Sins and Needles (26 page)

As she came around to the northeast side, she slowed and listened. This place on the Big Island was a traditional gathering place for party boats—on summer weekends there were often so many boats that one could jump from one to another half the length of a football field with no difficulty.

But this was three a.m. Friday morning, and everyone was at home, resting up for the weekend to come.

She paddled closer to shore. There was a dock there—possibly the dock she remembered from so many years ago. She found it, went just beyond it and stopped to look at the shoreline outlined against the sky. There it was, the tallest tree on the island. Leafless—that's right, it had died a few years ago, she'd forgotten that. But its bare limbs still reached a dozen or more feet higher than the surrounding trees. She drifted along the shore, pulling in about halfway between the dock and the tree.

There used to be a narrow, one-lane road along here. Funny, it was gone, replaced by a path. She stepped off the path on the inland side, looking for the road, and nearly fell into a marsh. She had to sit down hard to keep from floundering into the cutgrass and mucky water.

“Whew!” she murmured, and struggled to her feet, rubbing her hip ruefully. “Getting too old to be gadding about in the dark,” she muttered, then put a hand over her mouth to remind herself to keep silent.

Hanging around her neck was a short, waterproof flashlight, and as she got back to the path, she turned it on. The terrain had changed from when she'd been here last, many years ago. She walked up and down the narrow ridge, looking for landmarks, but the landscape had changed so much she couldn't find any. If it weren't for the little cottage back near the dock and the big tree, she might have thought she'd come ashore in the wrong place.

She went back to her kayak and climbed aboard, wincing at the pain in her behind from the fall, but well satisfied. The marsh had eaten the road, obviously, and the box with it. Even if Jan were so foolish as to come looking for it, there was nothing for her to find.

O
N
Saturday morning Betsy was in the shop at ten with Godwin—the scheduled part-timer, Marj Fahr, woke up ill, and fortunately Godwin was available—and they were discussing a redesign of the layout of the shop over cups of tea.

“Well, I have a feeling the next emphasis in needlework will be on crochet,” Godwin said. “So we need to get in some more books with crochet patterns, more crochet needles and threads, and maybe hold a class for beginners.”

“Crochet?” said Betsy. “I haven't seen any increased interest in crochet. We've got a limited amount of space. I think we should change the layout again so our customers will walk in and have to relearn their way around, and maybe stumble on something new, but I don't see adding to our crochet stock. What do you think about tatting?”

“Tried it. Crochet is easier, and I'm bad at crochet. But I'm serious, I think it's going to be the coming thing.”

The argument might have continued, but the door sounded its two notes, so they turned to see if they could assist their customer.

It was Jan, and she'd brought Jason with her. They both looked worried. Jan had a Crewel World paper bag in her hand.

“Is something the matter?”

“I'm not sure,” said Jan. She went to the library table in the middle of the room and slid the map out. Godwin went immediately to it, unfolded it—it was backside up—and after a moment, turned it over.

“Say,” he said, “this is part of a map of Lake Minnetonka!”

Betsy blinked at him. “Wow, it took me a while to realize that! You are
good
!”

“Yes, I know,” he replied, not very modestly. “But what's the matter with it?”

“We think it's a treasure map,” said Jan.

“Really?” Godwin eagerly began to study the map. He quickly figured out the lettering around the edge. “Where your heart is, there will your treasure be also,” he said aloud after a minute or two of study. “I think you may be right.” He looked the map over carefully, then found the red heart along the north shore of the Big Island. “There it is, a teeny heart—is that where you're going to dig?”

“Yes, that's it,” Jan said.

He tapped it once with his forefinger, then looked up at her, eyes shining, and said, “When are we going?”

She hesitated, surprised.

“What do you mean, ‘we'?” Jason asked in her stead.

Godwin gestured around the shop at Betsy, Jan, and Jason, then pointed to himself. “We, as in us. We'uns, us'ns, the people here present.”

“Are you serious?” asked Jan.

“Why? Shouldn't I be?”

“Well,” Betsy broke in, “the map was stitched by Jan's great-aunt, the late Edyth Hanraty, and was retrieved from the trash by Jan, so it belongs to her. She gets to choose who, if anyone, comes with her in a search for the treasure. If there is a treasure.”

Jan said, “I'm pretty sure there is a treasure. But I think my mother stitched this map, not Aunt Edyth.”

