“I’m open to ideas on where we go from here.” She had her own thoughts but wanted to engage him, if for no other reason than to lighten his disposition.
Ralston spoke. “Well, you’ve told the police who we suspect the killer is. I’d say you’ve done your due diligence. Now we have a decision to make. Your friend, Mr. Pierce, has confirmed that the large iron container he found—that your father probably discovered—had no treasure.” Ralston paused. “By the way, you do trust him, right? He’s not sitting in the Gulf with a salvage team excavating millions of dollars in treasure as we speak?”
“Jonathan Pierce’s character is above reproach.”
Ralston smiled wanly. “I’ve never actually heard that term used to describe someone.”
“Continue…what decision do we have to make?” Fawn asked.
“The iron container six miles offshore conflicts with Osceola’s story in Sarah Courtland’s letter where he says it was onshore, behind a mortally wounded Richard Simpkins. This means there’s still a chance the large container was never found.”
“You mean a second iron container,” Fawn said.
“Exactly, and you’ve got one key; the one with MH on its side, whatever that means. We know from Captain Whimoor’s message on his tortoise’s shell that there are three keys—although the legend says only two of the three are needed.”
He continued. “The decision is simple. Do we cut our losses, which so far have only been time spent? Or do we continue to look for the treasure in spite of overwhelming odds that we, ‘a’ can find the other two keys and understand the sequence they are to be used, ‘b’ discover the location of the iron box, and ‘c’ find the treasure still inside the box?”
Fawn sat quietly contemplating. She thought of Elizabeth Courtland, and of the other murder victims—the homeless man’s body she found in the alley. The secret opening in the stairwell at Fort Clinch and the ominous feeling she had had as she wedged through the narrow hallway into the back room. How she had been knocked unconscious, the letter taken.
She thought of the head taken from her house. Even though it was not Osceola’s head, and therefore did not contain a key in the eye as mentioned in Sarah’s letter, was it possible that, for a second time, the murderer had stolen something from her? She suddenly felt very violated and scared. The link between the killings and the treasure seemed obvious. Was it possible that if they could find the treasure first, it might foil the murderer and therefore save lives?
The image of her father suddenly appeared in her mind with his kind eyes and determined gaze. Her father had been so driven by the possibility of spoils. He had believed so adamantly in the message from the bottom of a tortoise shell. Fawn felt an odd commitment to him, as if she owed it to her father, if not to validate his memory, at least to vindicate his sanity for those who spoke ill of him.
Fawn finally spoke. “The odds of coming out on the plus side of a, b, and c are practically nil. Yet I want to continue.” Even as she said the words, a thought came to the forefront of her mind. It was a disturbing probability that, by making the decision to continue searching for the treasure, they were ultimately making themselves a target for the killer.
“I propose we again examine the message from the tortoise,” Ralston suggested. “This time, let’s focus on the keys.”
Minutes later they stared at an easel board Fawn had brought out from a back room. She had written the text in large letters for them to read. Ralston, who had brought a laptop, had it operating and connected to the Internet.
Fawn began after reviewing her notes. “In the legend as Jonathan Pierce described it, the U.S. ambassador or envoy who visited St. Augustine in 1820 prior to the arrival of the SS Pearsaw, which was transporting the Zaile treasure, inscribed a coded message specifying which two keys would open the iron container and in what order they were to be used. The message was left in a public place within the city. It was said once the SS Pearsaw reached the Spanish city of St. Augustine, Florida, safely with the treasure, the U.S. would relay the location of the message to the Spanish, who could then gain access to the treasure. Thus, the sale and purchase of Florida would be concluded. This coded message—of the two-key system and the sequencing—was just another way to ensure that if the Zaile treasure wound up in the wrong hands, the container could not be opened. A very elaborate form of security for that day.
“As you suggested, let’s focus on the keys.” Fawn pointed to the text on the easel.
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.
