Relic

by Bill Noel

  He took a sip then said, “Chris, I value our friendship immensely, and I thoroughly enjoy our conversations. I also feel I’m well enough acquainted with you to share what my intuition tells me.”

  “That would be?”

  “You did not appear at my door simply to shoot the bull, as my students would say. If I am mistaken, I apologize. If not, perhaps you would like to share your reason.”

  “Did you hear about the body found at the Lighthouse Inlet Heritage Preserve?”

  “I was paying for gas this morning at Circle K, where I heard the person in front of me say something to the clerk about a deceased gentleman. I, of course, am not prone to infuse myself in conversations, unless invited, so I didn’t learn anything further. Perhaps that is the body to which you refer.”

  I gave him a brief rundown about the body, and the circumstances under which it was found.

  “Oh, my heavens, that’s tragic. I am not familiar with them. Do they live on our island?”

  I told him what little I knew.

  “What were they doing in the Preserve overnight? My understanding is that it closes at sunset, albeit it’s a rule difficult to enforce since there are no barriers around the property.”

  “Hunting Civil War relics. They got caught in the rain, then darkness set in. There was a metal detector in the car.”

  William frowned. “Collecting artifacts from the Civil War, or any other previous visitors or inhabitants of Folly, is strictly prohibited in the Preserve.”

  “That might be the reason they were there late in the day. There would’ve been few, if any, others nearby.”

  William looked in his tea glass, at one of the glass angel figurines on the table, then back at me. “It would appear someone else was there, unless Mrs. Fitzsimmons killed her spouse. Are you taking it upon yourself to investigate who might have terminated the gentleman’s life?”

  “Nothing like that. I found it interesting that she told me they were looking for relics. I’d heard you were a Civil War buff. I knew you had a strong interest in saving the lighthouse, but I wasn’t aware of your interest in the Civil War.”

  “Quite frankly, I had little interest in the infamous conflict, until I learned about the gravesite of the nineteen soldiers from the 55th Massachusetts Volunteer Regiment found on the western end of Folly. The regiment was composed of free-born African Americans trained near Boston before heading south to fight the Confederacy.

  “I perhaps had learned some about this during my secondary schooling, although if I had, it was long forgotten. I share a common race with those brave soldiers, so I took an interest in their plight before expanding that interest to the entire milieu and personality of those who fought in that war that divided our country.”

  “Barb told me you were a regular, always in search of books on the Civil War.”

  “That, and to gaze at the lovely bookstore proprietress.” He winked at me and chuckled.

  “That I can identify with.”

  “Are there specific questions that I might answer about the horrific time in our country’s history?”

  “Any ideas what the Fitzsimmons may’ve been looking for?”

  “The gravesite I referred to is on the opposite end of the island from the Preserve although, from what I read, the eastern portion of Folly Island was important to the Federal army as a strategic base for the battle to take Fort Sumter. They constructed roads, primitive forts, living quarters, even an artillery battery out there.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine how miserable it must have been surviving in the jungle-like foliage, the extreme summer heat, humidity, exposure to the ocean, lack of adequate shelter, and sanitation.”

  “What would’ve been left at those sites to pique the interest of the Fitzsimmons?”

  “I would imagine little of monetary worth. Anything left would consist of trinkets of steel, or other metals, cookware, uniform buttons, tools. Remember a while back when Hurricane Matthew visited out humble island?”

  I nodded.

  “A man found a dozen or so rusted cannonballs on the beach near the Preserve. They were rendered harmless, yet would have been valuable to someone who collected, legally or illegally, ordnance from the Civil or other wars.” William looked out the window, started to speak, then hesitated.

  “What?”

  “Chris, as I have shared with you on more than one occasion, I look askance at rumors and gossip. More than askance, I abhor them.”

  “But?”

