JASON MARCAL 1 THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE JASON MARCAL A NOVEL
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 2
JASON MARCAL 3 PREFACE Key West has always felt like a place where stories refuse to stay buried. For me, it has also become an escape. I try to return every year, and each visit feels like stepping away from the ordinary world for a while. There is something about Key West that makes reality loosen its grip—the nightlife, the old pirate stories, the weathered buildings, the boats, the music drifting out of open doors, and that unmistakable blue water surrounding everything. It is a place where history and imagination seem to live side by side. Its past is scattered across shipwrecks, old houses, family names, bars, museums, forgotten islands, and the water itself. Fortunes were made from ships that never reached port. Families arrived with nothing and built empires. Others lost everything within sight of land. And even today, two completely different worlds can exist only a few hundred yards apart. On one side of the water are beautiful homes, private docks, resorts, and people whose lives seem insulated from ordinary worries. On the other are boats held together with whatever works, people living close to the water, and places where freedom sometimes matters more than comfort. That contrast became the beginning of The Wrecker’s Inheritance. This novel is fiction. Rich Schrimper, Keena Clason, the Mercer, and the central events of their story are imagined. Some real Key West locations, historical traditions, businesses, and people appear alongside fictional ones, and certain historical details have been adapted to serve the story.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 4 Key West’s wrecking industry, however, was very real. For generations, men raced to distressed ships, rescued crews and cargo, and brought salvage claims before courts that determined their reward. The popular image of wreckers deliberately misleading ships with false lights has become part of Florida Keys folklore, though the historical evidence for systematic false-light wrecking is far less certain than the legends suggest. The question that interested me was not whether all of those old stories were true. It was something else. What if one of them was? And what happens when two people, generations later, inherit both sides of the same story? Some inherit money. Some inherit names. Some inherit mistakes. And occasionally, if they are lucky, they get to decide what happens next. Jason Marcal
JASON MARCAL 5 CONTENTS PREFACE 3 ONE Wisteria 6 TWO Wreck Ashore 11 THREE The Mermaid 15 FOUR The Clasons 20 FIVE The Other Side 23 SIX Her Turn 29 SEVEN Rich's Key West 46 EIGHT Her Key West 63 NINE The Sister Clock 84 TEN The Connection 90 ELEVEN The Cat House 98 TWELVE Meet Robert 106 FOURTEEN The Lighthouse 130 FIFTEEN The Salvage File 139 SIXTEEN Meet the Parents 158 SEVENTEEN Blood and Brass 171 EIGHTEEN Ten Dollars 191 NINETEEN Pirate Things 203 TWENTY The Escape 212 TWENTY-ONE As It Is 232 TWENTY-TWO When Friends Become Foes 245 TWENTY-THREE Homecoming 259 TWENTY-FOUR The Match 265 TWENTY-FIVE Incoming 270 TWENTY-SIX Bittersweet 282 TWENTY-SEVEN Inheritance 300
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 6 CHAPTER ONE Wisteria Richard Schrimper was twenty-three years old and owned almost nothing. He had a canoe. He had a cast net with three holes in it. He had a knife that had belonged to a man he barely remembered and a blue plastic cooler with one good hinge. He had the clothes he wore. He had Wisteria Island. The island was not his, of course. No one seemed certain whose it was. That was one of the things Rich liked about it. Wisteria sat close enough to Key West that on quiet evenings Rich could hear the music from Mallory Square. Sometimes he could hear the applause when the sun disappeared. Rich never understood why people applauded the sun. It had gone down every night he had been alive. The island itself had not always been there. Men had made it, more or less, by dredging Key West Harbor and putting the unwanted bottom in one place until the sea had no choice but to call it land. After that came birds. Then trees. Then men. Australian pines grew high over parts of the island. Mangroves held the edges. Driftwood collected along the beach with plastic bottles, rope, pieces of boats and everything else the Gulf decided it no longer wanted. People lived there too. Some came for a night. Some for a month. Some seemed to have been there forever. They were sailors whose boats no longer sailed, men who had discovered rum before breakfast, people escaping wives, husbands, taxes, police or themselves. Nobody asked many questions. Rich fit in well. He had been born in Key West. As far as
JASON MARCAL 7 he knew, that was the beginning of the story. His mother died when he was young. His father was a blank space on forms. After that came children's homes. Foster homes. An aunt who was not really his aunt and kept him for four months. A retired couple who kept him almost a year. They made pancakes on Sundays and bought him new sneakers. Rich had made the mistake of thinking that might last. It did not. Children did not need things explained as often as adults believed they did. He knew when a refrigerator was suddenly locked. He knew when people stopped asking what he wanted for dinner. He knew when adults began speaking quietly in the next room. Caseworkers always had words. Temporary. Adjustment. Placement. Transition. Rich learned his own word. Pack. He stopped unpacking completely after that. There were homes in Marathon. Homes farther north. But always somewhere in the Keys. He had never crossed onto the mainland. Never flown in an airplane. Never seen a train except on television. For Rich, Florida was a narrow road with water on both sides. And Key West was the end of it. At fourteen someone wrote that he was difficult. At fifteen Rich ran away for three days. At sixteen he ran away for nine. He always went south. At seventeen the placements became shorter. By then Rich knew how the system worked and the system knew how Rich worked. At eighteen he was placed in transitional living. There were rules. Hours. Forms. Meetings. Someone explained budgeting. Rich had thirty-eight dollars. He thought he understood budgeting. One morning he put two shirts, two pairs of shorts, a toothbrush and his knife into a backpack and left. He slept behind a marina the first night. Under an overturned boat the second. On a bench the third. Then someone told him about Wisteria. He found a ride over. For the first time in his life, nobody told Rich that somewhere was his home. So he stayed. His shelter began with a blue tarp. Then came plywood. Then another tarp. A pallet became a floor. An old boat cushion became a mattress. Water came in jugs. Food came however food came. Some days
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 8 Rich cleaned boat bottoms. Some days he scraped barnacles. Sometimes he untangled fishing line from props. Sometimes he carried tanks at a dive shop. He fished. He shrimped. He scavenged. There was an honesty to shrimping that Rich liked. You threw the net. You pulled it back. Sometimes there were shrimp in it and sometimes there weren't. The shrimp never promised anything. Occasionally Rich took things. Rope. A tool left too long somewhere. Food somebody had apparently finished with. He did not consider himself a thief. A thief took things he did not need. Rich mostly needed everything. The canoe came later. Calling it a canoe was generous. Rich found part of an old hull. Tomas found fiberglass.
JASON MARCAL 9 Somebody else had resin. Rich found wood. They assembled the thing on Wisteria over several weeks. Tomas stood looking at it when it was finished. "You going to name it?"
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 10 Rich looked at the crooked hull. "Naming a boat that ugly seems cruel." Tomas nodded. "Good." Tomas was Cuban and old enough that Rich had stopped asking exactly how old. Sometimes he said he left Cuba because of politics. Other times because of a woman. Once because of a boat. When Rich pointed out these were three different stories, Tomas said, "All of them." He lived aboard an old sailboat anchored just offshore. Thirty feet, perhaps. It had once been white. Tomas drank coffee in the morning and rum when he believed morning had lasted long enough. He smoked cigarettes whenever he wanted not to answer something. His English became worse for the same reason. He had helped Rich build the canoe. The first time Rich launched it, Tomas said it would sink. It did not. Rich paddled in a circle and came back. Tomas stood onshore. "You made a boat." "You said it would sink." "I was wrong." Rich smiled. "No. You proved me wrong. Different thing." Rich remembered that. Nobody had ever said anything like it to him before. Tomas taught Rich things. How to patch fiberglass. How to listen to an engine. How to look at clouds and know whether to trust them. How old wrecks settled. Where metal collected. Why sand moved. "Water does not forget," Tomas told him once. Rich thought that sounded like something an old drunk would say. Then Tomas showed him where to dive. Rich came back with a square nail, a green piece of brass and the neck of a bottle so old the glass had gone cloudy. Tomas stopped smiling when he saw the brass. Only for a moment. "Where you find these?" "Around."
JASON MARCAL 11 "Where around?" Rich smiled. "You taught me not to tell people where I find things." Tomas looked at him for a long time. Then he laughed. "Good." The brass went into Rich's wooden box with everything else the sea had given him. Square nails. Old glass. Coins too worn to spend. A broken compass face. A buckle. Bits of metal whose purposes had been forgotten. Tomas sometimes looked through the box. He always put everything back exactly where he found it. "You have old blood," Tomas told him once. "What does that mean?" Tomas lit a cigarette. "Means your blood is old." "That's stupid." "Most true things sound stupid when explained." Rich let it go. Across the water was another island. Sunset Key. It was close enough that Rich could see the white beach and the houses beyond it. Everything there had been arranged. The sand. The palms. The paths. Even the small palapas seemed to know where they belonged. People paid a great deal of money to sleep there. What people were really buying, Rich decided, was the right to keep other people away. That he understood. Wisteria gave him the same thing for free. One morning Rich woke hungry. He had two bottles of water, half a lime and six shrimp. The shrimp were not enough. He pulled the canoe toward the water. Tomas watched from his boat. "Where you going?" "Nowhere." Tomas nodded. "Best place to go."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 12 Rich pushed off. The canoe wobbled. He corrected it with one stroke. The sun was already climbing. He paddled south. Toward the island with the white beach.
JASON MARCAL 13 CHAPTER TWO Wreck Ashore Rich had not gone far when Tomas called him back. Rich pretended not to hear. Tomas called again. "Richard." That meant food. Rich turned the canoe. Tomas had eggs in a pan and coffee strong enough to repair machinery. Rich climbed aboard. "You know why this place is here?" Tomas asked. Rich looked around the old sailboat. "Your boat?" "Key West." Rich ate an egg. "Because Florida had leftover rocks." Tomas shook his head. "Ships." "There are ships everywhere." "Before the road, everything came by water." Tomas pointed north. "New York." Then south. "Havana." West. "Gulf." East.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 14 "Atlantic." He spread his hands. "And in the middle, these little pieces of rock." Rich drank coffee and regretted it immediately. "Coral," Tomas said. "Reef. Like teeth." He scraped the edge of a spoon against the pan. "Ship hits reef at night. Wood grinding on coral." The spoon made a hard sound. "That sound was money." Rich looked at him. "For who?" "For everybody who was not on the ship." Tomas told him about wreckers who cruised the reefs waiting for ships in trouble. Men who knew the channels. Men who could smell weather coming. Men who raced one another toward broken vessels because the first competent salvor to reach a wreck could become wrecking master and control the work. "Wreck ashore!" Tomas shouted suddenly. Rich nearly spilled the coffee. "What the hell?" Tomas laughed. "Old Key West. Man sees wreck. Cries out. Boats go. Men run. Everybody wants first chance." "They just took the cargo?" "No." "Sounds like they did." "That is piracy." "What's the difference?" Tomas smiled. "A judge." Rich laughed. Tomas did not. He explained salvage claims. Ships saved. Cargo removed. Anchors run. Lines carried through surf. Vessels
JASON MARCAL 15 pulled from reef if they could be pulled. Then lawyers and judges decided what the work had been worth. "So they got paid to save it." "Yes." "And if they couldn't save the ship?" "Save cargo." "And if they couldn't save that?" Tomas shrugged. "Save yourself." There were deaths. Tomas told him about three fictional brothers who went out to a wreck in bad weather. Only two came home. "Did they find him?" Rich asked. Tomas looked into his coffee. "Enough." Rich did not ask what that meant. "Ugly money spends the same," Tomas said. "So they were bad men." "Some." "Pirates." "Some were brave men." "And greedy." "Sometimes the same ones." Rich considered that. "You can be greedy and brave?" "Very easy." "What about good?" Tomas smiled without humor. "Harder." There were darker stories. False lights shown from shore. Markers moved. Bad directions given to captains so ships would run aground where wreckers could reach them. Tomas did not say the stories were true. He did not say they were false.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 16 "Most wreckers did not need to wreck ships," he said. "The reef did enough work for everybody." "But some did?" Tomas lit a cigarette. "People do everything eventually." "So it happened." "Depends who wrote the story." He told Rich that ships changed. Sail became steam. Steam became diesel. Wreckers became salvage companies. Small boats became tugs and cranes. Handwritten claims became contracts. "Same thing," Tomas said. "Not really." "Better lawyers." Tomas went below and returned with an old maritime book. The cover had cracked long before Rich was born. Inside were drawings of ships and lists of companies. Tomas turned the pages carefully. One stopped Rich. CLASON & COMPANY. NEW YORK. Beneath the words was an engraving of a merchant ship. "Who are they?" "Shipping people." "Rich?" Tomas looked at him. "Very." "Still around?" "Families like this begin small. One ship. Two. Warehouse. Contracts. Then children inherit. Grandchildren make bigger. Sometimes smarter. Sometimes only luckier." Rich looked at the engraving. "Why would people like that come here?" "Ships came here. Money followed ships." Tomas turned another page. "Old families like islands." "Why?"
JASON MARCAL 17 "Easier to know who belongs." Rich looked toward Wisteria. "Nobody belongs over there." Tomas smiled. "Exactly." He closed the book halfway. "The men who owned the ships and the men who saved the ships hated one another." "Why?" "Owner thinks wrecker takes too much. Wrecker thinks owner does not understand danger." "Then why use them?" "Because ship on reef does not care about pride." Tomas tapped the old Clason page. "They needed each other." "Didn't sound like it." "You cannot wreck an empty sea." Rich reached toward writing faded along one margin. Tomas closed the book. "What?" "Old things don't like young hands." Rich held up his hands. "My hands found half the old things you've seen." "That is what worries me." Rich thought it was a joke. Tomas put the book away. "Remember something." "What?" "A good man saves a ship. A smart man saves the cargo. And a rich man owns the story afterward." Rich frowned. "That doesn't make any sense." "It will."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 18 Rich went back to the canoe. This time Tomas let him leave. Rich paddled toward Sunset Key. He was near the white beach when he saw movement in the water. A swimmer. Blonde hair broke the surface. A woman moved easily beyond the shallows. Most people fought the sea even when they believed they were swimming in it. This girl did not fight it. She belonged in it. Rich stopped paddling. The swimmer turned. Sunlight caught her hair. "Mermaid," Rich said. Then he paddled closer.
JASON MARCAL 19 CHAPTER THREE The Mermaid The girl saw him before he reached the beach. She stopped swimming and stood where the water reached just above her waist. "You're not supposed to be here." Rich looked around. "Where?" "Here." "I'm in a boat." "You're beside a private island." Rich looked at his canoe. "Private boat." She stared at him. He smiled. That made it worse. She moved closer to shore. Rich could see her clearly now. Blonde hair wet against her shoulders. Blue water behind her. A swimsuit that probably cost more than his canoe.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 20 "Do you live over there?" she asked. She pointed toward Wisteria. "Yes." "On the island?" "That's usually what live means." "I know what live means." "Good." She looked toward the crooked canoe. "Did you make that?" "Yes." "Why?" Rich considered the question. "Needed a boat." She laughed. He liked the sound. He decided not to show it. "What's your name?" she asked. "Rich."
JASON MARCAL 21 She smiled. Rich saw the joke immediately. "Don't." "I didn't say anything." "You were going to." "Maybe." "What's yours?" "Keena." "Keena what?" She looked at him. "Just Keena for now." Rich shrugged. "Maybe you only get one name." Her expression changed slightly. "You don't have a last name?" "I have one." "You just don't use it?" "Didn't say that." "You're difficult." "People have written that down." He regretted it as soon as he said it. Keena heard something beneath the joke. She did not ask. That made him like her more. "What do you do over there?" she asked. "Live." "Besides that." "Fish. Shrimp. Work boats. Dive. Clean bottoms." "For fun?" "For money." "And fishing?" "For food." She looked at him again. Not pity. Curiosity. Rich could tolerate curiosity. "You really built that canoe?" "Yes."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 22 "It looks homemade." "That is because I made it at home." Keena laughed. "You always answer like that?" "Mostly." He watched her move through the water. "You swim like a mermaid." She looked at him. "Is that supposed to work?" "What?" "Calling women mermaids from a homemade canoe." "Never tried it before." "And now?" "Still gathering data." Keena smiled. "Fine. Mermaid. What do I call you?" "Rich." She studied the canoe. Then his sunburned shoulders. The old shirt. The hair he had cut himself badly two weeks earlier. "Driftwood." Rich frowned. "No." "Yes." "Mermaid is better." "You look like something the tide washed up." "That's insulting." "So is yelling mermaid at strangers." Rich hated the name. Mostly because he knew she was going to use it again. They talked longer than either intended. About Wisteria. About the water. About whether the beach actually belonged to anybody. Keena believed private meant private. Rich believed water had not signed the paperwork. Eventually Keena went back toward shore. "Don't come any closer," she said.
JASON MARCAL 23 "Wasn't planning to." "Goodbye, Driftwood." Rich lifted the paddle. "Goodbye, Mermaid." He paddled home smiling. Tomas was waiting. That ruined it. "Girl?" Tomas asked. "No." "Blonde?" Rich stopped. "How do you know?" Tomas lifted a pair of binoculars. "Old men need hobbies." "You're a creep." "Rich girls are expensive." "You don't know she's rich." Tomas looked toward Sunset Key. "She is swimming there." "You don't have enough money for poor girls," Tomas added. "I wasn't buying anybody." Tomas nodded. "That is what every man says before the bill comes." Rich threw a rag at him. Tomas laughed. "Name?" "Keena." Tomas's hands stopped. Only for a moment. Rich did not notice. "Keena what?" "Didn't say." "Smart girl." That evening Rich sat outside his shelter with the wooden box open beside him. Square nails. Old glass. Brass. He turned the green piece of metal in his hand. Then thought about blonde hair in blue water. He put the brass away. The next morning he did not go back. He told himself that twice. He threw the cast net. Caught almost nothing. Did a bottom-
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 24 cleaning job for a man who owed him twenty-five dollars and tried to pay twenty. They settled on twenty-three. Rich bought rice. Beans. He took a lime from a box outside a kitchen because the box seemed unlikely to miss it. At five o'clock he launched the canoe. Halfway across he realized he had forgotten the cast net. That was when he stopped pretending. Keena was already in the water. He saw the blonde head. She saw him. She raised one hand. "Driftwood." Rich smiled. "Mermaid." And neither of them asked why the other had come back.
JASON MARCAL 25 CHAPTER FOUR The Clasons Keena Clason was twenty-two and had always known where she came from. That was one of the differences between her and Rich. The Clasons kept records. Births. Deaths. Marriages. Ships. There were portraits in hallways. Silver bowls with names engraved beneath them. Leather books that no one was supposed to touch without clean hands. In the Clason family, the past was not something that happened. It was something you inherited. The oldest story Keena remembered was not about ships. It was about a woman. Elizabeth Clason. Clawson in some records. Stamford, Connecticut. 1692. Accused of witchcraft. Tried. Subjected to the sort of tests people later preferred not to describe in detail. Acquitted. She went home. Keena's grandmother used to tell the story differently from the family books. "They tried to call her a witch," she would say. "And she went home anyway." As a child Keena imagined Elizabeth leaving the hearing with her head high. Older, she understood that frightened people did not always walk like heroes. That did not matter. A Clason survived. The family had made a tradition of that. By the eighteenth century the Clason name had moved toward shipping. Not an empire at first. Shares in vessels. Cargo agreements. Warehouses. Insurance. Contracts. The useful things. Manufactured goods and cloth moved south. Sugar and tobacco moved
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 26 north. Tools. Flour. Fruit. Whatever could be carried and sold somewhere else. The Clasons learned early that one ship could sink. So they owned parts of several. They learned one port could fail. So they used more than one. They learned captains could lie. So they kept records. The Clasons remembered the ships that arrived. Other families remembered the ones that did not. Sail became steam. Steam became diesel. Ledgers became typewriters. Typewriters became computers. The Clasons were not sentimental about ships. They were sentimental about owning them. By Keena's lifetime the old company name had become CLASON MARITIME GROUP. The family held interests in container vessels, tankers, terminals, warehouses and freight operations. Some things carried the name. Others did not. There were subsidiaries. Partners. Banks. Especially banks. Keena did not understand that yet. Her father did. Donnie Clason had been born to inherit the business. That did not mean he had never worked. As a young man he spent time in terminals and on ships and in offices close enough to loading cranes that conversation sometimes had to stop when steel moved overhead. Not the actual bottom. Clasons had never been very good at beginnings that low. But enough to understand that a ship could be worth a hundred million dollars and still become useless because somebody in an office five thousand miles away had not signed the right paper. Now Donnie was chairman. Professional executives ran most of the daily company. He worried about freight rates. Fuel. Interest rates. Financing. Credit lines. Things his daughter had been trained to hear without being expected to carry. Donnie loved Keena. He simply believed love could be provided. A house. School. Travel. Safety. A boat. Opportunity. Everything except time. Cecilie Clason had not been born into shipping. She had been born into stories. Her family had been in the South for generations. Her father was Cherokee, and through him came a family history that had not been preserved in board minutes or company archives. There were fewer portraits. Fewer silver bowls. There were names. Stories. People
JASON MARCAL 27 remembered by people who had remembered other people. Donnie's family could tell you what a schooner had earned on a voyage in 1847. Cecilie's could tell you who had carried a child through hard country when there was nowhere safe to stop. The Clasons kept history on paper. Cecilie's family had carried much of theirs in memory. Keena inherited both. Donnie met Cecilie in Key West at a maritime foundation dinner. He asked her out three times. She said no twice. The third time he told her he had run out of impressive reasons she should say yes. Cecilie said that was an improvement. Years later they still argued about whether persistence or pity had won her. Cecilie was beautiful in a way that did not seem to know anyone was watching. She could move through rooms filled with money without becoming impressed by it. That was one reason Donnie loved her. It was also one reason she sometimes frightened him. Keena grew up around ships. At twelve Donnie took her aboard a new container vessel. She asked what it was worth. "Wrong question," he said. "What's the right one?" "What is it worth when it is moving?" She understood years later. Her last name entered rooms before she did. Teachers knew it. Waiters knew it. Adults she had never met knew her father. People were kinder when they believed kindness might be remembered by somebody important. That was why she liked swimming. The water did not ask who her father was. On Sunset Key, their house faced the Gulf. It was large enough that rooms could go unused for weeks without anyone noticing. One afternoon Cecilie found Keena looking toward Wisteria. "What is over there?" she asked. "Nothing." Cecilie smiled. "That answer runs in your father's family."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 28 Keena told her about the young man in the canoe. Not much. Just enough. "People on Wisteria can be dangerous," Cecilie said. "He isn't." "You know that already?" Keena looked toward the water. "He called me a mermaid." Cecilie saw the smile. "I see." "Don't." "I didn't say anything." Keena looked at her. "You were going to." That evening Keena passed her father's study. Donnie was on the phone. He raised one finger. Wait. Keena waited. Thirty seconds. A minute. Two. Finally he covered the phone. "Everything okay, honey?" "Yes." "Good." He returned to the call. He did not ask where she had been. At dinner the phone interrupted again. Donnie apologized. Then answered it. Keena heard pieces. Financing on two vessels. Two newer container ships. "Banking people being banking people," Donnie said after. "Problem?" Cecilie asked. "Nothing that matters." Cecilie looked at him. Donnie smiled. They talked about things when they were good. They stopped talking about them when they were not. Later Keena stood near the beach. Wisteria was dark across the water. Somewhere over there was Rich. She wondered which light, if any, belonged to him. Then she realized she still did not know his last name. Everyone knew hers. He did not. He had called her Mermaid instead. Inside the house her father's phone rang again. Keena stayed by the water.
