Collecting Shadows

by Gary Williams

  Ron rose. “Like you, I don’t want to harm Mortie Crewson’s memory. I’m not going to mention it to anyone. It would do no good to expose the theft and subsequent cover-up now.”

  Ron backed toward the door and was just about to open it when Gabriel Young interjected, “Wait. How did you know there were numbers from 1 to 25 on the items in the time capsule? We never revealed that to the public because we didn’t want anyone numbering something afterward and claiming it had come from the capsule. We didn’t have any photographs in the article showing the numbers. You couldn’t have seen the items. They’ve been locked away in storage for years.”

  Ron smiled but didn’t answer. He opened the door and left the office. It had been a calculated gamble which had paid off. “Oh, you can keep that copy of the picture.”

  As he left the Gazette, Ron was content he had confirmed that the photograph of Henry Flagler had come from the 1906 time capsule, although the question remained why Flagler had included it there in the first place.

  7

  New York City, New York. Thursday, August 11.

  It was 3:47 in the afternoon. Linzie Boyland waited anxiously in the small, empty diner on the lower east side. The man with the Scottish accent was already 17 minutes late. She wasn’t used to having to wait for men. They waited for her.

  She was still unclear how the man had heard about the letter. Possibly someone at Sotheby’s auction house had leaked information before she withdrew it. No matter. If some Scottish dude wanted to pay her for it, she’d reap the benefits.

  A man with short black hair dressed in a forest green overcoat entered the diner. For an older guy, he wasn’t bad looking. He wore retro glasses with a thick, black, browline frame. It reminded her of Michael Douglas in that movie where he went postal.

  The man spotted Linzie, and came over to her booth. “Aye, Ms. Boyland, I presume?”

  “You presume correctly. You’re late, Mr. Ainsley. I almost left.” She flipped a long blonde bang to the side. “What’s with the overcoat? It can’t be more than 110 degrees outside. You always like to make a mafia entrance?” she asked sarcastically.

  “No meeting should begin with confrontation,” he said softly with a smile, taking a seat across from her.

  He had a curious face which combined formality and ease, accentuated by a strong jaw. This one’s definitely the mysterious type and not bad looking at all, she thought.

  “I apologize for my tardiness.” He had intense dark eyes that didn’t waver behind the glasses.

  She admired his candor, not to mention his accent. Still, this was about money. “I’m not one to chitchat. What will you give me for the letter?”

  “I thought we already agreed to that on the phone.”

  “You agreed to $25,000. I see that as a starting bid,” she said flippantly, taking a drink of water.

  “Aye, you are quite the beauty, lass.”

  “Flattery will not lower the price.”

  “I need to see the letter first.”

  She eyed Ainsley cautiously. “See that big lug working behind the counter? He’s a friend of mine, so don’t try anything.” She pulled the envelope from her purse and handed it to him.

  He examined the brown tinted paper with the faded ink address, gently opened the flap, and removed a letter, unfolding it. His eyes worked from side to side as he read silently. “Please tell me again how you came to have this in your possession.”

  She leaned back. “When I was over in Hungary a year ago, I dated this Russian guy who once worked in the Kremlin as a janitor or engineer or some crap like that. Anyway, he claimed that in the basement, there’re boxes and boxes of things stored. He used to go down there on breaks and sift through some of the stuff that was really old. One box was filled with letters for one of those czars who died in 1894. You know, condolence letters to his wife. That’s when he came across this one. It’s addressed to the czar, and it’s from Ida Alice Flagler. The Russian guy didn’t know who the lady was at the time, but he thought it was interesting, so he took it. I liberated it from him one evening after he fell asleep. I researched the name and realized it may have some historical value. Given your interest, I’d say I was right.”

  Ainsley smiled. “That Russian czar was Alexander III. He died on November 1, 1894, five days after Mrs. Flagler sent him the letter. Unfortunate timing for her. That’s why it got mixed in with all the condolence letters and no one paid any attention to it.” He paused, and a knowing smile spread across his face. “You stole it from a thief. What exactly do you do, lass?”

