Collecting Shadows Read online

  “Can’t argue with you there,” Farlan said, raising his glass in a mock toast, “but when it did, it was a thing of beauty.”

  “Yes, I guess. Although, I have to be honest, Mr. Ainsley, I’m surprised you consider it one of the prize structures of the world, especially when there are several buildings still standing that might fit the bill.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Dr. May, but Flagler was a man of renowned prominence in his day. Everything he touched turned to gold, and from what I’ve been told, you know the details about Flagler’s architecture as well as anyone in the country.”

  “Perhaps,” Dr. May said, taking a sip of wine. “What would you like to know about Kirkside that you haven’t already read in a book?”

  “I’m trying to track down the pieces of the mansion that were taken by the people of St. Augustine when Kirkside was dismantled.”

  Dr. May leaned back. “Good luck,” he scoffed. “It’s said that the pieces were spread far and wide across this town, yet I only know of two items that I can positively tie to the mansion. As for any other relocated items, people seem to be reluctant to share. For the life of me, I’ve never been able to figure out why. On and off, I’ve spent years trying to track down pieces of Kirkside. It’s like I’m chasing after a unicorn or Bigfoot. As soon as I ask questions, people seem to get amnesia. Then again, most of the people who were alive in the early ‘50s who may have incorporated items from the mansion into their own homes are probably dead. I think you’re wasting your time, Mr. Ainsley.”

  Farlan leaned in. His expression firmed. “Maybe so, but it’s my time to waste. Please elaborate on the two items that you know of.”

  “Kirkside Apartments has four of the original columns.”

  “Aye, I’m aware.”

  “Also, there’s a house at the south end of St. George Street that has a fanlight window from Kirkside.”

  “Do you know the address?”

  “No, but it used to be in the family name of Slater. The man who acquired the fanlight window died years ago, but I believe his son lives in the house now.”

  22

  That evening after nightfall, Farlan casually strolled down St. George Street, away from town. He journeyed three blocks until he came to the address. The house, cradled among sprawling oaks, was steeped in darkness, but he could make out a FOR SALE sign stabbed into the front lawn. He walked up the stone steps to the wood porch, which creaked under his weight.

  It was odd to think locals collected pieces of Flagler’s mansion and built them into their own homes. It seemed a trivial way for them to prove their enduring affection; and quite boorish, he thought.

  He knocked on the front door but found no one home.

  Farlan retraced his steps, stopping on the tiny lawn. He looked around, then plucked a small flashlight from his pocket. He flipped it on and used it to search the exterior of the house. He immediately saw the semicircle of glass with wood supports fanning outward. The fanlight window was located about eight feet up, over a rectangular window on the right side of the house.

  Training the small beam on the window revealed nothing. He needed to get closer but hadn’t come prepared with a ladder. Studying the window, he realized he wouldn’t need one.

  Farlan returned the flashlight to his pocket and waded through low bushes that bordered the house trying to minimize any noise. He was well immersed in the shadows and not likely to be seen, but the yard was small, and someone passing by on the nearby street could easily hear him. He would kill if forced to, but his goal was to keep a low profile. His stay in town might be far longer than he anticipated.

  At the window ledge, Farlan climbed the side of the porch, looping his leg over the wood rail. Raising up, he stood on the rail like a balance beam, bracing one hand on the porch ceiling for support. He then stepped onto the window ledge, careful to keep his weight shifted inward toward the window. He was now eye level with the target six feet away.

  Slowly, he eased along the brick ledge until he reached it. He struggled to maintain his balance as he awkwardly retrieved his flashlight. He would have to take the risk that no one noticed the beam of light.

  He switched on the flashlight and examined the window up close. He found nothing irregular about the glass wedges.

  Then he saw it. He kept his weight pressed to the window for balance and used his free hand to scratch the surface of the wood with his fingernail. The white paint flecked off, revealing small numbers stamped into the wood, running the length of the middle tracery branch.

