Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
I retrieve it from my coat pocket, turning it over in the morning light. At first glance, it appears to be just another piece of sea-smoothed wood. But as I rotate it, something catches my eye. A small mark, almost invisible unless you know to look for it. An arrow, carved into the wood grain, pointing to a tiny seam.
With careful fingers, I press the spot. The wood shifts, revealing a hollow space inside. And there, nestled within the cavity, gleams a small, tarnished key.
Finn whines at the door, reminding me of our waiting visitor. I quickly pocket the key.
Whatever mystery my father had left behind, it was growing more intricate by the hour. And somewhere, somehow, my missing driftwood star held an important piece of the puzzle.
Chapter Four
Sid Gillespie looks different in my kitchen. Less like the polished gallery owner who has been my rival for years, and more like someone who has slept poorly. His usually immaculate hair appears hastily combed, and dark circles shadow his eyes.
“Coffee?” I offer, sliding a mug across the kitchen table.
“Thanks.” He wraps his hands around the mug. Finn watches him from his spot near my chair, his dark eyes assessing.
“May I see the note?” I ask, settling into my seat.
Sid reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a folded piece of paper. The message is typed in the same plain font as mine:
STAY AWAY FROM THE STAR. SOME TREASURES ARE BETTER LEFT UNFOUND.
“Did you notice anyone suspicious around your gallery yesterday?” I ask, studying the paper.
Sid shakes his head. “The town was busy with Christmas Market preparations. Anyone could have slipped it under the door unnoticed.”
I tap the paper. “Why warn you specifically? Most people in town know about our rivalry, but nothing suggests you were looking for my star.”
“Unless . . .” Sid says slowly, “whoever took it assumes we might work together to find it.”
The thought had occurred to me too. “Which means they definitely know about our history.”
“Half the town knows about our history, Marnie.” A wry smile touches his lips. “We haven’t exactly been subtle about competing for commissions and auction prices.”
This is true enough. Our rivalry began five years ago when Sid opened his gallery three blocks from my shop. His sleek, modern aesthetic and higher price points attracted a different clientele than my more rustic approach, but the tension was immediate. At the first Christmas Market after his arrival, his elaborate driftwood sculpture outsold my piece at the charity auction, breaking my three-year winning streak. I had not taken it gracefully.
“So either this is someone who knows us both,” I reason, “or someone who has been asking questions around town.”
Finn shifts position, moving to stand beside me.
“About that,” Sid says, leaning forward. “I heard something interesting yesterday. Dawson Morrow was seen talking to a stranger at K’s Korner Kafé two days ago. Someone who wasn’t a tourist, according to Klara.”
My interest sharpens. “What kind of stranger?”
“Male, middle-aged, wearing a business suit in a town where casual is the norm. Klara thought he might be a real estate developer or investor.”
This information settles uncomfortably alongside my discoveries from last night. Dad’s research folder, the map locations, his cryptic notes about historical significance.
“Did anyone overhear what they discussed?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, no. But Klara said they were looking at papers spread across the table. Maps, maybe.”
Maps. Like the one Finn found in the bottle.
I hesitate, considering how much to share with Sid. His warning note suggests he’s not the thief, but old habits of caution are hard to break.
“Sid, why are you helping me with this? Truthfully.”
He looks surprised, then thoughtful. “Two reasons, I suppose. First, theft crosses a line. Competition is one thing, but this . . .” He gestures toward the note. “This feels wrong. And second . . .” He pauses. “Your father helped me once, when I first moved to Seacliff Haven. I was having trouble getting permits for the gallery renovation. Samuel put in a good word with the town council, despite our different approaches to art.”
This is news to me. “Dad never mentioned that.”
“He wouldn’t have. He did it because he believed in supporting local artists, even ones with, as he put it, ‘unnecessarily modern sensibilities.’” Sid smiles at the memory. “I never properly thanked him before he passed.”
The revelation shifts something in my perception of Sid. Perhaps our rivalry has been more one-sided than I realized, fueled by my competitive nature rather than any genuine animosity on his part.
I grab the map and folder from the counter.
“Finn found something at the beach yesterday,” I explain, spreading the map on the table between us. “A bottle with this inside. It’s my father’s handwriting.”
Sid studies the map. “These symbols mark specific locations?”
“Yes. Places where Dad and I used to collect driftwood, including the pieces I used for the star.”