Collecting Shadows

by Gary Williams

  “It happens every year about the third Saturday in August when the college students arrive at the end of summer. Male students live off campus, but female students actually live inside the college. Can you imagine? They live in the very rooms that were once hotel rooms to actors and U.S. presidents.”

  At the corner, the road jogged a short distance to the left. Liam turned back to see the Flagler College sign prominently displayed on a wide, free-standing brick wall at the corner of the lawn. At the ends, angled walls contained the profile image of a golden lion.

  Diagonally across the intersection stood Memorial Presbyterian Church. This was only the second time Liam had seen it up close. They crossed the street where the sidewalk bordered the low coquina wall surrounding the church gardens. Liam again noticed the large inscription over the three doors: In Memoriam 1889.

  “Isn’t this fantastic? The church is thought to be made to look like St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice, Italy. Several years ago, CNN named this ‘one of the eight religious wonders to see in the U.S.’ ”

  “The first day I walked Pilot, we came by here. I meant to ask my aunt who this church is in memoriam to.”

  “Flagler’s daughter. She died not long after giving birth to a baby who also died. She’s entombed in the mausoleum on the left with her child, as are Henry Flagler and his first wife.”

  Liam was surprised. “Flagler’s entombed here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Absolutely. It’s open every day, although they don’t allow visitors before 9:00 a.m. The mausoleum is normally closed to the public, but I know one of the docents who can give us a special tour sometime, if you like.”

  “I would.” He didn’t want to appear overeager, but the notion of seeing the mausoleum piqued his interest. “So I can visit Mr. St. Augustine himself,” Liam said with a smile.

  She returned the smile. He thought he might melt.

  “I like your cross,” she pointed to his chest. “What’s that inside it?”

  “A compass.”

  “Good, I was worried we might get lost,” she joked, then waved her hand. “C’mon.”

  He followed her up the sidewalk, past the church and attached mausoleum. She stopped at a point on the sidewalk that was dead center between the next two houses. Neither one was particularly old, and certainly not from the 1800s. “Right here, spread out on these two properties, and the two properties behind them, was Kirkside, the winter home designed by the same architects, John Carrère and Thomas Hastings, who designed his hotels. This entire city block, with the exception of Memorial Presbyterian Church, made up the Kirkside estate.”

  “People were big on naming their homes back in the day.”

  “Kirkside is a Scottish term. A ‘kirk’ is a church. Therefore, Kirkside means ‘Beside the Church.’ ”

  Bailey fixed on the two houses, then closed her eyes. “If I try hard, I can see the mansion in my mind standing here in all its glory. It’s 1893, and the house, built in Colonial Revival style, is exquisite. The two-and-a-half story structure is painted white, trimmed with green shutters,” she spread her hands and gestured with her eyes closed as if pointing out the features of the mansion. “The columns support a large entryway. The entire property has walls bordering the four streets.”

  Liam found himself captivated by her expressive visualization. Clearly, this was her passion, although it was too bad her passion was misdirected on something as boring as history. Still, he couldn’t help but admire her enthusiasm on the topic, which was far beyond any interest Liam currently had—well, with the exception of his interest in her.

  “It’s nighttime. I can hear the clip-clop of a horse and the sound of wheels across the rough street growing louder. A horse-drawn carriage carrying Henry and Ida Alice Flagler turns into the estate through a gated opening. They’re returning from a ball in town and are thankful to be back home. The carriage moves slowly up a paved lane that curves toward the front of the mansion, stopping between the columns and covered porch. In the summer night, with the help of the coachman, Mr. and Mrs. Flagler step down and make their way to the front door. Mr. Flagler is clad in a black swallow-tail coat. Ida Alice is in a green décolleté gown that draws attention to her red hair and green eyes. As the couple enters the mansion, the coachman steers the carriage down the lane, headed toward the carriage house.”

  Her eyes flew open. “Do you realize Kirkside had electricity about the same time the White House was equipped with it? Flagler was a man with vision.”

