Slipping the safe deposit box key into his pocket, Renny entered P&M through the solid wooden front doors and passed through the marble-floored lobby to the desk of the custodian of the vault, a stoop-shouldered old gentleman resting with his head in his hands.
“I’m J. F. Jacobson. I need access to my box, please, number 413.”
Looking up sleepily, the clerk opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a signature comparison card and a record of access card. “May I see some picture identification? And please sign here, sir.”
Renny handed him his driver’s license. The clerk pushed the record of access card across the desk, grunting. “Just got back from there.”
Renny picked up the card. “Who is this?” Renny asked, trying to decipher the signature. “It looks like Gusto something.”
Returning to his drawer, the clerk pulled out three signature cards and put on his reading glasses. “There are two persons besides yourself with access to this box,” he replied, somewhat more awake. “Henry Lawrence Jacobson and Augustus Eicholtz.”
“Henry Lawrence Jacobson was my father. Who is Augustus Eicholtz?” Renny asked sharply.
“Sir, how should I know? It’s your box.”
“How long has this Augustus Eicholtz had access to the box?”
“Since June 4, 1981,” the clerk replied. Handing Renny the original signature card for Mr. Eicholtz, he added, “See, the signatures match exactly.”
Renny examined the signature card. This was déjà vu from McClintock’s office—more questions without answers.
“Do you still want to open the box?” the clerk asked as he compared Renny’s signature to the signature card in his file.
“I guess,” Renny replied. As the clerk led him through the twisting labyrinth of the security area, Renny asked, “Did Mr. Einstein take something from the box?”
“Mr. Eicholtz, sir. I’m sorry, I didn’t notice.”
Renny had little doubt there was nothing in the box. Mr. Eicholtz or whatever his name was would have taken care of that.
Safe deposit box 413 was a large drawer inset into the metal casing of the vault. The clerk pulled out a master key, turned his side of the lock, and waited as Renny inserted the key’s mate next to it. With a click, the lock released, and the clerk pulled the drawer open an inch.
“Let me know when you’re finished,” he mumbled as he shuffled out of the vault.
Renny slid the drawer out all the way. It was empty except for two white envelopes lying faceup in the bottom. Handwritten on the front of both envelopes was his full name, Josiah Fletchall Jacobson, one in his father’s handwriting, the other in an unfamiliar scrawl. No return address.
The envelope from his father contained a heavy coin. Glancing over his shoulder, Renny gently pried open the seal. Inside was an 1864 half eagle five-dollar gold coin in excellent condition. Although possibly worth several thousand dollars, one coin hardly qualified as a collection. Renny let the heavy coin rest in his hand for a moment before slipping it into his pocket and opening the other envelope. Inside he found a plain white cassette tape labeled “Covenant List.” The mystery company. Nothing else was in the envelope. No letter, no note.
Renny closed the safe deposit box and navigated out of the vault past the custodian’s desk. “Thanks for your help,” he said as he passed the sleepy-eyed clerk.
Seated in his car, Renny took a deep breath. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he wondered if he was being followed. He didn’t know Augustus Eicholtz, but this man probably knew him. Was he watching him now, planning to attack at a vulnerable, unsuspecting moment?
Picking up the car phone, he called McClintock’s office.
“Mr. McClintock, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. McClintock has left for the day,” the receptionist chirped.
“This is Renny Jacobson. I was just in to see him. Do you know if he went home?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Jacobson, he was leaving to pick up his wife and fly to Key Biscayne. He will not be back in the office until Wednesday. Should I leave him a message?”
“No. That’s OK. I’ll call back another time.”
Renny couldn’t listen to the tape in the car; he only had a CD player. But his father had a stereo system at the Isle of Palms house. So Renny pulled into the afternoon traffic, heading across the city. As he crossed the short bridge to the Isle of Palms where a few fishermen were casting their lines into the receding tidal river, he wondered what in the world was on the tape. Why did his father ask a man named Augustus Eicholtz to put the cassette tape in the safe deposit box? What else could H. L. do to hurt him?
Then Renny remembered something he saw in McClintock’s office. He turned sharply into a convenience store and jammed on the brakes, the car’s tires scattering broken seashells across the parking lot. Flipping hurriedly through the paperwork, he found the sheet listing the names of the persons who received copies of his father’s obituary notice. There he was, number four on the list, Augustus Eicholtz, P.O. Box 376, Savannah, Georgia. Renny leaned back against the seat and read the names again. Still no one familiar. At least it was a start. He put the car in gear and eased back onto the roadway.
Renny turned away from the Atlantic. His father didn’t want to live too close to the ocean, a preference that stood him in good stead when Hurricane Hugo roared through Charleston in September 1989. A massive sea surge and winds exceeding 100 miles per hour had demolished most of the homes and buildings on the Isle of Palms. Mr. Jacobson’s home, a federal-style old brick dwelling, was sufficiently sheltered by the highest dunes on the island to survive without serious damage. Renny had brought a key to the house with him from Charlotte. Vacant since H. L.’s death, the house had a musty smell as he entered the kitchen.
