loaded with treasure on what is now Islamorada. Wreckers, land pirates who went out and looted wrecked ships, made off with all of the loot. Historians believe they took it down to Key West and as a result, Key West became the richest city in the country. The richest city in the entire United States.
The state of Florida was, by Mary Trueblood’s definition, a land of cattle barons and railroad magnates. But my impression of my home state was a country of pirates. Surrounded by water on three sides, Florida was ripe for the seafaring trade and those who preyed on that trade.
We’d taken the magnetic MORE OR LESS INVESTIGATIONS signs off the truck and put them in our room. James replaced them with SMITH BROTHERS PLUMBING signs.
“We’re basically undercover, amigo. May as well disguise the truck.”
I thought it was a dumb idea. It had gotten us in trouble before, with people mistaking us for real plumbers.
“Why don’t you just leave the truck naked, James? No signs. We don’t have to be anything.”
He dismissed the idea with the wave of his hand.
As my best friend drove the oil-burning vehicle south, he puffed on a small cigar.
“You know, amigo, somebody stole a gold bar from Mel Fisher’s sunken treasure museum in Key West a couple of years ago. Thing was worth ninety-nine thou. All kinds of security, and these two guys just waltzed in and lifted it.”
“Your point is?”
“I think this Kriegel stole the gold. I think he saw his chance and took it. Think about it, dude. The ultimate heist. Everybody thinks you’re dead and that the gold has washed out to sea.”
I seemed to remember that the state of Florida claimed at least twenty-five percent of the treasure when Mel Fisher found the wreck of the
“And where did he take it?”
“Key West.”
“Back then, you could get lost in Key West.”
Some vehicle with a loud engine was behind us, and I caught the driver coming around on James’s side of the truck. It was a black Harley-Davidson motorcycle with a shiny gold fender. The driver wore a dark helmet with the Plexiglas face guard pulled down. The bike screamed by with its trademark roar and James flashed him the finger.
“Damn, these lanes are narrow enough.”
We watched the bike disappear in the distance, then James got a grin on his face.
“Ooooh. I know. Cuba. Damn, you could sail to Cuba back then. Rum drinks, sexy women, gambling. I think back then a guy could get lost in Cuba and have a very good life for a million-plus dollars in gold.”
“Well, if he took the gold to Cuba, we sure aren’t going to find it here.”
“Point well taken.” He was silent for a moment. “So officially I don’t think he went to Cuba. The gold is here in Islamorada, and we’re going to find it.”
I had to smile. “We’ve got a clue. A real clue with that letter.”
James glanced over at me, both hands on the wheel. “Another clue. Which will lead to another clue, which will lead to another clue. That’s all there will ever be-another clue.”
I knew it, but couldn’t place it.
“You’re slipping, partner.
We were on our own for lunch and it was an expense. So, on the card. We decided on The Green Turtle.
“According to the Internet report you Googled, this was one of the two places that survived the hurricane.”
I nodded. The Rustic Inn, as it was called in 1935, was the only structure that suffered almost no damage. There was a hotel that had been hit pretty hard, and the Rustic Inn. That was all that remained.
“I don’t think this is the original building, but this is the spot where the survivors met.”
The story we’d read was that the Rustic turned out to be the meeting place for all the survivors. Not many of them were left, but if you showed up after the storm, at least you were alive. There were families with, like fifty members who lost all but ten. The more I read about the hurricane, the more I heard stories, the worse it seemed. Almost no one had lived in Islamorada before the storm. You subtract five hundred from almost no one and what do you have? Not much.
We passed Cheeca Lodge, the location of a resort that had been thriving during the ’30s. Vicks Chemical Corporation or some other big business had built a resort on the property in the early 1900s, and alongside of it was Millionaire’s Row. Some of the hotshot northerners who owned big companies built vacation mansions on that row. Those homes were blown away by the ’35 hurricane, and I would bet that most of the priveledged owners were up north when it happened. As I pointed out, only two businesses survived the big wind and tidal wave. Only two.
James pulled into the parking lot of the Turtle and we got out of the truck.
“Damn!”
James was staring at his side of the truck, his fists clenched and his face screwed up in a frown.
I walked around the vehicle, and checked out what he was looking at. Spattered across the side of the truck was what appeared to be black paint.
“Who would do that?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“And why?”
“We’ll get some rags and-”
“What? Smear it?” He banged his fist on the back of the box truck. “No, we’ll get some solvent and do it right, back at the resort.”
In spite of the paint, in spite of the mess, I smiled. And James smiled. Resort. We’d never stayed at a resort in our lives. A poolside bar, waterfront, an ocean view. This wasn’t bad at all.
“Let’s grab some lunch, pard.”
And with that we walked into The Green Turtle. Could have been the best move we made the entire trip, because we met Maria. But as it turned out, it wasn’t.
CHAPTER SIX
At The Green Turtle there’s a room out back with a sunporch feeling. Wicker chairs, windows, and a cheery, open-air atmosphere. Plus, James could smoke. And of course, I had to cater to James’s worst habits. So, that’s where we sat. Our laptop was in the bag next to my seat.
“If we’re going to figure this out, we have to find out where the Coral Belle was located. Our primary job is finding that gold. If it still exists.” I assumed that this was the primary objective. Under the Coral Belle foundation was some clue regarding the treasure.
“Let’s explore the other end of this.” James sipped his beer.
“I thought finding the gold was the end.”
“Skip,” he took a drag on his cigarette, “there could be a good deal of work involved in this investigation. We’ve got a very limited amount of time to spend on it. Am I right?”
“You are.”
“Okay, follow me. We need to see if we can find AAAce Investigations.”
I stared at him for a moment. “What the hell are you talking about?” I swallowed a quarter of the bottle of my beer, thinking we should have had some breakfast.
“The lady said find Markim and Weezle.” A broad smile now on his face. “Wouldn’t you change your name if it was Weezle. Weezle, for God’s sake.” Then he broke out in a muted chuckle. “Weezle!”
“James, that’s a sidebar adventure. We’re here to find the gold.”
“And Skip, what if our boys, our crackerjack investigators Markim and Weezle already have the information? What then?”
