Collecting Shadows

by Gary Williams

  Then he remembered Bailey. He wanted to ask his aunt if she had returned while he was out back, but he didn’t want to give her any suspicion that he was interested. The last thing he needed was for his aunt to try to play matchmaker. The embarrassment would be epic.

  During the last hour, they had only one patron enter the shop, and she didn’t buy anything. At 5:00 p.m., Aunt Rita rotated the sign on the door to CLOSED and locked it. “I’ve got to cash out the register. Take that broom from the corner, and please sweep the floor.”

  Liam nodded, grabbed the broom, and got started. Crap. Either Bailey had returned and he had missed her, or she decided not to come back today.

  He had his back to the door when a knock caused him to jump for a second time today. He spun around to see Bailey laughing. “You really are skittish.” The muffled statement came through the glass door.

  Aunt Rita brushed past Liam and unlocked the door. Pilot was on her heels. Bailey stepped in, gave Aunt Rita a hug, and scratched the top of Pilot’s head.

  “How’d the interview go at Toasted Moon Grill?” Aunt Rita asked.

  Bailey brushed her bangs away from her eyes and smiled the most awesome smile Liam had ever seen. “I got the job.”

  “I had every confidence you would,” Aunt Rita said, hugging her again.

  “So the fact that you know the owners had nothing to do with it?” Bailey asked playfully.

  “I know they only hire good people.”

  There was a moment of silence. Aunt Rita eyed Liam, who stood holding the broom. “Liam will be attending your high school next week.”

  “Oh?” Bailey said. She spoke directly to Liam, “I’ll be a junior.”

  “I’ll be a…sophomore. I’m already 16, though,” he quickly added.

  There was an awkward silence. As much as he had anticipated seeing Bailey again, Liam now wanted the conversation to end.

  Aunt Rita interjected, “Liam took time off for personal reasons.”

  “Oh, I see,” Bailey said, as if she realized it was a sensitive subject. Liam prayed to God that Aunt Rita hadn’t shared his personal life with Bailey, or anyone else for that matter.

  “I’ll get your check,” Aunt Rita said. She walked behind the counter, and returned with an envelope, which she handed to Bailey.

  Aunt Rita hugged Bailey again. It was clear they were more than boss and employee. Despite their age difference, they were friends. Liam felt bad about intruding into their lives.

  “Good luck, Liam. Maybe I’ll see you at school.”

  “Thanks,” he blurted out. Thanks? What kind of dumbass response was that?

  “Bailey,” Aunt Rita said, “if you wouldn’t mind, do you think you could show Liam around the historic district sometime?”

  Liam thought he might dissolve in embarrassment.

  “Well, I…” Bailey bit her bottom lip.

  “It’s fine,” Liam reacted harshly, “I can find my own way around.” He immediately regretted his tone. It was frustration directed toward his aunt, not at Bailey.

  Aunt Rita glared at him, and it grew very hot in the shop.

  Bailey fixed her gaze on Liam and spoke just as sharply. “I was going to say I don’t know my new schedule yet, but for you, Ms. Poston, I’ll make the time if Liam decides he wants to.”

  If Liam had the ability to become invisible at that moment, he would have.

  Bailey left the store. Liam looked to his aunt, wanting desperately to apologize for his tone, but the words wouldn’t come. He turned, fled toward the stairs, and bounded up to his room, where he sat on his bed, dropping his face into his hands.

  Dad, why did you do this to me?

  5

  Drew Moraken hoped the teenager wouldn’t call the cops on him. While the spot near the dumpster was no paradise, it had shade, and no other homeless people were around. Not far away on St. George Street, there was a public restroom where he could get water and wash off early in the morning. Unfortunately, he knew it would only be a matter of time before authorities flushed him away from here, and he’d have to find a new place to settle.

