Sid smiles, a genuine warmth replacing his usual reserve. “We make a good team, surprisingly enough.”
“Don’t push it, Gillespie,” I joke, but without the edge that would have been present just days ago.
Back at my cottage, after feeding Finn and making a simple dinner for myself, I return to Dad’s study. The folder of research yields more interesting details, including a page of notes about local land ownership along the coast. Dad had been tracking property transfers, particularly around Lighthouse Point and the adjacent beach areas.
One name appears repeatedly: Coastal Development Partners, LLC. According to Dad’s notes, they’d started quietlyacquiring options on coastal properties about six months before he died. More recent newspaper clippings—ones I must have added to the folder without realizing—show they completed three purchases near the lighthouse just six months ago.
Finn joins me in the study, sensing my focus shifting. He places his head on my lap, his dark eyes watching me intently.
“What did Dad find, Finn?” I ask softly. “And why didn’t he tell me about it?”
Finn offers no answers, but his steady presence comforts me as I continue searching through papers and books late into the evening. Eventually, exhaustion wins out, and I head to bed, the day’s discoveries swirling in my mind.
The next morning brings clear skies, and a renewed determination. The Christmas Market officially opens today, and normally I would be setting up my booth, displaying my driftwood creations for holiday shoppers. Instead, I’m pursuing a maritime mystery that somehow connects to my missing star.
Sid texts early, asking to meet at the third location on the map, the site where we encountered Dawson. “Want to see what he was digging for,” his message explains.
I agree, suggesting we meet at nine, when the beach will likely be empty. The Christmas Market will draw most townspeople to the square, giving us privacy for our search.
After a quick breakfast, I gather supplies for beach excavation: trowels, gloves, plastic bags for artifacts, and a small shovel. Finn watches the preparations with obvious excitement, always eager for beach adventures.
The drive to the lighthouse takes us past the town square, already bustling with vendors setting up booths and stringing additional lights. I feel a pang of regret at missing the market setup, but finding the star has become about much more than the charity auction now.
Sid waits in the lighthouse parking area, his car the only other vehicle present. He’s dressed practically in jeans and a weatherproof jacket, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
“I brought something that might help,” he says by way of greeting, pulling out a small, handheld device. “Ground-penetrating radar. It can detect metal or density changes under the sand.”
“Where did you get that?” I ask, impressed.
“A friend in the archaeology department at Brown. I called in a favor.”
Together, with Finn leading the way, we trek down to the beach and follow the shoreline north toward the rock formation where we’d found Dawson digging. The morning tide is receding, revealing more of the beach with each passing minute.
The excavation site from yesterday is still visible, though partially filled in by the overnight tide. Sid sets up the radar device, scanning the surrounding area in a grid pattern.
“There’s definitely something here,” he says after several minutes of careful scanning. “About two feet down, extending under that large rock formation. Metal of some kind, sizeable.”
I mark the spot with a piece of driftwood, and we begin to dig carefully, aware of the historical significance of what we might uncover. Finn watches attentively, occasionally sniffing the sand we remove but mostly standing guard, his eyes scanning the beach and dunes.
Forty minutes of digging reveals a corner of something metallic. With brushes and smaller tools, we carefully expose more of the object: a bronze chest, approximately two feet long and one foot wide, its surface heavily corroded from centuries in salt water.
“This has to be from the Salvador Mundi,” Sid whispers, his voice filled with awe. “A ship’s chest, sixteenth century design.”
The chest is partially embedded in what appears to be a section of the ship’s hull, preserved in the anaerobic environment beneath the sand. Moving it without proper archaeological techniques could damage both the chest and valuable historical context.
“We should document this and contact proper authorities,” I say, taking photographs with my phone. “This is beyond amateur treasure hunting now.”
Sid nods agreement. “This confirms your father’s research. He found the Salvador Mundi, or at least part of it.”
“That’s why he was creating the map and documenting everything. He was preparing for a proper archaeological excavation.”
“And why someone might want to prevent that from happening,” Sid adds. “Shipwreck sites are protected. No development allowed.”
The connection to Coastal Development Partners becomes clearer. If they had purchased property with plans to build, a historically significant shipwreck would halt everything.
As we carefully rebury the chest, marking the location precisely on our own map, Finn suddenly tenses. A low growl rumbles from his chest, his attention fixed on the dunes behind us.
“Someone’s watching us again,” I murmur to Sid, not turning around immediately. “Finn senses them.”