  “And cash,” Liam quickly added. “One question. What’s a décolleté gown?”

  “One with a very low neckline; daringly low,” she batted her eyes playfully.

  Liam nearly tripped on his tongue, and managed to say absolutely nothing in response.

  “Sadly, Kirkside was only used by the Flaglers for a few years.”

  “I remember Random mentioning something about his wife, Ida Alice, going wacko.”

  “The clinical term is mentally ill,” she glared at him.

  Liam was surprised by her sudden aggression.

  Just as quickly, her light-hearted tone returned. “Once Ida Alice was committed to a sanitarium in 1895 in New York, she never returned to Kirkside, or St. Augustine for that matter. A mere two years after it was built, Kirkside was nothing more than a painful memory for Flagler, and he stopped using it as his winter residence.”

  “What happened to it? You’d think it would be a museum or something, given the way people worship this guy?”

  Bailey sighed. “The estate went to heirs, and in 1950, when Kirkside needed extensive maintenance, the relatives decided to tear it down. The land was divided into 13 properties.”

  “Mr. Mast’s great-grandfather was a servant there to Henry and Ida Alice for a couple of years, right?”

  “Yes.”

  He hated to admit it, but that was pretty cool. A harsh smell suddenly caught his attention. “That’s an…um…unusual scent,” he said, crinkling his nose.

  Bailey spoke, “Have you seen the horse and buggy rides that bring tourists this way?”

  He nodded.

  “That scent is from the horses urinating in the street when the drivers stop to talk about the church and Henry Flagler. I’ve actually come to embrace it as St. Augustine ambiance.”

  “You need professional help, Bailey.”

  “I know, but what am I going to do?” she shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

  They turned at the corner, and Bailey stopped beside Kirkside Apartments. “Home sweet home.”

  “You live here?” Liam feigned surprise.

  “Yep. Trust me, it’s not my choice. We’re here until my mom figures out what we’re doing. My father is having some problems, and they’ve separated.”

  Liam didn’t know what to say.

  “We’ll work it out.”

  “What does your mom do for a living?”

  “She’s a CPA. Works at a small accounting firm. Anyway,” she perked up, “see those Corinthian columns? They came from the original Kirkside. When Kirkside was demolished, it was said that some of the townspeople ‘adopted’ pieces of the mansion for their homes, although this is the only example that I’m aware of. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Are you sure these came from Kirkside?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Liam studied the columns. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that they look like Doric columns, not Corinthian. The difference is the capital—or top—of a Doric column is plain, like these. If they were Corinthian columns, the capitals would be carved to resemble flowers and leaves.”

  “That’s interesting coming from someone who only likes contemporary architecture and hates anything old and cobwebby. Yeah, your aunt told me that you think history is basic.”

  “Great.”

  “Don’t be mad at her. She’s a good person.”

  “I know she is.”

  Bailey stood sta
ring at the columns, cocking her head to the side. “I hope this wasn’t another St. Augustine legend. I was positive the columns came from Kirkside.”

  Liam heard the disappointment in her voice. “I’m sure they did. Where to next?”

  “Let’s keep going.” She spoke as they walked, pointing out the different streets they passed. “Flagler named these streets after cities in Spain as a tribute to St. Augustine’s heritage.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?”

  Again she did that adorable shrug. “I read.”

  “Seriously. Why wasn’t this town named Flaglerville?”

  Bailey pinched her eyes and made a face of mock aggravation that nearly made him laugh.

  As they went, Liam noticed stone lion statues at several of the houses, usually in pairs near the front door or at the summit of the steps. Some of the statues were quite large. “What’s with the lions?”

  “Flagler started it.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “No, really. Flagler had lion images and décor integrated all over the Hotel Ponce de León. Now they’re all over town. There’s one above the gate of the old fort: the Castillo de San Marcos. The Bridge of Lions has a set of statues on each end. Some think Flagler first started it as a religious symbol. I think the answer is much simpler. It’s a reference to the man who first arrived here in 1513: Ponce de León. León is the Spanish word for lion, and he had a lion on his personal coat of arms.”