  He had heard about a group of homeless people behind a supermarket at the north end of town. A “homeless camp” it was called, but Drew had no desire to be among a city of folks languishing in despair. He was a loner now, and he would either make it through each day alone, or die trying. His SUV remained hidden in the back yard of an empty house several blocks away. So far, no one had bothered it there. He used it at night to sleep in, but the godawful summer heat made it anything but comfortable, and if he opened the windows at night for air flow, the insects ate him alive. If only he could get gas money. Then again, where would he go? At least here in St. Augustine, tourists would occasionally pass him food or money without him asking. Begging wasn’t an option. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

  With each passing day, his outlook dimmed, and his spirit grew weaker. A year ago, never in his worst nightmares did Drew imagine he’d be 3,000 miles away on the east coast. Some mornings when he woke up, he thought it was all a bad dream, and he was back in Seattle with Gayle. Then he recalled the shooting, the inquisition, the riots. He remembered handing over his badge and weapon to his captain. It had made him sick to his stomach, and he’d lain in bed for nearly a week afterward feeling sorry for himself. He and Gayle quickly drifted apart. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He virtually removed himself from her life. Then another problem started, and everything snowballed.

  Drew looked down at his backpack. A 43-year-old man, once a respected law enforcement officer, shouldn’t be able to carry his life’s possessions around in a bag. Yet here he was, struggling to get through each day, melting in the brutal Florida heat, a fraction of the man he used to be.

  He stood and grabbed the backpack. One of the first things you learn as a homeless person is not to leave your possessions unattended. It was how he’d lost most of his things, when he left his suitcase behind a house on Cordova Street. Now, all he had left was the change of clothes he carried around in his backpack and the possessions in his car: several shirts and pants, along with some camping equipment. The clothes were all dirty and smelled, even though he did his best to rinse them out in the public restroom sink. The camping equipment would come in handy if he was forced to leave the city and live in the woods on the outskirts of town.

  His stomach growled. He had two packs of soup crackers a couple had handed him outside a restaurant yesterday, which he had stored in his car. Now, he was ready to eat.

  He trudged along the side of the building to the back street. The sun beat down on him as he crossed, angling to the corner. Five minutes later, he reached the empty house where his car, a Ford Explorer, was parked in the shaded back yard.

  The passenger side window of the vehicle had been shattered. The crackers, and his possessions, were gone.

  To his dismay, Drew realized everything he now owned in the world was in his backpack.

  6

  Ron Mast had planned to enjoy his last day of summer vacation by doing nothing. The school year officially began next Monday, but the history teacher at Andrew Anderson High would begin setting up his class tomorrow—Wednesday. That meant today was his last opportunity to sleep in.

  Or so he thought.

  An early call from a friend had drawn Ron to the coffee shop on Ponce de León Boulevard. When he arrived, Erlinda was already sitting at a table with two cups of coffee. She looked different since the school year had ended. Her long ash-blonde hair had been cut bluntly at her shoulders. The 63-year-old fellow teacher smiled as he took a seat. “I’ve seen you drink enough coffee in the teachers’ lounge to know you like it black.”

  He smiled. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d take that as an African-American slur.” He took a sip. “Nice hair, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Just trying something different.”

  There was a closed folder on the table before her. “Do you have something to show me?”

  “I’ve
been working on a project to organize photographs Mortie and I took over the years. I wanted to create a log with a description of each photograph. Since we never had kids, when Mortie died, I decided to pass our photographs down to one of my nieces when I’m gone. It’s only taken me 15 years to get around to it, but as they say, better late than never.

  “Anyway, I was close to finishing when I found a folder tucked away in the back of the desk. It was labeled, ‘HF.’ It’s in Mortie’s handwriting. It didn’t appear to be anything associated with his work at the Gazette.” Erlinda opened the folder and spun it toward Ron. “As a history teacher, I think you’ll find it interesting.”

  The folder contained a single 8x10, aged black-and-white photograph. In the picture, a well-dressed, thin, white-haired gentleman sat in a high-back chair surrounded by ornate furnishings. He was smiling and holding a camera in his lap. Behind him, a bureau held an object Ron couldn’t make out. On the wall was a painting. There was handwriting in the top border of the photograph: ‘To the fine citizens of St. Augustine, I hope you’ve enjoyed my gift.’ Ron lifted the photograph and studied it. “I know why the file was labeled, ‘HF.’ This is Henry Flagler.”

