Collecting Shadows Page 13

  “Yepper, not a threat at all,” he mumbled in his drunken stupor.

  “Stay here,” she ordered. She returned moments later with a batch of towels, a pair of men’s jeans, an oversized tee shirt, socks, and men’s tennis shoes.

  He had passed out on the floor.

  Pilot sat nearby, watching.

  ****

  The rain stopped by noon, and the sunshine returned. Several minutes after 3:00 p.m., Rita heard Drew stirring in the hallway. She went to check on him, followed closely by Pilot.

  He fixed his bloodshot eyes on her and spoke with a thick tongue, “I barely remember coming in here, but thank you.”

  “I can’t do this,” she threw her hands up. “Please use the towels and change clothes. There’s a bathroom in the shop on the right.” She walked a few steps, paused, and wheeled around, fuming. “Did you really think getting hammered would help your situation?”

  “It’s a vice I picked up several years ago.”

  “Where did you even get the alcohol?” she asked in a clipped voice.

  “Just some guy. I guess he thought alcohol was a more generous donation than food. I know I shouldn’t have taken it.” He ran a hand over his hair. “My head feels like it’s about to explode.”

  “I’ve got a shop to run, you know,” she said angrily, walking away. She returned with two aspirin and a glass of water.

  He accepted them with a nod. “Thanks.”

  Her voice softened, “I’ve got a couple sandwiches I made earlier that I don’t want. You’re welcome to them.”

  She didn’t wait on his response. She brought them back after a quick trip upstairs to the kitchen.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Drew said.

  “Please just get changed, eat, and…”

  “I’ll be out of here,” he finished her sentence with a hangdog look.

  She left without a word, only to return carrying a canvas bag. “I found your backpack with your clothes in the alley. Since it hasn’t been exactly bustling today, I washed them and put them in this old garment bag. Your backpack is still soaked. It’s drying out back in the sun.”

  “Once again,” Drew lowered his head and swallowed, “thanks.”

  31

  It was approaching mid-October and hard for Liam to believe he had lived in St. Augustine for over two months. It still didn’t feel like home. Beyond the history club, he hadn’t made any friends, and of those in the club, he only hung out with Bailey on occasion. He hoped she had feelings for him, but after their talk at the Hotel Alcazar koi pond, he realized her zest for playing tour guide to him might have been more about getting her mind off her father’s condition than anything else. Then again, how could he hope for anything more with Bailey? She was dating Jason Benjamin, whom even Liam found to be likable.

  Liam now understood why she had snapped when he called Flagler’s second wife wacko. She had insisted on correcting him with the politically correct term mental illness. Unfortunately, Bailey and Henry Flagler had experienced a similar family tragedy, only Bailey’s pain was ongoing.

  That afternoon, the history club convened with everyone in attendance. Liam made it a priority to see what after-school tee shirt Calvin wore: Straight Outta St. Augustine.

  Mr. Mast continued to lead the discussion on Flagler. He opened up by asking if anyone had new history to share.

  Liam was feeling supremely confident, given what his aunt had shared with him. He raised his hand.

  Mr. Mast seemed pleasantly surprised to see Liam participating. “Yes, Liam. What do you have?”

  “I couldn’t confirm this, but there’s a rumor that Flagler dug a tunnel between the Hotel Ponce de León and Hotel Alcazar so that the men staying for the season at the Ponce de León could travel unseen to the Alcazar and participate in questionable activities, such as gambling and…well…you know.”

  “Visiting the pimps and hos,” Cal chimed in.

  Patty swatted his arm.

  One’s laughter erupted as usual.

  “Boys,” Random said, shaking her head.

  “Liam, you’ve fallen victim,” Patty began with a smile. “This town is full of people who like to spread rumors and legends. Tour guide drivers in town often embellish the facts for the benefit and amusement of tourists. Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  Mr. Mast spoke, “It’s interesting information, but like Patty said, this is one of those St. Augustine myths. It’s been perpetuated for a long time, according to some of the older citizens.”

