Beached_A Mer Cavallo Mystery Read online

  "That does complicate things." Bijoux brushed the hair back from the side of Mer's face. "When I suggested you add color to your life, I meant with your clothes."

  Lifting her shirt, Mer revealed the purple and blue contusion on her side. "Wait a few days and I'll be experimenting with yellows."

  "Mon dieu." Bijoux's lips pressed into a frown. "Whoever did this is a coward."

  Mer invited her boss inside. "Your dress..." Draped across the foot of her bed, the designer gown gleamed in the morning light like a bruise. She'd assessed the damage earlier. It wasn't as horrible as she'd supposed last night—the tears were all along seams—but of everything she'd borrowed from Bijoux, she wished she'd damaged the damn shoes. "The strap and hem are ripped. The side is torn. There are grass stains everywhere."

  Bijoux waved her hand dismissively over the gown. "It is only a dress."

  "I'm so sorry. I'll pay for the repairs."

  "Don't be absurd. I'll send it back to Jean-Paul with a note." She faced Mer. "I came by to make certain you are truly all right. See how much time you will need before you should come back to work."

  "I'm ready."

  "If that was meant as a joke, it isn't funny. Based on your appearance, it will be some time before you will lift tanks."

  "But—"

  "The weekend is done. It's a slow time of year. Based on the current reservations, the Dock Holiday will run two mornings and one afternoon trip this week. We won't need the LunaSea until Saturday. And Kyle is delighted to help in the store."

  Mer narrowed her eyes at Bijoux and the other woman burst out laughing. "Perhaps delighted is too strong a word."

  "Perhaps. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" Mer asked.

  Bijoux wrinkled her nose. "Not if it is from that dreadful gas station."

  "You're driving. My car is still in Islamorada."

  "Perfect. We'll go to Café Moka, and then you can make arrangements for your car."

  * * *

  "Can I run something by you?" Mer asked.

  "Of course," Bijoux answered.

  Light poured into the cafe through French doors. The espresso machine hissed while they waited for their drinks.

  Mer started to slump against the counter, but the pain from her ribs brought her upright. "Oscar mentioned that the Legend of the Thirteenth Galleon arose after a group of churchmen raised a bribe for King Philip to change the Alhambra Decree."

  "Oscar." Bijoux's bracelets clacked with her agitation. "I would not have thought him capable of such treachery."

  "I've given Oscar's participation in this a lot of thought. I'm convinced he's trying to protect me."

  "He needs to try harder."

  "You didn't see him last night. He was scared. And yet he still found the courage to try to intercede when Bart threatened me. Think about it. Oscar grew up in a country where people could disappear in the dark of night. Then he hooks up with Bart Kingston—a man who can definitely make people disappear. Oscar wouldn't stand a chance against such a thug."

  "You are letting him off too easy."

  "He's going to die, if I don't help."

  The barista slid their cups to them with a smile and turned back to the machine.

  Bijoux made no move toward her coffee. "What is this decree?"

  "The expulsion order that King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella signed during the Spanish Inquisition." Mer collected her latte and scone. "It commanded all Jews to abandon the kingdom of Spain—or face death."

  "I can see why churchmen would want to change that."

  "Except it was the Church that was pushing for the decree, so why would they try to invalidate it?"

  Bijoux picked up her cup. "Perhaps there was a faction that allied with the Jews."

  "Here's where it gets interesting. Oscar said the legend started in the fifteenth century."

  Bijoux paused at the creamer table and pulled two napkins from the dispenser. "What year was the edict?"

  "Ferdinand and Isabella signed it in 1492." Mer nibbled the edge of her orange-cranberry scone.

  "The ship sunk over two hundred years later. How could that be connected?"

  "I don't know," Mer admitted.

  "What about the manifest? Were any of the passengers Catholic?"

  "Probably. Europe was overwhelmingly Catholic at the time."

  "Your argument needs more substance."

  The loud espresso machine delayed her answer, but Bijoux was right.

  "I need more coffee for that."

