A Ghost of Brother Johnathan's: Shannon Delaney Series Vol. 5 Page 3

  Once inside, the cat turned a corner and disappeared from sight. I imagined it had found a secret spot behind the clerk’s counter or it sauntered to the back of the store and curled up on the cushioned seat of an antique rocking chair. Still and all, I needed to know about the cat. I approached the clerk’s counter to ask the young man who was ringing up a sale for a customer. I waited my turn.

  “How may I help you?” “Um, I saw a cat walk in here and was wondering about it. It is white with short hair and six toes?”

  The man’s face lit up. “That would be Shadow, our shop cat.”

  “By any chance, is Shadow connected to the story of Jonathan Rupp and his Edgewild Tavern?”

  If the clerk thought my query was weird, he did not act it. “As a matter of fact, it is believed that our Shadow is born from the direct lineage of Rupp’s cat.”

  He stepped out from the counter and began walking away from me. I followed. We stopped at a bookcase that had shelves packed with books, china and photos. The clerk reached up to a high shelf and grabbed a framed photograph. He handed it to me.

  “That’s a photo of Jonathan Rupp standing on the porch of his tavern. Notice the cats around him? The two standing to each side of his feet are the only ones named on the back of the frame. It says that the white cat is Shadow and the gray one is Mouser.”

  I could plainly see that each cat had six toes on its front paws. There was another aspect of this photo that was plain as day, and it took me completely by surprise.

  “Pardon me, if my question seems rude, and I certainly don’t want to offend, but was Jonathan Rupp a midget?”

  The clerk laughed. “Yes he was. And your question is not offensive, at all. Many people are not aware that he was. I should warn you, though, in today’s frame of reference, using the term midget is derogatory. According to the organization of Little People of America, Rupp would be described as a proportionate dwarf. Rupp stood four feet and seven inches tall, and as you can see, every physical aspect about him was in perfect proportion to his height. Oh, and that photo, as framed, is only $49.95.”

  I smiled. “Sold.”

  “If this is a gift, I can wrap it in decorative paper at no charge.”

  “No, not necessary,” I replied. Five minutes later I walked out of the Redwood Empire Antiques shop happily enlightened and considerably richer for the fifty bucks I spent.

  After arriving at my hotel room, I knew that calling Rosario would probably not be necessary. I suspected I could get the answers to my Marta conundrum by logging onto the web site of Little People of America.

  On the site, I was immediately engaged with the information presented. I learned that Marta was the perfect description of a proportionate dwarf, just like her ancestor, Jonathan Rupp. Additionally, I learned that her comment of being the last of her kind within her kin made perfect sense.

  Due to modern medicine and technology, at least in first-world nations, proportionate dwarfism was a genetic outcome that was becoming a thing of the past. Now, in today’s modern medical culture, growth hormones are given to a child at the first detection of this type of dwarfism. Little people of this specific category of dwarfism were disappearing, not literally, but they were, literally, outgrowing the classification.

  Wow! I stared at the photo and said to the sepia-toned image of Jonathan Rupp, “What an amazing life you had.”

  Then, to my right, out of the corner of my eye, I detected a slight movement. I turned to look at the clown figure of Brother Jonathan, still in place on the tall dresser. Had it moved?

  I got up and walked over to the dresser. Scrutinizing the placement of the clown, it seemed to me as if the figure’s head had turned, ever so slightly toward the direction of where I was sitting, by the bay window. Had a housekeeping employee moved the clown, even after I requested that no person touch it? I picked up the clown and turned it toward the wall. Now, it faced the wall. I went back and sat down. I had yet to open the e-mail from Seamus.

  His documents detailed the shipwreck of the Brother Jonathan. I made a few cursory notes about the ship, thinking that although I was not hired to write about the shipwreck, having a few details, might be useful. I noted that:

  The ship was a paddle steamer, built in 1851 and at the time of the wreck it was owned and operated by the California Steam Navigation Company.

  The shipwreck occurred on July 30, 1865, near an uncharted rocky outcropping, four and a half miles from Point St. George, a few miles off the coast of Crescent City, California.

