Haunted (3 page)

He looked to confirm we were following along. “Bunny, she’s a damn smart woman. I know she did her homework. Unfortunately, she also let her friends—certain associates as well—talk her into committing to this project before she came to me. A project like this, you need to do a thorough analysis before you write a check.”

A country club community with a strict covenant to build million-dollar homes on five-acre lots is what the investors envisioned.

Birdy jumped ahead. “How badly is my aunt getting burned?”

“A quarter million, so far,” the man said, “plus a second payment of a million dollars is due next month.
Unless
we can find a way to turn this around. No, actually, Mrs. B needs to bail out
because, if this project does happen, it’ll be years down the road. And here’s why.”

The screen changed. Now we were looking at an abandoned two-story house, a roof of rusted tin, windows boarded over, and a strange-looking cupola built higher than the chimney. The chimney was brick, the cupola sided with clapboard. Once upon a time, it might have been the main residence of an elegant estate.

“Is that a water cistern?” I asked, meaning the cupola. I’d never seen anything like it. Or so I thought, until he explained that the place had served as a school after a foreclosure in the 1940s. The belfry had been added to house a bell.

“Mrs. B and the other investors knew from the start this house is protected by Florida Historical Properties laws. That wasn’t a problem. They could’ve thrown a fence around the place or restored it as sort of a community capstone. A communal park—picnics on Fourth of July, like that. The house was built in 1890 by a man from Virginia who raised cattle. Charles Langford Cadence. Which is a very marketable name—Cadence Estates or Cadence Greens—lots of possibilities. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it? The previous owner was a Brazilian who planted exotic trees for timber. Now the property has some of the most beautiful mimosas and other hardwoods you’ve ever seen. The combination made the house well worth saving.”

The attorney swiveled to me. “Have you heard of the place?”

I said, “I think so, but I can’t remember the context. The Langfords were early Florida cattlemen. But Cadence isn’t a common name here . . . Or I could be confusing the two.”

“I meant the house,” he said. “About four years ago, a hack
reality show called
Vortex Hunters
did a segment on the place. And the idiotic lien holders played along. Lots of eerie night footage and contrived research about murders and suicides, and negative energy—that sort of thing. It’s true that Charles Cadence was murdered or committed suicide way, way back—the TV show hinted that his wife killed him or hired a Florida gangster. A later owner also died there. But—”

“Was this during Prohibition?” I asked. I was interested because I’d read that mobsters from New York and Chicago had operated out of the area. I mentioned Al Capone, but drew a blank on other names.

The interruption derailed the attorney, but he handled it with patience. “No, I think the TV writers invented their own gangster. He was a Bonnie-and-Clyde type. A guy who’d been raised in the swamps, knew how to live off the land—that was their angle—which is why the cops couldn’t catch him. But, as I was saying—”

“I bet it was John Ashley,” I said.

“John who?

I repeated the name but didn’t explain that John Ashley had been a real person. He had murdered and robbed and traveled with a girlfriend. I knew about Ashley because he had been born near Sanibel and there were rumors concerning him and one of my great-aunts.

“Ashley . . .” the attorney said, trying to recall, then decided it was unimportant. “The point is, show me a hundred-year-old house where someone
hasn’t
died. That would be unusual. Television cares about ratings; screw the facts. So they staged a
reenactment—the psycho gangster, blood on the walls, children screaming—all that sort of nonsense . . . But we’re getting off topic. Here’s the real problem . . .”

The man clicked open another file while Birdy aimed a sarcastic grin at me. “A haunted house. Let’s do a sleepover. We can make s’mores and sing ‘Kumbaya.’”

From your lips to God’s ears—
a favorite expression of an old fisherman friend, Cordial Pallet. Little did we know.

The computer screen changed. Multiple photos: a rusted cannon partially exhumed, a close-up of several clay tobacco pipes, a brass button stamped
CSA
, chunks of spent lead, a rusted stirrup that appeared too tiny for a man’s foot.

CSA: Confederate States of America.

