Three Keys to Murder

by Gary Williams

  Fawn was holding her father’s cigar box in her lap and flipped open the lid. “Listen to the first part of the note again,” Fawn said and began reading.

  Three are wall. Florida Keys failed off west coast. Valuable shipment lost. No Spanish or pirates. Crewmember Simpkins involved. He took right key. Storm coming.

  “Still don’t get what ‘Three are wall’ means,” Ralston said.

  “Neither do I, nor exactly what ‘Florida Keys failed off west coast’ is implying. The Florida Keys are at the southern end of the state. Plus Captain Whimoor states ‘No Spanish or pirates’, which seems to contradict Simpkins’ fate with Black Caesar.”

  Ralston spoke, “Osceola’s story of saving Richard Simpkins from Black Caesar in Sarah Courtland’s letter occurred on land. The legend mentioned Captain Whimoor died on the ship. He might not have known about the pirates; however, from his statement, ‘Crewmember Simpkins involved’ he apparently knew he had a turncoat.”

  “Good point. Let’s consider the Madagascar tortoise. It was Captain Whimoor’s pet. If the captain died onboard, he must have written his last words on the underside of the tortoise and then released it overboard, hoping Simpkins wouldn’t see it and that someone else would find it and understand.”

  “Poor Bugle. Turtles can swim…but tortoises can’t,” Ralston said.

  “I’m sure Captain Whimoor knew that, but he was probably desperate and hoped the creature would, at a minimum, wash up on shore where his message would be found by someone with the U.S. government. From everything my father ever told me about the exoskeleton, when it was found, the bottom of the shell was never examined. Why would it? It’s not a place you’d expect to find a message.”

  Fawn stared down at the open cigar box, vaguely aware she was focusing on the two sets of numbers on the inside lid amidst the dark stains of blood. Then she broke her gaze. “Let’s continue with the rest of the inscription.”

  Another in light by Spanish. From lower starboard of first hole, three down. Then two right. Another with Spanish – Gonzalez over hearth.

  Fawn continued. “There’s clearly a mention of three keys. Simpkins has the right key obtained from Captain Whimoor—which he bartered to Osceola in exchange for his life, before dying—then a second key ‘in light by Spanish. From lower starboard of first hole, three down. Then two right.” And the third, and last key ‘with Spanish – Gonzalez over hearth.’

  “In Pierce’s legend, only two of the three keys are needed to open the large, iron box holding the treasure, applied in a precise manner.”

  Ralston spoke. “Well the text states that Simpkins ‘took right key.’ ”

  “Yes, but right as in right and wrong, or right as in right and left?” Fawn asked rhetorically. “And if my father’s key is connected to the treasure, it’s only one of the three, but which one?”

  The conversation was interrupted by the chirping of Fawn’s cell phone.

  “Fawn, it’s Jonathan. I haven’t been able to concentrate on a damn thing since our conversation, and my curiosity is killing me. In one day you’ve given new life to the Pearsaw Legend. We’ve been friends for awhile now, and I’d love to be involved in whatever you’re chasing. I’m not looking for treasures, just the truth. Possibly co-author rights to a book. What do you say?”

  Fawn sighed, quietly. She had already involved Ralston, although he had proven quite trustworthy, and while she knew Jonathan Pierce to be a good man, she had her reservations about disclosing everything they had learned.

  Fawn found herself not responding, instead staring again at the two sets of numbers across the lid of her father’s cigar box. She started to speak, then forced out the words. “Mr. Pierce, when my father died, he was diving off Cedar Key. He had his cigar box with him in the boat. On the inside lid of the box are two sets of numbers. The top number is 2914627 and the bottom number is 8303956. It just occurred to me what these numbers might represent.”

  “If you’re thinking longitude and latitude coordinates, you’re probably right,” Pierce responded. Fawn could hear rustling, then pages turning. “Yeah, looks to be just off the coast: 29.14627 North, 83.03956 West. You think it’s tied to his pursuit of the Pearsaw treasure?”