JASON MARCAL 29 CHAPTER FIVE The Other Side Rich had been told not to go onto Sunset Key. There were signs. Docks. Security. People whose jobs existed largely because of people like Rich. So he went anyway. Late afternoon was his first mistake. He assumed rich people took a long time to prepare for dinner and would therefore be indoors. He was wrong. He brought the canoe around the quieter side of the island and stepped out in shallow water. Mud swallowed one sandal. Rich pulled. The sandal stayed. He pulled harder. The sandal came free and threw mud up his leg. "Good start," he said. He dragged the canoe under some palms and covered it with branches. It remained obviously a canoe hidden by a man who had never successfully hidden a canoe. Then he walked inland. The grass bothered him immediately. It was too even. Nothing grew where it had not been told. The landscaping had places. Even the rocks appeared employed. A small electric cart came around a bend. Rich considered running. Running would make him guilty. He was already guilty. The cart stopped. A resort employee looked at him. "Can I help you?" "I'm good." The man looked at Rich's wet shorts and muddy leg. "Are you visiting a resident?" "Yes."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 30 "Which resident?" "Keena." The man waited. "Keena...?" Rich did not know. He looked down. "I lost a sandal." The employee looked at both of Rich's feet. Rich was wearing both sandals. "Found it." He walked away. The employee watched him. Rich turned the first corner. Sprinklers came on. All of them. Rich ran directly through them. A man on a balcony raised a drink in salute. Rich hated the island. Then the dog found him. It was small. White. Maybe eleven pounds. It came out of nowhere making a noise completely disproportionate to its body. "No." The dog came faster. "Go home." The dog barked. "You know you're not a real dog." That insulted it. The dog chased Rich into a parked golf cart. Rich hit the side. A basket of oranges tipped over. Oranges rolled everywhere. An older man in a pink shirt stepped from a doorway. "What the hell are you doing?" Rich crouched and began collecting oranges. "Helping." The dog continued barking. "Beaumont!" the man shouted. Rich stopped. He looked at the dog. "Your name is Beaumont?" Beaumont barked. "That's embarrassing." Rich put the oranges back and left before the conversation became legal. The path opened near the resort. There were small palapas closer to
JASON MARCAL 31 the beach and people sitting beneath them with drinks. Beyond them was the restaurant. Latitudes. Rich knew the name. Everybody in Key West knew the name. It was the kind of place people talked about when they wanted you to know where they had eaten. Tables sat close to the beach beneath palms, some directly facing the Gulf. Everything was clean. White cloth. Polished glasses. Silverware arranged in ways Rich did not understand. Men wore shirts they had probably ironed. Women wore dresses that looked uncomfortable to swim in. Nobody seemed concerned about the price of anything. Rich had once heard a man at the marina say he had taken his wife to Latitudes for their anniversary. The man had mentioned the dinner three times and the price four. Rich had never understood that. If a meal was expensive enough to make you angry about it afterward, he figured you should have eaten somewhere else. A waiter crossed the sand carrying a bottle of wine in a bucket of ice. Rich watched him. There was enough ice in the bucket to keep Rich's fish cold for half a day. Nobody was using it for fish. That bothered him. He walked closer. Through an opening he could see plates of seafood, steaks and things arranged carefully enough that Rich wondered whether anyone was supposed to eat them. One plate had a piece of fish in the middle with something green underneath it and three little dots of sauce beside it. Rich stared. He had eaten fish nearly every week of his life. Nobody had ever put dots beside it. A couple sat near the water drinking wine and watching the Gulf. Rich looked at the view. It was a good view. He had almost the same one from Wisteria. His was free. He continued down the path. That was when he saw the abandoned sandwich. Half a turkey sandwich sat on a plate near an empty chair beneath a palapa. Nobody was near it. Rich looked left. Then right. The sandwich had made its decision. He picked it up and took a bite. A waiter appeared. Rich froze. "That's mine," Rich said. The waiter looked at the sandwich in Rich's hand. "I see."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 32 "Turkey." "Yes, sir." Rich chewed. "Good." "I'm glad." Twenty minutes on Sunset Key had left him wet, muddy, chased by a dog, suspected by security and in possession of stolen turkey. Then he saw the pool. A pool beside the ocean made no sense. The gate was locked. Rich climbed it. A security sensor beeped. He moved quickly through a yard and stopped near the glass doors of a large house. For a second his reflection looked back at him. Wet shirt. Mud. Hair everywhere. He looked like somebody had thrown Wisteria against the window. "Driftwood?" Rich turned. Keena stood behind him. "What are you doing in my backyard?" Rich looked at the house. "This is yours?" "Yes." "All of it?" "Rich." He pointed toward the pool. "You have an ocean. Why do you need a pool?" Keena stared. "How did you get here?" Rich thought about the canoe. The mud. The employee. The sprinklers. Beaumont. The oranges. The sandwich. "Your island attacked me." "My island?" "The grass." "The grass attacked you?" "Sprinklers." Keena started laughing. "Then a dog."
JASON MARCAL 33 "Beaumont?" "You know that thing?" "He's a Maltese." "He's a napkin with anger issues." Keena laughed harder. "Then a waiter tried to take my sandwich." "Your sandwich?" Rich said nothing. Keena looked at him. "You stole a sandwich." "It had been abandoned." "You cannot cross fifty yards without an incident." "Rich people have too many rules." "Poor people have too many opinions." "That's because they're free." Keena shook her head. "Come on." "Where?" "I'm getting you off the island before someone arrests you." They walked back through the resort paths. "Why did you come?" Keena asked. Rich shrugged. "Wanted to see how you live." "You saw my house from the water." "Not from inside." "And?" Rich looked around. "It looks different." "Better?" "No." Keena smiled. "Cleaner." "That's not the same thing." "No."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 34 He looked toward the house again. "How many people live there?" "Three." "How many bedrooms?" Keena hesitated. "Six." Rich nodded. "You have a pool beside the ocean and bedrooms for people who aren't there." "Exactly. Efficient." They passed Latitudes. Rich nodded toward the tables. "People really pay to eat there?" "Yes." "That much?" "How much do you think it costs?" "More than the fish." Keena laughed. "Usually." Rich watched a waiter pour wine. "I can catch that fish." "Can you cook it?" "Fire." "That's not cooking." "Fish disagrees." A security cart came around the corner. Keena grabbed Rich's arm and pulled him behind a hedge. They stood close. Too close. Her hand rested against his chest. Rich could smell something clean and sweet in her hair. He suddenly became aware that he smelled like sprinkler water, salt and stolen turkey. The cart passed. Keena slowly took her hand away. "Come on." At the beach they found the canoe. Unfortunately someone else had found it first. A groundskeeper stood beside it. "Miss Clason?"
JASON MARCAL 35 Rich looked at Keena. Clason. Keena did not look at him. The groundskeeper pointed at the canoe. "Do you know whose boat this is?" Keena answered before Rich could. "Mine." The man looked at her. Then the canoe. "This is your boat?" "Yes." Rich stared at her. The groundskeeper looked at Rich. "And he is?" Keena paused. "My friend." Something about that word landed differently than Rich expected. The groundskeeper finally nodded and walked away. Rich waited until he was gone. "Your boat?" "You're welcome." "Clason?" Keena looked at him. "Yes." Rich saw the old book in Tomas's hands. CLASON & COMPANY. NEW YORK. "You're those Clasons." Keena frowned. "I don't know what those Clasons means." "Shipping." Her expression changed. "Yes." "Tomas told me about your family before I met you." "Tomas knows my family?" "He knows ships." "What did he say?" Rich thought about the book. About owners and wreckers.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 36 "Not much." That answer sounded like Tomas. Keena noticed. "Next time," she said, "use the dock." "Next time?" She looked at him. "Don't make it weird." Rich smiled. "Keena Clason." "You finally know my name." "Mermaid is better." She smiled. Rich paddled back toward Wisteria. Tomas saw him coming. "Good fishing?" "Shut up." Tomas sniffed the air. "You smell like flowers." Rich kept walking. "Rich people water the poor now?" Rich picked up a coconut and threw it. He missed. Tomas laughed. Rich did too.
JASON MARCAL 37 CHAPTER SIX Her Turn Rich heard the Jet Ski before he saw it. It came from the south, fast enough that the sound reached Wisteria ahead of the wake. He looked up from the net he was repairing. The machine came around the edge of Sunset Key bright and polished and entirely too expensive for anything sensible. Rich stood. "No." The Jet Ski kept coming. He walked toward the beach. "No." It slowed in the shallows. Keena sat astride it wearing dark sunglasses, an expensive life jacket and a swimsuit that looked as though someone had designed it specifically to make poor people feel worse. Rich put both hands on his hips.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 38 "No." Keena killed the engine. The sudden quiet felt suspicious. She lifted the sunglasses. "I haven't even gotten off yet."
JASON MARCAL 39 "Good. Start it again." She smiled. "Morning, Driftwood." "Turn around." "Why?" "Because I've seen what happens when rich people leave their natural habitat." Keena looked toward his shelter. "Apparently they find driftwood." Rich pointed toward Sunset Key. "Your island is that way." "I know." "You're lost." "I followed you." "That's worse." Keena climbed off the Jet Ski. Rich stared at it. Then at her. Then back at it. "What?" "How much does that thing cost?" "I don't know." Rich closed his eyes. "That is the most rich-person answer you could have given." Keena laughed. She stepped into the shallow water and pulled the Jet Ski farther in. Rich looked down at her life jacket. Even that had a brand name on it he recognized from boats he could not afford to touch. "You own this?" "My father does." "Of course he does." "He owns several." Rich looked toward the sky as though asking somebody for patience. "Why?" "In case one gets lonely." Keena smiled. Rich looked at her.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 40 "That was actually pretty good." "I'm learning." She walked the Jet Ski toward shore. Rich moved in front of her. "No." "You've said that." "I mean it." "You came onto my island." "I was exploring." "So am I." "You trespassed." "So did you." "I was invited eventually." "No, you were escorted out." "That is almost the same thing." Keena stepped around him. Rich stepped with her. She went the other way. He blocked her again. "Rich." "No." "Move." "No." "Driftwood." "Mermaid." For a moment they simply stood there. Then Keena smiled. Rich knew that smile. It meant she had decided something without consulting him. She took off the sunglasses. Then the life jacket. She handed both to Rich. He caught them automatically. "What are you doing?" "Visiting." "You can't just-" Keena walked past him barefoot onto Wisteria. Rich turned around. "Keena." She kept going. "Keena."
JASON MARCAL 41 She looked over her shoulder. "Yes?" Rich held up the expensive sunglasses and life jacket. "You forgot your armor." She smiled. "Keep it safe." Then she looked at his shelter. The smile changed. Not disappeared. Changed. Rich saw it. For the first time since she arrived, neither of them said anything. Keena walked toward the shelter. Rich followed. "Where are you going?" "Inside." "That is my house." "I know." "You can't just walk into somebody's house." Keena stopped. She looked back at him. "You climbed my fence." "That was different." "How?" "My intentions were bad." She smiled. "At least you're honest." Then she ducked beneath the edge of the tarp and went inside. Rich stood outside for a moment. He had expected her to hesitate. Most people did. The shelter smelled of salt, old wood, canvas and whatever he had cooked last. There was no floor except the pallets. The walls did not meet evenly. Light came through places light was not supposed to come through. Keena looked around. She did not wrinkle her nose. She did not laugh. She did not say anything at all. That bothered Rich more than if she had. "Well?" Keena sat on the boat cushion. Rich stared at her. "What?" "You're sitting there."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 42 "Yes." "That's my bed." She looked down. "This?" "Yes." Keena bounced once. The cushion made a tired sound. She looked up. "Luxury." Rich waited for the joke. It did not come. Instead she ran one hand over the old vinyl. "My mother would like this." "Your mother sleeps on boat cushions?" "No." "Then why?" "She likes things that have survived." Rich looked at her. "That sounds expensive too." Keena smiled. "My mother's side isn't like my father's." Rich leaned against the doorway. "How?" "She grew up with less." "Less than this?" "Not that much less." Rich smiled. Keena looked around again. "My grandfather on her side was Cherokee." Rich nodded. Keena seemed relieved he did not try to turn it into something exotic. "My mother taught me that people get too impressed by things," she said. Rich looked at the tarp roof. "She should visit here." "I think she'd like you."
JASON MARCAL 43 "That makes one." "She hasn't met you yet." "Exactly." Keena laughed. Then she noticed the wooden box beneath the pallet. "What's that?" "Nothing." She looked at him. "You have a lot of nothing." "It's useful." Keena reached toward the box. Rich moved. "Don't." She stopped. Her hand remained above it. "What is it?" "My stuff." "That narrows it down." "Old things." "Can I see?" Rich hesitated. Keena waited. That mattered. She did not touch it again. Finally Rich pulled the box out and put it between them. He opened the lid. Inside were the things the water had given him. Square nails. Clouded glass. A corroded buckle. Pieces of brass. A small spoon. A broken compass face. Two coins so worn that almost nothing remained on them. Keena picked up one of the bottles. "This is old." "Yes." "How old?" "I don't know." "Where did you find it?" "In the water." She looked at him. "You sound like Tomas." "That's not good." Keena picked up one of the coins.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 44 "What is this?" "Coin." "Thank you, professor." "You asked." She held it toward the light. "There's writing." "Not enough." "You ever have anyone look at these?" "No." "Why?" "Why would I?" "Because they might be worth something." Rich shrugged. "They're worth something to me." Keena looked at him. That stopped her. She put the coin back carefully. Not tossed. Placed. Rich noticed. Then Keena picked up the green piece of brass Tomas had studied before. It was heavy for its size and green around the edges where the sea had worked on it. "What about this?" "I don't know." Keena turned it toward the opening in the tarp. "There's writing." "I know." "You never cleaned it?" "Tomas told me not to." "Why?" "Said old metal doesn't like people improving it." Keena rubbed the corrosion lightly with her thumb. "For once he might be right." There were letters beneath it. C L A S - Keena stopped. Rich saw her face change. "What?"
JASON MARCAL 45 She rubbed again. Another letter appeared. CLASON. Beneath it, smaller: NEW YORK. Keena looked at Rich. "Where did you get this?" "Found it." "Where?" "Underwater." "Where underwater?" Rich smiled. "Now you sound like Tomas." "Rich." He could hear something different in her voice. "Off the reef. Couple years ago." Keena turned the plate over. On the back was a number and what remained of another word. Only part could be read. ...MERCER. Beneath the corrosion, another line had been engraved so faintly she almost missed it: TIME REVEALS WHAT THE SEA KEEPS. Keena rubbed her thumb across the words and read them again. They sounded less like a maker’s mark than something meant to be remembered. "This belonged to my family." Rich laughed. "Your family owns old pieces of metal too?" "No. I mean this mark." She pointed to the name. "I've seen it before. In old ledgers. Ship drawings. They used this exact lettering." Rich looked at the plate. It suddenly seemed different in his hand. "So one of your ships lost it." "Apparently." "Finders keepers." Keena looked at him. "That may actually be how Key West was built." Rich smiled. "Tomas would like you."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 46 Keena handed the brass back. "You should ask him about it." Rich put it in the box. "I already did." "What did he say?" Rich closed the lid. "Not much." Keena looked toward Tomas's sailboat through the opening. "That seems to happen a lot." "He likes secrets." "Maybe." She looked back at the box. "Or maybe he knows one." Rich had found hundreds of things in the water. Most he sold. Some he threw away. He had never known why he kept the brass. Now Keena was holding it. Keena stood. "Where's your bathroom?" Rich pointed outside. Keena looked. "At what?" "The island." She stared. "No." "Yes." "No." "There are bushes." "You're serious." "There's also the ocean." "That is not a bathroom." "Fish disagree." Keena covered her face. "Where do you shower?" Rich pointed toward the water. "Absolutely not."
JASON MARCAL 47 "Then don't ask questions you don't want answered." She stood outside and looked around. "Where's the kitchen?" Rich pointed to the camp stove. "Dining room?" Same place. "Living room?" Same place. "Bedroom?" Rich pointed at the cushion. Keena nodded. "Very efficient." "Open concept." That made her laugh. "Now you're learning rich-person words." "I heard somebody say it once." She stepped farther out. "What?" "I'm looking for your pool." Rich said nothing. She turned. "You made such a big deal about mine." Rich pointed toward the Gulf. Keena followed his finger. "That." "That's the ocean." "Big pool." "It has sharks." "Security." She laughed. "No heater." "Sun." "No pool boy." Rich pointed to himself. Keena looked him over. "Absolutely not." Rich laughed. Then she looked toward the trees.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 48 "Well?" "Well what?" "Show me." "Show you what?" "Wisteria." Rich looked around. "You're standing on it." "No, Driftwood. Show me your Wisteria." That landed differently. Rich looked toward the trees. Toward the shore. Toward Tomas's sailboat. Then back at her. "You sure?" Keena smiled. "I came all this way." Rich looked at the Jet Ski. "All three hundred yards?" "Dangerous journey." "You almost used fuel." "I know." "Brave." She took her sunglasses from him. "Lead the way." Rich started walking. Keena followed barefoot. There were no paths the way there were on Sunset Key. There were places people walked often enough that the brush had learned to stay out of the way. That was different. Sand became shell. Shell became packed earth. Mangroves crowded the low places. Australian pines leaned where wind had taught them to lean. Keena looked around. "You have trails." "We have places without bushes." "That's almost a trail." "Rich people need signs." "We like knowing where we're going." "That ruins it."
JASON MARCAL 49 They reached a small mangrove cove hidden from Key West. The water there was still. Branches reached over it and reflected dark green on the surface. Tiny silver fish turned beneath the shallows all at once and flashed like coins. A heron stood at the far end watching them. Keena stopped. "Oh." Rich looked at her. "What?" "You didn't tell me about this." "You didn't ask." "This is beautiful." Rich shrugged. "It's water." Keena looked at him. "You're terrible at appreciating things." "I appreciate it." "You just said it's water." "Good water." She smiled. "This is where I come when everybody gets annoying," Rich said. Keena looked back. "So you're here a lot." "Mostly since yesterday." She splashed him. Rich stepped away. "Careful." She splashed him again. Rich kicked water toward her and soaked the front of her swimsuit. Keena gasped. "You did not." "You started it." "This suit cost-" She stopped. Rich waited. "How much?" "Never mind."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 50 "No. Please. Tell me how much your swimming clothes cost." "Shut up, Driftwood." "That much?" Keena rushed him. He backed into the water. She tried to push him. He caught her wrists. For a moment they stood there. Neither laughed. Keena looked at him. Rich let go first. "Come on." They found an old rope swing. Rich used it first. Keena told him it would kill him. Then she used it herself. She landed badly and crashed into him. They both went down in the sand laughing. When they stood, Keena looked at herself. "My mother would kill me." "Your swimsuit?" "My everything." "Should've worn poor clothes." "I don't own poor clothes." Rich looked at her. "We're going to have to fix that." They continued inland to a low ridge of old dredged limestone and coral where rainwater still seeped after recent storms. A narrow stream dropped perhaps six feet over the rock and disappeared into the sand. Rich spread his arms. "The waterfall." Keena stared. Then at him. "This is your waterfall?" "Yes." "That is water falling six feet." "Still falling." "I thought you meant a waterfall." "It is water." "Yes." "And it falls." Keena shook her head.
JASON MARCAL 51 "You are such an idiot." Rich sat on one of the rocks. "Best waterfall on Wisteria." "Only waterfall on Wisteria." "That makes it the best." Keena sat beside him. Behind the little cascade the trees opened toward the Gulf. Nobody else was there. No waiters. No golf carts. No phones. No reservations. Only wind and water. Keena became quiet. "What?" Rich asked. "Nothing." "You've been around Tomas too long." She smiled. "My mother would like this." "You keep saying that." "She would." "Bring her." Keena laughed softly. "You haven't met my father." "Would he like it?" "No." "Then don't bring him." She looked at Rich. "He's not bad." "I didn't say he was." "He just always has somewhere else to be." Rich looked at the water. "Then he's got places." "What?" "You said somewhere else." Keena wanted to argue. She did not. After a while she said, "My whole life somebody has been telling me what I'm supposed to do." Rich smiled. "Poor rich girl." "I'm serious."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 52 "So am I." She shoved his shoulder. "School. Dinners. Clothes. People I'm supposed to meet. Places I'm supposed to go." "That sounds terrible." "You're making fun of me." "A little." Keena watched the water falling over the rocks. "Do you know what my mother said before I left today?" "What?" "That I couldn't wear the red swimsuit because some people were coming over for lunch and it was too revealing." Rich looked at the swimsuit she wore. It was not red. "What was wrong with the red one?" "That is not the point." "I haven't seen it. Hard to judge." Keena looked at him. "Men." "So you changed?" "Yes." "Why?" "Because sometimes it's easier." Rich nodded. That he understood. Keena looked around at the trees and broken coral and thin water running over stone. Nobody had trimmed anything. Nobody had planted anything in straight lines. Nobody had decided where she was supposed to sit. She took a breath. "Now I understand." Rich looked at her. "Understand what?" "Why you love it here." He looked around. "I never said I loved it." "You do."
