Collecting Shadows

by Gary Williams

  “Hey, it’s probably going to be a slow day at the shop.” She laughed, adding, “Lately, they’re all slow. Anyway, I’ll be happy to do your wash again if you’ll bring your clothes inside.”

  “That would be fantastic,” Drew smiled.

  ****

  Later, when Liam got home from school, he was pulling a tee shirt from the dryer when a single black sock fell out. It was a man’s sock, but it wasn’t his. He only wore white.

  He lifted it up in bewilderment just as Rita happened to walk by and snatch it from his hand. “Don’t ask.”

  35

  Stewart Farlan drove east in town. It was mid-morning on Saturday, and tourists were beginning to flock to the streets. Soon the town would be clogged with people. Farlan had purposely avoided the heavily trafficked areas of town, preferring to keep a low profile.

  His second meeting with Gabriel Young last month hadn’t gone as he hoped. Young was useless and Farlan took great joy in using the wire to strangle the life out of that fat boor. It wasn’t planned; it just happened. He thought by hiding Gabriel Young’s body in the swamp, it wouldn’t be discovered until well after he had found the treasure and left this town. Then some kids had discovered the corpse. The last thing he needed was local police on alert.

  This morning, he drove to unclutter his mind. A night’s worth of Scotch had not been the answer, but it had worked to calm his frustration, if only temporarily.

  Now, he took stock of his work so far. Finding the code on the fanlight window at the house on St. George Street had been his sole accomplishment. Translating it into the three-word clue had been utterly exhilarating and indicated he was on the right track.

  Following Ida Alice Flagler’s directive in the letter, he had pursued the second item, the staircase banister at the house of Granville Turnfield. This had been a miss. Turnfield denied knowing anything about it, and examining the banister in the house confirmed the piece wasn’t old enough to be from the late 1800s.

  Farlan had yet to get a bead on item number 3. His research had revealed no trace of where it was supposed to have stood on the Kirkside grounds. Likewise, he had no leads on items 4 and 5.

  Losing patience, he had skipped to the sixth item: the columns at Kirkside Apartments. His thorough examination of the fluted pillars had also come up empty.

  Thus, his efforts had come to a grinding halt.

  He turned left, passing Flagler College. At the next intersection, Memorial Presbyterian Church sat across the way. He spotted something on the corner of the church grounds and slammed on the brakes.

  Could it be?

  He pulled forward, searching for a parking spot. He found none. He was forced to circle the large block, wrapping back around to park at a metered spot on the side of the church. After depositing a quarter, he walked purposefully into the church gardens and paused before the stone stand. The item didn’t appear to date to the Flagler era. Still, it was worth asking. Maybe a docent could offer a lead.

  Minutes later, Farlan returned to his car: another dead end. The search felt like the ultimate exercise in futility. His temper rose, infuriating his hangover. It was time to force the issue.

  Farlan drove to Erlinda Crewson’s house.

  ****

  Erlinda was on her second cup of coffee, frustrated she couldn’t get her hair to cooperate even after a couple months with the new ‘do, when the doorbell rang. She peered through the peephole and was frightened when she recognized the man standing on her front porch. She thought of Gabriel Young, and Ron Mast’s warning.

  Erlinda slowly backed away from the door. She would pretend she wasn’t home. She stood quietly as the doorbell rang again.

  That should do it, she hoped.

  Silence.

  There was a metal scraping noise at the door.

  She shivered.

  A horrible thought ran through her mind. The doorknob spun, and the door opened.

  Erlinda screamed. Before she could get away, the Scottish man was on her and pinned her to the ground. She could barely breathe.

  “We’re going to have a civil discussion now,” he growled. “And there’ll be no screaming out of you.”

  “No!” Erlinda yelled, kicking with all her might. She caught the man in the chest, and he fell off balance. Shaking, she rose to her feet and dashed up the stairs. If she could reach her bedroom, she would lock him out and call police from her phone on the nightstand.