Another in light by Spanish. From lower starboard of first hole, three down. Then two right. Another with Spanish – Gonzalez over hearth.
Zaile not going home in its large, iron box. Neither am i. Tell Judith I love her.
September 1820
Captain Wiiimoon - US Navy
“Okay.” Fawn said. “Let’s take stock. From Sarah’s account of Osceola’s story, Simpkins gave the Indian one key as he bargained for his life. The letter said Osceola left it for his son, Coyle, by hiding it in the eye of his skull, but without his skull—and we have no idea where it is—we’re at a dead end.
“Another key was with Spanish – Gonzalez over hearth. This is apparently the key my father found embedded in the wall over the fireplace in the Gonzalez—Alvarez House in St. Augustine; the one with MH that I gave Mike to lock away.
“The third key is the one we’ve not tried to address. Another in light by Spanish. From lower starboard of first hole, three down. Then two right. Any thoughts?”
Ralston spoke, “Well, it’s not talking about incandescent light. Edison didn’t invent the light bulb until around 1880. Sunlight, maybe?”
“A lot of sunlight hits St. Augustine,” Fawn responded. “It can’t be that broad. It had to be something Captain Whimoor believed the authorities would understand if they found his message.”
“Candlelight?” Ralston offered.
“A candle only stays lit for so long. If you’re going to say a key is in light, what happens when the candle goes out?”
“Gas lantern?” Ralston said.
“We’re thinking too small. If you were to hide a key in St. Augustine, and then say it’s in light, wouldn’t you think it would be something permanent…and prominent?”
“Or is it somewhere that light shines? Somewhere where sunlight aims directly on it, putting it in light?” Ralston said.
“In light…in light,” Fawn repeated, staring at the words on the easel. “Light coming through stain glass windows, maybe?”
Ralston’s lips suddenly turned up in a smile. “Another in light by Spanish. Fawn, light. As in lighthouse! The St. Augustine Lighthouse. Do you think?”
Ralston’s revelation crossed Fawn’s face. She looked at him, proudly. “It very well could be. The Spanish town was primarily on the bay, and the lighthouse is close to the ocean. Light by Spanish.”
“Wait…” Fawn continued, her mind aligning dates. She thought of Florida history and what she had learned about the SS Pearsaw. “The timing had the events occurring in 1820.”
Ralston looked anxiously at Fawn but remained quiet.
“I’m trying to remember when the St. Augustine Lighthouse was constructed.”
Ralston opened the browser on his computer and began typing. It only took half a minute to find the answer. He looked up at Fawn, disappointed. “1875; it can’t be referring to the St. Augustine Lighthouse. It was built 55 years too late.”
Fawn sighed. “What about the other lighthouses in Florida? There’re quite a few.”
Fawn watched the young man type in another search. “You’re right, there are. Thirty-one to be exact,” he said. “But none date back to that time. Even the one here in Fernandina, the Amelia Island Lighthouse, wasn’t constructed
until 1838; some 18 years too late.”
Fawn looked to the young man encouragingly. “It was a good try. I thought you had it.”
“So now what?”
Fawn thought quietly for a moment. “We’ve always got the secret message left by the U.S. envoy or ambassador somewhere in St. Augustine; the one that describes the sequencing of the keys. Even if we find the other two keys and somehow discover the location of the iron container, we’ll need this information.” Fawn checked her watch. “Feel like making a trip south?”
CHAPTER 30
On the drive, they discussed the vast number of historical structures, edifices, and landmarks still standing in St. Augustine that dated to 1820. They also resigned themselves to the fact wherever the coded message had been left, there was a high probability the structure was no longer in existence or the text had been worn away over time. For the remainder of the drive, Fawn and Ralston remained quiet, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts.
They reached St. Augustine by mid-afternoon. The afternoon heat was oppressive, and, as usual, tourists flooded the streets.