The attorney explained, “These were found on the property. Mostly near the creek and the house, but some other sites, too. Turns out, they’re all Civil War period. Before the state will issue permits, due diligence requires a long list of surveys—flora and fauna, water quality, that sort of thing. In this case, an archaeological survey turned up the things you’re looking at. From what I’ve read, there were only five or six significant battles in Florida. North Florida, mostly, so I can’t blame Mrs. B for not anticipating the mess she’s now in. But here’s what put the brakes on the whole project.” He reached for the mouse and clicked again.

A human skull, jaw missing. Like the cannon, only partially exhumed. Close-ups of three brass buttons stamped with eagles. Then another excavated spot containing two skulls, a human pelvis, and several femurs, the bones black from age or fire.

Birdy, who has a master’s in law enforcement and a minor in archaeology, sat forward. “Oh my god.”

The man, however, was fixed on my reaction. I told him, “So far, this is interesting. Some of my relatives fought in the Civil War—for the North and the South. And John Ashley, he was famous in this area. No,
infamous
would be the word.”

“Part of your family is from the North?”

“No. All Floridians, but it wasn’t unusual to be on different sides. And one of my great-uncles was a blockade-runner. His papers are stored in my mother’s attic. I’ll dig them out, if you want.”

The attorney said, “I like the way you think,” but my friend, Birdy, didn’t get it.

I explained. “Back then only a few hundred people lived in this part of Florida. It’s possible my great-uncle knew Charles Cadence. The Brazilian, too, maybe. When we get home, I’ll see what I can find.” I paused, then asked the man, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He knew more about me than he had revealed, that’s why. Embarrassed, he glanced down, jotted some notes on a pad, and said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” then talked about the photos. “Archaeologists now suspect the acreage owned by Mrs. B was the site of a battle that historians thought took place near Orlando. Brief but very bloody. Or that they’ve found a battle site that didn’t make the history books. More of an extended skirmish than a battle, they think. Their guess is extrapolated from the number of artifacts found over X amount of surface area—some sort of damn
formula they use. Worse, they also suspect the house might have been built on or near a field cemetery.”

The man sighed and said to Birdy, “No way your aunt could’ve seen this coming. They’ve brought in a supposed expert. Until his team’s done, the development project is dead in the water. We’re talking years, not months—possibly never.”

Birdy asked several questions before I said, “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”

The man opened a drawer and placed a file on the desk. “Because Mrs. B asked me to, I did a search on you. I’ve confirmed that you’re a state-licensed and -bonded private investigator. But with almost no experience, from the number of reports you filed with the state.”

“I never claimed otherwise,” I replied. “It was my uncle’s agency.”

The man nodded and waited.

“My uncle was a sheriff’s detective before he started chartering. He had wealthy fishing clients who hired new staff every season. They often needed background checks done, so it was a handy license to have. I worked in his office during junior college, which I didn’t finish—as I’m sure you already know.” The last part came out sharper than I intended.

“No need to get defensive,” the attorney said. “You’re a friend of the family. We trust you. So Mrs. B wants you to help with an idea I came up with. It’s a long shot. But the more I think about, maybe not such a long shot after all.” He swiveled around, opened the folder, and handed us each a sheet of paper. “This will help you understand.”

The document had to do with real estate laws.

Disclosure laws vary from state to state, but Florida does not require sellers or agents to disclose homicide, suicide, deaths, or past diagnosis of communicable diseases to buyers. However, Florida law does forbid Realtors from selling “stigmatized properties” without full disclosure. A stigmatized property is defined as a structure or parcel of land where real or rumored events occurred that do not physically affect the property but can adversely impact its monetary value . . .

Several phrases were highlighted in yellow. The attorney recited them without having to refresh his memory by looking. “Real or rumored events that
can
adversely impact a property’s value. Note the wording. Think about the
Vortex
episode. A lot of people saw it. Presumably, there are potential buyers and neighbors, too, who actually believe the property is
stigmatized
. Haunted, cursed, bad karma—the house scares people, in other words. The seller didn’t disclose that to me or Mrs. B at closing. He also didn’t disclose the fact that a Civil War battle took place there, that it’s possibly even the site of a field cemetery. Did he know or didn’t he? Well, the fact is, it doesn’t matter. The seller sure as hell knew about the TV show. Superstitious baloney or not, I’m convinced this is Mrs. B’s way out.”

