Trace Their Shadows (3 page)

Mr. Tyler’s pale eyes locked with hers. “Do this mansion story with interviews and observations, well–documented. No mystical baloney, just facts. I want to know who, what, when, where, and how. And check with me every morning. We’ll need you on other stories, too. Our clients are mainly interested in county business.”

“You got it.” She picked up the bulging folder. “I bet you’d love to one–up the Commercial.”

He looked down at the papers on his desk, but she could see his tiny smile.

Seymour Hammond was the name the Commercial columnist gave for the witness. A half hour on the phone to nearby Mount Dora located his mother. “Seymour’s home from college for the summer,” the woman said. Her voice rose and sharpened. “Why would a reporter want an interview?”

More manipulation needed, Brandy thought. The boy’s mother mustn’t be apprehensive. “We’re considering a story about summer jobs for college students,” she said, and told herself Mr. Tyler might okay one.

The woman’s voice warmed. “That would be great. Seymour works nights at the Burger King on Route 441. He’d love to find something, well, more genteel.” Brandy left her name.

Mid–morning at the Chamber of Commerce meeting she heard architect Curt Greene argue for a lands acquisition and protection program. Most Lake County developers like Blackthorne would fight a voter referendum. John Able had his job cut out for him. The only citizen to speak up for preservation was a lakeside restaurant owner. His Irish pub in Tavares benefited from the view.

A nervous city council candidate backed off the environmental issue, but Brandy raised her own morale with chocolate chip cookies at the library bake–off contest, and returned to the office to type her stories. A telecom system would transmit them to Mr. Tyler’s screen for his often caustic editing.

At four she nosed her ‘84 Chevrolet hatchback——the major purchase of her young life——west on her missing woman mission, through heavy traffic along the narrow arm of land that separates three large lakes. Here Florida’s native live oaks and cypress had been replaced by eight miles of billboards, gas stations, strip shopping centers, and the Buick and General Motors dealership where Mack Lynch worked for his father.

When Brandy spotted Mack’s big Sierra pickup in the rear, she pulled into a parking space. Through the plate glass window she could see his muscular form in a chest–hugging polo shirt, tipping back a coke can in the air– conditioned display room. It was a sight that excited most of the female population of Tavares. When he saw her, his square face broke into a wide grin and he waved. Now’s as good a time as any, she decided.

As soon as she stepped though the door, he threw an arm round her shoulders. “What can I do for you, kid?”

She knew exactly what she wanted him to do, but she wanted to spring her plan in a more seductive setting. Twisting free, she glanced at the open office door. “Your dad’s probably watching. But, yeah, there is something. How about meeting me at the Pub on the Lake tonight about six–thirty? I have a favor to ask.”

His thick blond eyebrows contracted. “Like what?”

Moving closer, she beamed up at him. “Like you remember the movie Ghostbusters? You can help me on a stake–out.”

It took a minute for the words to register. Then he threw back his head and let out a yelp of laughter. “You’re kidding!” He gave her arm a nudge. “I can think of something more fun than that.”

No need to scare him off. She patted his hand. “At six–thirty. We’ll talk then.” He was still chuckling when she trotted back down the steps.

***

At the Leesburg Public Library Brandy asked for the 1945 microfiche files of the Commercial. When the missing girl vanished into Lake Dora, Brandy judged the news would be covered by the county’s largest newspaper. Perched in a carrel before a viewer, she began to check the editions after September 2, the day World War II ended.

In a November edition, she finally found the story of the drowning, the heading prominently displayed on page 2 of the first section: Tavares Girl Dead in Tragic Accident and beside it, her photograph. The picture, undoubtedly an earlier high school yearbook pose, took Brandy by surprise. It showed a stunning face——great, dark eyes, delicate features, dark hair caught up in a pompadour and then allowed to fall in a shining sheath to her shoulders. Beneath it ran a two–column story:

A combination welcome home and engagement party at the home of Mr. and Mrs. J. D. Able on Shirley Shores Drive, Lake Dora, turned tragic Sunday afternoon with the apparent death by drowning of a guest, Eva Stone, 23, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Stone, 210 St. Abrams Street, Tavares. The weekend celebration was drawing to a close about 5

P.M. when a maid cleaning on the top floor looked out a window and saw Miss Stone enter the lake. The witness, Lily Mae Brown, 20, of 55 Lincoln Street, Tavares, said the young woman was in street clothes. Alarmed, Miss Brown called for help. By the time the gardener, Henry Washington, could launch a row boat and summon assistance, Eva Stone had disappeared beneath the surface.

