HOMOSASSA SHADOWS (26 page)

Hackett had reminded her that she also might run into Alma May and Melba tomorrow. They had become familiar with the Seminole Cultural Center by driving to the casino next door.

Back in her apartment Brandy limped again to the bedroom window, while Meg, sensing her uneasiness, paced along behind her. The ligustrum hedge had grown tall enough to hide the glass, would conceal anyone climbing in. With nervous fingers, she tested the Miami window. It had never locked properly and still didn’t, one more defect the landlord had not yet corrected. Favoring her sore ankle, she made her way back into the living room and looked out into the dusk. For a moment she stood silent, heart racing, then gave a decisive nod, hobbled to the kitchen phone, checked the flip-top directory on the counter, and dialed. The woman who rented the apartment above hers could be flaky, but she was generous to a fault.

“Lily Anne? Brandy here.” She kept her voice steady. “Gotta favor to ask.”

Lily Anne’s voice was low, drawn out, and friendly. “Whatever you say, sugar.”

“Look,” Brandy said. “John’s still in Tampa. I think a man may be following me. I don’t want to sleep in my apartment tonight. I’ll leave town again tomorrow, early. Could I crash on your couch tonight?”

“Sure thing, sugar. But shouldn’t you call the cops?”

Brandy swallowed. The set-up was too complicated to explain to Lily Anne. “Not yet.”

“Well, okay. I’m going out soon myself.” Lily Anne giggled softly. “Meeting a hot date. I may be out kinda late. Real late, know what I mean?” She paused. “Truth is, I may not get in ‘til morning.”

Brandy smiled to herself. “Look, I’ll come up right away,” she said. “You know, I’ll have to bring Meg.”

“No problem.”

Brandy was already mentally ticking off what she had to take with her. “I’ll be gone in the morning,” she said. “I’ll leave your key under that half-dead Shiffelera in the building foyer. I’ll slip it under the first brick.”

“Sure thing, sugar. No problem.” Thank goodness, Brandy thought, for the Lily Anne’s in the world.

In the bedroom Brandy searched a drawer for clean pajamas and gathered up a sweater, slacks, and a shirt for tomorrow. Then she took down a gray pant suit and a fresh white blouse from her closet and hung it in a garment bag, stuffed underwear and hose in the bottom, and pitched a pair of dress shoes into a plastic bag. She might be allowed to watch the Seminole funeral service from a distance. In any case, she wanted to appear respectful of the re-burial Sunday. Then she stuffed a can of vegetable beef soup, a pack of sandwich crackers, and a withered apple from the hydrator into a plastic bag and shouldered her canvas bag with the notebook. At the last minute she remembered to root around in a kitchen junk drawer, pull out a tattered Florida map, and thrust it into her bag as well. Then she picked up her suitcase, her confidence renewed. She had no intention of being a target again for anyone.

Loaded down and with Meg on a leash, Brandy climbed up one step at a time to Lily Anne’s apartment, where she gave her slim neighbor a hug, admired her new silky black pants, her low-cut black cashmere sweater, and her bouffant hair. After Lily Anne had patted Meg’s head and pointed out a pink quilt on the couch, Brandy waved her out the door. Then she dropped her canvas bag on the floor, sagged down on the soft cushions and elevated her leg. She’d better stay off her ankle for a while, or the swelling would never go down.

On the coffee table were the current issues of Cosmopolitan and Working Woman. Brandy flipped through them for a moment before realizing neither was of interest. It didn’t matter because she wanted to re-read the detailed notes she’d made in Homosassa. After she’d plugged in her charger and cell, she struggled up again. She limped into the tiny kitchen, heated, and ate her meager supper at the counter. Then she poured herself a small glass of Lily Anne’s cream sherry and used the kitchen phone to call the newsroom and explain that, while she was still on vacation, she was following up the Timothy Hart story.

Next she summoned her courage, drew a deep breath, and rang John’s Tampa apartment. He should be home by now. She had to talk to him. Again her luck held.

“So you’re actually driving to Tampa?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

“I’m meeting Sergeant Strong there tomorrow afternoon. The Safety Harbor child’s bones are to be re-buried in Tampa the next day.”

She tried to picture him. He would be rubbing his forehead, probably, like he did when he was perplexed or upset. “I didn’t suppose you were coming to see me. Your archaeologist friend will be here, too, I imagine.” He bore down sarcastically on the word “friend.”