  Carefully, he pulled his phone from his pocket, brought it close to the stamped numbers, and took a picture. He checked to ensure the quality of the image, then flicked off the flashlight, tossing it gently into the bushes below. He put the smartphone back in his pocket, and inched his way back onto the porch rail.

  He reached the porch and hopped to the ground. After blindly feeling around in the bushes for a short time, he found his flashlight and left.

  There was an undercurrent of excitement as he made his way back to the sidewalk. Even the light rain that started up couldn’t dampen his jubilation.

  He had done it. He had found the first tangible evidence that Ida Alice Flagler’s letter in 1894 to the Czar of Russia might be more than the ravings of a lunatic. He tempered his expectations, since he still had to verify that these weren’t merely serial numbers from the manufacturer. His gut told him it was authentic, but he would know soon enough once he matched the key to the code when he returned to his garage apartment.

  23

  Liam met Bailey at 8:30 a.m. Saturday morning on the broad southern steps of Memorial Presbyterian Church. His aunt had allowed him time off to tour the church with Bailey.

  There had been a break in the weather overnight. Although the sun was shining, a cold front had pushed through, temporarily flushing away the humidity. It was a welcome change.

  “So today’s the day I get to meet the old guy up close and personal?” Liam asked.

  “Only if you never refer to him as ‘the old guy’ again as long as you live.”

  “That’s a tough one, Bailey,” he said with a wry smile.

  A woman opened the church door on the right and stepped outside. She was old—grandmother old—and thin, with a delicate face and shoulder-length gray hair. He found it interesting Bailey would have a friend so much older than her, but Bailey’s love of history probably attracted all types.

  Bailey spoke, “Mrs. Atworth, this is Liam.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Liam,” she shook his hand. “Bailey tells me you’ve recently moved here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Welcome to our fair city. The church doesn’t officially open to visitors until 9:00 a.m., so we have a half hour of privacy. Shall we go inside?” She led them through the heavy mahogany door, and they stopped inside the annex.

  The interior was dim, but Liam’s eyes adjusted. They passed through the left side of the church.

  Mrs. Atworth spoke as they walked, “Memorial Presbyterian Church was constructed in 1889 in memory of Henry Flagler’s daughter, Jennie Louise Benedict, who died six weeks after complications during childbirth. Like the Hotel Ponce de León, Hotel Alcazar, Kirkside, and many other structures Flagler erected in St. Augustine, the church was designed by the New York architectural firm of Carrère and Hastings. Similar to the hotels, many of the architectural details were created with terra cotta. The interior of the church is in the design of a Latin cross.”

  “It’s laid out sideways,” Liam remarked as they passed by brass lamp stands at the end of each row of pews.

  “That’s correct. Normally the pulpit where the minister gives the sermon is at the top of the nave, the long section of the cross. For this church, the altar is at the left end of the transept, or arm of the cross.”

  The pure white walls of the cathedral were in stark contrast to the mahogany woodwork. The area was lit by a series of double-cross chandeliers. High above, the ceiling of
the towering central dome was decorated with an interwoven ring of thorny vines and three dots.

  “The mural represents Christ’s sacrifice and the Holy Trinity. Outside, the dome reaches 156 feet, including the 20-foot Greek cross on top,” Mrs. Atworth said.

  Tall, lancet stained-glass windows climbed both sides of the nave. Liam was intrigued by the colorful patterns.

  Mrs. Atworth led them through an opening, into a marble hallway with an arched ceiling. They took a few steps up to an elevated corridor with stained-glass windows on either side. The hallway came to a dead end at a locked gate. A large relief of a man’s head was prominently displayed on the wall above the gate. Below the relief, inscribed in large letters, was a single word: Flagler.

  Liam peered through the slats of the gate. The space felt confined. Inside, the circular design of the structure appeared simple. Small, stained-glass lancet windows were set in niches wrapped around the walls. A square mirror propped at the back of the rotunda was placed at an angle to reflect the tiny stained-glass oculus in the dome above so that it could be viewed from outside the gate. As with the hallway, everything here was made of marble: the walls, the floor, and the four sarcophagi.