  “I’m an English teacher, and even I knew that,” Erlinda scoffed, brushing back a strand of hair.

  “And you think this belonged to Mortie?” Ron asked, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

  “It wasn’t mine.”

  “Interesting. Do you realize this is a self-portrait photograph?” He showed the picture to her. “See the box-shaped object he’s holding? It’s an old Kodak camera. And notice how the photograph is a bit warped? That’s because it was taken in a mirror.”

  “Why would Henry Flagler take a selfie?”

  “It is odd. As rich as he was, he generally had professional photographers take his pictures. I’ve never seen him smile in a picture after he was in his forties. He’s practically giddy here.”

  “Could Mortie have printed it from the Internet?”

  “No, the photo paper is old. This seems authentic.”

  Still holding the picture out for Erlinda to see, Ron noticed small numbers on the top-right corner on the back. He started to mention it, then refrained. “I’ve seen every known photograph of Henry Flagler, but I’ve never seen this one.”

  Erlinda seemed surprised. “You’ve seen every picture of Flagler?”

  Ron smiled. “Today there are more photographs taken every two minutes than were taken in the entire 19th century.”

  “Do you recognize where this was taken?”

  Ron studied the photograph again. “It appears he’s in a parlor; possibly the Grand Parlor in the Hotel Ponce de León, although the painting on the wall doesn’t look familiar. It also may have been taken at Kirkside. Equally curious is the handwritten message: ‘To the fine citizens of St. Augustine, I hope you’ve enjoyed my gift.’ ”

  “What gift? Could he be referring to the Hotel Ponce de León?”

  “Possibly, but the building was never given to the city while Henry was alive. It wasn’t until 1968 that a relative of Henry’s third wife established Flagler College.” Ron read part of the handwritten message again, this time aloud: “ ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed my gift.’ Strange, because it’s stated in an odd tense—the perfect subjunctive—as if he’s referring to something already given.”

  “I’m impressed that a history teacher knows about perfect subjunctive,” Erlinda said, taking a sip of coffee.

  For the first time, Ron noticed creases running vertically down the left and right sides of the picture, several inches in from the edges. He decided not to draw Erlinda’s attention to them.

  “In any event, I thought you might like to have the photograph,” Erlinda said. “If anyone would appreciate it, I know you would. Are you still working on that book about Flagler?”

  “Slowly,” he said. Ron placed the photograph back in the folder. “I sure do appreciate this. It’s an interesting photo. You have no idea where Mortie got this?”

  “No clue.”

  “Erlinda, who was Mortie close to at the Gazette?”

  The question appeared to catch her off guard. “The editor, Gabriel Young. Why?”

  “I thought I might drop by and chat with him. Maybe he can tell me something about this. It might have been associated with a story Mortie worked on that was never published.”

  ****

  When Ron left the coffee shop, his mind was reeling. He sat in his car and studied the back of the photograph. The faded writing on the upper right-hand corner was barely legible, but he could make out “#26.” Given the number and the creases, he had a good idea of where the photograph had come from. Now he needed to speak to Gabriel Young at the Gazette to confirm his suspicion.

  Ron stopped off at a copy center, then drove across town to the Gazette building. He had met Young on several occasions when the Gazette had done stories involving the high school where he taught. When he arrived at the newspaper office on the south end of town, it only took a call from the front desk clerk to clear his visit to see the man.

  “Mr. Mast, good to see you again,” Young said, shaking his hand. He led Ron to a seat on the other side of his desk. Gabriel Young, a portly, balding man with pinkish skin, in his mid-to late-fifties, eased down in his swivel chair. Unlike many of the businesses which had turned to business casual dress, the Gazette maintained a more formal dress code, although this man’s tie was loosely knotted. “What brings you to the paper?”