JASON MARCAL 53 Rich said nothing. Keena smiled. "It's beautiful, Driftwood." He looked toward the little waterfall. "You were making fun of it thirty seconds ago." "I can make fun of something and still love it." "You've been practicing on me." "Exactly." She leaned back on her hands. "And nobody tells you what to wear." "No." "Where to sit." "No." "What fork to use." "I own one fork." Keena laughed. "Nobody tells you when dinner is." "The fish sometimes do." "No one makes you go someplace you don't want to go." Rich thought about the children's homes. The foster houses. The caseworkers. The bags he had never unpacked. "No." Keena looked at him. "You're free." Rich smiled. "So are you." "No." "You came here." Keena looked back toward the beach. "That doesn't mean I'm free." Rich understood that better than she knew. "You can always not go back." Keena laughed. "You make everything sound easy."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 54 "Most things are." "They aren't." "Eat when you're hungry. Sleep when you're tired. Leave when somebody makes you miserable." "That last one doesn't work when it's your family." Rich did not answer. Keena regretted it immediately. "Sorry." "For what?" She looked at him. Rich threw a small piece of coral toward the stream. "I don't have one. Doesn't mean I don't know how they work." Keena leaned her shoulder against his. Just slightly. Rich did not move. They sat like that for a while. Eventually Keena smiled. "You know what?" "What?" "Your pool is better." Rich nodded. "I know." "But your waterfall is terrible." "Get off my island." She laughed. And this time Rich laughed with her. They worked their way slowly back toward the beach. The afternoon had gone softer. Near the mangrove cove Keena stopped again to watch the silver fish turn beneath the water. "You really get to see this every day?" "If I walk over here." "That wasn't what I meant." Rich looked at her. "I know." They reached the beach. The Jet Ski floated where she had left it. Rich stopped. He looked at the machine. Then Keena. Then back at the machine. "What?"
JASON MARCAL 55 Rich walked closer. "I've never been on one." Keena stared. "Never?" "No." "You live in Key West." "I live on Wisteria." "That somehow makes it worse." Rich touched the handlebar. "How fast does it go?" Keena smiled. "Fast enough." "That sounds dangerous." "You've been living under a tarp and diving around shipwrecks." "That's different." "How?" "I understand those things." Keena picked up her life jacket. "Get on." Rich looked at her. "What?" "Get on the back." He laughed. "You're driving?" "Yes." "Really?" "Yes." "With you? A woman driver?" Keena stopped fastening the life jacket. "Fine." She put on her sunglasses and climbed aboard. Rich remained onshore. Keena started the engine. "Where are you going?" Rich called.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 56 She pulled her sunglasses down slightly. "You're going to miss the boat." "This isn't a boat." "Then you're going to miss whatever this is." She eased away. "Keena." She kept going. "Mermaid." She turned. "You coming, Driftwood?" Rich looked at his canoe. Then at Keena. "Move back." She smiled and brought the Jet Ski in. Rich waded out. "Where do I sit?" "Behind me." "I know that. What do I hold?" Keena smiled. Rich distrusted the smile. "Me." "No." "Yes." "There has to be something else." "There isn't." He climbed on carefully. "You scared?" "No." "You look scared." "I'm thinking." "About what?" "Swimming back." She laughed. "Hold on." Rich put both hands lightly against her sides. Keena looked down. "That's not holding on."
JASON MARCAL 57 "It's enough." "Okay." She turned forward. Rich saw the smile. He should have known. Keena squeezed the throttle. The Jet Ski jumped forward. Rich nearly went off the back. His arms went around her waist instantly. Keena laughed so hard she almost slowed down. "You did that on purpose." "I told you to hold on." "You tried to kill me." "We've gone twenty feet." "Slow down." "No." "Keena." She accelerated. The shoreline began moving quickly. Wisteria fell behind them. Rich knew the sea from canoes. Skiffs. Fishing boats. Swimming. This was not the same. The machine skimmed over it. It felt less like boating than escaping. Rich started laughing. Keena heard him. "Oh, now you like it." "Go faster." "You just told me to slow down." "I changed my mind." "That happens?" "Sometimes." She opened the throttle. Rich yelled. Not because he was frightened. Because there was nothing else to do. They flew across the water. Keena turned sharply. Rich leaned the wrong way. "Other way!" "You didn't tell me." "It's obvious." "To women maybe." Keena cut the throttle. Rich nearly hit her back. "Why are we stopping?" Keena turned around.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 58 "Would you like to swim?" "No." "Then one more woman-driver comment and you're walking." Rich looked around at the ocean. "We're in the ocean." "I know." "That's not walking." "Then behave." Rich smiled. "Yes, ma'am." Keena narrowed her eyes. "That was close." She turned forward. "Hold on." Rich put his arms around her. This time he did not pretend he needed another place for his hands. Keena accelerated. They headed toward open water. Not toward Sunset Key. Not toward Wisteria. Just out. For a while neither of them belonged to either island.
JASON MARCAL 59 CHAPTER SEVEN Rich's Key West Rich did not sleep well. That annoyed him. He had slept through rain. Wind. Drunks arguing twenty feet from his shelter. Once through a man falling off a boat and yelling for help. But apparently a blonde woman agreeing to spend the day with him was enough to keep him awake. He lay on the pallet with one arm behind his head and stared at the tarp above him. Tomorrow he would show her Key West. His Key West. That sounded better when he said it than when he tried to figure out what it meant. He could take her to the docks. Laura and Brad's place. Maybe get food from the little Cuban window where they gave him extra rice if he came near closing. There was the old pier. The alley with the chickens. The seawall where the tarpon gathered. He could show her the place behind the marina where you could sit and watch charter boats come in without buying anything. Maybe Mallory Square. Not the tourist part. The part behind it where the performers smoked between shows and complained about tourists. He smiled. Keena would like that. Maybe. He closed his eyes. Then opened them again. Food. He needed food. You could not invite a rich girl to Key West and let her starve. Actually, maybe you could. She probably carried emergency money somewhere. Rich turned over. No Latitudes. That was important. He was not taking her anywhere with folded napkins. He would show her how to have a whole day without spending enough
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 60 money to make her father notice. That made him smile. He fell asleep sometime after that. When he woke, sunlight was already coming through the tears in the tarp. Rich sat up. "Damn." He pulled on a shirt. Found his shorts. Ran a hand through his hair. That made no difference. He tried again. Still nothing. He splashed water on his face from a jug. Then smelled his shirt. He took it off. Found another. Smelled that one. Better. Not good. Better. He stepped outside. Tomas was sitting in the cockpit of his sailboat drinking coffee. "You are dressed." Rich ignored him. "This early." Rich dragged the canoe toward the water. Tomas watched him. "You going somewhere?" "No." "You washed your face." Rich stopped. Tomas smiled. "Very suspicious." "Shut up." Rich pushed the canoe into the shallows. He had packed two bottles of water, a little cash, half a loaf of bread and the least damaged towel he owned. He looked toward Sunset Key. Then he heard an engine. Not a Jet Ski. A small outboard. Rich shaded his eyes. A white boat came around the island. Small. Clean. Very clean. The hull shone in the morning light. Keena stood behind the wheel wearing sunglasses. Rich stared. Tomas looked over. "Oh." Rich did not move. The boat came closer. Thirteen feet, maybe. Boston Whaler. Brand new. Rich knew boats. Everybody in Key West knew boats. And that one had not spent enough time in the world to have learned anything yet. Keena slowed as she approached Wisteria. Rich looked at his canoe. Then at the Whaler. Then back at his canoe. Tomas started laughing.
JASON MARCAL 61 "Do not." Tomas raised both hands. "I say nothing." "You're laughing." "That is not talking." Keena brought the Whaler into the shallows. Rich stood beside his canoe with one hand on the bow. She shut the engine off. "Morning, Driftwood." Rich looked at the boat. "Whose is that?" "Mine." "No." Keena looked down at it. "I'm pretty sure." "When did you get a boat?" "Yesterday." Rich stared at her. "You bought a boat yesterday?" "My father did." "Why?" "I told him I wanted one." Rich looked toward Sunset Key. Then back at Keena. "That's how that works?" "Sometimes." "You say you want something and it appears?" Keena smiled. "Apparently." Rich looked at Tomas. Tomas shrugged. "Wrong parents." Rich pointed at him. "Not helping." Keena looked at the canoe. "You were coming to get me in that?"
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 62 "Yes." She studied it. Rich became defensive immediately. "It floats." "I know." "You rode in it." "I survived it." "Same thing." Keena patted the seat beside her. "Come on." Rich looked at the Whaler. Then his canoe. Then Keena. "I was supposed to pick you up." "You were taking too long." "I'm not late." "You're standing on the wrong island." "That's where I live." "Exactly." Rich walked closer to the boat. He ran one hand along the gunwale. The fiberglass was perfect. "You realize this thing is going to get scratched." Keena looked genuinely confused. "By what?" Rich looked around Wisteria. "Everything." She laughed. "Get in." Rich hesitated. "You know how to drive this?" Keena slowly lowered her sunglasses. Rich immediately regretted it. "You want to start with that again?" "No." "Because I can leave you here." "I was asking." "You were being annoying."
JASON MARCAL 63 "Same thing." Keena moved aside. Rich stepped into the Whaler. Carefully. Very carefully. She noticed. "You're treating it like glass." "It probably costs more than my house." Keena looked toward his shelter. "That is not the comparison you think it is." Rich sat down. Tomas called from his boat. "Bring him back before dark." Rich turned. "I'm twenty-three." Tomas nodded. "Yes. Very dangerous age." Keena smiled. "I'll take care of him." Rich looked at her. "That is not helping either." Tomas lifted his coffee. "Have fun." Keena started the engine. Rich looked back at his canoe. It sat half in the water where he had left it. For some reason he felt guilty. Keena noticed. "It'll be there when you get back." "You don't know Wisteria." "Will somebody steal it?" Rich thought about that. "No." "Why?" "Nobody wants it." Keena laughed and eased away from shore. The Whaler moved cleanly across the water. Rich sat beside her. "This is cheating." "What is?"
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 64 "My Key West." "You said you were showing me Key West. You didn't say how we had to get there." "I had a plan." "You still have a plan." "You changed the transportation." "You're welcome." Rich leaned back. He hated that the seat was comfortable. Keena looked at him. "Where to?" Rich pointed toward Key West. "The docks." "That's very specific." "You'll know when we get there." Keena pushed the throttle. The Whaler climbed onto plane. Rich smiled despite himself. She saw it. "You like my boat." "No." "You do." "It's acceptable." "Say it." "No." "Driftwood." "Mermaid." "Say you like my boat." Rich looked at her. "I like your boat." Keena grinned. "That hurt you." "A little." They crossed the short water toward Key West. The harbor woke around them. Charter boats moved out. Working skiffs came in. A
JASON MARCAL 65 shrimper passed with rust along the stern and gulls following behind it. Rich pointed. "That one's better." Keena looked at the shrimper. "It's covered in rust." "It works." "So does this." "It doesn't have scars yet." Keena looked down at the new hull. "You really like old things." Rich thought about the wooden box beneath his pallet. The brass plate. CLASON. NEW YORK. "Sometimes." They entered the harbor. Rich changed. Keena noticed it almost immediately. On Wisteria he had been relaxed. On Sunset Key he had looked like he was waiting for someone to throw him out. Here he knew everyone. A man on a fishing boat raised a hand. Rich raised his. Another called something Keena did not hear. Rich answered. Someone on the dock yelled, "Schrimper." Rich yelled back, "Still ugly." The man laughed. Keena looked at him. "You know all these people?" "Some." "That was three people in thirty seconds." "Small town." "You act different here." Rich looked at her. "How?" "I don't know. Like you belong." Rich looked toward the docks. "I do." He pointed ahead. "Over there."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 66 A weathered building sat close to the marina. Dive flags hung from the front. Tanks stood in racks near the side. A faded sign above the door advertised scuba instruction, charters, tank fills and equipment repair. Keena slowed the boat. "This?" "This." She brought the Whaler alongside. Before Rich could tie up, a dog came charging down the dock. "Sprocket." The dog did not slow. Rich stepped out of the boat. Sprocket hit him square in the legs. Rich nearly went down. Keena laughed. "I thought animals hated you." Rich scratched behind the dog's ears. "Only rich ones." "Beaumont was protecting his property." "Sprocket has better judgment." Sprocket tried to climb him. "Sprocket. Down." The dog ignored him. "Excellent judgment," Keena said. A woman came out of the shop. Laura Ayres stopped when she saw Rich. Then she saw Keena. She looked back at Rich. "Well, look at you." Rich pointed at her. "Don't." Laura ignored him and looked at Keena. "You must be lost." Keena smiled. "Apparently." Rich sighed. "This is why I don't bring people here."
JASON MARCAL 67 Brad appeared behind Laura carrying a regulator assembly. He looked at Rich. Then Keena. Then the brand-new Boston Whaler. He nodded slowly. "You steal that?" "No." Brad looked at Keena. "Did he steal you?" "Not yet." Brad nodded. "Morning's young." Rich rubbed his face. "This was a mistake." A voice came from inside. "Rich?" Rich closed his eyes. "No." Zoey came through the door carrying a mask and snorkel. She was eleven and had the particular confidence of a child who knew every adult around her would eventually forgive her. She saw Rich. Then Keena. She stopped. "Oh." Rich pointed at her. "Don't." Zoey smiled. "Who's she?" "Nobody." Keena looked at him. "Nobody?" "You know what I mean." Zoey walked closer. "Is she your girlfriend?" "No." "I didn't ask you."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 68 Keena smiled. "I like her." "You've known her eight seconds." "Long enough." Zoey looked at Keena. "He smells better today." Rich closed his eyes. "Zoey." "Usually he smells like bait." Keena nodded seriously. "That explains a lot." "Sometimes diesel." "Please stop helping." "And once he fell asleep behind the compressor." Rich looked toward Laura. "Are you going to parent this child?" Laura shrugged. "She seems to be doing fine." Zoey walked around Keena. "You're pretty." "Thank you." "Too pretty for him." Rich pointed toward the shop. "Go inside." "No." "Why does nobody listen to me?" Brad answered without looking up from the regulator. "History." Keena laughed. Rich looked at her. "You are enjoying this way too much." "Best part of the tour so far." Zoey noticed the Whaler. "Whose boat?"
JASON MARCAL 69 "Mine," Keena said. Zoey looked at Rich. "Did she come get you?" Rich said nothing. Zoey smiled. "She did." "Go inside." "You were gonna pick her up in your canoe, weren't you?" Keena laughed. Rich looked at Laura. Laura was trying not to. Brad was not trying. Even Sprocket seemed pleased. Rich pointed down the dock. "We're leaving." Zoey followed. "Where are you going?" "Away from you." "Can I come?" "No." "Why?" "Because I want to enjoy myself." Zoey looked at Keena. "He likes me." "I can tell." Rich stopped. "I am surrounded by terrible people." Laura smiled. "You hungry?" Rich looked back. "Yes." Keena laughed. "That was fast." Laura disappeared inside and returned with two wrapped breakfast sandwiches. She handed one to Rich. Then one to Keena. Keena looked at it. "What is it?"
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 70 "Egg, cheese, sausage." Rich had already taken a bite. "Good." Laura smiled. "That's his food review." Keena unwrapped hers. "No dots of sauce?" Rich nearly choked. Laura looked confused. Keena smiled. "Inside joke." Rich swallowed. "You've been waiting to use that." "Yes." They ate standing on the dock. Sprocket sat between them watching every bite. Zoey remained nearby because apparently eleven-year-olds did not understand dismissal. Keena looked through the open doors of the dive shop. Tanks. Wetsuits. Fins. Old photographs of reefs and wrecks. A whiteboard listing charters.
JASON MARCAL 71 "You work here?" "Sometimes." Brad looked up. "When he needs money." Laura added, "Or food." "Or both," Brad said. Rich shrugged. "I do things."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 72 "What things?" Keena asked. "Load boats. Clean gear. Bottom work. Tank fills. Whatever." Brad nodded toward him. "He's good underwater." Keena looked at Rich. Rich suddenly became interested in his sandwich. Laura noticed. "He won't tell you that." "I just did," Brad said. Zoey spoke through a mouthful of something she had stolen from Laura's desk. "He found my bracelet once." Rich looked at her. "You dropped it off the dock." "I was seven." "You cried for three hours." "I was seven." "It was six feet of water." "I couldn't swim good yet." "Well." Keena looked at Rich. "You went and got it?" Rich shrugged. "It was there." Zoey smiled. "It was my favorite." Rich looked away. Keena watched him. That was the first moment that morning she understood something. Rich did not have a family. But he had people. People who knew when he was hungry. People who gave him work. People whose children expected him to come back. People whose dog knew the sound of his footsteps. Rich had built something without knowing he had built it. Laura handed him another sandwich. "For later." Rich took it.
JASON MARCAL 73 "Thanks." She looked at Keena. "Keep him out of trouble." Keena smiled. "I thought that was his job." Laura laughed. "No. His job is getting into it." Rich stepped back into the Whaler. "Come on, Mermaid." Keena climbed aboard. Zoey cupped her hands around her mouth. "Bye, Rich's girlfriend." Rich pointed at her. "You're dead to me." Zoey waved. "Love you too." Rich froze for half a second. Then untied the line. Keena saw it. He said nothing. Neither did she. They pulled away from the dock. Sprocket ran alongside until he reached the end. Zoey waved. Laura raised a hand. Brad went back to his regulator. Keena looked at Rich. "What?" "Nothing." "You're doing that thing." "What thing?" "Thinking." "I do it sometimes." She smiled. "Where next?" Rich looked ahead toward town. "Now I show you how to have fun without spending money." Keena pushed the throttle forward. "That sounds suspicious." "It should."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 74 They tied up at a public dock closer to town. The first person who called Rich's name was a woman carrying produce through the back door of a restaurant. "Rich." He turned. "Morning, Rosa." "You working today?" "No." She looked at Keena. Then back at Rich. "Clearly." Keena smiled. Rich pointed at Rosa. "Don't start." Rosa laughed and went inside. Half a block later a man in a stained apron stood behind a bakery smoking a cigarette. He lifted two fingers. "Schrimper." "Luis." "Still alive?" "Barely." Luis looked at Keena. "Who is this?" "Nobody." Keena stopped. "Again?" Luis laughed. Rich kept walking. Keena caught up. "You really need a new word." "I have one." She smiled. "Mermaid?" Rich did not answer. That was answer enough. They passed a souvenir shop where a young woman was putting shirts on a rack. "Hey, Rich." "Hey, Dani." "You ever bringing back that charger?"
JASON MARCAL 75 "No." "You stole my charger?" "I borrowed it." "For three months?" "I'm still using it." Keena shook her head. They turned onto Duval. Keena had been there a hundred times. That morning it felt different. Rich did not see shops. He saw people. A bartender setting chairs outside. A busboy hosing down a sidewalk. A woman sweeping broken glass. A cook carrying buckets through an alley. A man repairing a bicycle beneath an awning. Rich knew all of them. At a small open-air bar a bartender pointed at him. "You still banned?" Rich stopped. "Temporarily." "You said that six months ago." "Time moves differently here." Keena stared. "You're banned?" "Misunderstanding." The bartender answered. "He tried to bring a fish inside." Keena closed her eyes. Rich defended himself. "It was a good fish." "It was alive." "That was the problem." Keena started laughing. "You tried to take a live fish into a bar?" "I knew people there." "That does not explain anything." The bartender leaned against the doorway. "He said the fish had never been drinking." Keena had to turn away. Rich looked offended.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 76 "It hadn't." The bartender pointed toward the kitchen. "You hungry?" Rich immediately stopped being offended. "Yes." A few minutes later he came back carrying fries. Keena stared. "You didn't pay." "He didn't ask." "That's your system?" "It works." She took one. Rich pulled the tray away. "Those are mine." "You got them free." "Still mine." Keena took another. "You have a strange relationship with property." Rich smiled. "Tomas says property is mostly paperwork." "Tomas says a lot of things that would concern a lawyer." "Lawyers concern Tomas." By then Keena understood the pattern. Everywhere they went, somebody knew him. But never the people she expected. At a clothing store it was the woman steaming dresses in back. At a restaurant it was the dishwasher. At a small hotel it was the maintenance man carrying towels. At a jewelry store it was the security guard. At a bar it was the bartender and the woman cutting limes. Never the owner. Never the person whose name was on the sign. Finally Keena asked. "You know everybody who works in Key West." "Not everybody." "Almost." Rich shrugged. "I work." "What about the owners?"
JASON MARCAL 77 "What about them?" "You know any?" "No." "None?" Rich thought. "Maybe one." "Which one?" "He owns a bait freezer." "That barely counts." "It counts to the bait." She laughed. Rich knew the people who opened the doors in the morning. The ones who washed the glasses. Fixed the motors. Cooked the food. Swept the floors. Carried the boxes. He knew the people who made Key West work. He just did not know the people who owned it. Keena had spent much of her life meeting people who owned things. Rich had spent his meeting the people who kept those things running. Neither had thought much about the other. They ate cheap food from a window. Sat on a seawall. Watched tarpon beneath a dock. Listened to one man play guitar badly and another play it beautifully. Rich showed her the edges of Mallory Square where performers smoked between shows. He showed her chickens crossing streets as if they had inherited the right of way. By late afternoon Keena carried a two-dollar drink Rich insisted was better than anything sold in a hotel. She had already admitted he was right. They walked toward the harbor. Keena looked at him. "What?" "You were right." Rich stopped. "I need you to say that again." "No." "I want to remember it." "You were right." "About?"
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 78 She smiled. "You can have fun without spending money." Rich nodded slowly. "This is a very important moment for you." "Don't ruin it." "Too late." They reached the Whaler. Rich untied it while Keena stepped aboard. She watched him. "Tomorrow." Rich looked up. "What about tomorrow?" "My turn." "For what?" "To show you Key West." "You saw mine." "Yes." "I showed you the good one." Keena smiled. "You showed me your one." "There are others?" "There's mine." Rich looked concerned. "How much does yours cost?" "You?" "Yes." "Nothing." Rich climbed aboard. "Then I'm interested." Keena started the engine. "Where are we going?" "You'll find out." "I don't like surprises." "That is not true."
