Southernmost Murder

by C. S. Poe

  I glanced at Lucrecia.

  She looked solemn. “It’s blank again until August second. It’s Rogers’s last entry.”

  I swallowed and turned the pages. My ears were ringing, and it was like all of the air had been sucked out of the house. I reached the date and had to practically force myself to read.

  I am mad with hysteria and grief that I cannot shake. I cannot cope. As Thomas’s friend, I should have delivered him home to his wife, who has never retired her mourning. I should have seen him laid to a proper rest. But the devil’s inside me. My heart is broken beyond repair that any man could make to it.

  Edith would have never respected Thomas’s burial wishes. What wife would agree to put her husband in the ground with his dearest friend instead of her? And who do I have who would carry out the wish for me? So I’ve left Thomas to protect our sanctuary and every piece of eight I never asked for. We would have managed without it. If only he had asked me first! He’d still be alive.

  This will be my final entry. I cannot bear a life without him, now that the sliver of hope I’ve held on to all these years is gone. I will use my grandfather’s dagger. Seems only fitting. I do beg, that if there comes a day when Thomas is found through the clues I’ve left—whether that soul sees in a man what I saw in him, or is simply someone whose kindness I do not deserve—please fetch me and rest us in a small plot together.

  This is all we’ve ever wanted.

  Edward R. Rogers.

  I felt… shattered.

  Like I was dying inside with Rogers as I read his final words.

  I hadn’t expected this to be his fate. Not really. I knew Smith had been killed for the treasure—Cassidy and Peg suffered the same tragedy over a hundred years later. But the self-inflicted death of one heartbroken man who wanted nothing to do with riches? Just wanted to be with the person he adored? And to think, Rogers hid Smith away because it was as close as he’d get to resting at his side. I couldn’t—I literally couldn’t imagine what life must have been like for them. Meeting in 1855 and falling in love when not only was it dangerous, but illegal. And to have kept their romance hidden for nearly fifteen years….

  I didn’t realize I’d started crying until a tissue appeared in my line of vision. I snatched it quickly and wiped my nose. “Sorry,” I murmured. “Hits close to home. The gay part, I mean—not the other stuff.”

  Lucrecia just nodded. “I cried too, when I read it last night. The newspaper clippings hadn’t said he’d died by suicide. We’ve been sharing inaccurate information for years.”

  I dried my eyes and set the diary down on the floor between us. “This all started over a pirate’s treasure.”

  “Really?” she asked, her voice rising.

  I nodded. “I thought none of it was true and it was just local rumors and bullshit. But it really happened. It’s exciting, the notion of changing history with such an incredible find, but….” I took a deep breath. “Then I read these dairies of the men involved and have to remind myself they were real people with tragic endings.”

  Lucrecia dipped her hand into the bag again but paused. “So…. Your Thomas Smith was a pirate?”

  I nodded.

  “Rogers wasn’t, though?”

  “No, but… I think Smith stole for Rogers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I wiped my face once more and met her gaze. “The wrecking industry took a nosedive during the Civil War. I think Smith turned to piracy to make money. What Rogers wrote, about the pieces of eight he never wanted?” I touched the diary. “I think the investments Smith started making in a property upstate around that time might have been—”

  “For the two to run away together,” Lucrecia stated. She’d done none of the research I had on Smith’s money and properties, but I think, as a human, she understood. That basic instinct to care for what you hold most dear. Smith and Rogers were in love and desperate to build a haven they could escape to.

  I cleared my throat and started packing the diary away. “I appreciate you driving all day to come show this to me. I’m a snotty, puffy-eyed mess now, but I hope you won’t judge too harshly.”

  Lucrecia smiled. “No, honey. Like I said, I cried too.” She let out a breath. “I have one last thing to show you. It was part of Rogers’s estate that was donated to our museum. It never fit with the nautical theme, though, so it was kept in storage. But after reading that entry, I sort of put two and two together regarding its importance.”

  “Do I need to get more tissues?” I asked warily.

