I gather our findings, carefully wrapping the compass and wood fragment in towels before placing them in my knapsack. The key goes into my pocket, its weight a constant reminder of the mystery we’re trying to unravel.
Outside, the rain has stopped, though dark clouds still loom overhead. The streets of Seacliff Haven glisten with puddles reflecting the holiday lights that now adorn nearly every storefront.
“I’ll follow you in my car,” Sid says as we exit the gallery.
The drive to my cottage takes only minutes. Finn sits regally in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing in the side mirror as if checking that Sid’s silver Audi remains behind us.
My cottage appears just as I left it that morning, no signs of disturbance. Still, after the note in my truck, I feel a heightened awareness of potential threats. I check the locks, windows, and less obvious entry points before inviting Sid inside.
“Nice place,” he comments, looking around appreciatively at the cozy space with its coastal decor and well-worn furniture.
“It was Dad’s,” I explain, leading the way to the study. “I kept most of it the same.”
The study remains as I left it the night before, books and papers scattered across the desk where I’d been searching through Dad’s research. Sid moves to the bookshelves, scanning the titles while I return to the folder labeled “SH Project.”
“Look at this,” I say, pointing to a notation in Dad’s handwriting. “He references a ‘designation application’ several times. Could he have been trying to get something officially designated as a historic site?”
Sid joins me at the desk. “That would make sense. If he found evidence of the Salvador Mundi, he might have been preparing to register the site for protection.”
“Which might interfere with someone’s plans for the area,” I add. “Development, perhaps.”
“There haven’t been any major development proposals for Seacliff Haven since the resort project your father helped block,” Sid points out.
“That we know of,” I counter. “What if someone was planning something new, quietly acquiring permits or properties, and Dad’s discovery threatened to derail everything?”
Sid nods slowly. “It’s possible. Shipwreck sites can receive protected status, preventing construction or disturbance.”
I flip through more papers, finding a map similar to the one from the bottle, but with additional notations. Coordinates, depths, and what appear to be underwater survey markings.
“Dad was methodical,” I murmur. “If he believed he’d found the Salvador Mundi, he would have documented everything thoroughly.”
“Which explains why someone might want your star,” Sid says. “If it contains part of his documentation or another key to his findings.”
Finn, who had been exploring the study with curious sniffs, suddenly perks up, his attention drawn to the bookshelf. He pads over, nose working intensely, and paws at a lower shelf.
“What is it, boy?” I ask, joining him.
Finn continues pawing at a thick book bound in faded blue leather. I pull it from the shelf, recognizing it as one of Dad’s favorites: “Maritime Disasters of the Atlantic Seaboard.”
The book falls open naturally to a section that has clearly been referenced often. Pages on Portuguese exploration, with notes in Dad’s handwriting filling the margins. One paragraph is highlighted:
“The Salvador Mundi, under Captain Sebastian Mateus, departed Lisbon in June 1587 carrying religious artifacts destined for the new cathedral in San Juan. The ship was last sighted near what is now Rhode Island before disappearing in a violent autumn storm. While most historians place the wreck further south, local legends persist of Portuguese gold washing ashore near Seacliff Point in the centuries since.”
“Seacliff Point,” Sid reads over my shoulder. “That’s just north of the lighthouse.”
“Near the third location on Dad’s map,” I confirm, excitement building. “Where we found Dawson digging today.”
As I turn the page, something slips from between the leaves. A photograph, showing Dad standing on the beach with a much younger Dawson Morrow. Both men are smiling, arms around each other’s shoulders, the lighthouse visible in the background.The date stamp shows it was taken fifteen years ago, long before their falling out.
“They were close once,” I say softly, studying the image.
“What happened between them?” Sid asks.
“I never knew for sure. They argued about the resort development, but I always felt there was something more. Something personal.”
I continue turning pages, finding more handwritten notes and small marker flags. Dad had been thorough in his research of the Salvador Mundi, collecting newspaper clippings, academic articles, and local stories about the legendary wreck.
“Here,” Sid says, pointing to a section near the back. “A list of the ship’s reported cargo. Religious artifacts, gold coin, and something called ‘The Star of Sebastian.’“
