Twenty-Five

“Hello there!” the dead man’s friend called to me.

Dammit. I’d been staring.

“I couldn’t help notice you looking at my metal detector.” He walked over to my picnic blanket, eyeing it suspiciously. “You here for the same thing? Got one concealed in that gargantuan picnic basket of yours?”

“I read about the treasure hunting in the paper.” I stood and extended my hand. “I’m Zoe. And I’m not here searching for the missing loot. Only enjoying the view.”

“Earl Rasputin.” He took my hand. His hand was rough, calloused. It matched his gritty, deep voice.

I also noticed his eyes were rimmed with red. Of course. His friend had been murdered.

He scratched his stubbly cheek. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

Had he seen me inside the theater with Dorian? Had he and Wallace still been there when I spoke with Peter and Penelope? I would have seen him if he’d been in my line of sight, but perhaps he’d heard my voice. That could have been why he thought I was familiar.

“You look familiar to me too,” I said. “I’ve got it. You were with the man who volunteered for the Phantasmagoria magic show.”

“You were there?”

“I love a good magic show.” I cringed inwardly at my inept response. Clearly it wasn’t just my body that was lacking at the moment; my mental faculties weren’t at 100 percent either. Plus, his bushy black eyebrows were distracting.

He sighed. “You haven’t seen the news.”

“Oh, how stupid of me. Yes, of course.” I fiddled with my hands, trying to appear flustered as if I’d only just now remembered that Wallace was dead. It wasn’t difficult, since I was flustered for another reason. I tried to think of a good segue to warn him about the magician without sounding crazy. I also needed to find out what he knew about the loot that had led him to spy on the magicians, when nobody else seemed to have made the connection. But all I came up with was, “I’m so sorry. I did hear about the man who was killed. He was your friend?”

“You get to be my age, and you lose a lotta friends,” he said. “It’s not an enjoyable experience, but you learn to live with it. But this one’s different. I’m not used to losing friends through violent death—if you don’t count war.” He paused and his dark eyes bore into me. “In the face of death, what you learn most is that you’ve gotta keep on living. That’s why I’m out here today.”

I looked around. A lot of trees and birds, but not a lot of people. “His funeral?”

“Nah, the police still have him.”

“That’s awful.” I shivered, and I wasn’t acting for Earl’s benefit. When I thought of Wallace Mason’s dead body falling onto the stage floor, the image replayed itself in slow motion in my mind, as if I could have done something to prevent it. “Do you know what happened?”

“He went and got himself stabbed to death.” Earl shook his head. “He always had a temper, so who the hell knows who he pissed off this time. Stupid bastard. Gets himself killed just when we’re so close!”

“So close?” What did he know about Franklin Thorne, aka Peter Silverman, and his loot?

“Wallace and I are treasure hunters. Been doing it for close to a decade now. Instead of sitting at home alone drinking the bottle of rye he bought me for my last birthday, I thought I’d honor his memory by coming out here today. See if I can find the treasure.”

“You’re talking about the Lake Loot? I thought everyone had given up on it.”

He looked from me to the picnic basket, his eyes narrowing as he did so. “You know a lot about it for someone who says they’re not here for the treasure. You having a party here? Where are the rest of your friends hiding?”

“It’s just me. Would you like to sit down and have something to eat? I was hungry, so I overdid it.”

“You got that right.” He set down the metal detector and a fanny pack, then hitched up his jeans and sat down on the plaid picnic blanket. Apparently he’d decided I was harmless. I wasn’t so sure about him, though, when I caught a glimpse of what was in the fanny pack. Flyers about Bigfoot sightings. Bigfoot.

Yes, I’d just invited a conspiracy theorist to join me for a late lunch in a cemetery.

Well, since he was already sitting down, I might as well sit back down, too, and give him a sandwich. After all, I needed to warn him to stay away from the magician-alchemist.

“What’s a pretty little lady doing all alone in a cemetery?” Earl asked, taking a bite of the olive tapenade and vegetable sandwich.

“It’s peaceful here.” I pressed my locket to my chest, my daily cemetery reminder. “I’m surprised they allow metal detectors in here. Seems like that’s an open invitation for grave robbing.”

“Some poor sap was arrested for that very reason. Nah, they run a tight ship here. You stick a shovel in the ground and they’ll stop you before you toss the first pile of dirt over your shoulder. But I know what I’m doing. I was just passing through to the landslide area.” He waved his hand over to where I’d seen the other treasure hunters headed.

“The landslide area that’s blocked off—”

“You work for the police, missy?”

