SHADOW OVER CEDAR KEY (17 page)

“God, what a mess!” Thea led her friend to her own side of the room. When Brandy gave the open cage an anxious glance, Thea added, “Sonata’s got a carrying cage for the parrot.”

Brandy grinned. “You’ve found a roommate even sloppier than I am.

Thea tucked her purse in a corner of her bookcase and sighed. “Wait ‘til you see the bathroom. Ever live with anyone who jumps into the tub with her laundry? Clothes drying everywhere.”

“Why put up with it then?”

With a sudden smile, her friend faced the window and flung her arms wide. “It’s Manhattan! I could never afford the Village alone.”

Brandy handed her the Grosmiller address. “I’ve got to try to phone this man. If he’s not the right guy, my mission’s a wash out.”

Thea fluffed up her half bang, considering the street number. “Chelsea.” She nodded toward the directory beside the phone on her small desk. “Give it a try.” She glanced down at her plaid navy jacket and pleated skirt. “While you call, I’ll change, and we’ll stroll over to a Ukrainian restaurant on Second Avenue. Best cheese blintzes in New York.” She paused at the bath room door. “Actually, I kind of like the parrot.”

Brandy finally located an Irving at the correct address among a long list of Manhattan Grosmillers. The phone rang six times before a man who sounded tired and tremulous finally picked it up.

“Brandy O’Bannon,
Gainesville Tribune
,” Brandy began. “If your wife hired Anthony Rossi to find her niece, it’s important that I talk to you.

“The investigation was confidential,” the weary voice said. “My wife’s business. I paid for the man’s time. For God’s sake, my wife just died. I don’t want to talk.”

Brandy gripped the phone in another rising panic. Had she found the right man only to lose him? “I don’t want to intrude. But I’ve come all the way from Florida, just to find the name of your wife’s niece.”

Grosmiller did not sound moved. “I’m packing up, going to my daughter’s in New Jersey.” Brandy could hear the irritation in his voice. “Haven’t got time to see anyone. For God’s sake, ask Rossi.”

Of course, she thought, the story might not be in the New York papers, or he may not have seen it. Irving Grosmiller had been planning his wife’s funeral. For maximum effect, she spaced her words. “Rossi is dead, murdered.”

Silence. At the top of her untidy note pad, Brandy doodled a dog’s head, sniffing the ground. “I’m a reporter. I think I know the niece’s missing daughter. She wants to know her real name. It’s a long story. I really need to see you.”

Brandy listened to breathing on the phone as Mr. Grosmiller deliberated. At last he spoke. “Be at my apartment about ten.”

As Thea came back into the room in slacks and a sweatshirt, Brandy faced her with relief. “I’ve got one small window open onto the truth. Tomorrow morning at ten.”

CHAPTER 13
 

Sunday night Cara and Marcia maintained an uneasy truce. At the dining room table Cara worked on her portfolio of photographs, devising more imaginative angles for her shots of hammocks and live oaks and snowy egrets. Did she need soft or sharp focus? More shadow? Color or black and white?

But she had difficulty concentrating. Marcia seemed upset and restless. She kept moving about the kitchen and dining room, picking up a book, setting it down, filling a glass of iced tea and leaving in on the counter, rummaging through the newspaper without reading it. No chatter about the gallery, about who bought a picture, who might commission a new watercolor. With unsteady fingers, Cara laid down her pencil. Marcia was concealing something, perhaps had concealed something for a long time. Marcia had brushed off Cara’s questions ever since she was old enough to ask them.

The artist swept up her glass of tea, then stopped at the kitchen door. “Goodwill’s coming tomorrow morning. I’ve put together a box of old clothes, mostly things of your father’s.” Her back was still to Cara. “I never had the heart to part with them, but the closet’s overflowing. Anything you want to toss out, just put on my bed.” She wandered into the hall, then turned. “I’ll run home from the gallery about eleven. Are you still going to Chiefland in the morning?”

Even as Cara nodded, she had decided to act. She remembered the furtive way Marcia bent over something in the closet Saturday morning, how her face had been flushed when she swung the door closed. Tomorrow Cara would breach the privacy and trust that had always existed between them. She would search her foster mother’s closet before the Goodwill truck arrived.

Cara lied. “I’ll pick up my pictures at the drug store right after I serve breakfast. Might as well go straight from the hotel. I’ll leave town well before eleven.”

