Trace Their Shadows (23 page)

“If you can cut the dress out tomorrow, I’ll pop by late tomorrow for a quick fitting. It doesn’t have to be your usual perfect job. I’ll pay extra if you finish it by Monday, say late morning.”

In the living room Brandy watched though the venetian blinds as Steve’s patrol car pulled up. When she slid into the passenger seat beside Steve a few minutes later, he glanced at her, wary.

“Thanks, Steve,” she said. “My car’s in the alley behind the house. Detective Morris warned me to be careful. Someone followed me here, and I need your expertise.”

“Hold on.” He stepped out of the car, and Brandy waited while he circled the house, then slipped again under the wheel. “Whoever it was is gone now.”

Brandy dropped her voice. “I want to prove a theory about the murder of Eva Stone.” He frowned. “I want the Sheriff’s Office to know what I’m doing,” she added quickly.

Steve grunted, non–committal.

Carefully, she explained her scheme.

“I’m a sworn officer,” he said. “I got to be careful. But if you need support, better me than John. He’s a bit overworked in the rescue business. Maybe you ought to find a less dangerous career.”

He was beginning to sound like Mack. “My plan could work.”

The creases deepened on his forehead. “If I don’t cooperate, I suppose you’ll go to an electronic store for the equipment.” He shrugged. “I’ll get the stuff to you tomorrow and explain how to use it. It doesn’t belong to the Sheriff’s Office. It’s mine.”

“Thanks.” Right on, she thought——the first steps of her grand plan completed.

Steve drove into the alley, and Brandy opened the cruiser door. He shook his head. “I hope to hell you know what you’re doing. You oughtn’t to try it alone. I’m off duty Monday afternoon. I’ll ride shotgun.” On her drive home Steve followed in his cruiser. Brandy saw nothing more of the battered blue car.

When she let herself into the kitchen, she spotted her mother dropping the living room curtain back into place at the front window. “Sheriff’s Office has to escort you home now, I see,” the older woman said, coming into the kitchen. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

Brandy was surprised to see Meg come frisking in from the dining room, tail high, and thrust her creamy muzzle up to both of them. She supposed Meg had earned dispensation for services rendered.

“The vet sold me a marvelous new flea remedy,” her mother said drily.

On the telephone pad was a message from Weston Stone. His mother’s graveside rites would be at eleven o’clock Monday morning. The Stones hoped an early time would draw less attention from the curious. There was also another message to call Mack.

He answered the phone with something between a whine and a growl. “What’s going on? Last thing I knew you were laid up in the hospital. I call and you’re gone. You’re never at your office, and no one knows where the hell I can reach you.”

“It’s been a wacky week. It should all be over by Monday night, the deadline for this story.” Maybe the Stone case would go down Monday, she thought, and with it her association with John.

Mack breathed into the phone. “I’m making plans, kid.”

Brandy hung up, feeling melancholy. I’ve got to realize John’s a passing infatuation, she thought, a momentary thrill. Mack’s a known quantity, rock solid. Someone she’d known most of her life.

Almost as soon as Brandy put down the receiver, Detective Morris called. “Thought I told you to stay with people.” More a bark than a comment.

“I was only alone a short time in my car. Did the people I’ve been talking to have alibis last night, at the time the garage door slammed shut?”

The detective’s sigh was audible. “Not much help there. Mrs. Able went to a concert in Mount Dora with friends from her condo and stopped for coffee afterward.” That didn’t sound like the solitary Grace Brandy knew, but maybe Grace felt lonely while Mabel Boxley was away. “Trouble is she drove home alone,” Morris went on. “Says she got lost, wandered around a while. Not used to driving herself. The gatekeeper checked her in about twelve–thirty.

“Blackthorne says he was home alone all evening, ditto Elton Langdon.” That didn’t sound like Ace, either, although he might spend a lot more time by himself than he liked to admit.

“And Sylvania Langdon?”

“Left the retirement center about nine and drove back to her house that night, also by herself. No one there to verify that, either.”

Brandy wandered back into the kitchen, where Meg now flopped beside the stove, her valuable nose between her paws.

“Sorry I’m late again tonight,” she said to her mother, who was slicing a loaf of homemade bread at the counter. Brandy sniffed the pot of stew simmering on the stove. “But I can make a contribution in this case.” She began ladling meat and potatoes into two bowls. “I think I know who killed Eva Stone. I’m working on a way to prove it.”

