Findings

by Mary Anna Evans

  Faye was speechless. Not go home? Now this thing was getting personal.

  After a long breath, she found some words. “He wants to ban me from my home? Why? Nobody’s died out there. Not lately, anyway. I think maybe we should all move out to Joyeuse where it’s safe.”

  “Hear me out. There’s a logical chain of events that suggest that Joyeuse Island is a dangerous place for you.”

  Faye half-expected Magda to whip out her laptop and display a slide show to accompany her scholarly explanation of this damnably logical chain of events.

  Magda held up an index finger. At least she wasn’t using a computer-based visual aid. “First, the data suggest that the criminals know about the necklace which, based on the single emerald we have, looks to be fabulously valuable. Or they could know about it. It’s described in a book that’s stored in a library that’s accessible to a whole lot of people.”

  Magda had a point. This did not make Faye happy.

  “Second, that self-same book describes the general location of this buried treasure. To be fair, it doesn’t give the location of the island where it’s hidden, but it does say that it’s near Bachelder’s childhood home. You found that home in a single day—a single morning—using easily accessible property records, maps, and photographs.”

  Another good point, Faye thought. Crap.

  “Third, we know that the thieves have your notes describing the place where you uncovered the finding. The emerald’s find spot isn’t easily traced. You didn’t know it was an emerald when you dug it up, and the thieves won’t be able to do much with an entry labeled, “Unknown object, angular shape suggests it may be man-made, point 24.” And they didn’t get that notebook, anyway. But the gold finding’s location is clearly labeled in the notes that they do have. So is the hip flask’s find spot. That’s why you have to leave the island. Those notes could bring the killers right to your doorstep. They may have already been there.”

  “Nita and Wayland.” Faye didn’t like her own voice. She sounded like a sullen child who wanted something she couldn’t have. Not a woman to admit defeat easily, she tried to frame a winning rebuttal in her mind, but Magda’s inexorable countdown continued.

  “And last—the whole world could know where the finding was buried, not just the crooks who stole your notes. We published that data, Faye.”

  “We did what? I don’t remember writing any such paper.”

  “I wrote the paper. You remember—there were two reasons we published your independent work. First, it was damn good work. And interesting, too. Second, you were on shaky ethical grounds, working half-trained and selling assorted baubles to collectors. Once I wrote the work up, slapped my Ph.D. on it, and got a respected journal to publish the paper, it was a lot harder for disapproving academics to slander you with names like ‘pothunter.’”

  Magda was right. It would be stupid to stay on Joyeuse Island, knowing what she knew. Stupid and careless. The thought of leaving her home, even for a little while, hurt like a hot rock in the pit of Faye’s stomach. “So where will we go? I’ve still got my apartment in Tallahassee. Joe’s been living there this semester. We could move up there—”

  “There’s no need to go that far. Emma says she’s got more than enough room for you and Joe. She’s also got a deep-freeze full of leftover funeral food, so you’ll eat well.”

  “Good, because I’d never get my work done at the Turkey Foot Hotel if I had to commute from Tallahassee.” An evil thought struck her. “You’re not going to tell me I’ve got to stay completely out of the islands, are you? Because I have got to finish that project on time, or I’ll never get funding again.”

  “Mike and I talked that over. It’s not the safest place in the world. You know he had to turn those people who attacked you loose.”

  “Nita and Wayland? Sheriff Mike agrees with me that they were just pothunting, looking for a little something worth selling. They won’t be back to Joyeuse Island, now that he’s put the fear of God into them.”

  “Exactly,” Magda said, in the tone of voice professors save for times when they’re about to make an irrefutable point. “So maybe they’ll try someplace else—like the ruins of the Turkey Foot Hotel.”

  “But how will I get my work done? I can’t stay away from the hotel site…for a lot of reasons that I don’t need to explain to you.” Faye heard her voice modulate from “sullen child” to “whining child,” but she couldn’t help herself.