JASON MARCAL 79 "It is when rich people plan them." She laughed and pushed the throttle forward. When they reached Wisteria, Rich stepped into the shallows. Keena kept the engine running. "Tomorrow," she said. Rich looked back. "What time?" She smiled. "So you're coming." "I didn't say that." "What time?" Rich sighed. "Ten." "Nine." "Ten." "Nine-thirty." Rich considered it. "Fine." Keena pushed her sunglasses down. "And wear shoes." "No." "Driftwood." "Mermaid." She smiled and pulled away. Tomas sat on his boat. Of course he did. "Good day?" he called. Rich walked toward shore. "No." Tomas nodded. "Very bad, then." Rich smiled despite himself. "Terrible." Tomas lifted his coffee. Rich looked back across the water. The Whaler was almost gone. Tomorrow Keena would show him her Key
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 80 West. Rich had the strange feeling it was going to cost him something. He just did not think it would be money.
JASON MARCAL 81 CHAPTER EIGHT Her Key West Rich was ready at nine. He hated that. He had argued for nine-thirty. Then he had been awake since seven. By eight-fifteen he had washed in the Gulf, shaved with the small mirror Tomas kept aboard his boat and changed shirts twice. At eight-forty he changed back into the first one. Tomas watched all of it. He said nothing. That was worse. Finally Rich looked at him. "What?" Tomas drank his coffee. "Nothing." "You've been staring at me for twenty minutes." "I am old. Sometimes I stare." "You're smiling." "I am happy." "About what?" "Nothing." Rich pointed at him. "You're annoying." "Clean shirt." Rich walked away. Tomas called after him. "Shoes too." Rich looked down. He was wearing shoes. "Shut up."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 82 The Boston Whaler appeared at nine-twenty-three. Rich smiled. He had won seven minutes. Then he saw what Keena had brought with her. A shopping bag sat on the seat. Rich stopped smiling. Keena brought the boat into the shallows. "Morning, Driftwood." "No." She looked at him. "I haven't said anything." "You brought a bag." "Yes." "No." "You don't know what's in it." "Rich-people things." Keena smiled. "Get in." Rich stepped aboard cautiously. He looked at the bag. "What is it?" "Later." "No." She started the engine. "Too late." Rich looked toward Tomas. "Do something." Tomas raised his coffee. "Goodbye." "You are useless." "I have been telling you this." Keena pulled away from Wisteria. Rich watched the island shrink behind them. Then looked at the bag again. "You bought me clothes." "I did not say that." "You didn't have to." Keena smiled.
JASON MARCAL 83 "I thought you liked surprises." "I like finding things underwater. Nobody makes me wear them." "You'll survive." "That's what people say before something terrible." She opened the throttle. The Whaler rose onto plane. Rich held the rail. "Where first?" "Culture." Rich looked alarmed. "That sounds expensive." "It is." "How much?" "You're not allowed to ask what anything costs today." Rich stared at her. "That's not possible." "Try." "I need to know." "Why?" "So I can properly disapprove." Keena laughed. They tied up near town. Rich stepped onto the dock. The shopping bag came with them. He watched it. Keena noticed. "You're scared of a bag." "I know what clothes can do." "What can clothes do?" "Make people expect things." Keena stopped. For a second she looked at him differently. Then she smiled. "Today they're only going to keep you from being thrown out of dinner." "Dinner?" "Later." "Where?" "You ask too many questions."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 84 "You plan too many things." She started walking. Rich followed. "Does this dinner have dots?" Keena looked back. "Probably." Rich groaned. The first stop was an old house behind a brick wall and iron gate. Rich studied it. "Whose house?" "Hemingway's." Rich looked through the gate. "He home?" Keena stared at him. "He's dead." "That seems rude, then." She laughed. "It's a museum." "So people pay to walk through a dead man's house?" "Yes." "Why?" "Because he was one of the most important American writers who ever lived." Rich considered that. "Did he fish?" Keena paused. "Yes." "Why didn't you start with that?" She shook her head and led him inside. Rich tried. Keena could see that. He looked at the rooms. The furniture. The photographs. He listened while she explained books he had never read and places Hemingway had lived that Rich had never seen. Paris meant almost nothing to him. Spain meant less. Africa was something on television. But boats were boats. And fish were fish. Rich stopped in front of an old
JASON MARCAL 85 photograph. Hemingway stood beside a large fish. Rich studied his face. Keena came beside him. "Well?" Rich nodded toward the photograph. "He looks happier with the fish than with the people." Keena smiled. "Maybe you're finally understanding literature." "I understand fish." They continued. Then Rich saw a cat. He stopped. The cat walked across the courtyard with the confidence of something that had been told tourists came specifically to see it. Rich narrowed his eyes. "That cat's feet are wrong." "They're not wrong." "It has extra toes." "They're polydactyl." Rich looked at her. "That's rich-people language for extra toes." Keena laughed. Another cat appeared. Then another. Rich crouched. One of them came directly to him. "Of course," Keena said. Rich scratched behind its ears. "What?" "It likes you." "Animals like me." "Beaumont." "Beaumont is a decorative pillow with teeth." The cat rolled against Rich's leg. Keena shook her head. "I brought you to one of the most famous literary homes in America and you're playing with a cat." "He came to me." "He lives here." "Still chose me." "Maybe he smells shrimp."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 86 Rich looked offended. "I washed." "I know." He looked up. "How?" Keena smiled. "I noticed." Rich stood. Neither said anything about that. Outside, Rich looked back at the house. "I liked it." Keena stopped. "You did?" "The cats." She sighed. "And the fish pictures." "Progress." "He had a boat." "Yes." "What happened to it?" "We are not spending the entire day discussing Hemingway's boat." "Then why bring me?" "To culture you." "How's that going?" "Poorly." Rich smiled. Their next stop concerned him even more. Keena bought two tickets. Rich looked through the entrance. "Are those butterflies?" "Yes." "You paid money to see bugs?" "They're butterflies." "Pretty bugs." "That is closer." "We have butterflies outside."
JASON MARCAL 87 "Not like these." Rich looked around. "No cages?" "It's an enclosed conservatory." "Cage." "Driftwood." "Mermaid." Then he went inside. And became quiet. The air was warm. Wet. Green. Plants grew everywhere. Water moved somewhere beyond them. Butterflies crossed the paths in every direction. Blue ones. Orange ones. Small yellow ones that disappeared against the light. Rich stopped in the middle of the path. Keena nearly walked into him. "What?" He watched a large butterfly move past his face. "Nothing." "You hate it?" "No." They continued slowly. Rich read none of the signs. He watched everything else. One landed on a leaf beside him. Its wings opened. Closed. Opened again. Rich leaned closer. Keena watched him. "I knew you'd like this." "You guessed." "I knew." "You're getting arrogant." "I spend too much time with you." He smiled. They moved deeper into the garden. Then Rich stopped again. "Don't move." Keena froze. "What?" "Your shoulder." "I know."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 88 A butterfly had landed there. Its wings were blue near the edges. Keena turned her eyes toward it but did not move her head. "How do you know?" "I can feel it." Rich stepped closer. Very close. The butterfly opened its wings. Keena smiled. Rich looked at it. Then at her. "Probably thinks you're a flower." Keena's eyes moved to his. "Was that almost nice?" "Don't ruin it." They stood there. The butterfly lifted away. Neither of them moved immediately. Keena finally stepped back. Rich looked toward the butterflies again. "Okay." "Okay what?" "This was worth money." Keena smiled. "I want that in writing." "Don't push it." They walked north again. By then Rich had stopped complaining about culture. Not completely. But enough. Then Keena took him someplace she knew he would understand. Rich saw the name before they entered. MEL FISHER. Treasure. Shipwrecks. Gold. Rich stopped. Keena smiled. "What?" "You planned this." "Yes." "Why?" "You like old things." Rich looked through the window. Coins. Artifacts. Images of divers and wrecks. "This isn't culture." "Yes it is."
JASON MARCAL 89 "This is treasure." "Treasure is history." "Treasure can be sold." "So can paintings." Rich considered that. "You may have something there." He looked at the name again. FISHER. "Good name for a treasure hunter." Keena smiled. "Better than Schrimper." Rich nodded. "Almost anything is better than Schrimper." Then he went inside. Keena had to keep up with him this time. Rich leaned toward the cases. Not toward the polished gold first. Toward the ugly things. Corroded metal. Tools. Fragments. Objects whose original purpose was difficult to recognize. Keena noticed. "You like those better than the gold." "Yes." "Why?" Rich pointed toward a weathered piece of metal. "That looks like it was somewhere." "The gold was somewhere too." "Somebody cleaned it." "So?" "Clean enough and everything starts looking new." Keena waited. Rich looked through the glass. "You clean the story off." Keena stared at him. "That sounds like Tomas." Rich frowned. "I need to stop doing that."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 90 They read about the search for wrecks. Years spent looking. Charts. Currents. Divers. Ships lost centuries before either of them had been born. Rich stood in front of a display for a long time. "He kept looking?" "Yes." "For years?" "Yes." "Even when everybody thought he was wrong?" "Yes." Rich smiled faintly. "That I understand." At the gift shop Keena bought a reproduction coin. Rich objected immediately. "That's fake." "Yes." "I find real ones." "You found two things that might have been coins." "Still." Keena handed it to him. "I wanted you to have it." "Why?" "Because." "That is not a reason." "It is today." Rich looked at the coin. Then at her. "I don't need it." "I know." That changed something. Rich put it in his pocket. "Thank you." Keena smiled. "You're welcome." He pointed at her. "Don't tell anyone."
JASON MARCAL 91 "Too late." The next place looked promising. A shipwreck museum. Rich stopped outside. "Finally." Keena smiled. "I thought this would be right up your alley." "No dead writers?" "Probably several dead sailors." "Better." She looked at him. "You're not normal." "I live on Wisteria." "I know." They went inside. At first Rich knew most of it. Key West wreckers. Reefs. Salvage. Cargo. Courts. The race to reach wrecks. Keena read the displays carefully. Rich moved beside her. "Tomas told me this." "That doesn't mean Tomas's version was accurate." "He had fewer signs." "Exactly." They read about the legal salvage trade. The wrecking captains who watched the reef. The value of a ship and cargo. The danger of bringing vessels off coral and shoals. Rich smiled when he saw the explanation of salvage awards. "What?" "Tomas said the difference between stealing and salvage was a judge." Keena laughed. "That actually sounds accurate." They moved on. There were stories too. Legends. False lights. Claims that unscrupulous men had sometimes misdirected ships. Stories of markers moved. Signals given incorrectly. The museum was careful. Some accusations had never been proven. Rich read that twice. Keena moved ahead. Then she stopped. Rich almost walked into her.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 92 "What?" Keena said nothing. Behind glass was a reproduction of an old ship drawing. Three masts. High stern. Below it was a name. MERCER. Under that: CLASON & COMPANY - NEW YORK. Rich's expression changed. Keena stepped closer. "That's my family." Rich moved beside her. The exhibit described the Mercer as a Clason merchant vessel that had sailed south from New York in the middle of the nineteenth century. Manufactured goods. Tools. Cloth. Machinery. Personal cargo. The vessel reached the Florida Keys at night. Then it struck a shoal. Local wreckers reached her. Cargo was removed. Some recovered. Some lost. Salvage claims followed. So did accusations. One paragraph described a complaint made by representatives of Clason & Company. The company believed the ship had received an incorrect bearing from someone ashore shortly before the wreck. There had been claims of a false light. No proof had ever established that the ship had been intentionally wrecked. But the suspicion remained in company correspondence for generations. Keena read it again. "How could they do that?" Rich looked at her. "Do what?" "Lead a ship onto a shoal just to take what was on it." "It says they don't know that happened." "My family thought it did." "Families think lots of things." Keena looked at him. "People could have died." Rich nodded. "Yes." "For cargo." "People do worse for less." She looked at the ship drawing. "They robbed my family."
JASON MARCAL 93 Rich said nothing. Then he saw something. A smaller photograph showed a recovered piece of hardware believed to have come from the wreck. Below it was a drawing of the vessel's ownership plates. Rich leaned closer. Keena noticed. "What?" He did not answer. He read the ship's name again. MERCER. Something cold moved through him. He saw his wooden box. The brass. Green around the edges. The worn letters on the back. ...MERCER. "Keena." She looked at him. "I think I have a piece of this ship." For a second she did not understand. Then she did. "The brass." Rich nodded. Her eyes went back to the display. "That's what the letters were." "Looks like it." "Where did you find it?" "I told you." "In the water." "Yes." "Where?" "Off the reef." "Which reef?" Rich shrugged. "Rich." "I wasn't taking coordinates." "Can you find it again?" He thought. The ledge. The sand. The old iron. The place where he had found the bottle fragments. "Yes." Keena stared at him. "You can?" "Probably."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 94 "That's my family's ship." "Was." She turned to him. "Driftwood." "Mermaid." "I'm serious." "So am I." Keena looked back through the glass. A ship that had belonged to her ancestors. Lost more than a century before she was born. And somehow a piece of it had ended up beneath Rich's bed on Wisteria. "How did you even know to look there?" "I didn't." "You just found it?" "Yes." "And kept it?" "Yes." "Why?" Rich thought about that. He had sold things. Thrown things away. Traded things. Lost things. But he had kept the brass. "I don't know." Keena looked at him. Rich had found hundreds of things in the water. Most he sold. Some he threw away. He had never known why he kept the brass. Now Keena was standing beside him looking at the name of the ship it came from. Neither spoke. Finally Keena said, "We need to ask Tomas." Rich smiled without humor. "I already did." "What did he say?" "Not much." "That seems to happen a lot." "He likes secrets." Keena looked toward the display again. "Maybe." Then at Rich.
JASON MARCAL 95 "Or maybe he knows one." For the first time all day, culture had stopped being funny. They left the museum quieter than they entered. Outside, the sun was bright. People walked past carrying drinks and shopping bags. Key West continued as though the Mercer had never existed. Keena looked back at the museum. "My family kept records of everything." "I know." "You've seen them?" "Tomas showed me one." She turned. "What?" "Old book. Clason & Company. New York." "When?" "Before I knew your last name." Keena stared at him. "You never told me that." "Didn't seem important." "Rich." "It seems important now." She shook her head. "Sometimes I can't decide if you're mysterious or just terrible at communication." "Second one." "At least you're aware." Rich looked toward the street. "You hungry?" Keena laughed. "That is how you deal with everything?" "Mostly." "Good." She lifted the shopping bag. "Because now we need this."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 96 Rich looked at it. "No." "Yes." "I thought you forgot." "I was waiting." "This day was going so well." Keena took him somewhere with a bathroom large enough that Rich suspected rent was involved. She handed him the bag. Inside were dark pants. A white shirt. A belt. Shoes. Rich looked at her. "No." "You already used that word." "These aren't mine." "They are now." "How much?" "You're not allowed to ask." "That means too much." "Change." "I have clothes." "You have fabric." Rich held up the shirt. "This probably has instructions." "It has buttons." "Too many." Keena pushed him toward the men's room. "Go." Rich stopped. "You enjoy this." "A lot." Ten minutes later he came out. Keena stopped smiling. That concerned him. "What?" "Nothing." "No. What?"
JASON MARCAL 97 She looked him over. The shirt fit. The pants fit. The shoes were uncomfortable, which meant they were probably expensive. His hair was still Rich's hair. Nothing had solved that. Keena smiled slowly. "What?" "You clean up well, Driftwood." Rich looked down at himself. "I look unemployed." "You are unemployed." "I work." "Occasionally." He walked toward her. "These shoes are trying to kill me." "You'll adjust." "I don't want to." She straightened his collar. Rich stopped talking. Her fingers brushed his neck. Keena realized how close she was. She left the collar alone. "There." Rich looked at her. "Was it crooked?" "No." "Then why-" "Come on." She walked away. Rich smiled and followed her. Prime was different from every place Rich had eaten voluntarily. That was his first thought. His second was that the lighting was too low.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 98 "How do they know if the food is done?" Keena looked at him. "What?" "It's dark." "It's atmosphere." "That's rich-people language again." "For what?" "Not enough light." She laughed. They walked toward the host stand. Before Keena could finish saying her name, a woman looked up and smiled. "Keena." Keena smiled. "Hi, Sharon."
JASON MARCAL 99 Sharon Green came around the stand and hugged her. Rich watched. Sharon stepped back. "Your mother said you were causing trouble." "My mother exaggerates." Sharon looked at Rich. "Does she?" Rich smiled. "No." Keena turned. "Whose side are you on?" "I just met her. I'm keeping my options open." Sharon laughed. "I like him already." A man came from farther inside. Eric Green. "Keena." He hugged her. Then looked at Rich. "And you are?" "Rich." Sharon's smile changed. "Oh." Keena saw it too late. Rich did not. Sharon looked at him. "So this is Driftwood." Rich slowly turned toward Keena. "You told her." Keena became very interested in the room. "It may have come up." "Mermaid." Eric looked between them. "Driftwood?" "Don't." Sharon laughed. "I love it." Rich looked at Eric.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 100 "Is there a table farther away from your wife?" Eric shook his head. "I've been looking for one for years." Sharon slapped his arm. Rich smiled. "I like him." "Everybody does," Sharon said. Eric looked toward Keena. "Usual table?" "Please." Rich leaned toward her as they followed. "You have a usual table?" "No." Sharon heard him. "Yes, she does." Rich nodded. "Of course she does." They were seated. Rich opened the menu. Then closed it. Keena watched. "What?" "Nothing." "You looked at the prices." "I made a mistake." "You were told not to." Rich opened the menu again. "This steak costs more than my canoe." "Your canoe was made out of garbage." "Good garbage." Eric appeared beside them. "Everything good?" Rich looked at him. "I have concerns." Eric smiled. "About?"
JASON MARCAL 101 "The cows." Keena covered her face. Eric laughed. "I'll make sure you get a good one." "You own this place?" Eric looked at Sharon. "We do." Rich stared. "You own the restaurant?" "Yes." Rich looked at Keena. "You know the people who own restaurants?" She smiled. "You know the people who wash their dishes." Rich thought about that. "Fair." Sharon joined them. "We're sending out a few things." Rich immediately looked at Keena. "What does that mean?" "It means don't order yet." "Are we paying for them?" Sharon laughed. "No." Rich leaned back. "I like your Key West." Keena stared. "You sold out very quickly." "Steak changes principles." Eric laughed. "I definitely like him." Sharon then placed bread on the table and said, "Please enjoy the devil's feast of yeast." A salad followed that Rich suspected had been arranged with tweezers. Then steak. Rich cut into it. A small amount of
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 102 sauce sat beside it. Three dots. He stopped. Keena saw them at the same moment. Their eyes met. Neither spoke. Then Keena smiled. "No dots of sauce?" Rich looked down. "There are dots." "I know." "They did it." Sharon looked confused. "What?" Keena was already laughing. Rich pointed at the plate. "The dots." Eric looked at Sharon. Sharon shrugged. Keena explained. "He saw food at Latitudes and couldn't understand why anyone would put little dots of sauce beside fish." Rich defended himself. "They weren't helping the fish." Keena laughed harder. Sharon smiled. "And now you have dots." Rich studied them. "I've crossed over." "You've been here twenty minutes," Keena said. "That's how they get you." He tried one. Keena watched. "Well?" Rich considered it. "Unfortunately good." Keena smiled. "Culture." "Sauce." "Progress." Later Sharon sat with them for a few minutes. Eric joined when the room slowed. Rich listened while they talked. Keena knew people here differently. Nobody yelled her name from across the street. Nobody asked
JASON MARCAL 103 if she owed ten dollars. They asked about her parents. Her father's company. Travel. People Rich had never heard of. Events he had never attended. Places he had never been. But Sharon and Eric did not treat him like he did not belong. That surprised him. Sharon asked about Wisteria. Not with disgust. With curiosity. Eric asked about fishing. That was easier. Within ten minutes Rich and Eric were arguing about where tarpon held when the tide changed. Keena leaned back. Sharon noticed. She smiled at her. Keena ignored it. Finally Rich looked around. "This isn't as bad as I thought." Keena stared at him. "Thank you." "I didn't mean your friends." "What did you mean?" "Rich people." Sharon laughed. "At least he's honest." "I thought everybody would be..." Rich stopped. Eric waited. "What?" Rich searched for the word. "Beaumont." Keena nearly spit out her drink. Sharon looked puzzled. "Who's Beaumont?" "A tiny dog with inherited wealth," Keena said. Rich nodded. "Exactly." Eric laughed. When they finally left, Rich had eaten more than he intended. He carried the shopping bag with his old clothes in it. The reproduction coin was still in his pocket. Keena walked beside him. For several blocks neither spoke. Then Rich said, "You were right." Keena stopped. "I need you to say that again."
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 104 "No." "I want to remember it." Rich smiled. "You're stealing my lines." "They were good lines." He continued walking. Keena caught up. "Right about what?" "Your Key West." "And?" "It doesn't suck." She stared at him. "That may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me." "Don't get used to it." She smiled. They reached the harbor. The Whaler waited at the dock. Rich stepped aboard. Before Keena started the engine, he reached into his pocket. He looked at the reproduction coin. Then toward town. The Hemingway House. Butterflies. Treasure. The museum. The Mercer. Prime. All of it was still there. Same streets he had walked a hundred times. He had simply never gone through those doors. Keena sat beside him. "What are you thinking?" "That your Key West is expensive." She smiled. "And?" Rich looked at her. "Pretty good." "I'll take it." She started the engine. They crossed toward Wisteria slowly. Sunset Key sat off to one side. Wisteria on the other. Rich looked between them. Keena noticed. "What?" "Nothing." "That's Tomas's word."
