Trace Their Shadows (8 page)

Brandy leaned against the linoleum covered kitchen counter. “I’m researching the history of this house for the Tavares Beacon. I’m especially interested in the drowning of Eva Stone. I thought you might be able to tell me something useful. Maybe help me reconstruct the event.”

His smile faded. He set the bottles heavily down on the counter top, pulled two dish towels from a drawer, rolled them around the bottles, and thrust them into the bottom of his bag. “S’not a good time to talk. I mean with the Moose——excuse me——with Syl in the next room. But don’t go dredging up that stuff about Eva Stone now. The house and everything around it will be gone soon. And good riddance. No matter what happened to Eva Stone, she’s ancient history now.” Langdon looked toward the hall stairs. “I’ve got to pack before the Moose throws me out.”

Brandy handed him her card. “Can I see you again?”

His former grin and the dimples returned. He slipped the card into his carry–all and looked her up and down. “Little lady, if I was thirty or forty years younger, you’d see a whole lot more of me.” On the stairs he paused at the carved newel post, looked back, and winked. “I’m staying at the Comfort Inn. If you don’t reach me there, try A & S Citrus. I still stop into the office now and then.”

As he vanished up the stairs, Brandy joined John and followed Sylvania’s tall form down the hall. The older woman opened the outside door, her back rigid as a totem pole. “When I get home tomorrow,” she said, “that old boat house will be gone at last.” She stood for a few minutes looking over the ragged hedge and the weeds along the driveway, then fixed her stony gaze on John. “I’m looking forward to my nice new air conditioned apartment.”

From the porch Brandy spoke up quickly. “I noticed the boat house is locked. Doesn’t look like it’s been opened for a long time. Could there be anything in there you’d want to keep? Maybe something of your brother’s?”

Sylvania’s lips turned down. “Lands, all Brookfield kept there was fishing tackle and gear for his boat. He hadn’t used the boat house for years before he died. And Elton——“ She gave a little snort. “He didn’t care for any sports. Didn’t hunt or fish. He certainly wouldn’t have put anything in the boat house. Good riddance of bad rubbish, I say. I’m glad Axel will tear it down and haul off the trash.”

Head down, John led the way toward his Mustang. Beyond it, half–concealed under the trees, Brandy could see the fender of her own hatchback. “John,” she said, stopping and turning toward the spit of land and the boat house, “I don’t think you should let Blackthorne throw everything away, not until you’ve seen what’s there. Sylvania obviously doesn’t know.”

John made a wry face. “Aunt Sylvania’s probably right. People don’t usually keep the family jewels in a boat house.” But his long strides had halted and he sounded uncertain.

“Could be gear from the 1940’s. Even war time stuff. Sylvania said he built it right after he came home and didn’t use it long. You really ought to check it out. Memorabilia’s valuable now. Sylvania wouldn’t even think about that. It would add detail to my story.”

Again Brandy felt a twinge of guilt. Her main interest in the boat house was not family mementos. It was how the figure Charlotte described was able to walk right through the closed back door.

In a few minutes they stood before the sagging plank structure. Its boat slip faced the lake with a sizable storage shed covering the ground at the rear. The yard entrance fastened with the rusty padlock Brandy had seen the night before. On the lake side a pair of weathered doors swung outward, allowing boaters to step onto a narrow platform and enter the shed through a front door, now also padlocked.

The purr of a car engine interrupted their inspection. Across the chain link fence Blackthorne’s Cadillac eased along the grass and stopped beside the new board walk. The developer clambered out. “I need a word with you two,” he called, placing plump hands on the bars of the gate.

Brandy prepared to be bawled out again for being attacked, but John took the initiative. “Did you turn the Dobermans loose last night?” he asked.

Blackthorne’s heavy face remained unperturbed. “My watchman may have. He has orders to look out for Mrs. Langdon. If he saw somebody on her property, he might turn the dogs on them. He’d think it was a burglar.”

Brandy was sure he knew about the attack——knew and did not repent. Blackthorne passed his hand over his balding head and went on in a milder tone. “I wanted to ask you to go easier on your great–aunt, Mr. Able. She doesn’t deserve more trouble dumped on her now. Just leave her alone. She’s got enough headaches dealing with that lush she’s married to. Let her finally get rid of this place. She wants to sell it.”

