“I’ll get right on it,” Emerson said.
He hung up and stared into space for a moment, and then he snapped to attention and punched in the first of a list of phone numbers from memory.
As he waited for the first person to answer, an image materialized in his mind’s eye. It was a giant ball of yarn unraveling.
“FIRST IMPRESSIONS,” Paul said as they drove past Monticello.
“Smooth, but not entirely forthcoming,” Gamay said.
“He’s hiding something,” Angela agreed.
“I was watching his reaction when you mentioned the Artichoke Society,” Paul said. “Classic deer caught in the headlights.”
“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.”
Chapter 39
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.
“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
Austin unfolded the chart he had brought and pointed to a penciled-in X.
“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 Cafe 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
