The Doubloon Cove gang is back. In October of 1992, while much of Salem is busy observing the 300th anniversary of the Salem Witch Hunts, Stacy’s father is kidnapped. The crooks demand a satchel, entrusted to her and her father, containing ancient documents leading to the Freemason’s (and possibly the world’s) greatest and most dangerous treasure.
The gang—Cindy, Jeffrey, and Steven—arrive in Salem for a weekend of parent-free relaxation but are soon enlisted by Stacy to help free her father. But then they also decide to solve the cryptic clues in the documents and locate the long-lost treasure themselves. Working behind the backs of the Freemasons, they soon find themselves on the run from the Illuminati and the police.
This leads them to underground tunnels and things that they never expected.
This second book in the Doubloon Series is a fast-paced action/adventure novel, in the genre of The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, with elements of Indiana Jones, Dan Brown, and The Three Stooges.
With 18 illustrations and several cryptic puzzles.
The Doubloon Cove gang is back. In October of 1992, while much of Salem is busy observing the 300th anniversary of the Salem Witch Hunts, Stacy’s father is kidnapped. The crooks demand a satchel, entrusted to her and her father, containing ancient documents leading to the Freemason’s (and possibly the world’s) greatest and most dangerous treasure.
The gang—Cindy, Jeffrey, and Steven—arrive in Salem for a weekend of parent-free relaxation but are soon enlisted by Stacy to help free her father. But then they also decide to solve the cryptic clues in the documents and locate the long-lost treasure themselves. Working behind the backs of the Freemasons, they soon find themselves on the run from the Illuminati and the police.
This leads them to underground tunnels and things that they never expected.
This second book in the Doubloon Series is a fast-paced action/adventure novel, in the genre of The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, with elements of Indiana Jones, Dan Brown, and The Three Stooges.
With 18 illustrations and several cryptic puzzles.
Friday, 23 October 1992, 4:00 PM
<1st Illustration>
“Salem!” The conductor announced the name of the station as the train emerged from the tunnel and crept to the platform. Jeffrey, Cindy, and Steven got up from their seats and queued up near the door.
Other passengers lined up too, many wearing pointy black hats and carrying brooms. Some women wore long black witch dresses.
“Backpacks, everyone?” asked Jeffrey. Steven raised an eyebrow. Yes, they all had their backpacks on. “I just wanted to be sure that we didn’t leave one behind, like Cindy did last time.”
Cindy looked shocked. “Wha? YOU lost it last time!”
Jeffrey gave his sister a dirty look.
“Now, children...” said Steven.
The train stopped. The conductor opened the outer door, then slid the inner door to the vestibule open. “Salem!”
The three kids walked out of the train and onto the platform. “This will be great!” said Steven. “The whole weekend with no parents.”
“So, which way?” asked Jeffrey. Cindy pointed to a staircase leading up out of the parking lot.
They ascended the stairs, which brought them to a crosswalk. Cindy pressed the big round button on the lamp post, and a few seconds later, the WALK sign turned green.
The continued down Washington Street, past imposing stone courthouses, for a few blocks until they reached Essex Street. There was no button here to press for a WALK sign, but there was a green painted crosswalk, indicating that pedestrians always had the right of way. Still, the unending stream of cars did not stop for them.
“Watch this,” said Cindy. She took one step onto the street, and the cars stopped.
“Like Moses parting the Red Sea,” she said.
They walked across the street and came to the busy tourist district. Essex Street, on this side of Washington, was pedestrian-only—no cars allowed.
On both sides of the street were tourist shops, restaurants, witchcraft shops, and museums. And, being late in October, filled with tourists. For the whole month, especially near Halloween, Salem was a tourist Mecca. This year—1992—was even more special, since it was the 300th anniversary of the infamous Salem witch hunts of 1692. Many people were already in costume.
They walked past a group of young actors during their annual recreations of the witch hunt events.
“I accuse thee, Martha Carrier, of bewitching Benjamin Abbot, and causing him great distress and disease,” exclaimed one young man, dressed in a Pilgrim-like costume, pointing his finger at a teen girl dressed as a ragged old woman. Two guards came up to her to drag her to trial. Tourists gathered around to watch their next moves.