* * * *

In the morning MacGill beamed through the doorway as Cara carried the last of the dirty plates into the hotel kitchen. “Mind you let us know about your Shell Mound photo.”

Cara gave him a tight smile. “After I tell Detective Strong.” She slipped out of her mauve apron and into a sweater. “I don’t expect I’ll get much. I didn’t dare use a flash.” She followed him into the lobby. “Going right away. Drug store usually has pictures back by ten, ten-thirty.” She looked at her watch. Nine-thirty. Marcia would be at the gallery.

MacGill walked with Cara to the door and peered up at a chilly, gray sky. “For once we might luck out. Storm’s moving slowly. May not get within kicking distance.”

On the windy sidewalk, Cara buttoned her sweater and tied a scarf over her flying hair. But instead of starting out for Chiefland, she drove past the turn-off and set out for home. When she pulled into the driveway, Marcia’s van was gone from the carport.

For the next few minutes Cara searched her own closet for cast-offs. If Marcia should come home early, a few goodwill items would give her a reason to invade her mother’s room. Still, her conscience smarted as she stepped into Marcia’s orderly bedroom, threw two old dresses and a torn blouse on the bed, and looked around.

The dresser held only family pictures. Wedged in the frame of a black and white photograph of her foster dad was a snapshot of him standing before the timber shack. It was taken a year before the roof careened into the wind and a flood marooned him with his men, kept him from Marcia and that first doomed little Cara. Next was her own studio portrait at about three years of age, huddled in Marcia’s lap, her foster dad behind them.

No female vanity showed in Marcia’s room. Her few simple pieces of jewelry were kept in a neat, partitioned drawer. Next to the bed the radio still played softly, tuned to a classical music station. Beside it lay a library book of landscape reproductions, ordered from Tallahassee. Marcia must’ve been looking at it last night.

Cara opened the closet door and knelt beside the tall carton marked “Goodwill.” Her foster father’s tarnished metal lock box had been shoved behind it. Marcia would never discard that. Cara pulled the box forward, surprised to find it unlocked. She lifted the lid and peered at his incomplete coin collection. Cara remembered him sitting for tedious hours at the table, counting, polishing, adding one now and again, an inexpensive hobby. Under them were his World War II metals, Good Conduct, Asiatic-Pacific Theater, Philippine Liberation Ribbon, Victory Metal, all earned at age seventeen and eighteen. He had said it would be ostentatious to mount them. Her eyes stung. A dear man, a thoughtful father. If she never found her real father, she could be grateful for having had this one. But the coins and metals only half filled the box. Something must be missing.

She closed the lid and peeled back the tape Marcia had wound across the Goodwill carton. On top lay her foster father’s worn hunting jacket, below it his leather gloves and fishing cap. She sat back, absorbing a rush of warm memories. Then with a twinge, she pushed them aside, uncovered several folded shirts and slacks of Marcia’s, some frayed curtains, beneath them a baby’s stained white Christening dress, booties—these must be the first Cara’s.

She could scarcely reach the bottom of the box now, and she lifted clothes out, stacked them on the floor, and tilted the box. A paper bag fell to one side. Toddler clothes—a mildewed white pullover shirt, pink coveralls. They stirred a nagging memory, something she had heard. She clawed at the last item, an old beach bag, rusted safety pins holding it together. Maybe she had a premonition.

She sat on the floor, held it for a few seconds, then began struggling with the pins. One snapped in two. Another pricked her fingers. At last they were open. She felt down into the bag. Something soft, spongy. Her fingers fastened around it, drew out a shapeless blue cloth lump. She punched it, pulled it, found two black thread eyes, a triangular mouth, straightened two tufted ears. In her head ran the interview with the cashier. She stared down at the terry-cloth bear, a sob in her throat. Mrs. Terry had seen that little girl carrying a blue teddy bear in the Otter Creek café. She had told the police. But no one ever knew Mar-cia had recovered it.

The next few minutes were a blur of tears and fury. Cara remembered. The cashier said the child wore something pink. What pang of conscience made Marcia keep the bear for twenty years? And the clothes? Yet hidden, probably in the bottom of the coin and metals box. Marcia had known. She had known all along that Cara belonged to the woman from the Otter Creek café. Now Marcia decided to discard the only evidence that linked them—after she sensed the reporter, and maybe Detective Strong, closing in.

