Collecting Shadows

by Gary Williams

  Farlan glanced at the staircase banister at the edge of the living room. “I was informed that your staircase banister was an original piece from the mansion.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Turnfield screwed his face up.

  “How long have you lived in this house, Mr. Turnfield?”

  “Since ’48. My wife, God rest her soul, picked it out on our honeymoon,” his tone elevated, “but I don’t have no damn piece of Flagler’s mansion here.”

  “Do you mind if I examine the staircase?”

  “Do whatever the hell you want, Ainsley. Just remember my $50 before you leave.”

  Farlan rose from the recliner and went to the bottom of the stairs. He meticulously examined the top, then the bottom of the banister, moving up and down the stairs as he went. He had hoped to see numbers pressed into the wood, similar to what he found on the fanlight window. To his dismay, he found nothing. “Has this banister been replaced?”

  Turnfield seemed incredulous. “Don’t you think I would have told you that? Of course, it hasn’t been replaced. You got yourself some bad information, Scotty. Now I’ve got somewhere to be, and I’d appreciate it if you’d find the door—after you pay me.”

  Begrudgingly, Farlan pulled his wallet from his pocket and removed a $50 bill. He walked over to Turnfield and handed it to the man.

  “Nice doing business with you,” Turnfield said.

  “I’ll let myself out.”

  “I insist.”

  26

  Gabriel Young settled back at his office desk with a can of soda and a steaming TV dinner he had accidentally overheated in the lounge microwave. It was already 8:12 p.m., and he had enough work to keep him here another two hours. Fortunately, the building had cleared out, and with no distractions, he could be productive.

  He gingerly took a bite of the Salisbury steak. His tongue began to sizzle, and he swigged some soda. In his rush, Young spilled some of his drink on his desk. He placed the can down, pulled a napkin from his desk drawer, and began to clean up the spill.

  “Good evening, Mr. Young.”

  Young jumped. “Good God, you scared me.” Standing in the doorway was the Scottish fellow who had shown up at his office earlier in the week. “How…how did you get in here this time? The receptionist is gone and the building is locked up.”

  “Mr. Turnfield was a bad lead,” Farlan said, striding to the front of the desk and leaning across with an icy stare.

  “Bad lead? You mean for the Kirkside piece? Well, I’ve never seen the staircase banister, but that’s what someone told me.”

  “You’re the wee hen that never layed away.”

  Young raised his bulk from the chair and twisted his face. “I have no idea what you just said.”

  Farlan removed a gun from inside his jacket pocket and leveled it at Young’s head. “It means, ‘Don’t play innocent with me.’ Now, Mr. Young, let’s get to the truth.”

  Terrified, Young dropped back in his chair.

  27

  After dinner, Rita encouraged Liam to take Pilot for a walk while it was still daylight. She didn’t want him to know what she was doing.

  They’d had ham and there was plenty left over. She cut off four large slices and put them on a sturdy paper plate. She added a helping of green beans and mashed potatoes, and tossed in a couple of buttered rolls. She pulled a can of soda from the refrigerator, grabbed a napkin, and carried it all downstairs. With some difficulty, she managed to open the back door without spilling anything.

  “Drew?” Rita called out.

  The man bent his head from around the side of the dumpster. He was sitting against the wall. “Ma’am?”

  “Please call me Rita. I thought you might like some of what we had for dinner. I’m not the greatest cook, but it usually doesn’t make anyone sick,” she forced a laugh.

  He stood, and she handed him the food. “That’s very nice of you. I truly appreciate your generosity. I hope you don’t think this is out of line, but I used to be a gourmet cook. At least I had my wife convinced of that. If you ever need someone to prepare a meal for you, it is one of my talents.”

  She didn’t know how to respond. “So, you’re married?”

  “Was. I assumed that since Liam told you my name, he would have told you other things about me.” He had a gentle yet masculine face buried beneath a lengthening beard. She tried to picture him without it.

