Bad Hair Day 7 - Dead Roots (8 page)

Watching her relatives chatting animatedly about the latest family fiasco, she wondered if one of them was lying about hiring the aide. It should be easy enough to discover if the woman had come from a service. Maybe she’d left a receipt in Polly’s room.
I’ll have to get in there later, after things quiet down.
Among other items, Marla needed to obtain Polly’s checkbook. Since her name was on the account, she’d have to pay any final bills. More importantly, she wanted to locate the letters her aunt had mentioned. Perhaps they gave a clue to Polly’s illness, but that made sense only if they were recent. No doubt about it, she needed access to Polly’s personal belongings.

“If the police don’t pursue an investigation, I suppose someone will have to pack Polly’s things,” she addressed the assembly. “I’d like to help.”

Anita’s expression showed relief. “You’re her closest niece. That makes sense. If you can handle those details, I’ll plan the memorial service. Moishe, what about you?”

The older gent cleared his throat. “We’re flying home to Denver on Sunday. We’ve already paid our regards to Polly by being here for this reunion.”

“I see,” Anita said coldly. “William?”

“I can’t stay for the funeral. We have a flight to catch, too, and I have appointments next week. We’ll attend in spirit. You’ll have enough nieces and nephews to make a
minyan
if you allow women to participate in the prayer circle.”

“I’m Reform these days,” Anita told them. She glanced at Marla, her scornful look telling her daughter what she thought about her siblings.

“Hey, Marla,” called Joan. “Does this mean we’re calling off the treasure hunt?”

A barrage of inquiries followed, and Marla felt compelled to explain the situation to those who hadn’t heard about it earlier. “Polly told me about a stash of gemstones that Andrew kept as his source of wealth. She seemed to believe some are still hidden on the resort grounds. I’m guessing Aunt Polly returned here every year in order to search for them.”

“Oh, cool,” squealed one of the younger cousins. “Do you think that’s what those two strangers were after, the ones who met with Andrew the night he died?”

“Could be.” She shoved her half-eaten plate of food aside. “You can look for the precious stones. I have better things to do.” Feeling a crushing need for privacy, she murmured farewells before exiting outdoors into the waning afternoon sun.

Once alone, she inhaled a deep breath of warm ocean air. Being surrounded by relatives all weekend was beginning to take its toll, along with the tragedy of Polly’s death. She needed time by herself to filter through all that had happened.

As she padded along the gravel path, she realized her steps were taking her in the direction of the old sugar mill. Had it been her imagination, or had she heard a bell tolling in the middle of the night? She’d bolted upright in bed, but her foggy brain had processed the sound as a dream. Curious to revisit the site, she considered that haunted ruins would be a good place to hide an item of value. If she dug around, maybe she’d unearth Andrew’s wealth—or Polly’s letters, which could prove to be more valuable. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to look.

As she approached the crumbled stone structures, her ears picked up an eerie whistling, as though the trees issued a warning. Dead leaves crunched underfoot while she skirted jagged chunks of coral embedded in the dirt. A rodent scampered up a nearby cabbage palm, and another small creature of some type slithered around a clump of crotons.

Drifting on the breeze came a faint clanging. Marla twisted her neck to see if someone was ringing the bell outside the boiling bench, but the bell was not the source of the sound. Rather, it ebbed and flowed from the interior of the single standing structure, which housed vast pits.

“Is anyone there?” Marla called, listening intently. Open windows gaped like mouths waiting to devour anyone who ventured inside. The stone building, dark and cool, beckoned to her.

As she crossed the threshold, she thought she heard a girl’s voice humming a plaintive song. Her breath quickened. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here alone. But even as her pulse beat a rapid rhythm, she scoffed at the notion that the place harbored ghosts. She’d prove no one was here: neither a real person nor an ethereal body.

Marla took a few steps toward one of the depressions in the floor. Lined with rock made from crushed marine shells, it was first in a row that stretched to a far archway. Smells of stale sweat mingled with sickly sweet molasses, and she pictured slaves laboring in the heat from the fires while sugarcane juice boiled and frothed in huge copper kettles. Their voices seemed to surround her, accompanied by the crack of a whip, then a scream…

She screamed herself as a force shoved her from behind. For a moment, she was airborne, flailing her arms and legs. Then she was falling, falling, her shoulder hitting against a hard surface with a painful jolt before her head banged into a solid protrusion.

