Kensies treasures, p.3
Kensie's Treasures, page 3
Everything that made up Buckwell’s life story led her to recognize both his intelligence and duplicity. His diaries and letters to Lady Jerrams and others were filled with long, seemingly pointless diatribes about his life, his desires, his philosophies, and his exploits, but they were considered by most historians as nothing more than the ramblings of an unsophisticated man who delighted in reading his own grandiose riddles.
Kensie saw it differently. Hidden in each of his vainglorious tales were subtle messages with real value, masterpieces of subterfuge. In her eyes, Buckwell was not a self-aggrandizing blowhard who wanted to see his own words on parchment. He was more the cocky narcissist who fancied himself such a genius that he could warn people of his intentions and then still pull those feats off without ever getting caught. She theorized that he, knowing how his record of foretold successes was well established, felt he could use these tales as misdirection, to send the law off one way while he made an easy escape.
Kensie was sure this was one of those cases and that told her exactly where he had been headed when he disappeared.
Even though several of his exploits lined up perfectly with her theories, the letter was the first new discovery regarding the man in over 170 years, so she had no way to test her suppositions objectively. Even worse, her interpretation of Buckwell was unique; no one shared her views and, as a 28-year-old associate professor, she had little chance of bringing them around to her way of thinking. They respected her command of Buckwell’s factual history, but otherwise appeared disinterested in her views about his personality and ambition.
Attending a conference of the National Archeological Society in Boston that had been hastily convened specifically to discuss the letter and determine what it meant, she’d listened patiently as scholar after scholar used certain parts of the letter to make their case that the Couronne Ornèe de Joyaux des Anges had been lost on the approach to Bonaire Island, just north of present-day Venezuela, which he’d noted as his intended hiding spot. In fact, Buckwell had used that location to store many of his ill-gotten valuables, and his prose contained many heavy-handed clues supporting that location as the best place to find the lost treasure. But no one, Kensie noticed, was even attempting to connect the obvious (to her, at least) dots and draw a different conclusion, the one to which she had come. She waited eagerly for her turn to present her information, and finally got to the lectern at the very end of the second and last day of the conference.
As a mere associate professor, however, she almost immediately realized that the opportunity to speak was little more than a polite overture by the NAS, kind of like putting the backup quarterback in the game after your team was ahead 56-0. And as she presented her reasons for her disagreement with the consensus that had already been formed, she saw shaking heads and sneers of amusement among her older and more experienced colleagues.
“Professor Prescott,” the moderator said with his nose firmly in the air as Kensie took a pause to sip some water after providing her evidence and conclusions on the whereabouts of the treasure, “while we value your input and are, shall we say, intrigued by your unique take on the data available, it is the opinion of this body that your consideration of Buckwell’s attempts at misdirection are not concrete and therefore not cogent to this discussion.”
“But surely you realize that they have to be considered. They merit at least –”
“I’m sorry, but the meaning that you assign to these documents has been determined to lack validity by some of the more experienced members of this body. Based on this development, I think it is time to close the presentation portion of the proceedings. Does anyone wish to hear more from Professor Prescott?” No one did.
Had Kensie been less shocked, she might have voiced her objection to the rebuke and reminded the board that she was entitled to her scheduled time. As it was, she was so off-put that she merely stared with a slack jaw as the group voted unanimously to accept the consensus opinion and contract diving and salvage teams to search in the wrong place.
She vented her frustration to her boss the next morning, barging into Wallace Talbot’s office as soon as she knew he would be there. It didn’t take her long to loudly and passionately explain the basics of her theory and why the entire NAS was a bunch of stodgy and misogynistic jerks with their heads up their collective asses.
“Kensie,” the dean had explained with a hint of exasperation in his characteristically calm and sedate voice as he scanned the notes he had taken during her emotional outburst, “you have to realize that you are taking a very controversial position that counters the consensus of a staid and reserved group.”
“Big deal!” Kensie had responded angrily. Bouncing between indignation and disbelief at how easily they discounted her theory, she was at full boil. “My theories make sense – a lot of sense – and these geriatric boneheads aren’t even listening because they can’t grasp that a criminal has no interest in leaving a perfectly factual record of where he hid what he stole!”
Talbot raised his eyebrows, looking off to the corner, something he did when he was digesting new information. Giving him the time he needed, she let her eyes study the wall over his credenza. It was covered with pictures of him shaking hands with exotic and influential persons around the globe; not just leaders of countries, but museum curators, rich collectors (some of questionable ethics), professional treasure hunters, and even leaders of tribes and villages in countries she could barely pronounce. If Wallace Talbot was anything, he was connected, so if she could sell him on her idea, she might have some traction.
After about a minute that seemed like a month, Talbot focused on Kensie once more and drew a breath. “OK, you seem quite certain. Convince me,” he challenged.
