Under the Thumb of the Leprechaun Mafia

I had moved into my dream home the previous week and was in the process of getting settled. The home, built in the 1920s, looked like a combination of a Thomas Kinkade cottage and a Hobbit hole. It was warm, cozy and had amazing touches (coved ceilings, beautiful woodwork everywhere, leaded glass windows) and was set on a generous lot overlooking the forest. My favorite room, the reason I jumped on the house, was the living room with its built in bookshelves, window seat overlooking the kitchen garden and, the best part, the stout wood burning fireplace surrounded by a hearth of tumbled river stones capped with a thick oak mantle. The room has a certain magic that made it seem like time stood still and the only priorities you had were reading, napping and staring at the fire.

I was in this room, busily unpacking, while my furry sidekick, Mosie, the striped tabby, was busy jumping in and out of boxes, smacking packing peanuts all around or napping in sun spots,. The sun, shining through the leaded glass windows, was creating rainbows all making it seem as if the end of the rainbow was inside my own living room.

After hours of work, my shelves were sagging with the weight of my books, my mantle had been nicely decorated, the furniture was in place and I was exhausted. Laying on the couch, I vowed to rest my eyes for just a few moments before tackling the extra boxes in the kitchen.

I must’ve dozed off. When I came too, I heard a crinkling sound. I figured it was Mosie, refreshed from her hours of lazing around, smacking around some packing supplies. Except the sound wouldn’t stop. It was just a repetitive “Crinkle… Swish,” over and over.

Opening my eyes, I saw that Mosie was smacking something over by the base of the hearth. Paw swipe, ‘Crinkle.’ Paw move back,’ Swish’. Again and again. Walking over, I saw the tiny piece of paper that had been taunting her sticking out from between the hearth stones. I assumed it was a just a scrap of packing supplies that she had gotten lodged in there. Tugging and tugging, finally pulling the scrap free. It appeared to be a piece of Vellum and had an interesting symbol on it. It looked like a clover sword.

I crinkled it up and tossed it for the cat. She happily ran after her new toy. As I turned back to the fireplace, I noticed that the stones where the paper had been caught looked different, askew. Getting closer, it appeared that a few stones had been pushed into the wall, almost like a miniature door had opened.

Intrigued, yet hesitant, I approached the opening. It was no more than knee high, but it looked intentional. Was it just a damaged bunch of stone? Did I find a secret passage? Was some critter going to come running out? If I see a mouse, or rat or raccoon, Mosie better do her job and get it!

Phone flashlight in hand, I knelt down to look into the hole. I pushed on the stones a little and the opening (definitely an actual door) widened. At first, I saw nothing. Just a small cavity about 3 foot by 2, with no dust, no cobwebs, and thankfully, no creepy crawlies. Then, I saw a small box in the far back corner. After verifying again that there were no critters ready to pounce on me, I reached my arm in, grabbed the box and tugged. It was surprisingly heavy and screeched across the stone floor as I pulled.

The box had the look of a miniature steamer trunk. It’s leather surface was festooned with metal straps and an interesting latch. The latch design looked very similar to the drawing on Mosie’s clover sword paper. Expecting to find a time capsule or a keepsake box, imagine my surprise when I opened it and found a small black leather book and burlap sack. The book had a cracked leather surface. If it had writing on the cover, it had long since faded. Opening it, I found a log of some sort with only 5 entries.

The writing was faded, but it appeared to be a list of names.

1. Madeline L’Strange

2. Peter Woodruff

3. Agnes Domae

4. Theodore Johnson

5. Joseph Beasley

Setting it aside for now, I turned my attention to the burlap sack. It made a clinking sound when I lifted it. Peering inside, my breath caught. The entire sack appeared to be filled with tiny coins. I pulled a coin out to look at it and immediately felt a burning in my heel., “Ow!” I shouted and scrambled backwards assuming that I had been bitten by a spider or some other gross thing, but there was nothing there. Hmm, just a phantom pain. I resumed my inspection of the coin. It was metal, about the size of a dime, and it felt cool to the touch. It looked like gold, but I was no expert. There was some sort of writing on it, but it was nothing recognizable to me.

Was this a joke? Were these actual coins? How did they get in there? Is that actually a door? Who does this belong to? Does Finders Keepers apply in a situation like this? I felt like the kids from The Goonies when they discovered One Eyed Willies treasure or Indiana Jones when he found the Ark of the Covenant. I felt overwhelmed and amazed.