  She hadn’t considered until this minute that while she’d been distracted from her project by murders and emeralds, pothunters would have had days and days to destroy her work on the ruins of the Turkey Foot Hotel. And first among the pothunters likely to do that would be Nita and Wayland.

  She needed to get out there and check on things. She needed to scope out Captain Eubank’s library. There was no denying the fact that she still needed to get back to the rare book room in Tallahassee. And there might be a necklace-worth of emeralds lurking under the soil on her very own island. Faye was always a woman with a full plate of things to do, but this was ridiculous.

  Magda stretched her bad shoulder, the one she’d wrecked by digging heavy dirt and hauling heavy artifacts. “My husband says those two scum have decent alibis for both murders. Granted, it’s upstanding citizens like themselves offering the alibis, but there are a whole lot of people willing to say they were playing poker at some dive in Sopchoppy on the night Douglass died. And Liz says they were sitting at the bar, three feet away from her griddle, when Wally was killed. Mike’s probably right. They’re not our killers. They’re not looking for you personally. You just happened to be there when they wanted to find something they could sell to offset their gambling losses.”

  “So—is it too dangerous for me to keep working out there?”

  Magda pursed her lips and shook her head. “Hell if I know. Mike figures the really bad guys are most likely to show up at Joyeuse Island, looking for the necklace. If you’re willing to work only in broad daylight and if you’ll keep Joe by your side the whole time, then we’ll say you’re safe enough. Maybe I’ll come out and help. Although Mike wouldn’t like me taking Rachel someplace that requires bodyguards.”

  Joe turned an unsmiling face in Magda’s direction. He didn’t like the idea of his goddaughter being hauled to a dangerous island, either.

  Magda paid him no attention. “I’ve got an even better idea. Take Ross out there to help Joe. He’s big, and maybe he can shoot. I know for a certain fact that he could argue a criminal into submission. Damn lawyers.”

  ***

  Faye loved the dusty smell of old books. Even the university library’s up-to-date ventilation system couldn’t rid the air of that scent, but modernity had robbed libraries of other strong, familiar smells of her youth. Here in Captain Eubank’s home library, with its book-lined walls and its old-fashioned card catalog, she could smell age and ink.

  She treasured childhood memories of visiting the bookmobile with her mother. Stepping out of the blazing Florida sun into dark, cool, air-conditioned space that was cushioned underfoot by industrial carpeting and lined with books from floor to ceiling, had always seemed like stepping through the gates of heaven to Faye. A tangy, chemical smell had been an unquestioned part of the bookmobile experience. She presumed it was the scent of the ink used to stamp due dates into borrowed books.

  Computers and bar code readers had rendered that ink obsolete, but she still missed its odor. Captain Eubank had acquired the Micco County Public Library’s obsolete equipment, thus updating his own library to 1970s standards, so Faye got her fill of library smell whenever she visited his collection.

  Captain Eubank had been Micco County’s unofficial historian for so long that the county manager had given him semi-official status—a certificate that read, In Recognition of Long and Faithful Service to the Citizens of Micco County, Captain Edward Eubank Is Hereby Awarded the Title of Honorary Historian. The position hadn’t come with any money, but
it meant that he got his hands on discarded library equipment and obscure books that would otherwise have been thrown out.

  Faye had no idea which war Captain Eubank had served in, nor which branch of the service had made him a captain. For a while, she’d entertained the possibility that “Captain” was his actual first name. His meticulously kept library and soldier-like posture said otherwise.

  Faye adored Captain Eubank. He was a man after her own heart.

  She settled herself in the faded chintz armchair that faced the captain’s desk. Joe sidled over to his favorite shelf, the one where the captain shelved documents related to Native American folklore.

  “What can I do for you, Faye?” The voice was beginning to quaver, but the backbone refused to bend to age. “I haven’t got anything new since you were last here. Well, yes, I have. But none of it could possibly pertain to your family.”