  “I’d say I’m a purveyor of old letters.”

  “Purveyor. That’s an eloquent word for a prostitute.”

  She stood in anger. “I’m no prostitute. I’m a lady of the evening. If you’re not interested in the letter, I’ll take it to someone else.” She held out her hand demanding he return it to her. She turned to see Joey behind the counter watching intently. She’d only met Joey an hour ago, but he’d agreed to protect her for $100. She noticed that Ainsley saw Joey sneering his way.

  “Now, there’s no reason to catch fire. I’m a cooperative man and a gentleman. Let’s get back to a reasonable discussion.” His voice had a calming effect. It was that damn Scottish accent. “Please, Ms. Boyland, will you retake your seat?”

  She slowly sat as another couple entered the diner. They sat at the counter, and Joey handed them a menu. Ainsley seemed to pay them no attention.

  “I’d say this is worth far more than $25,000. You don’t realize the significance, do you?”

  She was stunned by his comment. Why would he admit it’s worth more? She shook her head back and forth.

  “I’ll tell you what this is, lass. It’s the first step of a treasure hunt. I’d say it’s worth millions and millions of dollars. Of course, I can’t afford to pay you that much, but that’s its true value.”

  “Why…” she stammered.

  “Why? Why am I telling you this?”

  She bobbed her head up and down.

  “Because you should always have a worthy backup plan. The man behind the counter, now he’s a strapping lad, but he has no balls. I can read it in his eyes.” Ainsley slowly folded the paper and returned it to the envelope. Then he shoved it inside his coat.

  “Goddamn you, give that to me,” she shouted.

  Joey and the couple turned and stared. When Ainsley withdrew his hand from his coat, he was holding a pistol. There was the brief hiss of air. Once, twice, three times: Joey, the man, and the woman were each shot in the forehead before Linzie could scream. Like dominoes they fell in order: Joey spilling behind the counter, and the couple slumping to the floor in succession. It happened so fast, her mind couldn’t react. When she finally jumped from her seat, she was snatched backward, lassoed by something around her neck that cut into her throat mercilessly. She clawed, gasping, fighting for air against the stranglehold that felt as if it might decapitate her.

  Her vision shadowed and her mind numbed. Then she saw nothing.

  ****

  Stewart Farlan, using the alias Furman Ainsley while in the States, allowed the woman’s corpse to collapse to the floor. He removed the razor-thin wire from around her neck, and pressed a button on the small, oblong case. The wire retracted inside, leaving only the plastic endcap exposed. He deposited the lighter-sized case and pistol into his inner coat pocket. Farlan had been careful not to touch the table or the door as he had entered so there would be no fingerprints. The diner did have a video surveillance camera, but he had made sure to stay out of view.

  He checked one last time to ensure he still had the envelope and then casually left the diner.

  8

  Ron left school on Friday at 3:00 p.m. With the pending start of class, he hadn’t had time to follow up on the photograph of Henry Flagler. The first order of business would be to verify the contents of Flagler’s 1906 time capsule as Gabriel Young had suggested. To do that, he’d have to pull the March 1, 1906 edition of the Gazette at the No
rth Florida Historians Library. Not that he didn’t trust Gabriel Young, but he wanted to see the listing for himself. Maybe it would shed light on the origin of the photograph.

  He parked at a metered parking space on Marine Street, deposited enough quarters for two hours, and headed toward the nearby building. At the front door, he rang the buzzer. Through the glass door, he saw the librarian at a small desk push a button, and the door lock clicked open. Ron entered via the short hallway and approached the desk.

  “Mr. Mast, long time no see,” Grady Evans greeted him.

  “Good morning, Grady. Is the Gazette microfiche still in the same cabinet?” Grady was a laid-back, retired firefighter in his mid-sixties, with pale green eyes set in an angular face. He was also one of the nicest people Ron had ever met.

