A Ghost of Brother Johnathan's (12 page)

Knights of the Golden Circle.”
“Okay, that’s right up my alley, shoot.”
“Three names: Geoffrey Ozwald Dresden, Gordon

Sam gave a low whistle. “Shannon, where did you come up with those names?”
I spent the next fifteen minutes explaining to Sam what I suspected, and what I knew.
“Come-on Sam, what gives with these three particular names?”
“Those names represent aliases of men known to be operatives and sentries of KGC treasure spots. In addition to the many graves and various locations you found. I know that there are identical graves, to the ones you discovered, in Utah, Nevada, Mississippi and Tennessee,” Sam said, and then added, “Shannon, you need to be very careful. KGC scholars believe that the treasure spots are still being guarded.”
“You mean, watched by KGC sentries?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s just a theory, but people who study conspiracy operations, such as the KGC, believe that the organization has gone deeply underground, but remains active, all the same.”
“Sam, really? After all these decades, there is still Confederate treasure caches hidden throughout the country?”
“I’m dead serious. Look at it this way, the shipwreck of the
Brother Jonathan
, well, it is the perfect example of a KGC operation. You know from having come up with the latest news on the wreck, that most of the treasure has never been found. Salvagers and gold hunters have been diving for that gold ever since the wreck happened. And while some treasure has been found, the bulk of the incredible wealth of the 1865 S Double Eagle gold coins has never been recovered. A bit odd, don’t ya think, considering that these same shipwreck salvage divers have located and brought up treasure and coins from the Spanish Conquest dating back hundreds of years and those ships went down in the much deeper waters of the Caribbean, and Gulf of Mexico.”
“Wow, Sam, I never thought of it that way. So, gold coins were the targeted treasure of the KGC?”
“Yeah, most often gold coins were the preferred heist. Coins were easier to hide. Silver coins were hidden, too,” Sam answered.
“And how were they usually hidden?”
“Wood or glass containers. Ammunition boxes were good, they buried easily. Also, jelly jars were used. Coins fit nicely into the jelly jars.”
“Sam, you mean Mason jars?” I asked, a little confused by the concept.
“Yeah. They haven’t change too much over the decades. The jars used today in home canning are similar to what was invented and patented by John Mason in 1858. The glass is not as thick in modern jars and newer metals are used for the lids.”
“Sam, would the operatives have buried treasure in graves?”
“Not likely. At least that has never been the case, so far. The connection to look for is what the three men have in common. Where did they reside? Where did they work? What were their social contacts? These are the kind of connections we need to discover,” Sam suggested.
“I know that one of them, Gordon Ogden Dalton, was a land owner in Eureka and he had some kind of an outpost cabin. I wonder if his cabin was used for a hiding place, there’s acres of forest surrounding that area.”
Sam didn’t reply.
“Sam?”
“Yeah, I’m here. When you said that name, I brought up my computer files on him. Wait a sec. Let me read them, don’t hang up.”
I waited for minutes, not seconds. Finally after what seemed like a half an hour, Sam came back on.
“Shannon, that name, Gordon Ogden Dalton, here in the outlying area of Chicago he owned and operated a stage-stop, and called it the Eagle’s Nest. Also, according to newspapers of the day, he was from England.”
Now it was I who could not find the words. My thoughts raced and I searched for a logical order of clues. Finally, I asked, “The other two men, do you know about their employment?”
“Yep, got that info right here. The other two, Geoffrey Dresden and Gerald Derringer, they worked as ranch hands and were known to socialize with Gordon Dalton. Hey, just a thought, can you get into census records?” Sam asked.
“Yes.”
“Shannon, try finding the men in the census records. That’s how I found out about the three men in the Chicago area.”
“Great idea, and I wish I’d thought of it. Sam, I may need to get back to you on this. Are you okay with that?”
“Sure. But I have a request. Don’t go public, and by that, I mean break it to the media without giving me the first shot, okay?”
“No problem, glad to do that. And, in fact I’ll give you the exclusive on it. I promise.”
After we got off the phone, I did exactly as Sam suggested. Using the free Internet site for Heritage Quest, I brought up the scanned images of the original census records.
Thirty minutes of studying the records led to the discovery that Gordon Dalton was listed as the business owner of an outpost-slash-tavern in the 1860 and 1870 census. In the 1880 census he was listed as living in the town of Ferndale and operating a men’s boarding house. Also on the census, Dalton listed England as his country of birth. Dalton vanished from census records after 1880. I guessed that after 1880 he moved out of California since this was about the same time he would have fallen behind in taxes owed on the tavern property, what is now Rupp property, or he went undercover using another alias, or, perhaps resorted to using his real name, whatever that might be.
Another twenty minutes of research led to the discovery that Geoffrey Dresden and Gerald Derringer were renters at the boarding house operated by Dalton in 1880. Dresden and Derringer’s employment was listed as farm laborers. Two men with these same names showed up on the 1890, 1900 and 1910 census. In the 1900 and 1910 census records they lived on various farms in the Ferndale dairy farm community. The lightbulb moment came when I realized that both men, at the same time, were employed by, and lived on the property of, Margaret Kuchen in 1910. Bingo! I had connected some crucial dots. I wondered how long they had lived at Margaret’s and I knew I might never find out. But, I bet they were there when she died and I had a sneaky suspicion that in one way or another, they had something to do with her death. I logged off the Heritage Quest site and decided to do some research about KGC treasure caches.
