Trace Their Shadows (7 page)

John walked the group back to the curved stair of the front entrance. When Sylvania opened the door, Brandy saw that she had dressed herself with more care than usual. Her snowy hair was pulled back in a severe but tidy bun, her face dusted with powder, her cheeks lightly tinged with rouge. Her lips were still a pale line. Over that awkward frame she had dropped a gray linen sheath, fashionable perhaps two decades ago. She had not abandoned her black oxfords. She bore down the stairs toward them, face thrust forward like a proud ship’s figurehead leaning into a storm.

Curt Greene, middle–aged, affable, neatly groomed in suit and tie, assumed the lead. “Mrs. Langdon, this is indeed a pleasure,” he said, and shook her hand.

Sylvania remained crusty. “We’ll see, gentlemen.”

After they stood in the broad second floor hallway, Greene spoke again. “For years we’ve admired this impressive house from a distance. We’re looking forward to really seeing it for the first time.”

While he introduced the others in his party, John and Brandy stayed discreetly in the rear. More than once Sylvania cast a sharp, knowing eye in Brandy’s direction, but for the moment her attention centered on the trio of architects. In the living room she introduced the earlier visitor, a frail woman with silver–blonde hair, lounging by the fireplace in an ivory crepe pants suit as stylish as Sylvania’s sheath was drab.

“My sister–in–law, Grace Able,” Sylvania said briskly, turning her eyes toward the mantelpiece portrait. “Brookfield’s widow. She asked to look for a little table of theirs before I sell the extra furniture.”

Mrs. Able rose with a shy smile. “Goodness, don’t let me interfere with these gentlemen. I was curious when I heard the old place was being destroyed, but Sylvania’s explained. I’m leaving as soon as my companion checks upstairs for a Duncan Phyfe end table we used to own. It’s the only piece I have room for now.”

Brandy stepped forward, ignoring Sylvania’s scowl. “Brandy O’Bannon from the Beacon, Mrs. Able. I’m doing a story on the house. How do you feel about seeing it sold and perhaps torn down?”

Grace pressed a dainty hand to her cheek. “Goodness, it’s no secret that Brookfield and I didn’t enjoy living here.” She looked around with a perceptible shiver. “It’s not what I would call a friendly house. No, I really shan’t care what happens to it.” She favored Brandy and the others with another genteel smile. “Goodness, perhaps that isn’t what you expected to hear.” She shrugged thin shoulders. “Talk to Sylvania. She’s the family historian.”

At that moment a stout, tweedy looking woman came struggling down the stairs, carrying a scarred mahogany end table.

Grace rose, waved a hand in her direction, and moved toward the hallway. “Here’s my companion, Mrs. Mabel Boxley. Like a dear, she drove me over this morning. Not that I couldn’t drive myself, of course. I’ve got to go now. It’s time for my morning swim. The pool at my condo won’t be crowded yet.”

“She’s still a marvelous swimmer,” said the loyal Mrs. Boxley.

Grace turned back with a patrician smile. “Thank you, Sylvania dear, for allowing me to come.”

While the committee members produced yellow pads from their briefcases and began examining the blue glazed tile on each side of the fireplace, the tile mantel, and the cast iron insert and wrought iron grate, Brandy slipped into the hall and caught up with Grace and Mrs. Boxley at the door.

“I’d very much appreciate talking again with you, Mrs. Able,” she said. “Is there a time I could see you?” In the newspaper account of Eva Stone’s drowning Grace had been the party’s guest of honor.

Grace Able held her fingers to her shapely lips, considering. “Well, of course, there’s the flower show tomorrow afternoon. I’m exhibiting. Mabel, would you give Miss O’Bannon the address? About four o’clock. The judging should be finished by then.”

The indispensable Mrs. Boxley dug a small card from her purse and handed it to Brandy. This woman must be the “keeper” Mack had mentioned, Brandy thought. But Grace Able seemed quite able to keep herself.

In the living room the trio were admiring the wide, irregular cypress floorboards. Brandy scribbled notes about the cornices and the chair rails in the hallway. When one man started up the steps, Sylvania watched with arms folded. “I don’t use the upper floors any more myself,” she said. “I don’t know what you’ll find there.”

Indeed, when Brandy followed him into the first two bedrooms on the third floor, she saw only tarnished brass headboards, a broken rocker, and a plain oak highboy. But through the half–open door of the last room, she was startled to spot an unmade bed, a closet with a man’s shirts and trousers on hangers, and a dresser drawer with a brown sock dangling over the side. Although the examiner did not continue up to the fourth floor, Brandy noticed an accumulation of dust on the steps above. Apparently the top floor with the dormer windows was unused. If John was correct and Sylvania herself was the reported “ghost,” how could she appear as a shadowy figure in the dormer window without making footprints on the stairs?