Jeffrey smiled. “That’d be you, Cindy, if we lived here three hundred years ago. Steve would be saying, ‘I accuse thee, Cindy Ferguson, of pestering your older brother...”
Cindy whacked her brother. “In your dreams.”
Past the Peabody Essex Museum, Essex Street became car friendly. Not too far beyond that, they walked up to a Georgian-era house, over two hundred years old, with two large chimneys sticking out of the roof.
Jeffrey looked at Steven. “This may be the last time that we get to stay here, Steve. Nemi has a buyer.”
They walked up to the dark yellow house. Jeffrey clanked the round brass doorknocker.
The door soon swung open. An older man opened it. “There you guys are; ’bout time!” It was Jeffrey’s and Cindy’s uncle, Nehemiah “Nemi” Ferguson.
Rather than invite them in, he stood in the doorway, continuing to chat. “Well, lookit you. How old’re you guys now?”
Jeffrey pointed to himself and Steven. “We’re both now thirteen.”
Nemi looked at Cindy. “And are you still nine?”
Cindy was flustered. “I will be eleven in a few days!”
“Oh-ho! Sorry! Oh, my, Stevie, look atcher hair. Or is it a mop? It looks like Cindy’s hair.”
Steven blushed. His curly reddish hair was past his shoulders, but Cindy’s was a lot lighter in color. He was indignant. “It looks more like Robert Plant’s, you know, of Led Zeppelin? So, I am like a young Robert Plant.”
“A short and fat Robert Plant,” giggled Cindy.
Nemi held up a keychain. “Whatever. Jeff, here’re the keys. Need anythin’, call my son, Neil. He ain’t far away.” He dropped the keys into Jeffrey’s palm, picked up a suitcase, and headed to his car, a 1955 Chevy in need of a paint job.
He tossed the suitcase into the back seat, crawled into the front, and started the ignition. He rolled down the window and looked at the three. “Don’t mess up the house or there’ll be ‘you-know-what’ to pay, ’kay?”
Jeffrey smiled and waved.
Nemi drove away. A plume of gray smoke poured out of the car’s exhaust. Steven held up his palm for a high-five. “It’s party time!”
Jeffrey slapped his palm to Steven’s. “Woo-hoo!”
“Cindy!” cried a distant voice. She looked in the direction of the sound. Her friend Stacy was running up toward the house.
When she got close to the front yard, she looked at Cindy and exclaimed, “He’s been kidnapped!”
Cindy grasped the straps of her backpack. Fidgeting nervously, she asked, “Wha—, who?”
Stacy stopped short of the stairs to the porch, bent over, and put her hands on her knees and caught her breath. Still panting, she said, “My father’s been kidnapped!”
“What?!” Cindy fretfully asked as Stacy stood upright again, holding up a note.
She walked to the porch and held up a letter to Cindy’s face. “They want the indigo bag or they’ll kill him!” she explained. Cindy took the letter to read it. Jeffrey gazed over her shoulder.
Steven said, “Crap! Who?!”
Jeffrey looked away from the letter and said to Steven, “Mr. Haile’s been kidnapped. We need to call the police!” Jeffrey started to run into the house, but Stacy grabbed his backpack and held him back.
“No! You can’t! You can’t! What they want is a secret. We cannot let anyone know what they want. And the letter said no police.”
Cindy went to the door and said, “Let’s go inside and talk.”
“In,” she ordered the other three. They entered and she shut the door. “What is this about?”
“My father has been kidnapped. They want my dad’s Freemason satchel in exchange.”
“Or they’ll kill ’im,” Jeffrey explained.
“Like they did to Mr. Simmons,” added Stacy, waving the letter.
“Why don’t we sit down and read the letter?” asked Cindy. She looked at Jeffrey.
“Let’s go to the dinner table,” he said.
Once settled, Cindy looked at Stacy and said, “The letter. Let’s read it.”
Stacy was shaking, but then grabbed the side of the table, closed her eyes, and breathed in. “Okay. Here it is.” She placed it on the table. The other three, their heads nearly bumping into one another, crouched over the letter. It read:
Stacy Haile, we have your father, Haile Abenezer. He is unharmed at the moment. We will release him in exchange for the Freemason satchel. The indigo-coulored one with all of it’s contents. Under no other circumstances will we let him free unless we have the complete satchel.
