A Ghost of Brother Johnathan's (13 page)

The next morning, just as I was leaving my hotel room, my cell phone rang. It was Frank and boy howdy was he excited. He asked that I bypass my visit to the museum saying he was sure he had cinched the research and could positively identify the script owners.

“Owners? You mean more than one person wrote in that cookbook?” I asked as I locked my hotel room and walked out to my car.

“Two, but it’s better if I show you instead of try to explain. Have you had breakfast yet?”
“No. I was going to stop by a Starbucks, grab some coffee and something to munch on for my drive to Crescent City.”
“Listen, get your coffee, but skip the munchies. I’ll cook a decent breakfast for us when you get here. Oh, and I’ll call Daniel at the museum to let him know about the change of plans.”
“Okay.”
I loved the fact I wouldn’t need to visit the museum, but it left me in a quandary. I’d planned on sneaking in the Ella-as-Beautiful-Dreamer performance card I had taken, and now I wasn’t sure how to return it. I hustled back to my room and pulled out the hotel’s courtesy stationery paper from the desk drawer. Thankfully, it was of good quality vellum, nice and thick. I addressed an envelope to Daniel and folded the Ella card in between two sheets of paper and placed it inside the envelope. Back out I went, with one last stop at the hotel desk to buy a postage stamp and ask them to mail it.
The ninety-mile drive to Frank’s home was one the most dramatically beautiful coastline excursions I’d ever experienced. California’s northern coastline was a world away from its southern geography. Here, dense forests of giant redwoods stood sentry over the ocean. To my right side, the view was sky-high looking up at the redwood forest and to my left, the coastline cliffs of Pacific Coast Highway 101 dropped off into the deep blue water of the Pacific Ocean. Waves of exhilaration swept over me as I relaxed and enjoyed the road and the view. I keyed the radio and came across a station that played the blues, the kind I grew up listening to in Mississippi, the style called Crossroads Blues by Robert Johnson.
Talk about crazy situations and myths that simply will not die: Johnson’s life and death was one. And growing up in the Deep South, I, like every other teen, had spent a good part of my youth cherishing Robert Johnson’s music and his story of going down to the crossroads to make a deal with Satan. Twice in high school, with a group of friends I made the trek to Clarksdale to camp out alongside the highway at the crossroads. The last time I tried it, in my senior year, it was getting to be too crowded and local law enforcement had taken to shooing people away. Today, Southern teens who make this same rite-of-passage journey to the legendary X in the center of where highways 61 and 49 intersect compete with throngs of visitors of all ages, from around the world. I was lucky to have been born with this kind of blues in my cultural history, as my grandfather used to say, Crossroads Blues is uniquely Southern, blacks and whites alike take pride in it. And, lucky for me, the radio station played Johnson’s songbook the entire duration of my drive. By the time I reached Frank’s home, my outlook was extremely positive and my stomach was growling. I knocked on Frank’s door and he answered right away. I stepped into his entry hall and was immediately overcome by the delicious aroma of food.
“I hope you like quiche. I make it with bits of sausage in it.”
“I love quiche.” I followed Frank into his kitchen. He pulled out a chair and gestured for me to sit down.
He served up generous portions of quiche along with sourdough toast, butter and cherry jam.
I didn’t say a word for the next fifteen minutes… that’s how hungry I was. I noticed Frank had done an equally good job of cleaning his plate. We had perfectly good excuses for not making polite chitchat.
“Seconds?” Frank asked.
“No thanks. Your quiche was beyond delicious. Honestly, Frank, that recipe was some of the best quiche I’ve ever had. Maybe you’d e-mail the recipe to me?”
“Sure. I’ll do that later today.
“And the cherry jam, it’s homemade jam?” I asked
“Yeah, a neighbor makes it. She had a bumper crop of cherries this year.”
I picked up the jar of jam. Now mind you, Rosario makes jam and nearly every woman in my family made, or still makes, jam or jelly. I grew up around jam making and home canning. However, on this morning, and at this moment, that jar of cherry jam that I held in my right hand spoke to me in a way no other canning jar ever has. I’m sure I appeared to be a space case, sitting there, dazed and motionless holding a jar of jam.
“Shannon? Is there something wrong?” Frank asked in a polite, but stop-freaking-me-out tone of voice.
I blinked twice, looked at Frank and made a clumsy recovery. “Uh, no. I was just remembering something a friend told me about Mason jars, their invention and use.”
“And?”
“Oh, skip it. Really. Never mind. It’s just some silly trivia and I’ve got to put in a phone call to my friend a little later, I’ll sort it out then.”
Frank looked concerned. “Does this trivia have anything to do with the Rupp case?”
“No,” I lied. “So, let’s get down to important matters. What did you discover?”
“Let’s clear away the dishes and then I’ll get my notes,” Frank said.
I was eager to get Frank’s big reveal underway. I stood up. “Go get your notes and I’ll clear away the table.”
Frank returned, sat down and handed the cookbook to me. “I’m envious of Marta having this book, it is truly a treasure.”
I smiled and said, “I’ll let her know. And knowing Marta, I bet she’d loan it to you.”
“Shannon, turn to the front, where the names were written and then erased.”
Keeping the book lying flat on the table I opened it to the front and held it open.
Frank sifted through some papers he had set off to his side. He held one up. “This is a letter from Mary Templeton to Jonathan, it is dated 1882, the same year the cookbook was published. In the letter she asks if Jonathan received the recipe book she sent and she says that the book should prove to be especially helpful. She underlined the word helpful.” Frank handed the letter to me.
