by Chris Niles
Steve led the way across Mallory Square and over a sturdy wooden bridge at the south edge of the plaza. “Margaritaville is up ahead here, and then the Historical Society is on the next block over.” They reached the edge of the plaza. A wide pier stretched south along the water behind the resort.
He pointed out another smaller ship docked across from Truman Annex, just beyond a small basin with a jet ski rental operation, a few waterfront shops, and a row of docks where Steve’s dive boat, Island Hopper, was tied up. “The big ship at Mallory Square will leave before sunset, but this smaller one isn’t scheduled out until ten. It’s a singles cruise, and they give the passengers more time to, um, appreciate the nightlife. I’ve got a sunset cruise booked for a group of them.”
“I’ll say a prayer for you.” Before Steve left to return to the Hopper, Chuck patted him on the shoulder.
Once their friend was out of sight, they followed the pier around the basin then back toward the street. As they rounded the corner, Kate admired the sturdy red brick building tucked behind a row of tall, skinny palm trees.
“And here we have it,” Chuck said. “The old Custom House was built back in the heyday of Key West in the late eighteen hundreds, and it handled almost half of the import traffic into the state of Florida. But that dried up during the depression and most of the business — and the residents — fled to the mainland. The government took it over for a while, but it sat abandoned until the nineties when the Art and Historical Society got the idea to restore it. I served on their board for a couple years, but, tell ya the truth, it was more cocktail parties and wooing donors than I wanted to do.”
He led Kate around to the front of the building, citing bits of history — some accurate, some not so much — and noting points of interest couched in what seemed like a historical architecture tour. “Up on that roofline, you can see where they had to run cables along the outside of the brick during the renovation. To keep utilitarian clutter to a minimum, there aren’t any cameras up there.”
They slipped down the alley behind the building, quietly taking note of parking, cover, and exits, and hoping they wouldn’t need to care.
Chapter Eighteen
Kate followed Chuck around to the front of the building, then they climbed the wide stone steps. The three-story red brick building faced east, surrounded by a wide veranda framed with massive arches. A common style in the late nineteenth century when the building was originally built, brick accents framed all the windows but the center one of the third story, which was capped with a high peak. Protected from the boiling mid-September sun, the deep wraparound veranda offered cool shade. They stopped to allow their eyes to adjust, and once ready, opened the heavy double door then stepped into the museum.
Chuck waved a membership card toward the young man at the admission desk as they stepped into the tall, cool foyer. A wide, wooden staircase rose directly ahead of them, with exhibit rooms flanking both foyers. “These house the rotating exhibits. Gramps’ stuff was upstairs, so whatever’s still on display will be up there.” They mounted the steps, climbing slowly to take in a collection of fifty-nine intricate pen and ink drawings by Guy Harvey illustrating the story of The Old Man and the Sea.
“You can’t swing a six-toed cat around here without hitting Papa Hemingway, can you?”
Chuck shrugged. “True, true. And the ones doing the swingin’ probably never read a one of his books. But he’s good for business.”
At the top of the staircase, a velvet rope barred entrance to the third floor. It bore a wood-and-brass placard reading Archives: Visitation by Appointment Only.
They returned to the second floor to the Early Keys exhibits. A detailed model of the U.S.S. Maine dominated the southeast exhibit room, with placards detailing how its sinking in Havana drew the United States into the Spanish American War. As they explored the exhibits, they found photographs and artifacts from Henry Flagler’s railroad and learned the regular ferry service between Key West and Cuba was used to run bootleg liquor during prohibition. Other installations told the story of the Hurricane of 1919 which killed several hundred and wiped out a fleet of military tugboats and other vessels moored in Key West Harbor.
Chuck stopped in front of an information card with photos from the Labor Day Hurricane of 1935. “Gramps used to tell stories of this one. He’d only been down here a couple of years when it hit. He was working on a crew in the Middle Keys maintaining the Overseas Railroad. For days, the weather had been getting worse, but it was the middle of the depression, and they were desperate for jobs.”
“So, they kept working?”
“Yeah. By the time they realized how bad the storm really was, it was already between here and the mainland. The railroad was the only way out of the Keys. Even though the storm was raging, the government started piling people onto the train. Gramps brought as many of his friends and their families as he could back here to ride it out. He said Grandma hated having all those people around. She wanted them to watch out for themselves, but it’s a good thing he gave them shelter. A twenty-foot wave swept that train off the tracks and killed about four hundred people, some of ’em men he worked side by side with. I sometimes heard him still prayin’ to God to forgive him for not bringing all of them here with him.”
Chuck picked at a cuticle as they continued around the room. “A lot of folks gave up and moved back to the mainland after that. Those who stayed were the resilient ones — the foundation of Conch culture. The New Deal created a massive project to rebuild the bridges, and Gramps found work and formed the first campground on Shark Key for the workers.”
He pointed to an acrylic placard with photographs of letters and books resting on the same wooden desk Kate and Chuck had rooted through earlier that morning. A note at the bottom of the display read: Artifacts on loan through the generosity of Charles Miller, Shark Key. Another smaller notice on a clear sticker read: Artifacts currently in storage and viewable by appointment only. Please contact the visitor’s information center on the main floor to make arrangements.
