Free The Puzzle of Piri Reis by Kent Conwell Page A
Authors: Kent Conwell
behavior. He didn't want me snooping into his
business.
A sudden yawn overtook me. I hadn't slept much
the night before. Jack's snoring didn't help; nor did
the clamor from the River Walk; nor did the fact I lay
awake pondering the missing map.
Yawning again, I stretched my arms over my head
and lay back on the bed. Moments later, I was asleep. I
awakened around eight that evening, showered, slipped
into fresh clothes and started for the door. As an afterthought, I booted up the laptop and went online.
A big grin spread over my face when I spotted mail
from Eddie Dyson.
I printed up his information and cringed when I saw
his charges. Seven hundred dollars. I thumbed through
the sheath of papers. While he had been unable to provide all of the information, that which he did was detailed. I printed it.
"It's worth it," I muttered, shutting down the computer and heading for the door. I was looking forward
to a leisurely Mexican dinner washed down with an icy
margarita while I perused the information from Eddie.
Hoping to avoid Jack so I could get some work done,
I turned the other way on the River Walk and found a
balcony table at Pepe's, known for his sumptuous dinners of shredded beef chimichangas and his highpowered margaritas.
I sat back and drew a deep breath, enjoying the tropical ambiance of gay voices, laughing faces, and the occasional come-hither look flashed by dark, daring eyes.
After the young waitress took my order, I opened
the manila folder in which I had placed Eddie's report
and began reading. To my disappointment, he had not
been able to procure all of the bank accounts.
A few minutes later, the waitress slid an icy margarita in front of me followed by a platter of steaming
chimichangas, but I was too absorbed in Eddie's report.
My eyes grew wide. I whistled softly. By the time I
finished the report, my dinner was cold, my drink warm.
Not a good combination.
Ordering another margarita, I apologized to the waitress and asked her to warm my dinner. I grinned sheepishly and tapped a finger on the manila folder. "I just
got involved in work. Sorry."
I had hoped Eddie would provide me something to
chew on. He did but it was a piece of leather. Of the
eight names I sent Eddie, five had no obvious motive.
Ted Odom had no reason to steal the Piri Reis. The
map belonged to him. And nothing in Edna Hudson's
nor Father Poggioreale's report suggested motive, although I was curious as to why, according to Ted and
Edna, the good Father tried to buy it three times.
The fourth one, Joe F. Hogg, appeared to be nothing
more than a newly rich man struggling for the
celebrity his wealth might bring. Other than his having married a Las Vegas showgirl two years earlier, there
was nothing unusual about him. Many individuals, after gaining wealth, turned to the arts, hoping some of
the sophisticated culture would somehow soften the
crassness of money.
And the last was George Moffit, curator of the museum for forty years, well respected, happily married
to the same woman for thirty-eight years, and earning
a respectable income from the museum. He wanted
the map for his second wife, the museum, but even if he
had stolen the Piri Reis, where would he display the
map? An understandable quirk among museum curators is that they want to display their artifacts for the
world to see and admire.
Opening the folder, I started rereading files on the
other three, this time circling important facts with a
ballpoint.
Most of the details Eddie provided for Ervin Maddox, owner of Cassandra's Baubles on the River
Walk, I had uncovered except for the fact his bank account was running low. From Maddox's own admission, he wanted the map, but its value was beyond his
grasp.
Art broker Leo Cobb had been booked twenty-two
years earlier for the theft of a Seventeenth Dynasty alabaster unguent vase, but the case was dropped upon the
return of the vase, for the museum in Seattle did not
want the
business.
A sudden yawn overtook me. I hadn't slept much
the night before. Jack's snoring didn't help; nor did
the clamor from the River Walk; nor did the fact I lay
awake pondering the missing map.
Yawning again, I stretched my arms over my head
and lay back on the bed. Moments later, I was asleep. I
awakened around eight that evening, showered, slipped
into fresh clothes and started for the door. As an afterthought, I booted up the laptop and went online.
A big grin spread over my face when I spotted mail
from Eddie Dyson.
I printed up his information and cringed when I saw
his charges. Seven hundred dollars. I thumbed through
the sheath of papers. While he had been unable to provide all of the information, that which he did was detailed. I printed it.
"It's worth it," I muttered, shutting down the computer and heading for the door. I was looking forward
to a leisurely Mexican dinner washed down with an icy
margarita while I perused the information from Eddie.
Hoping to avoid Jack so I could get some work done,
I turned the other way on the River Walk and found a
balcony table at Pepe's, known for his sumptuous dinners of shredded beef chimichangas and his highpowered margaritas.
I sat back and drew a deep breath, enjoying the tropical ambiance of gay voices, laughing faces, and the occasional come-hither look flashed by dark, daring eyes.
After the young waitress took my order, I opened
the manila folder in which I had placed Eddie's report
and began reading. To my disappointment, he had not
been able to procure all of the bank accounts.
A few minutes later, the waitress slid an icy margarita in front of me followed by a platter of steaming
chimichangas, but I was too absorbed in Eddie's report.
My eyes grew wide. I whistled softly. By the time I
finished the report, my dinner was cold, my drink warm.
Not a good combination.
Ordering another margarita, I apologized to the waitress and asked her to warm my dinner. I grinned sheepishly and tapped a finger on the manila folder. "I just
got involved in work. Sorry."
I had hoped Eddie would provide me something to
chew on. He did but it was a piece of leather. Of the
eight names I sent Eddie, five had no obvious motive.
Ted Odom had no reason to steal the Piri Reis. The
map belonged to him. And nothing in Edna Hudson's
nor Father Poggioreale's report suggested motive, although I was curious as to why, according to Ted and
Edna, the good Father tried to buy it three times.
The fourth one, Joe F. Hogg, appeared to be nothing
more than a newly rich man struggling for the
celebrity his wealth might bring. Other than his having married a Las Vegas showgirl two years earlier, there
was nothing unusual about him. Many individuals, after gaining wealth, turned to the arts, hoping some of
the sophisticated culture would somehow soften the
crassness of money.
And the last was George Moffit, curator of the museum for forty years, well respected, happily married
to the same woman for thirty-eight years, and earning
a respectable income from the museum. He wanted
the map for his second wife, the museum, but even if he
had stolen the Piri Reis, where would he display the
map? An understandable quirk among museum curators is that they want to display their artifacts for the
world to see and admire.
Opening the folder, I started rereading files on the
other three, this time circling important facts with a
ballpoint.
Most of the details Eddie provided for Ervin Maddox, owner of Cassandra's Baubles on the River
Walk, I had uncovered except for the fact his bank account was running low. From Maddox's own admission, he wanted the map, but its value was beyond his
grasp.
Art broker Leo Cobb had been booked twenty-two
years earlier for the theft of a Seventeenth Dynasty alabaster unguent vase, but the case was dropped upon the
return of the vase, for the museum in Seattle did not
want the