The Navigator (38 page)

“I noticed that too,” Gamay said. “Angela’s question definitely got his attention. Maybe we should dig deeper into this little society. Anyone know an expert on artichokes?”

Angela said. “I know someone who’s researching a book about artichokes. I’ll give him a call.”

Stocker was at home and delighted to hear from Angela. “Are you okay? I heard about the murder at the library and tried to call you at home.”

“I’m fine. I’ll tell you about it later. I have a favor to ask. In your research, did you ever come across any mention of something called the Artichoke Society?”

“Jefferson’s secret club?”

“That’s the one. What do you know about it?”

“I found mention of it in an article on secret societies at the University of Virginia. I didn’t follow through because it didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“Do you know who wrote the article?”

“A professor at UVA. I’ll give you his name and number.”

She jotted the information down, told Stocker she would be in touch, and relayed her findings to the Trouts. Gamay wasted no time getting the professor on the phone.

“Good news,” she said after hanging up. “The professor would be glad to see us between classes, but we’ll have to hurry.”

Trout pressed the accelerator and the wide-bodied vehicle picked up speed.

“Next stop, University of Virginia.”

THE WIDOW OF THE DEAD wreck diver lived in a square, three-story house that may have once been elegant before years of neglect took a toll. The antique yellow paint was flaked and peeling. Shutters hung off at drunken angles. The air of dilapidation stopped at the freshly mowed front lawn and the neat flower beds along the foundation.

Austin pressed the front doorbell. Hearing no chimes, he rapped his knuckles on the door. No one answered. He knocked as loud as he could without breaking the door down.

“Coming!”
A white-haired woman emerged from around a corner of the house. “Sorry,” she said with a bright smile. “I was out in the garden.”

“Mrs. Hutchins?” Austin said.

“Call me Thelma.”

She brushed the dirt off her hands and extended one to Austin and then to Zavala. Her palm was calloused and her grip surprisingly firm.

Austin and Zavala introduced themselves.

She narrowed her flinty blue eyes in a squint. “You didn’t tell me when you called that you were good-looking,” Thelma said with a grin. “I would have gussied up instead of looking like an old mud hen. So you found Hutch’s helmet.”

Austin pointed to the Cherokee parked in front of the house. “It’s in the back of the Jeep.”

Thelma strode purposely down the walk and opened the car’s hatch. The marine vegetation had been removed, and the brass and copper gleamed in the sunlight.

Thelma caressed the top of the helmet with her fingers. “That’s Hutch’s brain bucket, all right,” she said, brushing a tear from her eye. “Is he still down there?”

Austin remembered the grinning skull. “I’m afraid so. Do you want us to notify the Coast Guard so they can bring his remains up for burial?”

Thelma said, “Let the old coot be. They’d plant his bones in the ground. He’d hate that. I’ve had two husbands since then, bless their hearts, but Hutch was the first and the best. I couldn’t do that to him. C’mon out back. We’ll have our own memorial service.”

Austin exchanged an amused glance with Zavala. Thelma Hutchins was not the frail old lady they had expected. She was a tall woman, with erect posture and little of the shoulder stoop that often comes with age. Her walk was brisk rather than doddering as she led Austin and Zavala to a weathered wooden table under a fading CINZANO umbrella. Thelma said she’d be right back.

The house looked even worse from the rear, but the yard was as neat as a putting green. There were flower beds everywhere, and a healthy vegetable garden big enough to feed an army of vegans. A slob of a Labrador retriever came over and drooled on Austin’s knee.

Thelma came out of the house carrying three bottles of beer and apologized for the cheap brand.

“I’ll start drinking Stella Artois when they increase my Social Security. This panther piss will have to do for now.” She glanced at the dog. “I see you’ve met Lush.” She poured some beer into a dish and grinned as the dog trotted over and lapped up the foaming brew. Then she raised her bottle. “Here’s to Hutch. I knew someone would find the old pirate after all these years.”

They clinked bottles and took a swig.

“How long has your husband been gone?” Austin said.

“My
first
husband.” She slugged down a swallow of beer and pursed her lips. “Hutch croaked in the spring of 1973. Where’d you find him?”

Austin unfolded the chart he had brought and pointed to a penciled-in X.