  Liam felt embarrassed. “Why isn’t it possible?”

  Bailey spoke, “Remember when I told you Maria Sanchez Creek was capped and the southern part of it converted into a lake so that the Hotel Alcazar could be built? Flagler had to bury four thousand pine tree trunks into the mud-soaked earth in order to support the foundation. This is why there can’t be a tunnel underneath the Hotel Alcazar, or the Lightner Museum, as it’s now known. The land is practically a swamp filled with buried trees.”

  Liam felt stupid for mentioning it. He should have known his aunt might not have her facts straight.

  Mr. Mast spoke, “For the record, Liam, most myths contain some truth. Historians have proven it time and time again. Who knows? Maybe a tunnel will be discovered one day.” He paused, “This isn’t the discussion I had planned, but along that same vein of myths and legends, let’s continue. A lot of rumors have surrounded Flagler. Has anyone heard of a group called the Koysters?”

  “Sounds like a merger of Kentucky and oysters,” One joked.

  Random spoke, “Didn’t they have something to do with a lost treasure?”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Mast said, “the Koysters were said to be a group of local residents—a secret society if you will—of people who knew about a treasure hidden somewhere in the city, but not the exact location. Word of their existence sprung up over 60 years ago; yet, to date, not a single person has ever admitted to being a member.”

  “Given the timeframe, they’d all be geezers by now, if not dead,” Patty said.

  “Exactly, and over the years, talk of the Koysters has slowly died off.”

  “How does this legend relate to Flagler?” Bailey asked.

  Mr. Mast smiled. “His name has never been linked to it, but I find the notion of a secret group searching for treasure fascinating. Just thought I’d throw it out there. That’s a good call, though, Ms. Deeth. I need to stay on point. Back to Flagler. What other rumored legends have you heard associated with our man?”

  “What about his second wife, Ida Alice?” One asked. “Did she really do the crazy things I’ve heard about, or were they exaggerations?”

  Liam noticed Bailey tense up in her seat. The topic was sensitive to her, and he felt her discomfort.

  “About 11 years into their marriage, Ida Alice did begin to exhibit signs of mental illness; she was prone to fits of anger and rage. She once wrote a check to her manicurist for one million roses. She also reportedly had a tiny portrait of herself fixed within diamonds and sent to the Czar of Russia, although Flagler intercepted it. Flagler’s family physician, Dr. Shelton, was once shown three pebbles by Ida Alice. She told the doctor they were magical and declared she would mail one to the czar, whom she was in love with. Her delusions increased when she began playing with an 1891 invention, the Ouija board. She also once stabbed one of her doctors in the hand with a pair of scissors.”

  “Okay, so they weren’t exaggerations,” One said.

  “The whole deal with the czar, what started that?” Patty asked.

  “No one knows. Alexander III was married to Maria Feodorovna, just as Ida Alice was married to Flagler, yet she still believed the czar was to be her future husband. Alexander III died on November 1, 1894, but it doesn’t appear Ida Alice knew, or maybe she couldn’t comprehend that he was dead.”

  “Then again, she was also into séances and communicating with ghosts,” Random said.

  “Good point,” Mr. Mast acknowledged.


  The discussion continued for some time. When the meeting ended, Bailey rushed from the room and disappeared into the girl’s bathroom before Liam could catch up with her. He waited around for several minutes, but when she didn’t come out, he left.

  32

  Farlan studied the copy of the photograph of Henry Flagler and the list of 26 items he had obtained from Gabriel Young. It finally dawned on him where they might have come from. A quick Internet search confirmed his suspicions: with the exception of the photograph, all of the items had been included in a time capsule set in place during the construction of the local newspaper building by Henry Flagler in 1906. It had been unearthed in 2001 when the Gazette moved to a new location. Unfortunately, before the time capsule could be examined, it was stolen from the car of Gazette employee, Mortie Crewson, as he was transporting it back to the new building. Crewson passed away the following month. Several years later, in 2003, the time capsule and its contents were anonymously returned. That’s when the newspaper ran the story and listed the contents, which did not include the photograph.

