The Styx (30 page)

Outside, the heat and humidity wrapped about Byrne’s face. He stood staring out into the brightness of the sun, wondering why he had come to this place called Florida. Why had he not just left it alone? Let his constant admonishment over the last few years stand—Danny had left and was simply never coming back. At least there would have been that tiny sliver of hope that his brother was still alive. He took a deep breath and turned to Faustus, who stood silent beside him.

“You knew it was him, my brother?”

“I could certainly see the family resemblance,” Faustus said. “The locale of your own origins and the sound of your heritage were in both of your voices. I surmised it to be a distinct possibility.”

“You talked to Danny?”

Faustus seemed to study the head of his cane. “I had met him, but under a different name,” he said. “He had introduced himself as a Mr. Bingham. Conrad Bingham.

“This is a land where people are often reluctant to use their given names, especially the sort who are in the business that Mr. Bingham was in.”

“Which was?”

“He introduced himself as a lawyer, an entrepreneur, a real estate broker and a representative of Northern interests,” Faustus said, his voice flattened as not to show emotion. “He was extremely bright, like you, Mr. Byrne. He had your talent for observation and recollection. I rather liked him at first.”

“And then?” Byrne said.

Faustus cleared his throat. “At our introduction he was wearing a Mason’s ring. At first, I tried not to pry, but after a few days of friendly conversation I made him out to be a fraud. He was using the symbol as a way to meet those he might take advantage of.”

“A big sin among the brotherhood, I suppose?”

“Yes. A big sin. No more though I suppose than a man who wears a cross of Christ around his neck while coveting his neighbor’s wife.”

Byrne had never been one for religion, and he’d learned in the city bars that the discussion of same was better avoided.

“Is that why you were testing me? To see if I was like my brother?” Byrne said.

“Precisely. Your attributes are admirable. And as I said, your brother shared many of them. I couldn’t be sure that a sibling might have the same powers of deception as well. Trick me once, shame on you. But trick me twice, shame on me.”

“So the coin, the fishing trip, even the beer this morning were all part of your litmus test?” Byrne let a slice of sarcasm slip into his voice.

“Yes. Had you bitten my coin, taken advantage of my largesse, or shot me and Captain Abbott dead on the sea and taken off with our boat, I would have judged you differently, even in the afterlife.”

“But I didn’t.”

“No sir, you didn’t. And now, with the possibility that a young woman is being railroaded into a murder charge, you have come to see if WE can find the truth of the matter.”

Byrne did not have to state the obvious. His purpose may have been selfless last night. Now he had a distinct reason for finding out the truth. Now he was looking for the killer of his brother.

“So where’s the bullet?” he said without hesitation. It would be the first question any good investigator would now ask, the logical question.

“I believe we will have to inquire of Dr. Lansing to answer that, my young friend.”

Faustus turned on his heel and began walking back to Olive Street. Byrne had to lengthen his stride to keep up. The old man had taken on a fired energy, and this time it was neither by the lure of fighting fish or deep opaque water. Byrne could see a pursuit of something in Faustus’ eyes that was being pushed by an anger that he hadn’t shown before. The old Mason doesn’t like being lied to, he thought.

When they got to a small storefront with a druggist’s symbol and the title Dr. Lansing painted above the wooden door, Faustus turned. “I will only be a minute. Could you please wait outside, Mr. Byrne?”

Byrne started to object, but second-guessed his reaction and instead took up a place in the shade of the tin awning as a group of raggedy farm workers trudging north toward the fields. A mule-drawn wagon, loaded with green tomatoes, passed on its way to the rail station. Behind Byrne’s eyes was a vision: he and Danny as boys, scouring the streets of their East Side neighborhood, watching like small animals but considering it a game, a race for some piece of food that fell from the back of a wagon. They’d skitter out into the traffic and snatch the gift from the cobblestone. Danny with that laugh of his that went gleeful at the thought of winning some prize, even if it was actually no prize at all but a morsel to add to their empty stomachs. Danny, always with that pride that he’d somehow gotten over on someone else. Danny with his dreams of finagling his way to “land and money” for a family whose members were now all dead.

Byrne’s head was turned at the sound of a man’s angry voice coming from inside the pharmacy, but he was unsure whose since he had never heard Faustus raise his voice except in joy of hooking a tarpon, and this was not a note of joy. He moved in front of the door and put his back to it, hearing the sharp smack of wood against wood, like the sound a cane might make when it is rapped flat and hard against a countertop. A woman in a long day dress and carrying her purse stepped toward Byrne, meaning to enter the shop. He tipped his hat: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the doc is presently treating a difficult patient. It would be best if you came back in a few minutes.” He did not move from blocking the door and she gave him her back and continued down the street. Moments later Faustus stepped out into the sunlight. He seemed unusually calm, but there was color in his cheeks that was just beginning to subside.

“A single .38-calibre round,” he said. “Lodged in the vertebra as suspected. The bullet was removed and presented along with the findings of the autopsy to Sheriff Cox.”

Faustus started off in the direction of the saloon. “Pity,” he said, disappointment in his voice, and when Byrne, following, looked over his shoulder, there was a small, thin man in suit pants and suspenders standing in the doorway of the doctor’s office looking much chagrined and defeated.

C
HAPTER
16

M
ARJORY
McAdams awoke that day with a determination that can only be held in its unflinching doggedness by the young. It was not unlike the ocean swimming that spurred her furiously to stroke for miles out of sight of land, or the late night trudging that she’d done last evening through the dark brambles of West Palm Beach farm lands. But today it was knowledge she was after, and her first stop would be at the knee of the “motherly” Mrs. Birch. If she then had to bring Mr. Birch into it, so be it.

“Good morning, Abby,” McAdams said when she was greeted at the door of the Birch suite by the maid.

