Too Much Stuff (21 page)

“I’m sure you’re good.”

“Good? I’m the best.” He stroked his chin. “You got any friends who are looking for a charter—half day, all day, you send ’em to me.”

“You know the area pretty well, right?”

“I do.” He slowly stood up, thrusting his hands into his khaki cargo shorts and twisting his neck as if it were stiff.

“What do you know about Cheeca Lodge?”

“Fishing?”

“I was thinking more about the property.”

“What about it? You know they rebuilt some if it a couple of years ago. Place had a big fire and they had to close up. Some guy tossed a cigarette on the thatched hut bar on New Year’s Eve. Nasty situation. But it’s a fine resort. Fanciest one in this area. Very modern, upscale—”

“Quite a bit of property?”

“Oh, I’d say. Got a golf course, big pool, and lodge. Plus all them bungalows. But it’s a bit pricey.”

“Quite a history.” If the gold wasn’t buried in the ocean, Kriegel said it would be buried somewhere on that property. Where
Cheeca Lodge now stood. Hey, it wasn’t the size of the ocean, but still a sizable area to cover.

“Started out the settlers built a two-room schoolhouse and a Methodist Cemetery.”

“So now there’s this fabulous resort—”

“And an old cemetery.”

“The cemetery is still there?” We’d heard that, but I still had a hard time believing it. You don’t have an old cemetery on a resort property.

“Yep, right on the beach beside the swimming pool.”

I wondered if they sold that photo on a postcard. “Swimming next to dead people. Wish you were here.”

“Pinder Cemetery. Used to be called that. Named after Etta Pinder. Died sometime around nineteen fourteen. Now they call it Pioneer Cemetery, but it’s still there. The statue kind of guards it.”

“Statue?”

“The broken-winged angel. I think she was there before the hurricane back in thirty-five. She’s still there, in the middle of that plot of ground.”

I was trying to picture this ancient, deteriorating cemetery and this high-class resort coexisting.

“The resort is—”

“Built up around it.”

“So you’re swimming, fishing, laying out in the sun and there’s this old cemetery right beside you?”

“That’s exactly the way it is.”

“And the bodies are above ground?”

“No. Buried under the ground.”

Again I remembered the letter we’d found. Kriegel was concerned that if you dug straight down, you’d hit water before you could bury anything. His assumption was that the land was almost at sea level.

“Why are you so interested in Cheeca?”

“I want to visit.”

“It’s a private resort. They got a gate with a guard. You’re a guest or a vendor or you don’t get in.”

We’d hurdled bigger obstacles than Cheeca Lodge.

“So, unless I pony up for the room rate, I can’t visit?” I asked the old captain, even though I wasn’t sure he had the answer.

“Well,” he stretched his arms and took a deep breath, “I told you I know this island like the back of this hand—” the gentleman passed his hand in front of my face. “If you pull up to that gate and say you want to visit the Methodist cemetery, they cannot deny you a visit. It’s an official historic site.”

“Really?”

“They don’t want everyone to know that, but the Methodist church still owns the cemetery and anyone, even you, can show up and be admitted. I mean, they do have this very pricey resort and all.”

“What’s your name?”

“Here’s my card.”

I looked down to read it.

Al Amero. Fishing expert and boat captain.

“Mr. Amero, I’m Skip Moore and I will tell anyone who wants to know that you are the finest fishing guide anyone could want.”

He gave me a broad smile and shook my hand.

“I do the best I can, young man.”

“You’ve been a big help.”

“Things are a little slow right now. You might want to get out there and start spreading the news, know what I mean?”

I found him at the pool bar, no surprise.

“Where’s Amy?”

He rolled his eyes. “I stopped by the bar next door and she’s in deep conversation with another guy. Some salesman named Trump from Illinois.” He took a swallow of his draft.

“Yeah?”

“I suggested we split for some private time, but she’s telling me that she’s not done yet and she’s kind of into this guy.”

“She said that?”

“Implied it.”

“Imagine that.”

“Imagine what?”

“She’s married, having an affair, decides to have an affair with you, then finds someone else attractive. I mean, what are the odds?”

“I thought you’d have a little more compassion, amigo.”