  She winced but ultimately shook her head and carefully removed a cardboard box. She opened the top, discarded the wrappings, and tilted it toward me. It was a long dagger, but I wasn’t familiar with its origin or period.

  “It’s a rondel dagger,” Lucrecia stated. “I had it authenticated back when it was first given to us. Sixteenth century, Italian in origin. Maybe a family heirloom, since he mentions it belonged to his grandfather.”

  “It’s terrifying.” I reached in and carefully held the blade to examine. “Holy crap. It’s four-sided.”

  An X on my heart.

  I SHOVED everything I needed for that night into the third-floor closet, then swung the hook into the lock as my cell rang. I straightened and pulled it free from my back pocket. Jun—again. He’d called nearly half a dozen times to check in throughout the day. “Hey, Jun.”

  “Hi, Indy. Is everything going okay?”

  “Yeah. Nothing suspicious yet, but I should probably make to look like I’m leaving.”

  “And you’re certain—” Jun started.

  “One hundred percent,” I replied, cutting him off. “I know it’s him. The button came off a near-perfect costume. It doesn’t belong to the house—how could Smith have monogram buttons made popular during the decade he was dead? Tourists wouldn’t notice such a minor inaccuracy on a costume, though.”

  “Then we’ll be there,” Jun answered, no tone of doubt in his voice.

  I started walking down the stairs to the second floor when I stated, without much thought to the digression, “Rogers killed himself.”

  Lucrecia Kennedy had left for St. Augustine about an hour prior and had loaned me the dagger and diary. She said her museum would be honored if they were displayed in the Smith Home—but I wasn’t sure it was something my heart could handle. Did the truth need to be known? Yes, absolutely. Every bit of it, even if Smith’s piracy tarnished his legacy and I upset a bunch of locals. But to put a spotlight on a weapon that ended the life of a lonely man? I didn’t want their story to be remembered that way.

  “What are you talking about?” Jun asked.

  I stopped on the bottom step and slowly sat down. “He spent almost ten years trying to find Smith’s body,” I said, voice shaking. “And then he hid him in the wall. Rogers didn’t want Smith to share a plot with his wife.”

  Jun didn’t say anything.

  “And then he killed himself,” I said, choking up.

  “Aubrey,” he said gently.

  “I shouldn’t let this bother me,” I replied, clearing my throat. “I’m a historian, and it’s not very impartial. Just… you know.”

  “I know,” Jun said simply. He understood.

  I loved him.

  I needed to tell him.

  I’d loved him for a long time, and it’d taken three years to realize it, but I fully planned on making up for that blip on our radar. Jun was going to have one hell of a good future with me.

  Cross my heart.

  “You still there?”

  “Sorry. Yeah.” Over the phone wasn’t how I wanted to say the L-word, though.

  “We don’t have to do it this way tonight,” Jun began. “We can catch him another—”

  “No, this is surefire,” I insisted. “He’s got a lot to go away for, and I don’t want to ruin our chances.”

  Jun let out a small breath. “Then everything is ready?”

  “Ready, Freddy.”

  “Be careful,” Jun said.
“Promise me that.”

  “I promise. Will you be careful for me?”

  “I will.”

  I said goodbye and stood. The light outside was a fiery orange and pink as the sun set. There wasn’t much time before darkness fell. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and hurried to the first floor. Herb was going at his usual tortoise speed of shutting off lights and closing the home up for the night.

  “I’ll see you later!” I called.

  “Leaving already?” he asked, poking his head out of the dining room.

  I opened the front door and glanced back at him. “I’m supposed to be on vacation,” I said, which wasn’t a lie. “Got a boyfriend to tend to. Oh! Herb, do me a favor?”

  “Yup?”

  “Don’t set the house alarm.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Why?”

  “It gave another false read early this morning,” I lied. “I’m just keeping it off. I’ll talk to the security company after my vacation.”

  Herb nodded and smoothed his mustache. “If you say so. Have a good night.”