Place the satchel in the centre of the dumpster behind Walter’s Bookstore and your going to get the instructions on freeing your father. If you contact any law enforcement organisation, your father is a goner. You have exactly 48 hours to give us the satchel, or your father is a *goner. It is now 2:15 PM, 23 October 1992.
*like Alfred Simmons
Steven gave Stacy a quizzical look, “There are a lot of mistakes. Perhaps a third grader is playing a prank on you?”
Cindy looked at Steven and not too kindly said, “Well, what if it isn’t? This is serious.”
Stacy stared at Steven with eyes wide open. “I, I really don’t think so. And, I mean, they know about the satchel, but that’s a major secret.”
Cindy put her hand on Stacy’s and squeezed. “So sorry, Stacy.” She released her hand and the two hugged. When Cindy pulled away enough to look her in the face, she said, “Is it just a dumb bag? Could you give it to them so that we can get your father back?”
“No!”
The others looked at her in disbelief.
“We actually talked about this a few days ago. He told me that the indigo satchel was the most important secret that the Freemasons have. You know that my dad is a Freemason, right?”
Jeffrey and Steven looked at each other and shrugged. Cindy said, “Uh huh.”
She continued, “He said that if anything happened to him, that that package must be given to the next person on the list, Howard Black, that is, no exceptions. And under no circumstances should it be stolen, given away, or lost. Indeed, he said that if it were up to me to save the contents of the satchel or him, I must save the contents. They are more important than his life is. He made me promise.”
“So, what is our next step?” asked Steven.
“Oh,” said Cindy. “We should try to figure out who kidnapped your father; that might help get him back.”
“Just call the cops, dude,” suggested Steven.
“No!” insisted Stacy.
“What Cindy said,” agreed Jeffrey. “And it could help if we determine why they kidnapped him. To start, what is in the satchel?”
“I don’t know! And, uhm, I am not sure if I should get anyone outside the Freemasons involved.”
“But,” noted Cindy, “The kidnappers may be Freemasons. How else would they know of the satchel?”
Stacy looked at Cindy. “Oh, no. Yes, you’re right. Now what?”
Jeffrey held up his hand. “You could trust us and enlist us to help solve this case. We did okay with finding that Viking ship, after all.”
Stacy looked at the letter, then to Jeffrey, then to Steven and Cindy. “Okay. Yes, please. Help me get my father back.”
“We will,” said Jeffrey. “Right, guys?”
Cindy and Steven affirmed, “Yes, we will.”
Steven asked Stacy, “May we see the letter again?”
She slid it to him. “The first thing to notice is how they spelled coloured, centre, and organisation. These are British spellings.”
Cindy declared, “Excellent. And you wondered if the note was by a third grader. Look at the way that they spelled its here for its contents—I T apostrophe S. Even someone with my education level knows that there is no apostrophe in the possessive its. But there is in you’re when you mean you are. They wrote you’re going to with Y O U R.”
Steven joined in, suggesting, “And we think that he is a Freemason?”
Jeffrey agreed. “So, we have this: the person who wrote the letter is likely a lesser-educated British Freemason. Does that sound like anyone you know, Stacy?”
“I am not sure. I have not met too many of his Freemason friends.”
“Darn,” uttered Jeffrey. “Now, how was this letter presented to you? How did you get ahold of it?”
“I was watching TV in the living room, and I heard a loud smack on the widow. I looked out and saw a red jeep driving away, and a brick with this note tied around it on the lawn below the window. I think that he tried to throw it through the window.”
“Did you see who was driving?” asked Jeffrey.
“No.”
Steven nodded. “So, he knows where you and your father live, and he drives a jeep.”
“He, or she,” Cindy pointed out. “And the driver might not be the same person who wrote the note. Perhaps there is a team of bad guys.”
Jeffrey looked again at the letter. “There is an asterisk before goner. Then the asterisk leads to the name Alfred Simmons. Who is that?”
“He was the Freemason that had the satchel before my father did. When he told me about the satchel, he asked if I remembered Alfred. I did. He came to our house once about two years ago. He told me about what Alfred had, and that now that he was dead, it was his turn. He then told me that it was very important and that it was worth more than his life. Oh no. The letter implies that they killed Alfred. Now they have my father and will kill him too! This keeps getting worse!”
