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WHEN I WAS A KID, I learned about patience making root beer with my father. We would mix the stuff in a huge milk can then set it out in glass jars to ferment in the summer sun. The first time we mixed it, I couldn’t leave it alone. Every day I got down on the ground and stared at the jars until I couldn’t resist. Naturally, it never tasted good until it was ripe. It was time I let all thoughts of the chateau ferment in the sun without me.
After leaving the Miquon School, I hiked around the village mountainside for an hour. Following my nose through a maze of narrow streets, I went from the ornate sign of one private estate to another in a walking game of connect the dots. From street level dense mimosa foliage usually obscured any view of the Mediterranean, but now and then I would emerge from the shrubbery to be stunned by a spectacular panorama.
I admit disappointment over Samantha shadowed me all afternoon. I had no idea how she fit into the chateau's troubles, but the thought of her drained some of the color from the flowers around me. I thought we’d shared a few special moments, hints of more possibilities than our short meeting allowed. I liked her. But I could not trust her, and sadly that spoiled everything.
About four in the afternoon I came upon a deserted vista point as high up the mountain as civilization reached. It had a bench and a Coke machine and one of those coin viewers that give you the perspective of a bird.
Glad for the break, I sat down with a soda and allowed the thoughts that had been fermenting all afternoon to bubble to the surface.
If the vandals were right about Hugh Marsford’s having hidden part of the profit from the mountain, the future of the museum and the home Tom and Marie loved would be more assured. And Marsford’s innocent relatives, if there were any, would get their allowances back, most likely with interest.
The threat I posed to the thieves was either suspected or already known, but so far Tom and Marie remained in the dark. For their sake I wanted them to stay that way. They lived on the property and were expecting a child. If I could prove–or disprove–the hidden asset puzzle before they returned, the danger the couple was in from simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time would disappear.
Meanwhile, the risk of forcing the plumber to take on an unwanted assistant suggested the thieves feared Tom more than they feared me. And why not? I walked into muggings and jumped as if I’d been shot at the drop of a lid.
I needed Hugh Marsford’s help.
Pulling the now crumpled paper from my pocket, I re-read the verses, wishing in vain the sculptor were there to explain them, or at least that he’d been a better poet.
While all my guests enjoy what they see
Search and search do my progeny.
1947
Some toil remains though some does not
Art endures while wealth is forgot.
1948
The mystery and majesty of the Olympian Quest
I bequeath to others and go to my rest.
1950
Earthly remains lie hid 'neath the earth
When birth becomes death becomes birth.
1951 1952
Although one year was still missing, part of Marsford's message struck me as perfectly clear. If he wasn't inviting his heirs to search for a hidden legacy, I would start eating brass plaques for lunch. Anybody motivated by greed, or need, who’d caught onto Marsford's hints could easily be behind the vandalism, perhaps even behind Lily’s death.
Logically, my competition in the two-week race would be a relative of the dead sculptor, but not necessarily. More than one person or group of persons might be conducting separate searches. Henri and Pascaline each had unlimited opportunities to discover the clues and search the premises. Of course, the first clue was contained in Hugh Marsford’s will, which had not included them or any of their parents. Yet neither the cook nor the gardener should be exempt from suspicion just because they hadn’t seen the will. They did see the plaques every day; and another person’s search might have triggered their own.
Also, either or both of them could have enlisted outside help to solve the elusive puzzle. Why not pay someone else to risk their freedom. With a great enough financial incentive to keep quiet, the inside person could continue searching with impunity.
Or perhaps an outsider approached a staff member, the more likely scenario since the poems were in English and the search only just began.
Still, I had trouble believing anyone would take the risks that had obviously been taken based solely on Marsford’s ambiguous poetry. Some more tangible proof of a treasure surely existed. Once again I had the sinking feeling of being outsmarted by my competition. What had I missed? If conclusive evidence of concealed wealth existed, where was it if not in Marsford’s will or Tom’s inventory?
As soon as I thought of it, the idea excited me, especially when I remembered Tom thought the tin box full of sales receipts had been moved. Yet if the dusty box held the answer, had I been the thief, I’d have never left the proof behind. Still, slim as the chances were of figuring out Marsford’s scheme, I had to start somewhere.
Eager as I was to look into the tin box, the tourist in me had to take advantage of the coin-operated viewer. From above, the chateau appeared to sit on the edge of the sea like a grand lady flirting with unworthy beaus. A few yachts dotted the horizon, but no sailboats today. Only the stubby lighthouse/office building reached its head above the trees east of the ruined Roman tower. Through the fuzzy lens I could just make out a man standing inside the upper rail of the lighthouse. The same man I’d seen before, very obviously spying on the chateau.