Trace Their Shadows (14 page)

She bit her lip. If she tried to describe what she had seen to him, he would say, “Imagination. You see what you expect to see.” Without another witness, better to say nothing.

She looked at her watch. Time to grab a bite in the hospital cafeteria before the briefing. “Tomorrow we’ll talk all this over,” she said. “This afternoon, you need rest.” Slowly the taut lines of John’s face relaxed. She thought of pressing his hand before she left, but decided against it.

His voice had sunk to a whisper. “Before you leave, would you switch on the tape?”

She listened with him for a few minutes, then moved quietly out of the room as the étude began to rise toward its lyrical climax.

Passing the nurse’s station in the hallway, Brandy noticed a young woman draped over the counter. Something looked familiar about the artful tangle of pale hair, the saucy nose. The photograph in John’s trailer——Sharon, of course——Sharon with a filmy mauve scarf at her neck, a white silky dress, a mauve and white tapestry bag, heels.

“I’m a teeny bit late,” she was saying in a breathless, little girl voice. “I’m here to see John Able. He’s expecting me.” When a nurse pointed to John’s door, Sharon smiled brightly. “I won’t stay long, I’ve got shopping to do in Mount Dora this evening.”

Brandy halted, drew a deep breath, and pretended to search her canvas bag while Sharon swished, heels rapping, down the hall. In her baggy cotton shirtwaist Brandy felt like a hippie frump from the sixties. The little girl voice floated though John’s open doorway. “Did we get bitten by a nasty old snake?” Brandy waited several seconds. The étude abruptly ended. Then she heard the excited yelps of a television game show.

Men, she thought starkly. They always go for the pretty air heads.

THIRTEEN
 

When Brandy reported for the Sheriff’s Office briefing a few minutes before eight, reporters had already crowded into the front room, along with two television crews. Mr. Tyler was right, Brandy thought. This news story would hardly be her exclusive.

A hulking lieutenant with thin–rimmed glasses entered from a side door. “Gentlemen——and ladies,” he said, “I’m Lieutenant Albert Brady, Criminal Division. You’re all here about the skeleton found last night. You probably already know it was buried at the old Able home site on Lake Dora, but we’ve had a couple of new developments.”

Brandy looked for the familiar faces of the sergeant or the sandy–haired deputy. Neither was there. The case had gone higher up the command ladder.

“The medical examiner found a blow to the head that would’ve caused death,” the lieutenant began, laying a spiral notebook on the podium. “He says the pelvis indicates a young woman. From the long bones, not very tall. It’s been there at least thirty years but not as long as fifty. The time estimate has to do with the lack of soft tissue and the pockets of calcium phosphate he’d expect to find in fresher bones. But he says there’s none of the mineraliza tion our soil should produce after fifty years.”

A cog has shifted into place, Brandy thought.

“This afternoon the remains have been identified,” he continued. His eyes shifted behind his glasses toward Brandy. “We had a useful tip. For forty–five years we’ve held this missing person’s file. It includes dental records. The dead girl was Eva Stone.”

A murmur rose from the reporters and television crews, cameras whirred. The lieutenant ran a beefy hand through his hair. “The file was marked ‘Uncleared Pending Disposition’ and saved. We’re mandated to keep records of missing persons for 99 years.” He turned directly toward Brandy. “We’re grateful to Miss O’Bannon of the Tavares Beacon and John Able, whose relative owns the property. They found the skeleton.” Brandy stopped taking notes. All eyes swiveled to her.

When the lieutenant took up his account again, their attention swung back to their notebooks. “The dead girl had been judged a probable suicide. Disappeared into Lake Dora on a Sunday afternoon in November, 1945. But apparently, the girl didn’t drown herself after all. We’re hopeful your stories will turn up some useful information. Maybe some of the people who were there at the time will come forward.” The lieutenant tucked the note pad into his pocket, a look of satisfaction on his square face. “We’re getting ready to excavate the whole area. Any questions?”

The Leesburg Commercial reporter’s hand shot up, higher than the others. “Does she have any surviving family?”

“Yes, Eva Stone’s mother is still living, as well as a much younger brother. Mrs. Stone’s a very old lady, about ninety–three. Not very well. We broke the news to her today. We didn’t want her to see it in the papers first. Her son wants to protect her from you people as much as he can. This has been a terrible shock to her. I suggest you contact the son, Weston Stone. He’s the local restaurant owner. Mrs. Stone’s very frail. She’s in an assisted living home in Tavares.” The son’s name rang a bell. Brandy remembered him as the environmentalist at the Chamber of Commerce meeting.