  “Yes, sir. You need any help with it?” he offered, running a hand over his bald head.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  Ron walked into the main library. As usual, a few folks were scattered about, reading from the hardcover library or searching articles. The microfiche reader was unoccupied. Ron went to the cabinet, opened the middle drawer, located the cartridge with the correct date range, and sat down at the reader. Moments later he found the issue dated Thursday, March 1, 1906. He started with page one and slowly scanned the body of each page searching for the article. On page 3, centered near the top, he found what he was looking for:

  CORNERSTONE LAID

  ______

  For Gazette’s New Building Early This

  Afternoon

  ______

  Under the cornerstone of the Gazette building lies a cylinder of metal hermetically sealed which was laid there this afternoon at 1 o’clock, just before the stone was placed in position. Owing to the fact that the stone was delayed in transit, it did not arrive here in time for placement on Tuesday as was proposed. The stone was laid without any ceremony.

  The story went on to name each content: a long list of newspapers, periodicals and other documents pertaining to the area, such as the city directory and maps. As time capsules go, the contents were relatively blasé, yet Young was right: there was no mention of the photograph of Flagler.

  Ron rose and pulled a hardcover book from the bookcase on the far wall. Sitting back down at the microfiche reader, Ron thumbed through an autobiography of Henry Flagler and learned that Flagler and his third wife, Mary Lily Kenan, were downstate in Palm Beach on March 1. They didn’t come to St. Augustine until later that month. Therefore, Flagler wasn’t in attendance when the capsule was buried underneath the cornerstone.

  Interesting that, according to the article, burial of the capsule was originally scheduled to occur on Tuesday, February 27, but was postponed two days because the cornerstone was delayed in transit. Henry Flagler was a man of decisive planning and promptness. His projects were always on time. So it was odd that the interment of the time capsule would be scheduled if there was even a slight risk the cornerstone might be late.

  The other thing that struck him as odd was that, ‘the stone was laid without any ceremony.’ Although a private man in his personal life, most everything Henry Flagler built was accompanied by some sort of public fanfare, so it was unusual that the placement of this time capsule would go unheralded.

  Ron printed a copy of the article to take with him. He rewound the cartridge and placed it back in the drawer. He was just about to close the drawer when a thought occurred to him. His great-grandfather, Lucius, a servant for Henry and Ida Alice Flagler at Kirkside, had been shot and killed by St. Augustine police early in the morning on December 6, 1950. Ron had never thought to research an article about the incident. He knew the account from what his father, Mackey, had told him.

  The December 1950 date-range cartridges were in the bottom drawer. He opened it, found the cartridge, and sat back down at the microfiche reader. He scanned the pages of the December 7 edition and found an article on page 9 about the break-in and subsequent death of Lucius Mast at the hands of the police.

  The details of the story took him by surprise.

  9

  Liam woke early on Saturday as he had every day this week. Trying to get back to sleep was useless, so he made his way into the kitchen at 6:30. Aunt Rita was still asleep, but Pilot came out of her room and sat at Liam’s feet as he drank a cup of coffee at the table. Coffee was Liam’s new best friend.

  After his aunt had embarrassed him in front of Bailey last Monday, Liam had stayed close to the property, with the exception of walking Pilot several times a day. He had apologized to Aunt Rita and, when he explained, she seemed to understand why it had bothered him. Yet he didn’t feel any better about his situation or his new home here in St. Augustine. He wanted to go back to his Uncle Nelson in Pensacola. At least there he had some friends. This place was torture. The tourists who came in the shop always wanted to talk about the history of this city. Who gives a crap about history; about old, decrepit houses and churches? Even the 17th-century Spanish garrison on the bay at the north end of the historic district didn’t interest him. He’d visited it when he was 12. It was a big freakin’ block of shell-like material, as far as he was concerned. To top it off, he worked in a place surrounded by old toys from a bygone era. Unless you were 100 years old, what could people possibly find interesting about this stuff?

  Liam rose and went to the box of donuts on the counter. He took three out, returned to the table, and promptly devoured them. Liam noticed the Malamute’s stare. “I bet you’d like some breakfast, too.”

