Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The interior of The Lighthouse Gallery feels like stepping into another world after the windswept beach.
Clean white walls display Sid’s driftwood sculptures, each piece transformed into something elegant and otherworldly.
Track lighting casts dramatic shadows, highlighting the natural curves and textures of the wood.
The space couldn’t be more different from my cozy, cluttered shop.
“Let me get you a towel,” Sid says, disappearing into a back room while Finn shakes himself vigorously, sending droplets flying across the polished concrete floor.
“Finn, manners,” I scold gently, though I secretly enjoy seeing the pristine gallery slightly disheveled.
Sid returns with plush towels and two mugs of something steaming. “Hot chocolate,” he explains, handing me a mug. “Always tastes better after getting soaked.”
The unexpected thoughtfulness catches me off guard again. Where is the aloof, competitive Sid Gillespie I thought I knew?
I dry Finn thoroughly while Sid spreads our findings on a large worktable normally used for framing. The compass, the wooden plank fragment with the initials S.M., and the mysterious key form a small but intriguing collection.
“What do we know for certain?” Sid asks, his methodical approach somewhat comforting amid the confusion of the past two days.
I sit across from him, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.
“My father was researching something with historical significance, likely connected to a shipwreck. He created a map marking seven locations along the beach. So far, we’ve found artifacts at two of those locations.
Someone stole my driftwood star, possibly because it contains another clue.
And that same someone is leaving threatening notes, trying to scare us away from further investigation. ”
“And Dawson Morrow is somehow involved,” Sid adds. “He was specifically searching at the location marked on your father’s map.”
Finn settles at my feet, apparently content despite the unfamiliar surroundings. His calm presence grounds me as I try to make sense of the puzzle pieces.
“We need to understand what makes these artifacts valuable enough to steal for,” I say, studying the compass. “Are they historically significant, or is there something more?”
Sid leans forward, his expression thoughtful.
“There have been rumors of a lost Portuguese ship along this coast for generations. The Salvador Mundi, supposedly carrying religious artifacts and gold when it disappeared in a storm in 1587. Most historians consider it a legend, but some believe the wreck could be somewhere near Seacliff Haven.”
“Salvador Mundi,” I repeat slowly. “S.M. The initials on the plank.”
“Possibly,” Sid acknowledges. “But many ships from that era could have those initials.”
I pull out my phone, searching for information about the Salvador Mundi. “Not much online,” I observe after scanning a few pages. “Just brief mentions in articles about East Coast shipwrecks.”
“The historical society might have more information,” Sid suggests. “Or the university library in Providence.”
A thought strikes me. “Dad’s study has books on local maritime history. There might be something there.”
Sid checks his watch. “It’s almost four. The historical society closes at five. We could split up. You check your father’s books, and I’ll see what the historical society has.”
The suggestion makes practical sense, but after the note left in my truck, I feel uneasy about separating. “What about Dawson? He clearly knows something, and he was deliberately searching in the same locations.”
Sid considers this. “We could confront him directly, but I doubt he’d tell us anything useful. He seems determined to keep whatever he knows to himself.”
“And there’s the matter of who left the notes,” I add. “Someone is watching us, Sid. They knew we were at the beach today.”
This isn’t just about finding a missing driftwood star anymore. We’ve stumbled into something larger, something with real stakes.
“We should document everything,” Sid decides, reaching for his camera. “Photograph the artifacts, the map, the notes. Create a record in case anything happens to the originals.”
While Sid photographs each item from multiple angles, I study the map again. The third location, where we encountered Dawson, is clearly marked with a symbol different from the others. A small spiral, unlike the X marks at the first two sites.
“The symbols are different for each location,” I realize aloud. “That must mean something.”
Sid joins me in examining the map. “The first two locations are marked with X’s, and we found individual artifacts there. The third has a spiral . . . perhaps indicating something more complex?”
“Or something buried deeper,” I suggest. “Dawson was only beginning to dig when we interrupted him.”
“We need to go back,” Sid says firmly. “Finish what your father started by checking all seven locations.”