St. Augustine, Florida, is a small town steeped in history. Billed as the “Oldest City in the United States,” it claims to have the longest continuous settlement, marked by Don Pedro Menendez de Aviles’ landing in 1565 and the subsequent Spanish colony that developed. A large, two-level, coquina fort-turned-national-monument, the Castillo de San Marcos sits majestically on Matanzas Bay. It was erected by the Spanish over the period from 1672 – 1695 and was never taken by force.
The town itself is a hodgepodge of history and attractions. The downtown area has the look of the early walled colonial town, with architecture dating back to the 1700s. St. George Street—a pedestrian-only thoroughfare—is lined with gift shops, craft stores, restaurants, art galleries, bookstores, and pubs.
Staple tourist draws such as Ripley’s Believe It or Not, Ponce de León’s famed Fountain of Youth, The Old Jail, and the St. Augustine Alligator Farm enjoy thriving business from out-of-state tourists, school kids on field trips, historians, and locals in love with the quaint ambience of the small town.
Fawn and Ralston decided to begin their quest with some of the historic cemeteries. The first stop was the Nuestra de la Leche. They considered the durability of tombstones and other cemetery markers as a viable location for an engraved message. Fawn realized they were searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Any un-deciphered or suspicious text would have been studied and analyzed by historians a thousand times over.
A second stop at Huguenot Cemetery across from the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument proved just as fruitless. It was established in 1821, making it a year too late.
Feeling deflated and somewhat foolish for making a blind trip, Fawn suggested they pay a visit to the St. Augustine Welcome Center where Fawn inquired with one of the clerks. The clerk suggested visiting the Lightner Museum on King Street. If there was mysterious text or secretive history in St. Augustine, the curator, Dr. Gailey Arringham, would surely know about it.
The Lightner Museum was not originally built as a museum but as the Alcazar Hotel, completed in 1890. At the end of the winter of 1931, the Alcazar closed for business and remained closed for 17 years before publicist and entrepreneur Otto C. Lightner purchased the hotel in 1948. He used the building to display his 19th-century collection of paintings, statues, tools, clothes, musical instruments, natural science exhibits, and other products of everyday life used during the Gilded Age.
Fawn parked in a large lot behind the attenuated structure and fed the parking meter several quarters. The back wall now before them was four or five stories tall and very broad. Windows pocked the structure on various floors.
They approached the rear façade where a statue of a female stood on a pedestal. Fawn and Ralston walked along the left side of the building under a covered breezeway that broke into a courtyard. A large, oblong cement marker stood vertically on a base in a rectangular plot cordoned off by chain.
O.C. Lightner
1887 - 1950
“The museum’s namesake. I guess he wanted to be nearby,” Ralston remarked.
They entered the wide, parquet lobby, paid admission, and upon the cashier’s direction, found the curator on the second floor staring through thick wire-framed glasses at a large green urn with off-white trim perched upon a waist-high pedestal of the same colors. He saw them approach, assuming they were museum visitors.
“A Malachite Urn,” the curator started with a wave of his hand. “Created in the 1830s and housed for some time in the Russian Czar’s palace. It was first exhibited at the Chicago Columbian Exposition of 1893 in the Russian Pavilion.”
He pointed to the side at a three-foot leaded glasswork with ornate bronze trim. “That’s the Dragon Fly Lamp. It was made by Tiffany Studios in New York, circa 1910. Magnificent glass cutting.”
He continued looking at them with a requisite smile. “These are two of my favorite pieces.” Then he paused awkwardly. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Ralston spoke, “Mr. Arringham, are you aware of any undecipherable codes, messages, or mysterious symbols adorning any structures in St. Augustine? We’re looking for something pre-1830.”
Arringham’s eyes opened wide. “Interesting question. I have to say, it’s a first.” He paused uncomfortably for a moment. “Why do you ask?”
Fawn cut in, “Well, it’s kind of embarrassing,” she started, dropping her eyes sheepishly. Then her head sprang up and her tone notched up a full octave. “My partner and I are being considered as contestants on a reality TV show! Ancient Search. Ever heard of it?”
