Collecting Shadows Page 11

“Let’s go,” Bailey said. “I want to show you the inner courtyard of the Lightner Museum.”

  They returned up Cordova Street to the side of the Lightner Museum. Bailey cut over on a paved walkway that led to the front of the building, where they passed through a long, arched entrance of the former Hotel Alcazar. Gothic swag lamps hung in the high hallway. The landscape inside burst with color. Plush flowers, neatly trimmed hedges, and palm trees surrounded a long pond which stretched to the other end of the courtyard. A stone footbridge arched across the center, cutting the pond horizontally. Loggias ran the perimeter of the courtyard, bound by the four-story walls. Tourists were moving about the courtyard, snapping pictures and staring into the pond.

  “Wow,” Liam said, as he stopped to admire the beauty of the place.

  “Wow is right.”

  “I want to see the footbridge,” Liam said. He took the loggia around to the right. Near the footbridge was a thick, rectangular, granite tombstone laid horizontally. It was set within a bed of rocks bound by a flat granite border. The tombstone read: O.C. Lightner. 1887 – 1950.

  “Lightner’s buried right here. When the hotel finally closed in the 1930s, he bought it to house all of his collectibles. The city runs the museum now. You should go there sometime.” There was something different about the tone of her voice. She had lost her enthusiasm.

  They reached the bridge. He paused at the low summit to check out the water below. “Hey, fish.”

  “It’s a koi pond,” she said flatly.

  Liam started to ask if she was okay then noticed a series of rocks in the clear water close to the edge of the pond. They appeared to be granite, fairly flat, and oval-shaped, about 12 inches wide. “Strange-looking rocks.” When she didn’t respond, he faced her. She had her eyes down, fixed on the water as if she hadn’t heard him. “Do you come here often?”

  Bailey bit her bottom lip. “I like to come here to think. It’s pretty chill.”

  “You date a star soccer player, you excel in school, and…you’re beautiful. What’s there to think about?”

  Bailey gave him a sad smile. “Do you ever have things to think about?”

  He didn’t want the conversation to center on him. “I asked you first.”

  “Jason’s been so busy with soccer lately that we haven’t had a lot of time to talk. He’s a senior, and he’s working hard to get a scholarship to a good college.” Her eyes began to redden.

  “I’m not a bad listener.”

  Bailey seemed to consider his offer. “I’m not sure if you’re the right person I should talk to about this. I know you lost your dad.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” his tone turned aggressive. “I’m sorry,” he immediately apologized.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “Please tell me what happened. How did your father die?”

  God, he didn’t want to go through this again.

  “Please?” she begged.

  “Let’s just say that he didn’t think about me, about what he was doing.”

  “And what was that?”

  Liam took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Two years ago, we had been geocaching on a Saturday when we stopped in to get a burger at a fast-food place. We were standing in a long line. A teenage girl was ahead of us. Something happened to piss the customer off at the counter, and he pulled a gun and began randomly shooting.”

  Bailey’s eyes grew large. “Oh my God.”

  “Dad yelled for me to get under a table, which I did. I assumed he was doing the same, but when I looked for him, what I saw…” Liam scrunched his eyes closed and turned away. Momentarily, he faced Bailey, but his eyes remained closed. “Dad jumped in front of the teenager and was shot,” he said with a shudder. Liam heard the blast from the gun and clutched his ears.

  “Liam, Liam, it’s okay. You’re here.”

  He opened his eyes as Bailey gently pulled his hands away from his ears.

  “Oh God, I’m so stupid. I had no idea,” Bailey said.

  Liam wiped his face, trying to compose himself. “I’ll never understand why Dad did it; why he chose to leave me.”

  “Did…the girl survive?”

  “Yes, the shooter ran out of bullets. He used the last one on…” Liam’s voice shook.

  Bailey placed her hand over his mouth. “Don’t.” She slowly removed it.

  Liam spoke softly and haltingly, “Two construction workers jumped on the shooter until police came.”

