Bad Hair Day 7 - Dead Roots (3 page)

Vail grimaced. “It’s been a long day, so we’ll probably turn in early. Right, hon?”

“Which rooms are you in?” Cynthia said.

“Hibiscus 407,” Marla answered.

Cynthia glanced at each of them in turn, moistening her lower lip. “You’re staying together? It doesn’t bother me, but some of the other relatives might talk. I mean, you’re not married yet and…” Cynthia flushed deeply. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

Marla straightened her shoulders. “In this modern age, I wouldn’t think anyone cares.”

“You’d be surprised.” Cynthia lowered her voice, leaning forward. “Everyone is asking me where Corbin has been the past few years. I-I can’t tell them my brother just got out of jail.” Her blue eyes implored Marla. “You won’t say anything, will you?”

“Of course not.” Both of their gazes swung to Vail.

He raised his arms in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t hear anything. Don’t look at me.”

Marla felt her elbow bumped and turned to face a bevy of relatives from Massachusetts she hadn’t seen in a while. “Uncle William and Aunt Harriet, how delightful.” They’d arrived with the oldest of their three daughters, Joan, who was accompanied by a youthful version of herself. “Who’s this beautiful young lady?” Marla said, regarding the pretty brunette, who had a slightly upturned nose and impishly curved mouth.

“Rochelle recently turned sixteen,” Joan replied, beaming at her only child. “She’s just gotten her driver’s license.”

“It’s great to see you,” Marla said. “Where is everyone else? Lori is here, isn’t she?”

“Lori and Jeff just arrived and are getting settled. We’ve already seen Julia and Alan, but they didn’t have far to come, did they?” Joan chuckled. Her youngest sister and brother-in-law lived on Florida’s east coast.

Vail cleared his throat, and Marla stepped aside to introduce him. ‘This is my fiancé, Dalton Vail.” She attempted to explain her family tree while he murmured a polite greeting. “Joan’s father, my Uncle William, is my mother’s brother.”

“They’ll give you a quiz before the weekend is over,” Rochelle put in laughingly. She wore a typical teenager’s outfit: skimpy tank top that revealed her navel ring and jeans slung low over her hips.

“So what do you do?” Joan asked Dalton as Marla gave her older cousin’s head an admiring glance. Bronze highlights glinted in the sunlight on cascading waves of ash blond hair. “I thought Marla would shy away from permanent relationships after she divorced good old Stan.”

“I’m in the law field,” Vail stated, somewhat aloofly.

“Oh, Stan was an attorney, too.”

“Not a lawyer. I’m a homicide investigator.”

“Awesome!” Rochelle cried, trotting beside him as the group followed their guide. “So, like, do you carry a gun?”

“Usually.”

“Have you caught many bad guys?”

“Uh huh.”

“Has anyone shot at you?”

“There have been a few incidents.”

“Ever been wounded in action?”

“Just a few bumps and bruises, nothing major.”

“So, like, how do you keep fit?”

“I chase Marla around the block. It’s tough to keep up with her fast pace.”

Behind them, Joan winked at Marla.
What a hunk
, she mouthed. Marla wondered what she could do to rescue Vail from Rochelle’s barrage of questions.

She needn’t have bothered. After leading them through a forest of pines where dead needles cushioned the ground and a hush descended upon them, Champagne stopped to lecture.

“Tobias Rutfield established Sugar Crest Plantation in 1844 at the end of the Second Seminole War,” she said in a didactic tone lacking her usual gushy timbre. “He bought thirty-five hundred acres and planted sugarcane, Sea Island cotton, and citrus. At his peak, he owned three hundred slaves. In 1924 a hurricane caused extensive damage, and it required too much money to rebuild. His son sold the property to Andrew Marks.

“When Marks took over, he decided to change the place into a winter retreat for vacationing northerners. That’s when he built the main hotel. I’m going to show you the earlier structures: the sugar mill, some tabby slave cabins, Planter’s House, where Rutfield resided with his family, and the conservatory.”

The social director smiled. “I highly recommend the Sugar Garden Restaurant adjacent to the greenhouse for afternoon tea. It has a delightful view of the formal gardens. When you get a chance, check out our renovated structures. The movie theater is now housed in the former barn, and the steakhouse is located where horses once lived. The barbecued ribs are
astounding
.”

“Yo, Marla,” hissed Joan. “Have you set a date?”

“What?”

“When are you getting married? I’ll have to reserve the day on my calendar.”