  “Quite possibly,” Fawn responded.

  “With your concurrence, I’d like to dive there,” Pierce asked.

  “Mr. Pierce, my father died in search of this treasure; most likely from a shark attack.” Fawn swallowed hard. “Only a remnant of his arm was ever found. Whatever you may find, whatever you come across, be very careful. If you find anything there, please get back to me immediately.”

  “Will do. And Fawn, I’m not going to take advantage of you. Anything found is yours. I just want to help.”

  ****

  It was after 1:30 a.m. when the phone rang. Fawn had been unable to sleep, and the sudden noise startled her. In the darkness, she rolled to the side of the bed and answered without checking the caller ID. She expected it to be Mike, apologizing for the less-than-pleasant call earlier that evening, but instead she heard an excited voice.

  “It’s Ralston. You awake?” his words were gushing. “You’re going to love what I’ve got.”

  Fawn flipped on the table light and propped a pillow against the headboard. “What’s up?” She looked at the clock, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  “I kept thinking about the three keys. The last reference in your father’s text that said, Another with Spanish – Gonzalez over hearth. I got on-line and hit pay dirt. Listen to this:

  The González-Alvarez House is the oldest surviving Spanish Colonial dwelling in Florida. Located in the historic town of St. Augustine, the site has been occupied since the 1600s, and the present house dates to the early 1700s. Since 1893, visitors have toured the house to see evidence of the Spanish, British, and American occupations of St. Augustine and to learn how the residents lived. In 1970, the U.S. Department of the Interior designated the house a National Historic Landmark.”

  Fawn sat up straight. She didn’t want to disappoint him, but she felt it best to speak frankly. “Gonzalez is a common name, Ralston. It’s a stretch, at best.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” There was confidence in his words.

  Fawn realized she had underestimated the young man. “You’ve got more,” Fawn led him.

  “Yes, I found an article dated last year. There was a break-in at the historic Gonzalez-Alvarez House. A section of the stone wall above the hearth was chiseled out. Nothing else was disturbed.

  “Strangely, upon examination, it was determined the recessed area in the wall had been previously patched a long time before. In other words, this was the second time since the stone walls were erected in the 1700s that someone had bored a hole in the same small section of wall.”

  Another with Spanish – Gonzalez over hearth, Fawn heard the words echo in her mind. Her father had done his research. She realized the key she had tucked away in safekeeping with MH initialed on one side had been over the hearth in the Gonzalez-Alvarez House in St. Augustine.

  Her father had stolen it.

  CHAPTER 28

  Fawn woke abruptly at 7:47 a.m. feeling as if she had run a marathon. It had been the worst night of sleep in recent memory. Her period was still in full force. Fawn crawled from bed and headed straight for the bathroom in search of relief.

  Twenty minutes later, she was downstairs when her cell phone rang. It was Jonathan Pierce.

  “Fawn? It’s Jonathan. It’s remarkable!”

  “Mr. Pierce? What…where are you?”

  “I just dove the coordinates. I swear the legend is panning out. I wouldn’t have believed it in a million years, but it is.”

  “You mean you’re calling from your boat?” Fawn was mystified at how fast Jonathan Pierce had gotten there.

  “I’m in the Gulf, at the coordinates. It’s amazing. There’s a la
rge iron, rectangular container on the seafloor directly below me. It’s in relatively shallow water.”

  Zaile not going home in its large, iron box, Fawn thought back to Captain Whimoor’s message.

  “There’s more. I found the U.S. Navy insignia on it. The seal is pre-1850, Fawn. It’s very possible it could be from 1820,” Pierce said, excitement flooding through in his words. “This could be the Zaile treasure that was said to have been aboard the SS Pearsaw; the payment to Spain for the purchase of Florida that never arrived, and there’s a keyhole to a door in the side!” Pierce blurted. “A keyhole, Fawn! Remember the legend talked about a key?”

  Fawn forced herself to remain rational. The legend mentioned keys, as had Captain Whimoor’s message on the underside of his tortoise. Three keys. Something was amiss.