The stereo was in the den, a dark-paneled room with a view of the marshes. Pulling a green leather ottoman up to the stereo, Renny inserted the cassette and pressed the play button. Then, like in the old Mission Impossible series on TV, he waited for the message of the moment, “Good morning, Mr. Phelps, your mission, should you choose to accept it…” He flinched slightly when his father’s familiar voice filled the room.
“Renny, I am recording this message shortly after your mother’s death, on the same day I prepared my handwritten will. I assume you are listening to this cassette after meeting with Jefferson McClintock or one of his associates and obtaining this tape and a gold coin from the safe deposit box at P&M. If you are with anyone else, please honor my wishes and ask them to leave now. What I have to tell you is for your ears only.”
After a brief pause, the voice continued, “I asked a friend, Augustus Eicholtz, to deliver the tape to the safe deposit box as soon as he received news of my death. I mentioned the gold coin collection in my will to ensure that you went to the box. The half eagle coin has been passed down from father to son in our family for 140 years, and I would ask you not to sell it; keep it to give to your firstborn son. As gold, it is a symbol of the true source of enduring wealth for our family.
“I am aware that the provisions of my will have come as a shock to you; however, if you listen to this tape, you will understand what I have done. In my will I made a specific bequest to you of my interest in the Covenant List of South Carolina, Ltd. Neither Jeff McClintock nor anyone in his office knows what it passes to you. I can now tell you that it is far more valuable than the combined assets of my known estate. The charitable bequests in my will are a fraction of the value of your interest in the List, as we call it.”
Renny sat stunned.
“As you know, our family line goes back to the early days of European settlement of the Low Country. Toward the end of the Civil War, most planters and landowners faced financial ruin. Our family, together with ten other families from the local aristocracy, entered into an agreement of cooperation for the common good. The List is merely a way of identifying this group of families. Pooling a significant percentage of its remaining resources, this group smuggled gold and hard assets out of
the Confederacy to safe havens in Europe. The eleven male heads of the families also entered into an agreement obligating their firstborn sons to honor a mutual commitment to contribute to and to receive the benefits of the funds sent overseas. Since that time, your forebears have remained true to their word. You are the fifth generation of Jacobsons privileged to take his place on the List.
“The nine men who received my obituary notice are the current members of the List. One of the original families no longer has any direct bloodline descendants. When a member dies, it is necessary to hold a meeting of the survivors to install the next man in line for the family involved. I have a box at the main post office in Charleston. The key is in my desk at the house on the Isle of Palms. You will receive notice of the meeting by letter at the post office box. In the old storage building behind the house on St. Michael’s Alley is a trunk containing paperwork you must take to the meeting. Stillwell has let me use the building for many years. The key for the storage shed is also in the desk at Isle of Palms. In the meantime, do not discuss this with anyone. One of the linchpins of our mutual success has been secrecy, an obvious necessity in this day of high taxes.”
Renny smiled ruefully. So, his father was probably a felony tax evader.
“There are other, more intangible but nevertheless important benefits associated with membership to the List. You will learn more about all the benefits at the appropriate time. Carpe diem.”
“Seize the day,” Renny echoed softly. He listened for a full minute to the scratching of the tape as it continued to turn in the machine. That was it.
Children occasionally fantasize that their parents had a different, secret life—a father who worked for the CIA, a mother who was the heiress to a European fortune. Such a thought was no longer fantasy for Renny.
Hitting the rewind switch, he backed the tape to the beginning and listened again. Nothing changed.
Renny pulled open the middle drawer of his father’s desk. The two keys mentioned on the tape sat in a tray. One was a standard government-issue post office box key with a string tied to a small round disk, labeled “Box 399”; the other, an old-style skeleton key, was marked “St. Michael’s Storage Building.” Slipping the keys into his pocket, Renny went into the kitchen. There wasn’t anything to eat in the pantry; his father’s housekeeper had no doubt cleaned it out already. Dusk was creeping over the marsh when he looked out the window in the breakfast nook adjacent to the kitchen.
Still somewhat dazed by the information he’d received, Renny sat at a small round table for several minutes. His stomach rumbled. Dreams of future wealth could not take the place of a good supper.
Hopping back in his car, he retraced his route to the edge of the city and stopped at a shrimp boil shack. Within forty-five minutes he had peeled and eaten three-quarters of a pound of the pink delicacy and drained two large frosted mugs of draft beer.
Fortified, he did not want to return immediately to the empty Isle of Palms house. Jingling the post office box and storage building keys in his pocket, he decided to drive downtown. The post office was open till 11:00 P.M., and he had plenty of time to check for mail before stopping by the storage building on St. Michael’s Alley.
The heat of the afternoon had diminished, and Renny put the top down on the car before navigating the familiar streets. Box 399 was one of the smallest boxes available, not the place for someone expecting a lot of correspondence. Opening it, he took out a sales flyer from Wal-Mart, a sheet of pizza coupons addressed to Patron, and a letter addressed to Josiah Fletchall Jacobson, c/o H. L. Jacobson. Renny realized he was following a well-marked path through the woods. The return address was simple, P.O. Box 1493, Georgetown, SC. He remembered two names on the list with Georgetown addresses. It had to be from one of them.