  Bailey turned and looked down, staring at the koi darting through the water. “My father’s still alive. I can’t claim to have it worse than you, Liam. Remember when I told you my parents had separated?”

  Liam nodded.

  “Mom is filing for a divorce.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not for the typical reasons, though. He didn’t cheat, he’s not an abusive alcoholic, nothing like that.” She looked to Liam. A single tear streamed down her cheek. “He’s mentally ill. He doesn’t even know who I am.”

  24

  “I won’t be gone long,” Aunt Rita said, taking the stairs down to the shop. “Do me a favor, and take Pilot out in an hour.”

  “Will do.”

  It was early Sunday evening and Liam was bored. He had been playing games on the Xbox One for most of the afternoon and after dinner felt compelled to do something else. The book Mr. Mast had given him about Henry Flagler two-and-a-half weeks ago sat on his nightstand. He had yet to crack it open.

  Pilot lay on the floor beside the bed. He raised his head and stared at Liam as Liam picked up the hardback. The Malamute cocked his head to the side inquisitively.

  “I know. I can’t believe it either,” Liam said, settling back onto a pillow and flipping to page 1.

  ****

  Rita arrived at Toasted Moon Grill to a warm hug by Bailey who came out on the deck. The weather was perfect, the humidity nowhere near as bad as it had been. A musician was playing guitar and singing to the entertainment of the two dozen folks on the deck, while two couples danced. Bailey pointed to a small table where Lark Reed was waiting. Lark was tipping a bottle of beer. The fortyish woman with the pointy nose waved vigorously when she spotted Rita, so much so that her long blonde hair danced from side to side as her smile blossomed.

  “Good evening,” Rita said over the music. “Nice crowd.”

  “About time you got here. I have a couple of free beers in your name.” She flung her hair behind her shoulders and leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s okay. I know the owners.”

  Rita smiled and took a seat. “So business is good?”

  “Not bad for the slow season. It’ll pick back up in mid-November, as it always does, when the Nights of Lights kicks off for the holidays. How have you been? I haven’t seen you out in forever.”

  “Been busy with the shop.”

  Lark nodded, but Rita suspected she didn’t believe her. “Rita, don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s been years.”

  “I know,” Rita admitted. “I’m comin’ around.”

  “Then come around here more. Get out. Enjoy life. You’re a hot lookin’ chick. There’s a guy sitting at the table over there without a wedding ring; he’s here with that couple on the dance floor,” she motioned with her eyes.

  Rita hated it when Lark tried to fix her up with strangers. It seemed to happen every time she came up here for a beer. “Please, Lark. Let’s just catch up.”

  Lark leaned back, tossing her hands in the air with a smile. “Hey, you’re the customer.”

  Another server returned with a beer.

  “What happened to Bailey?”

  “She’s underage. Can’t serve alcohol. That’s why she’s working the dining tables inside.” Lark’s expression firmed. “How’s it going with your brother’s son?”

  “Liam? Oh, he’s doing okay. It just takes time. Bailey’s been a tremendous help showing him around.”

  “I’m sure he’d follow her anywhere,” Lark scoffed. “She’s a beautiful
girl. Liam does know she has a boyfriend, right?”

  Rita nodded.

  “Speaking of boyfriends…”

  Rita held her hand up. “Stop,” she chuckled, taking a swig of beer. “By the way, where’s Bill?”

  “He’s at the house with a stomach virus. Didn’t want him anywhere around here. Which reminds me, I need to check on the cooks. I’ll be right back,” she said, standing. “Are you hungry?”

  “I ate before coming up.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  As Lark walked through the courtyard doorway into the cafe, Rita took a slow sip of beer. The guy sitting across the way was cute and seemed to be about her age. He caught her in his green gaze, and she instinctively looked away, pretending to search for Lark through the open door.

  “Hello, my name is Thomas.”

  She winced. The man was standing right next to her table. She found herself stammering. “I’m…I’m…Rita.”

  “Good evening, Rita. Would you like to dance?”

