Trace Their Shadows (11 page)

For a few minutes Brandy slumped on the couch, bone tired. Then bracing herself, she picked up John’s kitchen phone and called home. Before her mother could unleash her full outrage at the hour, she explained that John was in the hospital and that she planned to stop there before she came home. Next came the Sheriff’s Office, where she asked a deputy to be sure John’s brother Steve knew about the injury and alerted their parents.

In the bedroom Brandy studied the photograph. In one corner “Love, Sharon,” was inscribed in tiny, precise letters. No flare for imaginative language, she thought, but she felt a thickness in her chest. Last night’s indignation had melted with her first look at John’s wound. In the living room she noticed the yearbook and annual she had thrust under the coffee table the night before. Surely John wouldn’t care if she took a look at them now. He had said to take them. They might reveal insights into the people she had to interview. But tonight, she had to know he would be all right.

Books under one arm, she locked the door behind her and climbed wearily into her car. But within thirty minutes she had plowed into the emergency room parking lot, adrenaline again pumping. At the desk a duty nurse told her John was being moved to a private room, that he was in serious but stable condition, and that, after rushing so hard, she would simply have to take a seat in the waiting room. She was not family. She dragged herself into a chair. She owed the family an explanation. In the meantime, she would examine Brookfield Able’s l938 high school yearbook. She was much too wired to sleep.

The slim, fifty–two year old annual had a magazine format consisting of class pictures, black and white photographs of the Spanish stucco high school building, and short articles by classmates about one another. She turned to the senior class page. Brookfield Able stared back, a somber looking youth whose interests were listed as football and hunting. He had been senior class president and an officer in the Honor Society.

His photograph was not as commanding as the likeness in the fireplace portrait, but its forerunner was clearly visible——the high forehead, the black hair brushed neatly back, a thick jaw, a firm if heavy mouth, and a challenging gaze into the camera lens. He bore some family resemblance in bone structure to John, but the angles of John’s face were more refined. She turned the next page and recognized the photograph she had seen in the Leesburg Commercial, Eva Stone as high school senior. Her classic features, framed by long, dark hair, dominated the page. Eva’s activity and interest list was much shorter than Brookfield’s: home–economics; child care. Well, Brandy thought, in l938 that was to be expected.

Brookfield’s sister was younger. Brandy looked in a back section and found Sylvania’s much smaller picture among the sophomores. Brandy could easily identify the big head, the prominent features, the cropped hair. Next she turned to the yellowing index: Blackthorne, Axel C.,p. 3. On page three in the junior class she found the developer, youthful but strangely unaltered. His hair was thicker and darker, but the round face and the gap between his front teeth were unchanged. Brandy recognized him immediately. They all must’ve known each other. It wasn’t surprising. Tavares was a small town.

Before setting down the yearbook, she turned on a hunch to Notables. Here she was surprised by a small photograph of a couple standing together, the boy’s arm around the girl’s slender back, her head against his shoulder. “Most Popular Couple:” read the caption, “Brookfield Able and Eva Stone.” She sat back, stunned. Sylvania certainly hadn’t mentioned her brother’s connection with the dead girl. The fact that Brookfield was Eva Stone’s boyfriend in 1938 didn’t make her a ghost in 1945——or a skeleton. But it was something to go on.

Grace Able would not be part of the high school group. The news clipping had given the Southerland address as Leesburg, but she would probably appear among the family photographs. Brandy lifted the black leather album into her lap and began turning pages until she came to a group photograph on the back lawn of the Able summer home.

The family members stood before a great, blooming bougainvillea: white–bearded Great–grandfather Able in a black suit, his diminutive wife at his side, next to them John’s grandfather and grandmother. Behind them towered a young Sylvania. Next to her, Ace’s grinning face was barely visible above the elderly man in front. Brookfield and Grace stood apart from the children seated on the ground before his younger brother. Brookfield, as always, was ramrod straight and unsmiling. Brandy peered at the tiny photograph of Grace——slight, short hair tightly curled, face a sallow oval, hands clasped before her. She had a rather melancholy expression, Brandy thought.

