A Spirited Gift

“Yes. Two of the six survived—pretty good numbers back then with all the childhood diseases going around,” Andy added. “Magistrates were a pretty big deal in the late 1700s and early 1800s, so they’d have had all the advantages that were possible.”

“Can you tell which two survived and if they have descendants?” I asked, feeling the anxiety in the pit of my stomach.

“One of them was clearly Mary Masterson’s child. It seems he took back his birth father’s name after his mother died. He went on to become a governor in Jamaica. The other was from the second wife. He was hanged for murder. Pretty sweet, huh?” Andy teased.

“Not so fast, boys,” Mrs. Stanley countered. “We have no proof as yet that this Mary Smith-Masterson was indeed married to Rafe Masterson. I’ve never heard that the pirate settled down and had a family—except of course from your perspective, Mark. We need proof before we can consider it history.”

“And? What about now? Are there any descendants left of the son who was the governor of Jamaica, Mary’s child?”

“Yes!” Mark jumped on that. “Thanks to the Internet and the library in Manteo, we know that the magistrate’s descendant is—drum roll—Joseph Endy of Duck, North Carolina.”

I’ve never seen two faces lose their excitement so quickly. Mrs. Stanley sat down and made a modest humphing noise. “Oh, that diary. You’ll never get it from him,” she said. “Odious man! I didn’t know he was involved in all this. We’ve wasted our time.”

I didn’t understand the problem. I knew Joe. He was okay.

“We’ve tried for years to get even a glimpse of it,” Andy confirmed. “He won’t even let us see the diary much less tell us who wrote it.”

“He taunts us with it.” Mrs. Stanley frowned. “He knows how valuable it may be to Duck history. He’s refused all of our efforts to get information about it.”

Mark looked more crestfallen than any of us. “We have to do something about it. This could be definitive. He can’t hide history. Maybe we could appeal to him. He might’ve changed his mind. Why hasn’t anyone told me about this before?”

“You haven’t been a member that long,” Andy told him. “Besides, it hasn’t come up in years. I never thought about the diary Dae was looking for belonging to that old coot.”

“But maybe this is an opportunity,” Mrs. Stanley said in a sly way as she looked at me. “A chance to change his mind. Joe always liked the ladies. I remember when he and Wild Johnny Simpson and Bunk Whitley used to have contests to see who could take out the best-looking girl.”

“Dae isn’t bad looking,” Andy said. “And she has a very winning way about her. She might be able to get a look at the diary.”

“Good idea!” Mark patted me hard on the back in his excitement. “If anyone can do it, our mayor can!”

Funny how people loved you when you could get something they wanted.

Chapter 45

So thirty minutes later (after an approved clothing change) I was at Joe Endy’s little house off Duck Road on the Currituck Sound side. The three members of the Duck Historical Society had taken me up to the Sunflower Fancy shop and purchased an outfit they felt would win Joe’s heart—basically softening him up enough that he’d let me take a look at the diary.

I wasn’t so sure about the change, and I had plenty of clothes in my closet at home. The clinging, apricot-colored silk dress wasn’t exactly my style, and the extra makeup Mrs. Stanley put on me made me feel even less like myself. But there was no arguing with them. No talking on my part at all for that matter. They spent the whole time telling me what I should and shouldn’t say to Joe.

I wasn’t thinking about any of their instructions, though, as I knocked on the weather-beaten door. Joe’s little house was like so many in Duck that were built in the 1950s, withstanding hurricanes and high tides. It had a little wrought-iron fence around an old flower garden. Weeds had mostly overtaken the late-season roses and mums.

I was trying to get my pirate ghost to back off. Rafe was even more insistent and louder than any of the museum members. I knew he was excited about possibly having the end of his long road in sight. But I wouldn’t be able to concentrate with him shouting that way when I spoke with Joe. At least no one else could hear his tirade.

“Come on in,” Joe called. “Door’s open.”

I remembered that he’d suffered a stroke a few months back. While there had been sympathy expressed by the town council, members were also relieved not to have him complaining at every meeting.”

“Mr. Endy?” I called as I walked in. “It’s Dae O’Donnell. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”

He appeared in his wheelchair, a skeletal remnant of the man he’d been. His gnarled hands were clenched on the big wheels that moved him from place to place. “Mayor! To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”