  The sight of the sarcophagi brought back the crushing memory of his father’s untimely death.

  Mrs. Atworth unlocked the gate and pulled it back. She stepped inside. “This isn’t someplace we normally allow the public. The gate is kept locked at all times.”

  Liam couldn’t move.

  “Are you okay?” Bailey leaned in and asked softly.

  “I’m fine,” he said. Liam swallowed hard and forced himself forward. Bailey trailed behind.

  “The walls and floor are Italian marble, as are the sarcophagi coverings.” Mrs. Atworth’s voice echoed eerily within the walls. The enclosure had the smell of aged porcelain. Liam had a hard time concentrating. This place unnerved him, but he didn’t want to admit it to Bailey. He silently tensed, struggling to steady his nerves. Thinking of his own mother and father, he realized coming here might have been the worst idea he’d ever had. He had to fight every instinct to dash from the room. He took several deep breaths hoping the others didn’t notice.

  Focus on the items in the room. Think geocaching, he willed himself.

  The stone coverings, also known as sarcophagi, were laid out with one on the left, a double sarcophagus centered at the rear, and one on the right. Each sarcophagus was touching the curved wall and had epitaphs written across the top.

  The double sarcophagus in the back covered two coffins. Flagler’s first wife, Mary Harkness Flagler, was on the left, and the one on the right was for Jennie Louise Benedict and her baby, Margery. A raised floral ribbon design in copper adorned the head of each inscription.

  To the right, standing alone in the three o’clock position, was the final resting place of Henry Flagler. The epitaph on his sarcophagus read:

  Henry M. Flagler

  Born

  January 2, 1830

  Died

  May 20, 1913

  Simple and to the point, Liam thought. His nerves had calmed somewhat. “And these sarcophagi are coverings?”

  “Yes, the caskets are underneath. The sarcophagi are bottomless, and were put in place over the caskets. Except, of course, for the sarcophagus reserved for Flagler’s third wife, Mary Lily Kenan Flagler.” Mrs. Atworth pointed to the sarcophagus at the nine o’clock position, which had no inscription on top. “Mary Lily’s sarcophagus was never used. When she died in 1917, she elected to be buried in a family plot in North Carolina.”

  Liam pointed to symbols embedded within a seal on the floor. “What’s that?”

  Bailey spoke, “The X shape intertwined with the figure resembling a P are Christ’s Greek initials: Chi and Rho. The symbols on the sides are Alpha and Omega, meaning that Christ is the beginning and the end.”

  Liam nodded his understanding. “This structure, the mausoleum, is much different than the rest of the architectural design of the church, not just on the inside, but outside, too. Why is that?”

  “You’re very observant,” Mrs. Atworth remarked. “The mausoleum was a later addition, not built until 1906, 17 years after the church was built. It cost Flagler an additional $100,000. That’s about $2.4 million in today’s dollars.”

  Liam was surprised. “For this mausoleum? The Italian marble is nice and all, but I think Flagler got duped.”

  “Not likely,” Mrs. Atworth bristled. Her tone turned corrective, “The mausoleum was also the work of Carrère and Hastings. By this point, Henry Flagler had a 20-year relationship with the architects,” she stopped briefly to take a breath. “No, whatever they charged him would have been a fair price. Remember, you’re talking about one of the founders of Standard Oil Company. Flagler was, first and foremost, a businessman. He did not get duped.”

  To ease the tension, Bailey quickly added, “By late 1906, the mausoleum was finished, and the sarcophagi were in place. In December of that year, without much fanfare, Flagler quietly had the remains of Mary Harkness Flagler, Jennie Louise Benedict, and her infant daughter removed from Woodlawn Cemetery in New York. They were brought here to the mausoleum, placed in new coffins, and covered by the appropriate sarcophagi you see here.”

  Liam pointed to the blank marble sarcophagus on the left. “And this one’s always been empty?”

  “Yes, and it hasn’t been moved since the day it was placed here,” Mrs. Atworth said.

