Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
I break the wax seal carefully and work the cork free. The paper inside proves challenging to extract without damaging it, but eventually, I manage to slide it out intact. The paper feels brittle, though not as ancient as I might have expected. Perhaps ten years old, not fifty. I unroll it gently, revealing faded handwriting.
I recognize the handwriting immediately. Dad’s distinctive script, with its slanting letters and heavy pressure marks.
Look around you.
Hidden treasures in plain sight.
The truth lies beneath the surface,
where the tide reveals and conceals.
Follow the map.
Map? I turn the paper over and find a rough sketch of what appears to be a section of coastline. Not a traditional treasure map with X marks the spot, but a series of beach locations marked with symbols. Some of the locations seem familiar, places where Dad and I used to collect driftwood.
Could this be connected to the stolen star? To the warning note? The timing seems too perfect to be coincidence.
Finn whines softly, pawing at my leg.
“I’m not sure yet,” I tell him, studying the map. “But I think Dad left this here. Maybe before he left us, maybe many years ago. And someone doesn’t want me to find whatever it leads to.”
What if the star wasn’t stolen for its material value or to sabotage the auction? What if it contained a clue of some kind? Something hidden within the driftwood itself?
The wind picks up, carrying the scent of impending rain. I carefully tuck the note and map into my coat pocket, making a mental note to examine it more thoroughly at home.
“Come on, Finn. We should get back before the weather turns.”
We’ve gone only a few steps when Finn freezes, his head turning sharply toward the dunes that border the beach. A low growl rumbles in his chest, the hair along his spine rising.
“What is it?”
I scan the dunes, seeing nothing at first. Then, a movement catches my eye. A figure, partially obscured by the tall grass, watching us. When our eyes meet, the figure turns and disappears over the ridge.
“Hey!” I call out, starting toward the dunes. “Wait!”
But whoever it was is gone by the time we reach the spot. Finn sniffs the ground intently, picking up a scent that leads toward the parking area. We follow, but the trail ends at the asphalt.
Who was watching us? How long had they been there? Had they seen us find the bottle?
Back in my truck, with Finn in the passenger seat, I study the map again. Seven locations are marked along the coastline, each with a different symbol. The first one appears to be exactly where we found the bottle today. The second looks like it might be near the old jetty, about a quarter mile north of where we are now.
“What do you think, Finn? Should we check the next spot?”
Finn tilts his head.
“You’re right. We should be orderly about this. Let’s go home and make a proper plan.”
The drive back to my small cottage near the lighthouse takes less than ten minutes. The cozy Cape Cod-style house had been Dad’s, left to me along with the shop. Like the shop, I’ve made it my own while preserving elements of his presence. His collection of nautical maps still hangs in the study. His old telescope still stands by the bay window overlooking the water.
Once inside, I spread the map on the kitchen table, weighing down the corners with seashells. Finn settles nearby, watching me.
The map isn’t as detailed as I’d initially hoped. The coastline is recognizable as Seacliff Haven’s shore, but the symbols marking the seven locations offer little explanation of what might be found there. Still, I know this stretch of beach intimately. Finding each spot should be possible, especially with Finn’s help.
I’m making notes on each location when my phone rings. Sid Gillespie’s name appears on the screen, surprising me. We exchanged numbers years ago for a town business association, but he’s rarely called.
“Hello?”
“Marnie, it’s Sid. Any luck finding the star?”
His direct approach catches me off guard. “Not yet. Why?”
There’s a pause before he answers. “I’ve received a note. Similar to yours, I think.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “What did it say?”
“‘Stay away from the star,’“ he quotes. “‘Some treasures are better left unfound.’”
“When did you get this?”
“It was slipped under the gallery door sometime this afternoon. I found it when I closed up.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” I say, more to myself than to Sid. “Why warn you to stay away from something that’s already missing?”
“Unless,” Sid suggests slowly, “whoever took it expects you to find it again. And they don’t want me involved when you do.”
“We need to talk,” I decide. “Not over the phone.”
“I agree. Tomorrow morning? I can come to your shop before opening hours.”
I hesitate, remembering the figure watching us at the beach. Trust feels like a luxury I can’t afford right now. But Sid has received a warning too, which suggests he’s not behind the theft.