  “There’ve been rumors going around for decades that a British ship, or possibly more than one, sailed from Canada, carrying a cargo of guns and gold to the soldiers. One of those ships, the Constance Decimer, sank. It was later discovered near Charleston with no gold found. Old-timers swear that there were several other ships carrying gold.

  “None of this has been proven, that’s why I put it in the broad category of rumor. If the Fitzsimmons heard some of these stories, it’s conceivable they thought the east end of the island could be the final resting place of the precious metal.” William smiled. “Of course, there are an equal number of rumors that a hundred years before the Civil War, pirates sailed up and down the coast robbing merchant ships of gold, silver, other valuable commodities. Some of those pirate vessels were reputed to hide their bounty on the coastal islands, Folly included. Yet again, these are only rumors.”

  “I’ve heard stories about pirates.”

  “Does any of this help?”

  “A little,” I said. “One more question. Do you know Abraham Gant?”

  “Captain Gant?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about him?”

  “Someone mentioned that he has strong opinions about relic hunters.”

  William smiled. “If by strong you mean that he thinks they all should be wiped off the face of the planet then, yes, he is opinionated. He’d attended a couple of Preserve the Past meetings. He seemed to be sitting on a cushion of nails, quick to comment on most anything. Once, when dear sweet Francene Gregory suggested that some excavating around the lighthouse might give the group a better idea of what it was like during the structure’s earlier days, the Captain uttered something about sacrilege then stormed out of the room. He’s not been back, nor has his presence been missed.”

  “Is that all you know about him?”

  “Yes. It’s more than I want to know.”

  We moved to a topic that was dearer to his heart, his garden, and ended on a lighter note. He told me not to be a stranger; I told him that he was welcome at my house.

  I left the air-conditioned comfort and stepped into the heat that felt twenty degrees hotter than when I arrived. Add sweltering humidity, and I questioned the wisdom of walking instead of driving to William’s. Instead of trekking all the way home, I stopped at the Surf Bar, located halfway between William’s house and mine. An advantage of being retired was that most of the time I didn’t have to be anywhere. I had a twinge of guilt about that freedom, as compared to most everyone else who had to work for a living. The twinge this time lasted until I grabbed a stool at the rustic bar and ordered a glass of wine. There were five other customers.

  My appearance raised the average age of those present by roughly ten years. The popular bar catered to a younger crowd and, on most weekends, featured live music by groups I’d never heard of. From what I’d seen on how packed the bar was on weekend nights, I was in the minority when it came to knowing about the rock, funk, or whatever name captured today’s popular music.

  A couple of rock songs I did recognize filled the room, and the sound system was turned to a level more fitting to my elderly ears. That was fortunate since I heard my phone ring. Charles’s name was on the screen.

  He said, “Want to go with me tomorrow?”

  “Hello, Charles.”

  I had been trying to get my friends to start conversations with radical words like, “hello,” or even the shorter version, “hi.” I’d been as successful as the pet collie I had as a child had been
at climbing a telephone pole to catch a squirrel. Actually, the collie was more successful. It managed to leap three feet up the pole.

  “Hi, Chris. So want to go?”

  This wasn’t the time to attempt a lesson in phone etiquette. “Where?”

  “Gee, get with the program. To see Laurie.”

  “Silly me. Why didn’t I know that?”

  He ignored my comment. “Are you going, or not?”

  “Charles, why are you, we, going to see Laurie?”

  “To see if she’s okay.”

  To paraphrase the Good Book, or possibly The Byrds, for everything there is a season. This is not the time, the season, to try to find out Charles’s motivations. ‘Tis the time to say, “Sure. What time?”

  We agreed on a time, and I ordered a second glass of wine. I had a hunch that I’d need it.

  Chapter Six

  Charles told me that he’d used his “well-honed investigative skills” to learn that the Fitzsimmons’s house was eight blocks off Center Street on East Erie Avenue. His well-honed investigation consisted of asking Officer Bishop where Laurie lived. With temperatures in the upper eighties, neither of us wanted to walk. He’d told me to pick him up at 10:00, so I was in his parking lot at 9:30 the next morning. On time, to him, meant thirty minutes before the rest of the world’s interpretation.

