Riley read off the first set of GPS coordinates, and Emerson plugged them into his laptop.
“That one is Rock Creek Park, Washington, D.C.,” Emerson said. “Mysterioso Manor, to be more precise. They’re in reverse chronological order. Skip backward until you find a period of time where he was in just one place for a while. We can assume anything else is him traveling to America.”
Riley scrolled through the data. “He was at 8°24′34.2648″ south and 115°11′20.1084″ east for a couple weeks.”
“That’s a small island off the coast of Bali,” Emerson said. “That’s where he went after he was evicted from his stolen island. How about before that?”
“He was at 11°3′36.3544″ south and 171°5′39.2232″ west for six months.”
“Bingo,” Emerson said. “That’s in the middle of the ocean, about two hundred miles from Samoa. He was either floating around in the Pacific for half a year or that’s his deserted island hermitage.”
Riley put the transponder on the desk and traced her finger down the map in the book to 171° west, looking to see if there were any islands in the approximate area. “Here! There’s a little unnamed island, labeled with those exact coordinates.”
“Odd,” Emerson said. “This island had obviously been surveyed at the time of the book’s publication ten years ago, but the image from Google Earth shows nothing but ocean at that location.”
“Not surprising,” Riley said. “Google Earth also shows an empty field where my parents live. Everybody knows it’s just a compilation of various satellite images and still photographs. It’s notoriously inaccurate when it comes to rural and unpopulated areas.”
“Perhaps,” Emerson said, accessing the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration website. “Let’s check out the most current nautical maps. These were revised last year.”
Riley looked over Emerson’s shoulder as he found the set of online maps that corresponded to page 233 in the book.
“There’s nothing at 11°3′ south by 171°5′ east,” she said. “In fact, there’s not even anything close to that location, except water. It doesn’t make sense. The island was there five months ago. Wayan’s emergency transponder proves that. And the NOAA mapped it more than ten years ago. So why isn’t it on the most current NOAA maps?”
Emerson smiled. “There’s only one explanation. Someone erased the island from the NOAA database.”
“Why would someone do that?” Riley asked.
“For the same reason a murderer hides the body,” Emerson answered. “To cover up a crime. Someone stole Wayan Bagus’s island. Tomorrow we’re going to hunt it down.”
TWO
RILEY WOKE UP AT EIGHT IN THE MORNING, stretched out on the giant sheepskin rug in the library. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and Emerson had obviously covered her with a comforter and put a pillow under her head sometime during the night. The NOAA book was lying next to her, still open to the last page Riley had read before falling asleep.
Her first thought was that it was sweet of Emerson to tuck her in. Her second thought was that there was something stuck to her forehead. She reached up and removed a Post-it note.
There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth: not going all the way and not starting. Having breakfast with Wayan.
Riley sat up and looked at the comforter Emerson had draped over her. It was covered with more Post-it notes. Emerson had been sticking notes on her while she slept as if she were a refrigerator. Most of the notes were work-related. A couple were personal reminders like “Find socks” and “Eat more vegetables.”
“The man needs a keeper,” Riley said to the empty room. Oh crap, she thought, that would be me. I’m his keeper.
Emerson’s Aunt Myra was also his keeper. She was Vernon’s mom and Emerson’s father’s sister. She was a no-frills, practical woman who’d stepped in when Emerson’s father passed. She could usually be found in the kitchen, but this week she was in West Virginia tending to a sick relative.
Riley left the library and checked out the dining room and the kitchen. No Emerson. She helped herself to coffee and a piece of leftover pizza and set out for the conservatory. If Emerson wasn’t in the library or the kitchen he was almost always in the conservatory, which was actually an immense greenhouse located a short distance behind the main house.
The garages and Vernon’s RV were also behind the house. Riley was about to walk past the RV when its door crashed open and two young women in skimpy black maid’s uniforms popped out, followed by Vernon. Vernon was buck naked except for a John Deere hat covering his privates. He was holding a feather duster in his free hand.
“Thanks for helping me clean up my RV,” Vernon said. “Appreciate you ladies showing up on short notice. Hope you don’t mind the job took so long.”
The women giggled something that Riley couldn’t hear, got into a Prius, and drove away.
Riley clapped a hand over her eyes. “For the love of Mike, Vernon. Put on some clothes.”
Vernon looked down at himself. “I got all my nethers covered.”
Riley peeked at him from between her fingers. “I’m looking for Emerson. I think he’s having breakfast in the conservatory.”
“I’m powerful hungry,” Vernon said. “Wait up for me, and I’ll go with you.”
Two minutes later Vernon was dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, a tight-fitting white T-shirt, and he had the John Deere hat on his head.
“This here’s my lucky hat,” Vernon said, joining Riley.
“Apparently so. Did you hear the alarm last night?”
“Oh sure. But Emmie texted me not to come unless my unagi told me to. And I wasn’t getting any unagi danger signals, which was a good thing being that I was busy with the maid service.”
“They were here all night?”
Vernon grinned. “Turns out we had a lot to do, cleaning-wise.”
“Good grief.”
“It’s not what you think,” Vernon said. “Most people gotta pay for ladies in maid suits, but Jolene and Mary Beth and me went to high school together back in Harrisonburg. They live in D.C. now, and they come over on occasion to tidy up and enjoy my bachelor amenities.”
Don’t ask, Riley told herself. Best not to know too much about his amenities.
The grounds surrounding the main house and the conservatory were tended by a well-meaning but partially blind ninety-two-year-old gardener. The result was a riot of grasses and flowering plants run amok. Riley thought it suited the property perfectly because everything about Mysterioso Manor was amok. It was an extravagant display of wealth and bad taste set in a heavily wooded area of Rock Creek Park, in the northwest quadrant of Washington, D.C. It was horribly wonderful.
Riley led the way along the stone path to an elaborate iron and glass structure topped with a Victorian-era cupola. It was almost as large as the main house, and it contained a jungle of exotic tropical plants and fruit trees. It was, on one hand, a magical place. On the other hand, it was a living minefield. Spiders dropped from trees, birds shot through the air, assorted rodents and small animals scurried across walkways, and a larcenous colony of monkeys howled and screeched at visitors.
Benches were sprinkled throughout the conservatory, usually beside a small fountain or hummingbird feeder. A larger sitting area had been placed in the middle of the greenhouse, under the cupola. A pretty wrought iron table with four chairs held court in the center. More fancy wrought iron chairs and benches were stationed along the perimeter.
Riley watched for mice and spiders as she made her way to the sitting area, and Vernon held on to his hat for fear a monkey would steal it.
“I don’t know why Emmie likes this place so much,” Vernon said. “Looks to me like a swamp. And I don’t know why he puts up with the monkeys. They’re all a pack of thieves. Especially that Mr. Manfrengensen. He’s the worst. He takes anything not nailed down, and he don’t even care if you yell at him.”
“He listens to Emerson.”