  Liam again studied Henry Flagler’s sarcophagus. So this was the man Bailey found so interesting. He thought of the coffin underneath holding the man’s earthly remains, just as a coffin in the cemetery back in St. Petersburg held his father’s body.

  His insides began to shake. He needed to get out of here.

  Bailey must have seen it in his eyes. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Atworth for allowing us inside.”

  Mrs. Atworth seemed surprised. “No problem. Do you have any other questions?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks again,” Liam managed.

  “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Atworth, I’d like to show Liam one of the museum rooms at the other end?”

  “That’s fine, dear. Take your time.” She checked her watch. “We’ll be opening to the public soon anyway.”

  Liam and Bailey exited the mausoleum, followed by Mrs. Atworth, who locked the gate behind them.

  “This way,” Bailey said, grabbing Liam by the hand when they returned to the sanctuary. The warmth of her touch had an instant calming effect.

  She led him left, along the front of the pews, past the chancel and network of mahogany woodwork that rose to the base of one of the four giant arches. Beyond the rows of pews, across the other side of the transept, she pulled him into a room. The octagonal-shaped area was the size of a large family room with a 12-foot ceiling and dark wood floors. Colorful stained-glass lancet windows allowed plentiful light to enhance the aged cases, cabinets, and chairs that lined the perimeter of the room. Black-and-white photographs framed in collages hung on the wall at eye level. Descriptive placards were strategically placed around the room to educate visitors on the items displayed.

  Bailey let go of Liam’s hand. “In the back,” she directed him toward a stand holding a waist-level display. Under glass was a mini-diorama of a neighborhood of homes. At least he thought it was an entire neighborhood, until he noticed it was bound by four borders labeled Valencia Street, Carrera Street, Riberia Street, and Memorial Presbyterian Church. The placard in front confirmed the model: “Kirkside.” Below it was a paragraph of historical information. Liam knew that the estate had covered the whole block, but to see it in the model was still surprising. “This is what Flagler’s place looked like?”

  “Yes.”

  He read the text, but it was information Bailey had already shared. Still, seeing the layout was interesting. The main mansion abutted the church and stretched from one street to the next with a courtyard in the middle and a carriage house in back. The estate also contained a large pond, f
enced tennis court, greenhouse, and a framed archway in the garden called a pergola. Closer to the street, a stand sat in the grass with a tiny wiry object on top that Liam couldn’t distinguish.

  “I guess the guy did have cash,” Liam said, bending down to study the model closer.

  “A little bit.”

  Minutes later, they made their way outside. The sky was now overcast, and a light breeze blew from the east, coming from the direction of the bay.

  “Do you have to get back to the shop?” Bailey asked.

  “Not right away.”

  “C’mon.” They crossed over to the northwest corner of the Flagler College grounds and continued up Sevilla Street to King Street. Several streets later, Bailey turned right and asked, “Ever been this way?”

  “No.”

  “I think you’ll like the walk.”

  Frankly, he didn’t care where Bailey took him as long as he got to spend time with her.

  Liam noticed similarities with other streets they had walked. Old houses were snuggly fit together with tight property lines and large oaks draped in Spanish moss. He saw many of the same revival styles he had seen in the Flagler Model Land Company neighborhood: a Queen Anne here, a Spanish Revival there.

  They kept walking, staying to the sidewalk. They chatted about school, about the club, even about Pilot, with Bailey gazing in admiration at all the old homes. At a point, the road merged with another street. When they made a switchback at the junction, taking Cordova Street back toward town, there was a long body of water, bound by roads crowded with houses on their left.

  “That’s Maria Sanchez Lake,” Bailey said. “It used to be Maria Sanchez Creek, and it once reached all the way to King Street. Flagler had the creek capped back here so that the land north could be filled in to build the Ponce de León and Alcazar hotels.”

  Liam gazed out over the placid body of water. This was a place he could get used to. Although it was in the middle of a suburban area, the lake was quiet and serene.