“I don’t.”

“I got that.”

He was silent for a moment. I could hear the gears working in his head. Finally, he looked at me.

“Well, it’s obvious that Em isn’t on board with this either. Maybe I should stay away from women who are in a relationship.”

“Or multiple relationships?”

He nodded.

“James, I want to take the metal detector to Cheeca Lodge. Tonight. After dark. There’s some exploring that needs to be done.”

“We can do that.”

“We’ve got to tell them that we are there to see the cemetery.”

“Dude, I’m really not into cemeteries.”

“Dude, you suggested that we get involved in this project. If you don’t want to deal with it, we can kiss our two million commission goodbye.”

He hesitated, then said, “Why a cemetery?”

“You remember, Cheeca Lodge has a Methodist cemetery? All we’ve got to do is mention that we’re there to see the cemetery and it’s a guarantee to get onto the property through the private gate.”

“But it’s still private property, Skip. We go tooling in with the truck and they’re going to send us packing.”

“They’ve got to let us in. It’s a deal they made with the Methodist church.”

“So you’re going to take the detector to Cheeca Lodge?”

“I am. We’ll go in late afternoon. Then when it gets a little dark—”

“Amigo, where do we start looking?”

“Well,” I’d thought it through and was pretty pleased with my plan. “There’s a golf course, a beach, of course all the buildings—”

“Man, if that stuff is buried under the buildings I don’t see how we could ever get it up.”

“There’s a big pool—”

“When they dug the pool, somebody would have found it if that’s where it rested.”

“There’s only one thing left, James. And it was there in nineteen thirty-five.”

“Whoa.” He gave me a big smile, his eyes opening wider. Motioning to Bobbie, he said, “I’m buying this guy a beer. He’s a genius.”

She nodded. “What kind?” She still didn’t remember.

“Whatever he’s having,” I said.

“Oh,” she brightened up. “Yuengling.”

James looked out at the water, focusing on something inside his head, the vision I’d painted.

“Pure genius. This guy Kriegel is walking around, maybe he even gets a ride down to this Millionaire’s Row where the fancy house had been, and he’s thinking about where to bury his gold.”

I nodded. “I’m thinking that the gold was still on the train. The railroad cars were scattered everywhere, but maybe this freight car was still closed. And these crates had to be solid. Put together really well. So Kriegel has a little time before the looters get here and he’s checking things out.”

“He gets this far and finds out there’s a cemetery. And it’s still there.”

“That’s where I’m headed.”

“Bodies buried?”

“Under the sand. The only damage to the entire place was the angel statue. There are bodies from the late eighteen hundreds. Just headstones above ground.”

“Nobody is going to dig up bodies.”

“No decent people. Zombies, maybe.”

He frowned.

“So, if someone did stumble on one of these buried crates,
accidentally,” he rubbed his chin, “they’d think it had something to do with dead people. A wooden box in a cemetery? Maybe a pet coffin?”

“Doesn’t this make perfect sense?”

“Skip, it does. It would be like hiding something in plain sight. Anyone who found it wouldn’t understand its significance.”

“You’d think it would be a pretty safe bet.”

“We’re on for tonight, pard.”

“A little exploring.” Hiding in plain sight.

Kind of like the boat people down at the vacant property. I’d bet money they were smuggling something in plain sight. I wouldn’t bet our two million dollars, but I’d bet money.

“Hey, Skip,” James scrunched his shoulders, ran his fingers through his hair, and shook his head. In his best Rodney Danger-field imitation, he said, “Country clubs and cemeteries are the biggest wasters of prime real estate.”

That one was a freebie. I think we’d both memorized every line in
Caddyshack
.

I carried the shovels, just in case we decided to dig tonight, and Em had the metal detector.

“Suppose we can stop in for dinner?”

“We’ll give it a try,” James said. “Once they let us in, they may as well take our money.”

We went through the gate with no trouble.

The guard said, “Oh, you’re here to see the cemetery, our historic site?”

“Yeah. History,” James said.

He handed us a pass and motioned us through.

When we arrived at the circular drive, the guy at the lodge walked out with a question mark look on his face.

Studying the truck he said, “Are you a vendor?”