“Maybe not,” hinted Steven. “Why was the name added later, with an asterisk? It seems like an afterthought, like, if I imply that I killed Alfred, the letter will sound more threatening.”
Cindy agreed. “I sure hope so.”
Stacy was about to say something, but suddenly stood up. “They might be looking for it. We need to make sure that it is safe! We need to go get it. Now!”
Steven nodded. “Where is it?”
Stacy sat back down, put her elbows on the table, crossed her arms, and crouched low. She whispered, “No one is actually supposed to even see it except for certain Freemasons. I have not even seen it yet. But we need to get it now before they do. And then perhaps give it to Mr. Black. He is supposed to get it after my father.”
“And,” asked Jeffrey, “where is it?”
“It, it’s in the bomb shelter.”
“A bomb shelter?!” asked Cindy.
“There is one in our back yard. We should go. Now.”
She got up again and looked at the others. She gestured for the others to get up, too. “Let’s go.”
“Do we all need to go?” asked Steven. “Perhaps some of us could stay here and hold the fort.”
Jeffrey responded, “There’s strength in numbers. We should all go.”
“’Kay,” agreed Steven.
The four left the house, with Stacy taking the lead and walking quickly. Jeffrey locked the door and joined them.
They walked back up Essex Street. The girl dressed as an old lady was once again being accused of bewitching Benjamin Abbot. They turned south at Summer Street.
Steven asked, “What if they are at your house, ransacking it?”
“It may still be safe, and I know of a way to sneak into the shelter. But there is also an entrance to it in the basement. If they find that, game over.” They quickened their pace.
A few minutes later, they were at Stacy’s street. Turning the corner, Stacy stopped in her tracks and peered at her house. “I don’t see a car in my driveway. I don’t think they’re here. Follow me.”
Stacy walked quickly to her yard. The rest followed. She went straight to the back yard and stopped at a shed. She opened the door. Inside, under a mat, was another door. She unlocked and opened it. “Hold on; I will be right back.”
“Won’t we all go in?” asked Cindy.
“No. I’ll be right out.” She was quickly down the shaft.
Steven looked at Jeffrey. “I wonder what it could be—a bag of money?”
“Gold bars, perhaps,” said Cindy.
“Ah, perhaps legal papers,” Jeffrey added. “A will. Or a deed to a mansion.”
Steven shook his head. “I don’t know. Money should be in a bank. This must be something precious, like a Rembrandt painting.”
Cindy smirked, “That fits in a shoulder bag? Rembrandts are usually pretty big.”
“How about a painting like the Mona Lisa?” Countered Steven. “It is pretty small, and worth billions!”
“Millions,” said Cindy. “But a lot, for sure.”
Jeffrey agreed, “Yeah, wow. Or, uhm, perhaps it is something embarrassing to the bad guy. Pictures, or evidence of a murder.”
Steven’s eyes widened. “A murder?! Yikes.”
They stayed silent after that, and impatiently waited.
“Hey!” cried Stacy from below. “Hey, guys. I can’t find it. I could use some help. Come down.”
Cindy asked, “You sure?”
“Yes! Come down. Now.”
“All righty then,” said Jeffrey. He turned around and started down the ladder first. Cindy went next.
When Steven was down, he looked around. “This is not what I imagined for a bomb shelter.”
“What did you expect?” asked Stacy. “Fifty-year-old tins of tuna and shelves of stale crackers?”
Steven shrugged.
“It’s a secret storeroom, basically. Few people know about this place.”
The room did have beds, a sink, and other features that would allow people to stay hunkered down for a long time, but mainly, it had shelves of boxes, folded cloth, and what looked like antique African cookware.
Jeffrey started opening boxes but stopped suddenly. “We are looking for a lavender satchel?”
“Indigo,” corrected Stacy.
“What’s indigo?” asked Steven.
Cindy answered, “It is a bluish violet.”
“Just think purple,” said Jeffrey.
Cindy saw a box with a lot of purple and violet cloth, digging through it, she saw an indigo object with an image of a compass, an L-shaped ruler behind it, and the letter “G” in between.
<2nd illustration>
“Stacy,” she said. “The letter said, ‘the Freemason satchel’, yes?”
