Page 94 of Old Flames

Thankfully, Daphne was not one for small talk or fluff. Coffee, cake, and ice water served, she kick-started the conversation. “What brings you by?”

“Strange happenings at The Aurora,” Leo replied.

Daphne dropped her fist onto the table. “For the last time! Why are you still there? Exercise free will and leave!”

“Not before we figure out what’s going down,” he said.

“Why?”

“Why not?” Leo said. “Check my bio. It’s my thing.”

“How about you, Jules?” Daphne asked. “What’s your excuse?”

July squeezed the juice of a lemon wedge into her glass. “It’s a long story.”

“This is my fault,” Daphne said, her gaze drifting to the ceiling painted sky blue with tufts of white clouds. “I should’ve never booked that venue.”

“Here’s what we know so far.” Leo got her up to speed: Aurora, Luis De Leon, and a mysterious domestic servant who may or may not have been imported from the Bahamas or Haiti.

“I’m not surprised you can’t find much information on a housemaid,” Daphne said. “Unless the family kept some record, her life will be erased. If you’re interested in the history of the property itself, the library is a good resource. They’ve curated a collection of renderings, paintings, and early photographs of the great houses of the late 1800s.”

Leo checked with July to make sure she was up for it. “Want to go?”

“What do you think?”

The scavenger hunt continued.

The library was a short walk away, housed in a historic building, the former city hall. Its dusty rose facade and pair of jalousie doors welcomed them off the street.

Everything was stored online. The librarian, a pleasant lady named Gwen, sat them at a computer and gave them a virtual tour. She first clicked open a folder labeled 1880–1889.

“If these grand homes are still standing today, it’s a testament of the resilience and ingenuity of our city.” She clicked on a link to a portfolio labeled A Winter in the Sun. “A photographer from Chicago spent the winter of 1885 here and couldn’t get over the subtropical weather. He went around taking photos of everyday people, going about their daily business in the dead of winter. Or what would be considered the dead of winter where he was from. The architecture isn’t the focus, but you get a glimpse of warehouses and factories of the business district.” She clicked on a photo to fill the screen. “Here, a small group of men of all races are chatting outside a general store, and this might’ve shocked the photographer more than anything. Key West was far less rigid and segregated than most cities in the South. People congregated for survival. Interracial marriage wasn’t accepted, but some intermingling was allowed.”

“We’d like to focus on the mansions,” Leo said.

“They are popular for a reason.” Gwen clicked open a subfolder. “I’ll give you a quick overview and let you peruse on your own. Let’s start with this property on Eaton Street, currently The Artist House. It’s one of the most photographed homes in Key West—and not just because of the doll in the attic. It stands out as an example of colonial Queen Anne architecture, a true mishmash of styles that somehow works. You should return in October. They go all out for Halloween.”

“Is that doll still in the house?” Leo asked, mainly to pass the information on to Matty in support of his doll project.

“Oh, no,” Gwen said. “Robert is on display at a museum.”

Leo jotted down the doll’s name.

“This Victorian-style mansion on Caroline Street is the former home of Florida’s first millionaire,” Gwen continued. “Today it’s an inn, and I wonder what the original owners would make of that. Probably turning in their graves.”

“I bet they are,” Leo said. “We’re staying on Caroline Street, at The Aurora.”

“The former Jacobsen house,” Gwen said. “We have a photograph, only not in this folder.”

With a few clicks, Gwen returned to A Winter in the Sun, scrolled a bit, and landed on a sepia-toned image of the two-story house that Leo would not have recognized if not for the distinctive tower.

“Here we go,” Gwen said. “We’re lucky it’s still standing because a nearby property was destroyed in the Great Fire, roughly a year after this image was taken. Here’s a fun fact. Today is the anniversary of the fire, one hundred and forty years, but I digress. As I said earlier, this photographer was less interested in fixed structures than the bustling streets. Notice there’s no privacy wall, no locked gate, just an ordinary picket fence. And it’s yellow with white shutters and lace trim, not that all-too-common blue of today.” Gwen paused, her attention drawn by what sounded like the faint whir of an ancient fax machine. “I should check that. Please take all the time you need. If you have any questions. I’ll be at the desk.”

As soon as Gwen left, July took control of the mouse and expanded the image. She leaned into the screen, taking in every detail from corner to corner. What she and Leo had spotted instantly was a young woman, tall and slender with July’s almond complexion, standing near the fence. She wore a long skirt, a button-up blouse, and a simple straw hat. She looked away from the photographer, her face partially concealed by the brim of her hat.

She had a life outside the home. She could steal a moment to meet with friends or take a lover.

Gwen the librarian was stumped when asked about the woman in the photo. “It could be anyone, a neighbor, a passerby, the help. This photo is titled Sunday Morning on Caroline Street, 1885. This young person has on her Sunday finest. She may be on her way to church. It looks to me that she’s of mixed race. She might’ve worked as a housemaid or nanny.”