Trace Their Shadows (22 page)

Her voice broke. “I didn’t want to tell anyone about the baby. He was all we had left of Eva. Our relatives kept him for a couple of months, and then we let on that we had adopted an orphan from our family there. Everyone thought that was understandable. Eva had been our only child. It was true we needed to fill that terrible void. From birth we loved that baby like he was our own. We re–named him after my father and brought him back to live with us.”

Brandy breathed, “Eva’s child and Brookfield’s.”

“And if I’d told Brookfield that we were rearing his child, do you think we could have legally kept him? In the circumstances we were in? Running that little café? Especially later on, when Brookfield and his wife didn’t have any children of their own?”

“But if Eva told Brookfield about the baby,” Brandy asked, “what do you suppose he thought happened to his son after she disappeared?”

“I suppose he thought the baby was put up for adoption. He certainly never asked us about any child. I imagine he wanted to forget what Eva told him. If he’d tried to find out about his son, his new wife might’ve kicked up a row and there’d have been a scandal. She was very high–society. And very wealthy.” The thin lips tightened. “I imagine that fact meant more to Brookfield Able than the fact he had a child. You can scarcely imagine how my husband and I hated him for what he caused Eva to do.”

“Maybe when she saw he was marrying someone else, she did-n’t tell him about the baby.”

Mrs. Stone’s wet blue eyes met Brandy’s. “We felt sure she would tell him. Even if she didn’t, he caused her death.”

Brandy took another long look at the profile of Weston Stone, and now she saw a blending: the fine features of the mother with the sturdy neck and shoulders and the black eyes of Brookfield Able——another reason he had looked familiar.

“So you see,” the old lady went on in her faint voice, “I told Weston the truth about his parents today. Weston is not really Weston Stone. He’s Weston Able.”

She looked up at Brandy, her restless fingers again moving on the quilt. “When you found Eva at last, I realized she must’ve been murdered. Her father and I… we never could understand, no matter how upset she was, how she could leave her baby. I don’t know who knew about the baby then. Or who knows about him now.”

Like a signal, a pale ray of late sunlight broke through the clouds and glistened on the window pane. A large piece of the puzzle had slipped into place. As Weston Stone stepped forward and switched off the lamp, Mrs. Stone looked up at him.

“No matter how depressed Eva was, I should’ve known she wouldn’t leave Weston,” she repeated. “She was so proud of him. So concerned about him.”

“Mrs. Stone,” Brandy said after a pause. “Can you remember who told Eva about the party at the Ables?”

The thin white skin puckered into a frown. “I’m almost sure who it was. My husband and I agreed about it afterward. Ace Langdon came into the café and talked to her the day before the party. He was a newcomer in town, so we noticed. We weren’t exactly surprised. He’d tried to court Eva the year before, but she wouldn’t have much to do with him. I guess he wanted her to come to the celebration for Brookfield. He didn’t know the reason she agreed to go.”

“I think… Mother…“ Stone hesitated over the word. It would be difficult, Brandy thought, for him to call the mother he had known all of his life “grandmother.” “I think there’s been enough conversation about this. It’s distressing for you.”

Mrs. Stone reached up and took his hand. “I just feel so bad that I never told Weston the truth until now. There was all that Able money. I deprived him of that.”

“That’s probably the best thing you and Dad ever did for me,” Stone said. “If I’d had Able citrus money, do you suppose I’d have worked as hard as I did?”

Mrs. Stone’s eyes brightened. “He’s been such a success! He worked in that little café while he was growing up. When we turned it over to him, he expanded until he had restaurants all through the area——in Leesburg and in Orlando and, of course, the Irish pub on Lake Dora here. Such lovely restaurants! Everyone with a different theme.”

Brandy remembered Sylvania’s interest in preserving the family line. “Mr. Stone, do you have children?”

He faced her, his tone lighter. “Two sons and a daughter. My oldest boy’s in high school.”

“Such fine youngsters!” Mrs. Stone intoned. “Little gentlemen and such a beautiful little girl. She has Eva’s eyes and skin. Weston always thought he was the orphan son of Jacksonville kinfolks. He thought Eva was his distant relative. If he’d known Eva was his mother, he’d surely have seen the resemblance to his own daughter. Until now, I’ve had to keep that to myself.”

“John Able and I are in contact with Brookfield’s sister Sylvania,” Brandy said.