“And to you, Miss McAdams.”

“Is Mrs. Birch available?” McAdams walked in and glanced about the room without the normal invitation.

“No, ma’am. She is out taking her mornin’ golf. She is spose to be back for lunch though.”

McAdams moved deeper into the room.

“And Mr. Birch?” she said. “Is he available?”

The maid moved around McAdams, cutting her off from looking further through the rooms but doing so in a subservient way so as not to appear authoritative or defensive.

“No, ma’am. They is playin’ together this morning. Mr. Birch plays with her most all the time now.”

McAdams raised her chin. “Ah. I’ve heard that the men on the links have brought Mrs. Birch’s displays of gumption to the manager,” McAdams said. “Perhaps Mr. Birch has been asked to accompany her in order to keep her on the leash.”

The statement may have been too gossipy to share with a maid, but McAdams took the chance. Whether she would continue to probe would be determined by the answer. The stoic face of the maid cracked, only slightly.

“Ain’t nobody put no leash on Ma’am,” she said. “Not even Mister.”

McAdams turned in a small circle, pretending to look at the objects of art. “You’ve been with them a long time, Abby, yes?”

“Only when they come to Florida, ma’am. But that’s three winters now.”

“And you plan to stay with them? I mean full time? I’ve heard that Mr. Birch may be acquiring property here on the island, which sounds like you might be needed year round.”

There was worry in the negro woman’s eyes. She was trying to study her own words ahead of time, before they left her mouth.

“They talk about buyin’ land all the time, ma’am. Mrs. Birch, she love that real state stuff. But they ain’t said nothin’ to me about winter time other than about me goin’ to New York City an’ I ain’t much for that cold weather, ma’am.”

The revelation that Mrs. Birch was more of a partner and consultant with her husband in matters of real estate than she’d ever let on caused McAdams to go silent for so long the maid became nervous.

“Like I say Miss McAdams. Ma’am spose to be back for lunch.”

“Oh, yes,” McAdams caught herself lost in thought and now started back toward the door. “Just tell her I stopped by to talk to her about the Carver woman.”

A small gasp came from Abby and snapped McAdams back to the present.

“Mizz Shantice? Is she all right, ma’am?” Abby almost begged an answer.

“Why, yes, I suppose. If you can call being in jail under the heel of the sheriff being all right,” McAdams said. She looked into the now expressive face of the maid. “I didn’t know that the two of you were friends.”

“Yes, ma’am. Well, we knowed each other for a long time. Course we all knowin’ each other here,” Abby said. “Did ya’ll talk with her, ma’am? I mean in private?”

“No. Not really Abby. Why? Do you think she has something to say to me in private?” McAdams, her eyes were now intent but unable to raise the maid’s own eyes from going to the floor.

“Uh, no, ma’am. I’m just worried on her, that’s all.”

“Well, several people are trying to help her, Abby. So hope for the best and be strong, dear.” The hair was up on the back of her neck, and McAdams knew from experience that the new information was pushing her even harder. She stepped out onto the hotel veranda, where only a few couples and women strolled arm in arm on their morning constitutional.

If the Birches were actively looking to buy property on the island, which she already knew from the binders she’d obtained, if “Ma’am” was truly as deep into her husband’s land acquisitions as Abby seemed to indicate, that is why McAdams had seen Mrs. Birch walking, with that aggressive and manly gait of hers, from the direction of the Styx only half and hour before Ida May Fluery smelled fire in the air.

When she got back to the Breakers, the first maid she talked to knew exactly where Ida May Fluery was: “Why, it’s a baseball game on today, Miss McAdams. I spect Mizz Ida down there sneakin’ a look at her boy.”

Whether Henry Fĩagler was a baseball fan or not, he knew many of his upscale New York vacationers were. The idea that they could watch a quality game in the middle of winter was a luxury he knew they would brag about to their equally upscale friends, who were still reluctant to travel south. It was little trouble for his engineers to lay out a baseball diamond on the open land within walking distance of the hotel. Grass was cheap in Palm Beach. So were players.

By the time Marjory reached the field, the stands that were erected only a few feet from the base paths were nearly full. Vacationing men were in the majority of those sitting in the sun, giving hearty ovations for each well-executed play. But several women were also in attendance, sitting with their husbands or in groups, their wide-brimmed hats or open parasols providing shade. The men were too polite to say a word, standing or stretching around any obstructed view. The women clapped softly with gloved hands when it seemed appropriate.

Marjory had been to the games before. She admired the athletic skill, the quickness and exactness of the players, the act and react of muscle memory honed by years of repetition. The fact that the athletes spent most of their days pushing carts, carrying baggage, cooking or washing, or peddling carriages only made the game more fascinating. They did this out a pure love. A game that only gained them a few extra hours off their daily work still drove them to a glorious pursuit of perfection. The field was as meticulously manicured as any of Flagler’s gardens and was probably cut and trimmed and raked by the very men who played on it. In the hard sunlight the green glowed and the white chalk lines were as bright as the women’s clothing.

Marjory paid scant attention to those in the stands, instead looking down the third baseline where a few black workers gathered to watch their own. She knew that if Ida May was here she would be watching Santos. She walked behind the stands, smiling and nodding to hotel patrons as she glided by. As she passed behind home plate she stopped for a moment to watch the giant black man out on the pitcher’s mound. He was tall and easily over two hundred pounds. She’d seen him before, amusing the crowd with his bear-like movements and wily, smiling presence. He knew that the game was as much entertainment for the upper class as it was a competition. Yet when it was time, his arm was ferocious. At that moment he delivered a fastball. The hard slap of the leather ball in the catcher’s glove was like a rifle report, and Marjory blinked hard at the sound.