The Adventurer

you into investing a few thousand dollars in some crazy expedition to find a lost World War II plane that supposedly crashed on a Pacific island with a load of gold on board."
    Sarah giggled. "You mean the way that guy Slaughter did?" Jim Slaughter, owner of a business called Slaughter Enterprises, had been one of the professional treasure hunters she had contacted five months earlier. She had found his ad along with several others in the back of a sleazy adventure magazine for men.
    He had written her several letters on impressive letterhead and tried phoning a few times in an attempt to interest her in his scheme to find the plane full of gold. Sarah had politely declined several times.
    "He was a slick one, wasn't he?"
    "I'll say. But that's my whole point, Sarah. People involved in the business of treasure hunting are probably all borderline hustlers or outright crazies. They just want you to pour thousands into their projects to find lost gold mines or something. Then they take your money and disappear."
    "Not Gideon Trace. He's different." Sarah managed to find two clean wineglasses in the cupboard. She made a mental note to run the dishwasher soon. She was almost out of clean dishes. "Trace certainly hasn't tried to convince me to invest a dime in any crazy treasure-hunting scheme. In fact, he's tried to discourage me from wasting my time going after the Flowers."
    "I don't know, Sarah. I just don't like the whole idea. But it's your decision." Margaret sauntered after her, pausing to glance at the evening paper that was lying on the counter amid a motley collection of yellow pads, romance novels and pens.
    Sarah felt a twinge of uneasiness. Hand on the refrigerator door, she turned her head just as Margaret flipped through the newspaper to find the business section, "Margaret, wait, I don't think you ought to read that section."
    But it was too late. Margaret was already staring down at the photo of a hard-faced man in a western-style business suit. "Don't worry about it, Sarah," she said quietly. "He makes headlines in the business world. He always has. You can't expect me to stop reading the paper just because I'm occasionally going to run across an article about him." She refolded the paper and raised her head, smiling grimly. "Besides, that's all in the past."
    "Yes." Sarah busied herself with a bottle of Chardonnay and sought a way to change the subject. "Want to go out for a bite to eat in the Market?" she asked as she tossed the cork in the vague direction of the trash basket. It missed. Sarah promised herself she would pick it up later.
    "All right. Then I think I'd better go back to my own apartment and get some writing done. I haven't accomplished much in the two weeks Kate's been visiting us and I've got a deadline coming up next month."
    "You'll make it. You always do." Sarah poured two glasses of the clean, polished Washington Chardonnay and handed one to Margaret. "Here's to Kate and her new family."
    "And here's to your treasure-hunting expedition," Margaret added as the glasses clinked. She took a sip and her gaze turned serious. "Promise me you'll be careful, Sarah."
    "Hey, my middle name is Careful."
    "No, it's not. Your middle name is Impulsive and I'm afraid that one of these days that intuition of yours, which you trust entirely too much, is going to land you in a heap of trouble."
    "I'm thirty-two years old, Margaret. Trouble is starting to look promising. Now, no more lectures. Let's get down to serious business. What do we want for dinner and where do we want to go to eat it? I vote for pasta."
    "You always vote for pasta."
     
     
    T WO HOURS LATER , pleasantly stuffed with hazelnut tortellini, Sarah turned the key in the lock of her front door. She wandered through the cheerful, vividly decorated one-bedroom apartment, turning on lights as she went.
    When she reached the desk where her computer sat like some ancient monolith rising from a sea of notes, magazines, empty tea mugs and research materials, she stopped.
    It only took her a minute to find the stack of Gideon Trace's letters. Margaret was right, Sarah thought with a small smile as she reread one of them. Gideon's notes did tend to be a bit cryptic. An uncharitable observer might even call them somewhat dry. There was certainly very little hint of the fascinating man she just knew he had to be.
     
    Dear Ms. Fleetwood:
    In regard to your most recent inquiry concerning the legend of the Fleetwood Flowers, I'm afraid I have