  As they strolled slowly, Liam commented on the various types of houses they passed: Queen Anne, Mediterranean Revival, Victorian.

  “For someone who doesn’t like old architecture, you sure know a lot about it.”

  “You don’t have to like something to be knowledgeable. My dad was a fan of all styles. I just didn’t share his love of the past, but it didn’t stop him from educating me on 19th-century architecture.”

  “I know your father died last year. I admit, your aunt told me that, too, but she didn’t elaborate on how it happened. I just want you to know that I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at your aunt for telling me.”

  “Dammit,” he said under his breath, just loud enough for Bailey to hear in the still morning air. He wished his aunt would keep his personal life private. He wasn’t seeking sympathy.

  For some time, they walked in silence. They reached the next intersection and turned right.

  Liam calmed as they walked, staying to the sidewalk on the right. “Bailey, I’m not mad at you or Aunt Rita. I just prefer people don’t ask about Dad.”

  “I promise I won’t. Let’s talk about something else. What do you like to do?”

  “I’m into modern architecture. My father used to say I have an unusual eye for detail: not exceptional, but unusual. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”

  “Okay, so you’ll be a modern architect someday. What do you do for fun?”

  “Dad and I liked to geocache.”

  “I have a friend who does that. You use GPS coordinates from a website and figure out clues that lead to hidden items, right?”

  “Something like that. I love solving riddles and mysteries.” He paused, not wanting to talk about it anymore.

  “C’mon, there’s one more thing I want to show you.”

  Liam continued to identify the wide array of homes—another Queen Anne, frame vernaculars, coquina, and concrete-block—all with small, fenceless yards, packed within thin streets lined with old oaks. In many ways, it felt like taking a trip back in time, which wasn’t something he embraced, but he did understand Bailey’s love of history. He watched her as she walked. She had expressive eyes and a wide, unabashed smile. She looked as if she was soaking in the aged streets through every pore of her skin.

  Looking up at the dome of Memorial Presbyterian Church rising up over the tree line on the right, Liam realized they’d almost completed a loop around the wide block. Bailey led them to a natural, grass-covered church parking area.

  “This lot once contained the rear portion of Kirkside. One day when I was walking Pilot, I saw this,” she pointed to the ground.

  Liam edged closer. There was a two-foot-long section of a crimped, thick iron tube breaching the surface. It appeared to be well seated in the ground. “What is that?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “I have no idea…” He paused. “Has this property been rebuilt on?”

  Bailey shook her head no. “Come over here.” She took him to the side and pointed down at four conjoined cement slabs. Exposed to the elements, they were worn and cracked by time.

  Now he was sure. “It’s part of the foundation of a house. If no other house was ever constructed on the property, then it’s from Kirkside.”

  Bailey urged him to the back of the property where a tree and brush line mostly obscured a worn stone wall. “See this? Through the brush? This is also from the mansion. It was left up to provide a partition wall between this parking lot and the houses on the other side, on Valencia Street.”

  “That’s totally lit,” Liam said, and this time, he meant it.

  Best of all, he made Bailey smile again.

  17

  Ron sat in his dining room scrutinizing a pile of composition notebooks and a stack of photocopied papers. For years, he’d gathered information to write a book on Henry Flagler’s time in St. Augustine, only to have a college professor at Flagler beat him to it. Dr. Thomas Graham’s account of Mr. Flagler’s St. Augustine was insightful and thorough. He doubted there was anything new he could add. Now, Ron wondered if the project was worth continuing. It was depressing to consider how much of his personal time he had invested just to walk away.

  He glanced to the side. Lying on the table was the photograph of Henry Flagler that Mortie Crewson had pilfered from the 1906 time capsule. He again read Flagler’s handwritten note: ‘To the fine citizens of St. Augustine, I hope you’ve enjoyed my gift.’