  The fact that it was handwritten on the list he obtained from Young suggested it was, in fact, part of the time capsule. If so, he wondered why it wasn’t shown to the public in the 2003 newspaper article.

  A theory began to crystalize. Mortie Crewson and the supposed theft of the time capsule were the key.

  Further research revealed that Mortie Crewson’s widow, Erlinda, still lived in town.

  He would pay her a visit. Someone must have the original photograph, and given her husband’s involvement, she was the obvious answer.

  For more than a week, Erlinda Crewson’s house remained vacant, with mail collecting in the mailbox. Farlan learned that she taught high school, but her classes had been covered by substitutes for the past week. He assumed she was on holiday. All he could do was park on the street and wait for her return.

  Around midday, a white Ford Explorer pulled into the driveway. Based on Internet photographs, he easily identified the woman as Mrs. Crewson. As she walked to the trunk and opened it, he stepped from his car and approached her.

  “Mrs. Crewson?”

  “Yes?” she said with a furrowed brow.

  “My name is Furman Ainsley,” he extended his hand. “I’m working with a U.K. publisher, Piedmont Publishing.”

  She shook his proffered hand, eyeing him with caution.

  “May I have a moment of your time?”

  “I just returned from an out-of-town funeral, Mr. Ainsley. What’s this in regards to?” she asked, removing a suitcase and closing the trunk.

  “It has to do with your late husband, ma’am. Mortie.”

  “Mortie’s been gone for 15 years. What is it you need to know?”

  “Please, I’d prefer not to talk in your driveway.”

  “Don’t take this personally, Mr. Ainsley, but I don’t know you from Adam, so I’d prefer to talk out here in the open.”

  “Aye, very well,” Farlan smiled.

  “Do you know why your husband took the time capsule unearthed in 2001?”

  Erlinda’s lips set in a firm clench. “He didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying. He was transporting the capsule to the new building when it was stolen from his car.”

  “I’m aware that was how he reported it to the authorities, but it’s quite obvious it was a means to cover his own theft of the time capsule and its contents.”

  She turned defensive, “That’s a ludicrous claim without a shred of evidence. Why would Mortie want the time capsule?”

  “Because there was something inside not accounted for: a photograph of Henry Flagler sitting in an unknown parlor.”

  Erlinda’s face displayed her confusion. “How do you know about…? Have you been talking to Ron Mast? Wait, you think the photograph came from the time capsule? What possible reason would Mortie have for taking it?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Good day, Mrs. Crewson.”

  “Wait. Why is a publishing company interested?”

  “Research for a book,” he said over his shoulder as he walked to his car.

  “About my husband?”

  Farlan drove off with Mrs. Crewson still staring after him.

  From her reaction, she was unaware of her husband’s deception. Therefore, she knew nothing about Mortie Crewson’s motive. This had been another dead end.

  33

  It had been exactly four weeks since the Gazette editor, Gabriel Young, had disappeared after working late one Friday night. Young, a bachelor, hadn’t been reported missing until he failed to show up for work the following Monday, and no one could reach him. Ron had followed the story with extreme interest, and as he logged into the online edition of the newspaper that evening at his house, he was horrified by the headlines:

  St. Augustine Gazette Editor Found Strangled in

  Twelve Mile Swamp Conservation Area

  Stunned, Ron read the article. Gabriel Young’s body had been discovered by a group of teenagers walking the trails of the conservation area around 4:20 that afternoon.

  His cell phone rang. It was Erlinda Crewson.

  “Hello?”

  “Ron, did you hear they found Gabriel’s body?”

  “Just read it. I’m shocked.”

