5
Treasure Quest
Miss Price slurped noisily and repeatedly at her whipped-cream-topped Ovaltine, which Artis and Nimwell Scroggit, who counted themselves among the nation’s minority of hot chocolate haters, were forced to endure with a quiet yet squirmy grace. She stared at them in disbelief. So, these were the alleged professionals who had so blithely detoured from the straight and narrow of the law to procure for her some of her most treasured historical artifacts? In the past, her surreptitious dealings with them had been strictly by phone or letter. Deliveries had been left on her doorstep, and cash payments left in the mailbox.
Now that she was actually meeting the Scroggit brothers in person, she began to have second thoughts. Why, these two looked and acted like ne’er-do-well slugs, mere husks of men barely able to summon the energy to tie their shoes in the morning, much less flout the law. Look at them, all hangdog expressions and fumbling hands, weakness etched into every pore of their putty-like faces. Why, they were just wheezing, doddering old fools! But who else was there? They were all she had.
Artis and Nimwell sat quietly on the sofa, daintily drinking their Ovaltine out of scalloped china cups, and thinking that mugs would have done a better job of conveying the offending beverage to their lips. They took care to keep their eyes averted from the steely, unremitting gaze of Miss Price, who finally turned her head in disgust, almost sloshing hot chocolate all over herself in the process before setting the cup on the lampstand next to her.
But the Scroggit brothers brought a sort of bumbling passion to their work as antique hunters that was great enough to sometimes offset their absolute fecklessness. Aware at least subconsciously of their limitations, they often operated in the shadows of their profession, sneaking around on lightly patrolled public lands looking for easy pickings and targeting desperate widows and widowers willing to part with their historical relics for some ready, piddling cash.
Why, it was only last week that they had dug up the steel band fitted around the rim of a Conestoga wagon wheel in western Nebraska. Sure, it was on government property, but Nebraska was in budget-cut mode, slashing the state park budgets. Supervision having been drastically reduced, the Scroggit brothers were able to just waltz up to the site with their tools, probe around with their metal detectors, and dig the thing out without anyone but a few visitors being any the wiser. Besides, they were wearing their gray shirts with official-looking arrowhead-shaped patches stitched onto them to make it look like they were supposed to be there. They knew a collector who would pay $3,000 for that band.
While they were at it, they had detoured west to that vast sandstone megalith, Goliath Rock, where, under the cover of a heavy rain, they chiseled out the carved autographs of a dozen pioneers. That’d be good for a cool $10,000.
The Scroggit brothers, bachelors by both choice and lack of opportunity, did not really like women in general and Miss Price in particular. She was prissy and domineering. She treated them like children and derided them as oafs.
Still, Miss Price would pay well for what she wanted, and she knew her history. This new job offer sounded intriguing. If they had to skirt the law a bit, that was just an occupational hazard that would jack up their price.
Then again, taking liberties with the law was something they’d have to consider carefully. They could handle mild infractions posing negligible risks. An overt criminal act involving the distinct possibility of getting caught was a whole other matter.
“Miss Price, what you’re asking us to do is against the law,” said Artis, who gazed distastefully into his cup of Ovaltine, then took a reluctant sip.
“This is justice we’re serving here,” said Miss Price. “That’s a lot bigger than something written down in a statute book. Something that is rightfully mine remains buried on that ridge across from Bluegill Pond. Don’t you want to help somebody do the right thing in the name of history? Besides, professionals such as yourselves are supposed to know how to minimize risk. And where’s your sense of adventure, huh?”
Artis tugged his ear distractedly and fidgeted in his chair. Nimwell stole a quick glance at his watch. A pocket notebook, pages flapping, sailed by Artis’s head. A ballpoint pen, launched with some force, grazed Nimwell’s forehead.
“Hey!” they both cried.
“Pay attention!” shouted Miss Price. “Am I boring you, or are you dimwits incapable of showing a prospective employer a little consideration?” She sighed. “I guess good help is hard to find these days in the historic antiquities business.”