“Maybe we could just have them pull it and take pictures?”
Chuck shook his head. “We could. But we don’t know exactly what we’re looking for and we don’t have a lot of time. If we miss something and have to come back, we might all be sleeping in our cars.”
“Hey, that was my plan before you dragged me into this mess. But I guess if we’re gonna find out what’s up there, we may as well do it now. It’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission, right?”
“Keep your voice down.” Chuck nodded toward a museum volunteer in a maroon blazer standing in the wide entryway to the room.
“Even with her hearing aids, I’m not sure Mrs. Peacock over there would catch anything anyone is saying in here. Go distract her so I can get upstairs and look around.”
“Huh? What do you—”
“Pull her in here around the corner. Ask about the hurricane or something. Maybe she was here for it.”
“Wow, Kate. She’s not that old.”
“Just get her in here.”
“I don’t think this is such a great idea. Too many people know me. I’m pretty sure that’s Madeline Hochstetter. I went to school with her son, and she worked in the school library.”
“Jeesh, Chuck, is there anyone on this island you don’t know?”
“Not really. Everyone who’s been here a while is all connected. I just don’t want them to put it together, seeing me here, then having Gramps’ stuff come up missing.”
“Would you rather move into a trailer in Hialeah?” She pushed him toward the docent. “Just catch her attention and keep her occupied.”
Chuck plastered on a smile. “Mrs. Hochstetter? Is that you?” He led the old woman around to the model of the Maine as Kate casually wandered back out to the central hall. As soon as they were out of sight, she bounded up the third-floor staircase, climbed over the velvet rope, then stepped into the archive room.
Rows of file cabinets lined the wa
lls of the room and fireproof cabinets filled the center, each labeled with a simple number. Kate scanned the room for any type of signage or system for the storage, but found nothing. The room snaked around, stretching the full length of the building, and then back around to the opposite side of the staircase. She slipped the tail of her t-shirt over her hand and tried the handle of the closest cabinet. Locked. Of course.
She wove her way through the maze of cabinets, trying random drawers and doors as she went. As she rounded the corner to the north chamber, she spotted a small computer terminal nested between two large cabinets. With a single tap of a key, the monitor lit up.
Kate typed M-I-L-L-E-R into the search bar. A list of artifacts appeared, a number beside each one. There were too many to memorize, so she clicked the “print” icon. A printer under the tiny desk spit out a few pages listing Thomas Miller’s possessions.
She was reaching for the pages when voices echoed around the corner. Footsteps sounded to her left. To her right, a wide hall and open space loomed before the first cabinet big enough to conceal her.
No way out.
Kate scrambled to wedge herself low between two cabinets in a corner across from the terminal. As she pulled her arms in and tucked them beneath her thighs, she noticed the bright computer screen glaring back at her, displaying a complete list of Thomas Miller’s possessions. But she didn’t have time to clear her search.
She pressed back into the shadow. Slowed her breathing. Waited.
The visitor and the curator both donned gloves and began opening cabinets, examining pieces of art for an upcoming charity exhibit. Kate barely breathed. Nearly an hour later, the two finally selected all their pieces. They locked the cabinets, dropped their gloves in a tiny laundry basket, then left.
Kate uncurled her body from the tight niche and shook the stiff ache from every joint. She scanned the printout, but no personal notes were on the list. In fact, no books were listed at all. She glanced at her phone and saw a text from Chuck.
Must have missed you leaving. I’m heading to the hospital to check in on Babette. Meet me there.
She flew down both flights of stairs then out the front door into the blistering heat.
Chapter Nineteen
“There!”
Tina stomped on the brakes and followed her son’s meaty finger to a faded sign tucked into a huge seagrape bush on the north side of the highway. Shark Key Campground and Marina. Her tires skidded to a stop. A horn blared, and the driver behind her extended a one-finger salute as he gunned his engine, passing her on the road to Key West.
“Can you believe that?” Tina cried, shoving her arm through the open window and flipping him off right back. She shouted at his taillights. “Relax and get some manners, jackass!”
“Is this it, Mama?”
A narrow gravel drive sliced through a thick stand of mangroves and squat palm trees, curving out of view to the left about a hundred yards in.
“Don’t look like much.” Pebbles and road grit sprayed onto the highway behind them as Tina punched the accelerator and spun her car onto the lane. A chain of small, brackish, algae-rimmed lagoons lay on the right side of the gravel track, but as the car whipped around the left curve, the thick vegetation opened to reveal the sparkling Gulf water. She flipped down her sun visor and jerked the wheel, nearly missing the curve where the lane turned sharply back to the right and through a rickety gate.
Thick wooden posts marked campsites on both sides of the lane. The sites were sandy and spotted with palm trees. Dense hedges stretched along the waterline. Paths to the beach had been cut through the bushes at many of the sites, and kayaks leaned against the hedge in several spots. A few tents and small campers were set up, but many more of the sites sat empty. Beyond those, the lane opened into a wide parking lot of crushed coral. A few masts peeked over the hedge along both sides, and Tina saw water and wooden docks though several breaks in the foliage. At the north end, a cluster of low concrete block buildings and a wide deck stood between the parking lot and the shallow turquoise water of the Gulf of Mexico.