  “No,” she shook her head. “One of Liam’s traits is that he keeps secrets and hides things well.”

  “He tries to cover his pain.”

  She glanced down. “We haven’t really connected. He keeps his distance. Both his parents, his mother and father, who was my brother, are gone.”

  “I know.”

  Rita was surprised. “He shared that with you?”

  Drew nodded.

  “Wow,” she threw her hands up, “he barely talks to me, but he—” she cut herself off.

  “—told personal stuff to the homeless guy in the alley,” Drew finished her thought.

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” she lied, averting her eyes to hide her embarrassment. “He misses his father. After Liam’s mother died, they became very close. He seldom tells people about his parents, and refuses to talk about his father’s death.”

  “It’s his business.”

  “But he should talk. Get it out.”

  “That’s the female way. Guys let it out when they’re ready. Plato said, ‘Never discourage anyone who makes continual progress, no matter how slow.’ ”

  “I guess I should get back inside. Um, please don’t tell Liam I brought you dinner,” she implored.

  Drew’s expression grew hard. “Are you that embarrassed that you fed a man in need?”

  “It’s not like that. I…we…just can’t feed everybody.”

  “That’s exactly what it’s like,” his anger erupted. He threw the plate of food in the dumpster and turned away.

  “Drew…please…” Rita said, taking a step toward him.

  He walked away without another word.

  She felt horrible.

  28

  For Farlan, this was a test of his patience. Two weeks ago he had shown great restraint in not killing that old curmudgeon, Granville Turnfield. With that unsuccessful lead, he had revisited the editor at the Gazette, Gabriel Young, hoping for more information about the Kirkside pieces. While Young professed to tell him all he knew, the copy of the photograph he found in Young’s possession proved quite interesting. It also suggested that there might be others in the hunt. He would need to remain vigilant. Competition would be dealt with swiftly and harshly.

  Sitting at the table in his garage apartment, he took a sip of morning coffee and again studied the photograph. He had done enough research to recognize the man in the picture as Henry Flagler. He read the inscription: ‘To the fine citizens of St. Augustine, I hope you’ve enjoyed my gift.’ The most interesting aspect of the photograph was the item on the bureau behind Flagler. It was proof positive that the letter wasn’t the rambling of a crazy person. There was, indeed, a fortune to be discovered.

  He laid the photograph down and picked up a second sheet of paper. On it was a typed list from 1 to 25 consisting of odd items: newspapers, documents, directories. The 26th item was handwritten. It was simply labeled ‘Flagler Photograph.’ The purpose of the list, and why the last item had been added, was a mystery.

  He placed the list atop the copy of the photograph and pulled Ida Alice Flagler’s 1894 letter from his briefcase. With the explicit instructions to follow the items in order, he had been successful finding the first one—the fanlight window—and the clue upon it. He had easily deciphered it once he had figured out the code. Research into the second clue had not been successful, and he’d come to a grinding halt. Now it was time to break from the order. He had confirmation on one other mansion item, and it was time to investigate it.

  The loud meows of a cat arose from outside. Farlan stood, withdrew his pistol fitted with a
silencer, and eased to the door, moving the curtain aside.

  There he is.

  Farlan slowly opened the door.

  ****

  Farlan walked up to Kirkside Apartments at 8:45 a.m. wearing coveralls. A woman followed by a blonde teenage girl came out of one of the downstairs apartments, and Farlan nodded a quick, “Mornin’,” to them. They returned the greeting. Farlan calmly walked around the other side of the building, reaching the back of the property near the row of garage doors. He stayed out of sight as the woman and girl opened a garage, climbed in their car, and drove away, closing the door with a remote. Farlan waited until they had turned the corner before slipping underneath the falling garage door.

  His research had revealed a utility area among the parking bays. In near darkness, he used a small flashlight to locate a long ladder. He found an exit door and returned outside, carrying the ladder.

