The Lost Treasure (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 8) by M.C. Roberts & R.F. Maclay

Author:M.C. Roberts & R.F. Maclay [Roberts, M.C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-08-31T16:00:00+00:00

50

PINK HOUSE, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

“This is another reminder of just how young this country is. The house is only three hundred years old, but it’s one of the oldest in the entire country. It even predates the ‘united’ part of ‘United States,’” Hellen said, looking out the side window of the rental car at the tiny house.

“Sure, but most of the buildings in Vienna aren’t much older, are they? I mean, apart from a church or two and all the imperial stuff,” said Tom.

“You’re right. But our history and culture go back a lot further, to the Roman Empire and even beyond. Vienna is mentioned by name in the Salzburg Annals, from the year 881, and an earlier version of the name, Vindobona, dates from much further back.”

“Okay. Time to go.”

Hellen grabbed her backpack, which contained the medallion and the ivory rod. The trio climbed out of the car and looked across the road at the pink, two-story house.

“It’s still an impressive little place,” Hellen said. “In its three hundred years, it’s survived more than thirty hurricanes, two huge earthquakes, two wars, snowstorms, and countless fires.”

“Fascinating,” said Tom. “But shouldn’t we be thinking about how we’re going to get inside?”

“I thought the house was a gallery now?” Cloutard said in surprise.

“It was a gallery, but in 2019 it became a private house again.”

“Formidable. Now you’ve jinxed it,” Cloutard said. He flicked his hand dismissively, leaned on the hood of the car, and pulled out his little flask.

“What? How?”

“I don’t think so,” said Hellen. “From what I’ve read, everything inside is still original. The architects who did the renovations apparently made sure of that.”

“So who lives here now? Apart from the ghost of Anne Bonny.”

“No idea. But we could try knocking and asking nicely,” Hellen suggested.

Tom nodded. “What are we waiting for?” he said, and he strode across the street toward the Pink House.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it? These are the exact same stones that Anne Bonny, Blackbeard, and all the other great pirates walked on,” Hellen said, looking down at the cobblestoned street, which had been built at the same time as the house. For a moment, Hellen imagined what the street must have been like in the 18th century, with all the smells, the people, and the miserable conditions that prevailed in the French Quarter. But she also imagined happy people, parties and singing, and she smiled.

Just four blocks from the Waterfront Park Pier, the former Mulatto Alley was now a charming little avenue lined with palms, blossoming trees, and gardens with manicured hedges.

“Let me do the talking,” said Hellen when they were standing at the front door. The house was hardly more than twelve feet wide. She searched through her wallet and took out her old Blue Shield ID card. Tom looked at her curiously.

“Not now,” Hellen said, knowing what Tom was about to say. She knocked.

A moment later, a man opened the door, dressed like a lawyer or banker. With a briefcase in his hand, he was obviously just on his way out.

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