Kensie launched once more into her hypothesis with great detail, fighting her passion to present her information in what she hoped was a convincing, but stoic, fashion. She went on for 15 minutes, confident that Talbot, despite being her boss, would not even attempt to cut her off. He did not, instead taking even more notes and scanning them intently as she spoke. Just maybe, Kensie hoped, he would see the logic of her approach. She did her best to be clear about when she crossed the line between facts and analysis to pure speculation, hoping that would present her as more reasonable.
When she finished, she once more gave Talbot time to flip through the notebook while he scribbled additional bits of information. She desperately wanted to see what he was writing in the margins of the yellow legal pad, but could only return to her seat and do everything to remain patient.
Finally, he raised his head. “Kensie, I think you might have something worth pursuing further, but not enough to justify an entire expedition. There’s too much speculation and not enough hard facts. You don’t have it.”
“Dammit! I’m not wrong!” she nearly yelled. She felt like she was being minimized, and that did not suit her.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m saying you don’t have enough to sell it.” His voice remained even and calm, giving Kensie the odd impression that she was the only one engaged in an argument. “Look, take this as a chance to learn a painless lesson. You have good ideas, but you’re not there yet. You aren’t the first person to get rebuked by the panel, and you won’t be the last.”
“I should be the last! And it’s not painless! They approved spending over $4 million, and they’re going to waste that money!”
“Perhaps,” he said, maddeningly unperturbed. “But I don’t understand what course of action you’d like me to take to mitigate that.”
“Give me a few bucks for one of our boats for my own expedition! I’ll find the damn thing myself!”
Talbot sighed. “First of all, there’s nothing left in our budget for that, and all our research boats have already been committed to other endeavors through July. There’s nothing we can do about it, Kensie. It’s a done deal. If you are so sure you’re right, get something more concrete. A lot more concrete, and then you can approach the NAS again – with my backing. Until you get that data, there’s nothing more to discuss here.” His voice carried the finality of an executive order from the Oval Office, giving her no room to maneuver.
She’d stormed out of his office, frustrated that her own dean wouldn’t take her side, angry that her years of research and study was being tossed aside because she was young – and probably because she was female. And, after a day catching up on her emails and other administrative tasks, she found herself beating the crap out of a vinyl-covered foam pad. At least she could vent her anger more effectively this way.
“Just because they don’t believe you doesn’t mean you’re wrong,” Catrina pointed out as they grabbed a sip of water.
“Wrong or right, unless I have proof or at least much better evidence, nothing is going to change." Her mouth was set in the grim line of someone who had ruefully come to an unsatisfactory conclusion.
Catrina shrugged like she’d figured the whole thing out. “So, find it.”
“Find what?”
“Proof.”
“It’s not that easy, Cat. People have been trying to figure this out for 200 years.”
The brunette snorted. “So? You know more about this Buckwell guy than maybe anyone on the planet. You’ve bored me to tears telling me about him when all I wanted to talk about was a cute guy I just met. If they’re not seeing what you’re seeing, and you know you’re right, they must have a bias. Since you still won’t come on the cruise with us, you’re going to have time over the winter session. The information is out there – somewhere – so quit being pissed off and go find it.”
“Chui!”
Kensie thought about Catrina’s remarks as the class lined up to bow out for the evening. It wouldn’t be easy – that was an understatement – but what worthwhile thing was? It deserved one more try.
Looks like I’ve got a long day in the library tomorrow.
***
University of Delaware College of Marine Studies Library, the following day
Kensie sat at the expansive table in the library, looking through the pile of books and photocopies and folders for another passage that would support her theory. She had several items set aside for further review, but she was starting to lose faith in them. She was just adding to the mass of supposition and theory that she already had, and that had already been discounted. Having more of it wasn’t going to change anyone’s mind, certainly not Talbot’s. She needed something else.
But what kind of evidence will make the difference? They’re not going to believe anything short of me actually holding up the Couronne itself. That would show Talbot and those idiots at the NAS.
Too bad she couldn’t do that.
Or could she?
The thought brought Kensie up short. On the surface of it, believing she could find something missing at sea for over two centuries smacked of extreme arrogance. No one had found it; what made her think she could? But part of the reason it was still missing was because no one had ever looked in the right place. And, as she reviewed the details she had gleaned from the letter, her idea started to take on a realistic shape. The water in the area she had pinpointed was almost exclusively less than 100 feet deep, well within her SCUBA certification. Better yet, she had a perfect opportunity to be there in the very near future. Walking over to the entrance so as not to disturb the students and other faculty, she pulled out her phone and placed a call.
“Hey, Kensie,” Catrina answered.
“Did you find a fourth for the cruise yet?” she asked without preamble.
“No, not yet. Everyone is crying poor because it’s a week after the holidays,” came the cautious but anticipatory response. “Why?”
“I had a change of plans. If you still want me, I’m in.”
“Absolutely!” Catrina nearly yelled. “Of course I want you! What changed?”
“I’m just spinning my wheels with this research,” she half-lied. “Nothing I find, at least right now, is going to make a difference. If it’s out there, I’m too tired or pissed off to see it. I need a break.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking at class last night. Drinking Rum Runners under the glare of tropical sunlight is a better way to recharge yourself than beating the shit out of a focus pad, especially when I’m the one holding the pad. Do you still have the cruise itinerary?”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t get rid of it.”