“Any sign of the weapon that killed her?” It was the Orlando Sentinel’s Lake County reporter.

“We’re still looking for the proverbial blunt instrument.”

Another hand near the front. “Isn’t that the house that’s supposed to be haunted?” Snickers greeted this question.

“I couldn’t comment on that,” the lieutenant said.

“What about the woman who lives on the property now, Mrs. Langdon?” It was a voice from the rear. “What does she say?”

Brandy heard a commotion around a door to the hallway and a tall figure burst through. “Mrs. Langdon says nothing!” The tone of the familiar voice was fierce. Sylvania swept past them, large head erect, angular body wrapped in her usual long, shapeless dress. Her gray eyes settled for a moment on Brandy, and she paused in mid–stride. Again her voice rang out. “The house will be sold and torn down. Unfortunately, the sale is temporarily postponed.” Clearly she directed the next remark to Brandy. “When this search is over, the house goes! That’s certain.”

“I’m sure you want to know the truth,” Brandy said. “I mean to find out what happened there.”

Sylvania’s lips tightened and she hurried on past. She was not alone. Behind her loomed the burly form of Axel Blackthorne. Catching up with Sylvania, he pushed aside the reporters, took her arm, and as he began shepherding her back through the doorway, Brandy followed.

She thrust her way through to his side and called out, “I’ve got some questions for you, Mr. Blackthorne.” Furious eyes met hers, then he ducked his head and plowed on toward his Cadillac at the curb. With a shrug, Brandy turned back to the briefing and squirmed her way to a spot near the lieutenant. Blackthorne would be tomorrow’s interview——if she could get into his office.

Sylvania must’ve already been questioned at the sheriff’s office. Clearly she was as irritated as Steve said. The lieutenant continued as though Sylvania had not appeared. “I understand Mrs. Langdon’s home will be torn down as soon as our investigation is completed,” he said.

A voice from the rear. “Any suspects or clues?”

The lieutenant flashed a brief, patronizing smile. “A case this old is difficult. The physical scene has obviously deteriorated. Witnesses are hard to find. Any leads have been cold for years. Many of the people we’d like to question are deceased.”

Brandy had the sinking sensation that Eva Stone’s fate was no longer a high priority at the Sheriff’s Office.

“We’ll just have to ‘trace their shadows,’” she muttered, forgetting she stood at the lieutenant’s elbow.

He glanced down at her. “What’s that, Miss O’Bannon?”

“We’ll have to trace their shadows with the magic hand of chance,” she answered, coloring. “The poet John Keats.”

He paused, puzzled, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “That’s all, ladies and gentlemen,” he said at last. With a brisk wave he strode back through the door and closed it behind him.

Brandy was jostled as the others massed at the outer door. “You’re the gal who found the bones, aren’t you?” It was the tall Commercial reporter. “The Beacon’s a small weekly, right?” He squeezed her arm and grinned down at her. “I’d like to talk to you. Maybe we could collaborate.”

Brandy lifted her head and shook her arm free. “Some other time, thank you. I’ve got my own story to write.”

Outside she unlocked her car and started home. At least the Sheriff’s Office had confirmed that Eva Stone was murdered, but she had collected little other useful information. Her probing had alienated half of Tavares——Sylvania, both of John’s parents, John himself, her mother, even Mack, whose morning call she must return. Even Mr. Tyler was still poised to drop the guillotine.

But she did still have work to do. She wanted to talk to Blackthorne, she hadn’t heard Grace’s version of the disastrous weekend, hadn’t talked to the most important witness, Lily Mae Brown, maybe now Lily Mae Hall. She also wanted to interview the new lead, Eva Stone’s aged mother.

For the moment Brandy’s own mother would be holding her supper, if not her temper. She turned off the main road and drove down her darkened lane under a heavy canopy of Spanish moss. Fleetingly she remembered John’s warning. But who of these elderly people could possibly try to stop her?

As she passed the sole neighbor’s corner house, she was glad Mack’s pickup was not out front. She did not want to admit to him yet that she’d searched the Able boat house with John. He’d either be jealous or insist again that the Able family was all crazy. Or both.