  “It had been nearly a month since he’d gone missing. Scares me to be living alone. St. Augustine doesn’t have violent crimes like this.”

  “I’m just as surprised as you are.”

  There were a few seconds of silence. “Ron, after I returned from Texas on Monday, a strange man approached me at the house. He said he was from the U.K. and definitely had the accent. Scottish, I think. He asked me some bizarre questions about Mortie and that time capsule. His last name was Ainsley. I forgot his first name. He knew about the photograph of Henry Flagler sitting in the parlor. Is he a friend of yours? I assumed you talked to him and showed him the picture.”

  “Never heard of him. The only person I told where I got the picture from was Young. Jesus, Erlinda, Young must have spoken to him.”

  “You don’t think this man could be a killer, do you?”

  “I don’t know, but stay safe. If you see him again, call the police.”

  Ron barely heard the click as the call ended. His mind was reeling. Who is this Mr. Ainsley and what is his interest in the photograph?

  34

  Liam left for school, forgetting to take the trash out to the dumpster.

  Typical teenager, Rita thought.

  Rita bundled up the trash, tied the bag, and carried it downstairs.

  It had been over two weeks since she’d seen Drew. Liam was worried something had happened to him. Frankly, Rita thought he’d moved on, as transients eventually do. Yet she felt bad, fearing that she had driven him away with how harshly she had treated him after his drunken episode in the rain; not that he didn’t deserve it, but everyone is entitled to make mistakes.

  She walked outside, tossed the bag in the dumpster and turned, surprised to see Drew leaning with his back against the shop wall. “Good morning,” he called out.

  “Good morning to you. We, um, were concerned about you. Would you like something to eat?”

  He spoke softly, “What if word gets out you’re feeding me? You may have others flocking to your door.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” she said. “C’mon inside. The shop doesn’t open for another 20 minutes. I’ll make you some coffee.”

  “Coffee would be good,” he said. “I want to thank you for what you did, taking me in and washing my clothes that day.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, holding the back door open. She led him up the stairs into the kitchen.

  Pilot approached him warily. “It’s okay, Pilot. This is Drew.”

  “Drew Moraken,” he added, taking a seat at the table.

  That name. She knew that name. She stopped in her tracks. “Seattle?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “You’re that cop?”

 
; Again he nodded.

  Pilot settled near his feet, and he reached out and patted the dog’s back.

  “Seems like an eternity ago, and yesterday at the same time.”

  “Wow, was that…last year?”

  “Eighteen months ago.”

  “I thought you were…”

  “Convicted? No. The shooting of the two boys was deemed justifiable homicide, but with the pressure on the police force and on the city, it was best for me to resign.”

  She poured a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, and placed it on the table along with a donut on a plate and a napkin.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “What happened after that?” she asked, taking a seat beside him.

  “After that? My world fell apart. My marriage dissolved, and I became an alcoholic. I had been clean for six months before that episode you witnessed. I gave my wife most of our money and assets and decided to come east. Not sure how I wound up in St. Augustine. I just drove until I hit water. As I mentioned before, I’m a pretty good cook, so for a while I held down a job as a chef at a restaurant across the bay on Anastasia Island. When business floundered, I was let go. Before long, I was broke. I parked my vehicle on an empty property a couple of blocks over. I’ve been struggling ever since.” He paused briefly, lost in thought. “Will Rogers once said, ‘The worst thing that happens to you may be the best thing for you if you don’t let it get the best of you.’ But it’s so damn hard to stay optimistic.”

  “You like quotes, don’t you?”

  “Always have. By the way, where’d you get the extra clothes you put in my bag? They are too large to be Liam’s.”

  “An old acquaintance,” she said.

  For several minutes, he drank coffee and consumed the donut in silence. Rita gave him another one, which he gladly accepted. He wiped his mouth and beard clean with a napkin. “I’ll go back outside now. Again, thank you so much.” He stood.