“Yes.”
She started pulling the object out of the box, but it was heavy. She instead waved her over. “Is this it?”
Stacy looked at it. “I think so.” She threw the cloth objects on top of it on the floor and pulled the large handbag out of the box by its straps. The bag had an envelope attached to the back. Written on the outside was, Yes, Stacy, this is it. “It must be! Let’s go.”
Steven was up first, Stacy last. She then closed and locked the shelter door.
“Let’s go back to your place,” she said to Cindy.
“I live in Doubloon Cove, but back to Nemi’s house on Essex, yes.”
Steven was already around the house and stepping into the front yard. He stopped.
A red jeep was in the driveway, and a man wearing sunglasses was beginning to open the car door. The two saw each other through the windshield.
“Hey!” he yelled to Steven. “Hey, little girl. Come here!”
Steven turned around and ran back to the others, who were still near the shelter entrance. “They’re here!”
Stacy said, “Yikes! Okay. This way!” She ran to the backyard of the house behind hers. The rest ran after her.
They heard tires screeching. When they got to the front yard of the house in back, Stacy kept running. As they were crossing that street, the jeep was turning onto the street and speeding up towards them.
They ran into the backyard of the house across the street. There was a chain-link fence in back of that yard. They scrambled over it and were now in Broad Street Cemetery.
They heard the jeep screech to a halt. The driver was in front of the house behind them. He could see the kids.
Stacy looked back. She could not make out the figure in the jeep. His face was in a shadow. The jeep then sped off.
“He’s leaving?” asked Jeffrey.
Stacy was not so sure. “I don’t think so.”
The cemetery was long and narrow. They could see the street on the other side. But to the right and left, there was a lot of ground. And gravestones.
“This way,” said Stacy. She turned to the right and ran that way. “Come!”
“Are you sure?” asked Jeffrey.
“Yes. He will probably think that we are still heading north, and will look for us on Broad Street.”
They weaved through rows of ancient gravestones, heading east. Stacy kept gazing towards Broad Street, looking for the jeep. But as they ran further, trees and bushes blocked the view to the street. If I can’t see him, he can’t see me, she thought.
She ran a bit further east, the rest following. “Stop,” she whispered as she hid behind a gravestone. The others found gravestones to hide behind. “Anyone see the jeep?”
They peeped from behind the gravestones and shook their heads.
“Come. Run.” She bolted away.
The boys watched but stayed put. Cindy bopped her brother’s arm, “That means us; let’s go.”
They ran to the end of the cemetery and were now at the edge of Summer Street.
“Hold on,” said Stacy. She looked up and down the street and did not see any jeeps. She did, though, see a taxi coming up the street. “Yes!”
She went into the road and waved her hand at the driver. The driver slowed and stopped in front of Stacy. She rolled the window down and asked, “What do you want?”
“I need a ride!”
“Got any money, kid?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Where to?”
“The Witch History Museum on Essex.”
“Get in.”
Stacy got into the back seat as she waved the others over. The driver did a double take when the others climbed in. The back seat was full, so Cindy got into the front seat. The driver looked at her with disdain. Cindy grinned broadly, showing lots of teeth, like the Cheshire Cat.
The driver rolled her eyes and drove on, with the kids slumped down in their seats so that other drivers could not see them. Kooky kids, she thought.
She drove up Central Street until it ended at Essex. “The museum is on the left. Four dollars.”
Steven handed the driver a five. “Keep the change.”
As they got out, the driver said to Stacy, “That is one nice purse you have there. A bit big, though.”
“Thanks.”
The driver pulled away.
Steven asked, “Why didn’t we go straight to Nemi’s house?”
“Perhaps we don’t want anyone to know where we are,” said Stacy. “And this part of Essex is closed to cars. He can’t find us here if he is still driving.”
They headed east, past gift shops and tourists, and past the Peabody Essex Museum. A sign in front of the museum read:
SPECIAL EXHIBITS OPEN TO PUBLIC
THIS MONTH ONLY
OPEN UNTIL 6PM
The street beyond the museum was no longer pedestrian-only after that, but Nemi’s house was close.
Steven eyed the cars on the street. “I don’t see the jeep,” he said. The four walked swiftly to Nemi’s old house, opened the door, and ran inside.