“Well, Miss Price, we had planned to visit our St. Anthony store, which is on the brink of going out of business. We’re already late for an appointment with our accountant.”
“It can wait!” Miss Price hissed. “If you do as you’re told, you won’t care if your whole bloody Civil War empire comes crashing down. What I’m proposing could make you rich in ways you can’t imagine.”
Artis and Nimwell cringed, both at the thought of their flagging business, and at the notion that, somewhere, just out of reach, there might be a treasure that could set them up in comfort for the rest of their lives. But they were inclined to view stories about buried treasure near where the old Price place used to be as just a bunch of old wives’ tales unworthy of investigation, and certainly not worth breaking the law for.
“Miss Price, you can’t just go traipsing around in somebody’s yard, without permission, looking for some buried treasure,” Artis said. “You just can’t do it.”
“It is against the law,” Nimwell said. Miss Price sucked in a big breath, then heaved it out with an exasperated gasp.
“Why don’t we just explain to the Fremonts what the situation is, and ask if we could please look for it, whatever it is?” wondered Artis.
“Because we don’t want them to know what’s under their property and get it for themselves, you dingbat! What is on, or under, that property belongs to me and my family. It’s just that the law as it is now written doesn’t recognize that. So, do you want to help, or do you intend to chicken out? And where did you get the idea that this is a treasure? I never told you about any treasure.”
“Old treasure hunter stories,” Nimwell said.
“Every treasure hunter worth his salt has heard them,” added Artis. “Those stories have been circulating for generations. There’s nothing to them.”
“Well, I happen to know differently,” said Miss Price. “And I’m a historian. I don’t traffic in stories. I amass evidence and reach conclusions. And my conclusion is that there is something of great value and much significance buried in that backyard. And the thing is that we have to get moving on it because they suspect it’s there. Just you go over there with your watchamacallums—”
“Metal detectors.”
“Metal detectors. That’s right. They’re good ones, too, I take it.”
“They’ll do in a pinch,” Nimwell said. “Mine found a belt buckle, scabbard, and three minie bullets at the Chickamauga battlefield site. That was under a bunch of forest clutter and a foot of soil.”
“And you did that on the sly, didn’t you!” whooped Miss Price. “You did that on the sly because you weren’t supposed to, were you? I remember. That’s National Park Service property, and you snooped around and dug up stuff there anyway, now didn’t you? See, I remember. You told me so!” The Scroggit brothers looked at each other sheepishly. “So what makes this one any different, huh?”
“That was Civil War stuff,” Artis said. “That’s different. And it was government property we were digging on, not somebody’s own yard. The government has no right to own land in a democracy. We were merely carrying out our commission as private citizens expropriating resources unlawfully locked up by a socialist state.”
Nimwell nodded vigorously.
“Don’t assault me with any of your right-wing libertarian claptrap! You cowards! You frauds! You unmentionables! If I told you what I almost know beyond any doubt is buried on that ridge, you would jump right off your duffs and hightail it right over there because you wouldn’t be able to contain yourselves. That’s how big it is! That’s how big it is!”
Miss Price jumped up out of her chair in her excitement, knocking over her cup, spilling hot chocolate over her beautifully woven circular rug of many colors, and not even noticing. She shook a balled fist at the Scroggit brothers.
Artis and Nimwell reared back instinctively, holding up their free hands to ward off whatever Miss Price was prepared to unleash at them.
“This is wha’ the hightail that struck mightily in which his was arrears,” cried out Nimwell, who had the disconcerting habit of mangling his syntax and vocabulary when faced with a high-stress, threatening situation.
“Huh?” said Miss Price, suddenly taken aback. “What’d he say?”
Artis shrugged and rolled his eyes.
“And now!” roared Miss Price, her voice taking on new fervor, steadiness, and unwavering purpose. “I’m gonna tell you what it is that’s buried under 4250 Payne Avenue, and you just try to tell me you’re not going to itch to go lookin’ there to find it!”