Trace Their Shadows (13 page)

Brandy eased her car along the ruts and parked in front of the Wilson house. Mrs. Wilson sat in a swing, moving slowly back and forth, shelling peas and dropping them into a big iron kettle. Her eyes appraised Brandy from a face as golden brown and dry as a tobacco leaf.

Brandy repeated her question.

“I think I recollect the Brown family,” the old lady said in a high, thin voice. “That family didn’t have but two girls. Why you want to know?” She peered up at Brandy, cautious.

“I’m writing a story for the Beacon about that big house the Ables own up on Lake Dora. Lily Mae Brown used to work there.”

“Guess that’s all right, then,” the old woman said. “I recollect the Brown family moved a long time ago to Mount Dora. Old man Brown got a job near there for a fruit packing company.” Her busy fingers paused. “That girl, Lily Mae——if my memory be right——she married a fellow there, a fellow named Hall. Don’t recollect the first name. Last I heard they still lived in Mount Dora. Maybe that’ll help you, young lady.”

When Brandy reached into her purse, the old woman waved her away. “Might not help you,” she said. “It’s all I know.”

Thirty minutes later Brandy stopped at a fast food restaurant on the edge of Mount Dora, wolfed down a hamburger and coke, and borrowed the telephone book. The number of Halls was daunting, but she did find a Martin Luther King Center listed on the east side of town. It was worth a try.

By three she was standing at the front desk in a one story, white concrete block building, staring hopefully at an elderly black woman in a paisley dress. In a larger adjoining room two teenagers in baggy jeans cracked ping pong balls across a table tennis net.

The woman raised her eyebrows and looked up. “Lily Mae Hall?” she asked, her eyes behind her glasses as thoughtful and reserved as the old lady’s on the swing. “Let’s see now. Seems like I recollect…” She pulled a notebook from a shelf behind her and flipped through several pages of handwritten names.

Was she stalling? “I would like to interview Mrs. Hall for a story I’m writing for the Beacon newspaper. I don’t think she’d mind. I want to ask a few details about an old house where she worked years ago.”

The woman paused and placed one finger on a name. “If she’s the lady I’m thinking of, she’s a supporter but we don’t see her here much. Don’t think she’s been right well.” She turned the book toward Brandy. “You might want to take down the number, see if she’s the lady you want.”

Quickly Brandy jotted down name, address, and phone number. Trotting back down the sidewalk toward her car, she checked her watch. There was barely time for the drive back to Tavares for Grace Able’s flower show. She would have to telephone Lily Mae tonight.

When Brandy entered the spacious home of the garden club member, she asked for Grace Able, then waited by French doors in a foyer that opened onto the north shore of Lake Dora. The judging had concluded. Grace came mincing in from an adjoining room in high heels, her face flushed. “Miss O’Bannon, I believe.” In the living room, she drew Brandy aside.

“Color Under the Sun” read a large placard on an end table. Plumes of red bottlebrush thrust up from a vase on the other end piece, a sprightly pot of golden marigolds brightened a coffee table, a mass of deep pink bougainvillea cascaded from a bowl on the mantel, and a cluster of bromeliads lifted scarlet blooms like inverted bells from a wide pot on the piano.

Grace directed Brandy’s attention to the last arrangement. “The judges criticized the size of my container,” she said in a low voice. “Too large in proportion to its location.” She waved a dainty hand at the bright blooms and the tracery of green Swiss cheese and snake plants that filled in the pot.

Inwardly Brandy smiled. Grace’s huge diamond and wide platinum wedding band could also be called out of proportion to her slender finger. The well–bred voice quivered. “I grow bromeliads in my little patio. You can see my design is easily the most pleasing and certainly it has the most exceptional plants.”

Brandy glanced from the oval face with its cream complexion and pained blue eyes to the bromeliads on the piano top and their red ribbon. A blue one dangled from the mantel.

Grace sniffed. “Bougainvillea takes no effort in Florida. Excellent balance and proportion, indeed!”

She was almost too thin in a pale silvery green dress with a wide swinging skirt, but well–proportioned, if her arrangement was not. Against the soft folds at the neckline lay a strand of pearls.

“Of course, this is just a local placement show. I should take a first place at the county show next fall in Eustis. The regular shows end in May, but the girls thought a little June summer flower show would be fun.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “I’m not really surprised at the ribbon, though. They’ve got new judges this year. Just trained. And they don’t like me to compete. I’m too old. They think I ought to step aside for newer members.”