  She was near the top when he spoke in a cold, calm voice, “I’ll shoot.”

  Erlinda froze. She slowly turned to see that the man had a gun aimed at her. She shook so badly she could barely talk. “What…what do you want with me?”

  “We’re going to discuss what your husband was doing with that photograph of Flagler.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks, “I told you. I don’t know.”

  Her blood turned to ice when she saw the anger in the man’s dark eyes. Without thinking, she spun around to flee up the stairs, praying he would miss. Her legs felt like dead weight, and her first move was a misstep, throwing her off balance. In the blink of an eye, she was tumbling down the steps. She felt a tremendous impact, intense pain, then…nothing.

  36

  On Halloween, Erlinda Crewson did not show up for school and had not called out sick. Ron tried contacting her throughout the day on her cell phone and home phone. After the history club meeting, he drove to her house. When he saw her vehicle in the driveway, his worry increased exponentially.

  Ron reached the front porch and tried to peer between the curtains, but they were drawn shut. He rang the doorbell and waited, hoping to hear some movement inside. He rang again; still nothing. Ron backed off the porch and went to the left side of the house. The windows were higher than he could reach. He walked to the back of the house, found a sturdy bucket, and returned. He flipped the bucket over and stood upon it, barely able to reach the window at eye level. The curtain was slightly parted.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adapt to the faint light. At the base of the stairwell, sprawled face up, lay Erlinda Crewson.

  ****

  Officer Harcass and Ron stood off to the side on the porch as the technicians wheeled the body of Erlinda Crewson out on a gurney. It was surreal seeing the woman’s life end so tragically. According to the coroner, Dr. Massey Burke, Erlinda had died when she slipped and fell down the stairs, breaking her neck. The initial cause of death was deemed an accident; an unfortunate, horrific accident.

  Ron had his doubts.

  Evening was quickly approaching. It would be Halloween night soon, yet it would pale in comparison to the macabre events which had transpired this afternoon.

  37

  Erlinda Crewson’s accidental demise had left Ron numb, and the last week had passed by slowly. He remained suspicious about her death. Something about all this didn’t feel right. He didn’t believe it was a coincidence that Gabriel Young and Erlinda Crewson had both been visited by a Scottish man, and now both were dead.

  At work, the school had been enveloped in gloom. Erlinda had been such a fixture that it was hard to believe she would never walk the halls or teach here again.

  That morning, Ron attended the simple funeral service where Erlinda was laid to rest. He returned home, again wondering about the list of six items from Kirkside his great-grandfather had written in the Bible.

  Something occurred to him that he hadn’t considered before. He dialed Aunt Arlene’s house phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Aunt Arlene. It’s Ron. How are you doing?”

  “Still kickin’,” she laughed that contagious laugh. “What can I do ya for?”

  “I’m calling about the list of Kirkside items from the Bible. Beyond the columns at Kirkside apartments, are you aware of the locations of any of the others?”

  “Nothing for sure, but there was talk of a man on Mulvey Street who had taken the staircase banister and put it in his house.”

  “Do you remember his name?”


  “Granville Turnfield. He was on the crew that took down Kirkside in the ‘50s.”

  “He was part of the demolition team?”

  “That’s right. As was Archibald Morgan, the man who would later own Kirkside Apartments.”

  “Do you know anything about Mr. Turnfield?”

  “I know that he’s a piece of work. A surly cuss. Some people even said he was a Koyster.”

  “Aunt Arlene, what do you know about the Koysters?”

  “Probably same as you. They were a group of local people who had clues to some kind of treasure, although they must have never found it, because I don’t remember any people in town suddenly buying Cadillacs and building gold-plated mansions.”

  38

  That Saturday afternoon was slow at the shop, and Aunt Rita allowed Liam to knock off from work early.

  Liam stepped out back hoping to catch Drew, but he wasn’t around. Bored, Liam returned to the shop and told his aunt he was going for a walk. Outside, he turned away from the Flagler Model Land Company neighborhood, heading in the opposite direction.

