up with the impulsive
refusal.

“What?” Ben looked blank.

“No, no one else touches the box. The more people who know about this,
the more danger there is—of treasure hunters and other crazies coming to the
island to look for artifacts.” This was only part of the reason.
A very small part.

“But …” Ben stopped to think about this. “I’m sure that they would be
discrete.”

“No. Someone would want to get famous, do a TV show or get in National
Geographic. This is a big deal, as you say. We can’t risk it.”

“But it will need to be authenticated before it can be sold or even
donated—”

“I’m not selling it.”

Those words stunned him into temporary silence.

“But.…”

“No. The box and its treasures are not for sale. I may loan them to a
museum down the line, but they will not be sold.” I had a feeling that the part
about loaning the treasure to a museum was a lie, but I had to give Ben
something. I knew he was dreaming of a traveling museum show to coincide with
the release of his book.

“Okay. Terry can probably handle everything for now. He’s going to be
disappointed though.”

I sighed, hating what I was going to have to do.

“He can have it one more day but then it needs to come back.”

Ben began to look annoyed.

“This isn’t up for negotiation,” I said flatly, hating that I had to
make him angry. “I will find the family records of Nicholas Wendover, if they
exist. You will have the proof for your book. But the chest comes back to the
island.
Tomorrow.”

I could see the struggle, but he kept his temper and didn’t argue.

“Okay. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

“During the day, Ben.
Don’t go out
on the water at night. I’m dead serious about this.”

The anger left him and he stared at me. Ben isn’t a believer like
Harris, but he has been around me and the islanders long enough to know that
there is something strange going on in the islands and it mostly centers
around
Wendover House and its occupants.

“More storms?”

“Yes. Worse ones, I’m afraid. So be careful.”

He nodded but didn’t ask me how I knew about the weather. That was
good because I didn’t like talking about premonitions and intuition and stuff
like that. Bryson and Harris would be able to accept my gut feeling without
feeling
creeped
out or skeptical about the prediction.
Ben probably would not.

We had then
been a score of days in the storm with no discovering of the sun though we
journyed
ever northward. Then
came
the call from the
bo’sun
. There was an island and a
break in the awful tempest.

—from the unbound journal of
Halfbeard

Though Ben probably felt that his research took precedence, my speech
for Founders Day was weighing heavily on me and I decided to review my notes
and see if they were as thin as I thought they were. It was more important that
the speech be tactful than truthful, though managing both would be nice since I
hate lying.

Of course, they were thinner than I had feared. It was only the
outline of a ghost of an idea without a single crescendo or highpoint even
imagined.

I sat at the desk and tried to picture Goose Haven, to pick out its
landmarks, hoping it would lend me inspiration. The islands are a little short
on typical places of interest since it had never boomed into a tourist
attraction. There is Wendover House, a lighthouse—which is Canadian—and a
smugglers’ cave that everyone pretends doesn’t exist.

There is also the Emporium. I called it to mind and studied it from all
angles, but it was about as inspiring as
raisinless
oatmeal
until I came to that gallows-like beam at the top of the building. That wasn’t
anything I wanted to talk about.

However, the street in front of the Emporium was another matter. It
was cobbled and old enough to be worn flat in places. It had never been paved
over on account of its historic value and it showed the wear and tear of the
ages, a physical reminder of how many people have lived there and put it to use.

The stones have been dilapidated mainly by the passage of islanders’
feet since there are few vehicles on the island even today. And that dilapidated
street was my way in, all those people who had worn the cobbles smooth as they went
about their lives. It helped that I had been reading their letters and journals
and felt that, at least to some degree, I knew them, or at least what they
hoped for, desired, and feared.

I leaned toward the computer and began to type, scavenging images and
words of the imagined past.

We have the
pleasure today of standing on old ground, in the sunlight with the family and friends
who are the children of those who were our parents’ family and friends. And as
we look out at the sea that nurtures and protects us, we know who we are. The
painful search for identity, for roots and belonging which most people face, is
spared us. We know who we are and where we belong
.

Today we
honor those first brave souls who stepped into this wilderness and dared to
imagine a civilization here. They defended their dream, rode out every storm,
endured
the disease and tyranny and war that afflicted those
first courageous settlers who dared to put lasting footprints in the sand of
our islands.

The phone rang and since I was ready for an interruption I answered.

“Tess,” Bryson replied to my hello. “Would you be free for dinner
after the Founders Day celebration?”

This sounded social and not … business related.

