A Treasure to Die For (2 page)

My remark resulted in a laugh from a few people next to us.

“I’m sorry if the news article was misleading, sir,” Wilson continued, unaware of my joke. “My publisher hired a new publicist straight out of school who is trying to make a name for herself. The treasure in my book is folklore as is its location. I suggest if you are looking for a treasure hunt, then maybe you should go out and buy Forrest Fenn’s book.”

“Who the hell is that?” asked a kid sitting next to the jerk I now knew as Craig. He had the weirdest hair I’d ever seen. His head was shaved bald on one side and long, purple hair on the other.

“That guy who claims to have buried a treasure so people will buy his book, Cory. Now shut up and let him finish. Or have you forgotten why we’re here?” It was the punk’s girlfriend, or at least that’s the impression I got. It could have been his sister, for all I knew. Either way, they were definitely a matched set with nearly identical tattoos covering their necks and arms.

“Thank you, miss,” Wilson said. He began to read where he had left off, then looked back at the audience. “Well, considering how my publisher may have brought most of you here on false pretenses, I guess it won’t hurt to skip ahead to the treasure. But please remember, this is historical fiction. I have simply taken an incident from the past and used it to create a story.”

Wilson lowered his eyes again and started flipping pages. Fringed with graying hair, his shiny bald spot reminded me of my grandmother’s doilies. He seemed to find the page he wanted, and woke me from my daydream of Grandma setting the table at Thanksgiving dinner. But instead of reading, he held a finger on the page, removed the glasses he kept on a rope around his neck, and raised his head. “I need to at least fill you in on some details first. The story is about an old miner, I call Drake, who in the late summer of 1895 went searching for the Lost Tenderfoot Mine in the hills above Breckenridge. Drake and his brother had lost their jobs working the silver mines of Leadville after the big crash of eighty-three. His brother needed money desperately so he could move his family back to Denver, where they could find care for his daughter, Penny, who was dying of consumption. The story of the lost mine had been around for nearly twenty years by then, and Drake had nothing to lose, so he went looking for it. Legend has it that some unknown Tenderfoot had brought out twenty pounds of gold in 1880, and couldn’t find his way back. Miners and fortune hunters have been searching for it ever since.

“Anyway, Drake must have found the mine and dug out five thousand dollars worth of nearly pure gold, for he left a message describing his find and the location of where to find his gold and the lost mine. However, according to an article I found in the
Rocky Mountain News
, his message wasn’t found until some uranium miners stumbled on the remains of his pack mule in the early fifties. There was a frenzy of sorts, searching for the gold, but because Drake had encrypted the location in code, the treasure was never found, and it soon became just another forgotten fable.”

“You’re telling us there’s only five thousand dollars?” It was Cory again. “I don’t call that no treasure.”

Wilson didn’t seem to be very upset at the latest interruption. He smiled and looked back with cold, gray eyes at the kid. I’d seen that same smile before. I think it was Hannibal Lecter in the movie,
Silence of the Lambs
. “Well, son, that would be about twenty pounds at the price of gold back then. Do the math if you want to know how much twenty pounds of gold is worth today. Twelve troy-ounces per pound, times twenty, times twelve hundred dollars is a nice day’s work. But of course, the real treasure is the mine itself. Crack Drake’s code and you have wealth beyond imagination.”

Cory didn’t say another word. I couldn’t see his face from where I sat, but I could imagine him counting on his fingers trying to calculate the sum.

Wilson didn’t wait for the kid to come up with a figure. “That’s nearly three hundred thousand, Son,” he said before refocusing on his book.

He waited a moment for it to sink in then continued. “I think I left off where Drake had found shelter in an abandoned silver mine and lost his frostbitten fingers when the wind blew the mine door shut on his outstretched hand. I’ll skip ahead now to the good part where he has started a makeshift fire from all but one book in his pack.