“Damn!”
Thelma said. “That’s miles from where I thought the treasure wreck was.”

“Treasure wreck?” Zavala said.

“That’s what Hutch called it, the fool. It’s what killed him.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” Austin said.

A far-off look came to her eyes. “My husband was born and raised on the bay. He enlisted in the navy during World War Two and became a diver. A darn good one, from what I hear. He bought out his equipment when the war ended. We got married, and he did some commercial diving on the side to keep his hand in. Mostly, he ran a fishing boat, which is how he found the wreck. Snagged it on a net. The wreck really stumped him.”

“Why is that, Thelma?” Austin said.

“Hutch knew every wreck in the area. He’d dived on a number of them. He was an amateur historian. He did a pile of research. There was no record of any ship going down at this location.”

“He never told you where the wreck was?” Zavala said.

“My husband was as tight as a Chesapeake oyster. He was real old-fashioned. Thought women were natural gossips. He said he would tell once he brought up some gold for me.”

“What made him think there was gold on the wreck?” Austin said.

“Lots of people don’t know that there were gold mines all around here at one time. Maryland. Virginia. Up into Pennsylvania.”

“It’s not surprising. I only learned last year that the area around the Chesapeake was major gold-mining country,” Austin said. “I came across a Gold Mine Café in Maryland and found out it was named after a defunct mine nearby.”

“Your husband guessed that some of that gold found its way onto the ship?” Zavala said.

“It was more than a guess, Handsome.” She tugged at the chain around her neck. Hanging from the chain was a gold pendant in the shape of a horse head. “He found this on his first dive. Gave it to me with the promise of more.” She sighed heavily. “Oh, Hutch,” she said. “You were worth more to me than any treasure.”

“Sorry to bring these memories back,” Austin said.

The bright smile came back. “Don’t worry, Kurt. I apologize for losing it.”

Zavala had a question. “Kurt and I had some trouble hoisting the helmet out of the water. It’s even heavier with the breastplate attached. I was wondering how your husband got in and out of his diving rig on his own.”

“Oh, he wasn’t alone. He was working with a crewman named Tom Lowry when he found the wreck, so he had to bring him in on the secret. Tom became his dive tender. Hutch promised to split anything they found fifty-fifty.”

“Is Tom still alive?” Austin said.

“The wreck killed him too,” Thelma said. “Coast Guard figured that Hutch ran into trouble below. Maybe his air hose got tangled. Tom was as strong as an ox but one beer short of a six-pack, if you catch my drift. He was intensely loyal to Hutch. My guess is that he dove over the side without thinking, got into trouble, and drowned.”

“Wouldn’t the Coast Guard have found the boat anchored at the wreck?” Austin said.

“A squall came up. The boat broke free and floated away. Tom’s body and the boat were found miles from the dive site. I sold the boat to one of Hutch’s friends, whom I later married.”

“Did you ever tell anyone about the treasure?”

She gave a vigorous shake of her head. “Not even the Coast Guard. That bad-luck wreck already killed two men. I didn’t want to make a widow out of myself or any other woman in town.”

“How many dives did Hutch make?” Zavala said.

“He went out twice.” She fingered the chain around her neck. “The first time, he found the pendant. The second time, he must have dove again after he found that jar.”

Austin put his beer down. “What jar is that, Thelma?”

“An old clay thing. Kinda green and gray, sealed at the top. I found it in a boat storage bin where Hutch and Tom must have put it. Still covered with seaweed. It was too light to contain gold, but I never had any desire to open it. I figured more bad luck would come pouring out. Just like Pandora.”

“May we see the jar?” Austin said.

Thelma looked embarrassed. “I wish you had come earlier. I gave it away a couple of days ago to a guy who stopped by. Said he was writing a book and heard scuttlebutt around town about Hutch and his wreck. When I told him about the jar, he asked if he could borrow and have it X-rayed. I said he could have it.”

“Was his name Saxon?” Austin said.

“That’s right. Tony Saxon. Good-looking guy, but not as handsome as you. Do you know him?”

“Slightly,” Austin said with a rueful grin. “Did he say where he was staying?”

“Nope,” she said after a moment’s thought. “I didn’t give away anything valuable, did I? This house needs lots of work.”