White lightning flashed before her eyes. Then blackness absorbed her.

“Marla heard a moan escape her lips before her mind allowed consciousness to seep in. Throbbing pain in her left shoulder brought her fully awake. Blinking, she studied her surroundings without comprehension. She lay at an angle on her side in some sort of bowl made from knobby concrete. No, not concrete…coquina. She’d fallen into one of the pits inside the sugar mill.

With realization came fear. She had definitely felt a push from behind, meaning whoever had propelled her might still be around. She dare not cry for help. Testing first her arms, then her legs, she was gratified to find her limbs intact. She’d have to deal with a sore shoulder for a few days, that’s all. She knew that bumping her head hadn’t produced a concussion because she didn’t feel dizzy. She must’ve been merely stunned.

Pushing herself to a sitting position, she wondered if the intent had been to cause bodily damage or just to scare her. Ghosts didn’t shove people. Someone at the resort intended harm, whether physical or emotional. Had this same person thrust the painter’s ladder from the wall of the condemned wing?

Her neck prickled when she heard the bell tolling outside. Listening acutely, she caught no other sound except the rustling of dried leaves and the harsh cry of a seagull. Was it the wind swaying the bell, or someone’s hand?

An urgent need to escape the sugar mill forced her to her feet. Stretching her arms above her head, she decided the rim was too high for her to reach. Nor were there any footholds on the rough interior, once white but now ash gray. She scraped her fingertips along the hard surface, hoping to find indentations that she could use for leverage. The dents she found were too shallow for use. The pits had withstood the test of time fairly well, even retaining the honeyed scent of boiling sugar.

Jumping didn’t help. It jostled her sore shoulder, making her bite back a cry of pain. Should she call for help? No; the wrong person might answer. Realizing her vulnerability, she anxiously peered upward but with relief sensed she was alone.

Surely someone else would come along the path on this warm afternoon. In the meantime, she surveyed the sorry mess of her torn hosiery. Hey, could she lasso her pantyhose on that same protrusion her head had slammed into? That would give her the means to climb partway up. But then what?

Worry about it later
. Slipping off her pumps, she removed her stockings. Too bad about the dress, but it was destined for the cleaners anyway. She hiked up her skirt before swirling the pantyhose over her head. After several tosses, she finally hitched one legging on the jagged prominence. Gritting her teeth at the ensuing ripping sound, she pulled gently until it held. Thank goodness for support spandex.

Hopefully her assailant had left the vicinity. Taking the chance, she threw her shoes over the edge so they’d be available later. Now for her acrobatic act. Gripping the makeshift rope, she inched her sweaty soles a couple of notches up the side of the pit while her shoulder screamed in protest. Her white-knuckled grasp of the hosiery grew slick, making her fingers slide. With an ominous tearing noise, her pantyhose gave up the struggle, and she landed with a thump on her butt.

Muttering an expletive, she stilled when her ears picked up scrunching footsteps growing louder. Someone whistled in accompaniment, and the tune sounded strangely like the theme song of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World.
Yo ho, yo ho
—

“Help,” Marla yelled. “I fell into the pit.”

The boyish face of Dr. Rip Spector appeared at the rim. His stark white hair spiked in contrast to his deep hazel eyes. Merriment mingled with curiosity in his expression. “Miss Shore, what are you doing down there? Exploring on this fine day? I’d have thought you’d be eating your Thanksgiving dinner by now.”

“Can you get me out of here?” She wasn’t in the mood for a social discussion.

“Dear me, you are in a fix, aren’t you? Should be more careful in a place like this, with ruins and all.” He shifted his bow tie, worn with a blue dress shirt.

“A ghost pushed me in. Is there a rope handy?”

He clucked his tongue. “Don’t make fun of the spirits. That may very well be why you’re in this predicament. Wait here. I’ll get something better. “Returning a few minutes later, he brandished a vine fresh from the nearby woods.

“That doesn’t look strong enough,” Marla said. Not that she had much choice. She didn’t relish being left alone while he summoned help from the hotel.