  “I’m not here to look for information on my own family. I’m looking for a family that lived in Wakulla County in the mid-nineteenth century. It’s outside your area of interest—”

  “Now, now. I’m not that provincial. My interests don’t end at the county line. Besides, Micco County’s boundaries changed three times in the nineteenth century. If I find a document that relates to the history of anyplace around here, I acquire it.” He swept an arm through the air, to draw her attention to all the precious information he’d collected. As if she hadn’t already noticed.

  “Do you have anything on the Bachelder family, particularly a man named Jedediah who was probably born somewhere around the 1820s? The family property was on a river near the coastline, just across the Wakulla County border.”

  “The Bachelders? I don’t have much on that family, but what I do have is probably still warm from the hands of all the folks who’ve been pawing through it. That’s the most popular subject in the county this week.”

  Joe didn’t turn around, but his finger stopped moving along the line of text he was reading. Faye knew he was listening.

  “One of them was a Civil War re-enactor. Even had on half his uniform—the jacket was unbuttoned over his fat belly and grimy t-shirt and blue jeans. A real soldier would be sitting in the brig if he went around looking like that. I call folks like him ‘fantasy soldiers.’ I get those guys all the time. Some of them have as much stuff as I do. Although they tend to collect minie balls and cannonball fragments, ‘stead of books.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “No. I’d have it written here in my logbook if he’d checked out any materials, but I didn’t have what he needed. I remember he was a big guy, though. Hefty.”

  “Was his name Herbie?”

  The captain tugged on his neatly clipped moustache. “Yes. Maybe. Herbie sounds about right.”

  “Anybody else?” Faye realized she sounded like an officer barking an order. She softened her voice. “Who else, sir?”

  “A young man. He didn’t check anything out, either, so I don’t have his name. He didn’t stay long, didn’t even sit down. So I’m not sure he ever gave me his name to begin with. But I’d know those tattoos if I saw them again. Lightning bolts all the way down one arm.” He shook his head. “In Bachelder’s day, it was a lot easier to shock people, so youngsters didn’t have to go to such extremes. Maybe their system was better.”

  Wayland. The captain’s visitor had to be Wayland. Faye wondered where Nita was while he was visiting the Captain.

  “Did anybody else come in, asking about Bachelder?’

  “Just you. And you’re much better company than those men.” He swiveled in his desk chair to peruse a shelf of bound documents to his right. “Let’s see. I have copies of the property records from that period. Good thing the property wasn’t in Micco County at that time, or we would’ve lost those records in the courthouse fire. I’m guessing you already looked at those down at the property assessor’s office.”

  “Yep.”

  “Then you probably already visited the property. That’s a good way to get the gist of who somebody was. Go the places they went.”

  Here was more evidence that Captain Eubank had been an actual captain. He had an instinctive grasp of human psychology. He certainly had her pegged.

  “Joe and I uncovered the foundations of the Bachelder house and their cemetery.”

  Captain Eubank’s eyes lit up at the prospect of reaping historical information from the dates on those tombstones. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and said, “When I was a boy, people used to talk about a Civil War battle near there, but I don’t know if a professional archaeologist has ever been out there. You could—”

  “Yes. There is—was—a battlefield out there, but treasure hunters have torn it up in a big way. I doubt there’s much an archaeologist could tell you much beyond saying, ‘Something military happened here.’”

  “Well. That is confounding.” The captain sat up straight again. “But you were asking about the Bachelders. There’s a collection of Jedediah Bachelder’s letters in the university library—”

  “I know. We’ve been there. And we’re going back as often as it takes to get transcriptions of them all.”

  “If you’ve already dug up all the information existing in the whole wide world, then why do you bother coming to my little collection?”

  Joe didn’t turn around, but his shoulders twitched like he was laughing.

  “Because you have weird stuff that professional archivists might overlook.”

  Captain Eubank seemed to relish being called “weird.”