Downstairs Brandy overheard Greene marvel over the faded dining room wallpaper, blue flowers and egrets by a water fountain. “Turn of the century,” he said. “You really cannot let someone demolish this house, Mrs. Langdon.”

Sylvania appeared torn between pride and irritation. She sat looking out the window toward the lake, as if none of them were there, her eyes fixed on something distant. “It’s not been a happy house, Mr. Greene,” she said at last. “And that’s an end of it. There’s been tragedy here, and loneliness.” Again she gave a lift to her chin. “In any case, I can’t afford to put it back in good condition, and I don’t know anyone else who can. I don’t intend to spend the rest of my days protecting…” she hesitated for a split second… “protecting the house.”

Brandy wondered what——or who——else she had shielded.

“Will you let us try to find a buyer. Perhaps a group?” Greene answered quietly. “There would be no problem in having the house registered as an historic building, like the Congregational Church in Tavares.”

Sylvania rose from her chair and surveyed them all. “You have until Saturday afternoon. I’ve given my word to sign the contract then with my friend, Mr. Blackthorne.” Polite but unshaken, she showed the committee down the hall to the front door while John stood across the room from Brandy, staring out the window, his hands in his pockets.

“She thinks no one but Blackthorne will want it,” he said.

Brandy sensed his reluctance to leave. Perhaps he thought this was the last time he would see the house. Perhaps for the moment he had forgotten his anger. “Both Sylvania and Grace Able say they don’t care about the house,” she said, moving closer. “But I think there’s more to this sale than that. After all, who wants to live with a ghost? Or,” she added, seeing John’s lips tighten, “with something folks think is a ghost? Actually, someone does live on the third floor.”

The outside door closed, and in a few minutes Sylvania clumped back into the room, swinging Brandy’s white pumps in one hand and her camera case in the other. She advanced across the worn carpet. “And now, you two——what explanation do you have for your disgraceful activities last night?”

Shocked, Brandy turned to John. Surely Sylvania owed her an explanation for the attack dogs. Instead, Sylvania thrust the shoes into Brandy’s hands. “You do not deny, I’m sure, that it’s also your car out in the lane, young lady?” She faced Brandy, arms crossed. “You can’t deny you were trespassing last night?” She rounded on John. “I recognized your boat. Apparently you’re involved, too. A family member!”

Heatedly, Brandy spoke up. “John had nothing to do with my coming here last night. I told you I wanted to investigate the tale about the house. I was trying to verify what people claim they’ve seen.”

“Surely you could have asked me first.”

“You made it plain you wouldn’t agree.”

John moved toward his great aunt. “It’s true Miss O’Bannon didn’t follow your instructions, and I’m sorry about that. I asked her not to come. But whatever she did as a reporter, she shouldn’t have been attacked by those vicious dogs. If I hadn’t been worried and checked on her, there would’ve been a second tragedy here.”

Sylvania looked more calmly out the window toward the boat house and the new board walk. “Axel——Mr. Blackthorne——is anxious because I’m alone. He’s told the watchman to keep an eye on the house. If that man saw a prowler come into my yard, he would’ve tried to scare the person away.” She looked at Brandy squarely. “Mr. Blackthorne knows I don’t go out on these grounds at night myself.”

“But you did last night,” John said. “We saw you.” In spite of herself, Brandy felt a tiny thrill. For the moment she and John were united.

Sylvania remained unruffled. “Of course. I heard the dogs and then someone call out. I had to see what was happening.” Her voice rose. “By the time I got outside, what I saw was your boat leaving.”

Brandy was ready to let the matter of the dogs drop. While Sylvania was on the defensive, she had questions. “We know Axel Blackthorne’s been a friend for a long time. Was he also at the party when Eva Stone disappeared?”

John thrust both hands deeper into his pockets and turned his back. Brandy knew she’d blown their solidarity. Sylvania rolled her eyes as if imploring the deity for patience. “Yes, as a matter of fact——since you will not let this unpleasant matter alone——Axel was there. A lot of young people were there that weekend, including Brookfield’s friend from the Air Forces. He became my husband shortly afterward. I suppose you’ll want to know about him, too.”

“I haven’t seen Uncle Ace in years,” John said, steering the conversation away from the disastrous party.