Brandy had set aside the books and begun jotting in her note pad every detail of the night’s experience she could remember when a disheveled Steve Able hurried into the room. He was shorter and sturdier than his younger brother, his features more blunt, but Brandy recognized him immediately. As soon as he had checked at the desk, she tucked her note pad away and introduced herself as the Beacon reporter involved in his brother’s accident.

He frowned and nodded toward two chairs near the desk. “The doctor will come out soon,” he said. ”Until then, you might as well tell me what happened.”

He rocked back in the seat, one ankle resting on the other knee, and listened, interrupting only to ask for more details about the skeleton and the snake. When she had finished, he shook his head. “A bad business. You both took too many risks. Still, the bones will call for a full investigation.”

Brandy sat back, limp. This was the second night she had gone with almost no sleep. “You realize John was trying to protect me. That’s why he was struck.”

Steve stretched out his legs. “Because of John, I doubt Sylvania will make a stink about the break–in.”

“Would you try to keep me informed, about the case, I mean? I’ll pass on to the Sheriff’s Office any information I get. Some people I plan to interview may talk more freely to me than to a detective.”

Steve leaned back and locked his hands behind his head. “If it’s okay with the detective in charge. I don’t know how John will feel about you when he comes through this——but Dad will be mad as hell.”

ELEVEN
 

Brandy checked her watch. Four. A few minutes later a slender young physician with a tired slouch came into the room to give John’s brother Steve his report. “A pretty severe necrosis,” he said. “We’re giving Mr. Able anti–venom intravenously and keeping a careful watch. If the poison has gotten into the muscle, we may have to excise the area and remove the dead tissue. The swelling is going to shock you, so be prepared.” The doctor glanced at his clipboard. “He’s getting morphine now for pain, so you’ll not get much of a visit, but family can go in for a few minutes.”

Brandy looked so stricken that Steve took her arm and led her with him. John lay on his back, face white and drawn, tubes running into him from suspended bottles, the swollen hand loosely bandaged. Restless even under sedation, his body twitched. Brandy bent over him. “It wasn’t such a good idea I had, after all.” There was no response.

Steve touched his shoulder. “Mom and Dad are on the way. Had a little trouble reaching them. I got to report in early this morning, but I’ll be back after my shift, okay? Next time, duck.” Brandy thought John tried to smile.

As they walked back into the hall, Brandy said, “I’ll wait. I owe your folks an apology. But do give me a call if you hear anything.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll stay in touch.”

Brandy remained, still unable to rest. On her note pad she had begun doodling snakes with pin prick eyes and pointy fangs when John’s parents arrived.

The retired Captain charged into the almost empty room like a steam engine, head pushed forward, a heavy set man with a growing paunch. He bore out John’s description of “Old Spit and Polish.” Even at that pre–dawn hour his graying hair was slicked back and his slacks sharply creased, like his son’s.

A few paces behind trotted a thin woman with nervous hands. Clearly, she expected her husband to lead. He halted in mid–charge and turned to his wife, who recognizing some subtle signal, produced a pair of eyeglasses from her purse. After he placed them over his sizable nose, he advanced again, better prepared to conduct an inspection.

“So you’re the little lady broke into Sylvania’s boat house tonight with John. Just what did you expect to find?” He had a commanding voice, barely controlled.

Brandy met him midway across the room and extended her hand. “Brandy O’Bannon, Tavares Beacon. I’m sure Steve explained that we did find something important, but I’m truly sorry about your son.”

Temporarily derailed, the captain gripped her hand and then dropped it almost immediately. “It’s not like John, a fool stunt like that. Not like him at all. He thinks things out.”

From the rear John’s mother spoke up. “He’s always been a careful sort of boy.” Her frail figure moved closer. “Let’s ask for the doctor, please.”

The captain grunted and spun toward the admittance window. Brandy heard herself saying, “Have you notified John’s girl friend?” She tried to sound off–hand.

A smile flitted across the older woman’s face. “Sharon will get here from Ocala sometime this morning. She’s on summer vacation from college. A nice steady sort of girl. You know her?” Brandy shook her head, the weight again in her chest. Apparently, the relationship was close.

The captain turned and motioned his wife to follow. Then his gaze dropped to the album and the yearbook on a side table and he scowled. “What are these doing here?”