  “No, no,” she said in a distracted voice, “but thank you for asking.” She could barely look the man in the eye. “I’m with someone.”

  “I was only asking for a dance,” he said with a smile, his green eyes burning a hole through her.

  “Maybe later,” she said, desperate to finish the conversation.

  “Fair enough,” he smiled at her and returned to his table.

  Lark retook her seat and leaned in toward Rita. “C’mon girl, there’s not a damn thing wrong with that man.”

  “No, there’s not,” Rita sighed. “I need to head back home.”

  “But you just got here.”

  “I got a text from Liam, he needs help with some homework.” It was a lie, and she knew Lark doubted her.

  “You do what you gotta do, girl.”

  The two women stood and hugged. Rita left the deck, taking St. George Street, navigating the tourists on the pedestrian-only street. It was difficult to believe that so many people were still on the streets at this hour. She envied the store owners who could afford the rent along here. She could only dream of seeing this many potential customers near her shop.

  ****

  Drew wandered up San Marco Avenue, past the multi-story public parking garage. He walked because he had nothing else to do. The only way he knew how to fight depression was to be on the move, see something new, get his mind working.

  Despite his homeless situation, he wasn’t starving. Liam continually brought him leftover food. The coffee in the morning was nothing short of a treat. Liam was a good kid. One day, Drew vowed, he would return the favor; that is, if he could ever crawl his way out of his despair and somehow get back on his feet.

  Daylight was beginning to evaporate as he took Grove Avenue, a narrow street unfamiliar to him. The road was quiet. Like many of the streets, this one had old homes bunched together with tiny front yards. Several were for sale; a couple more were undergoing renovations.

  As Drew came upon a two-story Victorian, he heard a cat meowing wildly. It was coming from the back yard. The meowing was relentless, and he realized the animal might be in distress. He saw a single light coming from an upstairs bedroom and considered going to the front door, but decided against it. While the citizens of St. Augustine weren’t normally disrespectful to the homeless population, he doubted the homeowner would greet him warmly.

  The cat’s cries grew louder. Drew hated to hear an animal suffer. He checked to make sure no one was watching and walked around the side of the house. The small, unfenced yard was barren and seamlessly merged with the back yard of another house. There was a wooden shed set in the middle next to a large bottlebrush tree.

  The cat’s cries turned frantic. The noise was coming from inside the shed.

  He checked the back of the large house to make sure no one was watching and reached for the shed door. He gently pushed the wooden door inward, but progress was impeded. He shoved with more force, and it gave way. A cat scampered out before Drew had a chance to see if he was okay. The cat stopped a dozen feet away, and glanced back at Drew. It paused to clean its leg then meandered off.

  “You’re welcome,” Drew said softly, glad to see the cat wasn’t injured.

  Drew bent down and felt the floor. He found a nail. It had gotten wedged underneath the door, trapping the cat inside.

  A sound startled him. Without thinking, he climbed into the shed and silently closed the door behind him. Without a window, he was instantly devoured by darkness. The strong stench of oil suggested the shed was used as a storage area for lawn equipment. He quietly listened. Voices. Then, what he believed to be a door closing, came from the back of the house. He prayed no one came to the shed.

  Several minutes passed without a sound. Drew felt blindly along the wall near the door and thankfully found a light switch. He flipped it and the interior illuminated, revealing a twelve-foot by ten-foot area containing yard equipment, including a riding lawn mower. On the left wall, there were two rows of shelves filled with tools and cans. In the back-left corner, an old black tarp was draped over a squat object. He knew he shouldn’t be nosey, but curiosity got the better of him. He lifted the tarp to reveal some sort of rusty, metallic tool. It had a sturdy strip of metal bent in the shape of a half-moon. It reminded Drew of a sextant, the tool mariners used to determine their location at sea, not that he knew anything about sailing. He covered it back up.

  It occurred to him that he was pressing his luck standing in the well-lit shed. Surely, light was seeping out through the slats.

  He returned to the door, flipped the switch off, and listened intently. When all remained quiet, he slowly opened the door and left the shed.