She touched the careful waves in her blonde–white hair. “Of course, there’s the Able and Southerland Company thing. People in a small town hold money against you, you know.” She gave a mirthless little laugh. “As if any amount of money could compensate for the loss of my husband.”

Brandy seized on the reference to Brookfield Able’s death. “I heard you say you didn’t care about the Able homestead, but it was your husband’s. For my story, you must have some pleasant memories of it.”

The older woman laid a graceful hand on Brandy’s arm and led her toward an isolated love seat. “Brookfield didn’t like it any better than I. Too far out of town. Too gloomy.”

“Your sister–in–law feels the same. It’s a pity. It’s such a part of county history.”

“Poor Sylvania.” Grace looked down, a tiny lift to the corners of her mouth. “She never cared much for me, either. Such different interests! Doesn’t cherish beautiful things. You’ve seen her garden, or the lack of it.”

“Did you dislike the house when you lived there?”

Grace’s eyelids drooped. “I don’t know how Sylvania and that dreadful man she married stayed out there so long.”

“After Eva Stone disappeared into the lake, you must have heard rumors about unusual sightings there.”

The almond–shaped blue eyes opened wide and inspected Brandy for a moment. “I’ve heard,” she said at last quietly.

“I understand you were the guest of honor that weekend. What can you tell me about Eva Stone and her drowning?”

Grace paused, her eyes still averted. “I didn’t know her at all well. The drowning happened after I’d already left. A dreadful tragedy. Spoiled our engagement party. Afterwards, it was all people could talk about. If the girl were going to drown herself, I wished she’d picked another time and place.” She smoothed the silky skirt across her lap. “I can tell you this. I would not stay in that house again.”

Brandy wondered if she had a quotable witness at last. “What exactly did you see that makes you say that?”

Grace’s delicate fingers fluttered. “It’s only a feeling, really. Like a presence, especially upstairs. A coldness in the air.” She shuddered.

“Ever see anything on the lawn? Or near the boat house?”

Grace rose, stepped to the piano, and picked up the red ribbon. “No,” she said after a pause. “The family doesn’t like to talk about it. Brings gawkers around, you know. Maybe if Sylvania has the house pulled down, that will put a stop to the talk.”

“May I quote you?”

“Oh, no, please. Sylvania doesn’t like me now. She’d really be angry if I commented to a reporter about——you know——those stories.”

She tucked the ribbon in a tote bag and lifted her pot carefully with both hands. “Just say I haven’t lived in the house for over forty years and have no sentimental attachment to it.”

Brandy sighed and reached for the pot. “Let me help you to the car. I ought to tell you the case is being re–opened. There’s been a new development.”

Just as Brandy’s fingers tightened around the pot, Grace released her hold and one hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear. Must they bring all that up again?”

“I’m afraid so.” Brandy said. “Last night a skeleton was found buried near the house. There’s a chance it’s Eva Stone’s.” No need to tell Grace about the damaged skull. She might refuse then to talk at all. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the weekend she disappeared.”

“We certainly can’t speak privately here, Miss O’Bannon.” Grace cocked her head and looked at Brandy. “O’Bannon. I believe I met your mother once or twice. Barbara O’Bannon?” Brandy nodded. “Last time was at a Garden Club round robin where we had dessert at different houses. She didn’t stay active in the club. Had no free time, people said. I thought teachers got their summers off, and school’s over by three or four in the afternoon.”

For once Brandy wanted to defend her hard–working mother. “Teachers work after they get home. Especially English teachers. She’s a summer school teacher, too.”

“So nice to know we have a few good ones,” Grace said. Obviously Grace thought her remark a compliment.

Brandy followed her to the Mercedes at the curb and set the bromeliads on the spacious floor behind the driver’s seat. She handed Grace a card. “The discovery of human bones will be in the morning papers. May I call on you later if I have more questions?”

Grace put the card in her purse and slid behind the wheel. “I’m sure I can add very little to what you already know,” she said, but her hand trembled as she lifted her car keys from a small purse and cut on the engine. Still, at her age, Brandy thought, many people are shaky. “Mabel Boxley and I leave for Canada next week.” Grace lowered the window a few inches. “We go to Banff every summer. The Florida heat, you know. Mabel’s there now, getting the cottage ready. Until then I’ll be at my condo. The Lakeview Arms near Leesburg. You’ll need to give my name at the gate.”