  Liam had gone several weeks without having the recurring dream about his father. Then last night, the nightmare returned. The grizzly bear chased after the rabbit, and his father stepped in the way and was mauled. As usual, the bear cut him in half with a single swipe of his massive paw. Liam screamed and woke in a pool of sweat.

  Now he just wanted someone to talk to. Bailey wasn’t available. Like Liam, until yesterday, Bailey still had her driver’s learner permit even though she had turned 16 earlier in the year and was eligible for her permanent license. Like Liam, the delay was due to family issues. On Friday, Bailey had taken the driver’s test and passed. Her mother let her and two girlfriends take the car for an afternoon of shopping at the mall.

  As Liam wove his way through a series of neighborhood streets, a sound resembling video game gunfire occasionally rattled the air. He realized it was caused by acorns falling from oak trees and tagging metal house roofs and cars parked in driveways.

  Must be a fall thing in St. Augustine, he thought.

  He soon came up on the house he had located this morning on the Internet. A familiar African-American man was walking from his house to his car.

  “Mr. Mast?”

  The man stopped. “Liam? I didn’t know you lived over here.”

  Liam approached. “I don’t. My aunt and I live off King Street.”

  “Out for a walk?”

  “Sorta. Are you…going somewhere?” Liam asked timidly.

  “Yes,” Mr. Mast eyed him inquisitively, “is everything okay?”

  Liam spoke softly, “Yes, I just thought I’d drop by and say hello.”

  Mr. Mast smiled. “I have to see a man, but you’re welcome to come along.”

  What the heck, Liam thought. He had hours before he had to be back for dinner. His aunt wouldn’t be mad at him for going off with one of his teachers. “Sure,” he said, climbing in the front passenger seat.

  The drive was surprisingly short to a street Liam and Pilot often walked. Mr. Mast parked at the curb. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  “I can’t come in?”

  “I’ve never met the gentleman who lives here, but I’ve been told he’s a bit rough around the edges. He may not even let me in. I won’t be long, either way.”

  ****

  Ron knocked on the door. It took nearly a minute for it to open.

  “Who are you?” the elderly man with paper-thin skin barked before Ron could speak.

  “Mr. Turnfield, my name is Ron Mast. I teach History at Andrew Anderson High School and wanted to know if I could talk to you.”

  “Talk, then,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Please, could we go inside?”

  “Mast? You any kin to Carlyle Mast in Lincolnville.”

  “He was my grandfather.”

  “Good colored fella, Carlyle was. Are you a good man, Mr. Mast?”

  “I try to be, sir.”

  “C’mon in,” Turnfield invited him.

  ****

  Liam watched as an old man came to the door. Within a minute, Mr. Mast disappeared inside the house.

  Liam sat patiently for about five minutes, then climbed from the car. He was antsy.

  The old, two-story, colonial-revival house needed work. Wood slats were wearing away with time. Liam walked to the left side. Since there was no fence, he continued around back, eyeing the walls and finding more decay. The back yard was tiny, overgrown. A hulking oak tree dripping with Spanish moss dominated the middle of the lawn. He walked toward the tree, awed by the girth of the trunk, not paying attention to the ground when he stubbed his toe.

  “Crap, that hurt,” he said, hopping backward, then walking it off. He returned and found the culprit: an oval stone hidden by the overgrowth. He knelt, pulled back the weeds and saw a small metal plaque attached to the top face which read:

  Mr. Limpet

  1979

  Liam stepped to the side, realizing he might be standing on a pet’s grave. Mr. Limpet, Liam thought. Must have been a cat. Only cat owners refer to their pets as Mr. or Mrs.

  ****

  Ron remained standing as Turnfield sat in a recliner.

  “Aren’t you going to sit?”

  “I’ll only be here a minute.”

  “What does a high school history teacher want with me?”