Wow, I never realized what a phenomenally popular conspiracy theory the KGC hidden caches are. There are hundreds of Internet sites for an inquiring mind to explore. Some of the sites were fanatically melodramatic and others, scholarly and sensible. After an hour spent delving into the world of hidden Confederate gold, I logged off and shut down my computer. I had seen for myself that Sam was right. Ammunition boxes and jelly jars were the preferred vessels for hiding gold, especially coins. Over the years, dedicated KGC scholars have discovered some of these caches.
It made me wonder if the Jonathan Rupp property had been used as a hiding place. Maybe not in the forest, that was a vast amount of land to cover and could be too confusing, because of the changing weather conditions of the four-season environment. However, closer in toward the buildings, the tavern itself or maybe where the cooking cabin had been, or even one of the sheds or barns on the property… these were potential KGC cache sites. After all, Bonnie Parting, as crazy and lunatic as she may have been, she was after something of great importance and none too subtle about risking her life for it. I suspected that her actions leading up to that fateful day of the shoot-out were no more than an elaborate ruse that she was there under a homesteading land-jump claim. And, instead of homesteading, she had gone out to the property because she knew Jonathan Rupp was out of town and it was the perfect opportunity to hunt for the hidden gold?
I stood up and then immediately sat back down. I was dizzy. My stomach growled and I needed a break. I needed to get myself back into the company of the living. After freshening up, I took a stroll over to Hurricane Kate’s. I thought it would be busy for dinner on a Sunday and I was prepared to wait for a table, but it was only five when I walked in and the restaurant wasn’t crowded. The waiter recognized me, gave me a friendly greeting and took me to a small corner table. I was just about to sit down when I heard a man say, “Shannon Delaney, why not join us?”

Frank Dazi?
I sat down at Frank’s table. He introduced me to Joyce Frushone, a woman much older than him, who I assumed was a relative, or at least a very familiar business associate. Turns out, she was both.
“Shannon, Joyce is not only a distant cousin, she is my attorney,” Frank explained and then added, “Together, we can probably set your mind at ease about the legal action I have recently taken. Of course, I am assuming you know about my action to gain sole ownership of the Rupp property?”
Dumbstruck, I stared at Frank. No way had I expected him to be so forthcoming. “Yes, I have heard as much.”
Frank smiled. “And you admit so without the least amount of anger in your voice. I hope that indicates you have given me the benefit of the doubt?”
I was about to reply when the waiter stepped up to our table with menus. I used my menu to hide behind, taking my time to make a selection. Joyce and Frank acted likewise. The waiter reappeared and we ordered. To say that the moment was awkward is an understatement.
“I don’t mean to blindside you,” Frank said. “It’s just that you being here, at this moment and accepting my invitation to join us is serendipitous. Shannon, I’m in a fix, because I can’t go to Marta in person and explain my plans. However, if a friend of hers knew the real story and could relate it to her, let’s say, uh, go behind my back, then this messy legal issue could be settled quickly and to everyone’s benefit.”
“To everyone’s benefit?” I questioned and then asked, “How would Marta benefit?”
“It’s like this,” Joyce answered, “Frank’s intention is to share equally, with Marta, in the ownership of the Rupp property if Marta will sign a quitclaim to the property. Then, instead of going ahead with the plans under the auspices of the historical society, Frank has in line a new contract, to sell the property outright. However, he and Marta would retain investment interests, with their percentage of the revenue coming right off the top. The profit would be twenty times what Marta would get under the plan of the historical society. The business contract is with a highly reputable company that would renovate the tavern and operate it year-round, instead of on a seasonal basis, and certainly not as a low-revenue producing pizza restaurant.”
“But why can’t that plan be executed right now, without taking legal action against Marta?”
This time, Frank replied, “Because, as it is right now, if Marta were to pull out of her contract with the historical society, she would be sued for reneging. That contract she signed with them is ironclad. The only way to get Marta out of it legally and without devastating repercussions is to make the property unattractive to the historical society.”
“So… your legal filing against Marta serves the purpose of giving the historical society an easy and legal way to pull out of their contract with Marta?”
Joyce answered, “Exactly. Tomorrow, Marta will be served with the papers and copies of the same papers will be delivered to the historical society. I fully expect the society to reply to me within two days, max. After I have notice they have pulled out, I can advise Marta to sign a quitclaim and after that process of filing, which by the way is routine, we will then have her sign an equal and dual ownership of the property’s deed.”
“And if Marta were to legally be made aware of the full extent of our plans, she might be suspected of a vested interest before the fact, yet another legal loophole that could have a devastating effect that we would like to avoid,” Frank said.
I sat silent for a few moments as the waiter served our dinners. It occurred to me that Frank could be playing me as a patsy. “Why should I believe you and why should I help?”