Mr. Able, Sr. and the male guests returned from quail hunting in time to join Sheriff’s Office deputies in a search of the area and in dragging the lake. According to Mr. Able, the lake bottom takes a sudden drop several yards from shore.

Earlier, water activities had included boating but not swimming. The other women guests had departed earlier and did not see Miss Stone leave the house.

Both family members and guests were unable to explain Miss Stone’s actions. Her parents were not available for comment. The search for the body continues.

The evening before the tragedy the engagement of Grace Southerland, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. C. D. Southerland of Leesburg, and Captain Brookfield Able, son of hosts Mr. and Mrs. J. D. Able of Tavares, had been announced at a gala dinner–dance on the property.

An inquest will be held on Friday at 2:00 P.M. at the county courthouse in Tavares.

Brandy carried the story to a microfiche copier, then flipped quickly through the next week’s file to find the report of the inquest. The verdict, she learned, had been an apparent suicide by drowning. The girl’s parents remained uncommunicative in their grief. No suicide note was found. Since authorities couldn’t recover the body, a memorial service took place with little publicity two days after the inquest in the historic Tavares Congregational Church.

Sitting back in her chair in front of the viewer, Brandy drew in her breath. Sylvania Langdon had said nothing about her brother Brookfield’s engagement party that weekend. Nor did this newspaper account sound like the accidental drowning Sylvania described. Yet for what reason besides suicide would Eva Stone have walked into the lake that November afternoon fully clothed? Was there a scandal that Sylvania did not want resurrected? A good reporter, she decided, would go to the original source. But where was Lily Mae Brown now, the witness to the drowning? A task for another day.

At six Brandy parked in front of her mother’s white clapboard cottage on the outskirts of Tavares, next to a vacant lot of pines, saw palmettos, and wax myrtle. Brandy and her mother shared the house conveniently——if not very congenially——until Brandy could afford her own apartment. Until then, this isolated back street was handy to the court house and the city hall for Brandy, and to the high school for her mother, an English teacher there.

Mrs. O’Bannon’s Ford was already in the driveway in front of the small frame garage at the rear of the lot. From the back yard Brandy heard a familiar happy bark. Inside the gate she knelt beside a ligustrum hedge, glanced at the border of petunias, and put her arms around the frantic golden retriever to whisper, “No digging today. Good. C’mon, Meg. Let’s chance it.”

As soon as she opened the kitchen door she could see her mother at the dining room table. Mrs. O’Bannon, an imposing widow of fifty–two with a tight permanent and a square no–nonsense face, sat with her lesson plan book open. She turned level gray eyes toward Brandy. “Have you forgotten our war with fleas? The dog stays out.”

“She’ll be in my room just a few minutes. I see little enough of her now.” Dropping her feathery tail, Meg slunk, head down, toward the hall.

“Fleas migrate. And the way that animal sheds! It’s a wonder she isn’t bald. Don’t think I don’t know you sneak that dog in at night.”

Before Brandy could reply, her mother tacked in another direction. She had a more important warning flag to hoist. “Summer school began today.” She gave Brandy the look that turned her students’ knees to jelly. “You ought to be going with me to talk to the principal. I could probably still arrange for an internship at school next fall.” Twenty years of teaching had lent her voice authority.

“Let’s not hash that over again,” Brandy said. “I’m a reporter, not an English teacher.”

Her mother slapped her pencil down. “What kind of job security do you have? Reporters shuffle from paper to paper. What kind of pension can you count on?” She thumped the heavy textbook closed. “An honor graduate! You could so easily have a steady, reliable position teaching English and journalism.”

Brandy started for her bedroom. “I got certified in English as a back–up, but you know I’ve always wanted to be a reporter. I’m onto a really good feature. A mystery about a girl who drowned years ago at the old Able mansion.”

