Deadly Curiosities (27 page)

I’d reached my limit for the night. Teag looked worried, peering out through the night to where his Volvo was parked. He would have to go outside of Lucinda’s warding to get to his car, and drive a mile or two before he got back to his own warded space. Too risky, in my opinion.

“Come on,” I said. “You can sleep on the couch tonight. Let’s do some more digging online. I’ll pour us both another glass of wine.”

“C
ASSIDY
,
DEAR
! S
O
good to see you! And how is that adorable little Baxter?” Mrs. Morrissey looked up when I entered the Charleston Historical Archive the next morning, and gave me a big smile.

“Baxter’s doing fine,” I told her. “Thanks for asking.”

She glanced at me over her glasses. “What brings you over here early in the morning? Did you come to find out more about the B&B?”

“Not today,” I said. “Got something else to look up. And I brought you a hazelnut latte,” I added, holding out my good-will gift. I happened to know Mrs. Morrissey had a weakness for good java.

“That’s so sweet of you!” she said. “Thank you!”

I marked my name on the sign-in sheet. Just for good measure, I signed Teag in, too. The Archive liked to be able to document how many people used its services. That information came in handy when it was time to ask for grants and donations, and Mrs. Morrissey listed Trifles and Folly among their staunch supporters on a prominent plaque on the wall. Teag had been known to use his Weaver talent from time to time to help Mrs. Morrissey hunt down odd bits of local history, so we ranked high on her list.

The Charleston Historical Archive was housed in a beautiful home South of Broad. Families with names like Rutledge, Calhoun, and Gadsden had called the house home at some point in their lives, signers of the Declaration of Independence, governors, senators, pivotal figures in the run-up to Civil War, wealthy land owners, and politicians.

The home’s final private owner, Claudia Drayton, had been an heiress whose family tree mingled the bluest blood in South Carolina. Claudia’s will left her beloved home and its furnishings to the City of Charleston on the provision that it become the city’s permanent historical archive. Mrs. Morrissey was Claudia Drayton’s granddaughter. She was also one of many dowagers in her social circle who volunteered time and donations to further the Archive’s work.

“Anything I can help you with?”

Mrs. Morrissey liked to be helpful, but she also liked to be in the know. I could see that twinkle in her eye, and I intended to shamelessly encourage her. I’d learned from past forays that a trained librarian will stop at nothing to get to the bottom of a juicy research question.

“I’m looking for information about a piece of property out in the old Navy yards,” I said. “There’s a hint that a piece that came into the shop may have a connection to the history of that land. And I’ve got to admit, I don’t know much about the area out there.”

Mrs. Morrissey nodded, and I could practically see the wheels begin to turn. “Well, now. That strip of land has quite a history,” she said, and the corners of her mouth quirked up in a smile. “In fact, it’s been part of some of the biggest scandals in Charleston’s history.”

For a prim society matron, I detected an unmistakable delight in her voice at the idea of digging up dirt. I suspected that, at heart, Mrs. Morrissey was my kind of lady.

“Point me in the right direction,” I said.

Mrs. Morrissey looked around the Archive’s first floor, which was empty of people except for the two of us. “I can do you one better. I’ll be glad to lend you a hand,” she said.

She led the way. The Historical Archive was a mansion converted to its new purpose without completely losing its character as a home. Mrs. Morrissey’s office still looked like the parlor of a wealthy family, complete with couch and arm chairs in case donors dropped by for tea.

The Board Room was really the former dining room, which still boasted a Chippendale table and chairs, and a full set of Waterford crystal. Having helped out at fundraisers over the year, I knew that the ‘good stuff’ was pulled out for VIP receptions.

A sweeping grand staircase rose from the front hall to the upstairs, where the bedrooms of the second and third floors had been converted to house collections of rare books and artifacts. The front entrance to the home boasted a foyer large enough to be considered a room of its own. I noticed that today the entranceway boasted a new collection, something I hadn’t taken the time to examine when I had entered.

“Using the foyer for exhibit space?” I asked.

Mrs. Morrissey laughed. “Our new Board chairman pointed out that we have such an extensive collection of interesting items, it’s a shame not to have more on display. So we’ve started to create more small exhibits and we’ll rotate them every few months. It’s good for publicity, and maybe it will help donations, too!”