Jeffrey locked the door and closed the drapes, as if he were expecting a prowler to arrive at any minute. Then everyone sat at the table.
“What now?” asked Jeffrey.
Stacy removed the heavy bag from her shoulder and plopped it on the floor. “I should read dad’s letter; if there is one.” She removed the envelope from the back of the bag and opened it. There indeed was a letter inside. She unfolded it and started reading.
“Yes, this is from my father,” she said.
Cindy was very curious. “Is it private?”
Stacy read a little more. “I think so.”
“So, what now?” asked Jeffrey again.
“My dad said to give it to Howard Black if anything happens to him.”
“Yes,” agreed Cindy. “But he is still alive.”
Jeffrey nodded. “And he can stay that way if we give the bad guys this stuff.”
“No! He said never to let this get into the wrong hands. It must remain with him or the Freemason next on the list—Mr. Black. It is worth more than his life.” She started to cry. “He made me promise.”
Cindy put her arm around her and rubbed her back. “Is there any more advice on what to do now in the letter?”
Stacy wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. She looked at the letter again. “Maybe this could be shared with you. I really don’t know what to do now.”
“We are here to help,” said Steven.
Stacy remained sitting, gazing at the letter. She sighed, then sniffed.
“Okay.” She started reading it aloud.
“My dearest Stacy,
“Since you are reading this, you are likely doing so because something has happened to me, and you were instructed to find and remove the saddlebag from its hiding place. Its contents must be protected and kept away from anyone but the Freemason in charge of it. This was my turn. The next person on the list is presently Howard Black at the Essex Lodge. If he is no longer available, you must find the next person by asking a Freemason of my lodge of at least degree 30.
“To assuage your curiosity, the saddlebag contains primary sources—original documents—regarding how one sacred object was passed down through the ages. It does not contain the object itself, but the documents are valuable and could be used nefariously if they fell into the wrong hands.
“I entrust you to do the right thing. My life is of no importance other than to ensure that the contents are passed along properly. May you be my honorary Freemason.
“I love you with all of my heart, your Abaye.”
She remained staring at the letter. Everyone was silent.
She put it down on the table. “It seems clear. I should contact Mr. Black and hand it to him.”
“Okay,” agreed Jeffrey.
Cindy looked at the letter. “What’s an abaye?”
“It means father, in Amharic—that’s the language of Ethiopia. Look, he even signed it abaye in Amharic letters.”
The signature was:
አባዬ
Steven suggested, “We may as well see what we have.”
Stacy gave him a questioning look. “The contents are supposed to be a secret.”
Cindy insisted. “But you trust us to help you. It may help show why they kidnapped your father.”
Stacy closed her eyes and shook her head. But, after a while, looked at Cindy and said, “I know. All right.” She peeked inside. “Jeez. There is a lot of stuff, documents and such.”
Jeffrey walked toward another room and said, “In here. Put everything on the floor in here.”
Stacy picked up the bag again and followed. They went into the large room on the east side of the house. It had a wooden floor with wide pine planks. She put the bag back down, sat down, and opened it.
She removed the items slowly, one at a time. First, there was an old map and other single-page manuscripts, with Roman writing on it, like we still use today.
Then, an old metal sheet wrapped in clear plastic. It had writing inscribed on it.
Next, there was an old book bound in wood, with several pictures painted on full pages, with Amharic-looking writing on the other pages.
There was a document with a very odd script. The letters were squares and triangles and dots and crosses.
Finally, a letter written in modern English. It was addressed to Howard Black.
“This one is in English.” She held it up.
Cindy inched forward. “And it may give some very good clues on what this is all about.”
“So, what does it say?” asked Steven.
“Okay.” Stacy held the letter with both hands and started reading it.
“To the most worshipful next guardian of the Solomon Saddlebag...”
Steven jabbered, “Whoa, the Solomon Saddlebag! That sounds deep.”
Cindy looked at Steven, “Shh!”
Stacy continued, “...Howard Black, I assume. These contents have been handed down in our lodge for over two hundred years. Some documents are very ancient. They tell the story of how some secrets of Solomon were guarded, kept safe, and how and when the secrets traveled, starting with Solomon’s temple, through Africa, Europe, and finally, the Americas.