  “Fawn,” Jonathan Pierce was breathing heavily now. “I’ve got an underwater torch with me. I could cut a sizeable hole and see what’s inside, if that’s okay. It’s your find. Your father’s quest is what led me here.”

  There was no hesitation. “Go ahead, Mr. Pierce, but please be careful. Call me as soon as you can.”

  After Fawn hung up. She called Ralston, who arrived at her house within minutes.

  As they passed time anxiously awaiting Pierce’s next contact, one thing kept nagging at Fawn: Osceola’s story in Sarah’s 1865 letter to Coyle. It told of Osceola rescuing Richard Simpkins from Black Caesar, and Simpkins offering Osceola a key to a treasure in a large iron container, which was on shore behind him. Osceola could see it; had even described it. But if the iron container was on shore, how did it get six miles out into the ocean?

  It was two hours before the phone rang again.

  “Fawn, Jonathan,” Fawn could read a combination of disappointment and fatigue in his words. “I opened up a square on the container with the underwater torch and shined a light inside.” He hesitated, as if fearing the next words would cause Fawn heartache. In some ways, they did. “It’s full of scrap metal. Actually, it’s not even full; just some pieces cluttering the base and a few long iron bars but nothing of value. I think we’re too late. Maybe by centuries. It’s been cleaned out.”

  Fawn tempered her disappointment. After several minutes of discussion, she thanked Jonathan for his efforts and gave him permission to notify the Florida Archeological Society of the find—for the container itself was a historical discovery.

  Ralston had overheard enough to understand the outcome. “No good, huh,” Ralston commented sincerely.

  “Nothing inside but scrap metal. My father died for scrap metal.”

  Fawn sat back on the couch, exhaling. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and stared at the ceiling. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No treasure?”

  “The keys. Whimoor’s message clearly mentions three keys. Pierce confirmed only one keyhole.”

  “I hate to say it Fawn, but I think you’re grasping at straws. We’ve reached a dead end.”

  Fawn wasn’t convinced. She had the words from Sarah’s letter to thank for that. The iron container had been on shore, not in the ocean. There had to be more to the story.

  “By the way, where’d you move the glass canister with the skull?” Ralston asked, pointing to the clear coffee table.

  In all the excitement that morning, Fawn had not noticed the head was missing. Not only was the canister gone, so too was the towel that it sat upon.

  A chill ran across Fawn’s spine.

  Ralston saw the ravaged look. Then he grinned ever so slightly aiming for levity. “Too bad for the thief it’s a fake. Are you going to report it?”

  Fawn gave him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me stare. “Yeah, that’ll fly!” She made the shape of a phone with her hand and held it to her ear sarcastically. “Yes, I’d like to report that the unidentified skull I took illegally from Fort Clinch was stolen from my house. Think they might lock me up, Ralston?”

  Ralston visibly shrank from the sarcasm, and Fawn felt guilty for lashing out at him. She took a deep breath, allowing it to escape between drawn lips. “Sorry, I’m just tired and not feeling well.”

  Ralston accepted the apology with a downward gaze and an acquiescent nod.

  A short time later, Ralston left for class.

  Fawn continued to feel guilty for her behavior toward Ralston.

  CHAPTER 29

  In the afternoon, Fawn called Ralston on his cell and asked that he meet her at the Bosque Bello Cemetery. By the time he arrived, Fawn was leaning against her parked car at the rear of the cemetery.

  It was another warm September day, although gathering clouds marked the threat of rain. A light breeze brought a smell of offal from somewhere beyond the cemetery.

  “Hey,” Ralston said. His tone was uncharacteristically dull.

  “Come with me,” Fawn motioned with her hand then led him silently down the slope where the cleared cemetery grounds eventually abutted the bordering woods. Sporadic markers spotted the manicured grass. Fawn walked to a pair of headstones and pointed to the first. Ralston recognized the name of the fresh inscription: Elizabeth Courtland.

