Berried to the Hilt Read Online Free Page B

the number and make of the cannons, the ship’s bell, if we’re lucky—that can positively identify the vessel. If not …” She shrugged. “We’ll see what puzzle pieces we can find and try to put them together!”
    “Sounds like exciting work!”
    “It is,” Molly said. “But it’s slow going. Measuring, mapping; and many times, if things weren’t immediately covered in sand or mud, metal artifacts—and anything close to them—are buried in concretions.”
    “What’s a concretion?”
    “Concretions form when the metal rusts, and all kinds of things—shells, debris—stick to it, forming a hard layer around the object.” Molly took another bite of Emmeline’s pudding and swallowed before continuing. “We X-ray them to see what’s inside, and then we have to carefully chip the artifacts out. We usually have conservators to help us … the process takes days.”
    “Wow. And you have to dive down and get this stuff, right? That water’s about 50 degrees!”
    “We prefer to use submersibles, but our biggest research vessel—and the university’s submersible—is booked for another month. Usually, researchers can’t even take the smaller ones out without a captain, but Carl has logged enough hours they’re making an exception, and allowing him to be the captain.”
    “It’s not that big a boat. But not to have access to the bigger vessel … rotten luck, really,” Carl said.
    “It’s much less expensive this way,” Molly reminded him. “And at least this site is shallow enough that we can dive!”
    I shivered. “That water is freezing!”
    “We use dry suits,” Molly said, “so it’s not that bad. But yes—it’s a lot of work.” She grinned at me. “Which means we’ll be staying here for a while, most likely.”
    Which was good news for my bottom line, for sure.
    “Maybe. It depends on Iliad ,” Carl said grimly. He was taut, like a bowstring full of barely leashed energy.
    “Don’t be such a pessimist, Carl. I’m sure we’ll have better luck this time.” Molly took a last sip of her coffee and glanced at her watch. I’d never seen a woman wear such a clunky piece before; it looked like it weighed ten pounds. “It’s pretty calm out there, and it’s still daylight. What do you say we go and have a look?”
    “Thought you’d never ask,” Carl said, pushing his barely touched plate away and standing up quickly.
    “Let me know what you find out,” I said, leading them back through the kitchen to the back door.
    Molly turned back. “That reminds me—how do we get in touch with the historian?”
    “Her name is Matilda Jenkins. You can find her in the museum—the only brick building down by the main pier.”
    “Thanks,” she said, giving me a sunny smile. She was a likeable young woman, a huge contrast to her brooding partner, Carl. “And tell your friend I liked the pudding the best!”
    I watched the archaeologists head out in their research vessel, a small boat named the Ira B that Molly told me they frequently used for student expeditions. They had barely vanished around the point before the doorbell rang. I reluctantly went to answer it, hoping it wasn’t another would-be bake-off winner trying to bribe me with baked goods.
    Three people stood at the front door, two men and a woman. All three were dressed in jeans and blue windbreakers with a logo— Iliad —stitched on the breast pocket.
    “I’m Gerald McIntire,” said the oldest of the trio, who I guessed to be in his late forties. “I believe we have reservations?”
    “Of course,” I said, opening the door wider so the trio could file in. Gerald McIntire was the university archaeologists’ archenemy. He didn’t look like a pirate, I thought. He was tall and stocky, with a bit of a spare tire, but his baby cheeks and light blue eyes, fringed with short blond lashes, gave him an innocent look. “You’re here because of the wreck, right?” I asked.
    “Right,” he said, wheeling his case behind him.