“So I excavated around it.”
“And?”
“I found a box.”
I stared at him.
“A box?”
“A sealed metal box buried underground.”
Dad explained that while working around the damaged plumbing, he had discovered something that clearly didn’t belong to the modern pool installation.
The property had originally belonged to a Hungarian immigrant named Tibor, a watchmaker who had died decades earlier.
Eleanor knew him.
She told us Tibor had owned a valuable collection of watches and clocks. He had once told her that he had hidden his finest pieces because he didn’t trust banks.
After Tibor and his wife died, their son sold the property.
The original house was demolished.
Richard eventually built his home there.
And somewhere during all those years, the collection disappeared from everyone’s knowledge.
Until Dad found the box.
“What was inside?” I asked.
“Twelve pieces,” Dad said. “Mostly pocket watches. One small clock.”
“Why are the police here?”
“Because I called them.”
Dad had photographed the box, documented exactly where it was found, and contacted Eleanor.
He hadn’t opened it privately and he certainly hadn’t taken it home.
The items appeared to belong to someone else’s family.
So he had done what he believed was the only proper thing.
He had documented everything and called the authorities.
Richard, however, believed that because the box had been discovered beneath his property, the contents belonged to him.
The officers weren’t making a final ownership decision. They were securing the collection while its history and rightful ownership were investigated.
I looked at Dad.
“You found something potentially worth thousands of dollars and just called the police?”
Dad shrugged.
“It wasn’t mine.”
That was Dad.
Simple.