“Good question and considering that you have recently met me, I don’t blame you for asking. I have a hunch that I know someone you will believe.” Frank reached into his blazer pocket and handed me a business card.
I readily recognized the business name. I smiled. “You mean to say that the deal you are making is with Connor O’Kelley?”
“Exactly. I’m sure you’ll call Mr. O’Kelley to confirm. Please call him, soon. I really do not want Marta to be distressed over this situation. Yet I am powerless to contact her myself and explain that I sincerely have her best interest at heart,” Frank said.
I stood up. “Excuse me, I will call Connor right now.”
I stepped outside and around the corner, out of sight of the restaurant’s windows. Connor answered on the second ring. A quick five-minute conversation confirmed every aspect about the proposed deal that Frank and Joyce described. Connor assured me he would not go through with the deal if Marta is not signed on as equal owner of the tavern and property. I returned to Hurricane Kate’s in a much better mood, ready to enjoy my meal.
“Okay. I am convinced. I will call Marta tonight and try my best to convince her to follow through with your plan.”
Frank grinned from ear to ear. He looked like a little boy who had just opened up the Christmas gift he had been hoping and wishing for. “Thank you so very much, Shannon. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, there is. And I hope you will agree that what I ask is in the best interests for you and Marta.”
Joyce and Frank looked up at me at the exact same second. Each set aside their forks.
I explained, “I’m trying to determine the owner of handwriting that is inside a cookbook that is Marta’s but was given to me to research. The cookbook was in Jonathan Rupp’s personal belongings, it dates to 1882.”
“Do you think the script is Jonathan’s?” Frank asked.
“It could be, but I don’t have anything authentic to compare the cookbook notations with. Tomorrow, before meeting you for lunch, I’m stopping in at the museum in Crescent City to see if they have papers with Jonathan’s handwriting, hopefully they do and I can then compare the two scripts.”
“And you have the cookbook with you?” Frank asked. “It’s back at my hotel room.”
“I’ve an idea,” Frank said. “After dinner we’ll go to your hotel. If you allow me to take the book back home with me this evening, then I’ll spend the rest of tonight and tomorrow morning comparing the book to old letters I have of the Rupp family. By lunch tomorrow, I’ll know for certain if the writing is Jonathan’s or maybe it could be Ella’s?”
“Ella’s? I had not thought of it being her handscript. Given the time period of the book, it being published in 1882, the notes could be hers. Frank, I love your idea!”
“Excellent. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful concept to use some of the recipes from the cookbook at the new place?” Frank suggested.
“Connor would love that idea. He and his son Seamus always strive to have elements of authentic details at all their venues. Some of the recipes in this cookbook would translate easily into contemporary preparation and still maintain their historic flavor, so to speak.” I giggled and added, “Pun intended.” Then, it dawned on me that if I lent the cookbook to Frank, I’d have to turnover the blue glass spectacles to him, as well. Yikes. I really did not want to do that.
“Um…” I paused to gather my words, “There is some writing in the front of the book that is faint, it looks as if it was jotted in pencil and then erased. I was hoping to find a way to get a better look at it, maybe under a blacklight at the museum?” I lamely suggested.
Frank paused in his eating, I could tell, he too, was having trouble collecting his words.
“Hmm, I have an idea. I’m not sure if you were informed that Jonathan, after his circus days, made a living designing circus trade cards. His talent required drawing exceptional fine lines and to do that he used art pencils made for that purpose. The lines were so delicate and faint that Jonathan Rupp used specially manufactured blue lens eyeglasses. When I discovered this fact, I had a pair custom-made for myself. Of course, I have no way of knowing if the exact hue of blue is identical to what Jonathan used, but it’s close, because in studying his artwork I am able to see the faintest of pencil lines.”
Amazing and yet, quite ordinary. Had I been faced with the same circumstance, I too would have had a pair of the eyeglasses made for the same purpose. I held a new sense of appreciation for Frank Dazi. Not only was his heart in the right place, his instinct and follow through for research was flawless. “Frank, I am eagerly looking forward to our lunch.”
Frank and Joyce gave me a ride back to the hotel where they waited in the lobby. I dashed up to my room and returned with the cookbook in hand. Frank received the book with a wide smile and a promise to care for it as an heirloom, which it probably was. We said our good-byes.
Exhausted and exhilarated by the turn of events. I took a long hot shower, letting the troubles and concerns of this mystery wash off of my shoulders in streamlets of lemon verbena soap-scented water. After dressing in cozy pajamas I was ready to plead my case to Marta.
My conversation with Marta was a reassurance of her own gut feelings. She was greatly relieved to have an outline of the plan and its details and even more so, excited to know that it was Connor O’Kelley who would be developing the venue. Evidently, I was not the only person in Marta’s circle who had a back-door knowledge of Connor’s plan. Marta told me that Rosario had spent the better part of an hour-long telephone call convincing her that with Connor O’Kelley at the helm, the project would be a rousing success.
Thank you Rosario!
I could not help but to wonder, who called whom? Did Connor telephone Rosario, or vice versa?
I slept soundly that night and awoke the next morning very much aware and in-tuned to the intuitive certainty that the mystery would be solved by tomorrow.