“Probably not,” Austin said. “But the helmet is yours, and it’s worth a lot of money.”

“Enough to get this old joint fixed up and painted?” she said.

“You might even have enough left over for a couple of cases of Stella Artois,” Austin said.

He declined the offer of another beer to celebrate. He and Zavala carried the helmet from the Jeep and set it in the living room. Austin told Thelma that he would have a nautical appraiser get in touch with her. She thanked them both with a peck on the cheek.

Austin was about to get into the Jeep when he saw a slip of paper wrapped around the windshield wiper. He unrolled the paper and read the message written in ballpoint.

Dear Kurt. Sorry about the amphora. I’ll be at the Tidewater Grill until 6 p.m. I’ll buy the drinks. AS

Austin handed the note to Zavala, who read it and smiled.

“Your friend says he’s buying,” Zavala said, getting into the Jeep. “Doesn’t get any better than that.”

Austin slipped behind the steering wheel and drove toward the waterfront. He’d seen the sign for the Tidewater on the way into town and remembered how to find the restaurant that overlooked the bay. He and Zavala stepped into the bar and found Saxon engaged in a discussion about fishing with the bartender. He smiled when he saw Austin and introduced himself to Zavala. He suggested a locally brewed ale. They carried their mugs to a corner table.

Austin was a hard loser but not a sore one. He lifted his mug in toast.

“Congratulations, Saxon. How did you do it?”

Saxon took a sip of ale and wiped the foam from his mustache.

“Shoe leather and luck,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to focus on this area. I turned my attention from the west coast of North America to the east after my replica was torched.”

“Why do you think it was arson?” Austin said.

“A few days before the fire, I got an offer to buy the boat from a broker. I said the replica was a scientific project and not for sale. Later that week, the boat was set on fire.”

“Who was the buyer?”

“You met him at the unveiling of the
Navigator.
Viktor Baltazar.”

Austin recalled the angry look in Saxon’s eye when Baltazar had entered the Smithsonian warehouse.

“Tell us how you were drawn to the Chesapeake,” Austin said.

“I’ve always considered the Chesapeake region a remote possibility for Ophir because of the gold mines in the area. The Susquehanna has intrigued me as well. A number of years ago, some tablets with possible Phoenician writing were found up the river in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania.”

“What led you to Thelma Hutchins?”

“After the
Navigator
was stolen, I was devastated. I didn’t know what to do, so I came here and haunted dive shops and historical societies. Thelma’s husband, or, more likely, his crewman, may have spilled the beans to someone. I began to pick up rumors of a treasure wreck. I heard about Thelma and tracked her down. She suggested I take the amphora. She succumbed to my charm, obviously.”

“Obviously,”
Austin said. “How did you find us?”

“If NUMA wants to remain inconspicuous, I suggest that you paint your vehicles a less-distinctive color than that wonderful turquoise. I was on my way to a late breakfast and saw your car. I followed you to the boatyard, watched you unload your gear, staked out your car, and trailed you to Thelma’s house. Now, may I ask you a question? How did
you
learn of the wreck?”

Austin told Saxon about the duplicate
Navigator
in Turkey and the map engraved on the statue.

Saxon chortled. “A bloody cat! I always suspected that there was more than one statue. Possibly a pair guarding a temple.”

“Solomon’s temple?” Austin said, recalling his conversation with Nickerson.

“Quite likely.” Saxon furrowed his brow. “I wonder why the people who stole the original statue haven’t tracked down the wreck.”

“Maybe they are not as smart as we are,” Austin said. “You’ve got the amphora. What do you plan to do with it?”

“I’ve opened the amphora. I’m studying its content.”

“You didn’t waste any time. What was in it?”

“The answer depends on you, Kurt. I’m hoping we can work out an arrangement. I could use NUMA’s resources. I’m not interested in gold or treasure. Only knowledge. I want to find Sheba more than anything else. I readily admit that I am truly obsessed with the lady.”

Austin drew his lips down in a deep frown and turned to Zavala. “Think we should make a deal with this slippery character?”

“Hell, Kurt, you know what a sucker I am for romance. He’s got my vote.”

Austin had already made up his mind. NUMA’s help would be a small price to pay for Saxon’s expertise. He admired the man’s ingenuity and perseverance as well.