My speech was at eleven. I couldn’t see celebrating on Goose Haven
until dinnertime, even if I thought it would be safe to travel by water after
dark.

“Unless you’re on duty, could we make it for lunch?”

“Another storm Friday night?”
Like I said,
Bryson gets it.

“Maybe.
It’s at least possible. Ben is going
to bring the box back tomorrow and I need to work out how to.…” I paused.

“To return it?”

“Yes. I don’t think UPS is the answer for this job.”

“Have you come up with a plan?”

“I’m working on it,” I said, looking at the stacks of papers that
still needed sorting and reading.

Bryson didn’t make any suggestions about how to return the box and I
didn’t ask for ideas. I had given up asking anyone, except Kelvin, what was
going on, or why my great-grandfather had thought or done the things that he
did. I still speculated to myself but had accepted the fact that I still didn’t
know everything that had gone on at Wendover House and that my
great-grandfather may not have known either. I would just take it on faith that
he had good and sufficient reason for every seemingly crazy thing he did. Like
giving back a fortune in possibly cursed pirate treasure.

“Okay. Will you take the ferry on Friday? Or ride over with Ben?”

I hadn’t thought about how to get to Goose Haven or that Ben might
very well be attending.

“I’ll manage something. My speech is at eleven so the ferry would get
me there in time.”

“Then I’ll see you after your speech.”

“Looking forward to it.
Bye.” I hung
up the phone and then looked over at my cat. “Okay, Kelvin, if you have some
ideas about this mess, now would be a good time to share them with me.”

And, as so often happens, the cat answered by jumping into a half-empty
box.

“This box?”
I asked as he
stared at me. “Okay. Do you want to move so I can look?”

He gave me a look of sorrowful contempt. Circled once and lay down.

“So it’s in this other box?” I tried. This one was more like three-quarters
full.

Kelvin didn’t answer. Sighing, I sat down on the carpet and lifted a
pile of papers into my lap. And found what I was looking for almost
immediately. The papers—the
parchment actually—were
a
lot older and the handwriting was still bold enough to read though the ink was
fading.

Not for the first time, I wished that my great-grandfather was
available for questions. But he was either dead or else whooping it up in the
Land of Midnight Fun and unlikely to reappear in the islands.

I had been looking for a ship’s log or perhaps a journal or even
letters, not loose papers thrust to the back of an old box filled with
household ledgers. But of course the official log had stayed with the ship and
perhaps Nicholas Wendover’s need to set his adventures down on paper had not
allowed for the time needed to send away for a bound book to write in.

As I had noticed before, none of my ancestors had mastered the art of
legible writing and the parchment had seen some damage, but I did my best with
the villainous cursive and disordered pages.

The islands
are
fyne
and the
wynds
mostly fair. It’s the sea that affrights me now. Too many unnatural
shadders
(shadows?)
movin
in the deep around three bells especially in the First Watch. It’s
hellish and some say tis
ghostesses
. Some say tis
somping
(something?)
else.
Haint
or beast, I’ve seen it scuttling
ovr
the rocks. If it be the ghost of any man then God help
hym
. Tis well I sent the
Calmare
away. I’ll not be
goin
to sea
agin
.

My skin tightened. This was it. It had to be. I skimmed until a word
caught my eye. I backed up and read more slowly.

It was a dark
day we took aboard that crate from the Concepcion. I’d only a few
coyns
left of my share, but what remained went into the box
along with that cursed bundle of bones and I threw it back into the sea. Let
the
shadders
have it. Or the bane my wife speaks of,
I prayed. Just take it from me. There had already been two deaths in the
islands and the moon was not yet full.

There it was, the
Concepcion
.
Confirmation that Nicholas Wendover really was
Halfbeard
.
Ben would be pleased.

I gave up trying to put the pages in order, just began pulling the
pieces of yellowed parchment out of the accumulation of other papers. It was
unpleasantly suggestive to find rusty stains and spatters, and that his papers
had a lot of water damage. In fact, many of them looked like they had been
submerged in water and were no longer readable. Had this happened in his time?
Or Kelvin’s?
Maybe Ben’s museum friend would know how to
rescue the writing.

But the cask
did not stay long in the sea. On the
nyneth
night of
September, one year to the day that we took the cargo from the Concepcion, I
was roused from sleep by
lyghtning
. The
nyght
was full of blow that sounded like damned souls
wayling
from Hell. Leaving my wife abed, sunk in
unnatral
deep slumber, I went to the west window where
there was a strange
lyght
rysing
from the beach. I knew what it was though I’d never seen a
wyllowysp
.