I made a quick glance around the foyer. ‘Healers and Helpers’ was the title, and the exhibit managed to pack a lot of fascinating objects into a small space. One case held an antique doctor’s bag and vintage nurse hats, plus memorabilia from Wayside Hospital, a long-forgotten Civil War-era facility. On the wall hung what looked like a shaman’s staff, and beneath it were bags of dried herbs, tinctures and teas along with a card that talked about root medicine and folk cures. Pictures of old ambulances, now defunct hospitals, and even the long-gone Charleston Medical College hung on the walls.

I glanced in passing at a huge oil painting on the wall across from the stairs as Mrs. Morrissey headed up. Something about it caught my eye, and I resolved to have a good look before I left. Then I hustled to keep pace with my hostess, who was already a few steps ahead of me.

The stairs opened to a wide second-floor gallery. Mrs. Morrissey swept past several rooms. A flash of red in one of the rooms made me pause.

“Do you have a new exhibit?” I asked, unable to resist sticking my head into the room.

“We will as of Monday,” Mrs. Morrissey replied with a touch of pride in her voice. “‘Ramblers and Rogues’ has been several years in the making. It’s a nod to some of our city’s more notorious residents.”

She walked into the room and gestured for me to follow. “Come on. I’ll give you the ten-cent tour.”

We walked in and she flicked on the lights. “Do you like what we’ve done with the room?” Mrs. Morrissey asked, obviously proud of the outcome. Large, colorful red banners hung against the walls, each with different inset larger-than-life portraits of men and women from by-gone years. Throughout the room, encased in glass cases, were all kinds of objects. I strained for a better look.

“I love it,” I said. The graphics on the banners had punch and looked modern and inviting. A bundle of individual audio headsets hung near the door, awaiting the first visitors.

“It’s part of our capitulation to modern sensibilities,” she said with a sigh. “The only way to get people interested in history, it seems, is to get their attention with the salacious and outrageous, and hope that a little knowledge seeps in around the edges. Even the History Network and the Discovery Channel seem to be going that way.”

“Is it working?”

She grinned. “Like a charm. We’ve already pre-sold a full house for opening night for the exhibit.”

“Ooh… show me!” I begged Mrs. Morrissey flipped another switch. The television monitors came to life, and the display cases glowed. Over the speakers in the corners of the room, I heard the strains of a song on an old-time music box.

“It’s a walk on the wild side of our fair city,” she said, and I could hear the enthusiasm in her voice.

“Black sheep, pirates, duelists, gamblers, ne’er-do-wells, and poisoners,” she said with a sweeping gesture that took in the whole room and its contents. “Most of them are the stuff of local ghost tours, but we wanted people to realize that they were real people who were part of the city’s history.”

I felt a tingle down my spine and took a step backward, remembering what had happened when I wandered through the ‘Plagues and Pestilence’ exhibit at the Lowcountry Museum. Maybe the sneak peek wasn’t such a good idea. Still, I thought, it couldn’t hurt to look from the doorway, and maybe I would get an idea that would help with the Navy yard problems.

“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing at a portrait of a dark-haired woman whose beauty was tempered by the coldness in her eyes.

“Lavinia Fisher, Charleston’s most famous poisoner and quite possibly the country’s first serial killer,”

Mrs. Morrissey replied.

I’d heard the story many times of how Lavinia and her husband John poisoned the guests at their tavern outside of town and stole the dead men’s money. They hadn’t been caught until hundreds of travelers had gone missing. John had ultimately confessed, but Lavinia had been unrepentant, insisting she be hanged in her wedding gown and jumping off the gallows on her own accord to cheat the hangman of his due. Sorren had talked about her on more than one occasion. He’d had the dubious honor of being one Lavinia’s guests, the one who got away. Her cold eyes seemed to follow me, and I took another half-step backwards as I saw the mannequin next to the portrait wearing an antique wedding dress.

“We’ve got some of Blackbeard’s gold, a watch belonging to a notorious Civil War spy, pistols from some of the city’s most infamous duels, and this,” she said, standing next to a glass encased object in the center of the room. “Come see.”