TWENTY–TWO
 

Sunday morning’s paper ran a small box on the front page: local journalist unhurt in apparent carbon monoxide attack. Few details. The enterprising Leesburg reporter had picked up the record at the Sheriff’s Office. Now Brandy couldn’t watch for surprise or alarm when she met her suspects.

At nine she phoned John’s trailer. She had expected he might stay at his parents, but he answered. Sharon? Brandy couldn’t tell if she was there. No tell–tale murmurs in the background. “I better pick you up to meet Sylvania,” Brandy said.

“God, I’ll be glad when I can drive. We’ll wait for her outside the church. I don’t feel up to sitting through the service. I had a rough night.”

That puffy arm. If he cuddled up to a girl friend, it might be a handicap. Brandy smiled to herself.

When she called Weston’s Stone’s home number, his wife’s pleasant voice answered. Brandy accepted the invitation to Monday’s graveside ceremony.

“Mrs. Stone has a request,” Weston’s wife said. “Grace Able would like to be there, but her companion will be busy and she feels awkward coming alone. Mrs. Stone doesn’t want her to feel left out. Thinks it would look like we’re discriminating against Brookfield’s wife. I believe you’re a friend of John Able? I took the liberty of saying you two would pick her up. Is that all right? The other family members will be there, too.”

John probably had no plans to attend with Brandy, but Mrs. Stone needn’t know that. Brandy would be glad to bring Grace Able. She wanted her there, and without the indispensable Mabel Boxley. Blackthorne would surely bring Sylvania. She’d need his support, and Ace would come as a family member out of curiosity. They’d all be together then. Brandy would have a chance to tie up loose ends.

“I’ll call Mrs. Able,” Brandy said, and looked up Grace’s number in her directory.

Grace sounded resigned when Brandy made her offer. Plainly she would rather not go. “Mabel got back yesterday,” she said, “but she’ll be busy tomorrow morning, picking up our airline tickets. I suppose it’ll look rude if I don’t go, especially if Mrs. Stone wants me there.” Brandy arranged to stop for her at ten–thirty the next morning. To save time, Grace said she would wait on a bench near the gate.

When Brandy drew up before John’s trailer and rang the bell, she found his mood not much better than the widow’s.

He didn’t ask her in, but then there wasn’t time. She couldn’t see a car that looked right for Sharon. Brandy expected no less than a Corvette.

“I’ll go to the funeral tomorrow out of respect for Mrs. Stone,” John said as he climbed into the hatchback’s passenger seat. “My folks expect me to be there, but I hate taking any more time off. I’m on thin ice at the company as it is. I’ve got no prospect for a permanent job, and I can’t save this one if I don’t get the use of my arm soon. I’m not much good as a draftsman now, even on the computer.” He slammed the car door. “I haven’t had another offer for an internship. And no prospect has turned up to buy Sylvania’s house.”

Brandy looked at him sorrowfully. It was probably her fault that he’d lost the internship in Leesburg. She was the one who most rattled Blackthorne’s cage. It was her fault, too, that he injured his arm. “What does the doctor say?”

“He wants to see me this afternoon. He’ll tell me when I can use it then.”

Brandy explained Weston Stone’s request. “They expect us both to take Grace to the cemetery. It’s important to Eva Stone’s mother that Grace is there. You probably expected to go with your parents, but Grace will think it’s funny if you aren’t along. You’re the relative, after all. I’m just your temporary driver.” Would he call the plan more manipulation?

They rode for a few minutes in silence. “Your boy friend coming, too?”

“Doesn’t seem appropriate,” Brandy said, thinking more of Sharon than of Mack. “It isn’t a social occasion.”

“Pick me up then in about half an hour before the thing starts. I’ll tell my folks I’ll meet them there, but we have to make it short.”

At least the summer rains had stopped for the day. Brandy parked on a shady side street near the stone church with steeply pitched roof and narrow stained glass windows. At last the final strains of the organ died away, the rear doors opened, and worshippers began filing out. After the most of the congregation had shaken hands with the minister and strolled to their cars, or clustered outside to visit, Brandy spotted the gangly great–aunt they were waiting for——a head above the rest.