  Ron rubbed the side of his cheek, placing a folder on the desk before him. “I’ve come into possession of an interesting photograph of Henry Flagler. Although the photo isn’t dated, it’s a picture he took of himself in a mirror using a Kodak Brownie camera; a camera first sold in 1900.” He removed the copy of the photograph from the folder and handed it to Young.

  “The world’s first selfie?” Young chuckled.

  “Notice the message. I’m positive it’s in Flagler’s handwriting.”

  Young read it aloud, “ ‘To the fine citizens of St. Augustine, I hope you’ve enjoyed my gift.’ Interesting. Where’d you get it?”

  “I got this from Mortie Crewson’s widow, Erlinda.”

  Young raised his eyes to Ron and shifted uneasily in his seat. “Oh, really?”

  “If I recall, in November 2001, a time capsule that Henry Flagler had put underneath the cornerstone of the old Gazette building on Riberia Street in 1906 was unearthed as you folks were moving into this new building. It was Crewson who was transporting the metal cylinder from the old building to this new one when he made a quick stop at the grocery store.”

  “That’s right.” Young put the picture on his desk, adjusted his tie tighter, then loosened it. “Some thief busted out his window and took it. The guy must have grown a conscience because, if you remember, the thief returned it unopened two years later. We did a story about it in 2003 when we opened it, complete with pictures of the contents.”

  Ron was momentarily silent. He leaned in and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “I don’t think it was a random thief. Weren’t you the one who discovered the returned time capsule in 2003?”

  “That’s right. I came to work early that morning. It was near the front door, partially obscured by the bushes.”

  “Two years after someone stole it from Mortie Crewson’s car, the thief just happened to return it? And you, a friend of Mr. Crewson’s, just happened to find it?”

  “Like I said, the thief sprouted a conscience.” An awkward silence prevailed. Gabriel Young narrowed his gaze. “What are you insinuating?”

  “Have you ever heard of a thief breaking out a car window in a busy parking lot in broad daylight in this town?”

  “No one disputed his story. Not even the police.”

  “Fortunately for him, this occurred at a time before security cameras were installed in parking lots.”

  Young’s face reddened. “You t
hink Crewson was lying?”

  “I think you covered up for him after his death. You were trying to protect Mortie, but you also wanted a story you could publish. You found the time capsule and the contents, probably somewhere in this building. Then you put it back together, resealed it, and pretended to find it outside the building when you knew no one else would see you. Since Crewson had been dead a couple years, it cleared him of any suspicion, and you got your story.”

  In a huff, Young rose from his seat. He shuffled over to his office door and closed it. He faced Ron. “You have no facts to support this claim.”

  His comment struck Ron as more of a question than a declaration. “The picture that Mrs. Crewson gave me, the one of Flagler that Mortie had in his possession, had a number on the back: 26. It was a frequent practice for time capsule creators to number the items being interred in the container and to include an accompanying listing, a numbered manifest, which specified each item. It was a way for the creators of the time capsule to make sure they’d included everything. I remember when the article ran in 2003, thinking it was strange no such listing was found inside. Now I know why. Just as the other items were numbered 1 to 25, the photograph I have was numbered as the 26th item. It was the last item placed in the time capsule. Crewson faked the theft of the time capsule and opened it himself. For whatever reason, he only kept this one photograph and threw away the list of contents. Because the photograph was creased near the edges, this confirmed it had once been rolled up, as if placed in a cylindrical time capsule like the one in the Gazette’s possession.”

  Young’s expression slumped, and he dropped back into his seat. “I did it for Mortie. I found the capsule and the contents in one of his filing cabinets in the basement two years after his horrible death. We were friends. I didn’t want his name soiled. I came across an article about the metal time capsule underneath the cornerstone of the old Gazette building which listed the contents. I accounted for everything that was listed in the article. All 25 items. I had no idea there was a 26th item. Please, there’s no reason to share this information with anyone. You don’t want to hurt his widow, do you? My God, you work with the woman.”