Chapter 3
Chapter Three
My conversation with Dawson Morrow had been frustratingly unhelpful.
His antique shop, cluttered with maritime artifacts and dusty heirlooms, had yielded nothing but vague remarks about the past being best left buried.
When I showed him the note, his weathered face had betrayed a flicker of .
. . concern? Recognition? But he quickly dismissed it as “probably just kids playing pranks.”
I didn’t believe him for a second. But something in his expression gave me pause—not guilt exactly, more like fear. And not fear of me. Fear for me, maybe. He kept glancing toward the street as if expecting someone.
Now, as the sun dips closer to the horizon, I find myself drawn to South Shore Beach. Finn trots beside me, his black coat standing out against the pale sand as we follow the familiar path down to the water.
“What do you think, buddy?” I ask him as we reach the shoreline. “Any brilliant ideas about who took our star?”
Finn looks up at me. Then he sneezes.
The beach stretches empty in both directions, most people having retreated to the warmth of their homes or the festivities in town.
Winter beaches possess a stark beauty that summer crowds rarely appreciate.
The waves roll in, leaving their offerings along the tideline before retreating back to the depths.
“Dad always said the ocean gives up its secrets if you know how to look,” I murmur, more to myself than to Finn.
My thoughts drift to the star, each piece of driftwood carefully selected and meaningful.
I try to imagine who would want to take it, and why they would connect it to some vague warning about the past. Sid remains a suspect, despite his seemingly genuine offer of help.
Old rivalries die hard. Then there’s Dawson, with his evasive answers and long history with my father.
I’m so lost in thought that I nearly miss Finn’s change in behavior. He’s moved ahead, nose to the ground, tracking something.
“Finn? What is it?”
His head lifts briefly at my voice, but then returns to his task, moving with purpose toward a cluster of weathered rocks that jut into the water. I follow, curious about what has captured his attention.
Finn stops at the base of the rocks, pawing at the sand. I kneel beside him, brushing away the damp sand where he indicates.
“What have you found, treasure hunter?”
My fingers touch something smooth and hard. Carefully, I excavate the object, revealing a glass bottle, its green surface dulled by years in the sea. The bottle is capped with what looks like an old cork, sealed with wax.
“Well, look at that,” I breathe, turning the bottle over in my hands.
Finn sits proudly beside me. I scratch behind his ears in appreciation.
“Good boy. Very good boy.”
The bottle is old, possibly dating back several decades based on the glass style. And inside, clearly visible, is a rolled piece of paper.
A message in a bottle. It seems too coincidental, too staged. Yet here it is, unearthed by Finn at the very beach where Dad and I collected our driftwood.
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.
“My house would be better,” I say finally. “Eight o’clock.”
After hanging up, I return to the map. Two warning notes. A map from my father. A mysterious watcher. And at the center of it all, a missing driftwood star made from pieces collected with Dad during his final months.
“What were you up to, Dad?” I whisper to the empty room. “What did you find?”
Finn rests his head on my knee. I stroke his wiry coat, finding reassurance in his solid presence.
The rational part of me knows I should take everything to Chief Barnes.
The bottle, the map, both warning notes.
Let the professionals handle it. But another part, the part that inherited Dad’s stubborn independence, wants to pursue this myself.
At least until I understand what “the past” refers to in the warning.
My gaze falls on Dad’s study door. Inside are boxes of his papers that I’ve never fully sorted through. Environmental reports, correspondence, research notes. The task had been too painful after his death, so I’d simply packed everything away.
“Maybe it’s time, huh, Finn?”
Rising from the table, I head for the study, Finn following close behind.
The room smells faintly of Dad’s pipe tobacco, a scent that lingers after his last smoke.
Bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes on marine biology, local history, and conservation.
The desk faces the window, positioned so he could look out at the lighthouse while working.
The boxes of papers sit stacked in the corner, labeled by year. I pull down the ones from his final year, the time when we collected the driftwood for my star.
For the next several hours, I sift through reports, letters, and handwritten notes. Most relate to his ongoing conservation projects, routine matters that reveal nothing unusual. Finn eventually curls up on the small sofa, watching me work until his eyes grow heavy and close.
Just as my own exhaustion threatens to overtake me, I find something.
A folder labeled simply “SH Project,” tucked between environmental impact statements.
Inside are photographs of various beach locations, some corresponding to the marks on the map.
Handwritten notes detail observations about tidal patterns, sand erosion, and references to “artifacts” and “historical significance” pepper the margins.
One photo catches my attention. A close-up of what appears to be an old piece of metal embedded in rock, barely visible among seafloor growth. The caption reads:
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.