  Pilot’s ears shot up.

  Liam prepared the dog’s bowl of food and placed it on the floor. Two minutes later, it was gone, and Pilot stood next to Liam, staring him down with anticipation.

  “I get the message,” Liam said, rising from the table. He considered the box of donuts on the counter. A thought occurred to him. He made another cup of coffee in a second mug, and poured it into a plastic disposable cup. He added sugar and cream. He then removed two glazed donuts from the box and wrapped them in a paper towel. “Wait here, Pilot.”

  Liam quietly walked downstairs and out the back door into the alleyway. It was barely light as he slowly approached the dumpster carrying the coffee and donuts. He circled past the dumpster, keeping some distance from it, as he shuffled his feet to make noise. He didn’t want to scare anyone. As he eased to the left side, he saw that the homeless man was still sleeping, slouched against the wall. Liam had seen him in the same spot all week.

  Now what? Should I wake the guy? That might scare him. Instead, he decided to place the cup and paper-towel-wrapped donuts next to the man on the ground. Hopefully, he’d wake up and find them before the ants did.

  Liam quietly knelt and laid the food down. The man never stirred. Liam rose to leave.

  “Are those donuts I smell? You wouldn’t understand why that’s funny.”

  Startled, Liam jerked around to see the homeless man scooting his back higher on the wall to sit upright. He brushed his hair out with his hands and rubbed his eyes. He picked up the cup of coffee.

  Liam pointed to the cup. “I added cream and sugar.”

  “I’ll take it any way you want to fix it.” Drew looked around as if assessing the alley. “I had a better place to sleep, a vehicle, but the windows were broken out.”

  Liam was surprised that his voice was clear, not rough and chalky like the first day he’d seen the man. “Sorry to hear that. I’m Liam, by the way.”

  The man stood holding the cup of coffee and proffered his hand. “I’m not the cleanest person in the world right now, so if you don’t want to shake, I’ll understand. I’m Drew. Good to meet you, Liam.”

  Liam shook the man’s hand. “You, um, from here?”

  “I’ve come a great distance, Liam,” Drew said with a small grin. He took a careful taste of coffee. “Good stuff. You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  Liam nodded. “My parents are both gone. I moved here to live with my aunt.”

  “That’s tough. I’ve never m
et your aunt, but she seems like a nice lady. From what I’ve seen of her taking out the garbage, anyway.”

  Liam got a strange feeling. Was this man stalking Aunt Rita? “I’ve got to go,” he said uncomfortably. “Hope you like the donuts.”

  The man must have noticed Liam’s change in tone. “Don’t worry. I would never hurt your aunt, Liam. I’ve taken an oath. I’ll always uphold it.”

  “Okay,” Liam said curtly, heading toward the back door.

  “Liam?”

  Liam faced him.

  “Thanks. Your generosity means a lot to me.”

  Pilot was waiting for him inside the door. The excited dog followed Liam to the counter where he grabbed the retractable leash. “Let’s go.”

  It was a little after seven when they left the shop. Liam, who now had a key, locked the glass door as they left. Dawn was breaking, and it was considerably brighter now, but despite the time of day, it was already hot. They headed west on the King Street sidewalk and crossed over with Pilot leading the way. Liam had been progressively increasing the length of their walks as he learned the streets in the residential area known as the Flagler Model Land Company neighborhood, a title Liam had seen topping numerous street signs. According to his aunt, this area was named after Henry Flagler, some crazy rich guy who lived in St. Augustine in the late 1800s. His aunt had spoken about Flagler as if the man was the reason this town existed in the first place. While Liam had zero interest in the history, the neighborhood did make for a good walk and gave Pilot plenty of old oak trees to sniff around.

  They passed the Flagler College tennis court on the left. A block away on the right, the colossal dome of Memorial Presbyterian Church dwarfed the dwellings that lined Valencia Street. He had meant to ask Aunt Rita about the church and the 1889 dedication and memoriam inscribed over the south doorway.