JASON MARCAL 105 Rich smiled. He reached into his pocket again. The fake coin. Then he thought about the real brass beneath his bed. MERCER. "Tomorrow," Keena said, "I want to see where you found it." Rich looked at her. "The brass?" "Yes." He looked toward Wisteria. "I'll have to get dive gear." "Laura and Brad?" Rich nodded. "You remembered." "I remember things." He looked at her. "I noticed." Keena slowed as they approached the island. Tomas's sailboat was visible beyond the trees. Rich watched it. Keena did too. "Do you think he knows what the Mercer is?" Rich thought about Tomas closing the old book. The questions. The brass. The things he would not explain. "Yes." Keena looked at him. "You sound sure." "I am." "Then let's ask him." Rich kept watching the sailboat. "Tomas only answers questions he wants you to ask." "Then we'll ask the wrong one." Rich turned toward her. She smiled. He smiled back. "Maybe you are learning." "From the best." "That's worrying." Keena brought the Whaler into the shallows. Rich stepped out. Before he walked away, she called to him.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 106 "Driftwood." He turned. "Mermaid." She looked at the clothes. "You're keeping those." Rich looked down at himself. "We'll discuss it." "No." "You can't tell me what to wear on my island." Keena smiled. "Tomorrow." He started walking. "Rich." He turned again. "What?" She looked at him for a moment. "Today was fun." Rich smiled. "Yeah." She waited. "That's it?" "It was very fun." "Better." She pushed the throttle. The Whaler moved away. Rich stood watching it. Then Tomas spoke from behind him. "Nice shoes." Rich turned. Tomas was sitting beneath the shade of his cockpit. Rich walked toward him. "We need to talk." Tomas's smile disappeared. Only slightly. "About?" Rich reached into his pocket. He tossed the reproduction coin. Tomas caught it. Looked at it. Then at Rich.
JASON MARCAL 107 "Fake." "I know." Tomas handed it back. Rich did not take it immediately. "Ever heard of a ship called the Mercer?" For the first time all day, Tomas did not have an answer ready. It lasted less than a second. Then he placed the coin in Rich's palm. "Many ships had many names." Rich closed his hand around it. "This one belonged to the Clasons." Tomas looked toward the water. "So did many ships." Rich watched him. "The brass came from it." Tomas said nothing. "Tomas." The old man reached for his coffee. It had gone cold. He drank it anyway. "Tomorrow," Rich said, "I'm going back to where I found it." Tomas's eyes moved to him. That was all. But Rich saw it. "Don't," Tomas said. Rich waited. "Why?" Tomas looked toward the reef. Then back at Rich. "Some things the sea keeps for a reason." Rich smiled faintly. "You told me the water doesn't forget." "Yes." "So maybe it's time it remembered." Rich walked toward his shelter. Tomas remained where he was. He watched Rich disappear into the trees. Then he looked across the water toward Sunset Key. For a long time he did not move.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 108 CHAPTER NINE The Sister Clock Keena found her father at breakfast. That alone was unusual. Donnie Clason sat at the far end of the table with coffee in front of him and no phone in his hand. Morning light came through the windows behind him and spread across the pale stone floor. Cecilie sat across from him with a cup of tea and a folded newspaper she had not opened. Keena stopped in the doorway. “Are you sick?” Donnie looked up. “What?” “You’re not holding a phone.” Cecilie smiled into her tea. Donnie reached for the phone beside his plate. “Better?” “No. Put it back.” He did. Keena sat down. “I want to ask you about the Mercer.” The small amusement left Donnie’s face. “The family version or the museum version?” Keena looked at him. “There are two?” “There are always two.” “At least,” Cecilie said. Donnie leaned back. “The Mercer belonged to Clason and Company. Mid-nineteenth century. Three-masted merchant vessel. Built in New York. She ran south through Key West, Havana and Gulf ports, depending on the cargo and the season.”
JASON MARCAL 109 “What kind of cargo?” “Manufactured goods. Cloth. Tools. Machinery. Flour. Household goods going south. Sugar, tobacco, fruit, whatever paid coming back north. Sometimes the manifest tells you exactly what was aboard. Sometimes it tells you what somebody wanted the insurer to believe was aboard.” Keena smiled. “That sounds less like family pride.” “You asked before I finished my coffee.” “And she asked you the truth,” Cecilie said. Donnie glanced at his wife. “Those are occasionally the same thing.” “And she wrecked here,” Keena said. “In the Keys.” “What happened?” Donnie looked past her toward the water. “That depends on who wrote it down.” Keena waited. “The family records say the weather was not especially bad. The ship changed course during the night and struck a shoal. The Clason version claimed the captain had been given an incorrect bearing. There were also stories about a false light.” Keena frowned. “Do you believe that?” Donnie considered the question instead of answering quickly. “I believe my family believed it.” “That’s not the same thing.” “No.” Cecilie set down her cup. “History gets cleaner the farther away you stand from it.” Donnie nodded. “And the Clasons had money involved. Insurance, cargo, the ship itself. Money tends to improve everybody’s memory in whichever direction helps them.” His phone rang. Donnie looked at the screen. Keena watched him do it. Then he turned the phone facedown without answering.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 110 She said nothing, but he saw that she had noticed. “So what happened after the wreck?” she asked. “Salvage. A lot of the cargo was recovered. Some went back to the company. Some was sold in Key West. Some disappeared into private hands.” “Disappeared?” “It was Key West.” Cecilie raised an eyebrow. Donnie smiled. “Historically speaking.” Keena leaned forward. “Was there anything on the Mercer connected to time? A clock, maybe?” That stopped him. “Why a clock?” “I don’t know that there was one. Rich’s brass plate has something engraved on the back. A line about time. It made me wonder.” Donnie studied her. “What does it say?” “Time reveals what the sea keeps.” “Rich.” “Driftwood.” “I know who you mean.” Cecilie hid another smile. Keena continued. “He found a brass plate underwater. It says Clason. New York. And on the back there’s enough left to read part of Mercer.” Donnie sat straighter. “Where did he find it?” “Near where he thinks the wreck lies. About thirty feet down.” “He has the plate?” “Yes.” Donnie stood so quickly the chair moved against the stone. “Wait here.” He left the room. Keena looked at her mother. “What did I just do?” Cecilie took another sip of tea. “You got him interested.” “That hard?”
JASON MARCAL 111 “Harder than getting him off the phone.” Donnie returned carrying a flat archival box. It was not elegant. The corners were worn and one side had been repaired with cloth tape. He set it on the table with both hands. Across the lid, in faded handwriting, were the words MERCER — LOSS & SALVAGE. Keena looked at him. “You just had that?” “It was in the study.” “For how long?” “My whole life.” “That seems like something you might mention.” “You never asked me about an eighteen-fifties shipwreck before breakfast.” He opened the box. Inside were copies of old manifests, letters, insurance papers, family notes and several photographs placed between sheets of tissue. Donnie moved through them carefully. The businessman disappeared for a moment. He handled the papers like things that could still be hurt. “Most of these are copies,” he said. “Some of the originals are in storage. My grandfather had this box put together. He was the one who cared about the Mercer.” “Why?” “Because his grandfather cared about it. That is how families keep stories alive. Nobody decides to. One person tells another person until everybody forgets where the first sentence came from.” He stopped on an old photograph and slid it toward her. A man sat behind a large desk in a dark study. Books filled most of the wall. A globe stood in one corner. The man wore a dark coat and a high collar and looked as if smiling had been prohibited in his house. Keena picked up the photograph. “Who is that?” “Your great-great-great-grandfather.” She studied him. “He looks fun.” “By all accounts, he was not.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 112 Cecilie leaned over. “He looks like he charged people for sitting down.” Donnie laughed. Keena moved nearer the window with the photograph. The image had faded at the edges. She looked at the desk, the books, the globe and the hard face of the man who had helped build a fortune she had been born into. Then something behind him caught her eye. She tipped the photograph toward the light. “Dad.” “What?” She pointed. “Is that the clock in the background?” Donnie came around the table. “What clock?” “There. On the mantel.” He leaned closer. On the mantel behind the old man sat a dark wooden clock. It was small in the photograph and softened by age, but its shape was clear enough: a round pale face, a carved crown, narrow columns and a broad heavy base. Donnie squinted. Then he took off his glasses, cleaned them with the edge of his shirt and looked again. “Wow.” Keena looked at him. “What?” “I’ve never noticed that before.” “You’ve had this picture your whole life.” “I was usually looking at the man.” Keena looked again at the little clock behind him. “So was everybody else.” She pulled out her phone. Donnie watched her photograph the photograph. “You’re taking a picture of a picture.” “I have a phone.” “That explains everything.”
JASON MARCAL 113 She took one image of the whole photograph, then another as close as she could get to the clock without losing focus. On the phone she enlarged it. The grain broke apart, but the silhouette held. “Is that the clock from the Mercer?” she asked. Donnie shook his head. “If the family story is right, that would be its sister.” “There were two?” “Made as a pair. Commissioned together. One stayed with the family. The other went aboard the Mercer.” “Why put a clock like that on a ship?” “It may have been in the captain’s cabin. It may have been traveling south to one of the company houses. I don’t know. The story changed depending on which relative told it.” Keena looked at the clock on her screen. “What happened to the one on the ship?” Donnie rested his hands on the back of a chair. “That is the part my grandfather liked.” Cecilie sighed. “Here we go.” “The story was that the clock carried gold.” Keena looked up. “Gold?” “Hidden inside it.” “Coins?” “Not according to my grandfather. He said parts of the mechanism or the base had been made to conceal gold. Exactly how, I don’t know. He probably didn’t either.” “Why would anyone do that?” “Because a clock on a cargo list attracts less attention than gold.” Keena looked down at the phone again. “How much?” “No idea.” “Was it ever found?” “The clock?” “The gold.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 114 Donnie shook his head. “Nobody knows if the gold story was even true. What the family records do say is that a mantel clock was among the items believed recovered from the Mercer.” Keena stared at him. “Recovered.” “Salvaged.” “So it came ashore.” “Maybe. The record is not clean. But my grandfather believed it did.” “Then where did it go?” Donnie smiled faintly. “If I knew that, it would be a much shorter family story.” He reached into the box and found a brittle copy of an old list. One entry had been underlined years before in blue pencil. The writing was difficult to make out, but the words mahogany mantel clock were still there. “After that,” Donnie said, “nothing certain. Salvage changed hands. Things were auctioned. Debts were paid in objects. Furniture went into houses and bars. Key West was smaller then, but that did not make things easier to follow.” Keena looked at the faded photograph again. A man, a desk and a clock nobody had bothered to notice. Her father’s phone rang a second time. Donnie glanced at it. Then he reached over and turned the sound off. “You’re not going to get that?” Keena asked. “No.” “Why?” He looked at her as if the answer should have been obvious. “Because you’re here.” For a second Keena did not know what to say. Cecilie looked down at her tea. Keena slipped the phone into her pocket and picked up the old photograph once more. “Can I borrow this?” Donnie shook his head. “Absolutely not.” “There he is.”
JASON MARCAL 115 “You have the picture on your phone.” “Of a picture.” “You have a phone.” Keena smiled. She put the photograph back between the tissue sheets. Before Donnie closed the box, she looked one last time at the little dark clock on the mantel. For generations, the Clasons had looked at the man behind the desk. Nobody had looked at the clock behind him. Until now.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 116 CHAPTER TEN The Connection Rich was repairing his cast net when Keena arrived on Wisteria. He heard the Whaler before he saw it and knew from the way she came through the shallows that she was in a hurry. She tied the boat badly, corrected the knot before he could say anything and came up the beach with her phone already in her hand. “I found something.” Rich kept working the twine through the torn mesh. “That usually means I’m about to do work.” “Probably.” She sat beside him on the edge of the pallet. Rich looked at the screen. “Who’s that?” “My great-great-great-grandfather.” Rich studied the stern man behind the desk. “He looks friendly.” “He was a Clason.” “That explains it.” Keena enlarged the photograph. “Look behind him.” Rich looked. “At what?” “The mantel.” She spread two fingers across the screen. The old man disappeared from the frame and the small clock came forward in a blur of pixels. “That?” Rich asked. “Yes.”
JASON MARCAL 117 “Old clock.” Keena looked at him. “Know that plate you have?” Rich stopped working. “The Clason one?” “Yes.” “What about it?” “It belongs to a clock.” Rich looked at her. Then at the photograph. “What?” “My father says there were two clocks made together. That one stayed with the family. Its sister went aboard the Mercer.” Rich set the net down and stood. He ducked into his shelter and came back with the brass plate. Salt and age had darkened it, but the letters remained: CLASON / NEW YORK. On the reverse, beneath the corrosion, enough of the other word survived to matter. MERCER. He handed it to Keena. She held the plate beside the clock on her phone, turning it slightly as if the right angle might make two centuries line up. “See the base?” she said. “There’s a plate on it. It’s tiny in the picture, but the proportions are right.” Rich leaned close. “Maybe.” “That is a very enthusiastic response.” “You’re showing me twelve pixels and asking me to identify furniture.” “It’s a clock.” “Clock furniture.” She handed him the phone. He enlarged the image until the clock became grain. “Your father is sure there were two?” “As sure as anybody can be about a family story that old. One stayed ashore. One went on the Mercer.” “And this plate says Clason and Mercer.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 118 “Exactly.” Rich looked at the plate in her hand. Keena said, “There’s more.” “There always is with your family.” “My father says there was gold hidden inside the clock.” Rich looked up. “Gold?” “That’s the story.” “How much?” “Nobody knows.” “A little gold?” “Nobody knows.” “A lot of gold?” Keena smiled. “Driftwood.” “That is an important distinction.” “The story only says gold was hidden inside it.” Rich held out his hand. Keena gave him the brass plate. He took the plate back from her and turned it over slowly. “I found this in thirty feet of water.” “I know.” “Half buried. I thought it came off the ship.” He looked at the photograph again. “Maybe the clock is still down there.” Keena thought for a moment. “Or maybe the plate fell off when they were salvaging the clock.” Rich looked at her. “The Mercer was salvaged,” she said. “My father has an old list that mentions a mahogany mantel clock among the things they believed were recovered.” “Believed?” “Old records.” “So somebody hauls the clock through thirty feet of water, bangs it against a boat and this falls off.”
JASON MARCAL 119 “Or it had already fallen off and the clock was somewhere else in the wreck.” Rich looked toward the water. “Or the clock is still down there.” “Or that.” “I like my version better.” “Because you know how to dive.” “Exactly.” Keena smiled. “And if mine is right?” Rich looked across the channel toward Key West. “Then we find out where they took it.” Keena stood. “Now who in Key West would know where something like that went?” Rich thought about it. Then he smiled. Keena saw the smile and pointed at him. “What?” “I know just the person.” “You know somebody who tracks hundred-and-seventy-year-old clocks?” “No.” “Then what do you mean?” Rich grabbed the brass plate and started toward the beach. “Let’s go.” “Where?” “Captain Tony’s.” Keena followed him. “You know the owner?” Rich stopped and looked back at her. “Actually, yes.” “You?” “Careful.” She laughed. Rich tucked the plate under his arm. “This may be the only business owner I know in Key West.” “I thought you knew everybody.” “I know everybody who works.” “And this guy?”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 120 “He made the mistake of owning something.” Keena untied the Whaler. Before Rich stepped aboard, he looked back toward Tomas’s boat. The old sailboat moved slightly at anchor. Tomas was not on deck. Rich almost called for him. Then he did not. He put the brass plate beneath the Whaler’s console and climbed in. “Maybe we don’t mention the gold,” he said. Keena started the engine. “Why?” Rich looked at her. “Mermaid, you grew up around honest people.” “And you didn’t?” “I grew up around people.” She pushed the throttle forward. The Whaler climbed onto plane and Wisteria fell behind them. Captain Tony’s was cool and dark when they stepped inside. The air smelled of old wood, beer and the particular dampness of a building that had survived more stories than repairs. Bras hung from the ceiling. Money and cards and photographs covered the walls. A tree grew through the place as if the building had agreed to go around it rather than argue. Rich walked in like he belonged there. Keena noticed that he did that in places where nobody expected him to. A man behind the bar looked up. “Schrimper.” Rich raised the brass plate. “Need a favor.” The man looked past him to Keena. “You bring pretty girls when you need favors now?” “Apparently.” “This Keena?” Rich frowned. “How do you know her name?” The man spread his hands. “Key West.” “That is not an answer.”
JASON MARCAL 121 “It is here.” Keena smiled. Rich pointed toward the man. “Tony. Captain Tony’s grandson.” Tony wiped his hand on a bar towel and offered it to Keena. “My grandfather got the name. I got people asking whether I’m him.” Keena shook his hand. “Are you?” “Depends who owes money.” Rich put the brass plate on the bar. Tony’s smile faded a little. He picked it up with both hands. “What’s this?” “Something I found underwater.” “Everything you own came from underwater.” “Not my shirt.” Tony looked at it. “Where?” “Near an old wreck.” “Which one?” “Mercer.” Tony’s eyes moved to Keena. “Clason ship?” She nodded. “My family.” Tony looked from her to Rich and back again. “Well. That explains some things.” Rich leaned on the bar. “It explains nothing.” “Sure.” “Tony.” “I’m looking at the plate.” Keena brought up the photograph on her phone and placed it on the bar beside the brass. “We’re trying to find this clock.” Tony squinted. “That is a terrible picture of a clock.” “Thank you,” Rich said.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 122 Keena ignored both of them. “There were two made as a pair. This one stayed with my family. We think the other one was aboard the Mercer.” Tony looked at the brass again. “And this came off it?” “We think so.” “How old?” “Old,” Rich said. Tony looked at him. “Useful.” “You know every old story in town.” “I know every old drunk in town.” “Same thing.” Tony laughed and handed Keena her phone. “If a clock came off a wreck and made it to shore, it could have gone anywhere. House, hotel, bar, boardinghouse. People paid debts with furniture. Salvage got sold and sold again. Then somebody died and his children sold it again because they thought it was ugly.” “That’s encouraging,” Keena said. “It shouldn’t be.” Rich tapped the plate. “But you’ve seen this kind of thing.” “I’ve seen a lot of old junk.” “This is historic junk.” “That costs more.” Tony came around the bar. “Come on.” He led them deeper into the room, past photographs, old signs and things nobody had bothered to label because everybody who knew what they were had once assumed everybody else did too. Tony stopped at a wall crowded with black-and-white photographs. “You know what this building was before my grandfather put his name on it?” Rich looked at him. “A building.” Keena said, “The original Sloppy Joe’s.” Tony pointed at her. “See why I like her?”
JASON MARCAL 123 “No.” Tony ignored him. “Joe Russell had the place. Hemingway drank here. The bar moved over to Duval, but this building kept the stories.” Rich looked at the wall. “Hemingway again.” Keena smiled. “He keeps following you.” “I was happier when he stayed at his house.” Tony pointed to one photograph. “That’s Joe.” The picture showed two men inside the old bar, one of them unmistakably Hemingway, the other Joe Russell. Bottles lined the shelves behind them. The room looked rougher than it did now and somehow more permanent. Keena leaned closer. Rich barely looked at the men. He looked at the room around them, the shelves and hardware and objects people had not thought important enough to photograph on purpose. Keena stopped moving. “Rich.” He turned. “What?” “Come here.” “I know that voice.” She pointed into the photograph. “Behind Joe.” Rich leaned closer. “The bottle?” “Higher.” He looked. High on a shelf behind the two men sat a clock. Dark wood. Round face. Carved top. Heavy base. Rich said nothing. Keena pulled out her phone so quickly she nearly dropped it. She opened the photograph of her great-great-great-grandfather’s study and enlarged the little clock on the mantel. She held the phone beside the framed photograph on the wall.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 124 The images were separated by decades and both were grainy, but the shape was there. The crown rose the same way. The round face sat between narrow columns. The base flared outward beneath it. Tony leaned in. “Well, hell.” Keena looked at him. “That’s it.” Tony studied both images. “You sure?” “No.” Rich smiled. “She’s learning.” Keena ignored him. “But it looks like the sister clock.” Tony looked at the photograph again. “If it was here, that changes things.” “Why?” Rich asked. Tony pointed around the room. “Because now you’re not looking for something that disappeared after a wreck. You’re looking for something that survived long enough to end up in a bar.” Keena looked at the old photograph. “How would it have gotten here?” Tony shrugged. “Bought. Traded. Won in a card game. Joe liked things with stories. Half the town did.” Rich looked at the clock in the picture. “And then the bar moved.” Tony nodded. “What happened to everything when they moved it?” Keena asked. Tony smiled. “Now you’re asking the right question.” He told them how the old Sloppy Joe’s had moved from Greene Street to Duval. The story had been told so many times that some versions had more people carrying furniture than Key West probably had sober men. Tony did not seem concerned with the difference. “Some things went with Joe,” he said. “Some stayed. Some walked away with people who decided nobody would miss them.” Rich nodded. “That I understand.” Keena looked at him. “Historically speaking,” he said.
JASON MARCAL 125 Tony laughed. Then he looked at the photograph of Hemingway. “And Hemingway took things.” Keena turned. “What things?” “You’ve been to his house?” Rich groaned. “Unfortunately.” “There’s an old urinal there. Turned into a fountain.” Rich stared at him. “I missed that.” “You were probably looking at the cats.” “They had extra toes.” Tony looked at Keena. “He took the urinal when the bar moved. At least that’s the story everybody tells.” Keena turned slowly back to the photograph. Her eyes settled on the clock. Rich saw the thought arrive before she said it. “No,” he said. “I haven’t said anything.” “You made the face.” “What face?” “The expensive one.” Keena pointed to Hemingway in the photograph. “If he took the urinal, what else did he take?” Tony’s smile faded into thought. “There was always a story,” he said. “What story?” Keena asked. Tony looked at the clock on the wall photograph again. “My grandfather used to say Hemingway hauled an old clock out of here too. Said Joe let him have it because the thing hadn’t worked in years.” Rich straightened. Keena stared at Tony. “A clock like that one?” “I never saw it. Granddad was telling stories about things that happened before his time too. But that was the story.” “Joe just gave it to him?” Rich asked.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 126 Tony shrugged. “A broken clock in a bar. Maybe Joe thought Hemingway was doing him a favor.” Rich looked at Keena. She looked at him. Neither mentioned the gold. Tony said, “You two planning to tell me why a broken clock matters this much?” Rich picked up the brass plate. “Family history.” Tony smiled. “You don’t have a family.” Rich tucked the plate under his arm. “Her family history.” Keena had already started toward the door. Tony called after them. “Where are you going?” Rich followed her. “Back to the cat house.” Keena looked over her shoulder. “Last time I brought you there for culture.” Rich pushed open the door and the Key West sunlight hit them. “This time we’re looking for gold.” Keena smiled. “Much better museum,” Rich said.