To her surprise, the leafy vine held her weight. She hauled herself upward by crossing one palm over the other while the ghost chaser grunted at the other end. Afraid she’d lose her grasp, she held on tight. By the time she collapsed outside the pit, she could barely breathe.

“You look as though you’ve been through the wringer,” Dr. Spector commiserated, his labored breathing indicating the exertion had claimed his energy as well. Then again, he might have been the one who’d initiated her adventure. Odd that he was the only member of his group in the vicinity. Where were all the rest? Eating turkey and mashed potatoes?

“I’m lucky you happened by the old ruins,” she said, rubbing her aching shoulder as she slipped into her shoes.

He pointed to a pile of equipment lying at the open archway. “I came to get some readings. There’s a lot of electromagnetic energy in this particular area, but it fluctuates with the time of day. I want to compare the results to my measurements from yesterday.”

“Don’t ghosts come out only at night?”

“I’ve captured anomalies during the day as well as at night. Spirits can be active any time.” He squinted as they moved into the sunlight. “We do more readings at night because there are fewer distractions, and it’s quieter. It’s also better for video to have a dark background.”

“Why do things show up on camera that you can’t see with the naked eye?” she asked, curiosity overwhelming her need to rest.

“Presumably these entities emit near infrared radiation, what we term NIR. You can capture this with a video camera but not with your eyes. It’s also possible that if you saw an entity in front of you, your brain might not recognize it, and so it’s dismissed. Once the camera registers the anomaly, your mind can process it properly.”

Oh yeah, like I’m not going to see something that’s directly in front of me
. “Are you saying you can take a picture of an actual ghost?”

His eyes crinkled. “Not exactly. The most common type of anomalies that we catch on film are orbs. We might also see vortices or energy rods, and you know, unusual sources of light. Rarely do we capture an apparition.” He tilted his head. ‘The old lady, your aunt. Is she all right?”

Marla’s skin crawled. “Aunt Polly passed away some time in the early morning. Apparently, she’d been ill and may have taken too much of her medication. Why do you ask?”

His startled surprise seemed genuine. “I saw a figure move across her window last night. Remember we chatted on the terrace? After you left, I set up my equipment in Oleander Hall. While the video cameras were running, I went outside to do a quick inspection of the exterior wall. That’s when I caught movement on the periphery of my vision.”

“Could you tell if the form was a male or female?” This could be important, if he’d spotted someone inside Polly’s room. Then again, how had he known which window belonged to her?

Spector scratched his head. “Sorry to say, but I was more focused on the corner suite in the haunted wing. We’ve definitely gotten some EVPs in there, and I was looking for any potential sources from outside.”

“EVPs…what’s that?”

“Electronic voice phenomena…voices captured on audio tape or digital recorders that are not heard by human ears. We try to duplicate them from other sounds in the vicinity to eliminate natural causes.” He paused. “I did point my camera toward your aunt’s window, but the figure had vanished in the interim.”

“Do you take digital photos?” If so, she’d like to see them for herself.

“Most of the time. I also use thirty-five millimeter because it takes better resolution photos, plus you get a negative which proves the photo wasn’t altered. I’ll often cover both angles by using a digital until I see something, then I’ll whip out my thirty-five. But that’s when I’m not carrying the video camcorders. We’ve got infrared, fiber-optic, and digital video equipment that we can hook up to our computers and let run all night.”

“I see. And have these films revealed anything yet?”

“We’re still analyzing the data.”

“With the photos, how do you know you’re photographing an orb rather than a speck of dust on the lens?”

“Orbs have a spherical shape. I’ve caught them where we have EMF fluctuations. We’ve got videos where anomalies have gone through walls, hit ceiling fans, veered around people. If you have free time while you’re here, I can show you.”

Marla shifted her feet. “I’m more concerned about what you spotted in my aunt’s window. Did you see anything else?”

“I saw lights flickering on the beach, but by the time I’d moved my gear past the dunes, nothing showed.”

“Too bad.” Marla still thought it meaningful that he’d glimpsed an oddity in the vicinity of Polly’s room. Her skin itched, compelling her to move on. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get cleaned up,” she told Spector while he stuffed his equipment into his backpack. Thanks again for your help.”