John’s voice was level, but firm. “I got your message at work, but if I find a buyer with the same offer, someone who’ll preserve it, what’s the harm to her?”

The developer turned toward the crew still working on the walkway. “No harm, I suppose,” he said. “But you won’t find a buyer by Saturday.” He waved toward the workers behind him. ”The development’s well underway. We’ll put a board walk and benches all along the water front. Take down some cypress to improve the view.” He smiled. “You know the old Florida saying: You can make more money from Yankees than oranges. We can get three homes on Sylvania’s one lot.”

As Blackthorne stumped over to talk to his foreman, John frowned and shook his head.

Brandy put a hand on the blistered boat house wall. “Your Aunt Sylvania won’t be home tonight,” she murmured. “Tonight’s your only chance to see what’s inside.”

John shook his head. “You want to court the Dobermans again?”

“I’d help you. We could come across the lake in the boat and tie up in the slip. The dogs couldn’t get to us there. I’ll be the lookout. Besides, Sylvania wouldn’t care. She wants it all destroyed anyway.” Brandy ran her fingers over the corroded lock. It hadn’t been opened for years.

Above the clatter of a cement mixer, workmen were pounding posts into the damp soil. John glanced at the new boardwalk. “Well,” he said, pausing at the spindly pier, “I guess Aunt Sylvania really wouldn’t care. Tomorrow a crew will pull down the walls. Haul everything away.” He frowned. “We’ll take a quick look. I’ll bring my bolt cutter.” He gave a decisive nod. “Come over a little before eight.”

Mr. Tyler had cautioned Brandy not to trespass. She didn’t mention the warning to John, already striding across the lawn toward his car. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got to check out a stress problem at work.”

She trotted after him, still swinging the muddy white pumps in one hand. It was almost as if he had forgotten last night’s anger. “About seven–forty–five tonight, then? It’s not as though we’ll disturb anything.”

He halted under the live oak beside her car, the planes of his face half in sunlight, half in shadow. Her heart gave a sudden lurch. Another evening together. Maybe he hadn’t lost interest, maybe that wasn’t a girlfriend leering from his dresser top.

But he responded in his ice–man voice. “I’m doing this for the family. Maybe I’ll turn up something related to the history of the house.” A wary look came into his brown eyes. “I’d better not find you’ve got another agenda.”

Still hostile and suspicious, she thought. Not, she had to admit, without reason.

***

That afternoon Brandy covered a legislative hearing and left a story for Mr. Tyler on the laptop. By six–thirty she was driving home under her street’s overhanging oaks. As she passed the sole neighbor’s corner house, she was glad to see Mack’s pick–up was-n’t waiting in front of her mother’s. No need to tell him she planned to search a deserted boat house with John. He’d either be jealous or vow again that the Able family was all crazy. Likely both.

In the kitchen she turned down her mother’s offer of fish broiled on the hibachi, slapped together a tuna sandwich, and was careful not to explain her plans for the evening. After a quick shower she changed into pair of jeans, pulled on a light–weight jacket, and made a few passes through her tousled hair with the curling iron.

From a desk drawer she took a page of notes and stuffed them along with her note pad and pen into a her canvas bag. “My research on ghosts,” she muttered. “Just in case.”

When she pulled up beside John’s Mustang, the sun had already dropped below the fringe of cabbage palms at the rear of the park. She tried not to look at his trailer, tried not to remember his arms around her. When she stepped aboard the pontoon boat and reached for his Styrofoam cooler of ice and cold drinks, their fingers touched. She felt the former electricity and moved her hand quickly away,

“Investigators are entitled to a little refreshment, I guess,” he said, apparently impervious.

Brandy seated herself at the stern while he coiled the line at the bow, took his seat behind the wheel, and backed smoothly into the channel. After switching on the green and red running lights at the bow, he adjusted the tall, white one above the canvas top at the stern, and noted the compass heading for the three mile cruise.

Before them floated a white, misshapen moon. The mansion’s distant cypress trees lifted like spires against the evening sky. Behind them thin clouds were still stained with crimson. The water rose and fell in a black chop. When a late–flying osprey glided overhead, a fish struggling in his claws, John’s eyes followed. “If Blackthorne has his way, there won’t be any birds of prey. No habitat left.”