JASON MARCAL 127 CHAPTER ELEVEN The Cat House Rich had been to the Hemingway house once already. That was enough for him. The first time Keena had brought him there she had called it culture. Rich had looked at the fishing photographs, the boat, the dead writer's belongings and the six-toed cats and decided the cats were probably getting the better end of the arrangement. Now he was walking back toward the place carrying a brass plate under his arm. “This time,” he said, “you have a better reason.” “What was wrong with the first reason?” “You said I needed culture.” “You did.” “I survived without it.” “Barely.” Rich looked at her. “This time we're looking for gold.” “Possibly gold.” “Much better museum.” Keena smiled. They had left Captain Tony's less than fifteen minutes earlier. The photograph on the wall had changed everything. The clock had been there. Not in somebody's family story. Not written on a manifest. Not
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 128 remembered by an old man who had heard it from another old man. There was a photograph. Hemingway and Joe Russell standing inside the original Sloppy Joe's, and behind them, high on a shelf, sat a dark wooden mantel clock that looked almost exactly like the one in the Clason family photograph. Rich had looked at the two pictures until Keena finally took her phone away from him. Now there was only one problem. They had no idea what happened to it next. Rich had an idea. He did not like it. “Hemingway stole it.” “He didn't steal it.” “He stole a urinal.” “He took a urinal.” “That is exactly what a thief says.” “Joe let him have it.” “According to Tony.” “According to pretty much everybody.” Rich considered that. “All right. He stole it with permission.” Keena laughed. They reached the entrance. Rich stopped.
JASON MARCAL 129 “What?” “I just realized something.” Keena waited. “If the clock is here, we're done.” “That would be convenient.” “Too convenient.” “You're complaining about finding it before we even go inside?”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 130 “I don't trust easy treasure.” Keena looked at him. “That's an oddly specific personality defect.” “Experience.” “With treasure?” “With easy.” He started walking again. Keena followed. The house looked the same as it had the first time. White walls. Green shutters. Deep shade. Tropical plants leaning into the paths as though they had been there longer than the people and intended to remain after them. A cat lay beneath a shrub. Rich pointed at it. “Employee.” “Resident.” “Does it pay rent?” “No.” “Employee.” They went inside. Keena had already pulled up the photograph from Captain Tony's. Rich carried the brass plate wrapped in an old T-shirt. She had made him wrap it before they left Wisteria. “You cannot walk through town carrying that thing like a hubcap.” “It survived underwater.” “That isn't the problem.” “What is?” “You.” They found a woman working near one of the rooms and waited until she finished answering another visitor's question. Keena stepped forward. “Excuse me. Could we ask you something about Hemingway and Sloppy Joe Russell?” The woman smiled. “Sure.” Rich glanced at Keena. She was good at this. People answered her questions before they realized they were being questioned. Keena showed her the photograph. “We were at Captain Tony's and saw this picture.”
JASON MARCAL 131 The woman looked at it. “I've seen that one.” Keena enlarged the background. “We're interested in the clock.” The woman leaned closer. “The clock?” “This one.” She looked again. “I don't know anything about it.” Rich leaned toward Keena. “Good start.” Keena elbowed him without looking. “We were told that when Sloppy Joe's moved, Hemingway took some things from the old bar.” The woman smiled. “You mean the urinal.” Rich nodded. “See? Everybody knows about the stolen toilet.” “It wasn't a toilet,” Keena said. “Close enough.” The woman laughed. “That story is certainly part of the Hemingway lore.” “Where is it?” Rich asked. “The urinal?” “Yes.” “In the garden.” Rich looked at Keena. “Of course it is.” They followed the woman outside. The fountain sat in the garden, transformed into something almost respectable by stone and tile and plants. Rich stared at it. “That is definitely a urinal.” Keena folded her arms. “Thank you, detective.” “Somebody made a fountain out of a bathroom fixture.” “It's Key West.” “That explains too much around here.” The woman smiled. Rich stepped closer. “So Hemingway really brought this here from Sloppy Joe's?” “That's the story.” “Anything else?” The woman looked at him. “Anything else what?”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 132 “Did he bring anything else from the old bar?” “I'm sure he brought things home over the years.” “A clock?” She shook her head. “Not that I know of.” Keena showed her the photograph again. “A mantel clock. Dark wood. Fairly ornate.” The woman studied it. “No. I've never heard that story.” Rich looked around the garden. “Could it have been here once?” “Anything is possible. But if you're asking whether that clock is part of the museum collection now, I don't recognize it.” That disappointed him more than he expected. For the walk from Captain Tony's, Rich had begun imagining the clock sitting in some forgotten corner of the house. One hour. That was how long he had been a treasure hunter. Already he disliked dead ends. Keena thanked the woman. They walked away. Rich looked back at the fountain. “Maybe we should take it.” “The urinal?” “Could be worth something.” “Rich.” “Hemingway did it.” “You are not using Ernest Hemingway as legal advice.” They continued through the grounds. The cats were everywhere. One sat on a wall. Another slept beneath a bench. A third walked directly across Rich's path and stopped. Rich stopped too. The cat looked at him. Rich looked at the cat. Keena waited. “Well?” “It has extra toes.” “You knew they had extra toes.” “I know. I still think it's showing off.” The cat walked away. Rich watched it. “He knows something.” “The cat?”
JASON MARCAL 133 “He lives here.” Keena shook her head. “You're asking the cats about the clock now?” “They've been more helpful than the people.” They went inside again. This time Keena slowed down. She wasn't looking at furniture. She was looking at photographs. Rich noticed. “What?” “Captain Tony's.” “What about it?” “We found the clock in a photograph.” “So?” “So maybe we're asking the wrong question.” Rich followed her gaze. Old photographs hung throughout the house. Hemingway fishing. Hemingway with friends. Hemingway at home. Hemingway beside boats. Hemingway holding fish large enough to interest Rich. Keena began moving from photograph to photograph. Rich smiled. “Now who's treasure hunting?” “Shut up and look.” They split up. Rich took one wall. Keena took another. For several minutes neither spoke. They were no longer looking at Hemingway. They were looking behind him. Shelves. Tables. Windows. Bookcases. Mantels. Corners of rooms nobody had intended anyone to notice. It was strange how quickly a photograph changed once you stopped looking at the person in it. Rich understood what Keena had meant about her family photograph. For generations the Clasons had looked at the man behind the desk. The clock had waited quietly behind him. Rich moved to another photograph. Fishing trophies. Books. A chair. No clock. Another. Men drinking outside. No clock. Another. A room crowded with people. No clock. Keena came around the corner. “Anything?” “Three cats, two fish and a guy who needs a shirt.” “Hemingway?”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 134 “Probably.” Keena smiled. “Nothing.” They kept going. Then Rich stopped. “Mermaid.” She came over. “What?” He pointed at a photograph. It showed Hemingway outside the house with several people. The photograph was old and slightly washed out. Keena leaned closer. “I don't see it.” “Not the clock.” “Then what?” Rich pointed toward one edge of the picture. A man stood beside Hemingway. Older. Thin. White shirt. Dark trousers. Keena looked at him. “Who is that?” “I don't know.” “Then why do I care?” Rich pointed again. The man was holding something. Not the clock. A wooden crate. On the side of it were faded painted letters. Keena squinted. “Can you read that?” “Part of it.” They leaned closer. The first letters were gone. But the rest remained. ...SON Keena looked at Rich. “Clason?” “Maybe.” “That could say anything.” “Exactly.” She looked at him. “You just used my word.” “I hate it.” Keena took a photograph of the photograph. Rich looked for someone who might know more. They found an older guide downstairs. Keena showed him the image. “Do you know who this man is?” He studied it. “Not off the top of my head.” “What about the crate?”
JASON MARCAL 135 The guide adjusted his glasses. “No.” Rich pointed at the lettering. “Could that say Clason?” “It could.” Keena asked, “Do you know where the photograph came from?” “That I can probably find out.” He looked more closely. “This may have been taken here. Late thirties, maybe.” “After Sloppy Joe's moved?” Keena asked. “Possibly.” Rich and Keena looked at each other. The guide noticed. “You two working on something?” Rich answered first. “School project.” Keena looked at him. The guide looked at Rich. “You in school?” “No.” There was a silence. Rich shrugged. “Her school project.” Keena rescued him. “Family research.” That was close enough to the truth. The guide studied the photograph once more. “There is one man who might know.” Keena looked up. “Who?” “Walter Pike.” “Historian?” The guide smiled. “Depends who you ask.” “Where do we find him?” “East Martello.” Rich frowned. “The fort by the airport?” “Fort East Martello Museum.” Rich nodded. “I know it.” The guide looked at him. “Then you probably know Robert.” “Robert who?” The guide smiled. “You'll see.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 136 CHAPTER TWELVE Meet Robert They left the Hemingway House with the sun still high and the heat pressing down hard enough to flatten the shadows. Keena checked the address on her phone as they walked. “Fort East Martello.” Rich adjusted the wrapped brass plate under his arm. “The fort by the airport.” “Yes.” “And this Walter Pike is there?” “That's what he said.” Rich looked toward the street. “Good.” Keena glanced at him. “You sound excited.” “I like people who know things.” “You like people who give you answers.” “That too.” They reached the Whaler and headed around the island toward the fort. A plane came in low as they approached the airport, its engines filling the sky. Rich watched it descend. Keena noticed. “You've still never been on one.” “No.” “Want to?” “No.”
JASON MARCAL 137 “You didn't even think about it.” “I've seen what happens when boats stop working.” “That's not the same thing.” “Boats float.” “Usually.” Rich looked at her. “Not helping.” She smiled. Fort East Martello sat low and solid near the airport, old brick against blue sky. They went inside. The temperature dropped only slightly, but the place felt cooler because the walls were thick and the rooms were quiet. Rich slowed almost immediately. There were old objects everywhere. Military pieces. Ship hardware. Wrecking artifacts. Things that had been pulled from water, dug out of storage rooms, donated by families, or saved because somebody had once decided they mattered. Keena kept walking. Rich did not. She turned. “You coming?” He was looking at an old grappling hook. “Yeah.” “You stopped.” “I'm still going.” “You are literally standing still.” Rich leaned closer to the display. “This is good stuff.” “We're looking for Walter.” “We'll find him.” “You said that about the clock.” “That's different.” “How?” “I haven't found the clock yet.” Keena folded her arms and waited until he finally moved. They asked at the desk. “Walter Pike?” The woman smiled. “You found the right place.” “Is he here?” Keena asked.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 138 “He usually is.” “Usually?” The woman pointed toward the back. “East gallery.” They found Walter sitting in a wooden chair near a display case. He was old. Not weak. There was a difference. His hair was white and combed back neatly. His shirt was tucked in. His shoes were polished. He wore glasses low on his nose and was reading something that looked older than both Rich and Keena put together. Keena approached. “Mr. Pike?” Walter looked up. “Maybe.” Keena smiled. “I'm Keena Clason.” Walter looked at her carefully. “Clason.” “Yes.” His eyes moved to Rich. “And you?” “Rich.” Walter waited. “Schrimper.” Walter stared at him for a moment. “That's unfortunate.” Keena laughed before she could stop herself. Rich nodded. “I like you.” Walter folded the paper and stood. Slowly, but steady. “What do you need?” Keena glanced toward Rich. “He knows old Key West.” “That's the rumor.” Rich looked around. “You work here?” “I exist here.” “That wasn't what I asked.” “It was close enough.” Keena smiled. “We were told you might know something about an old clock.” Walter looked at her. “Everybody eventually comes looking for something.”
JASON MARCAL 139 Rich shifted the brass plate under his arm. “We're looking for something specific.” Walter noticed the bundle but did not ask about it. “First,” he said, “you should meet Robert.” Rich looked at Keena. “Who's Robert?” Walter turned and started walking. “You'll see.” Rich followed. “I'm getting tired of people saying that.” They entered another room. Then Rich stopped. The doll sat behind glass. It was dressed in an old sailor suit. Its face had darkened with age. Its eyes seemed fixed on nothing and everything at the same time. Rich looked at Walter. “That's Robert?” “One of us.” Rich looked back at the doll. “Which one are you?” “The one that talks when people are looking.” Keena laughed. Walter nodded toward the case. “He supposedly talks when they aren't.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 140 Rich stared at Robert. “That's worse.” Walter smiled slightly. “Depends who you ask.” Keena moved closer. “What's the story?” Walter rested one hand on the back of a chair. “Robert belonged to Gene Otto. Old Key West family. Artist. Big house. Strange stories.” “What kind of stories?” Rich asked. Walter looked toward the doll. “That Gene blamed Robert when things went wrong.” Rich nodded. “Smart kid.” Walter continued. “People said they heard footsteps when nobody was there. Said Robert moved from one place to another. Some claimed they saw him looking out windows when nobody else was home.” Rich looked at the glass. “By himself.” “That was the story.” Keena smiled. “And now?” “Now people blame him for everything.” “Like what?” “Bad luck. Accidents. Illness. Marriage trouble.” Rich looked at Keena. “See?” “See what?” “Could've been Robert this whole time.” Keena elbowed him. Walter went on. “People send apology letters.” Rich looked at him. “To the doll?” “Plenty of them.” “That seems excessive.” “Fear usually is.” Keena pulled out her phone. Walter raised one finger. “I'd ask first.” Keena paused. “Ask who?” Walter looked at her. “Robert.” Rich smiled. “No.” Keena turned to him. “You do it.”
JASON MARCAL 141 “Why me?” “You're brave.” “I dive.” “Exactly.” “That has nothing to do with dolls.” Walter waited. Rich looked at Robert, then at Keena. “You're enjoying this.” “Very much.” Rich stepped closer to the glass. “Robert.” Nothing. Rich looked back at Walter. “He listens?” “People say he does.” Rich sighed. “Can she take your picture?” Silence. Rich waited a moment. “He didn't say no.” Walter sat down again. “That's how most trouble starts.” Keena took the photograph. Rich moved away from the case. Keena smiled. “You're scared.” “No.” “You moved fast.” “I was done.” “You won't turn your back on him.” Rich looked at Robert again. “I don't turn my back on anything with eyes.” “Fish have eyes.” “Exactly.” Walter chuckled. Then Keena's expression changed. She put the phone away for a moment. “Mr. Pike, we actually came here because of Hemingway.” Walter looked at her. “Everybody in Key West eventually does.” “We were at Captain Tony's.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 142 “That's better.” “We found a photograph.” Keena opened her phone again and pulled up the old picture of Hemingway and Joe Russell inside the original Sloppy Joe's. Walter leaned forward. “I know that one.” Keena enlarged the image. “Look behind them.” Walter leaned closer. The clock sat high on the shelf. Dark wood. Round face. Heavy base. Walter stared at it. His expression changed. Not much. But enough. The humor left his face. He leaned back. Keena noticed. “Do you recognize it?” Walter handed the phone back. “Hemingway never had that clock.” Rich looked at him. “You're sure?” “Yep.” The answer was flat. Short. Keena looked at Rich, then back at Walter. “But it's in the photograph at Sloppy Joe's.” “I can see that.” “So what happened to it?” Walter looked away. Rich unwrapped the brass plate. Walter saw it. His face tightened. “Put that away.” Rich looked at him. “What?” “Put it away.” Rich did not. “You know what it is?” Walter looked at him. “Where'd you get that?” “Thirty feet of water.” Walter stared at the plate. “Where?” “Near the Mercer wreck.” Walter looked at Rich for a long moment. Then at Keena. “Put it away, son.”
JASON MARCAL 143 Rich slowly wrapped the plate again. Keena stepped closer. “You know that clock.” Walter did not answer. She waited. “Mr. Pike?” Walter looked at her. “Hemingway never had it.” “You already said that.” “I know.” “How do you know?” Walter looked toward Robert. Then back at Keena. “I know of that clock.” Rich leaned forward slightly. “Where is it?” Walter shook his head. “Didn't say I knew where it was.” “You said you know it.” “I said I know of it.” Keena folded her arms. “Fine. What do you know?” Walter's eyes hardened. “It may still be there.” Rich looked at Keena. “Where?” Walter said nothing for a moment. Then: “The person you want is Mrs. Curry.” Keena frowned. “Mrs. Curry?” “Old Mrs. Curry.” “Who is she?” Walter looked at her. “Old Key West.” Rich smiled faintly. “That doesn't narrow it down.” Walter did not smile back. “The Curry House.” Keena looked at him. “The bed-and-breakfast?” “Yes.” “You think the clock is there?” Walter stood. “I think you should talk to Mrs. Curry.” Rich shifted the wrapped brass plate again. “What do we ask her?” “Show her the picture.” “And the plate?” Walter's eyes went to the bundle. “No.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 144 Rich looked at him. “Why?” “Because I said so.” Rich's eyebrows rose. Keena spoke more gently. “Walter, why did you get so quiet when you saw the clock?” Walter looked toward Robert again. For a moment the room felt colder than it was. Then he looked back at her. “Because some old things are stories until somebody starts looking for them.” Rich said, “And then?” Walter's voice was low. “Then they're trouble.” Nobody spoke for a moment. Keena slipped her phone into her bag. “Mrs. Curry.” Walter nodded. “At the Curry House.” “Will she talk to us?” Walter looked at Keena. “If she wants to.” “That sounds encouraging.” “It wasn't meant to.” Rich glanced toward Robert. The doll had not moved. Of course it had not moved. Still, Rich looked twice. Keena caught him. “Checking?” “No.” “You were checking.” “I wasn't.” Walter had already sat back down. Without looking up he said, “He didn't.” Rich turned. “What?” Walter looked toward Robert. “He didn't move.” Rich relaxed slightly. Walter picked up his paper. “Today.” Keena laughed. Rich shook his head. “I don't like this place.” Walter opened the paper. “Robert likes you.”
JASON MARCAL 145 Rich looked at the doll. “That makes it worse.” They walked toward the exit. Outside, another plane crossed low over the fort. The heat hit them again. Keena looked at her phone. “Curry House.” Rich adjusted the wrapped brass plate under his arm. “You know where it is?” “Yes.” “You want to go?” She looked at the time. “Not today.” Rich looked surprised. “You're quitting?” “I'm hungry, I've been dragged through half of Key West, and Mrs. Curry sounds like someone I don't want to meet while exhausted.” Rich considered that. “Tomorrow.” “Tomorrow.” He nodded. “Good.” Keena smiled. “You agreed too easily.” “I'm hungry too.” “There it is.” They took the Whaler back toward Wisteria. The afternoon had softened. The sun sat lower over the water, and Key West behind them had begun turning gold around the edges. For most of the ride neither spoke about Walter. Rich kept seeing the change in the old man's face. Warm one second. Gone the next. Hemingway never had that clock. Walter had been certain. Rich did not know what bothered him more—that Walter knew, or that Walter had no intention of telling them how. When they reached Wisteria, Rich eased the Whaler into the shallows near his camp and tied it securely. The brass plate was still wrapped beneath the console. He took it out, carried it into his shelter, opened the wooden treasure box, and placed it inside. Keena watched him close the lid. “Why are you leaving it?”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 146 “Don't need it for dinner.” Her eyes moved toward Tomas's sailboat anchored offshore. “That the only reason?” Rich stood. “Come on.” He did not answer her. They climbed back into the Whaler. Rich untied it, pushed them off, and idled the short distance toward Tomas's sailboat. Tomas was standing on the stern cleaning yellowtail when they came alongside. He looked up. “Well.” Rich brought the Whaler neatly against the sailboat. “Well what?” Tomas nodded toward Keena. “The mermaid returns.” Keena smiled. “Miss me?” “No.” Rich tied the Whaler securely to the stern. “You two are becoming close.” Tomas went back to the fish. “Fungus grows too.” Keena climbed aboard. “Good to see you too, Tomas.” Two cleaned yellowtail lay beside the cutting board. “Dinner?” she asked. Tomas glanced at Rich. “If he contributes.” Rich stepped aboard. “I brought personality.” “Fish eat personality?” “Depends how you cook it.” Tomas shook his head. “Sit.” He fried the yellowtail in a black pan over the little stove with garlic, lime and butter. There were beans and rice. Tomas had a beer. Rich and Keena drank water. By the time they ate, the sun had dropped and the lights of Key West were appearing across the water. For a while the conversation stayed easy. Keena told Tomas about Robert. Tomas chewed his fish. “Stupid.” “You've heard of him?”
JASON MARCAL 147 “Everyone has heard of him.” “Do you believe the stories?” “No.” Rich looked at him. “You answered fast.” “I am old. I do not have time to be afraid of toys.” Keena smiled. “Rich was.” Rich stopped eating. “I was not.” Tomas looked at him. “You were afraid of a doll?” “No.” Keena nodded. “He asked permission before I took its picture.” Tomas stared at Rich. Rich pointed his fork at Keena. “She made me.” “Did the doll answer?” “No.” Tomas drank from his beer. “Then maybe he did not give permission.” Rich looked at him. “You're supposed to be on my side.” “I am on the fish's side.” Keena laughed. For a few minutes it felt like the other evenings Rich had spent aboard Tomas's boat. Then Keena said, “Walter knew the clock.” Rich's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. Tomas did not move. Almost. Rich saw it. He lowered the fork. Keena continued. “The one from the photograph. He said Hemingway—” “Keena.” She stopped. “What?” “Eat.” She looked at him. Rich did not look back. But she understood.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 148 Tomas looked from one of them to the other. “What clock?” Rich took another bite. “Nothing.” Tomas waited. “What clock?” “Some old clock in a photograph.” Tomas leaned back. “You spent all day looking for an old clock?” “No.” Keena looked at Rich. Tomas saw it. He smiled. Barely. “You are a bad liar, Richard.” “Then stop asking questions.” The words came out harder than Rich intended. Silence settled over the deck. The water moved softly against the hull. Tomas put down his fork. “You bring me wreck pieces. You ask me about the Mercer. You disappear into town with the girl. Now there is a clock.” Rich looked at him. “You keeping track?” “I pay attention.” “I noticed.” Tomas looked toward Wisteria. “Where is the plate?” Rich stopped. “What?” “The brass plate.” Rich stared at him. Tomas shrugged. “You usually have it when you start asking questions about the Mercer.” “Why do you care where it is?” “I noticed you did not bring it.” That bothered Rich more than if Tomas had asked to see it. Keena looked between them. Tomas leaned forward. “You found something.” Rich said nothing. “Something about the Mercer.” Still nothing. Tomas looked at Keena. “What did your family tell you?”