“Awwwww,” murmured Godwin, obviously disappointed. “I thought it was a really old treasure map. More than a hundred years old. I've read for years about there being a treasure hidden on the Big Island, and I thought you had at last found a map to it.”

“I'm afraid not,” said Betsy. “This map was sewn as a lining into a pillow that was found on Edyth Hanraty's boat.”

“This came out of
that
smelly old thing? Well, who would've thought!” He leaned forward and sniffed gingerly. “It sure cleaned up nice. But then I suppose you and your friend here—”

“He's my brother, Jason McConnell.”

“Oh. How do you do?” said Godwin.

“Very well, thank you,” said Jason.

“Are the two of you going to dig it up?”

“Maybe,” said Jason, looking at his sister.

Jan said, “You see, there's this problem of ownership. I showed the map to our mother, and she almost had a heart attack. She pretended she had never seen it before, when it was perfectly obvious she had. So I'm sure she's the one who stitched the map—or at least she knows what was buried out there. In either case, it was clear she didn't want it dug up. But I talked with her on the phone this morning. She's fine with any digging we want to do!”

“She is?” said Betsy, surprised.

“So what's the problem?” asked Godwin.

“I suspect that when they go out there they'll find a freshly dug hole, or one freshly filled in,” said Betsy.

“Exactly!” Jan said with a big gesture. “I think she snuck out there and dug it up.”

“Oh, yeah, I can just see our sixty-five-year-old mother holding a flashlight in her mouth while she digs a big hole with a handy spade,” scoffed Jason.

“She digs up her flower beds every fall to plant bulbs and every spring to plant annuals,” said Jan. “She's a very competent digger.”

“Why a flashlight in her mouth?” asked Godwin.

“Because she'd go out there in the middle of the night, of course,” said Jan. “That's the best time to go sneaking onto someone's property to retrieve something valuable the owners don't know is there.”

Godwin bent over the map. “You're right. This is on private property.”

“How do you know?” asked Betsy.

“Because only the old Veteran's Home property out there isn't in private hands, and this isn't on Veteran's Home land.”

“Let me see,” said Jason, coming to the table.

Godwin turned the map for him to look at, saying, “See, the heart is on the other side of the Big Island from the Veteran's Home.”

“You're right,” Jason said. He looked up at his sister. “What'll we do, ask permission to dig?”

“Well, yes, I guess we'll have to.”

“So you
are
going to go out and look,” said Betsy.

“Yes,” said Jan.

“Say, what if Jan's mother didn't go out there ahead of you?” said Godwin. “Can I come along? Please?
Please?
I
adore
the idea of digging up a treasure!”

“Well…” hedged Jan. “I was thinking of asking Betsy to come along, since she's the one who found the map.”

“But I've got a strong back!” said Godwin. “Two of us digging”—he pointed at Jason, then himself—“are better than one.” He bent his right arm to show the muscle that gently lifted the sleeve of his shirt.

“And what is to be the women's role?” asked Betsy.

“To wipe our sweating brows and stay us with flagons.” He frowned prettily. “Does that mean what I think it means? To offer us cold things to drink?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Betsy, laughing. She turned to Jan. “May we both come along?”

“Yes, of course.”

“One problem: we're open till five. It'll probably take a while to locate the site, and who knows how long to dig it up. Unless you want us to imitate your mother and dig with flashlights in our mouths, we'll have to wait till tomorrow.”

Jan said, “Meet us at the foot of Water Street at ten in the morning. Okay, Jason?”

“Oh, yes, I've got some things to do today anyway.”

“We'll be there, complete with flagons!” said Godwin. “Gosh, what'll I wear? What does one wear to the digging up of a treasure?” He went to refill his mug, mumbling to himself.

Jason asked, sotto voce, “You don't think he'll turn up in a bandana and golden earring, do you?”

Jan giggled. “Wouldn't surprise me in the least.”

Betsy asked, “How do we get ashore over there? Is there a public landing we can use?”

“Oh, no,” said Jan, “we'll just pull up to a dock on that side of the island, then knock on the nearest door and ask if we can cross his land.” She looked at her brother. “Your boat or mine?”

“Mine has a bigger motor,” he said.

“Good.” She turned to Betsy. “It's a red fiberglass Chris-Craft with an inboard engine.”

Godwin came back with a steaming mug of tea in his hand. “What if the owner doesn't want us to dig on his property? What'll we do? Or what if he wants a share?”

“Well, what if he does?” asked Jason. “We may have to give it to him.”

