There were several off-putting things about Paul Easton. He was demanding and self-centered, wrapped in a blanket of entitlement. All of this was true, at least to me. Normally, I am not overly interested in what other people wear or how they present themselves. However, I do notice the outliers who dress in ways that draw attention to themselves. Not because I want people to conform to some unwritten social norm, but because people who seek attention in this way intrigue me. It wasn’t that he was better dressed than most of us, either. There were plenty of well-turned-out islanders and visitors.
Rather, Paul’s manner of dress felt like a shield, blocking you from getting emotionally close to him—as if he had donned a costume to play a role. That fit with his stilted, formal, regulated speech. Time with Paul was time spent trying to figure out what he was really saying and thinking. He was, I thought, someone who remained completely unfamiliar, no matter how many times you were in his company. Trying to figure out Paul Easton made you focus on his words, his actions, and for me, even his clothes, and that’s where I knew I had seen the silver oval before. It was a concho from Paul’s belt, the belt Paul wore when he visited the store.
Now I remembered that belt clearly.
But could I prove that it was Paul’s concho? Living in a golf community, concho belts were somewhat common, both on and off the course. Could I be sure this concho belonged to Paul? I looked closely at the evidence pictures I took before handing my plastic bags over to Julie. It was very likely that the letters and clubs engraved on this disk were tied to a golf club. If this was true, then this concho was likely from a belt purchased at that club pro shop. Could I find this specific club logo online?
“Ah-ha!” I shouted just a few minutes later, startling Buddy out of his deep sleep. A reverse-image search of the concho’s face turned up Ganton Golf Club in England. The market for Ganton Golf Club belts on this small island four thousand miles away must be microscopic.
Still, for this to be solid evidence, I had to prove this concho came from a belt that belonged to Paul. I would definitely be visiting him in the morning, that was a given. Julie’s skepticism over Missy’s charm showed me I would need this proof, and that I’d get bonus points for proving it was there when we found Carl. With the time zone difference, the Ganton Club’s pro shop and club desk would open in only a few hours. I would call to see if anyone knew Paul Easton.
If I made that connection, that would help with part one. Part two was a bit more challenging. How would I ever prove when this concho was left at Governor’s Point? All the pictures I took on Saturday had been downloaded to my computer in order to share them with Julie. I turned on the television mounted above my stone fireplace in the family room and used AirPlay to review them on the large screen. I was surprised at how many shots I took that morning. I hardly remembered taking some of them and, at the time, my mind had not absorbed all the details I could now see.
I clicked quickly through more than a dozen photos because I wanted to get to the ones of the walkway where we found the concho. There was a series of fourteen shots of this general area taken in rapid succession. In the background, the first responders, detectives, and other professionals were visible as they worked the scene. In the foreground, I focused on the trampled grasses, the scuffed stones, and the gravel pushed to the sides of the path. There, in the top left corner of the screen, right where we paused to look at Barb’s leg, was a ground-covering plant that looked like it had been trampled, and right below its variegated leaves, I could see a sliver of silver. I jumped from my chair, balancing my laptop on my left palm and using my right to zoom in on the image. Without blurring the screen, you could only see this hint of silver. Would this be enough? Could this prove that Paul had been at Governor’s Point before we found Carl?
My adrenaline was pumping, but I was in a holding pattern for now. I couldn’t speak to Paul and I couldn’t contact the golf club yet. Restless to keep going, I searched my notes for any other avenue of research into Paul’s life I could pursue at this hour—and I remembered his books! I dug into the box of books Bob Harkins brought over to me—to which I had added the less-expensive book he had found for Paul and mailed to me. I hadn’t touched Bob’s books because they reminded me of my own professional lapse with Bob and Monica. As a result, I wanted to wait until my mind had cleared and I could review these books carefully to provide meaningful feedback to Bob. I wanted to regain some credibility with him.
The little shelf of regional authors was proving quite popular with my customers—they had definitely embraced the idea of shopping locally. Bob’s experience made me feel like I should just defer to his recommendations. I didn’t have many of my own suggestions. Maybe I could have just accepted his guidance if I hadn’t already felt so unimpressed by my own performance at Books & Brew this week. With this in mind, I settled down to review Bob’s suggestions as thoughtfully and intentionally as I could.
The book he sent in the mail for Paul was the thickest one in the box—a book about treasure hunting in this region. It was divided into chapters based on location and included descriptions of each of these adventures, with an index that allowed readers to search for the type of treasure, location, and date the treasure was lost or found. The map printed inside the front cover was a nice touch. But why was this book on Paul’s list? Suddenly, I spotted the extensive index of Mongin citations—and this book had my full attention. There were over a hundred pages about one Mongin story alone. When I learned that the treasure hunters were a team from the University of Georgia, I was hooked! Many of my old neighbors and their children attended UGA and I always had a soft spot for their bulldog mascot.
I dove into those pages! The UGA team, led in tandem by the chair of the southern studies program and a visiting adjunct professor, came to Mongin Island decades ago. Their charge was to find the missing graves belonging to an elite British army team ambushed by Native Americans in the battles that preceded the American Revolutionary War. It was rumored that gold and personal artifacts given by King George I were also buried with these troops. Depending on their final resting place, many people long believed these graves and treasures had washed out to sea decades ago as the island flooded, the water tables shifted, and various hurricanes hit Mongin Island. However, this UGA team had done extensive research and received the funding to look inland. There were several dig sites identified and the State Historic Preservation Office had issued permits allowing excavation.
It certainly was an intriguing story and I loved the black-and-white photograph of the explorers inserted after the first thirty pages. Seeing these pictures made me sentimental. Pictures from this time period helped me imagine what my dad must have looked like when he was a young man. My father died when I was a child, and I don’t have many pictures of him. These men were dressed in the same dress code he probably would have selected: short-sleeved shirts tucked into khaki pants and dark ties. This made them seem familiar to me. Some wore dark-framed browline glasses, but all had short-cropped haircuts. They faced the camera hopefully. Their youthful confidence was easy to see.
The dig sites had been identified on a smaller map on the left side of the text and I noticed immediately they were all in the center and northwestern parts of the island. Much of Mongin was undeveloped when this research team was here years ago. To this day, many people still find Native American artifacts on the island, so I can only imagine the things that were unearthed fifty years ago.
Their story took me through the anticipation, exploration, and excavation process. As I read, I rode the highs and lows with the team. Reading between the lines, I sensed their dissatisfaction and urgency. There were several references to “tight deadlines” and long days of work that continued by flashlight some evenings. After a physically grueling two months and multiple sites explored, the British troops, if buried here, had not been found.
I felt a tug in my heart, looking at the pictures from the conclusion of the dig. The team looked stoically at the camera. Their exuberance and confidence were gone. Instead, exhaustion and disappointment replaced their previous joy. However, when I turned to the last page and saw the final group shot, it was the visiting professor’s expression that was truly compelling and riveting. His heartbreak was so palpable, so real, looking at his photo made you want to reach out and pat his arm encouragingly, reassuring him that life would go on.
“All is now lost” was the quote attributed to Dr. Edward Easton on the last page.