Looter's Landing

Lisa thought her father’s eccentric personality resulted from his alcoholic family. She disapproved of his carefree lifestyle and often criticized his lack of ambition or college education. But Missy loved her gramps and all his exciting pirating adventures, even if the tales weren’t true. Despite her mother’s attempt to change Missy’s perspective of her grandfather, she refused to yield to her mom’s snobbish way of thinking.

After Gramps passed, her mother inherited the beach cottage and his cat, Fizzle. Lisa wanted nothing to do with the man and immediately called a real estate agent. Missy couldn’t bear to have the setting of her grandfather’s incredible adventures sold to a stranger, or the cat he loved placed in a shelter, so offered to buy the lot. Her parents hemmed and hawed, calling it a waste of her hard-earned money, but she pushed them to the point of exasperation until they agreed.

Missy had no desire to live in Florida among the large bugs and humidity, but after she visited the oceanfront cottage, the sunshine and sea breeze sparked a euphoric sensation, a feeling she couldn’t shake. Within two-months, Missy turned in her resignation, packed belongings that fit in her sedan, withdrew her savings of five thousand dollars, and drove south.

Despite her parents’ protest and idle threat to take back the deed, which Missy knew they couldn’t legally do, she felt alive and free for the first time. The fascination and thrill of this unknown journey energized her all the more.

Souvenir shops and boutiques lined the small town of Looter’s Landing, enticing tourists to purchase items they don’t need. Missy often ventured the half-mile walk to the market, talking with locals along the way. Like clockwork, the palm reader/psychic, located next to the grocer, had her A-frame sign on the sidewalk by 10 am every day while a kaleidoscope of lights flashed in the store’s window. The owner offered to forecast her future many times, but Missy didn’t believe in such things.

Fizzle, a blue-gray Chartreux with gold-colored eyes, marched across the beach daily. Initially, Missy wasn’t too keen on cats, but this feline acted more like a dog. Plus, he earned his keep chasing and sometimes eating geckos, crabs, and other creepy-crawly things around the cottage. The cat's youth surprised her. Gramps always had Fizzle’s character in his many tall tale adventures for most of her life.

Before the forecasted rain arrived, Missy decided to test Gramps metal detector before she unpacked more of her belongings. She loved the sensation of wet sand against her bare feet as the surf washed onto the shore. Fizzle dawdled at her side. Missy hoped to find the so-called hidden treasures Gramps often spoke of, not the occasional penny or bottle cap she found.

Between Missy’s and Gramps’ collection of books, they had a small library. With plywood from the backyard and do-it-yourself instructions off the internet, she built a bookshelf. It took a good part of the morning to clean, saw, and connect the pieces together. There were several cans of spray paint in the shed, and by the looks of it, Gramps made use of the white enamel on the house’s exterior.

Later that afternoon, she organized her books, plus the one’s her grandfather left. Fizzle helped by perching himself on top of the pile. Every time she brushed him off one stack, he would climb on another.

Gramps, an avid reader, owned plenty of mystery novels. Missy wondered if his fanatical stories originated from those pieces of fiction before adding his own adventurous twist. Fizzle always had a lead role. She remembered a story he told, one she never tired of hearing, about a pirate who snuck on the beach after nightfall to bury treasure. Fizzle, the stealth swashbuckler who roamed at night, dug up the valuables and reburied the items elsewhere. When the buccaneer returned, unable to find his property, he engaged Gramps in a sword fight. Of course, her grandfather won.

The feline elongated his body in a stretch, then scratched his front paws against the binding of one of her grandfather’s hardcover books. When Missy attempted to shoo him off, Fizzle’s hind legs propelled the book off the pile and onto the floor. Her mouth dropped. A small black notebook lay within its hollow chamber.

“Look what you found, Fizz!”

He ignored her and licked his paw.

The leather cover had unusual ornate markings. She fanned through the pages and saw magnificent drawings of the sea, the beach, and even the cottage. Missy didn’t realize her grandfather had artistic talent. On the first page, she recognized the large rock formation along the shore outside the front door.

The coolness of the sand crept between Missy’s toes as she stepped off the porch. She opened the notebook and compared the sketch against the water—it matched. The next picture showed the plot of land where the house sat, except it didn’t contain a building, just planks of wood and tools.

Did Gramps build this place?

The next etching featured the 100-yard stretch of beach to the south. Missy’s brow furrowed when she turned the page. Why would he draw a heap of rocks? Despite the intermittent droplets that fell, she had to quench her curiosity.

Fizzle followed, amusing Missy along the way. He’d jump and twist to catch the raindrops mid-air. At the location, large pieces of sandstone blocked the entrance of a small cave. Fizzle sniffed the area, then squeezed through a narrow space between the boulders.

“No, Fizz, come back!”

Though Missy knew the cat could take care of himself, she still worried, especially after hearing a distant meow. Similar to humans, Fizzle had different voice inflections. To get attention, he meowed softer than his purrs; and a higher pitch meant he wanted food, water, or to show her a dead mouse. But this tone sounded feral, like a wolf’s howl. Missy wondered if another animal lurked within the dark cavity.