“‘Drake huddled over the flames, trying to catch every last ray of its nefarious warmth, as the fire burned with the words of dead writers. Drake needed all the help Penny's friends could give him if he were to make the twenty-mile trek into Leadville once the fire died out. As he fed more pages to the fire, and watched them slowly die, he remembered a story Penny had read to him about how British spies would send coded messages keyed to a popular book. It was a simple code: a series of numbers representing a page and word count for each word of the message. The cipher would search the book for a word he wanted to use and then count how many words came before the chosen word on the page. To decipher the code, the spy simply found a copy of the key book, and wrote down the word corresponding to each pair of numbers.

“‘Hours later, Drake finished his Last Will and Testament in which he says Penny’s consumption will be cured when she solves his riddle. On the back side of the will, he put twelve lines of numbers, and a note telling her to read the story where a boy gets his friends to do his chores. Then he put Penny’s copy of
Tom Sawyer
in his pack with the gold, and threw it down the shaft at the end of the mine.’”

“So you’re telling us we got to buy your book to find where the gold is hidden?” It was Cory again. His tone suggested more than a question; it came out like an accusation.

Wilson answered condescendingly. “I told you, this is a fictionalized story of an article I read from a 1953 issue of the Rocky Mountain News. The book you want to buy, if you insist on believing the story is real, is written by Mark Twain, not me.”

“And what book is that, Mr. Wilson?” asked a bald man in the front row, wearing worn Levi's and a sleeveless shirt that showed a crude tattoo of the Marine Corp symbol and the words,
Semper Fi
, beneath it.

Craig took it upon himself to answer for the author. “Jeez, dumbo, any idiot can see it’s
Tom Sawyer
.”

The bald guy in the front row turned to Craig, allowing me to see his face. There was real hate in his eyes, and for the brief second I saw him before he turned back, I thought he looked familiar.

“I’m right though, ain’t I, Wilson?” Craig asked as though nothing had happened between him and the bald guy.

“Yes, but not just any copy of
Tom Sawyer
. You must remember, Drake wrote the code in 1895 and
Tom Sawyer
was first published in 1876, so it’s anybody’s guess which version was used. The wrong edition will throw off the word count.”

Wilson was about to continue when a gray haired woman sitting in the row ahead of me raised her hand.

“Yes, Patty?” Evidently she wasn’t his mother, or he wouldn’t have used her first name.

“Perhaps the old miner was using one of the pirated Canadian versions.” She spoke so softly, I had a hard time hearing her.

Craig was still standing and turned to face the timid woman. “A what version?” he demanded.

Wilson answered for her. “I believe the question was about Canadian versions that were copied from the London edition. Is that your question, Patty?”

She nodded her head without speaking.

Craig cut in again. “You mean my first edition might not be the right version?”

Wilson’s eyes seemed to dilate. They had been a light gray, but were now pure black. “You have a first edition of
Tom Sawyer
?” he asked. “My God, do you have any idea what that’s worth?”

Shelia, who hadn’t uttered a word during the debate, suddenly nudged Craig in the leg and told him to shut up. “Look who’s the idiot now. Why don’t you tell everyone where we live while you’re at it, so they can come and rob us tonight?”

“What? Who would steal that old thing? Didn’t he just tell you we don’t have the right copy anyway? And I don’t need no woman telling me I’m a frigging idiot.” He didn’t wait for her to answer and stormed out without her, slamming the door so hard it shook the glass walls at the front of the store. Shelia followed on his heels. She reminded me of Fred when I yelled at him for doing something bad. I’m sure if she had a tail, it would be between her legs.

“Miss? Wait up. I need to talk to you.” Those who were watching Shelia turned to see the old lady jump out of her chair and run after her; we had no problem hearing her this time.

Shelia looked annoyed, but slowed down long enough for the old lady to catch up. “Do I know you?”

They had everyone’s attention, including the author. “I may have one of those pirate copies, if you’re interested. Can we go somewhere and talk?”