  Of the 244 passengers, plus crew, only nineteen people survived. Notable passengers included: Brigadier General George Wright, Union Commander, Dept. of the Pacific; Dr. Anson G. Henry, Surveyor General of the Washington Territory and he was President Abraham Lincoln’s personal physician and close friend; James Nisbet, a well-known publisher; and last, but quite notable, was Roseanna Keenan, a San Francisco madame, along with seven of her soiled doves. (Soiled doves? This must be an original description from 1865, Seamus would never use those words) Oh, and a circus, with various members, including the clown listed as Brother Jonathan.

  Additionally, the cargo manifest was every bit as colorful as the passenger list. I noted that the Brother Jonathan was carrying:

  Millions of dollars in newly minted gold bars and $20 Double Eagle gold coins. Undetermined wealth in Wells Fargo

  shipments consigned for Portland, Oregon and Vancouver, Washington.

  Circus cargo. Circus animals are believed to have been brought aboard, illegally. What types of animals there may have been, is not named. Seamus reports that according to old accounts, one woman in Crescent City swore on her

  mother’s grave, that the day after the wreck she witnessed a tiger crawling up on shore.

  I closed the files and shut down the computer. Seamus had said that from the date of the shipwreck, to present time, there has always been a fog of suspicion regarding the cause of the wreck. Looking at the list of passengers and cargo, it occurred to me that speculation about possible Civil War intrigue would be the most likely suspect. California had its fair share of Confederate sympathizers during that period of history, even though the state had entered the union of the U.S. under a noslavery law in its constitution.

  Whew! There was a lot to consider in the files Seamus had e-mailed, and most of it, while very entertaining and mysterious, did not connect with my assignment to write a brochure about the Edgewild Tavern.

  “I do not concur.” I heard the man’s voice, behind me, say. I got up to face the voice. “Eric, it’s about time you made an appearance. I was beginning to wonder if you would.”

  Eric Blackthorne stood before me. My very own ghost guide. A late-Victorian gentleman and master magician, Eric had passed when he was thirty. This very moment he stood before me, not a day older and looking very much alive, which is how he always materialized in my presence. And handsome as ever, especially so, because he knew how to borrow clothes from his contemporary descendant, the very much alive and equally handsome nephew of his, Alex Blackthorne. Today he wore charcoal gray slacks, a dark gray and royal blue pinstripe button-down shirt, open collar. His black hair side-parted on the left. Clean shaven with sideburns a bit longer than what men wore these days, but then, Eric’s hair was not up for manipulation. We had learned that his hair and beard could not be altered, other than combing his hair into a side part. His dark eyes shimmered, that indicated he had information for me.

  “Do tell,” I said.

  “Please be seated Shannon. Truly, I meant not to interrupt your study process. Alas, you left me no choice but to intervene at this very moment.”

  I sat down in the desk chair. Eric sat on the edge of my bed. Relaxed that he had manifested, I tuned my ears to his Scottish accent, a timber and burr I enjoyed.

  “I’ve always been interested in the American Civil War. That war occurred before my lifetime in America and I did not arrive in America until the 1880s, but once here, it seemed to me that the war had remai
ned fresh in the minds of Americans. Bountiful theories, emotionally spurred opinions, folklore and mysteries were kept alive by deeply rooted feelings and political agendas that percolated to the surface now and again. Having read over your shoulder the files that Seamus sent, I am inclined to the opinion that the Edgewild Tavern, its innkeeper and perhaps those cats, are remnants of a deception stemming from that war.”

  “Remnants? You mean ghosts. And that somehow they were involved with the Civil War, how can that be?” I asked.

  Eric now stood up and in a slow rhythm, he paced the width of my room. When he paced, and he did it often when he mused over a subject of serious consideration, it always rattled me, made me nervous. I knew that if some thing cause him to be concerned, I mean, because he is a ghost, then for the living, such as myself, the concern is heightened and the potential danger more threatening. I had much more at stake.

  CHAPTER 5

  Eric stopped, and was about to speak, when we heard a soft sliding noise. In the corner of my eye I saw what caused the sound and jumped up. Eric had his back to the noise, he spun around.

