Chapter 4 #2
With gloved hands, I work around the object, eventually revealing what appears to be an old brass compass, heavily corroded but recognizable. The glass face is cracked, and the needle frozen in place, but the craftsmanship is evident even in its deteriorated state.
“Early eighteenth century, if I had to guess,” Sid says, examining it without touching. “Portuguese design.”
“How can you tell?”
“The engraving style on the outer rim. And see this mark here?” He points to a barely visible symbol. “That’s characteristic of Portuguese craftsmen from that period.”
I carefully place the compass in one of the plastic bags. “This has to be what Dad marked on the map. But why is it still here? If someone went to the trouble of stealing the star to keep me from finding these locations, why not collect the artifacts as well?”
Sid considers this. “Maybe they don’t know exactly what your father found, just that he found something significant. The star might contain the only comprehensive record.”
I tuck the bagged compass into my knapsack, wondering what connection it might have to the key we found earlier.
“What about the key?” Sid asks. “Any idea what it opens?”
“Dad had a lockbox for sensitive documents. I thought I’d found everything after he died, but maybe there’s another one. Hidden at one of these locations, perhaps.”
“Should we check the next location?” Sid suggests.
I consult the map again. “It’s further up the coast, near the old lighthouse. Probably a good hour’s walk from here.”
“We have time,” Sid says, glancing at his watch. “Unless you need to get back to town.”
The truth is, I should be at my shop, especially with the Christmas Market starting tomorrow. But the mystery of Dad’s findings and the missing star pulls stronger.
“An hour each way,” I calculate. “We should be back by mid-afternoon.”
We set off toward the lighthouse, with Finn ranging ahead, occasionally circling back to ensure we’re keeping up. The beach narrows as we continue north, the dunes growing steeper on our right while rock formations encroach from the water on our left.
“Can I ask you something personal?” Sid breaks the comfortable silence that has settled between us.
“Depends on the question.”
“Why driftwood? Of all the artistic mediums, why choose something so . . . impermanent?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s inappropriate, but because it’s thoughtful in a way I wouldn’t have expected from Sid.
“Because it tells a story,” I answer after considering. “Each piece has traveled somewhere, been shaped by the elements, transformed by its journey. When I create something from driftwood, I’m adding to that story, not starting it.”
Sid nods. “Your father said something similar once, when I asked why he fought so hard to preserve this coastline. He said, ‘The shore remembers what we forget.’ I didn’t fully understand then.”
“And now?”
“Now I think he meant that places hold history we can’t always see. Like this beach, with its hidden compass and who knows what else beneath the sand.”
Our conversation continues as we walk, touching on art techniques, town gossip, and memories of past Christmas Markets.
I find myself laughing at Sid’s impression of Mayor Jenkins trying to light last year’s town Christmas tree with malfunctioning equipment.
The ease between us feels new and unexpected, but not unpleasant.
Finn, who has moved ahead again, suddenly stops, his posture alert. He turns to look at us, then back to something we can’t yet see.
“What is it, boy?” I call, quickening my pace.
As we round a bend in the shoreline, I understand Finn’s reaction. Ahead, near a rocky outcropping marked on Dad’s map as our third location, stands a figure I recognize immediately. Dawson Morrow, bent over something in the sand, a small spade in his hand.
Sid and I exchange surprised glances. We’re still far enough away that Dawson hasn’t noticed us, but Finn’s dark form against the pale sand is becoming more visible as we draw closer.
“Should we confront him?” Sid asks quietly.
Before I can answer, Dawson looks up. Even at this distance, I can see his expression change as he spots us. He quickly pockets something small, then straightens, brushing sand from his hands with deliberate casualness.
“Well, well,” he calls as we approach, his tone forcedly jovial. “The artists are beach combing today! Find any good driftwood?”
“Just enjoying the fresh air,” I reply, watching him carefully. “Interesting to see you out here, Dawson. I thought antiques were more your interest than beachcombing.”
“Old habits,” he says with a dismissive wave. “Your father and I used to walk these beaches looking for interesting pieces. Thought I’d take a nostalgic stroll.”
The mention of Dad from Dawson’s lips feels wrong somehow, considering their falling out. “With a spade?” I ask, nodding toward the tool he’s unsuccessfully trying to conceal behind his leg.
A flicker of annoyance crosses his weathered face. “Found it washed up on the beach. Was going to add it to my collection of maritime tools.”
The lie is so transparent I almost laugh. Instead, I step closer to where he had been digging, Finn at my side. “Funny coincidence, running into you here. Especially since this exact spot is marked on a map my father created.”