Marla glanced at Vail’s stern profile. He’d stepped apart from the women, but Rochelle still dogged his footsteps. His expression told her he was trying hard, but failing, to pretend interest in the historical monologue. “We’re, uh, still coordinating our schedules.”

“You’re not going to tie the knot at the same synagogue where you wed Stan, are you?”

“I doubt it. Dalton isn’t Jewish.”

Joan’s eyes widened at the same time her parents, hovering within listening distance, gave a collective gasp.

Marla turned her head toward Champagne, whose finger pointed to a small pile of shells on the ground.

“The Indians who lived here harvested shellfish for food,” the blonde stated. ‘They piled empty oyster shells into four-foot-high mounds known as middens. Early builders used this material to make a primitive form of concrete called tabby. Ten bushels each of shells, lime, and sand were mixed with ten barrels of water to make sixteen cubic feet of wall. Planter’s House is constructed of this material, with walls nearly two feet thick. You can still see the tiny holes from spreader pins that held the wooden forms where the liquid tabby dried.”

She paused. “Unfortunately, Rutfield disregarded local traditions by erecting his house on hallowed ground. In so doing, he eradicated an Indian burial mound, and the land has been cursed ever since.”

“You wanted to know about ghost stories,” Champagne said to Marla, leading the group down a path toward jutting stone ruins. ‘We’ve had various incidents reported that have no clear explanation. The paranormal team that’s here this weekend might be able to shed light on them. Personally, I think the hauntings are real.”

“Do the stories relate to Rutfield or to his successor, Andrew Marks?” Marla asked, watching her footing over sandy ground sprinkled with fallen pine cones, dead branches, and the occasional stray coconut. As they approached the sugar mill, pines gave way to trees more typical of a tropical hammock: malaleucas and cabbage palms, sapadillos and seagrapes. The smell of decay weighted the air.

“You’ll hear different tales regarding both men, plus some other strange things. Follow me.”

A dozen construction workers, swarthy men wearing stained clothing and weary expressions, trudged past toward an open field. Although the outbuildings must have been in different stages of renovation, Marla hadn’t noticed the annoying buzz of saws or whine of drills. Instead, bird songs and the distant swish of waves reached her ears. Since it was a holiday weekend, why weren’t the men at home with their families?

At the ruins, Champagne paused to bounce on her feet. She waited until the laborers receded in the distance before continuing her spiel. “People have seen a lady in a long white gown roaming these ruins. Rumor says she’s Miss Alyssa, only daughter to Tobias Rutfield. It appears the girl took a fancy to their Irish foreman and met him in secret assignations. The young man, who was madly in love with her, understood her father would never approve a match between them.

“One day, Rutfield told his daughter that he intended for her to marry a neighboring landowner. In defiance, she rode out to find the Irishman, but there was a miscommunication. She waited for him in the mill, where a fire erupted. When her horse returned to the main house unmounted, her father led a search party. They found the girl’s remains in the storage room, where she must have been wedged in by a barrel. Those things were huge, and if one got dislodged, she could easily have been trapped. Finding her locket nearby was the definitive evidence. The Irishman mourned her deeply and left the plantation soon afterward. Supposedly, her spirit searches for him still.”

“What a romantic story,” Cynthia exclaimed, putting a hand to her heart.

Marla’s devious mind ran in other directions. “Did they determine how the fire started? Weren’t there slaves around?”

“It was a Sunday, when everyone attended religious services. Rutfield’s daughter ducked out from the church right after the sermon.”

“Maybe the young couple had a disagreement, and the Irishman murdered her. Alyssa’s ghost is trying to let people know that’s what happened,” Marla suggested. “Or she set the fire herself, committing suicide because she wouldn’t be forced into an unwanted marriage.”

Champagne shrugged. “At least she’s a benevolent entity, even if she is unhappy. The other spirits on the property aren’t as tame, but we’ll get to them later.” She led the group forward. “Be careful where you step, now. That rickety wooden barricade shields an old well, and you wouldn’t want to fall in.” Gesturing, she added, ‘There’s one of the cisterns that captured rainwater. Rutfield used an extensive system of water collection, with pipes leading to a storage facility having a capacity of forty thousand gallons. Part of its brick building still stands north of here.”

Surprised by the complexity of the ruins, Marla surveyed their surroundings. She’d expected a funnel-like single structure similar to ones she’d seen in pictures of the Caribbean Islands. Evidently, this had been a much larger facility. She gazed at a thirty-foot-high chimney that remained mostly intact. A wide gap in its base looked big enough for a person to explore.
Not me, thanks
, she thought, envisioning vermin inside.

