The Treasure Man. Pamela Browning
time. I’m glad you’re here, Chloe. The inn has been vacant too long.”
“The whole place needs tidying up,” Chloe confessed, “but I’m too busy right now setting up my workshop. Maybe I’ll get around to cleaning in a few days.” Privately, she doubted she’d have time.
“You want that big place clean you should hire locals to do it. Too many people are without jobs these days. Citrus harvest is in the winter, and in the summer the packing houses are closed. Teenagers especially need work,” Zephyr said. She gestured down the boardwalk, where a group of girls and boys were horsing around, slapping one another with damp towels and shrieking. “They get up to no good if they don’t have enough to do for three months. Ben may know someone. Maybe even those kids.”
“Perhaps I’ll ask him,” Chloe said, and left it at that.
THE FIRST THING Ben did when he left the inn the morning after his arrival was to stop by Keefe’s Dive Shop, where local divers congregated and bought equipment as well as supplies. Dave Keefe, the genial owner who had outfitted Ben with scuba gear years ago when he’d first come to town, greeted him effusively.
“Ben, I’m glad to see you,” he said, after clapping Ben on the back and shaking his hand. “You’ve been gone too long. What are you doing with yourself these days?”
“Trying to earn a living. I don’t work for Sea Search anymore.”
A shadow passed over Dave’s face. “I heard.”
“The thing is, Dave, I’m still a certified scuba instructor. I’d like to pick up a class or two. It would help me make ends meet.”
Seeming thoughtful, Dave circled back behind the counter. “I can help you out,” he said slowly. “I’m teaching a group of beginners, but I’d like some time off. Would you consider taking over? The class is on Thursday evenings, seven to ten, in the pool out back. I teach the basic stuff.”
“You’ve got a deal,” Ben said, his hopes rising. Maybe reestablishing himself around here wouldn’t be so difficult to after all.
“See you next Thursday? I’ll introduce you to the students and bug out right away.”
“Sure.”
Dave rummaged on a shelf under the counter. “Here’s the scuba manual. I can’t teach you much about diving, but you should be familiar with questions the students will ask.”
“No problem,” Ben assured him.
His spirits were high as he drove down Loquat Street, which passed for the main drag in Sanluca. The town’s appellation was a corruption of San Luca, which was the name of the spring-fed river that drained into the Intracoastal Waterway, known in these parts as Spaniard’s Lagoon. Back in the days when Florida belonged to Spain, the lagoon, protected by several barrier islands and accessible from the ocean through a natural inlet, had been a popular safe anchorage for ships that plied the shore.
A sign at the edge of town welcomed visitors: Sanluca, it proclaimed. Home Of Sea Search, Inc., And Not Much Else. Underneath, in smaller letters, it said, Proudly Undeveloped. True, because on Florida’s east coast, to find any place that hadn’t been overbuilt, straining schools, social services and infrastructure, was rare. Sanluca had avoided that fate because the town was small in area and most of it had been set aside as a nature preserve.
Besides Dave’s dive shop, Sanluca’s business district encompassed a post office, a gas station, a combined art gallery and gift shop, a small treasure museum and the Sand Bar, which was a local hangout at the city marina. For nostalgia’s sake and in celebration of landing the teaching job, Ben acted on impulse and stopped in at the Sand Bar to order a burger, medium rare, with cheese and onions.
“Want a beer?” asked Joe Devane, the beefy bushy-haired bartender. He and Ben went back a long way, to the first year Ben worked at Sea Search.
“No, a glass of water will do,” Ben told him, reacquainting himself with the Sand Bar’s decor, which consisted of fishnet draped around dried starfish hung on the wall. An old ship’s wheel was mounted above the pool table, and outside was a thatched hut where you could belly up to the bar and listen to pickup jazz sessions at night.
Joe slid a glass across to Ben, leaving a slick, wet trail on the polished wood. Ben drained the drink in almost one gulp. It was easy to get dehydrated in this tropical climate. The sun baked the moisture right out of a person’s skin.
“You working for Andy McGehee again?” Joe asked.
Ben shrugged. “I’ve talked to him about it. He’s full up. Got enough divers, he says.” He wasn’t surprised at Joe’s question. At the Sand Bar, local treasure hunters talked casually and often about the business.
“There’re always one or two divers who quit in the course of a summer. He’ll hire you.”
“Maybe. In the meantime, I’m going to be teaching a scuba class for Dave Keefe.”
“That’s great, but don’t give up on Andy. He was in here the other day with some of the guys on his crew. They were talking about last year’s hurricane and how it uncovered new sections of the wrecks offshore.”
“Couldn’t help but do that,” Ben agreed. A good storm was a treasure hunter’s dream.
“He’ll need all the divers he can get.”
“Yeah, well,” Ben said. He understood Andy’s unwillingness to hire him after he’d let him go during what Ben privately thought of as the bad time. Andy was probably unconvinced that Ben had since shaped up, and that was understandable.
“Are you staying around here somewhere?” Joe asked. There weren’t many options, even in the off-season. The Sanluca Motel was a dilapidated scratcher with ten dimly lit rooms where people rarely wanted to spend more than one night. The nearest real hotel was twelve miles away and charged for one night’s lodging twice what most locals earned in a day. The other alternative was an RV park where the owner, old Ducky Hester of the gnarled teeth and bodacious BO, might let someone stay for a night or two in the trailer of an owner who only occupied it in the winter; Ducky pocketed the money with the owner none the wiser. Ben considered himself lucky to have run into Chloe Timberlake last night, and even luckier that she was allowing him to stay in the apartment at the Frangipani Inn.
“I’m living at Tayloe and Gwynne’s place,” he said.
“I heard they closed up the inn and moved away.”
Ben shrugged. “Tayloe’s niece is looking after things,” he said.
“That’s good. For you, I mean.”
Ben nodded and took a long drink of water as Joe moved away to greet another customer.
His hamburger was done perfectly, and Ben soon became aware that the waitress, who wore a halter top and sported a silver ring in her navel, was sending soulful looks in his direction. When she slapped the check on the table, she sidled a little closer than necessary. “Joe says you’re hoping to sign on with Sea Search,” she said. He made himself focus on a large white pelican, one of a flock that roosted on the pilings around the place.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the plan.”
“My brother works for Andy McGehee. I could put in a good word for you.”
The pelican flew away, flapping its wings as it soared awkwardly above the lagoon. “Sure,” he said easily. “If you want.” He waited for her to reel in whatever strings were attached.
“Okay, I’ll mention it. You’re Ben, right?”
“Ben Derrick,” he said.
“I’m Liss,” she said. “Liss Alderman.”
He vaguely remembered a young guy named Alderman. The kid had hung around the city docks a lot, and in fact, Tommy Alderman had still been in high school back when Ben had worked for Andy McGehee.
“Nice