Dawson’s expression hardens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” I counter. “Just like I think you know something about my missing driftwood star.”
His eyes dart from me to Sid, then to the path leading back to the parking area. “Your father should have left well enough alone,” he says finally, his pretense of friendliness evaporating. “Some discoveries cause more trouble than they’re worth. You’d be wise to remember that.”
“What discoveries, Dawson?” I press. “What did Dad find?”
Instead of answering, Dawson shoulders past us. “Ask your new friend,” he says with a nod toward Sid. “His family has more connections to this than you know.”
With that cryptic remark, he strides away, leaving Sid and me staring after him in confusion.
“What did he mean by that?” I ask Sid, who looks as perplexed as I feel.
“I have no idea. My family has no history in Seacliff Haven. I’m the first Gillespie to live here.”
Finn whines softly, drawing our attention to the spot where Dawson had been digging. The hole is shallow, suggesting he had just begun his excavation when we interrupted him.
“Let’s see what he was after,” I suggest, kneeling by the disturbed sand.
Sid joins me, and together we carefully expand the hole. About a foot down, we uncover a fragment of wood, different from the usual driftwood found on the beach. This piece is darker, denser, with metal fixtures still attached.
“Part of a ship’s plank,” Sid identifies, gently brushing sand from the surface. “Look, there are initials carved here.”
Sure enough, partially obscured by corrosion and time, two letters are visible: S.M.
“S.M.,” I repeat, trying to place the significance. “Not my father. His initials were S.L.”
“Could be the ship’s name,” Sid suggests. “Or its captain.”
Whatever it represents, the wooden plank fragment clearly held enough importance for Dawson to seek it out. I carefully bag this find as well, adding it to the compass in my knapsack.
“Dawson knows more than he’s saying,” I observe as we begin our walk back. The day is advancing, and dark clouds gather on the horizon.
“Agreed. And that comment about my family makes no sense unless . . .” Sid trails off. “Unless he mistook me for someone else. My father was Alexander Gillespie, from Boston. Never set foot in Rhode Island as far as I know.”
The pieces refuse to align into a coherent picture. Dad’s research, the artifacts, Dawson’s warnings, the stolen star, the mysterious key. All connected somehow, but the pattern remains elusive.
“We should head back,” Sid suggests as the first fat raindrop hits the sand beside us. “Storm’s coming in faster than forecast.”
We quicken our pace, Finn trotting close beside us as the rain begins to fall more steadily. By the time we reach the parking area, we’re all thoroughly damp, and the wind has picked up considerably.
“Come to my gallery,” Sid offers. “It’s closer than your place. We can dry off and figure out our next steps.”
The invitation feels like another barrier falling between us. Yesterday, I would have declined immediately. Today, after our shared discovery and Dawson’s strange behavior, I find myself nodding in agreement.
“Let me grab a towel for Finn from my truck first. He’s not exactly a fan of being wet.”
As I open my truck door, something on the driver’s seat catches my eye. A small envelope, identical to the one left in my shop. My heart races as I pick it up, already dreading its contents.
Inside is another typed note:
STOP SEARCHING. THE PAST WILL ONLY brING PAIN.
I show it to Sid, whose expression darkens. “They know we’re investigating,” he says grimly. “We’ve moved from warnings to surveillance.”
Someone is watching our every move, tracking our discoveries, perhaps even following us along the beach.
“We need to be careful,” I say, glancing around the empty parking lot. “Very careful.”
Sid nods agreement, his usual confident demeanor subdued. “Let’s regroup at the gallery. I think it’s time we consider bringing Chief Barnes into this.”
But as we drive toward town, I can’t help feeling we’ve passed a point of no return. We’ve uncovered two artifacts that suggest Dad found evidence of a shipwreck, possibly Portuguese, possibly valuable. Enough for someone to steal my star and leave threatening notes.
Enough, perhaps, for someone to take more drastic measures if we continue our search.
The rain pounds against my windshield as Finn shakes himself in the passenger seat, sending droplets flying. In the rearview mirror, I can see Sid’s silver Audi following close behind. My new ally in this unexpected mystery.
I touch the knapsack containing our discoveries, wondering what Dad would advise if he were here. Keep searching for the truth? Or leave the past buried where it lies?
One thing is clear as I drive through the storm toward town: finding my driftwood star isn’t just about recovering a cherished creation anymore. It’s about uncovering a secret someone desperately wants to keep hidden. A secret worth threatening for.
A secret that might have shaped my father’s final days in ways I never understood.