“Will you ask John to tell her about Weston?” the old lady asked. “I’d hate for her to hear the truth from a detective or read it in the newspaper. I haven’t the courage to talk to her now myself, but the Ables are Weston’s people, too. They could’ve done so much for him!”

Weston leaned down and pressed her hand. “You and Dad gave me the best home any boy could have,” he said, his voice thick. “It was filled with more love than I ever would’ve gotten from my father. And I didn’t need his money.”

Brandy stood up. “What are you willing for me to put in my newspaper article?” she asked. “I don’t want to violate a confidence. My story will be on the stands Wednesday.”

“I’ve already told everything to a nice young man from the Sheriff’s Office,” Mrs. Stone said. Brandy thought that balding Detective Morris would be flattered. “He doesn’t plan to release the information about Weston just yet, but it will all come out eventually. The detective says we may never know exactly how Eva died.” She glanced up at Brandy with those moist, incredibly blue eyes. “You can use everything I’ve told you. Just don’t say I cried.”

Weston Stone walked with Brandy to the door. “My grandmother wants to have a grave side ceremony as soon as the Sheriff’s Office finishes with the remains,” he said quietly. “She wants you there, and she’s asking the Able family as well. She thinks I should get to know them.”

As he opened the door into the hallway, Brandy paused. “I’ve developed a very real interest in your mother. It goes beyond my newspaper story.” She said. “I plan to find out what did happen to her.”

He nodded, his mouth grim. Brandy had the peculiar sensation that she was looking into the dark eyes of Brookfield Able. “I don’t like to say this in front of her,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “but my father may have murdered my mother. He had a motive, and she was buried on his property. It doesn’t make me feel particularly friendly toward the Ables.”

Brandy remembered Brookfield’s appointment at the house with someone that fatal afternoon. It could have been with Eva. She turned without responding and the door closed behind her.

TWENTY–ONE
 

When Brandy stepped out onto the retirement home verandah, the misty air had cleared. One reporter had gone, but the man from the Commercial still lingered on the porch swing. He signaled to her, but she only smiled, waved, and hurried down the front steps. The Sheriff’s Office would brief him soon enough.

Nothing to do but call John who would have to break the news to Sylvania. When she stopped at the Beacon at five– thirty, she spotted Mr. Tyler’s Chevrolet at the curb. Old war horse, she thought. On a late Saturday afternoon he ought to be relaxing. When she poked her head into his office, he looked up from some copy, removed his horn–rimmed glasses, rubbed his eyes, and settled them again over the thin bridge of his nose.

“Must be a mirage,” he said. “You haven’t been in the office in so long I’d forgotten what you looked like.” He glanced down at the print–out on his desk and sighed. “Fortunately the regular reporter for city news is still working.”

“I have until the end of the day Monday,” she said. “You’ll have a terrific feature.”

In the editorial room she sat at her computer, but not to write——not yet. She wanted a quiet place to think. A bizarre theory had begun to form, then a plan, its outlines blurry like shapes in the fog. After a few minutes it took a firmer shape. She pulled out her pad and scribbled a few notes, found herself doodling a tire iron in the margin, then a dress with a wide belt and buttons down the front.

Her thoughts focused on the sequence of events that led to and followed the murder of Eva Stone: her unexpected appearance at the party, Ace’s conversation with her, the flat tire, Ace’s presence, Brookfield’s arrival, the bell that clanged a death knell, Lily Mae Brown’s account, Grace’s leaving and Blackthorne’s arriving, the long search in the water, the bougainvillea hedge, and the new complication of the baby. She nodded her head decisively.

“Makes sense,” she said under her breath.

A discount store would have what she needed. She would make the call to John, another to a friend who was a home economics teacher, and then do some shopping. She reached for the phone.

When she called John’s trailer, instantly she recognized the lilting, little girl voice that answered. Brandy took comfort from the fact that she heard others in the background. “Oh, you’re that reporter,” the voice said, the emphasis disdainful. “John’s coming home with us now.”

Brandy pictured Sharon draped over his kitchen counter in something filmy and expensive, maybe draped around John himself. “Tell him I’ve got important news,” she said between her teeth.

“I’ll take it.” John’s voice now. “Doctor doesn’t want me driving yet. I’m going over to my folks for dinner. What’s up?”

“You may want to share this with your dad. All the Ables will know soon enough. Mrs. Stone had something startling to say.” John listened silently. She imagined he rubbed his forehead when she came to the part about Weston Stone.