The curator wrinkled his nose, lifting his glasses as if in deep thought. Then he slowly shook his head.
Ralston gave Fawn a surreptitious glance of confusion.
“Sounds like you’re on a quest.” The curator offered a measured smile. “All to get on a TV show?”
“Something like that,” Fawn continued excitedly, talking with her hands and sounding more like a ditsy teenager than a stalwart reporter. “We have certain things we have to find. Kinda like a scavenger hunt. We’re competing against other teams. One of the to-dos,” she said, snapping her fingers in mid-air quotation marks, “on our list is to find an un-deciphered historical code here in St. Augustine.”
She leaned in to the curator, cupping her hand to her mouth, and lowered her voice to an excited whisper. “It’s a real mystery. We’d really appreciate it if you could help.”
Ralston could smell the agreeable scent of Fawn’s perfume, stirred by her animated movement and knew full well the curator was getting a strong dose. Then Fawn smiled at the curator longingly, and Ralston was fearful the man would melt.
Fawn sweetened the deal. “We’d really, really, really, really, really appreciate it,” she said playfully, batting her eyes. “Oh, I so want to be a contestant! I’m a big fan of history, I have to tell you. This would just be the ultimate for me. It would be just so, so great.”
Ralston remained speechless. He was amazed by Fawn’s transformed personality, even if it was an act.
“Well,” Arringham started, fidgeting his fingers at the knot of his already tightened tie, unwittingly drawing the Windsor into a constrictive noose. He realized his mistake and loosened it before he passed out from lack of oxygen. His face was now beet-red.
He continued, apparently eager to display his intelligence, especially after such an embarrassing move. “The city is rich in history. Many of the Spanish structures date back to the time period you referenced. Inscriptions and symbols appear on practically every façade, but to my knowledge, they’re all in known languages, and therefore, are readily translatable. There’s no context I’m aware of that hasn’t been deciphered. Now I will admit, some are of unusual origin and cryptic text, but nonetheless, nothing that requires a code breaker or symbologist in order to ascert
ain meaning.”
Ralston felt his hopes fade.
“Nothing?” Fawn’s eyes were pleading as she cocked her head to the side. To Ralston, she resembled a puppy: a very seductive puppy.
“No. Sorry,” the curator responded. His face looked pained, knowing he had let her down. Then his eyes filled with new life. “Well,” he chuckled awkwardly, “there are some lines of text…in the fort.”
“The Castillo de San Marcos?” Fawn asked incredulously. Her words came out resoundingly, in a mature tone, as if she had forgotten to stay in character.
The curator obviously noticed the change. His brow furrowed. “Yes, in the fort. One of the Guard Rooms has 18th-century Spanish text on the wall. No one’s ever figured out what it means.” He continued to eye Fawn curiously. “There’s a plaque that addresses the conundrum in front of the wall there.”
Fawn fell back into role. “Oh, that’s so cool!” she exclaimed, eyes wide. She leaned forward and hugged the gangly curator. He stiffened as if he were breaking some sexual harassment law. When she pulled away his face remained red, but was now sweaty.
“But, but,” he held up a finger, “I have to say that it’s more than likely centuries old doodling and nothing more.”
“Oh, you little bear of a man,” Fawn cooed. “It sounds exactly like what we’re looking for. It’s a mystery, plain and simple, and we would have never found it without you. You’re so sweet to help us, to help me.” She gave him a longing wink.
“I can give you the name and number of a local man, an archaeologist, well versed in the area’s history. I know he’s done research into this particular inscription.”
Fawn beamed with appreciation. “You’re the absolute best!” she shouted, throwing her arms around him again.
When she pulled away, he awkwardly withdrew a business card from his pocket and wrote down a name and number. His fingers were shaking so badly, Ralston hoped it would be legible. He handed it to Fawn.
Three Keys to Murder Page 21
