Lance reached into the container and pulled the smaller box from within. “It’s a few newspaper clippings about the shipping company. There’s only two or three, actually.” He pulled the top off the box and pushed it across the table.
Mary held the yellowing pieces of paper out and examined them. She turned the first one over, showing it to Lance. “That’s actually the first picture I’ve ever seen of your grandfather and grandmother. I’d heard the name of the company before, but never knew who really owned it or what happened to them.”
Lance nodded. The photograph gracing the thin page from the local paper depicted three people standing before a docking bay and the flat calm of Superior beyond. Two of the people he immediately recognized. Annette looked almost like a different person, her hair flowing in golden waves and a smile on her nearly unlined face. She had been pretty, Lance thought as he looked at the photo. The man to her left wore a black mask over the lower part of his face, covering the damaged tissue underneath it, but there was no mistaking the eyes that burned in the picture. Lance had seen them only the night before, boring holes into him from the corner of the room by the light of the shotgun.
This had been the only photo of Erwin Metzger that Lance had come across in the box. Erwin stood apart from his wife, like a statue hewn of the coldest stone. A rotund man with a paunchy smile on his face stood on the other side of Erwin, and was identified in the wording below the picture as Brian Ethridge, the mayor of Stony Bay at the time. The headline above the photo read Front Line Shipping Co: A growing powerhouse in the industry. The article went on to chronicle the accomplishments and endeavors the company had achieved so far. Nothing more than his grandfather’s and grandmother’s names were mentioned in the story.
Mary placed the clipping back into the box after reading it and its brethren. The other two articles only briefly outlined the startup and the subsequent buyout of the shipping company after Erwin’s death. A few moments later they heard a thumping as Harold made his way down the stairs.
Lance smelled the coffee before he ever saw the tray Harold carried. Mary cleared a spot on the table as the old man set the load down and began to pour cupfuls from a steaming pot.
“Thought you could use a little pick-me-up,” he said, handing Lance a boiling cup of the black liquid. Lance thanked him and sipped the drink, suddenly aware of how tired he truly was. Mary pulled another chair close to the table and Harold sat at the end, crossing one leg over the other, a cup in one hand.
“So, anything interesting so far?” Harold inquired, drinking from his brimming mug.
Lance shook his head. “Nothing unusual, but I guess I didn’t expect anything. Can you explain the abbreviations for the employee lists to me?” he said, pushing the closest open ledger toward the older man.
Harold squinted through his glasses at the pages before him. “Well, it’s fairly simple, actually. They didn’t get really complicated in the old days.” His finger slid along the top columns of the page. “These are just codes for information about the employees to the side here.” The old man’s hand traced the vertical edge of the page, the shadow of his hand passing over various names written in neat script. “The first column designates which position the employee held: DW is dock worker, SM is shipping mate, and so forth. OT is on time in regards to clock-in shifts for each position. IT is in transit, which means the person was part of a crew on a ship delivering a load somewhere. V is vacation time. HW is hourly wage, and the last column is for notes.”