Confirmed. Portuguese origin. 16th century.
Then, a single sheet with a list of coordinates and a cryptic note:
Evidence compiled. Designation pending. Must verify final site.
Dad had been working on something significant, something he kept relatively quiet. The last notation in the folder is dated just two weeks before his sudden heart attack.
I check the map against the locations in the folder. They match. Whatever Dad had discovered, he’d marked the evidence trail carefully, perhaps intending to create a formal report.
But for what? A historical shipwreck? An archaeological site? Why would anyone care enough about this to pilfer my star and leave threatening notes?
The answer might lie at the remaining locations on the map. Places where Dad had apparently found evidence of . . .what?
I yawn, suddenly aware of how late it’s grown. The clock on Dad’s desk shows nearly midnight. The investigation will have to wait until morning, after I speak with Sid.
“Come on, Finn,” I say softly, rousing the drowsy dog. “Bedtime.”
Finn stretches and follows me upstairs to the bedroom, settling in his customary spot at the foot of the bed. I place the map and folder on my nightstand.
Sleep comes fitfully; my dreams filled with broken images of driftwood stars, glass bottles, and shadowy figures watching from the dunes. I wake several times, reaching out to touch the map.
Morning arrives with the distant sound of foghorns and the smell of salt air through my partially open window. Finn already stands alert by the bedroom door.
I dress quickly in jeans, a thick sweater, and my sturdiest boots. Today we’ll visit the second location on the map, but first, the conversation with Sid. I’m still not sure how much to share with him. His note suggests he’s a target too, but old habits of caution die hard.
Preparing coffee and a quick breakfast, I lay out the map and folder on the kitchen table once more. In daylight, my late-night discoveries seem both more real and more puzzling. What had Dad found that was worth all this secrecy and apparent threat?
A knock at the door sends Finn into a flurry of deep, authoritative barks. Through the window, I see Sid’s tall figure standing on my porch, right on time at eight o’clock.
“Quiet, Finn,” I command gently, moving to answer the door. “Let’s see what Mr. Gillespie knows about all this.”
As I reach for the doorknob, I hesitate. The driftwood piece Finn found on the beach, the one so similar to part of my star . . . I never examined it closely. Could it contain a clue as well?
I retrieve it from my coat pocket, turning it over in the morning light. At first glance, it appears to be just another piece of sea-smoothed wood. But as I rotate it, something catches my eye. A small mark, almost invisible unless you know to look for it. An arrow, carved into the wood grain, pointing to a tiny seam.
With careful fingers, I press the spot. The wood shifts, revealing a hollow space inside. And there, nestled within the cavity, gleams a small, tarnished key.
Finn whines at the door, reminding me of our waiting visitor. I quickly pocket the key.
Whatever mystery my father had left behind, it was growing more intricate by the hour. And somewhere, somehow, my missing driftwood star held an important piece of the puzzle.
Chapter Four
Sid Gillespie looks different in my kitchen. Less like the polished gallery owner who has been my rival for years, and more like someone who has slept poorly. His usually immaculate hair appears hastily combed, and dark circles shadow his eyes.
“Coffee?” I offer, sliding a mug across the kitchen table.
“Thanks.” He wraps his hands around the mug. Finn watches him from his spot near my chair, his dark eyes assessing.
“May I see the note?” I ask, settling into my seat.
Sid reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a folded piece of paper. The message is typed in the same plain font as mine:
STAY AWAY FROM THE STAR. SOME TREASURES ARE BETTER LEFT UNFOUND.
“Did you notice anyone suspicious around your gallery yesterday?” I ask, studying the paper.
Sid shakes his head. “The town was busy with Christmas Market preparations. Anyone could have slipped it under the door unnoticed.”
