Chapter 4
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.”
I tap the paper. “Why warn you specifically? Most people in town know about our rivalry, but nothing suggests you were looking for my star.”
“Unless . . .” Sid says slowly, “whoever took it assumes we might work together to find it.”
The thought had occurred to me too. “Which means they definitely know about our history.”
“Half the town knows about our history, Marnie.” A wry smile touches his lips. “We haven’t exactly been subtle about competing for commissions and auction prices.”
This is true enough. Our rivalry began five years ago when Sid opened his gallery three blocks from my shop.
His sleek, modern aesthetic and higher price points attracted a different clientele than my more rustic approach, but the tension was immediate.
At the first Christmas Market after his arrival, his elaborate driftwood sculpture outsold my piece at the charity auction, breaking my three-year winning streak. I had not taken it gracefully.
“So either this is someone who knows us both,” I reason, “or someone who has been asking questions around town.”
Finn shifts position, moving to stand beside me.
“About that,” Sid says, leaning forward. “I heard something interesting yesterday. Dawson Morrow was seen talking to a stranger at K’s Korner Kafé two days ago. Someone who wasn’t a tourist, according to Klara.”
My interest sharpens. “What kind of stranger?”
“Male, middle-aged, wearing a business suit in a town where casual is the norm. Klara thought he might be a real estate developer or investor.”
This information settles uncomfortably alongside my discoveries from last night. Dad’s research folder, the map locations, his cryptic notes about historical significance.
“Did anyone overhear what they discussed?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, no. But Klara said they were looking at papers spread across the table. Maps, maybe.”
Maps. Like the one Finn found in the bottle.
I hesitate, considering how much to share with Sid. His warning note suggests he’s not the thief, but old habits of caution are hard to break.
“Sid, why are you helping me with this? Truthfully.”
He looks surprised, then thoughtful. “Two reasons, I suppose. First, theft crosses a line. Competition is one thing, but this . . .” He gestures toward the note.
“This feels wrong. And second . . .” He pauses.
“Your father helped me once, when I first moved to Seacliff Haven. I was having trouble getting permits for the gallery renovation. Samuel put in a good word with the town council, despite our different approaches to art.”
This is news to me. “Dad never mentioned that.”
“He wouldn’t have. He did it because he believed in supporting local artists, even ones with, as he put it, ‘unnecessarily modern sensibilities.’” Sid smiles at the memory. “I never properly thanked him before he passed.”
The revelation shifts something in my perception of Sid. Perhaps our rivalry has been more one-sided than I realized, fueled by my competitive nature rather than any genuine animosity on his part.
I grab the map and folder from the counter.
“Finn found something at the beach yesterday,” I explain, spreading the map on the table between us. “A bottle with this inside. It’s my father’s handwriting.”
Sid studies the map. “These symbols mark specific locations?”
“Yes. Places where Dad and I used to collect driftwood, including the pieces I used for the star.”
I show him the folder next, explaining my late-night discovery and the references to artifacts of historical significance.
“So your father may have found evidence of a shipwreck,” Sid summarizes. “But why would anyone care enough about that to steal your star and leave threatening notes?”
“That’s what I need to find out.” I hesitate, then add, “There’s one more thing.”
I place the driftwood piece and small key on the table. “Finn found this piece of driftwood the day before the star was stolen. This morning, I discovered it had a hidden compartment with this key inside.”
Sid picks up the key, examining it with an artist’s attention to detail. “Interesting craftsmanship. Not antique—maybe mid-twentieth century? Custom made. This opens something specific.”
“It looks like it might fit a small lockbox or chest,” I say, examining the unusual shape. “Dad used to keep one in his study for important documents. I wonder if there’s another one hidden somewhere.”
“You think the star contains another clue,” Sid guesses. “Another key, or a map to the next location.”
“It would explain why someone took it, and why they’re warning us both to back off.”
Sid returns the key to the table, his expression serious. “Marnie, have you considered taking this to Chief Barnes? These notes are basically threats.”
The question mirrors my own thoughts from the night before. “Not yet. I want to understand what Dad was working on first. The police might dismiss it as nothing more than petty theft.”
“Or they might take it seriously and prevent you from putting yourself at risk,” Sid counters. “What if whoever took the star becomes more aggressive?”
Finn nudges my hand with his cold nose. I scratch his beard absently, finding comfort in his solid presence.
“One more day,” I decide. “I want to check the second location on the map. If we find something significant, we’ll go to Chief Barnes together.”
Sid nods reluctantly. “Alright. But you shouldn’t go alone. When do we leave?”
“We?”
“Two sets of eyes are better than one,” he says with a shrug. “And three, counting Finn.”
An unexpected smile tugs at my lips. “The beach at eleven? The tide will be out, making it easier to access the location.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
After Sid leaves, I study the map again. The second location appears to be near a cluster of rocks just past the old jetty, an area prone to strong currents. Dad and I had found some of our best driftwood pieces there, washed in from far-flung places.
The morning passes slowly as I make preparations.
I pack a small knapsack with water bottles, gloves, a trowel, and plastic bags for collecting any potential findings.
Though I’m still not entirely sure what we’re looking for, Dad’s folder suggests something with historical significance, possibly related to a shipwreck.
At home, Finn follows me from room to room, obviously sensing the day’s activities will involve beach exploration, his favorite pastime. His excitement is contagious, momentarily lifting the weight of worry about the missing star and threatening notes.
“Ready for treasure hunting?” I ask him as I clip on his leash at precisely a quarter to eleven. Finn responds with an enthusiastic head tilt and soft “woof” that I interpret as wholehearted agreement.
The beach parking area is nearly empty when we arrive, typical for a weekday in December. Sid’s silver Audi already occupies a spot near the path. He stands leaning against the hood, dressed more practically than I’m used to seeing him, in sturdy jeans and a weatherproof jacket.
“I brought these,” he says by way of greeting, holding up two compact metal detectors. “Thought they might be useful.”
“Good thinking,” I admit, impressed by his foresight.
We make our way down to the shore, Finn leading the charge, his nose already working the scents along the path. The tide has retreated, revealing a wide expanse of wet sand and exposed rock formations. A brisk wind blows in from the water, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed.
“Where exactly are we heading?” Sid asks, adjusting the metal detector in his hand.
I consult the map, orienting myself by the lighthouse visible to the north. “There,” I point toward a distinctive rock formation about a quarter mile down the beach. “That cluster with the large flat boulder on top.”
As we walk, I fill Sid in on more details from Dad’s folder, describing the photographs of metal fragments and his notes about Portuguese origin.
“Portuguese explorers were active along the East Coast in the sixteenth century,” Sid remarks. “There are documented shipwrecks from that period, though most have been thoroughly explored.”
“You know about maritime history?” I ask, surprised.
He looks slightly embarrassed. “I went through a shipwreck phase in college. Thought about going into marine archaeology before art called louder.”
Another layer of Sid Gillespie I never knew existed. I’m beginning to wonder how much of our rivalry was based on assumptions rather than reality.
Finn stays slightly ahead of us, occasionally stopping to investigate interesting scents or dig briefly in the sand. About fifty yards from our destination, his behavior changes. His body tenses, and his digging becomes more purposeful.
“Finn’s found something,” I call to Sid, who has drifted toward the waterline with his metal detector.
By the time Sid joins us, Finn has excavated a small hole in the wet sand. I kneel beside him, using the trowel to carefully expand the hole. Six inches down, my tool strikes something solid.
“Hand me the gloves,” I request.