“Great! Book your flight as soon as you can. I’ll add you to my cabin right now. We’ll talk tonight and get the rest worked out. You are going to have the greatest time! We’ll wash that moldy book smell off of you and dress you up a little bit and you’ll have to beat the guys off with a club!”
Kensie rolled her eyes to herself. Comments like that were at least part of the reason why she had declined the cruise in the first place; the overwhelming belief of her well-meaning but misguided friend that her primary goal in life was to find a man, and that Catrina had to be the one to set her up. She had grown tired of hearing it years ago and didn’t want to get into it again, but the lure of finding the Couronne was enticing enough to make just about anything worth it.
“Look, I promise we’ll have a lot of fun, but I am going to spend some time sharpening up my SCUBA skills. It’s a perfect place and opportunity to practice.”
Catrina was undeterred. “Great. Whatever. All the action on the ship is at night anyway. Just make sure you don’t wrinkle your skin digging through the mud and sand, Indiana Jones. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“Sounds good,” Kensie lied. “Diving by day, tramping it up by night. Is that the idea?”
“Kind of,” her friend replied. “But there’s a topless beach on one of the islands, so there’ll be some day-tramping too! Bring a two-piece.”
Kensie couldn’t imagine not wearing a top in front of everybody and their brother. “No way in hell.”
“We’ll negotiate.” When Catrina said that, it meant she planned to go to any length to get her way. “But I gotta run. Talk tonight?”
“You got it. And thanks.”
“We are gonna have a great time.” The line went dead.
Kensie shook her head in exasperation. If she only knew what I was really going to be doing. She clicked on the email with the itinerary. It was a fairly short cruise. Departure was from Puerto Rico on the evening of the 3rd, and the 4th would be a full day at sea. The ship would dock at the island of St. Vincent at 6 a.m. on the 5th and not depart until 9 p.m. the next day. The most important part of that destination was that it was only about 45 miles from her pinpointed dive site, giving her two full days to explore. The next destination, Grenada, was more or less the same distance from the site, just south of it instead of north, so she had one more day to search. From there it was another full day cruising back to San Juan, arriving early on the morning of the 9th. She would have three full days to dive and search, and she was sure – pretty sure – kinda sure – hopefully sure – that she would find the Couronne.
The next order of business was to let Dean Talbot know she was going to take vacation. Kensie didn’t expect that to be a problem. It would be during the winter recess when there were no students, so no classes to teach. More importantly, she had a reputation among the staff and the dean for being “persistent” (her word – others described her a little differently) when she felt strongly about something, and Talbot would expect her to keep bringing up her ideas about Buckwell, so he would approve the time off without a second thought.. She put the books back and walked back to her office to place the call.
“Yes, Kensie?” she heard him sigh. Clearly he expected another round of arguments and complaints, and felt ill-prepared to deal with them.
“I’m sorry I got so aggravated yesterday,” she apologized, doing her best to sound contrite. “You know I get frustrated easily. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“It’s fine. I have noticed your zeal at times. I don’t care so much, but it might be a good idea to tone it down sometimes among your colleagues – and especially around the NAS – for your own good.” Kensie didn’t doubt his sincerity. As the dean, he’d likely gotten wind of her behavior and was growing weary of dealing with the complaints and bruised egos.
“I know. I will learn, I promise.” She took a breath. “To that end, a few weeks ago I turned down a chance to go on a cruise because I fully expected to be busy over winter break, but now that isn’t happening, so if you’re OK, I want to use some of my personal time and go with my friends. Refresh the batteries and come back with a fresh perspective.”
A normal person’s voice would have perked up, but not Talbot’s. “Sounds like a good idea. Where’s the cruise?”
She thought about lying but realized that there would be questions to answer if she got found out. Not that she was doing anything unethical or illegal, but it might piss off the wrong person – especially if she didn’t return with her prize. “Southern Caribbean.”
The pause on the other end of the call told her everything she needed to know about how that news was received. “Kensie, tell me you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“No, it’s just a coincidence. Really. Just some time in the sun with some friends and an unlimited liquor package.”
“Something tells me I won’t be surprised by your answer when I ask you what islands you’re going to be visiting.”
“We are going near there,” she admitted/lied, “but it isn’t like I chose this cruise. I’m just a last-minute add-on because I’m not on the Buckwell expedition.”
“OK, that’s fine,” Talbot said in a tone that suggested it was not fine at all. “But you better not come back here with more unsubstantiated theories and expect my backing. I’m not fond of the idea of rogue academics going off on their own wild-goose chases. We fund certain research for certain reasons. Considering yourself immune to the rules of the situation would be, shall we say,” he paused for several seconds, making Kensie look up at the ceiling waiting for him to trot out one of his patented nine-dollar sayings, “a rather injudicious course of action.”