Instead Meg’s lively bark greeted her as she parked behind Mrs. O’Bannon’s seven year old Buick in the driveway. In the summer her mother threw open the doors to the old single–car garage to make a potting shed, and in the winter closed them to protect her delicate plants. The cars stayed outside. When Brandy caught a whiff of the confederate jasmine on the fence, she thought of Grace Able and the flower show. Maybe Barbara O’Bannon would’ve been winning ribbons herself, if her husband had been a citrus magnet instead of a teacher.

When Brandy opened the kitchen door, she found Mrs. O’Bannon sitting at the dining room table, correcting summer school paragraphs. She laid down her red pen and gave Brandy her long, authoritative stare. “An English teacher’s taking maternity leave when the regular term starts in August. Senior level,” she said and sat back. “You could probably qualify for a temporary certificate. You’d make far more than you’re making now. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

Brandy rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “I’m not stuck at this salary forever. I’m still working on the story I told you about. If I do a good job, I’ll get a promotion.”

Sighing, her mother rose and opened the refrigerator. “I grocery shopped, but I haven’t stopped to eat yet. I can set the hibachi on the table outside and grill some fresh fish, toss a quick salad.”

“Sounds good. I’m starved.” Brandy opened her bedroom door and watched Meg disappear inside. She would brief her mother at supper, prepare her for the morning paper, and before she went to bed, transcribe her disjointed notes into her looseleaf notebook. It was too late to try to reach the number for Mrs. Hall, but she did have to make one call. Reluctantly she picked up the kitchen phone and dialed Mack. Better to tell him about her discovery now than have him read about it in the morning.

***

At eight the next morning Brandy was pulling on a pair of crinkle cotton slacks when she heard the blast of Mack’s horn. She had agreed the night before to see him before work. It wouldn’t take long, he’d said, for him to show her his surprise. She cast an apologetic look around the room. Clothes still lay in piles. How did people find time to clean their rooms? Or iron their clothes? Apparently John did. But she mustn’t start thinking about him.

She pulled on the matching blouse, chosen like the slacks because it didn’t need ironing, while she waited for Meg to scoot out from under the bed. Then she let the retriever into the yard and strolled over to the powerful Sierra pick–up throbbing in the driveway. As she took the high step into the cab, she wished just once he would ask his dad for a sports car.

“What’s so mysterious?” she said. “I’ve got a busy schedule.”

He leaned toward her, wrapped one barrel–shaped arm around her shoulder, looked through the rear window, gunned the engine, and rocketed backward into the lane. “We’ve had an understanding for a zillion years,” he said, uncoiling his arm and wrenching the wheel around. “It’s about time we made some definite plans.” He patted her knee. “Time’s a–wasting. I found just the place for us.” They shot past down town, curved north, and slowed before a pair of concrete block walls connected by an arch labeled “Forest Heights.” Beyond lay row upon row of new concrete block houses, a few sodded yards, a few scraggly slash pines. There were no other trees and no rise to the ground.

Mack eased the Sierra under the arch. The houses all gave the same impression——heavy, pitched roof porticos above massive front doors, pride of place given to big garages, a walled–in look, a diminished house size in the rear——mini–fortresses. The builder had been at pains to provide small differences, mainly in planters and window treatments. Mack drew up before one much like its neighbor. “Got the down payment for this baby in the bank right now.”

Brandy floundered for words. She remembered the photograph in John’s living room of the quintessential cracker house, its wide porches, breezeway, openness. Yet these tract homes were expensive, far better than any she had ever lived in. Mack, for all his bluster, was a good man, an attractive man. He could date any girl in three cities. John had his own girl friend. What was wrong with her?

“Mack, it’s a lovely house. You’re too generous.” She kissed one sunburned cheek. “But I told you, I don’t know if I’m ready yet for the suburban routine.”

His blunt features gathered in a scowl. “God almighty, I guess it’s that frigging job you got. If you want to work a few years, do like your mom says. Teach here in town. You’d have better hours.”

Brandy didn’t bother to tell him what her mother’s at–home hours were. It was true they were more regular, if as long, as a reporter’s. “I have to think about it, Mack, okay?” She reached up and ran her fingers though his close cropped blond hair. “I have to turn this story in Monday. After that, I promise I’ll give you an answer.”