Cara dropped the gaping beach bag on the floor, swept up the overalls and shirt, wrapped them around the bear, left the other clothes where they lay, and hugged the bundle in her arms. To think she had worried about invading Marcia’s space! Worried about telling her she would not return to the house this morning. Marcia thought she had plenty of time to dispose of the Goodwill carton.

Now it was ten. Pulling her one large suitcase, a graduation gift from Marcia, out of her closet, Cara crammed it with pajamas, underwear, dresses, slacks and shirts, and with trembling fingers zipped it shut. She packed her few cosmetics in a plastic bag with the stuffed bear. Then she telephoned a girlfriend both MacGill and Marcia knew, and asked her to cover for her at the hotel and art gallery. Next she hesitated, phone in hand. Marcia would be home soon. She hadn’t much time, but she’d better prepare Truck. She made a call to his fish house. He would be working, standing at the table beside the huge cooler, his callused hands wielding an oyster knife, the weight scales ready.

“I’m going to be out of town for a while,” she said when she heard his husky voice. “Not to worry. Nothing’s wrong. I’m going in to pick up the pictures this morning and then visit some friends in Chiefland.” She was not good at lying, but she did not want to deal with Truck’s temper this morning. “Call you later.”

She hung up before he could ask what friends. No need to leave a note for Marcia. She would understand as soon as she saw the discarded beach bag and Cara’s empty closet. With camera slung around her neck and purse from her shoulder, she carried her portfolio and the plastic bag to the station wagon, pulling the suitcase behind her. To the shrill ringing of the phone, Cara swung the station wagon into the street. No doubt Truck was trying to find out where she would be. She focused instead on the two Cedar Key stops she had to make, one at the bank and one at the Island Hotel. Next she would pick up the pictures, call Strong if she had a recognizable likeness, and find a place to stay. Maybe in Gainesville. Then she would phone Brandy in New York.

When Cara asked at the bank to withdraw her savings, the cashier disappeared into an inner office. In a few seconds a small man with a tweedy look and a pinched face emerged, the bank manager Cara had known ever since she could remember.

“It’s not safe to carry that much cash, even in Cedar Key,” he said to Cara. “If there’s a problem, we’re all here to help.”

Cara shook her head, improvising. “I’m staying for a while in Gainesville, taking some courses at the university.”

At last she agreed to take only two hundred dollars and transfer the rest to another bank after she was settled. The manager walked her to the door, eyes anxious. “But the fall term’s already started.”

Cara reached for possibilities. “Special arrangements. Got a job near the university.” How I wish, she thought. As she crossed the street to the hotel, he still stood in the doorway.

In the lobby of the Island Hotel Cara fed a more convincing version to Mr. MacGill: she had an unexpected chance to work in a camera studio in Gainesville. She planned to enroll later for a few classes.

MacGill’s square face grew pensive. “Marcia approve?”

Cara frowned. “I’m a grown woman, for pity’s sake. I called Ellie Ruth Rice. She’s had experience at a bed and breakfast. She’ll take over for me in the dining room. Not to worry. She’ll be here tonight and for as long as you need her.”

“And the photographs? At the drug store?”

This small town busy-body atmosphere suffocated her. “Picking them up now. I’ll call Brandy O’Bannon tonight, and I’ll notify the sheriff s office if a picture shows anything interesting.” She tipped her head toward the gossipy desk clerk. “Everyone in town will know where I’ve gone soon enough.”

When Cara set out a few minutes later for Chiefland, suitcase, camera, and blue bear stowed under a tarpaulin behind her, her spirits lifted. She would contact Marcia later, after she had made firm plans. She had paid an emotional price, but she had begun to learn the truth. And she was free.

Unlike the moment before she discovered the bear, she had no warning premonition. The drug store was almost empty of customers. With growing excitement, she hurried straight to the photography section. Maybe on that moonlit night she had caught a murderer’s face. As a sallow-faced young woman fumbled through a stack of yellow and black envelopes and handed her a package, someone called Cara’s name. She turned to see a heavy-set man in a sports coat and tie hurrying toward the counter.

“Miss Waters?” He was close now and drew a badge from an inner pocket. “Detective Stokes. Levy County Sheriff s Office. There’s an emergency.” He was breathing hard now. “Just got a call from the dispatcher. It’s your mother. I’m afraid she’s had a heart attack.”