Brandy swallowed her rising indignation. “I’ll be at your apartment tomorrow night. I want to explain everything to you clearly in person, especially who the trouble-maker is who called you about me. Will you be home?”

He bit off each word. “You bet I will.” Brandy hoped he would understand that, Bibi Brier to the contrary, she was not having an affair.

After replacing the phone in its cradle, she rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher before shuffling back into the living room, setting the wine on an end table, and settling herself on the couch. She remembered the state map and pulled it from her bag. Everyone would expect her to take Interstate 75 straight into Tampa, and exit where it passed near the Seminole Cultural Center. But another route suggested itself. It would take longer, but that was okay. Route 441 out of Gainesville connected to Route 301, once the major highway to Tampa. Route 301 passed even closer to the Center, but no one would select it as the best road to take today. She would use another precaution. No one would expect her to leave at dawn to make a two and a half hour trip.

At last she set her wrist watch alarm for 5:00 A.M. and picked up the glass. Time for the notebook. Had she missed anything? For several minutes she read, frowning, flipping back and forth between the pages. When she closed the book, she stared out at the darkened street, her fingers still gripping the cover. Brandy hoped she was wrong, but she had been overlooking important points. She felt like a cartoon character with a light bulb suddenly blazing above her head. She did not feel safer because of what she had read, but surprised. Her options were few.

Brandy began to relax as the last drops of the smooth, sweet sherry slid down her throat. She snapped off the lamp on the end table, and curled up under the quilt. Meg stretched out on the floor beside her, coppery head and pale muzzle resting on her paws. As Brandy closed her eyes, she knew Detective Strong, as usual, would not approve of her actions. Neither would John. Maybe if the Sergeant read Lieutenant Henry Hart’s journal again, he would recall that the Seminole warrior had placed the artifact in a tobacco pouch before hiding it in a hole of water. That fact would show that the treasure Timothy Hart expected to find had actually been in the cistern and had been stolen. She would lend the detective her notebook. He should make the same deductions she did about the theft and murder. First, she would call and leave him a tip.

But the most priceless missing treasure of the tribe was not an artifact, but a vivacious, black-eyed little girl, worth more than all the relics in all the world’s museums. Again Brandy felt the weight of sadness. She could not be as hopeful about finding Daria.

She dropped off to sleep, still thinking of Annie and her grief. About 1:00 A.M. she awoke to a tiny, repetitious sound, Meg’s nails clicking on the hardwood floors. The retriever had prowled through the apartment and stationed herself at the back bedroom window. Deep in her throat, she was growling. Brandy slipped off the couch, crept into the bedroom, keeping in the shadows, and peered out into the blackness of a moonless night. She could neither see nor hear anything. At last she trudged back into the living room, Meg trailing after her. Brandy crawled again onto the couch and dozed fitfully until 4:45 A.M. If her conclusions last night were correct, she and Strong would discover the truth tomorrow.

CHAPTER 17
 

When the alarm woke Brandy, she heard Meg whimper beside the couch and fumbled to turn off the ring. “Hurt your ears, girl? Want to go outside?” Meg leaped up and danced in place. The joys of dog ownership. Brandy slipped on her scuffs, stepped into Lily Anne’s bedroom to pull a terry cloth robe from the closet, and stuffed her apartment key into a pocket. Then she started downstairs with Meg on her leash. The night’s rest had reduced the swelling in her ankle and she could walk with more comfort. Cautiously, she opened the rear door into the dark.

She could see no one. If Meg had heard someone downstairs in the night, that person was now gone. The rain had stopped, replaced by a chill wind. Only a faint light glowed in the east. She should be away by dawn. She peered around the corner of the building. The pick-up truck no longer lurked in the side street. While Meg sniffed an inviting patch of grass, Brandy checked out her own Toyota coupe in the parking lot, glad no one involved in the Hart case could identify it. She would be hard to spot and follow.

But as soon as she opened the door to her own apartment, a knot settled in her stomach. Every room had been ransacked—kitchen drawers pulled out, sofa cushions upended, bookcases emptied. Meg stiffened and stalked into the living room, ears lifted. In a daze Brandy marched on into the bedroom. More rummaging had gone on here. Bedclothes were strewn about, dresser drawers opened and the contents spilled, the dressing table moved, even the mattress pushed askew. Brandy sank down on the bed, shaking. The back window had been forced.