  He stepped out the door of his compact Sandbar Lane apartment, spotted my car, and looked at his wrist, where normal people wore a watch. Charles, never accused of being normal, didn’t own a timepiece. He wore a long-sleeved, green and white, Bismarck State College T-shirt, tan shorts with a black ink stain on the pocket, and Adidas tennis shoes. His graying, ill-kept hair was sticking out the side of his canvas Tilley hat.

  “Glad you made it on time,” he said.

  I smiled as he slid in the passenger seat and tossed his cane in the back seat. Two minutes later, we were driving east on Erie Avenue, while Charles looked for the address he’d been given. The houses on the left side of the road backed up to the marsh and the Folly River, giving them magnificent views of the sunset. The residences on the right didn’t have nearly as good a view. Most were older with a sizable number built before Hurricane Hugo devastated the island in 1989.

  Charles spotted the Fitzsimmons house a half block before East Erie made a sharp right turn to become Eighth Street East. The house was set back from the road on a lot surrounded by large live oaks, three palmetto trees, and straggly underbrush. My realtor friend, Bob Howard, would’ve described the house as “in need of some TLC.” In non-realtor-speak, the word “dump” would have been appropriate. The one-story house had wood plank siding with several boards missing. The roof was covered with pine needles with mildew around the edges. Two sawhorses were near the front door with a four-by-eight-foot sheet of plywood spanning them. A red toolbox was shaded by the plywood, with an orange extension cord snaking from the side of the house to the sawhorses. A narrow gravel drive weaved around the trees. The MINI Cooper was in front of the house.

  I was reluctant to go to the door, a reluctance not shared by my passenger. He grabbed his cane, bounded out of the car, then scampered to the door, as if he was late for a meeting with Laurie.

  Well-worn front steps squeaked as we climbed them. The front door had been painted red, but had faded to pink; the brass-plated door knob had long lost its luster. Not seeing a doorbell, Charles knocked. There was no response, or sounds, coming from the house, so Charles glanced at me standing behind him, shrugged, and knocked again. Still nothing. He asked if we should leave when the door opened a couple of inches.

  Laurie peeked out; her eyes darted from Charles to me. “Can I help you?”

  “Hey, Laurie,” Charles said like we were lifelong friends. “It’s Charles and Chris. Remember, we were at your car the other morning?”

  The door opened a couple more inches. The sunlight shone on her. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair uncombed. Our visit was not a good idea.

  “You were there when they took me to the hospital,” she said, more of a question than statement.

  “We were,” Charles said. “Chris and I were nearby, and wanted to stop to see if you were okay, or needed anything. Have a few minutes?”

  “Oh, umm, I guess.” She slowly opened the door the rest of the way while motioning us in.

  She wore a bulky, quilted robe, and was barefoot. She pointed to the living room to the right. “Have a seat while I throw something on.” She headed toward the back of the house.

  We sat on a burgundy-colored, leather sofa that appeared new. A black leather La-Z-Boy recliner was at a right angle to the sofa facing a large, flat-screen television. Nothing else was in the room. The new furnishings contrasted with the cheap wood-panel walls.

  The double-hung window was missing all but the casing and jamb. Heavy, transparent plastic covered the entire window and was duct taped to the casing. An exposed electrical junction box was in the center of the ceiling which, at one time, must’ve held a ceiling fan, or a light. In front of the sofa, there was an eight-by-ten-foot dark green indoor/outdoor carpet that I suspected was hiding flaws in the floor.

  Laurie returned. She had run a brush through her hair, put on a starched, white blouse, a black and white striped skirt, plus a forced smile.

  I smiled, hoping it seemed sincerer than hers. “We didn’t mean to intrude. I know this is a terrible time. We wanted to offer our deepest sympathy for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered then turned to Charles. “I’m sorry, tell me your names again.”