I read the letter and came to the conclusion that I imagined Frank had, the recipe book Mary Templeton sent to Jonathan, and referred to in this letter, was the very same cookbook we were examining.
“So, Mary gifted the book to Jonathan, right?” I asked.
“I believe so. And, I believe that Mary’s underscoring of the word
helpful
was a code to Jonathan. I say this because her underlining matches perfectly, stroke for stroke, with the underling that occurs in the recipes that are named in the list on the back page of the book. But, more importantly, it was Mary who wrote the three names in the front. The names of the three men, that were erased at a much later date.”
“You are certain?” I asked.
“Yeah. I took the book, photocopied that front part in the negative, that makes writing and printing marks that have been erased, show up a little better and here it is. See for yourself.” Frank gave me the negative of the photocopied page.
I knew about using a negative ink photocopying technique with hard-to-read old documents, such as census records. I’d never considered using it on this book. I studied the photocopied book page and Mary’s letter. There wasn’t a doubt it was her handwriting. “This is amazing, what a find! I never would have thought the writing to be Mary Templeton’s. Frank, was she or her husband Peter ever involved with the Knights of the Golden Circle?”
“No. And I am reasonably sure about that. You see… the Templetons were died-in-the-wool Union patriots who campaigned in favor of abolition. Peter had been a Union legal adviser in the Civil War and Mary’s father and brothers were soldiers in the Union Army out of Pennsylvania.”
“Okay, then, maybe Mary was working as a Union patriot, on the watch for Confederate operations, such as the KGC?”
Frank looked down at Mary’s letter. “Hmm… I never thought of it that way. Yes, I can see how she would have done that. But why these three names?”
“I think it was her way of warning Jonathan about these men. I had a hunch regarding them, and just last night I had my suspicions confirmed. These three men were KGC operatives in this region.”
“Who confirmed this for you?” Frank asked.
“A friend of mine in Chicago. He’s a well-respected historian in regard to the Knights of the Golden Circle. But, I’ll get to that information in a minute. What else did you discover about this cookbook?”
“Turn to the back page,” Frank said.
I did, and again, I lightly placed my hand on the book to keep it open and flat on the table surface.
“The list of recipes at the top, that is in Jonathan’s writing and so too is the notation about the two cake recipes.” Frank sifted through more of the papers he had setting off to the side. “Here, take a look at these two letters, both are in Jonathan’s writing. They match perfectly with the writing on the back page.”
I examined the letters side by side to the page in the book. Once again, there was no doubt as to the identity of the script. I knew it was time for me to let Frank know everything I had found out. “Frank, if you would be so kind to put on a pot of coffee, I’ll explain what I know so far.” I smiled.
After several cups of coffee and over two hours of conversation, summarization and brainstorming what steps to take next, Frank said, “So, if the Confederate gold is not hidden on Jonathan’s Rupp’s property, then where is it?”
I was hesitant to disclose my best guess. “I have an inkling, but executing it will not be easy.”
“Because?”
“Because it means getting permission to dig on private property and as of this minute, I don’t even know who the property owner is. I need to investigate that angle.”
“Where’s the property?”
“Ferndale. However, my plan is much more complicated than just locating the property and the owner. Frank, this is an expensive venture and honestly, I can’t afford it. To do what I want, to do what I believe will finally, once and for all, solve the mystery, it will take thousands of dollars and the contacts to accomplish the task. I know two people who have the connections and the deep pockets required for my plan: Connor and Seamus O’Kelley. And lucky for us, they have an interest in this case. Would you mind if I plead my case to them?”
“What will they require in return?”
“My best guess is that Connor and Seamus will want an exclusive to the story. That means your cooperation as well as Marta’s. I’m willing to go ahead and contact Connor on a pledge to him that I will convince Marta to cooperate. But you must be willing to sign off on publishing rights to the story, if there is one.”
Frank drummed his right hand fingers on the table. “And there will be a story, one whopping big story the likes of which Crescent City, Eureka and Ferndale have never seen, right?”
I nodded my head, “I sincerely believe there will be a story. And, if this is any consolation, I also firmly believe that Connor and Seamus will use and market the story every which way that will squeeze every last drop of publicity out of it and
that
translates to marketing dollars, big time, for the new venue.”
Frank nodded his head and answered, “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”
I stood up and said, “I need to call them in private. I’ll step out to my car.”
“Okay, I’ll take care of the dishes and I’ll collect all the paperwork up in a nice organized bundle, just in case we’ll need easy access to it.”
My call to Seamus was quick. Luckily, he was at his office in San Francisco, and Connor was there, too. In an open mic conference call we worked out all the details. Seamus was absolutely certain the best plan was for Frank and myself to meet him in three hours. I agreed to do so. I hung up and ran back inside to tell Frank.
“Okay, the plan is in motion. And it’s happening
now
. We are to meet Seamus in three hours, in Ferndale. Grab your things and let’s go. If there’s no traffic, we’ll get there a little early.”
“But, how do we, or they, know where to meet at in Ferndale?”
“Good question. Seamus said he’ll give me a call to my cell, on our drive to Ferndale. Believe me, if any person can get the exact details to a location, and do so quickly, it is Seamus.”