  “Mr. Turnfield, I understand you were on the crew that razed Kirkside.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Someone told me you have a part—the staircase banister—of the old mansion?”

  “Not again,” he shook his head with a disgusted expression.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re the second man to ask me this ridiculous question. About six weeks ago a Scotty asked me the same damn thing. Although he did pay me $50 for basically doodly-squat.”

  “Scotty? You mean a Scottish man?”

  “Of course I do. What else would I mean?” Turnfield’s attitude was cranky once again.

  Whoever this Scottish man was, Ron was now deeply concerned over his presence in town. “What did you tell him?”

  “Tell him? I told him what I’ll tell you. You got your facts wrong. That fool even looked over my staircase.”

  “He examined your staircase banister?”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  “Do you mind if I check it?”

  “Go right ahead. You’re free to waste your time, Mr. Mast.”

  Ron spent the next few minutes examining every inch of the banister. The first thing that struck him was the banister didn’t appear antique. Not surprisingly, he found nothing. When he finished, he faced Turnfield, who was still seated. He decided to go for broke. “Mr. Turnfield, are you a Koyster?”

  His laugh began as a chuckle but quickly grew to a full-blown cackle. His body was shaking so hard, Ron thought the old man was convulsing. “That’s a good one,” he finally managed to say between breaths. “You believe in some fairy tale. How old are you, Mr. Mast?” The laughter ballooned once again.

  ****

  As they were driving home, Mr. Mast was quiet.

  “Is something wrong?” Liam asked.

  “I was hoping that man, Granville Turnfield, could answer some questions.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “In a way, he did. I asked him a question, and he lied. I could read his face. Remember that day during our history club meeting when I mentioned a rumored group in St. Augustine called the Koysters? I believe they may not have been a myth after all. I believe Mr. Turnfield was one of them.”

  “Wow, really?”

  “Yes, and I keep thinking about something I found online regarding a secret group in North Florida. It stated that, ‘The group met where the owner didn’t look.’ ”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  39

  Ron reached his house late in the afternoon after the history club meeting
. It had been more than a week since his brief discussion with Granville Turnfield. He was sure Turnfield was lying, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  He had talked to police regarding the homicide of Gabriel Young and the accidental death of Erlinda Crewson. Ron told them about Erlinda’s bizarre visit by a Scottish man, as well as Turnfield’s encounter with someone who was most likely the same man, but police didn’t think much of the connection. Dr. Massey Burke, the coroner, had confirmed her original conclusion: Erlinda had died accidentally as the result of a broken neck from a fall down the stairs. Gabriel Young had been killed in a heinous manner via strangulation by a thin wire, then his body was dumped in the swamp. His wallet and all his valuables had been taken, which suggested robbery and homicide. Turnfield was still alive. Besides, Ron had offered no motive. He feared ridicule if he told them that the killer was searching for a secret code to God-only-knew-what.

  Ron grabbed a composition notebook stuffed with loose papers, including the photograph of Flagler and the list of items from the time capsule. He leafed through some notes he’d made after his meeting with Turnfield. He pulled out the photograph and again admired it. He withdrew a series of sectional blow-ups he made from the original photo. The painting in the background again caught his eye. While he had studied the picture of the naked woman intertwined with a big white bird, all he knew about it was that it wasn’t one of the paintings done by the artists who stayed in the Ponce de León Hotel; nor was it a painting known to be in Flagler’s possession. Now, looking at it, he wondered if an Internet search might reveal more information. He opened his laptop. Using keywords in a search engine, it took nearly an hour, but he found a match.

  Ron was speechless. The thought that Flagler might have possessed this original masterpiece was staggering.

  Suddenly, the possibilities opened up. Ron considered another section of the blown-up photograph which showed an oval object displayed on the bureau. Of course, how could he not have known? Another online search validated his suspicion. It was another amazing piece of art. The painting was priceless, the object on the bureau equally as astonishing. If they were indeed originals, finding them would be a once-in-a-lifetime discovery.