  I ran out after that, jumped off the porch steps, and slipped and slid on smashed sapodilla fruits as I made for the back gate of the property. I sneaked out to the little driveway, forgoing my helmet because I was running out of time. I brought my Vespa off the kickstand and waved to Adam as he put the Closed sign in the door before shooting onto the road.

  Wind whipped through my hair as I made a right onto Greene. I slowed to work through the crowds at Duval before taking another right and driving until I hit Eaton Street. At this point I’d nearly made a big square around the property of the Smith Home. The sky was mimicking a pastel painting as I slid into the nearest available parking spot. I hid Pink Princess in plain sight among a half dozen rental mopeds before walking back the way I’d come from. I was certain I was acting like a maniac, but I needed it to appear like I’d left the Smith Home for good that night, and I couldn’t afford to be caught as I made my way back to the property.

  There was a method to my madness, which was why I was cutting through the backyards of private homes and inns. I went slow enough to give Adam and Herb time to leave, so the evening had taken on that deep blue tone before the dark arrived in full. I eventually reached a fence in someone else’s yard I had to scale. And I did scale it, which impressed me to no end—but then I fell off the other side and into the Smith garden. At least there was no one around to see that.

  I brushed the front of my clothes, thought briefly about why I gave a shit if these rags got dirty, and made for the back door of the historic home. I stopped at the porch steps and looked up, studying the darkness through the windows. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t totally terrified about the stunt I was about to pull off, but what I’d said to Jun was the truth, and that’s why he and Tillman were on board.

  If I wasn’t there to do this, the killer could very well escape with a million dollars and never face a penalty for the deaths of two people who never deserved such brutal fates. And, well, if I fucked up… it was my idea. No one to blame but me.

  Taking the house keys from my pockets, I went up the steps and unlocked the back door to let myself inside. I didn’t advertise my presence, and completed a full sweep of the house to confirm it was currently empty. Just me and a million dollars hidden in a secret room. I raced up the two sets of stairs to the third floor and went to the closet. Inside, I turned on a lantern we kept for power outages. I didn’t want to use the house lights and scare away my midnight prowler from trying a third time to get the clues he needed.

  Too bad for him, I’d figured out Rogers’s hidden message first.

  First, I picked up a pencil and the topography printout, then studied the ceiling paper of stars and moons until I found the exact two stars on the wall that matched the map. I circled them both and used a tape measure to draw a diagonal line, connecting them. Next was the wooden lid to Smith’s compass in the study. On the inside was a tiny drawing, faded with age, but I’d deciphered it to be the Dry Tortugas—a small cluster of islands about seventy miles west of here, first discovered by the Spanish and home to shipwrecks and forgotten forts. Along the island shapes, there was a star, which, when I studied the wall again, had a matching partner on the ceiling paper. I circled it before turning the lid sideways. The length of it measured exactly from the star until it intersected with the previous line. I followed it with my pencil.

  The last item had been Rogers’s own diary, so thank God Lucrecia had visited that day; otherwise, I’d be tearing this house apart, looking for the last star. I hadn’t found it the first time I’d thumbed through the 1880 booklet with her, but after skimming the empty pages again as she readied to leave, I found, on the very last page in the back, a map drawn in the same sure, strong hand as the stars on the topographical map and compass lid. Finding the matching star on the wall, I traced the length of the diary, and it also intersected with the first line.

  Stepping back, I stared at the marks I’d made.

  An X.

  The first star, in the waters off the Keys, was where Smith and Rogers met. The second on Smith’s house must have signified Rogers’s visits and their secret rendezvous. The compass lid—it had to be the location Smith had recovered the Santa Teresa’s wealth—and the last, where Rogers found Smith’s lost remains and the hidden treasure he’d died protecting.

  I pulled my cell out of my pocket and loaded up an app that broadcasted a live video feed. Jun and Tillman would be able to see everything happening in the house, and the video would also be recorded and saved for use as damning evidence in a courtroom. I slipped into the hall and propped it in a corner on the floor so the camera had a full view of the upstairs area. I gave my audience of two a thumbs-up before going back into the closet. This part wasn’t really in our schedule of catching the bad guy, but it was something I had to do.