Not quite two, the sun was high and my allergies kicked in, causing me to sneeze four times in rapid succession. I blew my nose and stuffed the tissue back into my jacket pocket. Good grief, I should have brought more Kleenex. But then, I couldn’t have imagined the weed infestation we would be standing up to our knees in. We stood off to the east border a long forgotten fallowed pasture.

Frank looked around at our surroundings. “Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this. Standing here, out in the middle of nowhere on the outskirts of Ferndale. You know, when you talked about digging up private property and requiring all sorts of legal permission to do so, I thought we’d be standing in a cemetery, not some old derelict cow pasture.” He laughed and then added, “Shannon Delaney, my mother warned me about girls like you.”

I barely acknowledged Frank, my attention was focused on the two figures in the distance that were striding toward us at a fast clip. The problem was, they were coming in over a hill with their backs toward the sun and I could only see them in silhouette. The tall man appeared to be Seamus, I wasn’t sure about the other man with him… it certainly did not look like Connor.

The tall man saw us and shouted out, “Shannon.” It was Seamus. I waved both arms to let him know I recognized him.

“That is Seamus O’Connor. I don’t know the other man. He must have some authority over this operation,” I told Frank.

Seamus stepped up to us, gave me a light hug and introduced the man standing next to him, “Shannon Delaney, Frank Dazi, this is Stan Bloome, the property owner who has graciously agreed to our plan.”

Stan Bloome was older than his physical stature and movement portrayed. My mom would have described him as a robust eighty-year old. He was medium height with a weathered-face of ruddy complexion. He was dressed for the weather and the project at hand, in denim coveralls topped with a wool barn jacket and knee-high leather boots and a leather wide-brim hat. Obviously, Stan Bloome never let his age get in his way of accomplishment. He offered his hand to me and then Frank. “Miss Delaney, Mr. Dazi. I’ve got a crew of men coming, bringing along a dozer and an excavator. Follow me and I’ll show you where the site is.”