  Darkness had settled on the city, but the sky was filled with sparkling stars. While he didn’t feel any better about his situation, he did feel a small measure of solace in having freed the feline.

  Maybe Karma would cut him a break.

  25

  It was almost 5:00 p.m., and Gabriel Young was ready to leave work. His last review had gone to print and everything else could wait until the morning. He closed his laptop, stood, and grabbed his suit jacket from his chair back. He was almost to the open door when a man appeared out of nowhere, blocking his way.

  “Mr. Young, I presume.” The accent was Scottish.

  “Yes?”

  “Might I have a word with you?”

  “I was just leaving for the day. How…how did you get in here?”

  “Oh, the lovely lass at the front desk thought you wouldn’t mind a quick visit.”

  “I’d be happy to meet with you in the morning. Can you tell me what this is in regards to?”

  “My name is Furman Ainsley. I’m a consultant with Piedmont Publishing in the U.K. I promise not to take up much of your time, but I’m under a deadline for information. We’re doing a story on your lovely little town, specifically the architecture. I understand Henry Flagler’s residence, Kirkside, was taken down in the 1950s, but residents might have acquired pieces of the estate for their own homes. Do you have any insight, a listing perhaps, of where each of these pieces went? I’m only aware of the Corinthian columns that are now part of Kirkside Apartments on,” Ainsley pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, “Riberia Street.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t be of much help, Mr. Ainsley. I know of the columns, but the only other item from Kirkside that I’ve heard of is the staircase banister. It’s in a house on Mulvey Street in the historic district owned by Granville Turnfield, and he must be pressing 90 by now. If anyone can tell you about items that may have been taken, it’s Turnfield. But be warned: he’s not exactly a people-person. Good luck getting information out of him.”

  Ainsley gave a peculiar smile. “Luck is not a thing to be toyed with, Mr. Young. I’m sure I’ll find Mr. Turnfield quite accommodating.”

  ****

  Farlan’s strategy had paid off. Newspaper men in small towns can be a ripe source of information. Getting the location of the staircase banister had
been golden. He went to Granville Turnfield’s house, but no one answered the door.

  The house on Mulvey Street was a short distance from his garage apartment. Farlan waited until the next morning to revisit. He arrived on foot, climbed the porch, and rang the doorbell. Again, it went unanswered.

  He rang the doorbell again…and again. He wasn’t leaving without answers.

  Somewhere inside, a man grumbled obscenities. The door flew inward. “What the hell do you want?”

  The man had wispy hair, a blotchy face, and a red nose, as if permanently burned by the sun.

  “Mr. Turnfield, I’d like a moment of your time.”

  “You would, would you? And who are you?” he asked gruffly, scrunching his face.

  “Aye, my name is Furman Ainsley. I’m conducting research for a book and would like to speak with you.”

  Turnfield’s face remained locked in a scowl.

  “May I come in?”

  “What the hell can I help you with, Mr. Scottish guy?”

  Farlan bit his tongue and smiled. “Your time has value, sir. Say, $50?”

  “I don’t know what you want from me, but if you’re giving money away, I’ll take it,” Turnfield said, opening the door and backing up.

  Inside, the first thing Farlan smelled was the musty scent of dust. He looked around at the old, dirty furnishings. Cobwebs decorated the walls, covered the corners, and ran up the stairwell nearby. He felt like he’d entered a crypt. How could the old bastard live like this?

  Turnfield rumbled into the living room and took a seat on the couch, brushing aside a newspaper. Farlan eased down onto a cloth-covered recliner. The chair gave a brittle snap as his full weight settled.

  “Don’t be breakin’ my furniture.” The old man had dark circles under his eyes that had been cut into his face.

  Farlan was fighting every instinct to shut this man up by placing a bullet in his head. Again, he forced a smile. “Mr. Turnfield, I was told that you acquired a piece of Henry Flagler’s home, Kirkside, when it was demolished.”

  “Who told you that?” his tone remained defensive. “Why would someone say that?”