As the car pulled away, Brandy realized Grace Able had yet to reveal anything useful.

Before going home, surely she should inquire about John. In Leesburg she stopped at a record shop, pawed though its classical offerings, and bought Chopin’s Etude in E Major. John didn’t need anything heavy, but certainly he needed the soothing effect of great music. At five–thirty Brandy turned again into the hospital parking lot and took her small tape recorder out of the glove compartment.

She had reached the corridor near John’s room when she saw Steve Able’s solid figure in a dark green uniform closing the door behind him. His greeting was morose. He shook his head. “John’s awake again, but there’s not much change. This is going to take time.”

“I feel responsible,” Brandy said.

He ran his fingers over the crown of his deputy’s hat. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Moccasins are attack snakes. We all know that.” He twisted the hat in his hand and looked away. “Doctor says they’ll observe him closely for a while. He hasn’t recommended surgery. Anyway, not yet.” His tanned forehead crinkled in a frown. “Sylvania’s fit to be tied. Reporters from Leesburg and Orlando picked up the patrol car’s calls last night. They’re swarming all over her place today. Now the Sheriff’s Office has asked her to come in for questioning. She says she doesn’t know anything about a skeleton and doesn’t want to hear about it. She’s afraid of what the publicity will do to her sale.”

“I got your message this afternoon,” Brandy said. “Thanks. When I interview people, knowing the skull was bashed in helps, but I haven’t told anyone yet. I’m going to the Sheriff’s Office briefing at eight.” She moved a step closer. “I suggest the Sheriff’s Office find out if Eva Stone’s dental records are still around.”

Brandy felt a surge of optimism. She was developing her own sources of information. “Did you tell John about the injury to the skull?”

“Not yet. He didn’t ask.”

“Is he alone? I’d like to look in, say ‘hi.’“ Steve nodded, then strode on down the hall.

As she opened the door she realized that Sylvania’s prediction had been right. Delving into the disappearance of Eva Stone had already caused pain, to John most of all. She slipped into the room and crossed to the bed where he was stirring, his face turned toward her.

“You’re looking good,” she said. She wished she could talk everything over with him, but he appeared too weak, the planes of his face too white and sharp against the pillow. He could barely raise his head.

She bent over the bed and tried not to look at the black, swollen hand and the puffiness that ran up his arm.

“If it weren’t for you, I’d be the one lying there,” she said.

His voice was thick, as if his mouth was still numbed by morphine. “Don’t blame the snake,” he whispered. “It was his territory.”

“I know. Territory you’re trying to preserve.”

His brow furrowed, remembering. “Call Curt Greene, about the house. Tomorrow’s Friday.”

“I did. No one’s made an offer yet.” She scooted a chair up to the bed. “By the way——” she fluffed her short hair with one hand, “Ace Langdon thinks I look like Eva Stone. I checked her picture in the old yearbook. It’s a compliment.”

She saw the flicker of a smile. His voice grew stronger. “Well, Ace Langdon’s the world’s greatest authority on women.”

She lifted the tape and player from her canvas bag. “I hope this will help pass the time. I couldn’t bring you a suitable math book, but maybe this is as good. Music is math with emotion, I think you said.” She set the two on his bedside stand.

His eyes brightened. “That’s really nice. I’ll listen after you leave. No one’s moved into the other bed yet. If they do, I’ll probably have twenty–four hours of T.V. trash.” The screen looming near the ceiling was now blank.

“I don’t know if you’re interested anymore,” she said, “but Steve told me the back of the skeleton’s skull had been smashed.

He drew a deep breath and then said softly, “Not an accident then.”

“If this turns out to be Eva Stone, the alligators are off the hook. And it wasn’t a drowning either.”

His brown eyes clouded. “An awful thing happened there. Don’t keep pushing. Leave it to law enforcement.” His voice sank, more feeble now. “Someone may want to stop you.”

“I’ll be careful.”

He sighed, started to speak again, then gave up and closed his eyes.

She wanted to touch him, to thank him for caring. But it was in character for him to caution her. He was a cautious man. She thought of the ghost story that, for very different reasons, had brought them both to the boat house. She had never told him that she saw a movement in the fourth floor dormer window the night before, and later a figure below on the darkened lawn. Had he seen anything himself while he waited for her to return? There hadn’t been a chance to ask.