  For Smith and Rogers.

  Because I was the someone who understood what Rogers saw in another man, and if there was a way to bring them both peace, even a century late, I’d do it. So I grabbed a face mask and pair of safety glasses from the closet floor before picking up the sledge hammer I’d snuck inside.

  X marks the spot.

  I swung hard at the X, putting a hole right through the wall within the nook. It crumbled fairly easily due to age and the fact that it was a false wall behind the first false wall I’d discovered. A few more swings and I had a big enough gap that I could see a door. I set the hammer down and broke the wall with my hands, tossing debris to the floor.

  It really was something incredible—one of those moments that was too storybook to be true, and yet there it was, staring directly at me. The hurricane damage to Smith’s home had been serendipitous, and he’d taken the opportunity to have a hidden room built, using a narrow amount of his study, and then hid the door behind the original wall with the latch, then hid that inside an ordinary closet.

  Most people would assume he’d keep valuables in there, or perhaps sensitive documents, but no. While holding the lantern, I squirmed through the hole and tried the doorknob. The door swung open on squeaky hinges to reveal a tiny space with a cramped bed, chair, and basic bathing supplies on a small table—everything arranged in such a manner that it was as if the occupant had only stepped out for a moment.

  This was the sanctuary Smith’s body had been protecting.

  Their secret space when Rogers would visit.

  Besides the simple pieces of furniture covered in a thick expanse of dust and cobwebs, the room was absolutely filled with cloth bags. Some were rotting away with age and neglect, silver coins spilling into piles across the wood floor.

  All around me was a million dollars’ worth of lost Spanish treasure.

  I took a few steps forward, moving deeper into the room. Positioned on the pillow of the bed was a diary. Likely Smith’s. I coughed behind the mask and waved at the dust in the air as I approached. I regretted not having cloth gloves, but fuck, I didn’t have a lot
of time. Leaning over, I thumbed the pages, looking for… anything, really.

  Smith hadn’t written entries in it. There was just one note scrawled inside. He must have known how dangerous it was to own the treasure—how hot it’d be and how many people would easily kill to have it. So he’d written out his last wishes.

  My family is well cared for. I have dedicated the best years of my life to making fortunes for them, so that they would never know the humble beginnings from which I came. They will carry on. My sincerest apologies, Edith. I do love you—you are my dearest friend. But I am not in love. And at my age now, I realize that’s all I really want.

  Should I not make it home alive from my last adventure, please see I am put to rest in our local cemetery. And, as I’m certain he will outlive me, save a plot for Edward.

  Captain Thomas J. Smith.

  I set the diary back on the pillow.

  “Will do, Captain,” I murmured.

  A creak of floorboards and the shuffle of objects caught my attention. I jerked my head up, straining to hear. It was coming from the left wall—the study. I ran to the open door and climbed through the hole in the wall. I snatched up Rogers’s dagger in my free hand and stumbled out of the closet. The lantern swung about, light dancing wildly around the hallway and briefly illuminating the big outline of a man in the study doorway.

  “Aubrey,” Smith said.

  I pulled off the safety glasses and tossed them to the floor before lowering the mask to rest around my neck. “Hi, Curtis.”

  Curtis Leon, guide for the Ghosts of Key West tours and treasure hunter extraordinaire.

  He reached up to peel the fake beard off his face. “How’d you figure it out?”

  “Your buttons,” I answered, taking a step to the side so I didn’t block my phone’s camera.

  Curtis looked down briefly at his costume, thumbing the buttons on his outer coat. The lowest one was missing. “Buttons, huh?”

  “Smith never wore monogrammed buttons,” I continued, speaking loud so my voice didn’t shake. “They didn’t become popular until after his death. But they look great on your costume. I’m sure the initials make your character easier for tourists to recognize, right?”