“Note that these documents only discuss the travels of the secrets, and not the secrets themselves. But they are primary sources—documents that were created during and soon after the events occurred. Some are quite ancient.
“While we understand some of the writings, we do not understand the more recent. If and when we do, and if and when the secrets are revealed, we do not know how they will impact the world. Therefore, guard these well. You have taken an oath to take the secrets to the grave. Remember Hiram Abiff.”
Steven cut in. “Who was Hiram Abiff?”
“I don’t know,” answered Stacy.
Jeffrey whacked Steven in the back of the head. “Steve! Let her continue!”
Stacy went on. “Do not allow the contents to become unguarded. Keep them safe. A few years ago, the first volume of the Ge’ez books was stolen. When the police recovered it, we could not prove that we were the owners, since no one outside of the lodge knew that we had it. That volume was donated by the police to the Peabody Essex Museum, where it resides today.
“Alfred Simmons, the Guardian of the Solomon Saddlebag before me, was able to examine the volume at the museum, in private, for a short period of time. Before his passing, he informed me that the volume contains critical information regarding the secret. We cannot allow anything further to go missing.
“Finally, Stacy Haile, if you are reading this, tread with wisdom.” Stacy blushed.
“In service, H. T.”
She put the letter down. No one said anything for some time. Finally, Steven spoke. “I didn’t expect all that.”
“No wonder these should be well guarded,” expressed Jeffrey. “And no wonder why the bad guys want them. They want to decode the secrets...to, uh, the secret.”
Cindy suggested, “Why don’t we try to decode the documents?”
“No sheet, Sherlock,” exclaimed Steven.
Jeffrey asked, “Does the letter have any other clues, like the kidnappers?”
“My father is rather well-educated. There are no typos or such. But he did sign his initials not with periods, but, look.”
The signature was:
H∴ T∴
“I don’t know what these dots mean,” she said.
Jeffrey was excited. “Let’s get started. Hopefully, we can learn what those dots mean, but in the meantime, Steve, if we use your brother Frederick again, could he translate the writing on the metal sheet?”
“I am sure. That is, if we share all of this with him. He might be mad about this. He himself is a Freemason. He might want to take it from us.”
“He had bloody better well not!” insisted Stacy. “These are entrusted to my father, who I am sure is a higher degree Mason than your brother. And in this contingency, the items are entrusted to me. As a Mason, he should respect that.”
“Good point,” said Jeffrey. “But he was trustworthy the last time. He translated everything that we asked him to, and he helped us find the Viking treasures. I think that we need him.”
Steven agreed. “I will get a copy of the metal sheet to him. Somehow.”
Cindy looked at the letter. “He wrote as if he expected you to end up reading the letter, Stace. And what does he mean by tread with wisdom?”
“The wisdom of Solomon,” Steven interjected.
“Tread with Solomon,” Jeffrey added. “Walk with Solomon. Travel with Solomon.”
“Like he is egging you on, Stacy,” said Steven.
“He should be egging me on to save him!” Stacy insisted. “But when he wrote the letters, I don’t think that he expected to be kidnapped. We should first focus on rescuing him.”
“Indeed!” agreed Cindy.
Steven assented. “I will ask Freddie who the person can be. We know a lot about the person who wrote the letter, and since he is most likely to be a local Freemason, Freddie might be able to identify him.”
“Or her,” Cindy pointed out.
“No, him,” corrected Stacy. “Freemasons are all men.”
Jeffrey had an idea. “What we know so far is that these secrets have traveled around for centuries. We do not see an indication of what they are. They could easily have simply written the secrets on paper or whatever. But the secrets seem, then, to be written on some object or scroll or tablet or whatever. And that object is what has been traveling about all these years. Plan B should be to decipher all of these and find the object in question. Then, the contents of the saddlebag are not that important anymore. We could trade them for your father.”
Steven suggested, “How about work on both at the same time?”
“Yes,” agreed Cindy. Looking at Stacy, “Yes, Stace?”
“Yes.”
Jeffrey walked over to the old book. “The first item to translate is...”
Stacy picked it up. Holding it open to a page with writing on it, she said, “I can read this. It is in Amharic. Or, no. It is older. It is Ge’ez.”
Cindy was surprised. “You can read this?”