  “No. Shannon, do not handle it.” The clown figurine of Brother Jonathan was now on the carpeted floor, standing upright a few feet from the dresser, where I had placed it.

  Wide-eyed, I looked at Eric and said, “I think it slid off.” Eric paid no attention to my comment. He approached the clown and knelt down on one knee. I stepped up close behind Eric.

  “I seriously doubt that had this merely slipped off that tall dresser, that it would land upright,” Eric said.

  “If you don’t believe my theory of it sliding off the dresser, then you should not handle it, either,” I cautioned him.

  In one fell swoop, Eric grabbed the clown in his left hand. He stepped over to the window and then he turned the figurine upside down. Pointing his right index finger at the bottom, he said, “It appears this clown is a vessel.”

  All I could see was what appeared to me to be a circular wood bottom of the drum the clown sat on. No hallmarks or imprinting on the bottom identified a model number or manufacturer, nor was there an artist’s signature. Of course, telltale signs of a maker’s mark could very well have worn off over the decades.

  “Eric, how do you know it is a vessel and where is the opening to it?”

  Eric pointed to the reverse side of the drum, near the bottom edge. “Here, on the back. See this small nail, albeit, what appears to be a nail head?”

  I leaned in for a closer examination. “Yeah, I see it, what about it?”

  “Shannon, do you have in your possession a small penknife, or a pointed emery file?”

  “Uh, no, I flew into to San Francisco and any metal object like that, including a nail file is prohibited by airport security. But, I might have a bobby pin and I can bite off the plastic end, that will give us a sharp pronged metal end.” In my enthusiasm I was on a roll, and before Eric could object, I scrounged around in my purse and came up with two bobby pins. I quickly bit off the end of one, and handed it to Eric.

  He looked at me with furrowed eyebrows and grimaced. “Promise me, you will never do this again. I’ve often wondered if you were a precocious child, I do believe you proved my theory.”

  “Hmm, I’ve always thought of myself as resourceful.” I smiled. “Are we going to stand here and debate my childhood development, or will you use that bobby pin to unlock the mystery of that clown?”

  Eric laughed and then said, “Now, that is the Shannon Delaney I know. As you wish.”

  Ever so deftly Eric inserted the end of the bobby pin underneath the nail head, which wasn’t a nail, it was a tiny lever. He twisted the lever and the bottom of the drum popped open.

  “Cup your hands Shannon and hold them out.”

  I did. Eric slowly shifted the figure upright and a small pair of blue glass lens spectacles dropped into my open hands. Eric shut the drum opening and replaced the clown on the dresser top. He turned to me and said, “I do believe those are cheater spectacles.”

  I held the wire-rimmed eyeglasses up to the window light and peered through them. “These do not appear to be any type of prescriptive lens glasses. Do you refer to them as cheater spectacles because of the blue glass?”

  “Precisely. That particular shade of light cobalt blue was used extensively by card sharks and other con artists. Gamblers of the era in which Jonathan Rupp lived, would mark the backside of cards in a deck by using the tip of a sharpened quill pen dipped in a solution of white vinegar. Most gamblers always carried their own decks and they knew how to replace a broken paper seal, thus a new deck could be a marked and none were the wiser.”

  “Do you think Brother Jonathan, or rather Jonathan Rupp was operating a scam at his tavern? There must have been gambling going on there and poker was one of the most popular card games throughout the 1800s,” I said.

  Eric was examining the blue spectacles, slowing turning them over in his hand. He stopped, set the eyeglasses down on the small table in front of us. He turned to me and said, “Jonathan Rupp may have used them the way you describe, although other theories are equally plausible. Perhaps he manufactured these glasses, or perhaps he did not gamble, but he marked poker cards for those who did. ”

  I asked, “Do you believe this clown figurine is the covert method he used to hide the fact that he was involved in any of the activities we suspect?”

  “A person hid these spectacles in the clown. How are we to ever know if it was Rupp? In fact, although these spectacles are smaller than an average-size adult would wear, hence a perfect fit for Rupp, we cannot say for a fact that they belonged to Jonathan Rupp. Possibly, he was being set up, framed, as one would say in present time.”