Distracted, Mrs. O’Bannon nodded. “I remember my dad talking about it. A lot of folks thought she didn’t really drown.” Brandy looked up quickly, but her mother was back on track. “You’ll never be able to make your car payments.”

Brandy rolled her eyes upward. The pathetic thing was, unless Brandy got the promotion next week, her mother was probably right. From the dining room came her mother’s parting shot. “Marry Mack Lynch and you won’t have to worry. He’ll inherit his father’s business.”

Brandy spun through door after Meg and called back. “I’m not ready yet.” Mack was, however, in spite of his playboy reputation. He’d asked her, but she had stalled, said she wanted to focus on journalism first. She poked her head back around the door jamb. “But you’ll be pleased to know I’m having supper with him tonight.”

In the bedroom Brandy could hear claws scrabbling on the floor under her bed——Meg seeking safety. “Some watch–dog,” Brandy murmured. “Before you’d bark at a prowler, he’d have to find you.” The red–gold head with its curious, cream–colored mask peeped out, then scrambled across the rug, nosed under a pile of Brandy’s cast–off jeans for a favorite chew–rag, and disappeared again among the dust balls.

Brandy admitted that her mother had a point about the way she kept her room. Because she saw it as a way station between college and her own apartment, she had unpacked only her well–marked Folger Shakespeare paperbacks, a current mystery novel, a tape player and a stack of classical tapes she seldom had time to hear.

But she was now a professional. Soon she must hang all the clothes, straighten the shoe rack, re–order the clutter on her desk and vanity. But tonight there wasn’t time. Maybe if her dad had been better organized… For a quiet moment she looked at his silver framed photograph beside her jewelry case. He had been her model, and his study had been littered with books and papers.

Ever since Brandy’s dad died of a heart attack three years ago, Mrs. O’Bannon had been hung up on the question of her daughter’s livelihood, probably because of her own financial struggle. She had met Brandy’s dad after his tour in Viet Nam, while they were both taking education courses. Both landed jobs at the high school in her mother’s home town, where her dad became its most popular social studies teacher. Seniors dedicated the yearbook to him twice.

Unlike her mother, Brandy’s dad didn’t urge her to follow his example. She’d been the English department’s Pride Award winner, but she’d also been the editor of the school newspaper. Her dad always said, “You’re a good writer, Bran. You’ve got curiosity and you’ve got heart. Do your own thing.” And she had.

It hadn’t been easy after his death. She had paid most of her way through college, working in Gainesville department stores and restaurants, sometimes staying out whole semesters until she could save enough for the next one. She didn’t want to accumulate debts. She had graduated older than her classmates at age twenty–four.

Peering into the mirror above the tissue box, make–up kit, and magazines, she flipped back her hair at the temples with a curling iron, and applied a muted pink lipstick. Tonight she’d test her dad’s faith and her own investigative talent. She would interview the latest witness to a haunting, maybe become a witness herself.

She whistled for Meg. On her dad’s last Christmas, the puppy had been his gift to her, a legacy of love. He had not consulted her mother. Obediently, the copper–colored retriever slithered out, deposited her chew rag on the pile of jeans, and followed at Brandy’s heels past the hazard of Mrs. O’Bannon and into the back yard.

As Brandy closed the gate, she thought of her mother’s recollection. If Eva Stone didn’t drown, what happened to her? But first, the ghost. She’d try to persuade Mack to watch the mansion with her. It would be friendlier with two. But before they staked out the Able mansion, she’d interview the student witness.

FOUR
 

At six–thirty that evening Brandy drove past the police department and city hall toward the lake and parked before a squat building with green shutters and a shamrock over the door. Mack’s giant pick–up was already there. Beyond the Wooten Park tennis courts a light burned at the end of the pier.

Inside the darkened pub a melancholy Irish ballad floated around Celtic tapestries on the walls. An O’Bannon could feel at home here. Mack was leaning over the bar in the lounge, eyes on the television screen, one big hand around a beer mug, ignoring the moist smile of a blonde with teased hair on the next stool.

Brandy steered him to a table under a green fringed shade beside a window. Across the water she could see the ragged shapes of pond pine and cypress, the view the pub owner wanted to preserve. Two miles to the southeast the ninety year old Able homestead and its specter were lost in the distance and darkness.