We walked with Stan about twenty yards over to the far side of the pasture near a stand of oak trees.
“These trees weren’t here in the 1800s. When it was discovered that the site could be toxic, it was plowed and the wilderness was allowed to take over. Nature has done a good job of camouflaging the original site. When I bought the property a few years ago, it was understood I had to leave it fallow.”
“And doing so wasn’t a problem?” Frank asked.
“No. Bought nearly 500 acres and this piece is at one lonely end of it. The house you asked about, the home of Margaret Kuchen, well, that once stood about thirty feet into this stand of oaks. Where we’re standing right now was her personal garden and her milk cow pasture. The bunkhouse for her farmhands, that was up and over that hill we walked down. Her mules, donkeys and burros were up and over that hill, too.”
All of us turned to look at the hill, as if doing so would transport us back in time. Of course, that did not happen, but we did see a handful of men, a bulldozer and an excavator come up and over the hill. The engine noise of the two heavy equipment vehicles drowned out the sounds around us. As they came closer, carrying on a conversation was impossible. When the crew and equipment were fifty feet away, Stan motioned for the group to stop. He walked over to them, gave them directions and then came back to us.
“Okay, let’s move thirty feet in that direction, over in the clearing and let them get to work.”
I watched in awe of how a single vehicle of modern farm machinery could make quick work of demolishing a brick and mortar structure that was over a century old. Once the bulldozer had flatten the ground, and removed the debris to a safe distance away from us, the excavator was put into action. Its operation was slower and meticulous, digging out the earth in monster bites and transferring the brick-ridden dirt over to the debris pile.
Seamus stood close to me. I stood up on my tiptoes and whispered, “How deep is it?”
“My best guess is thirty feet. Bloome said the old property records were not precise. We’ll have a good idea we’re close when mud is coming up.” Seamus faced me and in the afternoon sun, I was reminded of the sharp contrast of his black hair and flashing blue eyes. He smiled and then said, “It pleases my da and myself to no end that it is you, who spoke to the past on this mystery.”
I nudged him with my elbow and said, “Don’t be so confident that I’m right.”
He nudged me back and said, “Don’t be so glum about your gift for intuitive knowledge. Sure as rains fall soft on Ireland’s own emerald grass, you have the Celtic gift to speak to the past. I know this is true, and so do you Miss Shannon Delaney.” His gaze into my eyes was steadfast and filled with a glint of mirth.
Twenty minutes later and the excavator operator stopped, cut the engine and motioned to Bloome. Bloome went over to him. Both men were inspecting the hole in the ground with heavy-duty flashlights. Bloome turned to his crew and instructed them to bring out floodlights. After they got the floodlights situated to hang over the hole, suspended from a cable on the crane, we were invited to take a look.
Seamus insisted I stay behind him, but I edged closer to the well’s opening.
“Not much water in there. Can the bucket bring it up?” Seamus asked.
“One of the men is putting on in a hazmat suite, were going to lower him in on the crane’s cable,” Bloome explained.
The man showed up dressed from boots to neck in the safety suit. We stepped back. He was suspended from the cable and lowered in. It seemed like hours before he was brought up, but in actuality it was only fifteen minutes. In his hand he held a large galvanized bucket. After his release from the cable, he walked over to us and tipped the bucket’s contents onto the grassy field.
Seamus knelt down and so did Bloome. Seamus gave a low whistle and looked up at me. “Shannon, my darlin’ how did you figure it out?”
I knelt down beside Seamus and explained, “Kuchen died of corruption, an old-fashioned name for a systemic infection that has flu-like symptoms. Symptoms that can be mistakenly identified as a virus, yet they were not. In reality, she died of well water tainted from zinc. It was the zinc that leached out from the dozens of canning jar lids that poisoned the water. The early Mason jars had lids that were made from a metal that had zinc in it,” I explained.
The mud-crusted jars did not entirely obscure their contents. Bloome took out an old red bandanna and holding one of the jars he wiped off the glass exterior and then carefully wrapped the bandanna around the jar’s top and cracked it open on a rock. A large handful of gold coins spilled out. He held one up for us to see.
“Even without my reading glasses I can tell this is an 1865 S Golden Eagle gold coin. Just like the ones that went down with the
Brother Jonathan
