Shayla and I looked at the records and passed them back to Mark. “So what happened?” she asked. “Did people forget who he was?”
“There’s no way of knowing that,” Mark answered. “It doesn’t appear he was a landowner, probably kept a low profile, since the local law enforcement—probably a magistrate—would’ve remembered him too well.”
“What about the hanging?” Rafe yelled, swinging his arms. “Tell them I was innocent.”
“The next time we see his name, it’s on a docket at the prison. He was sentenced to die by hanging.” Mark looked up and smiled. “I’m not sure how he managed not to be drawn and quartered. It was popular at that time for pirates.”
“You know, I thought everyone always said he was drawn, quartered and hanged after being tricked into coming to shore,” I said.
“That’s just folklore,” Mark said. “This is what really happened.”
“And what makes you think Rafe wasn’t guilty?” I asked.
“Well, I found a few documents on other prisoners who were being held at the same time. One of them—I can’t make out his name—was released, and Rafe’s name was put over his for smuggling. I think someone just wanted him dead.”
Shayla looked at her bright red fingernails. “Who can blame them? I mean, the man was a thief and a murderer. He might’ve been killed for something he didn’t do, but it sounds to me like he deserved it.”
“Mind your tongue, witch!” Rafe yelled at her. His anger blew all of the documents we’d been looking at on the floor. Two of the windows (probably damaged in the storm) blew out, and the door that had been open, slammed shut.
“What was that?” Mark asked, looking around. “I didn’t even realize those windows were bad.”
I got on the floor and picked up all the papers. “Do you know the name of the magistrate who condemned Rafe to death?”
“I think it’s here.” Mark took some of the papers from me and started looking through them. “He was involved in a lot of cases around the Outer Banks—probably the only magistrate for miles. There wasn’t a lot of society out here at that time. That’s why they had to send men down from Virginia to kill Blackbeard. Not much by way of government.”
Mark shuffled through the documents, squinting at them despite his glasses. Rafe frowned and looked over his shoulder.
“Here it is!” he said after a few minutes. “His name was William Astor. He tried and convicted more than one hundred pirates in his time. Some of them were probably just smugglers, but he wanted his convictions to sound more impressive. From what I can tell, Rafe was his biggest catch. He wasn’t exactly merciful with his executions either—another reason I’m surprised Rafe was only hanged.”
I took all of it in, borrowing a pen and paper to write down some information. “Do you know if William Astor has any living descendants here?”
“I haven’t gotten that far in my research,” Mark said. “Although, I might not even go in that direction. I’m kind of only interested in Rafe. I think we might be related. How cool would that be—to be Rafe Masterson’s descendant?”
“Probably not as cool as it sounds.” Shayla got to her feet. “I have to go. I have an appointment.”
“Thanks for your help, Mark.” I shook his hand. “I hope you find out you’re related to Rafe.”
“No problem, Dae. There’s supposed to be a journal or diary left by William Astor. You could ask Mrs. Stanley about it. She might know where it is. That might give you some idea whether any of Duck’s current residents are related to the old magistrate.”
Shayla and I walked back out into the sunshine with Rafe floating along in front of us.
“Why isn’t he gone?” Shayla asked when we were a few yards from Mark Samson’s house. “Mark said he probably wasn’t guilty of smuggling. He should be gone.”
“You understand very little,” Rafe said. “I need the real proof—I need that diary wherein the man himself admits he killed me dead for naught. Nothing less will give me peace after all these years.”
“Whatever.” Shayla shrugged. “Say the word, Dae, and I’ll give Aunt Marie a call.”
“I want to get rid of him as much as anyone—”
“Lucky Mark Samson isn’t related to the pirate blowhard or he’d be taking up residence at the Rib Shack,” Shayla added.
“Anyway, it sounds like Rafe might not be guilty. All we have to do is figure out if someone here is still related to William Astor and has his diary.” I smiled at her.
“Sounds like fun,” she said. “Give me a call when you’re done. See you, Dae.”
Chapter 32
I decided to go to Missing Pieces and spend some time alone to think about everything. Being alone meant Rafe could be in the shop with me—according to our agreement—but I was hoping to persuade him otherwise. I thought of several convincing reasons why I needed some time without him.
But it turned out he had other plans anyway. Without any explanation, he vanished down a set of concrete stairs that led into the sound. Watching him disappear into the water gave me shivers.
Gramps had told me once that those stairs had been part of a pier that was destroyed during a hurricane years before I was born. No one had ever bothered to pull them up—they made for interesting stories to tell children and tourists.
Maybe hearing about his past from Mark Samson had left the old pirate in need of some time alone too, I speculated as I opened the door to Missing Pieces. I certainly wasn’t complaining. I sat down on my burgundy brocade sofa with a relieved sigh.
There was always something about the days following a bad storm—as though time stood still for a while as we recovered from the assault. Life, normal life, came back slowly until one day everything was working and where it belonged again. That transition was as much a part of the rhythm of the Outer Banks as the horses and the lighthouses.
I took a hand cloth and began dusting and rearranging all my treasures. This was one of my favorite chores. I was surprised and pleased to be interrupted by a customer.
“I’m looking for a birthday present for my sister back home,” the woman told me. She was tall, thin, very blond, and dressed expensively. “I was supposed to be home already, but the storm stranded me here for a few more days. She’s picking me up at the airport when I leave next week. I thought it might be a nice surprise if I came back with something for her.”
“Where’s home?” I asked with a smile, quickly hiding my dust cloth.
“St. Louis. All my family is there. But I’ve had a wonderful time down here. My friend who comes every summer with her family recommended Duck—and your shop.”
“I’m glad you’ve had a good time, despite the storm. And I’m glad you stopped by. What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. She likes antiques.” She shrugged and looked around like she was lost. “I don’t know anything about them. I’d love it if there was something that has a story. She’s a writer and she loves history.”
“Really? What does she write?”
The woman laughed, showing perfect white teeth in her tanned face. “She writes murder mysteries set in the past. Crazy, huh? But she’s successful at it. My brother and I tease her all the time about it. She doesn’t care. She’s happy.”
I thought about the gold makeup case and dug it out. Apparently my previous buyer had changed her mind, since I hadn’t heard from her. “This belonged to Lady Suzanne Forester, and there is a story that goes with it. She spent some time here off and on with her uncle during the late 1700s and early 1800s. She was a writer too.”
“Murder mysteries?” The woman carefully examined the case.
“No, I’m afraid not. She wrote wonderful journals about her life and the people around her—what it was like to spend time in this area when it was still basically a wilderness then return to England and her life there. She was an early suffragette. She was very accomplished as an artist too. A Renaissance woman. Your sister can probably find some background material about her in books.”