The Adventurer

very little to tell you that you don't already know. The tale dates from the late eighteen hundreds and is not unlike many other stories of lost treasure. Such stories tend to become greatly exaggerated over the years.
    The Flowers were supposedly five pairs of earrings fashioned from gemstones. According to the legend, Emelina Fleetwood, a spinster schoolteacher, spent a summer searching for gold in the Washington mountains near her cabin. It was not unknown for women to try their luck at gold mining on the frontier and some gold was found in Washington, as you probably know.
    At any rate, she is said to have discovered a small vein, worked it all summer and then went back to teaching the following year. She never told anyone where her strike was or if she'd gotten anything out of it. But the legend claims she had the earrings, which she always referred to as her Flowers, made up by a San Francisco jeweler and that she paid him with gold nuggets.
    Before she died, Emelina Fleetwood is said to have buried her earrings somewhere on her property and drawn a map showing the location. If there ever was a map, it has long since disappeared.
    I'm surprised you are familiar with the legend. It is an extremely obscure one. My professional opinion is that there is not much merit to the tale. Any search for the Flowers would probably be a waste of time.
    If I can be of any further help, please feel free to contact me. Thank you for your check. I have renewed your subscription to
Cache
for another year.
    Yours,
    G. Trace
    P.S. Thank you for the recipe for pesto sauce.
     
    "Well, Mr. G. Trace," Sarah said as she put the letter back down on the desk, "I appreciate your professional opinion but I'm not going to abide by it. I'm going to find the Flowers and what's more, you're going to help me."

1
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    I T WAS THE BIGGEST , ugliest cat Sarah had ever seen. A true monster of a cat, twenty or twenty-five pounds at least and none of it fat.
    Its fur was a mottled, blotchy color somewhere between orange and brown with here-and-there patches of black and tan for added color interest. It had one torn ear and a few old scars, but otherwise looked to be in excellent physical condition. Sarah decided this particular cat probably won most of the fights it chose to start. She doubted it had ever purred in its life.
    "Excuse me," Sarah said to the cat, which was sprawled across the top step, effectively blocking the entrance to the porch. "Would you mind if I knocked?"
    The cat did not bother to lift its head but its tail thumped once in warning. It opened its eyes to mere slits and regarded her without enthusiasm. Sarah found herself pinned by a stone-cold, green-gold gaze.
    "I can see you're not the eager, welcoming type. Somebody should have traded you for a Beagle years ago. What are you? Some kind of guard cat?"
    The cat said nothing but continued to watch her with its remote, gemlike gaze. Sarah glanced around, hoping for signs of human habitation, but there weren't many.
    The big, weather-beaten Victorian-style house she had finally managed to locate after much diligent searching was perched on a bluff overlooking the sea. The view of the Pacific was hidden this morning behind a veil of fog that hung over the water like a sorcerer's dark spell.
    The house with all its aging architectural embellishments was as faded, forbidding and aloof as old royalty.
    The nearest neighbor was some distance away, concealed by a heavy stand of trees. The distant roar of the sea and the whisper of restless pines were the only sounds. For all intents and purposes, Gideon Trace's home was isolated in a universe of its own, with only the cat to indicate that anyone actually lived here.
    Sarah took another look at the large cat. "I'm very sorry," she said firmly, "but I am going to knock on the door, whether you like it or not."
    The cat stared at her.
    Sarah cautiously moved to the farthest edge of the steps so that she would not have to actually step over the creature. She went briskly up to the wide porch, ignoring the irritated thumps of the cat's tail. But the animal made no move to stop her as she went over to the door.
    She had her hand poised to knock when a faint tingle of awareness went through her. The door was suddenly opened from the other side. Sarah looked up and found herself pinned for a second time that morning by a pair of icy, green-gold eyes. This time, at least, the eyes were human. Sort of.
    "Who the hell are you and what do