Tina parked the car, its engine ticking as mother and son climbed the steps to the wooden deck dotted with tables and chairs. A massive thatched roof extended over a bar and a small cedar-sided building. Aluminum shutters were lowered around the bar area. A sign scrawled in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard torn from a toilet paper carton announced the restaurant was temporarily closed for a staff emergency.
Lucas sighed and plopped himself down on a heavy bench in a patch of shade.
Tina lit a cigarette. “What now?”
“I’m hungry, Mama.”
“You ate three sausage biscuits from the Burger King in Marathon not two hours ago. Did you forget that already?”
“I cain’t help it. I’m big, and I get hungry a lot.”
“Well, the restaurant is closed.”
“Maybe…” the boy’s eyes landed on a small lock in the center of a pair of shutters.
Tina glanced around the empty deck, then took a tentative step toward the bar.
“Ahoy!”
Tina jumped.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” A tall black man wearing a long-sleeved white shirt rounded the corner of the bar. “The owner had a little emergency and had to close up for the day. Can I help you with anything?”
“I don’t know, maybe. We just got here this morning from Ft. Lauderdale, and my boy, he’s a little hungry. We were lookin’ for a bite to eat and maybe a cold drink.”
The man glanced over at her faded gold Saturn, windows down and its body looking like it had barely survived a shark attack. “I can’t offer you something from the restaurant here, but I could whip up a couple sandwiches and some bottled water if that would help you out.”
“Oh, no. We—”
“I don’t like no mustard on mine,” Lucas interrupted.
Tina slapped him on the side of his head. “We could never impose on your kindness like that.”
“No imposition at all. Make yourselves comfortable at one of the tables and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” The man disappeared through the hedge. Seconds later, one of the masts rocked back and forth as he stepped aboard.
“What. Are. You. Thinking. Boy? We ain’t here to make friends or take charity. We have no idea who this man is or how he’s connected with this place, but now we’re obligated to him.” She stomped through the maze of tables and pulled out two chairs near the railing that had a clear view of the water. She cranked the umbrella up then sat in the shade.
Lucas wandered over to the table and sat beside her. “What are we here for, Mama?”
“Never you mind. I’m still workin’ that part out. You jus’ keep your mouth shut and let me handle things. When I need your help, I’ll ask for it.”
“Will it be like last time I helped?”
Tina’s jaw tightened. “No, baby. I told you then, and I ain’t gonna tell you again. You forget about that and don’t talk about it no more. Ever. You hear me?”
Lucas’s forehead crinkled up for several seconds, his eyes flitting first to the right, then the left. Finally, he nodded slowly.
“Good. Now you stay here.” Tina stepped up to the deck railing and examined the construction while admiring the view. She walked the perimeter of the deck, dollar signs adding up as she surveyed the restaurant, the office and workshop, and the sturdy little block house along the far shore of the island. The greatest value lay in nearly a mile of unspoiled, undeveloped solid ground. “Not bad, cousin. Not bad at all. Too bad your luck’s about to change.”
Grandma Gigi’s stories rang in her ears. Tina loved hearing about Chicago. The nightlife and the bootlegging and gambling. When Tina was little, Gigi told the biggest stories, but as she got older, the tales got darker. More personal. How there was more money than they could ever spend—and how Gigi was willing to try but couldn’t find where Grandpa Tommy kept it. How he promised to take care of her but insisted on building a ramshackl
e house with his own hands. How the house was nearly a mile from the road, and further still from any kind of civilization where Gigi could buy clothes or have a drink or go dancing. How she deserved rewards for putting up with it until it was just too much to take.
One night, when Mama was out late and Gigi had one more gin and tonic than normal, she told Tina a new story. One where she’d left a son named Paul with her first husband Tommy. Tina had forgotten until she heard the pinched-nosed man at the cocktail party.
It didn’t take much digging to discover Paul had a son named Charles, and Charles was, in fact, the registered owner and mortgagee of this very property. A property which, even without Capone’s loot, should have rightfully been half hers, if not for her cousin’s bad business sense.
“By the way, my name is William Jenkins, and this is my wife, Michelle.”
Tina jumped. The man carried a tray of sandwiches and a big bowl of slaw, and the trim woman beside him set a bucket filled with ice and bottled water in the center of the table in front of Lucas. William pulled out the other two chairs. “May we join you?”
Lucas tore into the food, grabbing the biggest sandwich and stuffing a huge scoop of slaw into his mouth straight from the bowl. Tina smacked his hand, and he dropped the sandwich on the table in front of him.
“Thank you for your hospitality.” Tina scrambled through her mental catalog for a plausible story. Too broke for vacation. Can’t say looking for family. “We came down looking for work and hoping to find a nice place to settle down for a while.”
“But Mama—”
“Lucas here, he’s strong and good with his hands, but he ain’t so smart, so we need to find somethin’ where I can stay close, you know? Make sure he’s okay. That’s hard to find up in the city.”