“You can see remnants from the mill,” Champagne said, pointing to rusted machinery strewn across the uneven stone foundation. “Processing the sugarcane wasn’t easy. It took twelve to eighteen months to harvest, then the stalks had to be crushed. See that old sugar press?”

She led them under an archway and into the cool interior of a stone structure. Vast pits, lined with coquina shells, sank into the flooring in a long row. ‘The juice was collected in big vats before being sent to the boiling bench in here. These pits used to hold huge kettles, or copper pans called coppers. They were heated by fires fueled by dry cane stalks. As the juice heated, its water content boiled off, and impurities were skimmed from the top. After the juice boiled down, it was ladled into smaller coppers and finally poured into wooden pans. Sugar crystals formed as it cooled.”

“What was this bell used for?” Joan asked from outside.

“The clanging bell called slaves in from the fields.” Champagne paused. “A few unfortunate accidents happened, as they will in any industrial setting: slaves who lost their footing slipped and were crushed, or fell into one of the boiling pits. People have said they’ve heard the bell ring when no one else is about, and not a leaf stirs on the trees.”

Shudders rippled through the group. “How much sugar could this place produce?” asked a man in the rear.

“The presses generated from three to five hundred gallons of juice per hour. The crystallized sugar was put into hogsheads, or barrels, holding up to sixteen hundred pounds each. Did you know a railroad once ran through here? It’s all overgrown now, of course. Take a few minutes and look around, then we’ll move on.”

Spying Rochelle on her fiancé’s tail, Marla hastened to join him. “Isn’t this amazing?” Marla said, taking his arm in a proprietary gesture. They ducked under the arch to proceed outside. ‘Think how many slaves must have lived and died here. It was hard work, and I’ll bet they operated this place around the clock except for religious holidays.”

Vail flashed a grin at her, stopping by a rusted wheel that lay on the ground under the shade of a live oak. “I would think you’d be more interested in that romantic story of two lovers. Are these woods spooked at night, do you imagine?”

“Alyssa is a good ghost, remember?”

“Not if she’s restless and unhappy. No one really knows how she died. Were her bones found after the fire? Was there any evidence of trauma?”

“This isn’t a modern forensics case.”

“I hear folks have seen moving lights out here at night,” said the man who’d asked the question about sugar production. He’d come up behind them, his face florid in the sunshine. “Must be the wraiths of those dead slaves, eh?” He chuckled as though chills running up his spine provided a rush.

In broad daylight, Marla found it difficult to imagine haunted happenings, at least until they got farther from the crowd. They strolled past an assortment of relics including gear mechanisms from one of the rolling sugar presses, iron kettles, pistons, and enormous vats. She had to keep an eagle eye on her footing because the foundation rose and fell unevenly to different levels, and there were hidden corners with walled arches and unexpected drops.

“Look at that,” she said to Vail. Set into a crumbling wall was an outdoor oven still fitted with some sort of metallic drum. Holding on to Vail’s arm, she stepped onto a sandy plateau to get a closer view. A smoky scent drifted their way. Creeping roots and Spanish moss from overhanging trees encroached upon the ancient stones, but the wind carried more than a whiff of the past. The air whispered, and if she strained her ears, Marla could almost hear the slaves grunting while they fought heat and hunger during their labors.

A quiet crowd, absorbing the history, followed the guide about a quarter of a mile through the woods to a section holding slave quarters, where a few tabby cabins still stood. These were essentially one-room dwellings with a chimney at one end and open windows that had been covered by long-rotted shutters. Now they stood vacant, a testament to the past, jungle vines reaching through the openings like beckoning fingers.

“So, Detective,” said Rochelle, sidling up to them, “do you, like, go around dusting for fingerprints and searching for clues? I mean, let’s say someone gets bumped off. What’s the first thing you do?”

Marla grimaced. Would Dalton be accosted by curious relatives all weekend? Intending to rescue him, she got sidetracked by Joan prattling on about her daughter’s math prowess and other mundane topics. Too bad Joan’s husband hadn’t been able to come, Marla thought.

“Will you start a family of your own, now that you’re getting married again?” Joan said to Marla in a sly tone, along with a covert glance.

“I doubt it,” Marla replied with a cynical twist to her lips. “I already work sixty hours a week in my salon. Even if I had spare time, I’d rather advance my career instead of being stuck at home changing diapers.”

“Oh yeah? Doing what?”

“I could become an educator, a platform artist, expand into spa services, or work for one of the major hair-care product companies. Those are only some of the possibilities. Besides, Dalton has a thirteen-year-old daughter. We’ve grown quite fond of each other. She’s enough extra responsibility for me.”