Fred yelped when Bonnie jumped out of her seat and stepped on his foot. “I need to tell Patty your copy isn’t for sale, Jake, before she sells it to them.”

“You know her, too?” I asked, running after Bonnie with Fred at my heels. He wasn’t limping, so I doubt if he was hurt, since she couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds, and that’s when she carried her ten-pound purse. She probably scared him more than anything. I caught her before she got to the door.

“Is that why you brought me here? To sell the copy of
Tom Sawyer
Julie gave me?” I asked before noticing we were now the center of attention. I turned to the audience and uttered a lame apology before leading Bonnie and Fred outside.

Shelia and Patty were in the midst of a heated conversation while standing next to a beat-up Camry not much newer than my Jeep. I could have been wrong about them arguing, but they were both waving their arms in the air like a couple of prize fighters. Craig had already started the car and was revving the engine. We couldn’t hear the argument over his noisy muffler.

“Damn it,” Bonnie said. Her posture spelled defeat. “I can’t tell her now, not with Shelia there.”

I felt bad for raising my voice, but didn’t have time to say so before Shelia got in the car. We all watched as Craig raced out of the parking lot in a cloud of blue smoke.

Patty turned and came back toward us, smiling. She could easily pass for Bonnie’s sister if I didn’t know better. They each stood about five-two, had the same cloudy-blue eyes and didn’t bother to dye their gray hair.

Bonnie bent down to Fred’s level and held his head between her hands. “I’m sorry, Freddie. Did Aunt Bonnie hurt you?” Before he could bark his answer, she looked up at me. “I should have asked first. I thought you’d be happy to get the money for your book.”

“Is this Fred the Wonder Dog?” Patty asked when she joined us.

Fred beamed and offered his paw.

“See, I told you, Patty. I swear he’s human sometimes,” Bonnie remarked.

Then turning to me, “Jake, I’d like you to meet an old friend. Patty, this is Jake.”

Patty extended a frail hand. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”

I didn’t know how to answer. The first thing that came to mind was to say Bonnie must be smoking something other than cigarettes, but I held my tongue. Luckily, Bonnie broke the awkward silence before I put my foot in my mouth.

“I hope your friend doesn’t think we were rude running out on his reading, but I had to tell you Jake’s book isn’t for sale.”

Patty sighed before answering. “Why don’t you tell Paul yourself when he drives me home, Bonnie? I’m sure he won’t mind dropping you off first.”

Bonnie looked confused. “Paul? Oh, the author.”

Her blank expression turned ecstatic, looking at me like a teenager who was just invited to the prom. “Do you mind, Jake?”

I couldn’t speak for Fred, but after the day I had, I didn’t mind at all. We said our good-byes and headed for home.

***

I had completely forgotten about the incident at the lake until the next day when Fred and I made our way to Bonnie’s for coffee before going on our walk, or in Fred’s case, his swim. Bonnie lived just below us in a house built back in the seventies that resembled the structures covering old mines; she called it her mine shaft. Whatever architectural style one wanted to pin on it, it was huge compared to my little cabin and sometimes a little too close.

She put the television on mute after letting us in the back door. I helped myself to coffee while Fred went over to his bowl that Bonnie kept by her refrigerator.

“You came home late,” I said as I took my usual chair at her kitchen table. I knew this because her television was off all night. I never watch much television, mainly because I don’t own one, but Bonnie does. She has it blasting nearly twenty-four-seven, and I never miss an episode of
Doctor Oz
or
Ellen
when her windows are open.

She removed a spoon from her cup and looked up. Her eyes showed bewilderment. “What makes you say that, Jake?”

“Your TV wasn’t on.”

She frowned and went back to stirring her coffee. “Well, if you must know, that nice author took us to the Wildflower for coffee, then we all went next door to the Little Bear for a few drinks before he brought me home.” Her tone suggested I was intruding.