What if she had stayed in her apartment? To steady her hands, she gripped the sheets and tried to think rationally. As far as she could tell, nothing was missing. The television, VCR, and radios had not been touched. Brandy had nothing of value except the tobacco pouch, safely upstairs. Clearly, someone believed she had something worth much more. For a moment she thought of calling the Gainesville police immediately. But that would delay her. She had to get away. She would feel safer among people. She needed to be in Tampa, and this afternoon she’d be with Strong.

Brandy dragged from the bedroom closet a small, worn suitcase. She’d leave it in her car as a decoy. Into it she tossed cleaning rags from the utility room and empty aluminum cans from the trash. If someone wanted to steal from her, they’d probably go for the suitcase, hear the rattle, and think they had a box with an artifact. Then tugging on the leash, she stopped Meg from snuffling around the sill and the clothes on the floor, and pulled her toward the bedroom door. Even if Meg recognized the intruder by smell, she couldn’t signal that identity to Brandy. She and Meg mustn’t disturb anything else. The police might investigate a break-in later, but not this morning. In her kitchen she tossed two daily servings of Meg’s dry food into a plastic container, looked around—still with disbelief—and closed and locked her apartment door.

Back upstairs, her mouth still felt dry and her chest tight. She pulled on blue slacks and a white shirt, wrapping a blue scarf at the neckline, and placed the first aid kit with the Seminole pouch under her notebook at the bottom of her canvas bag. She wanted to be ready to hand it to strong. After she slung a sweater over her arm, she lifted the hanging bag with the gray suit and blouse out of the closet and picked up her dress shoes.

She didn’t expect to be alone except on the trip down, and then she’d be on a well-traveled highway. The canvas bag with the pouch wouldn’t leave her sight.

No time for breakfast now. She’s stop a few miles south, a short distance from the Interstate, in the tiny town of Micanopy. She’d have to kill time. She saw no point in arriving at the Seminole Cultural Center before mid-afternoon when, as she’d told Strong, many involved in the Hart case would gather for tomorrow morning’s ceremony. Grif would meet her there, as well as Strong. Tugboat, Melba, and Alma May had probably heard they were going to Tampa and might follow.

The night before Brandy had puzzled over her notes and carefully examined what she’d been told, what she’d seen, even what she had foolishly said herself. Then she had concentrated on all the facts as she relaxed into sleep. In the morning she had reached a conclusion. If her theory proved correct, the monster would be unmasked in Tampa.

Before she left Gainesville, Brandy put in a call to Detective Strong. He wouldn’t be in his office at five-thirty in the morning, but someone would take calls for the Sheriff s Office. First she explained to the responding officer that someone had searched her apartment and gave her address. The officer was more surprised by the rest of her message. She gave him a brief summary of the facts she had recorded and made sure the officer wrote down the entire message

“Better have Sergeant Strong ask the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office to stand by in Tampa,” she added. A shiver raced through her. “He may need them. He may wind this whole case up today or tomorrow.” Her main suggestion, though, she added in a one word tip, one she hoped might lead the detective to Daria.

By 6:00 A.M. Brandy had loaded her clothing for the trip and settled Meg in the back seat. A half an hour later she drove south down the oak-lined main street of Micanopy, one of Florida’s oldest little towns, now a haven of antique and book stores. Her pulse slowed. No one here had ever heard of Timothy Hart. A few clouds shifted in the dim sky, and when she stopped and opened the car door, she drew in the sweet scent of early morning.

Fortunately, one restaurant was already open, catering to early Gainesville commuters or possibly to turkey hunters. She parked where she could watch Meg, tethered to a tree by the window, and between forkfuls of scrambled eggs and sausage, thought about the Seminole chief Micanopy, the town’s namesake. Maybe the Indian who had been captured by Lieutenant Henry Hart had served under that chief. The community lay in the same general area as Homosassa, but inland. Back in the car, Brandy patted the box that contained the pouch. One of Micanopy’s warriors could’ve carried it before he killed Alma May Flint’s family, before he hid the artifact. Whoever that Indian was, he caused the murder of Timothy Hart more than a century and a half later.