Even if we weren’t talking about Poe.

Malcolm didn’t seem to think there was any real potential, either. He’d said as much last night. There was too much water under the bridge between Poe and me. Maybe he had some sort of bizarre crush on me, and maybe I thought he was attractive on the few occasions that he wasn’t actively scowling, but neither of those things is groundwork for a relationship.

Thus decided, I headed back toward the main compound. Thin sunlight had started seeping through the overcast sky, leading me to suspect that it would all burn off later in the morning. Good. I hadn’t come to Florida only to get more gray weather.

I took stock of the buildings. The boys’ cabin was dark, as I’d expected, as were the caretaker’s cottage and the upper floors of the main building. I heard someone banging pots and pans around in the kitchen, probably getting ready for breakfast. The tomb, of course, was still and silent. I wondered if the Cavador Key version retained any of the grandeur of the New Haven original. Nothing to do at the moment but find out.

Unlike our tomb’s giant double doors with the copper book-shaped handles, this tomb’s more modest entrance reflected the Spanish style of the architecture. It was an arched doorway, with a door of simple painted aluminum, whose only embellishment was the painted ironwork grate in front, patterned in a mix of swirls, flowers, and little hexagons. The latch featured an analog keypad.

I stared at the numbers. Could it be that simple? I tapped out 3 1 2.

Nothing. This was probably information they gave out on the tour. Bummer. Oh well, I guess I’d have to come back later, after I’d been enlightened.

“Young lady!” A hand clamped down on my elbow. “What are you doing?”

I whirled around—was whirled around, to be more precise. The caretaker was glaring down at me, a vicious-looking machete in his spare hand.

“Let go!” I cried, wrenching free from his grip and backing up, right into the wrought-iron grate. Great, the Diggers employed sword-wielding maniacs. I was going to die, and my parents thought I was in South Beach.

“What are you doing?” he asked again, and I noticed in retrospect that he hadn’t actually raised said machete. Up close, Saltzman didn’t strike me as the despot the other Diggirls had painted him to be after yesterday’s tour. He seemed to be well into his seventies—though it was difficult to tell how much was age and how much was weathering—with the sort of burgundy leather skin that was a result of several decades spent in the sun. His nose was a mass of bumps and scar tissue that spoke to more than one surgery for basal cell carcinoma, and each eyebrow sported enough white hair for four. His eyes were blue, his manner cautious and crotchety, but not altogether unlikeable.

I straightened, remembering that this guy worked for me. “I’m looking at the tomb,” I said, in a voice as haughty as I could muster, given the circumstances. “Be so good as to give me the pass code?”

He switched hands with knife and gave me his right. I rolled my eyes and provided him with the proper society handshake. Then, for good measure, I lifted the edge of my shirt so he could see the pin stuck through my belt loop. “D177, Saltzman.”

“So I see.” He seemed to relax. “I apologize, miss. It’s just instinct. I’m not used to seeing females around here who aren’t wives or daughters. And the tomb is off-limits to them.”

“Well, times are changing.”

“Don’t go getting defensive with me, missy. I have no problem with the new policy. Makes things a bit complicated around here, but it’s just one of those things. I’m sure we’ll all adjust just fine.” He gestured with the machete as he spoke, which spooked me more than a little. “You’re the one who missed the tour, huh?”

“Yes. Amy Haskel. I had an…emergency.”

“So I heard. Well, no time like the present. I like that you don’t spend all day in bed like some of them.”

I didn’t know exactly how to respond to that.

He reached past me for the gate. “It’s 3122, see? The second tomb.”

How creative. I followed him inside, and watched as he lit a few sconces on the wall. The yellow glow flickered over the walls and he turned to me. “What do you think?”

As I’ve said before, I’m no actress. Even if the Eli drama department weren’t one of the best in the country, I’d hardly be commandeering roles that weren’t of the “Girl on Left” or “Apple Tree” variety in campus productions. But I plastered a look of wonder on my face and went, “Wow.”

The Cavador Key tomb was decidedly not wow-worthy. There was a simple table in the center, sporting a scratched surface despite the layers of finish meant to spiff it up, and the chairs surrounding it included a few hardwoods, a mildewed wicker rocker, and three folding chairs. There was some art on the walls, grimy with smoke, and the upholstery on the armchairs and couches around the perimeter was faded.

I reminded myself that however unimpressive this building was, it represented a second property belonging to my society. The whole island, the free food, the fact that we employed this man to take care of it all—all spoke of a more-than-ample income. So we used folding chairs instead of the fine carved teak I was used to in New Haven! So what? We used it, as Clarissa had pointed out, on our own private island. Dragon’s Head couldn’t hold a cricket to that.

I began to grow very nervous about my future earning potential. What could I do for a living that would provide the type of spare cash that Rose & Grave no doubt expected out of their patriarchs? Jenny was already a millionaire, Clarissa an heiress, Odile a movie star. What could I do to make myself half as worthwhile?

“You haven’t even seen the best part,” he said, tossing his machete casually to the table. (Well, that would explain the scratches.) He crossed the room to a large hutch on the opposite side and flung the doors wide. “Look at this!”

I’d blown my wad on the first “wow.” But this was the one that actually deserved it.

“Those are swastikas,” I said, my voice flat. I was shocked the china had survived Demetria taking a look at them.

“Word is, one of our boys swiped them right from Adolf’s compound when they invaded Berlin.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say. That we had Hitler’s dishes sitting in a hutch seemed perverse to the extreme. “Why?” I finally managed.

“Why else?” Saltzman asked. “Because we beat him!”

Battle spoils. I nodded. I remembered Malcolm telling me about this one time. Still, I had no intention of ever eating off them. Gross.

The caretaker closed the hutch doors again, locking them with a tiny gold key. “Yep. There are lots of people who would do anything to see what we have hidden away here on Cavador Key. So you can see why I have to be so careful about who I let go sneaking around the place. I didn’t know you were a knight this morning.”

“Right.” Was it a little stuffy in here?

“I’m dead serious. You’ve got to keep constant vigilance around here. I catch trespassers all the time. I’ve made a proposal to the board about a couple of guard dogs.”

I pictured packs of pit bulls roaming the beach, with the machete-wielding Saltzman close behind. “That would be…”

“Especially recently.” He nodded. “What with all the troubles our poor Barebones has been going through.”

Barebones. Kurt Gehry.

“Too many people saw the family arriving at the airport down here, and it’s well known in town what we are. Ever since they got here we’ve been fending off boats loaded with photojournalists. There were even a couple of news helicopters.”

“Really?” Demetria had clearly been barking up the wrong tree last night. She should have been nicer to the caretaker. He seemed more than ready to talk about the Gehrys’ presence on the island.