  Bijoux held open the door. "You need sleep, not coffee."

  * * *

  The flat tires imparted a forlorn tilt to her Subaru. Fingerprint powder smudged her driver window and a dark smear of blood streaked her door where Oscar had jammed the folded manifest.

  "Do you want me to wait until the tow truck driver arrives?" Bijoux asked.

  "No. The dispatcher said it'd be an hour. That will give me time to go into the museum and study the painting again. You're more than welcome to join me."

  "Watch you stare at a painting? Fortunately, I have other errands that require my attention."

  Mer hugged Bijoux. "Thank you."

  "Get some sleep. I'll check on you tomorrow."

  "You don't need to do that."

  "No. I do not." She wagged a finger in Mer's face and her bracelets kept time. "Sleep."

  She nodded.

  Satisfied, Bijoux drove off and Mer trudged to the entrance of the museum. Unlike last night's debacle, today all she had to do to enter was buy a ticket. The lady at the register even smiled at her—although she may have been trying to mask her horror at the bruise that covered half of Mer's face.

  She shuffled her way to the Lignum Vitae Hall. When she got there, a velvet rope blocked the entrance and employees were breaking down the exhibit.

  Mer hailed a curator.

  "The exhibit is on temporary loan to Winslet Chase," the man stated officiously.

  "The whole thing?" Wow. Winslet had some pull. Unfortunately, he also had the Berdugo. She had to think fast. "A charming man." The words practically choked her. "I met him last night at the gala."

  At the mention of the A-list fete, the curator's demeanor immediately changed. "A riveting keynote."

  She tucked a curl behind her ear, exposing the bruise. "I'm afraid I missed it. You see, I was the woman assaulted on your museum grounds. A most unfortunate event, wouldn't you agree?"

  Some of the starch left his spine.

  Channeling her inner Bijoux, she stood as straight as she could, which due to her ribs, was considerably less than vertical. "When I spoke with my counsel this morning, I assured her that the museum shouldn't be held accountable." Referring to Bijoux as counsel may have been a bit misleading, but her boss had dispensed advice, just not on accountability. "Of course, I was devastated to miss the two things I had most wanted to see last night. The Berdugo painting," she pointed to the empty space on the wall, "and Winslet's presentation."

  "It's—" He cleared his throat. "It's your lucky day. We recorded his entire speech."

  "After all that occurred last night, it would make me very happy to receive a copy of it."

  "Of course, Miss...?"

  She held out her hand and hoped the curator wouldn't shake it too vigorously. "Doctor." Gatecrashers usually didn't command the same level of respect as legitimate A-listers, and with any luck, he'd be satisfied with a title. "You must have documentation on the painting in your inventory. I'd like a copy of that too, please."

  "I'm sorry, that's priv—"

  "I'm certain that sharing a photograph won't break any rules. After all, it's merely a depiction of what you displayed." She'd picked up a southern accent to go with her smile. Why, she hadn't a clue. Maybe she really had suffered head trauma.

  "It will take just a few minutes to copy the presentation onto a disc. Unless you require a different format?"

  She no longer had a laptop, but she didn't want to quibble. "No, thank you. That would be wonderful."
He'd taken two steps before she stopped him. "I almost forgot. Do you have the artist's bio?"

  "Actually, there isn't one. The only thing we know about him is his surname."

  * * *

  Selkie was grilling dinner in his backyard when Mer rounded the corner of his house. "I found the link!"

  He flipped the single piece of chicken and doused it with a bit of his beer. "You need to let law enforcement handle this."

  "Aren't you even a little curious?" She came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his middle.

  "No." He sidestepped out of her grasp.

  She tried again. "I watched the lecture. The one Winslet Chase gave."

  "How did you—? Never mind. I don't want to know."

  She hadn't eaten since her scone and latte that morning and the smell of grilled chicken made her mouth water. "He talked about the legend."

  "I don't want to hear this, Mer."

  She continued undeterred. "There's really not much to tell. Of all the legends, he kind of paid the Thirteenth Galleon short shrift. Stingy considering how much he wanted to talk about it with me. Which in light of everything that's happened, suggests he doesn't want anyone else poking around the legend."