I brought the chest, the coin sack and the journal to the table to inspect more closely. Perhaps I could find a name or some indication of whose they were. I poured out the coins and spread them on the table. There were at least three hundred of them, all bearing the same markings, but no other papers or identification. The sack and chest were examined and no other identifying information was found. Just the symbol on the latch and the little black book.

I took a picture of the book and the list of names. I sent it to the realtor and telling him that I found it while unpacking and to please ask the sellers if it was theirs and if they wanted it back. I didn’t photograph the chest or the coins. Since the book was in the chest, if it belonged to them, they would know about rest. And, if not, no need to spread word of my potential treasure.

My realtor called me back the next morning and said the sellers didn’t recognize it, didn’t want it and that I was free to keep anything that I found in the house or on the property. Well then, I guess it was mine. What do I do with it?

After looking up the number of a local coin dealer and calling to inquire if he would be willing to give me an estimate on a coin, I made an appointment for later that day

At 2:00 pm, I packed all of the coins (except one) back the chest with the book. With one little coin tucked in my purse, I headed for town. As soon as I left the driveway, my heel started aching again. I wonder what was wrong with me. Is there something in my shoe? Or maybe a splinter in my heel? Did I injure myself in some way while unpacking? I vowed to look at my foot more closely when I got back from my errands. It was weird and increasingly more uncomfortable. By the time that I’d driven the ten minutes into town, my foot was positively aching.

I hobbled into Calvin’s Coin and Collectible, my heel on fire. Something was seriously wrong with my foot!

Calvin, the proprietor, looked like he was the age of Methuselah. His head was nearly hairless and his liver-spotted hands shook slightly when he took the coin, but the look in his eyes assured me that he was still in possession of a very clear mind. After some pleasantries, he donned his monocle and began examining the coin with a lot of “Hmming.”

Finally, he spoke, “You said you found this out in your garden? I remember Joe Beasley having a coin like this before he and his family left for Chicago. If I recall, he said he found it in his attic when moving boxes. His house was just down the road from where you home is. Must’ve been a goof thirty years ago. I swear it is the same type of coin.’

Startled, remembering the list of names from the black book, “You said Joe Beasley? Would he be known as Joseph Beasley?”

Calvin, laughing replied, “Well, that certainly was his Christian name, but I never heard anyone call him that, except maybe his wife when he was late getting home from the pub. He was just Joe.

Anyway, Miss, this here is a 24 carat solid gold coin and based on its weight, and the spot price of gold, it would be worth approximately $800. I am sure that if you wanted to sell, I could find a buyer for you. This little piece is certainly unusual and the numismatists are always looking for interesting finds to add to their collections.”

Thanking Calvin for his time and promising that I would think about selling, I gathered up the little disc and left, limping the entire way. I had planned to buy some groceries while in town, but the pain in my foot was agonizing now and I just wanted to get home and attend to it.

What did this all mean? I have a box full of coins each worth $800, meaning my little treasure is worth over $20,000. Should I keep it? Sell it? And what about Joseph Beasley? He was the last entry in the journal. How did his name get in a journal in a box in the wall of my fireplace? Nothing made sense.

Arriving at home, still pondering the mystery, I was anxious to take some Tylenol and see what was up with my foot. I opened the front door and froze. Mosie, wild-eyed with fur sticking up all over, tore past me into the yard. The living room was a disaster! Everything was scattered around the room as if a tornado had blown through. The shelves were empty of books. The mantle devoid of knickknacks. While there it was obvious that someone had been ransacking my home.

I limped to the kitchen to call the sheriff, when I saw it. Posted to the refrigerators was a message in blood red ink

Give back what is ours or we shall curse you for eternity

- The Leprechaun Mafia

Terrified, frozen with indecision, I sank down at the table to contemplate my next steps and rub my throbbing foot. Do I report this to the police? Will anyone believe me? Who knew that I took the coin? Was someone watching me? How do I give it back? Do I just put it in the box? Or is this just an elaborate hoax from someone who wants to take the treasure themselves?

Taking my sock off, I look for at my heel for the source of the pain. On my heel was a bright red mark, like a brand, in the shape of the clover sword.

Freaked out beyond reason, I opened the chest to return the tiny coin to the sack. The book tumbled out, opened to the first page, and now there are 6 names on the list with my name being the last one next to the number 6.

We were gone that night. We’re on our way to Chicago to see if we can find Joseph Beasley and any answers he might have.

Interestingly enough, my heel stopped hurting as soon as I passed the town limits.