Duma Key(125)

Indeed. Seventeen and ripe, even in her it-covers-damn-near-everything bathing suit.

"She's already got that sulky, pouty I-want-to-be-somewhere-else look, too," Wireman said. "I wonder just how surprised her father was when she up and eloped with one of his plant managers. And I wonder if he wasn't, in his heart of hearts, glad to see her go." He put on his Chris Shannington drawl. "Run off to Atlanta with a boy in a tie and an eyeshade." Then he quit it. I guessed the subject of little dead girls, even ones lost eighty years ago, was still a tender one with him. "She and her new hubby came back, but by then it was just a hunt for the bodies."

I tapped the grim-faced black nanny. "Who was this?"

"Melda or Tilda or maybe even, God save us, Hecuba, according to Chris Shannington. His father knew, but Chris no longer remembers."

"Nice bracelets."

He glanced at them without much interest. "If you say so."

"Maybe John Eastlake was sleeping with her," I said. "Maybe the bracelets were a little present."

" Qui n sabe? Rich widower, young woman it's been known to happen."

I tapped the picnic basket, which the young black woman was holding with both hands, her arms bunched as though it was heavy. Heavier than just a few sandwiches could account for, you'd think... but maybe there was a whole chicken in there. And maybe a few bottles of beer for ole massa, as well a little reward after he'd finished his day's dives. "What color would you say that hamper is? Dark brown? Or is it red?"

Wireman gave me a strange look. "In a black-and-white photograph, it's hard to tell."

"Tell me how the storm led to the deaths of the little girls."

He opened the folder again and handed me an old news story with an accompanying photograph. "This is from the Venice Gondolier, March 28th, 1927. I got the original info on the net. Jack Cantori called the paper, got someone to make a copy and shoot me a fax. Jack's terrific, by the way."

"No argument there," I said. I studied the photo. "Who are these girls? No don't tell me. The one on his left's Maria. Hannah's on his right."

"A- plus. Hannah's the one with br**sts. She was fourteen in '27."

We studied the fax sheet in silence for a few moments. E-mail would have been better. The fax had annoying dark vertical lines running through it, blurring some of the print, but the headline was clear enough: STORM PROVES TREASURE-HUNTING BOON TO AMATEUR DIVER. And the picture was clear enough, too. Eastlake's hairline had receded a little. As if to compensate, his narrow bandleader's mustache was now closer to a walrus. And although he was still wearing the same black bathing singlet, it was now under severe stress... and actually popped under one arm, I thought, although the picture's resolution wasn't quite good enough to be certain. It appeared Dad Eastlake had packed on some pork between 1925 and 1927 the B-movie actor would have trouble getting roles if he didn't start skipping desserts and doing more work in the gym. The girls flanking him weren't as sloe-eyed-sexy as their big sister you looked at Adriana and thought about hot afternoons in a haymow, you looked at these two and wondered if they were getting their schoolwork done but they were pretty in a not-quite-there-yet way, and their excitement shone out in the picture. Sure it did.

Because, spread before them on the sand, was treasure.

"I can't make it all out, and the damn caption's blurry," I complained.

"There's a magnifying glass in the desk, but let me save you a headache." Wireman picked up a pen and pointed with the tip. "That's a medicine bottle, and that there is a musket-ball or so Eastlake claims in the story. Maria's got her hand on what appears to be a boot... or the remains of one. Next to the boot-"

"Pair of spectacles," I said. "And... a necklace-chain?"

"The story claims it's a bracelet. I don't know. All I could swear to is a metal loop of some kind, overgrown with crud. But the older girl's definitely holding out an earring."

I scanned the story. In addition to the stuff on view, Eastlake had found various eating utensils... four cups he claimed were "Italianate"... a trivet... a box of gears (whatever that might mean)... and nails without number. He had also found half a China Man. Not a Chinaman; a China Man. It wasn't pictured, at least not that I could see. The story said Eastlake had been diving on the eroded reefs west of Duma Key for fifteen years, sometimes to fish, often just to relax. He said he had found all sorts of litter, but nothing of interest. He said that the Alice (he called it that) had generated some remarkably big waves, and they must have shifted the sand inside the reef just enough to reveal what he called "a dumping field."

"He doesn't call it a wreck," I said.

"It wasn't," Wireman said. "There was no boat. He didn't find one, and neither did the dozens of people who helped him try to recover the bodies of his little girls. Only detritus. They would have found a wreck if there was a wreck to find; the water on the southwest end of the Key is no more than twenty-five feet deep all the way out to what remains of Kitt Reef, and it's pretty clear now. Back then it was like turquoise glass."

"Any theories about how it came to be there?"

"Sure. The best is that some boat close to foundering came blowing in a hundred, two hundred, three hundred years before, shedding shit as it came. Or maybe the crew was tossing stuff overboard to stay afloat. They made repairs after the storm was over and went on their way. It would explain why there was a swath of detritus for Eastlake to find, and also why none of it was particularly valuable. Treasure would have stayed with the ship."