  "Sounds like good advice. You should take it."

  "But what he did mention—"

  "Doesn't interest me."

  "I think the clue is in the painting."

  "I don't care, Mer."

  "Why not?" She took a step back. "When you know this means so much to me?"

  He turned back to the grill. "You're a smart woman. It shouldn't be that difficult to figure out."

  "You have a master's degree in communication." She tried to keep the hurt from her voice. "Humor me."

  "I don't want to talk about it." He twisted the knob in the wrong direction and the flame jumped before he extinguished it.

  She stared at his back. "All right." But it wasn't. "Do you want me to come back later?"

  "I've got plans. The pub's holding a gala."

  The barb found its mark. "Why are you being so pissy? Is this about last night?"

  He took the chicken from the grill and dropped it on his plate. "Let Josh do his job, Mer."

  "You didn't think that was such a good idea last night."

  He banged shut the lid. "You make me crazy. I leave for fourteen hours and when I come home I find the woman I love dressed to the nines, with another man, and she's hurt. You didn't even try to call me."

  "Is this about me, or that you weren't there to keep me safe?"

  He held up his plate. "My dinner's getting cold."

  Dismissed. Her mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water, but no sound came out. She started to tell him what he could do with his dismissal, but stopped. What was the point? She smoothed her T-shirt and said coldly, "Sorry to have bothered you."

  The slap of her flip-flops marked her retreat.

  His words followed her. "You looked beautiful."

  She tensed. "What?"

  "Last night. Even after all you'd been through. You still looked beautiful."

  Something inside her snapped. "No." For a moment, that was the only word she could muster. And then the moment passed. "You don't get to banish me with one breath and compliment me with another. I did nothing wrong last night. And I refuse to apologize." She stepped closer then stopped. "I don't have all the answers. Hell, I don't even know all the rules, but this isn't working. Not for me. Not anymore."

  "I shouldn't have said that."

  "I'm not sure exactly what part of the conversation you're referring to, but it doesn't really matter. You did say it."

  The tongs clacked as he squeezed them shut and carefully balanced them on the grill shelf. "Where does that leave us?"

  "You're a smart man." She threw his earlier words back at him. "It shouldn't be that difficult to figure out."

  25

  The Bilge opened at eleven, and Mer was outside the door the next morning when the key turned at 10:58.

  Skipper squinted at her. "Looks like someone opened a can of whoop-ass and your face got in the way."

  She pushed past him. "Bart Kingston."

  He rammed a wedge under the door to hold it open. The slant of the sun accentuated the crags of Skipper's face and glinted off the hoop that cupped his left ear. "Told you, he's bad news." He grabbed the leg of an upside-down chair, pulled it off a high top table, and set it on the floor.

  "No. Actually you didn't." She dropped her backpack onto the floor and curled her fingers around the leg of another chair. "You didn't tell me about the Thirteenth Galleon, either." She flipped over the chair. The weight of the wood pulled her injured muscles and the chair landed heavily on the concrete floor.

  "I'll thank you not to break my furniture."

  "Winslet Chase—"

  "Ain't no better than Bart Kingston," he finished for her.

  "He seems to think I'd be a good business partner. Trouble is, I don't much care for him. In fact, I dislike him so much that you look good by comparison. Which is why I'm here."

  "You're barking up the wrong tree, girlie. I ain't looking for a business partner. And if you got any sense, you'll stay away from Chase."

  "What do you know about Winslet Chase?"

  "You opening a tab?"

  "Not a chance in hell."

  A faint smile played at the edges of his lips. "Yeah, well, I'll give you this on the house. Used to work with the bastard. A wreck up Jupiter way." He righted another chair. "He's smart. Good with the investors."

  Winslet Chase and Skipper Biggs? That couldn't have lasted long. At least not without injury. Two type-A personalities had to butt heads.

  "So what was the problem?"

  His mouth twisted as if he'd swallowed rancid milk. "The man's a liar and a thief."