Sylvania’s face hardened. “Married me for my money. Drinks. The family all know that. But, in my time…” She sat down at last on a chair before the fireplace and spread her hands out before her, as if trying to explain something they could not understand. “In our time, we made the best of things. In the early years we got on well enough, most of the time. At least, I wasn’t the Old Maid Aunt. These days you wouldn’t know about that stigma.” She raised steel gray eyes. “But the two of us have finally come to the parting of the ways, and that’s that.”

John looked away, embarrassed, but Sylvania plowed on. “His real name’s Elton, of course. Always likes to be called ‘Ace.’ A nickname from the war years. Always had an eye for the girls, too. He did at that party you’re so interested in, and at all the parties that followed.” She turned those sharp eyes again on Brandy. “But that weekend didn’t cause Eva Stone’s death. Her tragedy has nothing to do with this house.” She stood and moved again toward the window. “I’m doing now what Brookfield would’ve wanted. I owe him that.”

Brandy ached to pull out her note pad, but she didn’t dare. “You mean, by selling the land and seeing the house pulled down?”

“I talked to him in the hospital before he died. He asked for me. He told me how he felt about this place. He’d be glad to have it gone. Tomorrow Axel’s men will take down the walls of that awful boat house. They’ll build the boardwalk over the old flooring. It will certainly improve the view. I’ll be glad to see that eyesore go. And the house, too.”

John rubbed his forehead. “Isn’t the boat house in your yard?”

“I sold that spit of land with the property on the other side.”

“Mrs. Langdon,” Brandy said, “I wanted to ask about Brookfield’s heir, his wife Grace. She seemed fine this morning, but——forgive me——I’d heard she wasn’t mentally very strong.”

Sylvania looked down at her hands, as though studying her response. “I never got on well with Grace. Very different interests. Except for our mutual concern for Brookfield, of course. Grace was always a nervous little thing, and her nerves have been worse since his death. Lives in a fancy condominium in Leesburg. Fortunately, money is no problem. He left her very comfortable. She still even has her own small flower garden.” And to his sister, Brandy thought, Brookfield left this disintegrating house.

At the end of the hallway a door opened and closed, followed by a quick step on the stairs. Sylvania jerked her head up, alert, like a horse who detects an alarming scent in the air.

EIGHT
 

“Came to get the rest of my things,” called a voice from the hall. A man with thick, gray hair and a wide grin peered around the doorway, as if testing the waters. Seeing John and Brandy, he gained assurance, stepped into the living room, and saluted the three by lifting a paper cup in their direction. “Face is familiar,” he said to John. “S’been a long time. You one of Cousin Jake’s boys?”

Sylvania stood. “This is John Able,” she said, ”as you’d know if your memory weren’t impaired. And a reporter, Miss O’Bannon.” She turned to Brandy. “My husband, at least for the moment——Elton Langdon. He can’t stay.”

“Oh, no.’Course not, Syl.” The old gentleman wavered forward. “Long time no see.” He winked at John and stuck out his hand. Then he faced Brandy. “Name’s Ace, little lady,” he added with a mock bow. “Ace Langdon.”

Brandy had hung the camera around her neck, but she held the dirty white pumps in one hand behind her, not caring to explain them, and shook hands with the other. Langdon was of medium build, trim for his age, and light on his feet in spite of the clear liquid in the paper cup. Vodka, Brandy surmised. Probably thinks it doesn’t have an odor.

He looked up and hoisted the cup toward the portrait of Brookfield Able. “Damn fine pilot,” he said and focused bright blue eyes on Sylvania. “But I liked him better as a buddy than a boss.”

“Elton.” Sylvania advanced a few paces, menace in her voice. “Your room is untouched. Get your things. John and Miss O’Bannon are just leaving, and so am I. I’m on my way into town this afternoon and I won’t be back tonight. I’m completing arrangements for my new apartment. Saturday the house goes. Now is the time for you to pack anything you left.”

Her husband shrugged. “No problem. You’ll have to excuse me then. I have a carry–all bag in the hall.” He backed out of the room, the cocky smile still on his face.

Brandy rose suddenly. “I’m sure you’d like a few minutes alone with your aunt,” she said to John and followed Ace Langdon out of the room. She had not forgotten that he was at Brookfield’s welcome home–engagement party. In the hall Ace retrieved a blue canvas bag and went briskly into the kitchen. From the pantry he lifted down two bottles. Then, seeing Brandy behind him, his grin widened. The dimples must have been devastating combined with a flyer’s rakish cap. “First things first,” he explained. “Got to pack my gin and vermouth.”