  Given the message, Ron assumed the photograph had been taken in town, but where? Equally puzzling was the tense. What “gift” had Flagler given to the people of St. Augustine for them to enjoy? On the surface, it seemed obvious. After the Civil War ended in 1865, the sleepy Spanish Colonial town, while rich in history, had fallen into despair. Visitors found accommodations inadequate and tiresome. In the late 1870s, St. Augustine was inundated with northerners diagnosed with tuberculosis who had traveled south upon their doctors’ recommendations. When Flagler decided to invest in the town in the mid-1880s, using the East Coast Railroad to facilitate the travel of wealthy and affluent northern tourists to Florida and building seasonal hotels to accommodate their every need, he forever changed the landscape of St. Augustine and gave this town a new architectural skyline. He was, and forever will be, the favorite son of the citizens of this town.

  Yet, something told Ron that the gift Flagler referred to in the photograph was something more than his enduring legacy and the breadth of his construction projects.

  For the first time, a tantalizing thought struck Ron. Could there possibly be a link between the list of Kirkside items Lucius Mast claimed Ida Alice had branded and the gift Flagler was referring to? He considered Ida Alice’s remark that she had left a prize for some man. Previously, he had come to the conclusion that the mystery man was the Czar of Russia, Alexander III. Although Ida Alice had never met the man, she proclaimed her love for him about the same time her mental capacities took a sharp nosedive in 1894. Ron wasn’t sure, however, what Ida Alice meant when she said she knew he would come to take back the treasure and get her. The choice of words was curious. What treasure would the Czar of Russia ‘take back?’

  An old St. Augustine myth crept into his thoughts. A group called the “Koysters,” allegedly composed of St. Augustine citizens, was said to have clues to a secret treasure. The first mention of this group dated to the early 1950s. They were never linked to Henry Flagler, although it was interesting that the timing of the rumor coincided with the demolition of Kirkside. Years ago, Ron had researched this
group but had uncovered little evidence to support their existence beyond a lone, anonymous quote by a source who claimed to be a Koyster member, who said, “The group met where the owner didn’t look,” whatever that meant.

  Failing to find any clues on the original columns at Kirkside Apartments had been a disappointment. With that dead end, and no idea of where the other five items might be located—if they even existed at all—Ron had chosen to abandon the hunt.

  His inner voice kept nagging at him, however. Was it just a coincidence that the columns, one of the six items on Lucius’s list, had survived to this day?

  18

  Liam was nearing the end of his third week of school and looked forward to the upcoming Labor Day weekend, which meant three days off. Even though he had to work the weekend at Aunt Rita’s shop, he had the evenings free. Aunt Rita had also promised that, although the shop would be open on Labor Day, Liam could have it off.

  This week had been his best week so far at Andrew Anderson High. His two weeks of after-school trash pick-up duty had ended last Friday. In addition, he was participating in the history club each Monday and Thursday afternoon. Participating wasn’t exactly the right word. He didn’t have anything to add to the conversations, but at least he found the discussions tolerable now that Bailey had helped educate him about Henry Flagler and the history of St. Augustine. He still thought the hype regarding the man was overblown, but he wasn’t about to express his opinion. Bailey might never talk to him again.

  His relationship with Aunt Rita was still iffy. Unfortunately, every time he saw her, he thought of his dad—her brother—and he and his aunt had little in common to discuss outside of the toy shop. Yet in some ways, he and his aunt were alike. Neither had a large number of friends. Aunt Rita often mentioned the owners of Toasted Moon Grill, where Bailey worked in town, as her friends, but they were the only people she seemed close to. She also always seemed sad. It was a feeling Liam could relate to. So far, neither of them had opened up about their personal lives, and while Aunt Rita knew where Liam’s angst originated from, he had no idea what pain she was hiding. Yet he gave her credit; she had taken him in, even though the move here was against his wishes. He remembered his father once saying that family mattered above all else. It was a value Aunt Rita also appeared to embrace.