JASON MARCAL 149 Rich put his fork down. “Tomas.” The old man looked at him. “Leave her out of it.” “I asked her a question.” “And I answered it.” “No. You didn't.” “Then I guess you're going to have to live with that.” Keena watched him. She had never heard Rich speak to Tomas that way. Tomas had helped him build the canoe. Fed him. Patched him up. Taught him things nobody else had bothered to teach. For years Rich had trusted him because there had been no reason not to. Tonight there was. Tomas picked up his beer. “You do not trust me.” Rich looked at him. He could have lied. Instead he said, “Not with everything.” Tomas stared at him for a long time. Then nodded once. “That is probably smart.” Rich had not expected that. Neither had Keena. Tomas drank. “But smart men sometimes become stupid when they smell treasure.” Rich felt Keena look at him. He kept his eyes on Tomas. “What makes you think there's treasure?” Tomas smiled. A small smile. “You.” Rich said nothing. Tomas pointed toward him with the bottle. “You have looked at wrecks your whole life. Nails. Glass. Brass. Things worth twenty dollars, maybe fifty. You bring them home like gold.” He took another drink. “Now suddenly you hide something.” “I'm not hiding anything.” Tomas looked toward Wisteria. “You left the plate behind.” Rich stared at him. “That doesn't mean anything.” “No?”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 150 “No.” Tomas set the bottle down. “Then tell me about the clock.” Rich leaned back. “No.” That ended it. Tomas looked at him for several seconds. Then picked up his fork. The three of them ate in silence. After a while Keena finished and stood. “Thank you for dinner.” Tomas nodded. “You are welcome, Mermaid.” There was warmth in the name. Almost. Rich stood. “I'll take you home.” Keena looked toward Sunset Key. “You don't have to.” “I know.” They climbed back into the Whaler. Rich untied it from Tomas's sailboat and started the engine. Before he pulled away, Tomas called to him. “Richard.” Rich turned. Tomas stood beneath the weak deck light. His face was partly in shadow. “Be careful what you go looking for.” Rich waited. Tomas continued. “Sometimes you find it.” Rich looked at him. “Good night, Tomas.” He pushed the throttle forward. They moved away. For several minutes Keena said nothing. Then: “You don't trust him.” Rich kept his eyes ahead. “No.” “Since when?” Rich thought about Tomas's old maritime book. The way he knew wreck sites Rich had never mentioned. His reaction the first time Keena said Clason. His reaction tonight to the word clock. And the fact that he had immediately noticed the missing brass plate. “I don't know.” Keena waited.
JASON MARCAL 151 Rich looked back once. Tomas still stood on the sailboat. Watching them. Rich faced forward again. “Maybe since tonight.” Keena sat quietly beside him. The lights of Sunset Key grew brighter ahead. Tomorrow they would find Mrs. Curry. Tonight Rich had discovered something else. He had spent years believing Tomas was the one man in Key West he never needed to watch. He wasn't sure he believed that anymore.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 152 CHAPTER THIRTEEN Mrs. Curry Keena arrived at Wisteria the next morning ten minutes earlier than she said she would. Rich was ready anyway. That annoyed her. “You're waiting for me?” she asked as he stepped into the Whaler. “No.” “You're standing on the beach with shoes on.” “I own shoes.” “You usually treat them like formalwear.” Rich sat down and looked toward Key West. “Mrs. Curry.” Keena smiled and pushed the throttle forward. He had not brought the brass plate. She noticed before they were halfway across. “You left it.” “Yes.” “Because Walter told you to?” Rich watched the water. “Because Walter told me not to show it to her.” “You don't normally do what people tell you.” “I do when an eighty-five-year-old man gets scared of a piece of brass.” “Walter wasn't scared.” Rich looked at her.
JASON MARCAL 153 Keena thought about the museum. About the warmth leaving Walter's face the moment he saw the clock. About the way he had told Rich to put the plate away. “Fine,” she said. “He was something.” “Exactly.” They left the Whaler and walked into town. The Curry House stood behind palms and old Key West shade, the kind of place that looked less built than accumulated. Porch columns, dark shutters, carved trim, old wood polished by weather and people. It had the confidence of a house that had watched generations come and go and had no reason to explain itself to the latest ones. Rich stopped at the gate. “What?” Keena asked. “Nothing.” “You stopped.” “I stop sometimes.” “You criticize me when I say that.” “Different.” “How?” Rich looked at the house. “This place looks expensive.” Keena stared at him. “You live on an island across from Sunset Key.” “That's free.” “This is a bed-and-breakfast.” “Exactly. They charge you to sleep in somebody else's house.” Keena pushed open the gate. “Try not to insult anyone until after we get the clue.” “I can do that.” “You cannot.” “I can try.” They stepped onto the porch. A woman at the desk inside looked up and smiled. Keena introduced herself and asked for Mrs. Curry.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 154 The woman's smile changed slightly. “Do you have an appointment?” “No.” “Is she expecting you?” “No.” Rich leaned toward Keena. “Strong start.” Keena ignored him. “Walter Pike sent us.” That did it. The woman studied them, then disappeared through a doorway without saying anything. Rich looked at Keena. “Interesting.” “You noticed that too.” “I notice things.” “Sometimes.” They waited. A ceiling fan turned slowly above them. Somewhere deeper in the house a clock ticked. Rich heard it first. He looked toward the sound. Keena noticed. “Don't.” “What?” “It's not our clock.” “I didn't say it was.” “You looked at it.” “I'm allowed to look at clocks now.” “Apparently.” The woman returned. “She'll see you on the back veranda.” They followed her through the house.
JASON MARCAL 155 Old photographs lined one wall. Family portraits. Ships. Men in white suits. Women in dresses that looked uncomfortable even in black and white. Rich slowed, but Keena caught his arm. “No side quests.” “That could be a clock.” “It is a vase.” “Old vase.” “Rich.” He kept moving. Mrs. Curry was waiting for them in a wicker chair on the back veranda. She was small and very old, with silver hair pinned up neatly and a face that had not surrendered anything to age except smoothness. Her eyes were clear. Sharp. Rich understood immediately why Walter had sent them to her. Nothing in that house looked older than Mrs. Curry except the house. She looked first at Keena. “Clason.” It was not a question. Keena stopped. “Yes.” Mrs. Curry looked at Rich. “And you are the young man from Wisteria.” Rich frowned. “Does everybody know me?” “No,” Mrs. Curry said. “Just the people who pay attention.” Rich glanced at Keena. “I'm hearing that a lot lately.” Mrs. Curry motioned toward two chairs. “Sit.” They sat.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 156 There was a tea service on the little table beside her. Three cups. Rich looked at them. “You knew there were two of us.” “Walter called.”
JASON MARCAL 157 Keena leaned forward. “He called you?” “This morning.” “What did he say?” “That two young people would come asking bad questions about old things.” Rich smiled faintly. “That sounds like him.” Mrs. Curry poured tea. Keena took hers. Rich looked at his. “You don't drink tea?” Mrs. Curry asked. “I drink tea.” “You're looking at it like evidence.” “I don't usually get served tea on Wisteria.” Mrs. Curry handed him the cup. “Then consider this cultural exchange.” Keena smiled into hers. Rich took a drink. It was sweet. He approved. Mrs. Curry settled back into the wicker chair. “Now show me what Walter didn't want you showing everybody else.” Rich and Keena looked at each other. Keena reached for her phone. “The picture,” Mrs. Curry said. “Not the brass.” Rich went still. Keena lowered the phone slightly. “How do you know about the brass?” Mrs. Curry looked at Rich. “Walter called.” “You said he told you we were coming.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 158 “He told me enough.” Rich did not like that answer. Mrs. Curry noticed. “You distrust old people very quickly.” “Not all of them.” “Only the ones who know things.” “Mostly.” That earned the smallest smile. Keena opened the family photograph first. “This was in my father's records.” Mrs. Curry took the phone. She studied the old Clason ancestor behind his desk, then enlarged the mantel. Her finger stopped. Keena watched her face. “You know it.” Mrs. Curry handed the phone back. “Show me the other picture.” Keena opened the photograph from Captain Tony's. Mrs. Curry took longer with that one. Hemingway. Joe Russell. Bottles. Shelves. The clock. She removed her glasses from a cord around her neck and put them on. Rich leaned forward. Mrs. Curry enlarged the photograph herself. “That's it,” she said. Keena's breath caught. “The same clock?” Mrs. Curry looked at her. “I didn't say that.” Rich smiled. Keena looked at him.
JASON MARCAL 159 “Don't.” Mrs. Curry continued. “I said that's the clock Walter was talking about.” “Then you know it,” Rich said. “I know of it.” Rich leaned back. “That's what Walter said.” “He learned it from me.” That shut Rich up. Mrs. Curry took another sip of tea. Keena said, “Walter told us Hemingway never had it.” “He didn't.” “You're sure?” “Yes.” “How?” Mrs. Curry looked out through the palms for a moment. “Because Joe Russell didn't give that clock to Hemingway.” Rich sat forward. “Who did he give it to?” “No one.” Keena frowned. “Then why did Walter send us here?” Mrs. Curry looked at her. “Because the clock came here.” Neither of them spoke. Rich looked around the veranda. At the doors. At the walls. At every piece of furniture he could see. Keena caught him doing it. “Rich.” “What?” Mrs. Curry smiled.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 160 “You won't find it hanging over the fireplace.” “So it isn't here.” “I didn't say that either.” Rich looked at Keena. “I like her less than Walter.” Mrs. Curry laughed. It was the first time she had. Then she set down her cup. “My grandfather told the story differently than the one people tell now. When the old Sloppy Joe's moved, people carried everything they could down the street. Bar stools. Bottles. Tables. Signs. Anything Joe wanted at the new place.” “And the clock?” Keena asked. “The clock didn't go.” “Why not?” “It didn't work.” Rich looked at her. “Broken.” “For years, apparently.” That made him think of the family story. Gold hidden inside a clock no one bothered to repair. Mrs. Curry continued. “According to my grandfather, Joe left it with a handful of things he didn't care about. Some belonged to the building. Some were junk. Some nobody could agree about.” “What happened to it?” Rich asked. “It ended up with a Curry.” Keena put down her tea. “How?” Mrs. Curry shrugged. “Key West.” Rich nodded. “That answer is starting to mean everything.”
JASON MARCAL 161 “It usually does.” “Which Curry?” Mrs. Curry looked at him. “My grandfather's older brother.” “What was his name?” “Thomas Curry.” “And he brought the clock here?” “For a time.” Rich's eyes narrowed. “For a time.” Mrs. Curry nodded. “He collected things. Furniture. Ship pieces. Lamps. Anything with a story. Half of it was valuable. Half of it was trash. Sometimes nobody knew which half was which.” Keena showed her the family photograph again. “Did he know where this clock came from?” “Not from the Mercer, if that's what you're asking.” Rich and Keena both went quiet. Mrs. Curry looked between them. “That is what you're asking.” Keena said carefully, “Walter told you about the Mercer?” “No.” “Then how do you know?” Mrs. Curry looked at the photograph. “Because the name Clason is older in Key West than either of you.” Rich did not like how easily she said it. Keena leaned forward. “Mrs. Curry, what happened to the clock?” The old woman's expression changed. Not cold like Walter. Sad, maybe. Or simply far away. “It stayed in this family for decades.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 162 “Here?” “Sometimes here. Sometimes in another house. Key West families moved things around more than they moved themselves.” Rich smiled despite himself. “Then what?” “There was a sale.” “What kind of sale?” “Estate sale. Auction. Depends which piece of paper you believe.” “When?” Mrs. Curry looked toward the interior of the house. “Long enough ago that I was young and foolish enough not to care about an old broken clock.” Keena smiled. “That sounds promising.” “It isn't.” Mrs. Curry stood. Slowly. Rich stood too. “Where are you going?” “To see whether I still have something.” “What?” “A reason Walter sent you here.” She disappeared into the house. Rich looked at Keena. “You think she has the clock?” “No.” “You answered fast.” “She would've said so.” “Walter didn't.” “Mrs. Curry likes making us suffer differently.” Rich nodded. “Fair.” They waited.
JASON MARCAL 163 Five minutes passed. Then ten. Rich finished his tea. Keena looked at the empty cup. “You liked it.” “No.” “You drank all of it.” “I was thirsty.” “You could've had water.” “Don't ruin this.” Mrs. Curry returned carrying a wooden box. It was not large. It was old enough that the corners had gone smooth. She set it on the table. Rich forgot about the tea. Mrs. Curry opened the lid. Inside were photographs, letters, receipts, postcards and folded pieces of paper tied with string. Keena leaned closer. “Family records?” “Family clutter.” Mrs. Curry lifted out a bundle of photographs and set them aside. Then a packet of receipts. Finally she pulled out a small black book. The cover was cracked. No title. She placed it in front of them. “What is it?” Rich asked. “A register.” Keena looked at her. “For the inn?” “Not exactly.” Mrs. Curry opened it.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 164 The pages were filled with names, dates, descriptions and numbers written by different hands. Rich leaned closer. Mrs. Curry turned several pages. “Thomas kept records of everything he bought and sold. Furniture. Ship fittings. Paintings. Tools. Things from estates. Things from auctions.” Keena looked at Rich. “Clocks?” Mrs. Curry's finger moved down one page. Then stopped. She looked at them. “Sometimes.” Rich leaned over the table. “What does it say?” Mrs. Curry closed the book. Rich stared at her. “Seriously?” “You've been running around Key West for two days asking strangers about something you don't understand.” “We understand some of it,” Keena said. Mrs. Curry looked at her. “Do you?” Keena did not answer. Mrs. Curry rested her hand on the register. “Walter told you not to show me the brass.” “Yes.” “He was right.” Rich's expression hardened. “Why?” “Because if the clock you're looking for is the clock I think it is, you need to know who had it before you start telling people what you have.” Rich thought of Tomas.
JASON MARCAL 165 Keena saw it on his face. Mrs. Curry opened the book again. This time she turned it toward them. Her finger rested beside a faded entry. The handwriting was small. The ink had browned. Rich could make out only a few words from where he sat. Mahogany clock. Broken. Then a name. He leaned closer. Mrs. Curry covered it with one finger. “Tomorrow,” she said. Rich stared at her. “Tomorrow?” “You've had enough history for one morning.” Keena laughed. Rich did not. Mrs. Curry smiled. “Come back after breakfast.” Rich looked at Keena. She was smiling now too. He looked back at the old woman. “I liked Walter better.” “No, you didn't.” Rich thought about Robert. “That's probably true.” Mrs. Curry closed the register and held it against her chest. “Tomorrow.” Rich stood. Keena did too. At the edge of the veranda, Rich looked back once.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 166 Mrs. Curry was still sitting beside the wooden box, one hand resting on the register. The old house seemed different now. Not because the clock was there. Because it had been. And somewhere inside that little black book was the next place it went.
JASON MARCAL 167 CHAPTER FOURTEEN The Lighthouse They walked out through the gate and into the heat. Keena looked back once. “She enjoyed that.” Rich kept walking. “Too much.” “She’s eighty-something years old. Maybe torturing people in their twenties is what she does for fun.” “She has a register with the answer in it.” “And she said tomorrow.” “She could say today.” “She could.” Rich stopped on the sidewalk. Keena took three more steps before she noticed. “What?” He looked back toward the Curry House. “We’re not going back.” “I assumed that when she threw us out.” “She didn’t throw us out.” “She took the book away and told us to leave.” “That’s old-person throwing out.” Keena smiled. Rich looked toward the end of the street. “We’re done with clocks today.” She studied him. “You said that yesterday.” “I mean it this time.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 168 “That makes me trust it less.” Rich started walking again. Keena followed. “Where are we going?” “Somewhere.” “Oh, good. Very specific.” “You’ll like it.” “You don’t know what I like.” Rich looked at her. “I know you like places you’re not supposed to be.” Keena smiled. “That is becoming a problem.” They walked several blocks before she figured it out. The old lighthouse rose above the trees ahead of them. Keena looked at Rich. “The lighthouse?” “You’ve been?” “No.” Rich stopped. That pleased him more than it should have. “You’ve lived here your whole life.” “So have you.” “I’ve been.” “Of course you have.” Rich looked up at the tower. “Best view on the island.” Keena started toward the entrance. Rich caught her arm. “Not that way.” She looked at him. “There is literally an entrance.” “Tourists use that.” “We are tourists now?” “You are.” “And you?” Rich started around the side. “Local.” “That sounded dangerously close to pride.” He ignored her.
JASON MARCAL 169 There was a narrow path behind the trees and a place in the fence where years of people doing exactly what they were doing had loosened one section. Keena stopped. “No.” Rich ducked through. She stared at him from the other side. “You said you were taking me to the lighthouse.” “I am.” “You did not say we were breaking into the lighthouse.” “We’re not breaking anything.” “That is not how that phrase works.” Rich disappeared behind the hedge. Keena looked toward the proper entrance, then toward where he had gone. “Driftwood.” His head appeared through the leaves. “Mermaid.” She sighed and followed him. The tower was hotter inside than she expected. The air barely moved. They climbed. And climbed. Halfway up, Keena stopped. Rich looked down. “You all right?” “I’m reconsidering every decision that brought me here.” “You wanted rich-people Key West.” “This is your Key West.” “Exactly.” She started climbing again. “You’re enjoying this.” “A little.” At the top the wind hit them. Keena stepped out and stopped. For once, Rich did not make fun of her.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 170 The whole island spread beneath them. Key West seemed smaller from there. White roofs. Green trees. Church towers. The harbor. Boats cutting thin white lines through blue water. Beyond them sat the islands. Sunset Key looked clean and deliberate. Wisteria looked like something the sea had forgotten to finish. Keena rested both hands on the railing. “My house is over there.” Rich stood beside her. “Yeah.” She pointed. “And yours.” “Yeah.” From that height the distance between them looked ridiculous. Barely anything. A strip of water. A few minutes in a boat. Keena looked at him. “They look closer from here.” “They are close.” “You know what I mean.” Rich did. For a while neither of them spoke. The wind pulled Keena’s hair across her face. Rich reached over without thinking and moved it away. His hand stayed there a second too long. Keena noticed. So did he. Rich pulled it back. She smiled. “Very smooth.” “I was helping.” “Of course.” A gull passed almost level with them. Rich leaned against the railing. “This is where I used to come.” Keena looked at him. “When?” “Sometimes.” “That means you don’t want to answer.” Rich looked toward Wisteria. “When I was younger.” “You’re twenty-three.” “Younger than twenty-three.”
JASON MARCAL 171 “That narrows it down.” He smiled faintly. “When I was in foster homes down here. If I could get away, I’d come here.” “To look at the view?” “At the water.” Keena waited. Rich pointed north. “You can see almost everything from up here. Boats leaving. Boats coming back. Weather before it gets to you.” “And Wisteria.” “Wasn’t mine then.” She looked at him. “But you knew it was there.” “Yeah.” Something about that stayed between them. Then Rich pushed himself away from the railing. “Come on.” “Where?” “Down.” “I just climbed all the way up here.” “You complained the whole time.” “I earned the view.” They took the stairs slowly. Near the bottom, Keena stopped beside a wall covered with old photographs and drawings. “Rich.” He kept going. “Rich.” He turned. She was staring at an old framed sketch. “What?” Keena moved closer. The drawing was faded. Brown ink on yellowed paper. A sailing ship lay hard over in violent water, one mast broken, men scrambling across the deck. Small boats crowded around her. A wreck. Rich came back up two steps. “Probably one of a hundred.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 172 Keena did not answer. She leaned closer. Something was written beneath the drawing. The lettering was faded enough that she had to tilt her head. Rich stepped beside her. Then he saw the title. THE LOSS OF THE MERCER Neither spoke. The picture showed the ship driven onto the reef. A small wrecking vessel had come alongside. Men were hauling boxes and barrels from the damaged ship. One man stood in the bow of the smaller vessel, pointing toward the Mercer while another line was being made fast. Keena moved closer to the glass. “There’s writing under him.” Rich wiped dust from the bottom edge of the frame with his thumb. The caption became clearer. He read it aloud. “Joseph Slevens. First wrecker to the Mercer. Claimed first salvage rights.”
JASON MARCAL 173 They looked at each other. Keena read it again silently. Rich stared at the drawing. For a moment the lighthouse disappeared. So did the stairs. There was only the man in the picture, standing in the bow of a wrecking boat beside the Mercer. Keena looked at Rich. “You know that name?” “No.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 174 He answered too quickly. She noticed. “Slevens.” Rich shook his head. “My name is Schrimper.” “I know your name.” “That isn’t it.” “What?” “You’re looking at me like that means something.” “It might.” “It’s just a name.” Keena looked back at the sketch. “Maybe.” Rich leaned closer to the glass. The drawing was crude but detailed enough to show men moving cargo. Crates. Barrels. A trunk. Furniture. Near the broken rail of the Mercer, two men carried something rectangular between them. Keena pointed. “Look.” Rich followed her finger. The object was too small in the sketch to identify. But it was tall. Dark. And one of the men carried it carefully. Rich stared at it. Keena said quietly, “That could be a clock.” “It could be a box.” “It could.” Neither moved. Keena took out her phone. Rich looked at her. “What happened to no more clocks today?” “This isn’t a clock.” She photographed the sketch. Rich pointed at the tiny object being carried from the wreck. “That might be.” She took another picture. Then another closer one. Rich shook his head. “You’re terrible at taking a day off.” “You brought me here.”
JASON MARCAL 175 “For the view.” “And we got one.” “That’s not what I meant.” Keena enlarged the photograph on her phone. The old drawing filled the screen. The Mercer. The wreckers. The man in the bow. The caption. Keena looked up. “Do you know what being first meant?” Rich nodded. “First qualified wrecker to reach her could claim the salvage job.” “And get paid.” “Court decided the award.” She looked at the picture again. “So whoever he was, he didn’t just witness the wreck.” “No.” Rich looked at the man in the bow. “He owned the story after.” The words sounded familiar. Tomas. A rich man owns the story afterward. Rich felt something cold move through him despite the heat inside the tower. Keena saw the change in his face. “What?” “Nothing.” “That was not nothing.” Rich looked once more at the caption. He had never heard the name before. At least he did not think he had. “Take the picture,” he said. “I already did.” “Take a good one.” Keena did. Then they walked outside. The afternoon sun was still bright. Cars moved along the street. Tourists walked past carrying drinks and shopping bags. Nothing had changed. And somehow something had.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 176 Keena held up her phone. “So much for taking the day off.” Rich looked back at the lighthouse. “I’m starting to think Key West doesn’t want us to.” She slipped the phone into her pocket. “What now?” Rich looked toward the harbor. “Now we do something that has absolutely nothing to do with dead people, wrecks, clocks, gold, old women, dolls or Hemingway.” Keena considered it. “Food?” “Food.” “Expensive?” “No.” “Sauce dots?” “Absolutely not.” She smiled and hooked her arm through his. They started walking. After a few steps Keena said, “Slevens.” Rich looked at her. “What?” “Nothing.” “You said it.” “I like the name.” Rich shook his head. “Strange name.” “So is Schrimper.” “That one wasn’t my fault.” Keena laughed. Rich did too. But as they walked, the image stayed with him. A wrecked ship. A man in a small boat. And a name Rich had never heard before. Years later, he would learn exactly who the man in the drawing had been. But that afternoon he knew only one thing. He had reached the Mercer first.