ship. Just recently, I read that of the one million, forty-two thousand coins minted for that run, that only one thousand and two hundred of them have ever been found, and those were retrieved from the bottom of the shipwreck. Ya know, there has always been speculation that a lot of that payroll of Double Eagles never sailed with the ship. That on that fateful day of boarding, a Confederate operative had cut a deal and transported a big portion of the gold coins off the ship. Now I know where they went to.” Bloome turned to his employees and said, “Pete, how many more jelly jars are down there?”
Pete replied, “At least a dozen more, that I could see in the muddy ground.”
Bloome stood up and told his crew, “Big bonuses here for getting the rest of those jelly jars out before the sun sets today. Boys, after today, we’re all taking a long vacation.”
The crew of workmen got right back to work. We retreated far back, further back than before in order to carry on a conversation.
Bloome said to me, “Miss Delaney, I’m not sure what part you play in this, but according to Seamus, here, he’s taking care of your cut in the profits. I hope you have no objections.”
“No objections, to be sure.” I smiled at Seamus.
“And Mr. Dazi, I’m not sure about you or your part. Do you have an arrangement with Seamus?”
“I do,” Frank answered and then added, “I’m confident that Connor and Seamus O’Kelley have the legal sanctions in order for this treasure discovery and in due time, we’ll all be the richer for it.”
Seamus spoke next, “Aye, that will happen in due time. Treasure finds can be loaded and wrought with legalities, and they will all be sorted out. At auction value, each 1865 S Double Eagle coin is worth a minimum of $10 thousand dollars each. Though, I do believe each coin could fetch a much higher value, what with this incredible story and provenance that will be part of the value. Recently, a single Double Eagle coin that was linked to the
Brother Jonathan
fetched a auction price of $30 thousand dollars.”
The crew brought out additional lights and we stayed until every last jelly jar was extracted from its muddyearth home. In all, fifteen jars were found and each was filled with Double Eagle coins. The jars were taken back to where we had parked, packed into crates and loaded into a Brink’s armored truck for transport back to San Francisco. In the process of crating, Bloome and Seamus took dozens of photos for documentation. When the armored truck was packed, we all set out. Frank and I headed back to my hotel, where he had booked a room for the night. Seamus and Bloome followed the armored truck, escorting it every mile of the way back to San Francisco. Seamus said he’d call me in the morning to give me an update.
Frank and I dined at the hotel.
“You’re an amazing person, Shannon, and I’m not just saying that because of today’s discovery. Marta thinks the world of you and at first, when I met Marta and she raved about you, I was a little suspicious of you, wondering what was in it for you. Now I see why she adores you.”
I wondered if Frank would feel the same way if the mystery had not turned out to be so phenomenally fortunate. But, again, who am I to look a compliment in the eye and turn it down, declaring the sentiment insincere. I shrugged. “Remember, tonight would not have happened if not for Connor and Seamus.”
“Yes, I know. Nevertheless, I can’t help to think that if not Connor and Seamus O’Kelley, there would be another entrepreneur, another source of deep pockets. It was you, with your Celtic gift, as Seamus described it, that found the pieces to the mystery and put them in order. You completed the puzzle and made it into a picture for all of us to see. You made the answer apparent.”
“You heard Seamus say that?”
“He was whispering rather loud, had to out there, what with the noise. And his voice is unique, you know, his brogue and all. He has the kind of cadence I don’t hear very often so it catches my attention. Reminds of me of that Irish actor, Colin Farrell.”
I smiled. “I know what you mean, I love his voice.”
“What will you do now?” Frank asked.
“I had not planned to return home until later in the week. I’d like to leave tomorrow if I can change my flight. Marta was going to come with me and spend Thanksgiving at Blackthorne House. I hope she won’t mind if I leave tomorrow instead.”
“I don’t think Marta will mind. Also, considering how everything has changed, maybe I could go with her. I’d book a room at Blackthorne House, if it’s open for that holiday.”
I looked at Frank and thought to myself he has no idea that he just invited himself to another family’s Thanksgiving celebration.
“If Marta likes the idea then I’m sure there is a room available at the inn. Of course, Rosario might cut a deal with you.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, I bet that for a song and an omelet she would make sure you got a room,” I said.
Frank laughed and I joined in. It was a good way to end the evening.