  We reintroduced ourselves as she moved to the La-Z-Boy. Her petite frame was swallowed by the chair.

  “I apologize for my memory,” she said. “It’s coming back now. You were at the car when I woke up. Charles, I also remember meeting you on the street when we asked if you were from Jacksonville.”

  Charles smiled. “That’s right.” He looked around the room. “You have a nice house. I’m so sorry you have to start your retirement on such a tragic note.”

  I wondered what house Charles was talking about. I kept my mouth shut.

  “Thank you. Were you still there when they… when they found Anthony?”

  Charles lowered his gaze to the floor. “Sadly, we were. We are so sorry.”

  Laurie stared at the spot on the floor where Charles had been looking. “I didn’t know, umm, they didn’t tell me about his passing until a detective came to the hospital. He waited for the doctor to release me.” Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, God, if only I’d gone with him when he tried to find his way out of the woods. Why did I tell him to go ahead, that I’d be okay where I was? He might still be with us if I’d gone.”

  She was no longer confused about if he’d been with her that night like she’d told the EMTs.

  Charles leaned forward. “You don’t know that, Laurie. If you’d gone, maybe you’d have been… well, not with us now.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Charles continued to lean toward Laurie. “Any idea who could’ve done it?”

  I was beginning to get a hint of another reason Charles wanted to visit the grieving widow.

  “No. We hardly know anyone here. We’re retired teachers. Who’d want to kill us?”

  “Did Anthony have enemies?” Charles continued.

  “None.”

  Her tears had stopped flowing, and she seemed more comfortable talking.

  I said, “You told us you all were in the old Coast Guard property searching for Civil War relics. Find any?”

  She eyes opened wide. “I said that?”

  I nodded and wondered if I should mention that she’d told the EMTs that Anthony wasn’t there.

  “No, nothing.”

  “Did anyone here know you’d be there?”

  She shook her head. “The person who shot poor Anthony must be a nutjob, an escapee from a mental hospital who was there for… for, I don’t know why. Poor Anthony was only trying to find his way to the car. Why did it happen?”

&nb
sp; I said, “They’ll catch whoever did it.”

  She slammed her fist on the armrest. “Will that bring my husband back?”

  “No,” Charles whispered.

  Laurie shook her head. “I’m being a horrible hostess. Can I get you something to drink?”

  Charles smiled. “Water would be nice. Could I help?”

  Laurie declined his offer then went to the kitchen. Charles leaned toward me. “It’ll calm her. She needs someone to talk to.”

  She was quick to return with a plastic cup of water for each of us, even though I hadn’t indicated that I wanted any. She went to the kitchen to get her cup then returned to the La-Z- Boy.

  “How come you decided to retire to Folly?” Charles asked, as if the previous discussion of finding the body had never happened.

  Laurie took a sip then stared in the cup. “My grandfather grew up here in the ‘30s. My parents and I used to come up from Florida each summer for a week or two. I remember Granddaddy spinning tall tales about various characters who lived here. He’d go on about how he thought the police were no better than the crooks yet, if anything bad ever happened to someone, all the people, good or bad, would band together to help whoever was having problems.”

  “The police aren’t corrupt now,” Charles interjected. “People still hang together if anything bad happens. You could say that’s why we’re here. What was your grandfather’s name again?”

  She hadn’t said the first time.

  “Harnell Levi.” She smiled. “He was a character. Know what else Granddaddy talked about all the time?”

  Of course, we didn’t. I said, “What?”

  “Buried relics. Civil War valuables. He said that he knew there was a lot of it. He just hadn’t had time to look. I took it all with a grain of salt. Figured, if it was here, then someone would’ve found it by now. When I told Anthony about Granddaddy’s stories, he took them to heart, started doing research.” She stopped, took a sip of water, stared at the plastic covering the window. “If I hadn’t told him those stories, he’d be with me today, tomorrow, and…”