I tap the paper. “Why warn you specifically? Most people in town know about our rivalry, but nothing suggests you were looking for my star.”
“Unless . . .” Sid says slowly, “whoever took it assumes we might work together to find it.”
The thought had occurred to me too. “Which means they definitely know about our history.”
“Half the town knows about our history, Marnie.” A wry smile touches his lips. “We haven’t exactly been subtle about competing for commissions and auction prices.”
This is true enough. Our rivalry began five years ago when Sid opened his gallery three blocks from my shop. His sleek, modern aesthetic and higher price points attracted a different clientele than my more rustic approach, but the tension was immediate. At the first Christmas Market after his arrival, his elaborate driftwood sculpture outsold my piece at the charity auction, breaking my three-year winning streak. I had not taken it gracefully.
“So either this is someone who knows us both,” I reason, “or someone who has been asking questions around town.”
Finn shifts position, moving to stand beside me.
“About that,” Sid says, leaning forward. “I heard something interesting yesterday. Dawson Morrow was seen talking to a stranger at K’s Korner Kafé two days ago. Someone who wasn’t a tourist, according to Klara.”
My interest sharpens. “What kind of stranger?”
“Male, middle-aged, wearing a business suit in a town where casual is the norm. Klara thought he might be a real estate developer or investor.”
This information settles uncomfortably alongside my discoveries from last night. Dad’s research folder, the map locations, his cryptic notes about historical significance.
“Did anyone overhear what they discussed?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, no. But Klara said they were looking at papers spread across the table. Maps, maybe.”
Maps. Like the one Finn found in the bottle.
I hesitate, considering how much to share with Sid. His warning note suggests he’s not the thief, but old habits of caution are hard to break.
“Sid, why are you helping me with this? Truthfully.”
He looks surprised, then thoughtful. “Two reasons, I suppose. First, theft crosses a line. Competition is one thing, but this . . .” He gestures toward the note. “This feels wrong. And second . . .” He pauses. “Your father helped me once, when I first moved to Seacliff Haven. I was having trouble getting permits for the gallery renovation. Samuel put in a good word with the town council, despite our different approaches to art.”
This is news to me. “Dad never mentioned that.”
“He wouldn’t have. He did it because he believed in supporting local artists, even ones with, as he put it, ‘unnecessarily modern sensibilities.’” Sid smiles at the memory. “I never properly thanked him before he passed.”
The revelation shifts something in my perception of Sid. Perhaps our rivalry has been more one-sided than I realized, fueled by my competitive nature rather than any genuine animosity on his part.
I grab the map and folder from the counter.
“Finn found something at the beach yesterday,” I explain, spreading the map on the table between us. “A bottle with this inside. It’s my father’s handwriting.”
Sid studies the map. “These symbols mark specific locations?”
“Yes. Places where Dad and I used to collect driftwood, including the pieces I used for the star.”
I show him the folder next, explaining my late-night discovery and the references to artifacts of historical significance.
“So your father may have found evidence of a shipwreck,” Sid summarizes. “But why would anyone care enough about that to steal your star and leave threatening notes?”
“That’s what I need to find out.” I hesitate, then add, “There’s one more thing.”
I place the driftwood piece and small key on the table. “Finn found this piece of driftwood the day before the star was stolen. This morning, I discovered it had a hidden compartment with this key inside.”
Sid picks up the key, examining it with an artist’s attention to detail. “Interesting craftsmanship. Not antique—maybe mid-twentieth century? Custom made. This opens something specific.”
“It looks like it might fit a small lockbox or chest,” I say, examining the unusual shape. “Dad used to keep one in his study for important documents. I wonder if there’s another one hidden somewhere.”