Was it so hard to believe we were guests? Dressed in T-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, I thought we fit right in.

“We’re here to have dinner and see the cemetery.” Em smiled at him and that seemed to get the job done.

“Very few people come here to see the cemetery.”

“We have family buried there and—” James trailed off.

“Well, certainly, sir.” He stood there in his crisp white shirt, white cargo shorts, white socks, and tennis shoes, holding his hand out.

“I’m sorry,” staring at the nametag on the attendant James said, “Jack, where do I park?”

“Sir, I’ll park the—” he surveyed the truck, “the vehicle.”

“No problem, I can—”

“Sir, I will valet the vehicle.”

“Let him park it, James.” It was obvious that Em had valet parked before. James and I, never.

Reluctantly, James handed the man the keys, and we got out of the truck.

“New experiences, Skip. That’s what I’m all about.”

I just shook my head.

We had a nice dinner. Better than we ever ate. I had shrimp and scallops. Em had an Asian dish I’d never heard of, and James had lobster. My best friend and girlfriend got along like brother and sister. They fought the whole time, but kept it down so we didn’t get thrown out.

Sitting out on the patio, a candle burning softly at our table, we smelled the ocean air, listened to a classical guitar, and had a glass of wine. It was what civilized people seemed to do. No Yuengling beers tonight.

Afterward we walked out to the cemetery plot. It was about the size of a postage stamp. Small, crowded, covered with sand, and a very strange addition to the beach. The statue of the angel was there, complete with a broken arm and wing done in the ’35 hurricane.

A wooden fence surrounded the burial ground but we were able to walk inside and survey the stones. Mounted on a post was a metal plaque that declared the cemetery was deeded to Richard Pinder in 1883 by President Chester Arthur. At least President
Arthur did something with his short career. I knew nothing else about his presidency.

“So, what do you think, pard?”

Dusk had settled, and while several couples strolled the beach, most of the diners and outdoor folks had headed for their rooms or whatever nightlife they could find.

“Think the truck is unlocked?”

“Hard to say. I’ve never had a valet park my truck before. Em, do they, these valets, do they lock your vehicle?” He spoke with an affected British accent, mocking the valet and probably Em.

“Em?” I looked at her with what I hoped was a pleading expression.

“I know, you want me to go ask the attendant. You think because I’m a girl they won’t ask what’s going on.”

“Because you’re a very attractive girl,” I said.

“And I sometimes get tired of playing that role. Skip, James, they may ask us to leave. We’ve probably overstayed our welcome. I mean—”

“Give it a try?”

She threw her hands up. “Okay.”

She was back in three minutes with the detector.

“Truck was unlocked, and parked on the circle in front.”

“Probably because they thought we’d be short timers. They assumed we’d leave soon after arrival so they parked us close by.” That made sense to me.

“I think it’s because the truck gives them some prestige. They parked it in front to show off.” James hadn’t lost his bad phony British accent.

“That’s it.” I glanced around the property and there was no one. Rooms on higher floors looked down on the plot, but their curtains were drawn.

“I’m just going to sweep the perimeter.” The idea that had seemed so dead on, that had sounded so plausible, now seemed
like a dumb idea. There were dead people under this ground, not buried treasure. And what happened if there was metal in a casket—for whatever reason—and we dug that up?

“James, I hadn’t thought about it, but what if there’s a metal casket? I don’t want to dig up dead people. Isn’t that against the law?”

“Son, if we haven’t broken some laws already—”

“Yeah, but I’m not comfortable with making a mistake like that. Let the dead rest in peace and all that.”

“Some article I saw at the library, Skip. It said that the caskets buried in Pinder Cemetery were wooden.”

“Why?”

“This story pointed out that first of all there weren’t many metal caskets made. Maybe for the superrich. And, the landowners didn’t want the metal corroding and leaching into the beach.”

“Talk about early environmentalists.” Truly amazing. Some of these caskets were from the 1800s and people were already going green.

Still, I was having second thoughts. I’m not the most religious guy, but upsetting the spirit of a dead person didn’t seem to be the kind of thing I wanted to be doing. But here we were. And I had the detector in hand.