Pine Lake Inn Cozy Mystery Book 8 – SNEAK PEEK!
“What’d you find?” Jasmine asks, coming back over to stand where I’m working in the wet sand. She won’t squat down like me. Not in that dress she put on for the club. It’s meant to catch men’s eyes, not muck about in the dirt. I think we’re both afraid she’d be showing off a bit too much if she tried to get down here with me.
“It’s a bottle,” I tell her, answering her question. “Kind of looks old. Maybe it’s an antique.”
“On this beach? Nah. It’s probably just an Old Hobart’s Whiskey bottle or some such that some dolt threw away.”
“Maybe.” Couldn’t really argue with that. Lots of careless people out there willing to ruin the ocean rather than find a proper receptacle for their garbage. Although, I’m familiar with what Old Hobart’s Whiskey bottles look like, and this isn’t one of those. Not anything I’ve ever seen before. “It’s really interesting. I think I could clean it up and take it back to the Inn. It’d look good… up on the mantel… over the fireplace…”
I grunt with the effort of pulling it out, pausing for breath between words to try again. The beach really doesn’t want to give it up. I was pulling on it as hard as I could, and the jealous, wet sand was only giving way a little at a time. Wrapping my hands around the neck I give it all I’ve got, and with a horrendous sucking sound like maybe the devil himself had the bottle in his grip, it gives way.
It was so sudden when it happened that I fall over backward onto my bum, soaking my dress right through to my panties.
There was just the faintest tink sound when it did, and that was when I realized there was something inside of it, banging around against the insides of the glass from the violent motion of being freed from the beach.
At my feet, the square hole left behind by the bottle slowly filled up from below with water and sediment. The sides of the impression began to collapse. I knew before too much longer there wouldn’t be any evidence that anything had been there at all.
Getting up from wet sand is always a chore. I managed it with Jasmine’s help, both of us laughing at my ungainly cartwheeling. I’m usually quite graceful. Rosie’s the clumsy one in our business partnership. Can’t tell you the number of times we’ve had to redo the kitchen due to minor grease fires, only some of which happened while someone was cooking. Then again, I don’t have a lot of practice with pulling old bottles out of beach sand, so I don’t think I’ve got anything to apologize for.
Holding the bottle up to the fading daylight, I admire the craftsmanship that went into making it. No doubt in my mind now that it’s old. Bottles crafted nowadays might be pretty, but you can always tell they’re machine-made. You can see the seams in the glass, and the groove in the bottom where it’s been fed down a conveyor line, and the little recycling triangle with the number to tell you where to put the bottle when you’re done with it. This one I’d found didn’t have any of that. The beaded design around the neck had several imperfections. There were a few bubbles in the glass, too, which is something modern production methods avoid.
Oh, yes. This would make a great piece to display at the Inn. Not exactly what I had in mind when I promised to bring something back for Jess, but I can’t think of a more unique souvenir than an old bottle found washed up on the beach.
Wiping away some of the grime and the dirt, I peered harder inside of the murky, colored glass.
There was definitely something inside.
I squinted, trying to make it out. A cigar, maybe. Or I suppose it could be…
“Oh, wow!” The words are out of my mouth before I even realized that I was speaking them. I was too excited not to say something. “Jasmine, I think there’s a note in here!”