“No, but—”

“Then maybe you should mind your own business.”

I contemplated skipping the warning to stay away from the alchemist’s hoard, but my conscience got the better of me. “I was only trying to help. It seems awfully dangerous. It seems like you’d be doing a disservice to your friend to get arrested or die trying to find the loot.”

“Neither is gonna happen.”

“Do you know something more than the others about the Lake Loot?”

Earl narrowed his eyes at me.

“Don’t you think it’s suspicious,” I said, “that your friend was killed right when you two were so close to finding it? I don’t mean to be nosey, but I’d hate to see the same thing happen to someone else.”

“Like I said, Wallace had a temper. He was a good man, and helped me out years ago when I was going through a rough time, but lots of people would say he had it coming. I already told the police. Don’t you worry about it. Damn.”

My skin prickled. Had he remembered something? “What is it?”

“This is the best sandwich I’ve eaten in years. You a chef?”

I sighed. “I cook pastries for a café part-time. But you’ve got me curious. What do you know about the loot?”

“I used to work as a chef.”

“You did?”

He nodded. “I was born at the wrong time. I owned a food truck twenty years before they became popular.”

“What did you cook?”

“Chocolate fondue. Now, I can tell what you’re thinking. That’s pretty dang messy for a food truck. But that was the genius of it. I’ve got a knack at tempering chocolate, bringing it to the right temperature so it doesn’t melt when you don’t want it to. Each morning dip an assortment of sweet and savory foods in chocolate, then pop ’em into the truck’s fridge. Voilà. I’d have fresh chocolate-covered fruit, scones, bacon, you name it. I’d take custom orders. Those were the most popular. I never understood grilled cheese sandwiches dipped in chocolate, but to each his own.” Earl shook his head. “I’m a man ahead of my time. When I was ready to retire I sold my truck to a young punk for a song, and now the kid’s got lines down the street for some sort of curried chick pea burrito. Baffles the mind.”

“And now you look for lost Oregon treasures?”

“You’ve got talent, young lady.” He tucked the last piece of a sandwich into his mouth and closed his eyes as he chewed, giving me a chance to study his face. As he ate in blissful silence, his weathered skin accentuated the lines around his mouth and eyes. He gave a contented sigh, then his dark eyes popped open and startled me with the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t give out praise willy-nilly. You mind?” He indicated the basket.

“Help yourself. And thanks. But you never answered my question. What’s your secret information about the Lake Loot? You’ve got me intrigued.”

He squinted his eyes at me. “If I told you, how do I know you wouldn’t take it for yourself?”

“Why would I do that? I don’t understand why anyone is after it. Whoever finds it can’t keep it. It belongs to the Lake family.”

“You’re forgetting about the reward.”

“You’re in it for the small reward?”

He picked up a second sandwich and stood up. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s the thrill of the hunt, honey. The thrill of the hunt. And now that Wallace is gone, I’m going to find it to honor his memory.”

After Earl left, I again felt like I knew less rather than more. Earl was a strange fellow. Bigfoot sightings? An inside track on the treasure? He knew a lot more than he was telling me, but what? It couldn’t be a coincidence that he’d been sneaking around the theater. What had he discovered about Peter Silverman’s connection to the Lake Loot? If he believed in Bigfoot, did he believe in alchemy? Or could it all be an act? Could he have killed his friend once they were close to finding the treasure?

I was tired of thinking. At least Earl had saved me from lugging a heavy picnic basket back to the car. He’d eaten almost everything.

I was still tired from the effort I’d expended that morning, but a walk would do me good. I was cold despite the warm spring air and my thick sweater, another indication that my energy was depleted in ways that food couldn’t heal. Either that or this polyester sweater wasn’t nearly as warm as my favorite wool sweater that had been impaled by a sharp piece of ceiling.

I followed a winding path past a set of mausoleums. Either by accident or design, the plants circling several of the raised crypts mirrored the family names. I imagined that in late summer, giant sunflowers shadowed the Sun family mausoleum. The Thorne mausoleum was surrounded by thorny rose bushes, destined to bloom vibrant and fragrant. And a skilled gardener had somewhat successfully coaxed blackberry bushes into growing up the outer stone walls of the Blackstone crypt.

There weren’t any funerals taking place that Monday afternoon, so I had the place mostly to myself. Until a figure caught my eye. Though he was on a path below me on the hillside, it was impossible to miss him. He was juggling three pine cones in his left hand. In his other hand, he held the hand of a woman who stood a head taller than him.

Peter and Penelope Silverman. The magician-alchemists.