The ghost chaser hustled to join her on the path to the hotel. “I’d like to learn more about your family history,” he said in a rush as though reluctant to let her go. “Tragedies, love affairs, squabbles.” He slanted her a curious glance. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that final meeting between Andrew and his two guests?”

“Only that he died shortly thereafter.”

“With its rich historical background, this place already is a magnet for tourists. You’d think the city council would want to preserve it. Any idea how the vote went yesterday?”

“I’m not sure they’ve reached an accord. I haven’t seen any of the council members today, so I assume they went home for the holiday.” Marla winced as she tripped over a tree root and jostled her sore shoulder.

“Can you imagine tearing down this magnificent hotel? It’s a showplace for the era in which it was constructed. What a shame to lose so much history,” Spector told her.

“The council members don’t care. To them the bottom line is all that counts. Which would make the city more money: renovating older structures, or tearing them down and bringing in wealthy investors for a new attraction?”

“The entities that dwell here are attached to the resort and the remaining outbuildings.” Spector wrinkled his brow. “They must be disturbed by the construction. Maybe that’s why the workers are encountering so many accidents. It’s the only way the spirits can communicate their displeasure.”

You got that right. But aren’t you here to help move them on to their final rest? Or won’t that happen until they complete their unfinished business
?

They strolled past a crew of gardeners pulling weeds from a bed of red and pink impatiens. The men, swarthy individuals wearing soiled overalls, stared at her with blank expressions. Didn’t they get time off for a holiday meal?

“There’s also the impact to the environment to consider,” Spector added in a thoughtful tone. “A major construction project would disrupt the local ecology. I’ve seen hundred-year-old live oaks on the property, not to mention the tropical hammock, mangroves, and shoreline. If you ask me, money is changing hands, and that’s where this notion of a theme park comes from.”

“Mr. Butler would rather see the resort fixed up. His bosses must be the ones soliciting the real estate people.”

“Didn’t your family own this place in the past? Too bad you can’t buy back the property.”

“Look at all the work that needs to be done. Whichever way the wind blows, it’ll cost a fortune.”

“It’s incredible how long it takes them to do repairs,” Spector agreed. “With so many workers, they should be more efficient. Perhaps they’re delaying things on purpose.”

“You could have a point.”

Glancing at his watch, he squawked. “Oh no, I’m late for our restaurant reservation. Take care, my dear.”

He hurried away before Marla could question him further about his investigation and other things he might have noticed.

No matter. He’d reminded her that she should talk to Seto Mulch. Icing her shoulder would have to wait. Why had Mulch assigned a gardening crew on a holiday? What did he know about the maintenance work on the hotel? Was he privy to the family secrets?

After sparing time in her room to wash and change into a clean pair of black slacks and an apricot top, Marla scribbled a message to Vail on the telephone pad before heading outside. Hearing elated shouts and applause coming from the tennis courts, she aimed across the grass toward the caretaker’s cottage that bordered the woods to the west. She’d studied a map and figured his place burrowed through the hammock toward the grand entrance rather than the beach. Wearing canvas walking shoes helped her avoid the pinecones strewn along the sandy ground. Shifting her purse, she rolled her sore shoulder with a grimace of pain.

“Miss Shore, what are you doing here?” trilled a female voice. Marla whirled. Brownie the chef emerged from behind a stand of bamboo and hurried toward her.

“I thought I’d have a chat with Mr. Mulch,” Marla said, wondering at the falsely cheerful grin on the woman’s face. “He’s the only one left from the early days, so I’m hoping he can clarify some things for me about the resort history. And you? With so many groups here this weekend, I’d think you’d be busy in the kitchen.”
Or maybe you don’t want to ruin your nail polish so you delegate your duties instead.

Chin thrust in the air, Brownie gave her a disdainful glance. “Everything is well organized. I just brought Seto his dinner. The old guy likes to eat by himself.” She winked, her long lashes shading eyes the color of melted chocolate. “Good luck getting him to talk. He’ll spout off against those real estate developers, but you won’t get him to give anything else away. Don’t think I haven’t tried.”

“Just what are you interested in finding out?” Marla said sharply.