“Research. I didn’t think John would mind.” Brandy reached for them, adding not quite honestly. “He showed them to me. For my story about the Able mansion.” She extended the books toward him. “Here, I’ve finished.”

His heavy face flushed. “We’ll pick them up at the desk, thank you, Miss O’Bannon.” Before a startled receptionist, he shoved them onto the counter. Mrs. Able scurried after him through the swinging door.

Brandy peered again at her watch. Time to catch a few ZZ’s at the house, freshen up, and call Mr. Tyler. She didn’t want to hang around and meet the exemplary girl friend. Clearly, Sharon was not a woman who had to be pulled from the lake one night, and on the next, urge a normally cautious son to break into a deserted boat house.

As for Brandy, she hadn’t aroused a warm response from John since he plucked her out of the lake. Sighing, she shouldered her canvas bag and stepped out to her car.

***

For three hours at home Brandy slept fitfully, tossed some more, then finally gave up and showered. Still wired, by nine o’clock she had punched the flashing button on her office answering machine and listened to Mack’s irritated message: “What’s the matter, kid? I called the house last night and your mom couldn’t tell me squat. Your looney tunes job is messing up our plans. I got something to show you.”

She hesitated, then phoned the Buick agency and was relieved when the secretary said he was out on the lot. Good old reliable, well–heeled Mack. What was the matter with her? A bird in the hand, she thought ruefully. She would have to call back.

Gathering up her notes, she knocked on Mr. Tyler’s half open door, then sailed into his office. Even if she hadn’t cornered a ghost, she could report her discovery of the skeleton. Maybe the Sheriff’s Office would let the paper report the medical examiner’s finding. She expected the editor to be pleased.

Instead, he listened to her story about the buried bones with a languid stare, snuffed out the usual cigarette, and sank back in his chair. “The dailies will be full of your skeleton in the morning,” he said. With exaggerated care, he peered at his desk calendar. “We go to the printer on Tuesday. It takes a day to print and distribute, remember? Those bones will be old news by Wednesday. By then you’ll need something fresh.” He began hunting through the papers on his desk. “But I guess the good news is that you broke into the boat house with the owner’s relative, so maybe the paper won’t be sued.”

No need to point out that, technically, Blackthorne had already bought the boat house land. “Monday I’ll have the story I promised,” she said, subdued. “And with a human interest focus.” She paused, then went on in a rush. “My research was delayed. When John Able was helping me last night, he was bitten by a cottonmouth. He saved me from being struck. Now he’s in the hospital.”

The editor wagged his head, apparently at the foibles of the young. “You better hang on to the guy. By my count, this is the second time he’s pulled your chestnuts out of the fire.”

Brandy looked down at her notes. “I’m going to line up several interviews, but I doubt Mr. Able will be helping me any more.”

As she rose to leave, the editor pulled a memo from under a sheaf of papers. “I did get a message you’d be interested in. The Sheriff’s Office will hold a briefing on the case tonight. Just for the hell of it, you might like to be there.” Brandy detected a familiar glint in the shrewd blue eyes. Old fire–horse, she thought. He didn’t give me any other assignment, either.

“Eight o’clock. I’ll be there.”

When Brandy called Curt Greene’s office a few minutes later to ask for news of the mansion’s sale, the architect wasn’t in. His secretary was sure Mr. Greene hadn’t located a buyer. Bad news for John.

Brandy had dressed that morning in a cool denim dress and her freshly cleaned pumps, ready once more to make a professional impression. She didn’t dare call Sylvania, who would be furious about the second trespass on her property. She wondered what Sylvania’s estranged husband would say about the discovery under the boat house. The morning dailies wouldn’t have the story until tomorrow. She looked up the phone number of Ace Langdon’s motel.

On the telephone his voice sounded slightly slurred. She told him she was talking to people who had been at Brookfield and Grace Able’s engagement party. Then she asked to see him. He was silent for several seconds.

“No problem,” he said at last. “But there’s not much to tell. Be glad to talk to you, though, little lady. The room’s Number 270. Come on and we’ll drink a wee toast to age and beauty.” She could almost see the lift of his eyebrows, the flirtatious smile.