Taking the letter to a table against the wall of the post office, Renny carefully broke the seal and pulled out two sheets of ivory-colored paper. The top one was dated the previous week.
Dear Mr. Jacobson,
Please accept my condolences on the death of your father. As custodian of the List, he provided admirable leadership over the years. He will be missed by all who knew him.
Due to the deaths of your father and Mr. Taylor Johnston, there will be a meeting of the members of the List on August 25, at Rice Planter’s Inn, Georgetown, South Carolina. You, as your father’s heir and designee, and Mr. Joe Taylor Johnston, Mr. Johnston’s heir and designee, will be installed at that time.
In addition, I am sure your father took care to furnish you with the location of the documents he held in trust as custodian. It is imperative that you bring these items with you to Georgetown so that we can conduct our business.
Please do not discuss these matters with anyone.
Respectfully,
Desmond R. LaRochette
The letter was copied to the names furnished by H. L. to Jefferson McClintock. The second sheet was a letter similar to Renny’s sent to the other man whose father had recently died, Mr. Joe Taylor Johnston.
Leaning against the table, Renny folded the two letters and put them back in the envelope. Whatever it was, whatever it meant for his future, the List was real. His father did not prepare the taped message as a cruel joke with April Fools as the punch line. H. L. had held some sort of official position within the group; there were real people from several states involved; they held meetings; they communicated through specially designated post office boxes. In a few days he would see them face to face and find out…what? The amount of money involved would be a good start. He was going to have to trade in his fantasies about the wealth from his father’s known estate for new ones funded by a different cache of money, which his father considered “far greater than my known estate.”
Walking outside, Renny was tired. Like a child who’d stayed too long at the amusement park, he was overloaded from the intense stimuli of the day. However, he still had one stop to make before returning to the Isle of Palms.
Following the quiet downtown streets to St. Michael’s Alley, he pulled up to a dark, deserted Stillwell Gallery. Renny’s family had built the cream-colored house in 1836. Partially held together by huge earthquake bolts, the structure had survived everything from the Civil War to Hurricane Hugo. It was a typical antebellum home. The original house, a separate cook’s house, and an adjacent livery stable were now incorporated into the main dwelling. The building’s only distinctive architectural feature was a third-story bay window extending five or six feet out over the street. Legend had it that an early Mrs. Jacobson, an invalid with keen eyesight, ordered the window built to provide an unobstructed view up and down the street so she could keep a close eye on her husband as he drove his buggy to his shipping office near the docks.
No colorful past put the Jacobson house on the cover of guide books or caused busloads of gaping tourists to stop and see a place where the shot was fired, the blood spilled, or the famous slept. Tourists came to shop for antiques, not to gather pieces of historical information.
Renny’s family had not lived in the house since World War II. The Charleston waterfront area had deteriorated for many years, so H. L.’s parents sold the house and moved to the Isle of Palms in the late 1940s. When the older areas of Charleston made a comeback, the Jacobson house was renovated by a group of businessmen who bought it as an investment. Glenn Stillwell, owner of Stillwell Gallery, paid five thousand dollars a month for the privilege of displaying a good selection of Low Country antiques. Renny wished his family had never sold the house.
Parking under the bay window, he took a small flashlight out of his glove compartment and wondered if Mr. Stillwell had a security system designed to sense physical presence near the building after hours. Renny doubted it, but he nevertheless moved gingerly around the side of the shop to a small wooden gate leading to the backyard. Lifting an ancient iron latch, he pushed open the gate and stepped onto a slate stone patio that stretched half the length of the house before yielding to a small patch of grass ringed with narrow flo
wer beds. A high brick wall enclosed the yard. The storage building, snugly set against the wall and covered with ivy, sat in the far corner of the grassy area.
Renny’s flashlight generated a feeble beam that barely cut through the darkness. He couldn’t remember if the storage building was wired with electricity or not. Moving slowly across the grass, he fished the skeleton key from his pocket as he quietly approached the door. Although not a naturally timid person, he had to banish sinister images from old Sherlock Holmes movies that crept into his mind as he approached the shed. Turning the knob, the door creaked open. Relieved, Renny cautiously stepped forward, then recoiled in horror as something suspended from the ceiling struck him in the face. It was a metal chain for an overhead light. Telling his heart to stop pounding, Renny pulled the chain, and a bare bulb illuminated the little room.
To one side was a rotary push mower, on the other side sat several cans of paint, a few garden tools, and against the back wall, a small wooden trunk, obviously old, probably an antique.
Renny picked up the trunk by ornately carved handles on its sides and positioned it under the light. A modern combination lock secured a metal latch plate on the chest’s front. Renny pulled on it, but it didn’t yield to his tug. Hoisting the trunk onto his left shoulder, he retraced his steps across the yard, alternately shining the flashlight ahead, behind, and to both sides. His booty secured, he drove northeast toward the Isle of Palms.
The List Page 3