  For the next hour, Farlan examined the four columns. People came and went, some giving him odd looks, yet he paid them no heed, acting as if he was on official business.

  His efforts went unrewarded.

  Afterward, bathed in a pool of sweat and frustration, he returned the ladder to the building and made the long walk back to his place.

  At his apartment, he removed the coveralls and stood in front of a window fan, trying to cool off.

  He couldn’t imagine why Ida Alice Flagler was right about the fanlight window but wrong about the column.

  Farlan sat down at the desk with his tablet. He searched pictures of Kirkside, then pulled up pictures of Kirkside Apartments and put them side-by-side on the screen. He compared the old mansion columns to those of the newer apartment.

  Goddammit.

  They weren’t the same ones.

  29

  “Aunt Rita,” Liam said, before spooning chili into his mouth. He paused to chew. “Is everything okay with the business?”

  “Yes, why do you ask?” she said from across the small kitchen table. Pilot was nearby resting on the hardwood floor.

  “We didn’t have many customers today, and Saturdays are usually better days.”

  “We’re just out of the busy season. It’ll pick up again in a few months,” her tone betrayed the truth.

  “I can work for, like, half pay. You know, just during this slow stretch.”

  She stopped in mid-bite. Her eyes glossed. “I’m not going to lie to you. I am struggling, and the rent recently got raised by the landlord.” She struggled to speak, “I’m not sure how much longer we can keep going.”

  “Then it’s settled. Pay me less until things get better.”

  “I appreciate that. I really do. I promise to make it up to you. We just have to figure out a way to draw some of the tourists from St. George Street to us.”

  They returned to eating their chili in silence.

  “Aunt Rita, I hope this isn’t too personal, but why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  She turned away and shook her head. “I haven’t had time. I’ve been too busy with the shop.”

  Liam considered her response. Forty was old, but he had seen the way some of the male customers looked at her. He wondered why she chose to be alone. It wasn’t like she was shy or anything.

  “How come you never got married?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered without making eye contact.

  “Sorry if I’m talking so much.”

  She put down her spoon. “Liam, you’re not.” She rose from the table, took her bowl to the sink, and began to tend to the dishes.

  “Well, I’m going to read,” Liam said. He had hoped he and his aunt could get to know each other better, but they were alike when it came to personal matters. They preferred to keep things private. He took his bowl to the sink.

  “Wait,” his aunt put a hand on his shoulder.

  He looked at her. She leaned back against the counter, “I was engaged to be married, not long after your dad and mom and you were here four years ago. He was in the Navy; a fighter pilot. But the day before we were supposed to go to the courthouse and get married in private, he called it off. Never gave me a reason. Later I found out he had never stopped being single. He had continued to secretly date other women. The worst part was that, even though I was mad, I begged him to come back, that I would forgive him. I now know that I tried to cling onto him like that because I had low self-esteem.”

  “You don’t seem like a person with low self-esteem.”

  “I don’t, now,” she dropped her gaze to the floor and chuckled, “says the woman who named her dog Pilot.”

  It had never occurred to him why the dog had such a strange name.

  “That’s my story. Hey, speaking of stories, I understand from Bailey that you’re learning about Henry Flagler and the history of St. Augustine?”

  “Slowly. Just don’t let it out. It could damage my reputation,” he joked.

  Aunt Rita laughed. For the first time, he felt at ease talking to her. It made him feel good.

  “Has Bailey mentioned the secret underground tunnel?”

  “No,” he was instantly intrigued.

  “Rumor has it that Flagler dug a tunnel between his two hotels, from the Hotel Ponce de León under King Street to the Hotel Alcazar. It was so that the respectable men staying in the Ponce de León could venture to the Alcazar to gamble and engage in other devious activities without being seen.”

  “What other devious activities?”

  Aunt Rita smirked.

  “Oh,” Liam laughed, “prostitutes.”