She squinted at the small opening, wishing she had a flashlight. When glowing eyes pierced through the hole's darkness, Missy jumped back. Fizzle’s head popped through with what appeared to be a smile on his furry face. She let out a huge sigh.

“Come here, Boy.” She reached out her arms. “Don’t scare me like that!”

At first, she thought Fizzle carried a mouse, but it was a strip of leather attached to a key. Once she freed it from his grip, Fizzle dashed towards the cottage. The bow of the skeleton key looked oddly familiar. As Missy shifted her gaze to the notebook’s cover, her jaw dropped. The two shared the same ornate design.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood—the key and the next drawing were identical. On the following page, a sketch detailed the back of the cottage.

With her grandfather’s love for mysteries and puzzles, she questioned the purpose behind the notebook and peculiar drawings. Missy ran back to the cottage and found Fizzle behind the house.

“Alright, Fizz, spill. What’s Gramps hiding?”

The cat meowed, stood on its hind legs, then scratched a piece of the wood siding.

Her eyes widened. “I don’t believe it! Do you understand me, Fizz?” Fizzle just stared.

Missy imagined herself in one of Gramps pirating adventures with the cat as her sidekick. She eased the feline aside and tapped the lumber. Fizzle brushed against her leg, then purred when she heard a clonk. She ran to the shed, returning with a crowbar. The board came loose after multiple attempts, revealing a rusted metal box.

Although eager to discover its contents, she didn’t want the adventure to end. Missy sat on the front porch, staring at the box on her lap. Fizzle nudged her arm several times.

“Okay, okay, I’ll open it.”

She inserted the skeleton key and without a hitch, it clicked. Inside, Missy found a handwritten letter and a photo. He always called her Lissa, a name she loved.

My dearest Lissa: Like me, you are an adventurer, a free spirit, and how I knew you would end up in Looter’s Cove and find the box. I am so proud of you. Spread your wings and take advantage of all the treasures this beach offers. Let no one quench your fire. Gramps loves you.

The old Polaroid of Missy propped on her grandfather’s knee made her smile. Each time he read, Jack and The Beanstalk, he’d tell her to climb the tallest tree for a bird’s-eye view. She laughed at the memory of her mother scolding Gramps, then wagging a finger at her saying; “Don’t you dare, young lady!”

Fizzle rubbed his head against Missy, then yanked the letter from her grip.

“Fizz! You give that back right now!”

The feline let it fall from his mouth, then stepped on the paper multiple times as it lay open on the porch. Missy lifted him off. His paw prints marked the words, free spirit, treasure, and fire. Her quizzical gaze wavered between the cat, the words, and the photo.

“Free spirit, treasure, fire, beanstalk.” She repeated the words several times before her eyes brightened.

“It’s a puzzle!” She leapt to her feet, scanning the property, then took off running towards the tallest tree; the cat kept in stride.

At the crown of the tree, Missy spotted a firepit over a hill. She inched her way back down, then ran to the shed for supplies to build a fire.

Fizzle waited at the site, circling the pieces of burnt wood and ash—his tail swung erratically. Once she lit the fire, Missy sat on a log and waited with bated breath for something to happen.

Nothing.

Though the flames smoldered, Missy refused to believe Gramps would send her on a fool’s errand, not after he went through the trouble of developing this labyrinth of mystery. She threw on more wood.

Fifteen minutes passed before Missy plopped back on the log; her shoulders slumped as the flames once again simmered. The sea breeze changed course, sending waves of smoke in her direction.

Missy turned her head until the vapors cleared. Under the dying fire, an orange glow appeared in the shape of an X. Her heart galloped as she ran back to the shed for a shovel. When she returned, Missy found Fizzle using his hind legs to douse the remaining embers.

Three feet down, a thick black bag peeked through the earth. Covered in dirt and soot, she yanked several times before the bag broke free, landing Missy on her bottom. She brushed a strand of hair off her sweaty face, leaving dark smudges across her cheek and forehead.

Fizzle rested his chin on her leg as Missy dumped the contents onto the ground. Her eyes bulged at the two stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

“Look, Fizz, Gramps left me twenty-thousand dollars.” With this money, she could repair and furnish the cottage.

She brushed dirt off a manuscript secured by a thick red band. Below the title, The Pirates of Looter’s Cove, he attached a note.

Bravo, my dear Lissa! Now you can finish my memoir. P.S. Don’t forget to include Fizzle. Love, Gramps.

Missy sniffed as a tear rolled down her cheek. “Memoir?”

She pressed his autobiography against her chest. To share in this last adventure with her grandfather was the greatest treasure he could ever give her.

The cat crawled into the empty sack and scratched its thick vinyl-like material.

“Come out of there, Fizz!”

When Missy pulled him out, a small satchel hung from his mouth. She poured its contents into her hand, mesmerized by the dazzling gemstones and gold coins.