Page 3 of Death at the Deep Dive

“Yeah. Okay, well, first things first. This haul is going straight into the evidence locker down at the station. Tomorrow I’ll phone the Rhode Island Marine Archaeology Project in Newport.”

“I’m just going to grab some quick pics.” Ellery held his phone up.

Jack nodded absently. He was studying the ceiling entrance to the attic. He did not look happy.

Ellery moved around the desk, snapping photos of each coin, front and back. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. Once the coins were in the hands of RIMAP, they were no longer his problem. He might never even see them again, outside of a museum—ideally, a Buck Island museum.

He paused to examine one coin, then held it out to Jack. “Can you tell what that says? The tiny writing to the left of HISP? Is that a date?”

Jack held the coin beneath the lamp, squinting at the worn engraving. “Maybe 1611?”

“Could that be right?”

“1611? Yes. If these are the real thing, well, the 1650s to 1730s were the golden age of piracy.”

“You know what this means?” Ellery glanced at Jack, who looked resigned.

“What do you think it means?”

“Everyone seems to think that diving suit we found in Buccaneer’s Bay originally belonged to Vernon Shandy.”

“And the collection bag was part of the suit.”

“Right. And Tackle himself said Vernon was obsessed with finding theBlood Red Rose. That he spent all his spare time hunting for her.”

Jack smiled. “You think these coins are from theBlood Red Rose. You think Vernon found Captain Blood’s ship.”

“Yes. I do.”

“But don’t you think, if Vernon found theBlood Red Rose, he’d have told someone?”

Ellery considered. “Yeah. He would. He’d have to. He couldn’t retrieve her treasure on his own. He’d probably share that information with certain family members. I don’t know that he’d share it with everyone, and no way with anyone outside the Shandy family circle.”

Jack grunted. The Shandys were one of Buck Island’s oldest and most notorious families. They kept themselves to their selves, and their relationship with law enforcement was wary at best.

Wary on both sides, truth be told.

Jack said, “If the coins are real—and they look real, I agree, but neither of us are experts—then you could be right.”

“And if we’re right about that,” Ellery said, “then you know what else I think?”

Jack studied him for a thoughtful moment. He sighed. “You think Vernon Shandy was murdered.”

“I sure do,” Ellery replied.

Chapter Two

“What’ll you have to drink, gents?” Though the pub was nearly empty, Tom Tulley appeared to be in a jovial mood when Ellery and Jack sat down at their usual table at the Salty Dog.

By October, the tourists were mostly gone and the island returned to its (in the view of the citizens of Pirate’s Cove) rightful owners. The days were cool and crisp, luminous with autumn’s gorgeous, golden light. The ocean was still warm enough for swimming, and it was easy to get a good table in any restaurant or bar without a wait. The chilly nights were fragrant with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. Twilight strolls along the beach were lit by meteor showers and the white, silky filaments of milkweed pods.

“What was that blue cocktail you made for me last Friday?” Ellery shrugged out of his jacket with Jack’s help. Jack had the unobtrusive, courtly gesture thing down to a science. He moved away to hang their jackets on the hooks near the door.

“Blueberry iceberg,” Tom answered. “Libby came up with that recipe. Blueberry vodka, Blue Curaçao, lime juice, and a splash of sparkling water.”

“That was great. I’ll have that again.”

Tom nodded, asked Jack, “How about you, Chief? The usual?”

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