  “Okay, except…” I turned away from the window to look around my room. I could not put my finger on why I felt these blue-lens spectacles, did indeed, belong to Jonathan Rupp. Then, I spied my evidence. I dashed over to the bedside table, grabbed the shopping bag from the antique store and pulled out the framed photograph. I held it up for Eric to see.

  “Look real close at this person, this is Jonathan Rupp, notice his jacket is open and his waistcoat has a chest pocket. What do you see peeking out of that pocket?”

  Eric took the photo and held it up to the window light.

  “Ah-ha! Excellent skills of detection, my dear Shannon. Unmistakably, that is a pair of dark eyeglasses in his chest pocket.”

  “Yes it is. And although the photo is not in color, what are the chances he’d have another color of lenses, besides blue?”

  Eric considered my statement and then said, “I do believe colors other than blue were used, not for cheating, rather for shading ones’ eyes from the sun’s glare. Darker shades of amber glass and a tan-hued glass were utilized. Though, the concept of shading one’s eyes from the sun was not nearly as prevalent then, as it is today.”

  “Yes, I know that. Seems to me, I read somewhere that colored lens eyeglasses have been around for a couple of centuries, and that it was not until the early 1900s they caught on. But, really, Eric, you do see my point, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Eric had, once again, agreed with me in an absentminded way. He was handling the clown figurine again. “You should not have this in your company.” He turned to me and said. “Seamus and Connor O’Kelley would not oppose if you were to pass this along to a more appropriate owner.”

  “Like who?” I asked.

  “Marta Keller.”

  My eyes widened with excitement. “Oh, I love your idea. And when I call her, I can suggest that I will deliver the clown figurine to her house. I’ll fudge a little on how I got it, maybe say it was delivered to me today, after lunch. That way, Marta won’t question why I did not mention the clown at lunch. Also, by visiting her home, I can scope out her place. Maybe pick her brain some more about her ancestor.”

  I turned around to get out my cell phone. I was about to enter Marta’s number when it dawned on me, what about the eyeglasses? I looked up to ask Eric if we should re
place the spectacles, put them back in the figurine, but Eric had vanished. Rats! I decided to keep the spectacles in my possession and not mention them to Marta.

  A quick call to Marta was more than successful. She invited me to dinner that very evening. As soon as I hung up, I brainstormed a place I could hide the eyeglasses. Hotel rooms are notoriously scant on good hiding places. One can’t hide an object, even an object as small as these spectacles where the maid service might find it because, what if the maid thought a previous guest had left them behind? She’d probably not mention them to me and then the eyeglasses would end up in the bottomless pit of the hotel’s lost and found room. Moreover, I most certainly did not want to leave them in plain sight, they are an antique and what if I accidentally bumped them off the table? I could put them in the dresser drawer, or, better yet, I’ll keep them with me. I emptied my purse on the bed and grabbed my own eyeglass case, which I kept my favorite pair of sunglasses in. The hard clamshell case would protect these little spectacles and keep them handy for me. I exchanged my sunglasses for the little spectacles.

  After tucking the spectacles safely away in my purse, I glanced at my watch. It was three in the afternoon. I had plenty of time to get on the Internet and research as much about Jonathan Rupp as I could before dining at Marta’s. I wanted to see if Rupp was known to have dealings with gamblers of his era, or was one, himself.

  Two hours into my research I had not a thread of evidence that Jonathan Rupp had been involved in gambling, or ever associated with gamblers. I did come across a newspaper journalist’s account of how he died. Because the report was different enough from what I had been told about his death, I copied the newspaper article verbatim:

  Edgewild Eruption: Four Dead. May 23, 1912. One month ago and five miles outside of town an unprecedented eruption of violence left four persons dead. Edgewild Tavern owner, Jonathan Rupp, known to all as Brother Jonathan, returned home from a twoweek business journey to San Francisco to discover squatters on his land. Rupp told the squatters to pack and leave, saying “It is in your best interest to have vacated my property by the time I return.” Rupp left and rode back into town.