  Fawn began. “While you were in class, I’ve been thinking about my conversation with Elizabeth; about that day when she told me the story of her father, Lawrence, and how he had found Sarah’s 1865 letter to Coyle, then went on a murder spree for reasons even he didn’t know. It’s just like Coyle Courtland had done as he returned from New York after stealing the skull of Osceola from the museum in 1865. These were two cases of men not known to be criminals, who committed the most heinous act—murder.

  “Ralston, Elizabeth Courtland was a very educated woman. Well read. Yet she spoke of a curse upon the male descendents of the great Indian warrior, Osceola.

  “While intriguing, frankly, I didn’t give it much consideration; that is, until Elizabeth became a victim. The fact she was also a descendent of Osceola makes the circumstances too coincidental. There has to be a connection, something more.”

  Ralston watched as Fawn stepped to the side. She pointed at the inscription of the second headstone: Terrence Courtland. “This is Elizabeth’s brother.”

  “Note the date of death,” Fawn continued. “On the day of the funeral, Mike told me Terrence worked in the North Tower of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. He had called Elizabeth after the first plane struck his building. He was trapped on one of the higher floors. Elizabeth heard his final pleas over the phone just before the North Tower collapsed. He was presumed dead, and his body was never recovered.”

  “Tragic,” Ralston commented.

  “Or was it,” Fawn remarked conspiratorially. “For the sake of argument, let’s say there is a curse on the male descendents of Osceola, or maybe there’s some hereditary disease in their Y chromosome that turns them into killers. Could it be that’s exactly who our killer is: the last male in the lineage?”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Ralston asked with raised eyebrows.

  “I have a friend who works for BellSouth. He did me a small favor and pulled Elizabeth Courtland’s phone records for September 11, 2001. That morning, Elizabeth received two calls from the New York City area code.

  “The first call to Elizabeth’s phone came in at 8:19 a.m., well before the attack, and lasted six minutes. It originated from Terrence Courtland’s office phone at L.U. Brackens Insurance Company on the 102nd floor in the North Tower.

  “The second call was placed from Terrence Courtland’s cell phone later that morning.”

  It was Ralston’s turn to recollect that day. “If I recall, it took almost two hours for the building to fall.”

  “Not quite two hours,” Fawn interjected. “The North Tower collapse occurred at precisely 10:28 a.m., but phone records show Terrence Courtland called his sister from his cell at 10:32 a.m. That’s four minutes after the collapse. He wasn’t in the buildin
g when it went down, Ralston. Terrence Courtland is still alive.”

  “How come no one discovered this before?” Ralston asked.

  “Because all indications were he was in the tower at the time of collapse, and even now, not all the victims have been identified. The fire, heat, and destruction were so intense, they’re unable to match DNA from all the victims. There was no reason for anyone to suspect Terrence was alive.”

  She continued. “So if you believe the curse, he is the murderer.”

  “Why fake his death?” Ralston asked.

  “No idea. Elizabeth only mentioned Terrence once to me, but I have no choice now, Ralston. I’ve got to talk to the police.”

  ****

  Twenty minutes later, Detective Michael Mayes answered his phone with a gruff hello. The entire conversation lasted less than five minutes. Fawn veered away from any suggestion of a curse. She knew it was not an explanation the police would entertain. Instead, she discussed the timing of Terrence Courtland’s calls to Elizabeth on 9/11, albeit without mentioning the source of her data. She did not want to get her phone company confidant in hot water.

  Detective Mayes had listened intently. When Fawn finished, he turned on her mockingly. “You’re saying a man caught in the World Trade Center attack faked his death, only to return eleven years later and go on a killing spree 900 miles away from New York City. On top of that, he killed his own sister. And what, Ms. Cortez, are you suggesting as the motive?”

  Fawn had no response, and the call had ended shortly thereafter. It had been a wasted effort on her part.

  Fawn was agitated. “Countless murders, the police are chasing their tails, and he goes off on me. You’d think any information at this point would be welcome,” she scoffed.

  Ralston was unresponsive and glum. He had always been so lively, so enthusiastic. Now he remained lethargic.