  “That I do, dearie. That I do. I even have a photo of Bachelder in his later years. He donated money to build a hospital for Civil War veterans near the medicinal springs in Panacea, naming it after his late wife in honor of her hospital work. It’s gone now. The county let it rot down after the veterans died off. They’ve got better buildings now to put all their newfangled medical equipment in, but what call did they have to let that building go? One look at the place, and you learned more about a bygone time than a dozen textbooks could tell you.”

  Faye steered the conversation back to Jedediah Bachelder. “What does Bachelder’s donation of money for a hospital have to do with the photo you’ve got?”

  “The county government printed a handbill with a picture of the dedication ceremony. Posted it all over town, as a way to give Mr. Bachelder credit for his generosity. I’ve got one of ’em. Let me find it for you.” The captain plucked a binder from the shelf and paged gently through documents stored in protective plastic covers—and all of that plastic was of archival quality, if she knew the captain.

  The photo showed a crowd of people, all men in hats, clustered around an elderly gentleman whose face seemed to be all moustache and muttonchop sideburns. A pair of bright, dark eyes peeked out from under drooping brows and sagging lids.

  This was Jedediah Bachelder.

  The photo gave Faye no useable information, but it thrilled her to the core. “I’m so glad somebody saved that handbill.”

  “Big libraries can’t keep everything. They say most of an archivist’s job lies in knowing what to throw away. They have to do that. But real history is found in small things, too. A small-town paper, a routine letter to a faraway loved one, a photo hidden in a woman’s locket—those are the pieces of history that I love.”

  “Speaking of letters to faraway loved ones, you don’t happen to know where I could lay my hands on a transcription of Bachelder’s letters?”

  “You know I don’t. If I did, I’d have sent you off to read it as soon as you asked me about him. Or I’d have pulled it out of a file drawer right here. I don’t know of any transcription, but I’ve seen the letters myself. I went to Tallahassee and spent a lot of time with them, in fact. I wasn’t allowed to photocopy them, but I do have my notes.”

  The man was amazing. Captain Eubank dipped into the bank of filing cabinets behind him without looking. He handed Faye a folder that held a few sheets of lined paper inscribe
d with a soldier’s regimented script.

  The Bachelder letters bound into this volume cover the Civil War years. Jedediah Bachelder did not reside in Micco County or the environs during those years, so these documents are not strictly pertinent to my research, but his family was prominent in local history, so I have reviewed the letters with an eye toward enhancing my understanding of their role in regional affairs.

  Other than occasional mentions of his ancestral home in Wakulla County, the most interesting topic to me does not lie in the text of the letters, but in their very existence. His letters were written to his wife, who died during a most tumultuous time of the war. Several of her letters are preserved in this book, interspersed among his. He clearly received those letters, because he answers questions asked in hers. She obviously received many of his letters, based on the same logic. How their letters were reunited, when his were mailed to Alabama and hers were mailed to his last location known to her, is unknown.

  Faye could have kicked herself for failing to ask the obvious question of who saved Bachelder’s letters, when the man had left behind no offspring to treasure them. And she was strangely stirred by the thought that letters from Viola Bachelder waited for her deep in the bowels of the university library. She read on to see if the captain’s fine mind had teased any more meaning out of the book.

  The Bachelders had no children to preserve the letters. It was many years before Bachelder is known to have visited the house where his wife died, and it had changed hands twice by then. Who collected their correspondence and bound it into this leather volume? We may never know.

  However, upon study of the original letters, I have developed a theory. Mr. Bachelder’s letters written before 1864 are on expensive paper and were written with a finer pen than the later letters. There are also discrepancies in the handwriting that lead me to believe that the older letters are written in his secretary’s hand. Others may not have noticed these differences, because both Bachelder and his secretary were highly educated men, well-trained in the fastidious penmanship of the day. The difference in paper and writing utensil may also have obscured the change in handwriting.