“Yes. It is ancient Ethiopian. My dad was born there, you know. Long ago, yes, but he teaches a course on Ethiopian languages at Salem State. And he made sure that I could read old Amharic and Ge’ez texts. He told me that one day, it may be a lifesaving skill. I thought that he was being silly. But. Now it is staring me in the face.”
“It is almost,” noticed Jeffrey, “as if your father anticipated that this day may come.”
“I hope that he anticipated getting saved,” she said. “Now, he wrote that we need the first volume, which is at Peabody Essex. When does it close?”
Cindy knew. “There was a sign in front. It said something about special exhibits being open to public, and being open until six.”
Stacy looked at her watch. “It is five twenty-seven.”
“We can go tomorrow, then?” Steven suggested.
“No,” insisted Stacy.
Cindy agreed. “Let us split up. Stace and I will go to the museum. You guys get Frederick’s help on who the kidnapper is.”
“And on translating what he can of this,” added Steven.
“It’s nearly Halloween and this is Salem.” In fact, it’s the 300th anniversary of the infamous witch hunts. The Doubloon Cove gang of Jeffrey, Cindy, and Steven are all set to enjoy a parent-free weekend in Salem. It’s a perfect setting for a rip roarin’ whodunit laced with history, mystery, humor, and intrigue in Kelly Novak’s entertaining and engaging Doubloon Cove: The Secret of the Templars’ Satchel.
The gang’s weekend plans are thrown for a loop when their friend Stacy’s father is kidnapped and held for ransom. The kids have forty-eight hours to locate and deliver a mysterious Freemason satchel that allegedly contains the most important secret the Freemasons have. Or Stacy’s dad is a goner.
Wading into both mystery and history as they search for clues, the Doubloon Cove sleuths run in to more questions than answers. Like, did King Solmon have the Ark of the Covenant and a secret talisman? Did the mysterious talisman wind up in Ethiopia a la the Queen of Sheba? Did it eventually make its way back to Judea with Balthazar (you’ll get that if you’re up on your Magi) about the time a babe was born in Bethlehem? Did the Knights Templar find the talisman later, decode it and learn its secret? Perhaps most importantly, will the young sleuths become the only ones in the world figure out the location of the Holy Grail, aka: Solomon’s Secret?
As the kids scramble for clues, they learn that the elusive object was supposedly the property of the British Illuminati – until John Hancock (yeah, that John Hancock) allegedly stole it. But the mysterious talisman has been Freemason property since before the United States became a country. So what happened to it? With the Illuminati hot on their trail, the gang must figure out how a Bible verse may lead to an ancient secret that may be currently residing in 1992 Massachusetts. Can they figure it out before it’s too late?
There’s also treason. Rope burn or die. A horse is a horse, of course, of course. “To grandmother’s house we go.” School monkey bar champ. “Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters?” The Holy Grail. The Star of David. A treasure map. The Return of the King.
This book is a lot of fun! The word play in this light and lively read is smart and snappy. A spry and supple story that pulls readers in from page one, it’s a little The Da Vinci Code. A bit Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. A little National Treasure. Chapter ten, Tomb Raiders, kicks the spooky and creepy element into overdrive. The cover art is great and will surely appeal to the target audience of middle school readers.
The plot covers a lot of ground, with quite a few players. It may be a bit much for middle schoolers. Ditto some of the historical references. For example, alert readers may find themselves chuckling over Freemasons with names like “Brother Pachelbel” and “Brother Sibelius” (Hi, Kanon in D Major and Finlandia.) On the phone to the police later, one of the kids identifies herself as “Franz Schubert.” There’s also an Officer “Saint-Saens.” (Hi, Carnival of the Animals.) It’s clever. But whether or not middle school readers will connect the references to famous composers is open to question. Additionally, the text has a few minor issues, such as misspelling composer Franz Schubert’s surname. (It’s misspelled “Shubert” in one sentence and correctly spelled “Schubert” in another.) But these issues are minor and do not detract from the overall read.
Doubloon Cove: The Secret of the Templars’ Satchel is Book 2 in the Doubloon Cove series. Middle school readers who enjoy a pert and pithy blend of history, mystery, and action will enjoy this book. Keep an eye out for the next installment! I certainly will!
My score: 3.5