JASON MARCAL 177 They got something simple to eat near the harbor and eventually walked back toward the Whaler. By then the light had softened and the heat had begun to loosen its grip on the island. Keena eased the Whaler into the shallows off Wisteria. Rich stepped out and pulled the bow toward the beach. “You want me to pick you up tomorrow?” she asked. He looked toward his camp. “Mrs. Curry.” “After breakfast.” “That’s what she said.” “You think she’ll actually show us the name?” Rich considered it. “No.” Keena laughed. “You’re probably right.” “She likes control.” “So do you.” Rich pointed at her. “That is not the same.” “It never is with you.” He smiled. She leaned against the console. “Same time?” Rich nodded. “I’ll be ready.” Keena looked toward his feet. “You wearing shoes again?” “Don’t push it.” She smiled. Rich stepped away from the Whaler. Keena put the engine in gear, then paused. “Rich.” He looked back. She touched the phone in her bag. “Don’t let that name bother you tonight.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t.” She studied him. “Right.” “See you tomorrow, Mermaid.” “Tomorrow, Driftwood.” She pushed the throttle forward. The Whaler moved away.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 178 Rich stood in the shallow water and watched until she was halfway to Sunset Key. Then he turned toward his shelter. The wooden treasure box waited inside. So did the brass plate. He opened the box and looked at it for a moment. Clason. Mercer. Now another name. He shut the lid. Tomorrow, Mrs. Curry would show them where the clock had gone. At least that was what Rich told himself. But as darkness settled over Wisteria, the thing he kept seeing was not the clock. It was the man standing in the bow of the wrecking boat. And the name beneath him.
JASON MARCAL 179 CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Salvage File Keena was ten minutes early again. This time Rich was sitting on the beach with his shoes beside him. She brought the Whaler into the shallows and cut the engine. “You’re not wearing them.” Rich picked up the shoes. “I have them.” “That wasn’t the agreement.” “There was no agreement.” “You said you’d be ready.” “I am ready.” “You’re barefoot.” Rich stepped into the boat. “Mrs. Curry doesn’t care about my feet.” “You don’t know that.” “She served me tea.” Keena pushed the throttle forward. “You drank all of it.” “I was thirsty.” “You liked it.” Rich looked toward Key West. “Drive the boat, Mermaid.” She smiled and brought the Whaler onto plane. Neither mentioned the lighthouse at first. Rich had thought about the drawing more than he wanted to admit. The Mercer lying over on the reef. Men moving cargo. The figure in the bow of the wrecking boat. The name beneath him.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 180 Slevens. He had told Keena it meant nothing. He still believed that. Mostly. Keena finally broke the silence. “You think she’ll actually show us the register?” “She said she would.” “So?” “So old people are unpredictable.” “Walter told us exactly where to go.” “Walter introduced me to a haunted doll.” “Allegedly haunted.” Rich looked at her. “You asked permission to photograph it.” “You asked permission.” “You made me.” Keena smiled and turned toward the harbor. By the time they reached the Curry House, Rich had put his shoes on. Keena noticed but was kind enough not to say anything. Mrs. Curry was on the back veranda exactly where they had left her. The wooden box sat on the little table beside the cracked black register. Three cups were waiting. Rich looked at them. Mrs. Curry looked at his shoes. “Well.” Rich stopped. Keena covered her mouth. Mrs. Curry poured the tea. “I was told you owned some.” Rich sat down. “I don’t like either of you.” “That isn’t true,” Keena said. Mrs. Curry slid a cup toward him. “You came back.” “For the book.” “Of course.” She rested one hand on the register. “Are you ready?”
JASON MARCAL 181 “I was ready yesterday.” “That was the problem.” Keena sat beside him. Mrs. Curry opened the cracked cover and turned several pages. The old paper made a dry whisper beneath her fingers. She found the entry and placed one finger beside it. Rich recognized the words she had allowed him to see the day before. Mahogany mantel clock. Broken. Then Mrs. Curry moved her finger away from the last notation. Keena leaned closer. Her eyebrows lifted. “Buffett Estate.” Rich looked at her. “What?” She pointed. A later hand had written two words in darker ink. Buffett Estate — furnishings. Rich looked at Mrs. Curry. “Jimmy Buffett?” Mrs. Curry gave him a patient look. “There aren’t many Buffetts people come to Key West asking about.” “The singer.” Keena looked at him. “Yes, Rich.” “I know who Jimmy Buffett is.” “You looked surprised.” “I am surprised.” Mrs. Curry took a sip of tea. Keena studied the entry. “How did a broken clock from the Curry family wind up connected to the Buffett estate?” “That is where my records stop being useful.” “You don’t know?” “I know the clock left this family. After that, it wandered through Key West the way old things do. Houses change owners. Furniture gets given away. People die. Children don’t want what their parents kept. Somebody later made that notation.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 182 “Who?” “My mother, I think.” “You think?” Mrs. Curry looked at her. “When you are old enough, you’ll discover that remembering who wrote something seventy years ago becomes less important than remembering where you put your glasses.” Rich glanced at the glasses hanging from the cord around her neck. Mrs. Curry saw him. “Don’t.” Rich drank his tea. Keena smiled. “Does that mean Buffett himself owned the clock?” “No.” “Could it?” “Yes.” “Could it mean it was simply in one of his properties?” “Yes.” “Could someone connected to the estate have acquired it?” “Yes.” Keena sat back. “So it could mean almost anything.” Mrs. Curry nodded. “Now you’re understanding historical research.” Rich leaned closer to the register. Jimmy Buffett had died only a few years earlier. Even Rich knew that. In Key West, Buffett was almost weather. You didn’t need to own his records to know the songs. They leaked out of bars, docks, radios and tourist boats until they became part of the island. “What happens to all the stuff in an estate like that?” Rich asked. “The same thing that happens to everyone else’s things,” Mrs. Curry said. “Family takes some. Things are stored. Things are sold. Things are given away. Things disappear.” “Auctions?” “Sometimes.” Rich looked at Keena.
JASON MARCAL 183 She was already thinking. “No.” She frowned. “What?” “You’re doing it.” “Doing what?” “Planning.” “I was thinking there could have been an estate auction.” “There it is.” Mrs. Curry watched them. Keena leaned over the register. “If furnishings were sold, somebody handled the sale.” “Probably.” “There’d be paperwork.” “Probably.” Rich looked at Mrs. Curry. “You say probably a lot.” “It prevents disappointment.” Keena smiled. “Would an estate sale show up in probate records?” Mrs. Curry gave her the smallest smile. “Maybe.” Rich pointed at her. “See?” Mrs. Curry closed the book. “If you’re looking for estate filings, start with the courthouse.” Rich stood. “Sit down.” He sat. Mrs. Curry poured more tea into his cup. “You have survived more than a century without finding that clock. You can survive another five minutes.” “I don’t need more.” She filled the cup anyway. “You’re very controlling.” “So I’ve been told.” Keena looked at the register. “Can I photograph the entry?”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 184 Mrs. Curry considered it, then turned the book toward her. “One photograph.” Keena raised her phone. Rich leaned in. She pushed his head away. “The entry.” “I was looking.” “You were blocking the light.” “I don’t block much light.” Mrs. Curry watched them with the expression of someone who had lived long enough to recognize something before the people experiencing it did. Keena took the photograph and slipped the phone away. “Thank you.” Mrs. Curry nodded. Rich finished his tea. Keena looked at the empty cup. He set it down. “Don’t.” They left. Outside, Keena had her phone out before they reached the gate. “Courthouse.” Rich looked back at the Curry House. “You really think we’re going to find Jimmy Buffett’s old furniture in a court file?” “No.” “Good.” “I think we’ll find who handled the estate.” “Less exciting.” “That’s how paperwork works.” “I don’t like paperwork.” “You’re looking for a clock that’s been missing for generations.” “I like boats.” “That hasn’t solved it.”
JASON MARCAL 185 “It helped.” They walked toward town. By the time they reached the courthouse, Rich had decided he disliked the place. The building had the feeling of somewhere designed to make everyone lower their voice. Keena walked in as if she belonged there. Rich followed half a step behind. A clerk looked up from behind the counter. Keena smiled. “We’re looking for records relating to an estate.” The clerk waited. “Jimmy Buffett.” The clerk waited some more. Rich leaned toward Keena. “She’s excited.” Keena ignored him. “We’re trying to determine whether household furnishings connected to the estate might have been sold.” The clerk looked over her glasses. “You’re looking for an auction inventory?” “Possibly.” “Probate doesn’t usually work like that.” Rich looked at Keena. She stared straight ahead. The clerk continued. “There may be estate filings. There may be references to personal property or representatives. But you’re probably not going to find a list that says lamp, sofa, broken clock.” Rich smiled. “Broken clock.” The clerk looked at him. “Yes?” “That’s what we’re looking for.” She stared at him. “Of course it is.” Keena gave him a look.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 186 Rich whispered, “I like her.” The clerk found what records she could. There were filings. Names. Property references. Lawyers. Nothing that looked remotely like furniture. Keena wrote down two names while Rich sat beside her watching pages appear on a screen. After twenty minutes, he leaned back. “This is terrible.” “You’ve been here twenty minutes.” “Exactly.” Keena kept reading. Rich looked around the room. Court records. Probate. Property disputes. Old cases. Then something clicked. He sat forward. “Keena.” “One second.” “Forget Buffett.” She stopped. “That sentence has probably never been spoken in Key West.” Rich pointed toward the records area. “We’re already in the courthouse.” “Yes.” “The Mercer.” Keena looked at him. He saw the moment she understood. “The salvage case.” Rich nodded. “There had to be one.” “Because salvage awards were legal.” “Exactly.” “A court would’ve decided who got paid.” “And what was recovered.” Keena smiled.
JASON MARCAL 187 “There might be an inventory.” Rich stood. “Now we’re doing something useful.” The clerk watched them return. “That was quick.” “We’re done with Jimmy Buffett,” Rich said. Keena added, “For now.” The clerk looked relieved. “What are you looking for?” “A wreck.” She stared at Rich. “This is a courthouse.” “A legal wreck.” Keena closed her eyes for a second. The clerk sighed. “What ship?” “The Mercer.” That changed things slightly. Not much. But enough. The records were old enough that nothing happened quickly. There were indexes, microfilmed references, old docket books and names spelled differently in different places. Rich sat through all of it. Barely. Eventually the clerk returned carrying a thin archival folder and a heavier bound reproduction of an old docket. She placed them on the table. “Don’t remove anything. No food. No drinks. Photograph without flash.” Rich looked at the folder. “That’s it?” “That may be it.” He opened it. The first page was a reproduced docket sheet. The lettering was faded but readable. Keena moved her chair closer.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 188 Across the top: IN THE MATTER OF THE WRECK AND SALVAGE OF THE MERCHANT VESSEL MERCER Rich felt something tighten in his chest. There it was. Not a museum placard. Not a family story. Not a photograph. A court case. Keena spoke quietly. “We found it.” Rich read down the page. Master. Owner. Cargo interests. Wrecking parties. Then: First qualified salvor: Joseph Slevens Keena said nothing. Rich looked sideways at her. She was still reading. “Don’t.” She turned toward him. “I didn’t say anything.” “You were going to.” “I really wasn’t.” “You made the face.” “What face?” “The Slevens face.” Keena smiled. “There is no Slevens face.” “There is now.” Rich looked back at the page. They continued. The report described the Mercer grounding on the reef and the first wrecking crew boarding shortly afterward. Rich turned another page. There were lists. Long ones. Cargo. Personal effects. Furniture. Ship equipment. Keena moved her finger down the entries. “Barrels.”
JASON MARCAL 189 “Very exciting.” “Crates.” “Getting better.” “Three trunks.” “Treasure.” “Personal effects.” “Less treasure.” She kept reading. Then her finger stopped. One mahogany mantel clock — damaged, movement inoperative. Neither spoke for a moment. Rich leaned closer. “That’s it.” Keena read it again. “Mahogany.” “Broken.” “Recovered from the Mercer.” Rich nodded. For the first time since Donnie had told Keena about the sister clocks, they had something that could not be dismissed as family legend. The clock had been aboard. The clock had been recovered. And the lighthouse drawing had shown what it claimed to show. Keena pulled out her phone. “Picture.” Rich moved aside. She photographed the page. Then Rich took the later disposition list. “Let’s see where it went.” They compared the documents. Recovered cargo appeared again. Crates. Furniture. Personal belongings. Auction lots. Items returned to owners. Items sold. Items retained pending claims. Keena moved down the first page. Then the second. Then back again. “It’s not here.” Rich was already looking.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 190 “Check again.” “I did.” “The desk is there.” “I see it.” “The chairs.” “Yes.” “The trunks.” “Yes.” “No clock.” Keena looked at him. Rich put the original inventory beside the final list. “It came ashore.” “But it never went through the final disposition.” “Unless it’s somewhere else.” They searched. Nothing. Near the bottom of another sheet was a smaller notation. The handwriting was difficult. Rich turned the page toward the light. “What does that say?” Keena leaned in. “Removed prior to disposition.” They looked at each other. “Removed by who?” Rich asked. The line after it had faded into a brown blur. Initials. Perhaps a name. Perhaps nothing. Keena photographed it. “We can enlarge it later.” Rich nodded, but his attention had shifted to another document. Times. He read the entry once. Then again. Keena noticed. “What?” “Grounding.”
JASON MARCAL 191 The report gave an approximate time. A little before ten at night. Below it was the estimated arrival of the first wrecking party. Keena calculated it. “That’s fast.” Rich shrugged. “They raced.” “That fast?” “That was the business. First qualified salvor mattered.” “At night?” “They worked at night.” “In bad weather?” “They worked in bad weather.” She looked at him. “You’re defending him.” Rich frowned. “I’m explaining wrecking.” “I know.” “Then why did you say it like that?” “Like what?” Rich looked back at the page. “Nothing.” Keena let it go. For about thirty seconds. Then she turned another page. It was a witness statement from one of the surviving officers of the Mercer. The language was formal and careful. Keena read silently. Then stopped. “Rich.” He leaned toward her. She pointed to one paragraph. He read it once. Then again. The officer described reduced visibility and uncertainty over the vessel’s position. Then a light. A light observed where the crew did not expect one.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 192 The master believed it marked safe water. The Mercer altered course toward it. Rich felt the room become very quiet. Keena read the passage again. “He followed the wrong light.” Rich said nothing. “It says the light wasn’t where they expected it.” “I can read.” Keena looked at him. “I know.” Rich leaned back. Old Key West was full of stories about wreckers and false lights. Most were stories. Tomas had told him that himself. Stories sold better than weather, reefs and bad navigation. Rich looked at the next paragraph. The Mercer struck. Then another entry. The first wrecking boat arrived shortly afterward. Keena looked from one page to the other. Rich knew what she was doing. “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “Make it into something it doesn’t say.” “I haven’t said anything.” “You don’t have to.” Keena sat back. “All right.” Rich looked at the witness statement again. The light. The altered course. The wreck. The arrival. He hated the order of it. Keena spoke carefully. “He got there very fast.” “He was a wrecker.” “I know.” “He could’ve been nearby.” “He could have.”
JASON MARCAL 193 Rich looked at her. “You don’t sound like you believe that.” “I don’t know what I believe.” “Good.” Her expression changed. “Why good?” “Because we don’t know anything.” “We know there was a strange light.” “We know somebody said there was a light.” “We know the Mercer followed it.” “According to one witness.” “And we know the first wrecking boat was there almost immediately.” Rich pushed the page away. “That doesn’t mean he put the light there.” “I didn’t say he did.” “You’re thinking it.” Keena’s eyes hardened slightly. “So are you.” Rich did not answer. That bothered him because she was right. Farther into the file they found the salvage award. It was substantial. The court had considered the value of the property recovered, the danger involved, the speed of assistance and the preservation of cargo. Rich read the language. Keena watched him. “What?” “Nothing.” “Now you’re doing it.” “Doing what?” “Thinking and waiting for me to ask.” Rich almost smiled. Almost. “He made money.” Keena looked at the award. “Yes.” “A lot.”
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 194 “It looks like it.” Rich closed the folder halfway. Keena said quietly, “My family lost the ship.” He looked at her. “His people got paid for saving what was left.” “That was wrecking.” “I know.” “It was legal.” “I know that too.” Rich’s voice became harder. “Then what are we arguing about?” Keena stared at him. “I don’t think we are.” That took some of the air out of him. He looked down. “Good.” For a moment neither spoke. Then Keena reached over and opened the folder again. “We don’t know who put that light there.” Rich nodded. “No.” “We don’t know that anybody put it there deliberately.” “No.” “And the records don’t accuse Slevens of doing it.” “No.” Keena tapped the witness statement. “But somebody aboard that ship believed there was a light where there shouldn’t have been one.” Rich stared at the old page. “That part we know.” They photographed the relevant documents. The salvage docket. The inventory. The damaged mahogany clock. The final list where the clock disappeared. The witness statement. The award. And the name of the first salvor. When they finished, the clerk returned. “Find your clock?” Rich looked at Keena. “Sort of.”
JASON MARCAL 195 The clerk frowned. “Is that good?” “We don’t know yet.” She gathered the archival material. Keena thanked her. Rich stood but watched the folder until it disappeared behind the counter. Outside, the afternoon light seemed too bright. Keena took out her phone. Rich saw which photograph she opened. The witness statement. “Stop reading it.” She looked at him. “Why?” “You already know what it says.” “So do you.” He kept walking. Keena followed. “I am not accusing anybody.” Rich stopped. “You’re thinking about it.” She stopped beside him. “So are you.” There was no anger in her voice. That made it worse. Cars passed. Tourists moved along the sidewalk. A rooster crossed the street as if it owned the place. Key West had gone on being Key West while two people inside a courthouse opened a file nobody had cared about for generations. Keena put her phone away. “Rich.” He looked at her. “We found the clock.” “Not the clock.” “The proof.” He knew what she meant.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 196 For the first time they knew what had happened after the Mercer hit the reef. The clock had not remained at the bottom. It had been salvaged. It had come ashore. Then, somewhere between the wreck and the formal disposition of the recovered property, the broken clock disappeared from the official record. Years later it surfaced again in Key West. Sloppy Joe’s. The Curry family. Eventually a notation connecting it to the Buffett Estate. A broken thing passing through the hands of people who had no reason to look inside it. That part excited Rich. The other part did not. Keena started walking again. Rich followed. After half a block she slipped her arm through his. He looked down at it. Then at her. She did not say anything. Neither did he. By the time they reached the Whaler, the edge had gone out of the argument. Keena brought them across the harbor toward Wisteria. The sun was lower now, and the water had begun turning the color it took just before evening. She eased the boat into the shallows near Rich’s camp. Rich stepped over the side and pulled the bow closer to shore. Keena stayed behind the console. “You want me to pick you up tomorrow?” Rich looked toward his shelter. Then toward the water. The day had been spent with dead people, old papers and questions neither of them could answer. He did not want it to end there.
JASON MARCAL 197 “Stay awhile.” Keena looked at him. “For what?” “Dinner.” She smiled. “You cooking?” “Yes.” “That’s brave.” “I cook every day.” “For yourself.” “Still counts.” She looked toward his camp. “What are we eating?” Rich looked at the water. “Don’t know yet.” Keena followed his eyes. “No.” “What?” “You invited me to dinner before you had dinner?” Rich picked up a rod. “That’s how dinner works here.” She laughed. He handed her another. “Come on.” They walked around the edge of the island to where the water dropped beside the mangroves. Rich baited her hook. Keena watched. “You do this every day?” “Pretty much.” “For food?” “Sometimes.” “And sometimes?” “Money.” “You sell fish?” “Sometimes.” “You say sometimes a lot.” “Prevents disappointment.” Keena looked at him. “That sounded familiar.” Rich smiled. He cast first. The bait landed exactly where he wanted it.
THE WRECKER'S INHERITANCE 198 Keena tried. Hers landed six feet away. Rich looked at the splash. “Good.” “That sounded fake.” “It was.” She cast again. Better. Rich showed her how to hold the rod, how to feel the line instead of staring at it, how to let the bait drift near the mangrove edge where the current curled around the roots. He tied knots without looking. Changed hooks quickly. Watched the water. At one point he stopped fishing altogether. Keena noticed. “What?” “Bait moved.” She looked at the surface. “I don’t see anything.” “You will.” A few seconds later the water broke. Small fish scattered. Something larger struck beneath them. Keena looked at him. “How did you know that?” Rich shrugged. “They told me.” “The fish?” “The water.” “That sounds suspiciously mystical.” “It isn’t.” “What is it?” “Paying attention.” Keena smiled. “You’re becoming Walter.” “That’s insulting.” Rich caught the first fish. A yellowtail. Not enormous. Good eating. He brought it in quickly and removed the hook. Keena crouched beside him. “That was fast.” “Dinner.” “That’s enough?”
JASON MARCAL 199 “For you maybe.” She looked at him. “Excuse me?” Rich grinned and cast again. Keena did too. Ten minutes later, her rod bent hard. She almost dropped it. “Rich.” He looked over. “Don’t pull.” “I am definitely pulling.” “That’s the problem.” The fish ran. The drag screamed. Keena’s eyes widened. “What is happening?” “You hooked something.” “I know that.” “Let it run.” “It is taking my line.” “That’s what fish do.” She glared at him. “This is not helpful.” Rich laughed. “Keep the rod up.” For the first thirty seconds she fought the fish badly. Then less badly. Rich stood beside her, giving instructions. “Reel when it gives.” “When does it give?” “You’ll feel it.” “I don’t feel anything except panic.” “That’s close.” The fish surfaced. Rich saw it. Then looked at his own yellowtail in the bucket. “Oh, come on.” Keena heard him. “What?” “Nothing.”