“But what if it's not a very big treasure?”

“That's their decision,” Betsy interjected. “You and I are not going to share in it.”

“Maybe we can explain what we're up to, negotiate a fee or something with him,” said Jan.

“I think we shouldn't tell him we're there to dig up a treasure chest,” said Godwin. “Just tell him a relative of yours buried something on his property fifty years ago, and you want to dig it up to see what it is.”

“Yeah,” agreed Jason. “We don't know what it is. It may be a dead dog or a spicy diary.”

“Oooooh, a
spicy diary
!” echoed Godwin.

“Yeah, written by a girl in her early teens,” said Betsy dryly. “‘I kissed David three times at the sock hop Saturday afternoon.' Ooooooh, spicy!”

Godwin turned on her, his hands on his hips. “You take the joy out of things, you know that? Now I'm not all excited anymore.”

“If that means you won't be singing a chorus of ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum' while you're digging, I'm happy,” retorted Betsy.

“Heartless woman,” sighed Godwin. “Jan, how about we bring the drinks and you bring the food, and we'll have a picnic? Then at least it will be
something
of an occasion.”

“Fine with me,” said Jan. “Come on, Jase, let's leave these two to whatever they were doing before we came in.”

 

S
UNDAY
dawned reluctantly, daylight struggling through a thick layer of dark clouds. It started raining just before Betsy set off for the eight o'clock service at Trinity. The church was relatively new, of an elegant but severe and not very ecclesiastical design. Father Rettger, in green vestments and snow white hair, was a beautiful counterpoint to the dark gray walls and pale stone altar.

His sermons were edifying, the small choir well-rehearsed, the music traditional.

Martin Stachnik was in charge of Trinity's music. He had learned the organ at a very large cathedral full of echoes and so played rather slowly. Betsy liked that, because Martin, like her, was fond of Bach, and the deliberate pace of his music gave her a chance to better appreciate Bach's intricate braids of music.

She didn't stay for coffee but hurried home, ate a hasty breakfast, then changed into jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. She was in the kitchen when her doorbell rang. She went to press the release button that unlocked the door to the entrance hall downstairs. She left her apartment door open so Godwin—it had to be Godwin, who else would come out early on a rainy Sunday morning?—could come in and went back to the kitchen to bring out the bottle of wine and six cans of Coke and two big bottles of water from the refrigerator.

By the time he sailed into her place scattering gay hellos and sunlight in all directions, she had the potables and a set of plastic glasses loaded into an insulated bag with a shoulder strap. He was wearing army boots, chinos, a camouflage shirt, and a kepi hat. He was reeking of Deep Woods
Off!
“I thought of knee pants and a head scarf,” he said, “but the mosquitoes on Big Island are a specially vicious breed.” He reached into a capacious front pocket and pulled out a spray bottle. “Here, use this on yourself before we land. It's got DEET, which keeps most of 'em away. And re-apply as necessary when the rain washes it off.”

“Thanks,” she said. “But the forecast says it'll stop raining by ten.”

And, in fact, by the time they were walking up the wooden planks of The Docks, the clouds were breaking up, and patches of blue were peeking through.

Jason's boat was one of those stacked models that are nearly as high as they are long. It was candy-apple red with silver trim and equipped with a powerful inboard engine. Jason, comfortable in old jeans and faded tank top, helped them aboard and told them to hang on. The boat burbled along quietly until they got out of the “no wake” portion of the bay, then began a baritone yell and smacked its way across the waves to the Big Island.

Betsy tried briefly to converse with Jan and Godwin but soon gave it up. They all three shrugged at one another and sat back to enjoy the ride. Every so often, one of the trio would go up to take a look at the progress but could only communicate satisfaction with a nod and a smile.

In about ten minutes, Jason slowed the motor back to its burble, and the bow of the boat came down enough that they could see they were coming along a low shoreline covered with trees and shrubs. Just about the place where it curved away into a shallow harbor was an old wooden dock, a single walkway about twenty feet long supported on poles. A green lawn came down to the water, shaded by two mature trees, and beyond the trees sat an old cabin fronted by a screened porch. It was a single story, cream-colored affair with a roof that sloped forward over the porch. There was no dog in the yard, so Jason maneuvered his boat up to the dock. Jan, resplendent in yellow clam-diggers and matching shirt, hopped onto it, took the line Jason tossed her, and wrapped it around a pylon, finishing with a half hitch.