The certainty in his voice surprises me. “Why are you so invested in this, Sid? Yesterday we were rivals, today we’re partners in what might be a treasure hunt. It’s a big shift.”
He seems taken aback by the directness of my question.
After a moment, he sighs. “I told you your father helped me when I first moved here. What I didn’t say was how much that meant to me.
I came to Seacliff Haven after my divorce, starting over with nothing but my art.
Most people were welcoming, but establishing a gallery wasn’t easy.
Samuel was the only one who offered practical help without wanting anything in return. ”
This glimpse into Sid’s personal history adds another layer to my shifting perception of him. “I had no idea.”
“I wasn’t exactly forthcoming about my struggles,” he says with a wry smile. “Easier to play the confident gallery owner than admit I was barely staying afloat those first two years.”
“And our rivalry?”
He shrugs. “Professional competition, from my perspective. I always respected your work, Marnie. Your connection to this place comes through in every piece you create. It’s authentic in a way mine never quite achieves.”
All this time, I’d assumed Sid looked down on my more rustic approach, when in reality, he admired what I created.
Finn nudges my hand, perhaps sensing my emotional turmoil. I scratch his beard absently, grateful for his steady presence.
“So what now?” I ask finally. “We have artifacts, a map, and threats. Where do we go from here?”
Sid considers the question. “I think we continue checking the locations on the map, but more carefully. We document everything we find. And we start researching the Salvador Mundi, if that’s what the S.M. represents.”
“And the star?”
“If someone took it because it contains a clue, then finding the other artifacts might lead us to it,” Sid reasons. “Or at least help us understand why it was taken.”
His logic makes sense. The star itself might not be the end goal, but rather what it represents or contains.
“We should head to your father’s study,” Sid suggests. “Check his books before it gets too late. Then perhaps visit the historical society tomorrow.”
The plan sounds reasonable, but I hesitate. Working with Sid still feels strange after years of maintaining a careful distance. Trust doesn’t come easily, especially with the warnings we’ve received.
“I understand if you’d rather continue alone, Marnie. But I think we stand a better chance of solving this together.”
The sincerity in his voice tips the balance. “No, you’re right. Partners for now.”
I gather our findings, carefully wrapping the compass and wood fragment in towels before placing them in my knapsack. The key goes into my pocket, its weight a constant reminder of the mystery we’re trying to unravel.
Outside, the rain has stopped, though dark clouds still loom overhead. The streets of Seacliff Haven glisten with puddles reflecting the holiday lights that now adorn nearly every storefront.
“I’ll follow you in my car,” Sid says as we exit the gallery.
The drive to my cottage takes only minutes. Finn sits regally in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing in the side mirror as if checking that Sid’s silver Audi remains behind us.
My cottage appears just as I left it that morning, no signs of disturbance. Still, after the note in my truck, I feel a heightened awareness of potential threats. I check the locks, windows, and less obvious entry points before inviting Sid inside.
“Nice place,” he comments, looking around appreciatively at the cozy space with its coastal decor and well-worn furniture.
“It was Dad’s,” I explain, leading the way to the study. “I kept most of it the same.”
The study remains as I left it the night before, books and papers scattered across the desk where I’d been searching through Dad’s research. Sid moves to the bookshelves, scanning the titles while I return to the folder labeled “SH Project.”
“Look at this,” I say, pointing to a notation in Dad’s handwriting. “He references a ‘designation application’ several times. Could he have been trying to get something officially designated as a historic site?”
Sid joins me at the desk. “That would make sense. If he found evidence of the Salvador Mundi, he might have been preparing to register the site for protection.”
“Which might interfere with someone’s plans for the area,” I add. “Development, perhaps.”
“There haven’t been any major development proposals for Seacliff Haven since the resort project your father helped block,” Sid points out.
“That we know of,” I counter. “What if someone was planning something new, quietly acquiring permits or properties, and Dad’s discovery threatened to derail everything?”
Sid nods slowly. “It’s possible. Shipwreck sites can receive protected status, preventing construction or disturbance.”
I flip through more papers, finding a map similar to the one from the bottle, but with additional notations. Coordinates, depths, and what appear to be underwater survey markings.