Free Digging Too Deep by Jill Amadio

opened the safe and removed four long steel trays. He placed them on his desk and gently unwrapped the velvet pouches they held. Inside the pouches were one hundred two-inch by two-inch cellophane envelopes, protection for the gold, silver and copper coins they contained. Stapled to each envelope was a small index card with the date, condition and identification of each piece.
    “Come along, my beauties,” he murmured. “It’s time to find you a new home. Monica was going to turn you over to the police after discovering your hiding place. What a tragedy that would have been.”
    Whittaker knew it wouldn’t be easy to locate a collector willing to buy these pieces at short notice, because several had been stolen from the world’s top museums. It had taken Whittaker more than two decades to accumulate the treasures, negotiating through second, third and fourth parties, a few of them thieves, most greedy businessmen, others desperate for cash.
    Many of the museums didn’t even know some of their treasures were missing. With cavernous cellars and warehouses filled with containers from donated collections, as well as discoveries by archeologists and exhibits on loan, the museums and galleries had hundreds of items in storage.
    Several years earlier Whittaker had recruited a handful of his foreign music students to apply for research credentials at the British Museum, the Cairo Art Gallery and other conservatories that allowed academics access to their storerooms. It was common knowledge in the antiquities market that a surprising number of curators kept poor inventories. It was easy for Whittaker to pay students to pocket small items like ancient coins that had not yet been sorted and catalogued.
    He’d received a portion of his illegal collection from the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, Russia. The four Unicorn gold coins of Scotland, dated 1486, were from the Australian Museum where a “steal-to-order” scandal was later uncovered. Whittaker had lost count of the number of museums that, in fact, had been pillaged on his behalf.
    The professor paused for a moment, his eyes fixed on rows of Egyptian scepters , English ducats, Persian darics , silver pennies, Greek drachmas and two dozen of America’s first minted coins. Did he really need to sell? The house might fetch two million, the pension would cover normal living expenses, and the royalties from his music, though not high, should add yet another financial cushion. So why not keep the coins? As he opened one of the envelopes, he recalled an earlier conversation.
    “Never touch the coins with your bare hands,” an expert had told him.
    “Why not? I like their resistance, their hardness, so different from piano keys that give in to the slightest pressure.”
    The expert smiled at him condescendingly. “Fingerprints and body oil can mar the surface of a coin for years. Even a tiny drop of moisture can cause oxidation. Keep your coins in an air-tight safe with the humidity level at thirty-eight percent.”
    Trained in a lifetime of discipline as a musician, Whittaker thereafter never once gave in to his desire to hold the coins without their protective envelopes. Instead, forced to admire his treasure through their protective covering, he soon realized that the expert’s admonition added an exciting new dimension to his attitude toward the collection. It made his hoard more sacred and pure. He could worship it as an untouchable icon, yet know it was as tempting as forbidden fruit.
    It was a trait Whittaker had carried over into other areas of his life, including Monica, at least for the first year or two of their marriage. Surprised at himself for being wed to a much younger woman, even bemused that he’d actually taken a bride, he had initially treated her with kid gloves, almost afraid to caress the silky, white skin.
    He remembered a couple of previous romantic encounters, both in college. One coed he dated was a pharmacy student, but his obsessive