Realizing she was gritting her teeth, Marla focused on watching where she stepped on the path to Planter’s House. They exited the tropical hammock and followed their leader, single file, through a fallow field toward an impressive two-story columned mansion.

“Where will you go on your honeymoon?” Joan asked just when Vail twisted around to wag his eyebrows at Marla, a look of desperation in his eyes. Whether awed by his job or attracted by his masculine appeal, Rochelle appeared smitten. The girl continued to bedevil him.

Casting him an encouraging smile, Marla answered Joan. “We haven’t discussed it yet. I’m not sure Dalton can take the time off, plus I’d have to rearrange my schedule. So we’ll see.”

Their arrival at the manor relieved her of any further need to answer indelicate probes. They faced a southern mansion. Wide verandas extended around all four sides of the brick-and-tabby structure.

“Rutfield built the north section of the mansion first,” Champagne said, pointing. ‘This is connected to the main structure via a breezeway. Note the twenty-five-foot-high columns that support the roof. In the early days, those were considered symbols of sophistication. Due to the risk of fire, the kitchen became a separate addition. If you want a taste of old times, you can stay in Planter’s House, which has been fully remodeled into deluxe suites. We serve complimentary continental breakfast and afternoon beverage service in the lounge.”

Cynthia poked Marla. “You’ll have to come see our place later. We have a huge living room and a kitchenette.”

“Uh, right,” Marla said, returning her attention to the social director. “Are there any ghosts haunting this building?”

Champagne’s glance caught hers. “Oh, surely. Major Ferringer, a Union soldier intent on destroying the place, was caught before he did any real damage and shot right on that front porch. Anytime something strange happens here, folks blame his ghost. Some guests claim to have seen him in his dark blue frock coat with epaulets. Others complain he moves their furniture, unlocks doors, or turns lights on and off. I’ve never had a problem with him, but it’s said he favored blondes.”

“Champagne,” a clerk said, rushing up to them, “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the tour early. There’s been another accident.”

Champagne’s face paled. “What now?”

“One of the workers fell off his ladder. We’ve called an ambulance, but Mr. Butler wants you to help with crowd control.”

“Of course.” Champagne offered a falsely bright smile to the group. “We’re nearly finished anyway. Thanks so much for coming. I hope you’ll have a simply
fabulous
time during the rest of the weekend.”

Her frothy demeanor made Marla feel like she was at Walt Disney World. The social director exuded genuine enthusiasm when she related resort history. Why, then, did it seem forced at other times?

Marla waved a hasty good-bye to her relatives as the group broke up. Her pulse accelerating, she hurried to reach Vail, who’d forged ahead. Alarm gave wings to her feet, but Champagne surpassed them both. The petite woman had gained yards in front.

A crowd of onlookers surrounded a prone figure on the ground at the base of Oleander Hall. Beside him crouched a heavyset fellow, who rummaged in a black medical bag. His jowls nearly reached his thick neck, encircled by a stethoscope.

Vail shoved his way into the circle, kneeling by the victim’s side. Splotches of red blotted the man’s coveralls. Judging from the fallen ladder nearby and toppled paint cans, he appeared to be a painter, although Marla didn’t think the crimson stains came from pigment.

The whine of a siren grew louder. Flashing lights heralded the arrival of rescue personnel. A path quickly cleared for the police, who charged onto the scene with paramedics in tow. Rising, Vail strode to one of the uniformed officers and spoke rapidly. The heavier man waddled over to join them while Marla hung back in horrified fascination.

It looked as though the medical team had come too late. They went through the motions of hooking up the victim to various paraphernalia, but she could see the resignation on their faces. It didn’t take long before they loaded him onto a stretcher and drove away. Marla glanced at Vail, whose scowl indicated his disapproval.

Off to the side, George Butler engaged in a heated dialogue with a gray-haired gent whose weathered face revealed his advanced years. “Excuse me,” Marla said, approaching the hotel manager. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“The poor man must have lost his balance. A most unfortunate accident. I got here just as our resort doctor finished examining him.” He waved at the fellow hovering at Vail’s side. “There wasn’t anything more we could do.”

Appalled at Butler’s casual tone, Marla blurted, “Why was that man working on a holiday? Don’t you give the staff time off? Earlier I passed some construction people crossing the fields. They were still on duty, too.” What was their assignment, to look for sinkholes?

“Tomorrow is the holiday, not today. Anyway, they’re with our maintenance crew. Right, Seto? Seto Mulch is our groundskeeper and maintenance chief,” Butler said by means of introduction. “He keeps things in shape.”