“Wait,” John said, and strode quickly over to intercept her at the curb. He spoke to Sylvania for a few minutes, then motioned Brandy to join them. Sylvania turned from one to the other, her long face set in disapproval.

“Come, come. I’m in the middle of packing. I don’t have time for foolishness.”

John glanced down at his shoes, as if to collect his thoughts. “Eva Stone’s mother asked us to tell you something that may be a shock to you. She didn’t want you to read it in the newspaper or hear it from detectives.”

“Maybe you ought to find a place to sit down,” Brandy said. “The minister’s study, maybe?”

Sylvania crossed her arms over her spare chest. “Whatever it is, you can tell me right here. I barely took time for church this morning. I sign the contract on the house tomorrow. John might as well know that right now.” She lifted her chin. “The Sheriff’s people promised to be through tearing up the yard by then. And that’ll be an end of it.”

Irritated, John looked straight at Sylvania. “All right then. We’ll tell you here. Mrs. Stone has explained to the Sheriff’s Office——and to Brandy here——that Eva Stone had a child by Brookfield.”

Brandy thought Sylvania should have taken their suggestion to sit. She almost tottered in her black oxfords. Brandy watched her face. Unless Sylvania was a very good actress, her eyes showed surprise.

“A child?” she asked faintly.

“A boy,” Brandy said. “He was raised as an adopted son by the Stones themselves. Mrs. Stone never revealed who he was until now. You may have met him. He’s prominent here.”

“The restaurant owner Weston Stone,” John added.

They walked a few steps toward Sylvania’s shabby Ford. Then Sylvania paused, her hands clasped before her. “Can that be proved?”

“The Sheriff’s Office is probably checking on it right now,” John said. “There’ll be records. The baby was born in Jacksonville.”

Brandy weighed in. “Why would Mrs. Stone make up something like that, after all these years? It certainly won’t enhance Eva’s memory. Mrs. Stone says she wants to set the record straight while she’s still alive. She and her husband concealed the truth because they didn’t want to give the baby up to Brookfield. They thought their daughter committed suicide because of him. You’ll be convinced when you see how much Weston Stone looks like your brother.”

Sylvania’s forehead knotted. “If this is so, why in the world did-n’t Eva tell my brother about the baby? He said nothing to me or anyone else.”

John shuffled his feet. “We don’t know whether she told him or not,” he said.

Then the facts seemed to strike her. She tossed her large head. “That girl couldn’t have! She couldn’t have! Brookfield would never abandon his own child.”

She’s ignoring the more terrible possibility, Brandy thought——that he may have wanted to silence Eva forever. The older woman turned abruptly toward the car, her large hands shaking, her shoulders bent.

Brandy spoke up quickly. “Mrs. Langdon, Eva’s mother is planning a graveside service tomorrow. She’s very much aware that Weston is Brookfield’s son. As his sister, she wants you to come, and the other members of the Able family. I’m sure Weston’s wife will call you.”

Distracted, Sylvania only nodded as she folded her long body into the driver’s seat.

Brandy dropped John off at his civil engineering office, where he hoped to complete some computer changes in a design, then stopped at a drug store to make a purchase in the hair care department. When she drove home, she kept a watchful eye out for the faded blue sedan. Apparently its driver had been scared off.

After lunch she called Mrs. Brewster, and half an hour later stood once more in the home economic teacher’s bedroom while the older woman pinned a garment together around her and knelt to adjust the hem.

“I don’t like working so fast,” Mrs. Brewster mumbled, her lips prickly with pins. “I take pride in my work.”

“Think of it this way,” Brandy said. “You’re a part of an important investigation.” Mrs. Brewster promised to have the dress ready early the following afternoon.

At home again she picked up the telephone, reached information, then called a Gainesville clinical psychologist’s home. “I need an opinion,” she said, after introducing herself to an answering machine. “I’ll be home this evening. You lectured to my class at the University of Florida a year ago. You said we could call if we had an important question.” She left her phone number. The psychologist had once worked at the mental health facility in Arcadia. Brandy hoped she would verify a part of her theory.

At her desk Brandy went carefully over her notes on Eva Stone’s murder. About six the psychologist called back. She remembered the class, remembered the topic. Her cool, professional tone was reassuring. Briefly, she confirmed Brandy’s recollection.

Brandy had one other call. Steve Able promised again to bring his equipment to the cemetery.