Against my better judgment, I edged into the room until I was close enough to make out the object in the case. I made very sure not to touch anything.

“Jeremiah Abernathy’s ‘judgment’ coin,” she said triumphantly, pointing to the case, “and his ‘decision cane’, the one he supposedly used in all the murders.” For being a proper society matron, I was concluding that Mrs. Morrissey had a wild streak.

I startled at the name. “You’ve heard of Jeremiah?” Mrs. Morrissey asked, delighted.

“Actually, he’s associated with the story I came to talk to you about,” I said, intrigued against my better instincts. I leaned closer, careful not to make contact.

“That’s why having his items is such a coup for the museum,” she replied. “He’s such a colorful character, I think this might put him on the map of memorable historical bad guys. Maybe even get Hollywood’s attention.” She pointed to a large oil painting on the far wall. “We’ve even got his portrait.”

I followed her gaze. The man in the portrait had been painted in his best suit, a style nearly a hundred and fifty years old. He had an arrogant tilt to his jaw, thin, merciless lips, and cold gray eyes.

“We think we may have an item that was associated with him,” I said. “Can you tell me more?”

“Jeremiah Abernathy was a corrupt judge who ran a whiskey and gambling empire in Charleston’s wild days,” Mrs. Morrissey said. “Rumor has it, he was the illegitimate son of one of the rice planters and a Creole slave, but if that’s true, Abernathy never claimed his Creole heritage. He was known – and feared – for his ruthlessness. He hanged a lot of pirates, some of whom might have been business competitors.”

I peered into the case. A gold coin lay in the spotlight. Next to it was a worn ebony cane with an elaborate silver handle and a lead tip, much like the one Sorren had lent me from Alard.

“Jeremiah Abernathy didn’t like people who refused to pay their debts. He had the protection of powerful people in the city, and he operated with impunity by his own rules, which were enforced by his private squad of strong-arm men,” Mrs. Morrissey said with more relish than I thought a woman of her standing really should be according an old-time criminal.

“When someone tried to cheat him, Abernathy would have them brought before him in his private ‘court’,” she recounted. “Usually, if stories are to be believed, the offender had already been worked over by Abernathy’s men, so the real question was, would they die easy or die hard?”

My eyes widened, more at her choice of words than at the concept. Mrs. Morrissey went on enthusiastically. “Abernathy would take his cane and thump it hard on the floor three times to convene his ‘court’. He would make his accusation, and allow the panicked victim to plead and bargain for his life.” She raised her eyebrows.

“Very few men who were brought to Abernathy had any leverage to bargain for mercy. By the time they got low enough to renege on a debt to him, they had already squandered their fortunes,” she added. “He would thump that cane of his again to indicate that he was about to give out his sentence.”

Her voice had dropped, and I found myself leaning in, hanging on every word. “And?”

Mrs. Morrissey grinned. “He would take his coin, which he claimed the King of Spain gave him, and he would toss it three times. Heads, the victim died. Tails, the victim lived. Best two out of three determined the poor wretch’s fate.”

I stepped back from the case. My imagination could supply what it must have been like to kneel before Abernathy’s court, life hanging in the balance as the coin flipped and landed. I didn’t need my gift kicking in to confirm those images. “What happened to him?” I asked, sounding a little breathless.

“Times changed, and some of Abernathy’s protectors fell from power. The government began to look into some of Abernathy’s business deals. It all ended in a blaze of gunfire when federal agents raided Abernathy’s stronghold. One wing of his mansion exploded with all the illegal whiskey. Abernathy burned alive, thumping his cane, and swearing that he would return to get vengeance on those who crossed him.”

I shivered. “That’s some story,” I said, looking askance at the glass case. I was growing more uncomfortable by the moment the longer we stayed in the exhibit room, and my intuition was telling me to get out now. I made a show of glancing at my watch. “Oops – we’d better get up to the stacks before I need to go back to the shop.”

“Well, at least you got a taste of the exhibit. Be sure to tell your friends.” Mrs. Morrissey touched the panels at the door. The music box fell silent and the spotlights went dark, but I couldn’t keep from glancing over my shoulder to make sure nothing was following us.