  He grabbed another chair, but Mer held onto one of the other legs. "You're a treasure hunter."

  "Used to be."

  "Once a pirate, always, no?"

  He yanked the seat from her grasp. "This your brand of charm?"

  "There's a painting in the Florida Keys Art Museum. The Lignum Vitae Hall to be precise."

  He cleared another table. "I reckon there's several."

  Mer gathered her backpack and claimed a barstool. "This one depicts El Infante, the moment she bilges on the reef during the hurricane." She rummaged in the bag. "In the background, there's another galleon battling the storm. Historians labeled it the San José, because the San José sank closest to El Infante."

  "So?" He flipped the last of the chairs and retreated behind the bar.

  "You know your ships. You tell me."

  She slapped the photocopy of the Berdugo painting onto the bar.

  "Don't need a painting to tell me what's wrong with that. The San José's a Spanish merchant ship. A nao, not a galleon."

  A thrill ran through Mer. "Exactly."

  "That's it? That's your evidence of the Thirteenth Galleon?"

  "When the weather cleared," Mer said. "Capitana was stuck on another reef nearby. She's a galleon. Historians gave the artist a pass. Simple mistake. Artistic license. Whatever."

  Skipper dropped bins of sliced lemons and limes into a compartmentalized container. "You got 'bout thirty seconds before I throw you out." He yanked a plastic jar of maraschino cherries from the bar fridge.

  "I've never been in a hurricane, but I've been in a tropical storm. Visibility sucks. And that was on land. Throw in some waves? There'd be no way the artist could have seen the Capitana. She was too far away. So what galleon is in the painting?" She leaned against the bar. "Last week, I pulled a square grouper out of the ocean. Inside, I found a portrait dollar. The only wreck those coins have ever been recovered from was the San José. But this wasn't one of them."

  He put down the spoon that he was using to dig for cherries. "Alright, girlie. I'll bite. Where'd it come from?"

  "The Archivo Nacional de Cuba in Havana. That's why no one has ever found record of the galleon in the Spanish archi
ves. The records were buried in Cuba."

  He narrowed his eyes. "How you know all this?"

  "Our buddy Bart Kingston smuggled the archivist into the Keys." She paused, confident she had his attention. "Know what else was with the coin?"

  "I'm riveted."

  "A manifest for a galleon. One that wasn't in the official list of ships, because no one was supposed to know it existed. The artist was on that ship. He was leaving a clue to where she went down."

  "So what's the clue?"

  "I don't know. I thought you might be able to tell me."

  Skipper laughed—a joyous, little-kid laugh that sounded out of place in the Bilge. He grabbed a cocktail napkin and wiped his eyes. "Time's up."

  Mer squared her shoulders, ignoring the dart of pain. "No."

  He crumpled the napkin. "Ain't your choice."

  "Selkie vouched for you. Leroy said you're honorable. I don't see it, personally, but I trust them. I need your assistance to find this ship."

  "Don't believe everything you hear." He tossed the napkin in the trash.

  "I have to find it."

  "Girlie, you don't know the first thing 'bout salvage."

  "I know enough to go to an expert."

  He leaned against his old-fashioned cash register and folded his arms. "Don't you think if a galleon went down off the Keys it would have been found—like all the others have?"

  "No one was looking for it. You said it yourself. There are thousands of wrecks off the coast."

  "The 1733 fleet hit the reefs. Shallow enough that the Spanish salvaged their ships right after they sank."

  "If that were true, there would be more than five known portrait dollars." She let the words sink in. "There aren't."

  She could tell that made an impression on him.

  "You telling me it sank in deep water?"

  "That would explain why it wasn't salvaged immediately by the Spaniards."

  "You got a boat?"

  Selkie's thirty-six-foot Dorado, the Devil's Advocate, would be perfect. Wide swim platform, galley, sleeping berths. If only... "No."

  "Huh. You think about the number of divers you'll need? Deck space? Fuel costs?"

  Mer attempted to speak, but he cut her off.