“I’ll talk to Aunt Sylvania,” he said when Brandy had finished. “But I don’t want to break the news over the phone. You better be there. I’ll arrange for us to meet her after church tomorrow. The Congregational Church. She never misses a Sunday service. Maybe we can use the minister’s study.” He paused.” And I’m sure we’ll all show our respect by going to the graveside service.”

Maybe Sharon couldn’t get too intimate with John while his folks were there, although Mrs. Able seemed to be as much of a marriage promoter as Brandy’s own mother. Pushing aside that bleak thought, she dialed Mrs. Brewster, the home ec teacher who often sewed for Brandy’s mother and herself. On that first day at Sylvania’s, if Brandy hadn’t made a favorable impression in Mrs. Brewster’s apricot–colored frock, the fault was not in the dress. Brandy arranged to stop by Mrs. Brewster’s house before supper. Then she made a final call to her mother who, after all, deserved some consideration. Only this morning she had pulled her daughter out of a garage filled with carbon monoxide.

“I’ll be late for supper,” Brandy said when Mrs. O’Bannon answered. “Not to worry. Just need to run a few errands and make a stop at Mrs. Brewster’s about a dress, okay?”

Mrs. O’Bannon’s querulous tone had reasserted itself. “Mack’s been trying to reach you again. I didn’t know you’d be at the office.”

“I won’t be now. I’ll give him a call when I get home. This craziness is almost over. Did I ever thank you for your heroics this morning?”

Mrs. O’Bannon paused, then seemed to remember a current TV commercial. “That’s what mothers do,” she said.

Brandy smiled. “Feed Meg for me, please. And Mother? Not something on the hibachi tonight.”

At the nearest fabric outlet she bought a dress pattern and some cotton material, then shopped at a discount jewelry counter. Back in her Chevrolet hatchback, she had almost reached the dressmaker’s house beyond the city limits when she noticed a faded blue sedan in her rear view mirror. When she slowed, it did. When she turned, it turned. At first she thought it might be a plain clothes escort. Detective Morris had warned her not to go out alone. Maybe he had someone checking on her. But the scruffy paint job didn’t look official.

Her pulse raced. The car definitely didn’t fit into her scheme. Did its driver write the phony note? Or did she have more than one enemy?

She turned into an alley that ran the length of the block. The sedan swerved in behind her, far enough in the rear that she could-n’t tell if the figure behind the wheel was male or female. Accelerating, she skimmed around the corner of the next street, ducked into another alley, and pulled up at Mrs. Brewster’s back gate. The other car had sped past the second alley, but she could hear it turning around at the end of the block. The driver must know where she had gone.

Brandy grabbed her packages, leapt out of her car, bolted through the back yard, and pounded at the kitchen door. In the alley behind her a car door slammed. And then she heard the shuffle of slippered feet on the kitchen tile and the door opened.

“Gracious,” said Mrs. Brewster as Brandy pushed her way in. “What on earth’s the matter?”

“Can’t explain now,” Brandy gasped, banging the door closed behind her and forcing the metal lock forward. She flopped into a chair by the kitchen table and steadied her hands by holding more tightly to her package. “It has to do with a story I’m working on.”

“For the Tavares Beacon?” the older woman asked, raising her eyebrows.

Brandy nodded. In a minute she rose and peered out the back window. No one was there, at least no one that she could see. Calmer now, she took the pattern and fabric out of the paper bag and handed them to the startled Mrs. Brewster, a matronly figure with gray hair and round cheeks, still staring at Brandy.

“I’ll come in the bedroom in a minute,” Brandy said, “so you can look at the pattern on me. First, I’d like to borrow the phone.”

After Mrs. Brewster had disappeared into the adjoining room, Brandy dialed the Sheriff’s Office. Detective Morris was not in, but she left him a message and then asked the dispatcher for Steve Able. In a low voice she gave Mrs. Brewster’s address. “I need an escort home. Deputy Able knows about an attack on me last night.” She was glad to hear Steve was on duty. The desk sergeant promised a squad car in half an hour.

Relieved, Brandy joined Mrs. Brewster in the bedroom and stood immobile on a small stool while the seamstress adjusted the pattern to Brandy’s measurements. “It’s awfully short notice,” the older woman complained, taking a straight pin out of her mouth.