“You think the star contains another clue,” Sid guesses. “Another key, or a map to the next location.”
“It would explain why someone took it, and why they’re warning us both to back off.”
Sid returns the key to the table, his expression serious. “Marnie, have you considered taking this to Chief Barnes? These notes are basically threats.”
The question mirrors my own thoughts from the night before. “Not yet. I want to understand what Dad was working on first. The police might dismiss it as nothing more than petty theft.”
“Or they might take it seriously and prevent you from putting yourself at risk,” Sid counters. “What if whoever took the star becomes more aggressive?”
Finn nudges my hand with his cold nose. I scratch his beard absently, finding comfort in his solid presence.
“One more day,” I decide. “I want to check the second location on the map. If we find something significant, we’ll go to Chief Barnes together.”
Sid nods reluctantly. “Alright. But you shouldn’t go alone. When do we leave?”
“We?”
“Two sets of eyes are better than one,” he says with a shrug. “And three, counting Finn.”
An unexpected smile tugs at my lips. “The beach at eleven? The tide will be out, making it easier to access the location.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
After Sid leaves, I study the map again. The second location appears to be near a cluster of rocks just past the old jetty, an area prone to strong currents. Dad and I had found some of our best driftwood pieces there, washed in from far-flung places.
The morning passes slowly as I make preparations. I pack a small knapsack with water bottles, gloves, a trowel, and plastic bags for collecting any potential findings. Though I’m still not entirely sure what we’re looking for, Dad’s folder suggests something with historical significance, possibly related to a shipwreck.
At home, Finn follows me from room to room, obviously sensing the day’s activities will involve beach exploration, his favorite pastime. His excitement is contagious, momentarily lifting the weight of worry about the missing star and threatening notes.
“Ready for treasure hunting?” I ask him as I clip on his leash at precisely a quarter to eleven. Finn responds withan enthusiastic head tilt and soft “woof” that I interpret as wholehearted agreement.
The beach parking area is nearly empty when we arrive, typical for a weekday in December. Sid’s silver Audi already occupies a spot near the path. He stands leaning against the hood, dressed more practically than I’m used to seeing him, in sturdy jeans and a weatherproof jacket.
“I brought these,” he says by way of greeting, holding up two compact metal detectors. “Thought they might be useful.”
“Good thinking,” I admit, impressed by his foresight.
We make our way down to the shore, Finn leading the charge, his nose already working the scents along the path. The tide has retreated, revealing a wide expanse of wet sand and exposed rock formations. A brisk wind blows in from the water, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed.
“Where exactly are we heading?” Sid asks, adjusting the metal detector in his hand.
I consult the map, orienting myself by the lighthouse visible to the north. “There,” I point toward a distinctive rock formation about a quarter mile down the beach. “That cluster with the large flat boulder on top.”
As we walk, I fill Sid in on more details from Dad’s folder, describing the photographs of metal fragments and his notes about Portuguese origin.
“Portuguese explorers were active along the East Coast in the sixteenth century,” Sid remarks. “There are documented shipwrecks from that period, though most have been thoroughly explored.”
“You know about maritime history?” I ask, surprised.
He looks slightly embarrassed. “I went through a shipwreck phase in college. Thought about going into marine archaeology before art called louder.”
Another layer of Sid Gillespie I never knew existed. I’m beginning to wonder how much of our rivalry was based on assumptions rather than reality.
Finn stays slightly ahead of us, occasionally stopping to investigate interesting scents or dig briefly in the sand. About fifty yards from our destination, his behavior changes. His body tenses, and his digging becomes more purposeful.
“Finn’s found something,” I call to Sid, who has drifted toward the waterline with his metal detector.
By the time Sid joins us, Finn has excavated a small hole in the wet sand. I kneel beside him, using the trowel to carefully expand the hole. Six inches down, my tool strikes something solid.