Brandy moved onto the bench across from the captain’s chair, pulled a billed cap out of her canvas bag, and settled it on her head. She was thinking of another possible prey. “What if we see some kind of a specter tonight?” Her shiver was caused only partly by the wind.

He gave her a fleeting smile. “I’ve watched you work. I imagine you’ll take notes.” Then his smile disappeared and he raised his eyebrows. “Your real agenda, right?”

She ignored the dig. “I’m interested in whatever we find in the boat house, natural or supernatural. People see something unusual around the boat house. When I started to work on this story, I read an article by a parapsychologist. He says what we call “ghosts” are really electromagnetic…” she reached into her bag, retrieved her notes, and read ”biochemical multidimensional organisms. He says they’re the remainders of a person’s aura, which he says are alpha, beta, delta, gamma brain waves. These waves are supposed to make the electromagnetic energy that surrounds all life forms.”

She glanced up, her voice steady. “He says these special impressions in the atmosphere can form at moments of extreme trauma.”

He shook his head, plainly amused. “Not very convincing proofs for a student of mathematics. If you spot one of these multidimensional whatevers, ask if the theory’s right.”

“Not possible.” Brandy sighed. “He says you can’t really communicate with one. It just sort of drifts around. He also says they’re more likely to be seen when the moon is full.” She looked up at the three–quarters moon hanging in the eastern sky. “They’re more frequent around a body of water.”

The stern light cast a sharp band across John’s high cheekbones and left his dark eyes in shadow. “Then conditions are favorable for a sighting. You should be pleased.”

When they passed the Wooten Park pier, she had noticed two night fishermen in a small boat, a yellow lantern glowing at the stern. “Maybe there’ll be other witnesses tonight.” There was no other activity on the silent lake.

“The guys out for catfish are too far away,” John said, “so forget them.”

They had reminded her of her father. For a moment the old sadness returned. “My dad taught me to fish here. How to run a boat, too.”

He leaned forward, scanning the dark water for buoys. “Both useful skills.” As they neared Sylvania’s property, they lowered the canvas top, and he cut off the running lights. John surveyed the shore line. “No use alerting the watchman next door. It’s bright enough to see what I’m doing.” He pulled back on the throttle and turned off the gasoline engine. “When I start the trolling motor, switch on the depth finder.”

At the bow he started the silent electric motor and guided the boat quietly around the spit of land that curved out from the lawn, nudging it along the bank toward the darkened boat house.

Brandy called softly, “Four feet, three feet, two…”

The square hulk now loomed before them, its boat slip clear, a heavy beam spanning the open structure above it. In the past boats would have been suspended from it for dry dock. They glided between weathered posts and a narrow deck that lined the outer walls. As the bow bumped against the side of the slip, John stepped up onto the pier, pulled the prow against a post, and threw a clove–hitch around it. Beside him the deck widened before the padlocked door that led into the storage shed.

“Watch your step,” he said. “The platform’s rotten. Could be termites. Maybe that’s why Sylvania and Blackthorne are so eager to get rid of it.”

“But the house is all cypress.” Brandy stood and steadied herself by reaching up to hold the beam above her head. “It’s termite–proof. Maybe the boat house is inferior wood. Sylvania says Brookfield built it in a hurry when he first moved in.”

After she lifted the heavy bolt cutter up to John, he held his hand out for her. No romance in that, she thought as she scrambled onto the rickety platform. He just doesn’t want to pull me out of the lake again.

“I saw lights on the Blackthorne site,” he said, dropping her hand. “We can assume the watchman’s on duty.”

The high shape of the house itself rose to their left, in the dim light the dormer windows of its fourth floor blank, its lawn in shadow. As she stepped forward, a plank cracked. She grabbed for John’s hand just as her foot disappeared into the ragged opening. Carefully she pulled free.

“This place is hard on shoes,” she said, her voice shaking. “I almost lost one pair already.”

John scowled at the uneven boards and the large, rusty nails protruding from the pier and the shed. “This wasn’t built by the same craftsmen who built the house. I guess old Brookfield really did it himself.”

Leaning the bolt cutter against the door, he produced a pen light from his pocket. “Hold the light on the lock. Here goes my first criminal act. Breaking and entering. If we’re caught, an arrest will look great on my resumé. My father and my brother would never understand.”