  Aunt Rita chuckled. She held a finger up as if struck by a memory. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  She left and returned carrying on open box. It appeared heavy. She placed it on the table. Pilot stretched his nose up trying to sniff the bottom corner.

  “When Kirkside was demolished, a man by the name of James Sckinkle worked on the crew. He was 18 years old at the time. He and his wife used to own a nearby shop, and I became friends with them. Mr. Sckinkle passed away seven years ago, and his wife said that I should have this box. I didn’t necessarily want it, but I took it anyway and threw it up in my closet. I had forgotten it was up there until now. The box contains building debris from Kirkside.” She reached in and pulled out some tattered pieces of wood and a chunk of cement. “I don’t think there’s anything all that interesting here, but I thought you might like to see this stuff.”

  Liam hovered over the box. A piece of scrap caught his eye. He dug in, removing a small, flat, half-circle of wood. Liam noticed the wood was different from the other scraps in the box. The grain was distinct and appeared to have some sort of protective finish. On the face, there was a curved design in black ink along with black letters. The letters were illegible, worn away by time. The flat edge was sheared, as if it had once been a complete circle.

  “Was this in the box when you got it?”

  “Yes,” Aunt Rita nodded.

  “Any idea what it is?”

  “Not a clue.”

  30

  On Monday morning, Liam was on his way downstairs when he called back to his aunt. “Drew wasn’t around this morning. Can you please keep on the lookout for him to make sure he’s okay?”

  “Sure,” Rita responded. She had not seen him since Saturday night when he had thrown the food in the dumpster in anger. She still felt terrible about offending him. Pride is a fragile component of the human existence, and she had unintentionally stepped on his.

  At 9:00 a.m., Rita opened the shop to a crush of shoppers. Not really, though; she just liked to imagine such traffic.

  The skies had clouded, and rain seemed a certainty.

  Again, she thought of Drew. She had a feeling she couldn’t shake. Like she’d seen him somewhere before.

  It was an hour before she saw the first patrons, a couple from Kentucky who walked around for a few minutes, then left without buying anything. Ten minutes later, the dark clouds cut loose, and rain came down in sheets.

  “This isn’t going to he
lp business,” she said, standing at the register, petting Pilot on the head. Pilot wasn’t a fan of bad weather, and he’d settled beside her.

  A sudden loud crash came from the alley. Pilot’s ears perked up, and he barked. Curious, Rita moved through the hallway and opened the back door.

  Through the white haze of rain, she saw the form of a body sprawled out on the ground near the dumpster. It was Drew. He tried once, then twice, to push himself up, but kept falling back to the soaked pavement.

  “Oh my God,” Rita exclaimed. She rushed outside through the onslaught of rain, and went to Drew. “Are you okay?” she grabbed his arm, trying to lift him.

  “Oh…I’m just fine,” he said. “Nothing like a light rain shower.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Just enjoying my homelessness. You should try it sometime. It’s a freakin’ blast,” he slurred.

  As water flooded down her face, she could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath. To his side sat an empty bottle of bourbon.

  Rita was furious. “Get up. Get up, now.”

  “Okay, okay, you don’t have to go off on me like my ex-wife.” With her help, he brought himself to his feet, then tumbled back to the ground.

  “You did this to yourself. Now get…up.” Rita gritted her teeth as rain continued to pour down her face. She was drenched.

  He turned his face up in the rain. His cheeks were swollen, his eyes red. He moved his lips to speak, then dipped his head to the side and threw up.

  “That’s it. I’m done with you,” Rita said, walking away.

  “No, please,” Drew said, wiping his gnarly beard and trying to rise.

  Rita looked back at him. The rain made it hard to see his face, but she thought he might be crying. “Damn you.” She returned to him and helped him to his feet. “C’mon, let’s get inside.”

  Back in the store hallway, she closed the door. Pilot approached warily as Drew slumped to the wet floor with his back pressed against the wall. “It’s okay, Pilot. This one’s not a threat,” Rita said.