Pressing his point, the man scooted closer. “If this gets to court—which it won’t—we don’t have to prove the place is haunted. All we have to prove is there are rumors or events that adversely impact the property’s value. The seller didn’t disclose
those facts at closing. Hannah, that’s where you come in. You’re from an old-time Florida family. Locals are more likely to talk to someone like you. The small-time ranchers, the mom-and-pop campground people, anyone who lives nearby. I want you to talk to them. See what they have to say. And you’re a—I hope you don’t mind a bit of chauvinism here—you are a very attractive woman. And the lead archaeologist is a man.”

The attorney saw my expression change so was quick to add, “Don’t get the wrong idea. Because of the federal Antiquities Act regarding graves—we’re getting into legalese here—I’m not privy to what the archaeologist finds. But he might talk to you, even let you take pictures. That would be a nice little addition to the case I’ll present. Do you have a good camera?”

“A friend just loaned me a Canon with a good lens,” I said, meaning the biologist.

“Perfect. They don’t have to be professional quality, but we need lots of close-ups. A cell phone wouldn’t do.”

I glanced at Birdy, who shrugged her approval. “I’d love to see the place. And if it helps Bunny, I can go with Hannah on my days off.”

The attorney nodded.
Good.
“I’ve already advised your aunt not to pay next month’s installment. We’ll put it in an escrow account. If need be, she’ll write off the quarter million loss, but it saves her a million dollars in cash and further assessments down the road.”

Birdy asked, “You just came up with this?”

“I’ve been working on it for several weeks. Last night your aunt called me, very excited. Even as smart as she is, she follows her horoscope, as you probably know. She told me
a
transecting
connection
—some type of astrology phrase—was predicted for yesterday. I forget exactly. She believes the connection is you, Hannah. I was dubious until”—the attorney’s eyes shifted to mine—“well, until I read about your background. Now I see it as a stroke of good luck. We’ll win the case either way, but what you provide could be helpful—if you’re willing.”

I felt uncomfortable being the center of attention but also was unclear about a few things. I asked about the fee and how much time was required and what exactly he and Mrs. Tupplemeyer wanted me to do. Then, “What about the other investors? You said they’re friends of hers. Are they pulling out, too?”

He pursed his lips, cleared his throat. “I’m the one who found a loophole in the real estate laws, but I’m not paid to advise them. We’re much better off keeping everything under the radar.”

The attorney looked at Birdy, then me, to confirm we understood his meaning. “Trust me, in Palm Beach people know the rules when it comes to money. Business is business. They’d do the same to your aunt in a heartbeat.” Then he smiled. A man who could afford to have his teeth capped and wear an expensive silk tie of blue on this Monday morning, the second week of October.

Which is why, a week later, Birdy Tupplemeyer suffered the shock of scorpions falling on her face and ran out the door, screaming.

I took another look at my friend’s neck and said, “I was wrong about the Benadryl, it’s in my SUV,” then went down the porch steps, through the trees, limping a little because of my stubbed toe. A stone wall, a gate and
No Trespassing
signs hadn’t protected the old house from vandals, but a chain had forced me to park outside the gate.

That’s where I spotted the man. He was watching Birdy from the shadows: tall, swoop-shouldered in a hoodie, only his head and torso visible above the four-foot wall.

My breath caught. I stopped.
The archaeologist?
I wondered but wasn’t sure. He was focused on Birdy, who was pacing, waiting for me to return with the first-aid kit I’d thought was upstairs in my bag. Why the man hadn’t noticed me leave the porch, I could only guess. Maybe trees and hanging moss had absorbed my shadow.
Maybe it was the way darkness shifted from milky blue to gray. It was a thick October night with wind, clouds drifting across a moon that would be full in two days and bright enough that I didn’t need my flashlight.

There was another possibility: That afternoon, the archaeologist had been smitten by Birdy, with her lean body and her minor in archaeology, but he had ignored me after a contentious exchange.

The assistant professor had insinuated that Florida’s role in Civil War history had more to do with profiteering than patriotism. When I objected, his coolness toward me had bloomed into dislike.

My feelings hadn’t suffered any. Kindergarten through high school, I was a gawky beanpole of a girl, so the inattention of men is nothing new. I have grown into my body, however, and my confidence has improved. Being ignored by an oddball archaeologist was no big deal, even though Theo was decent-looking in a dark, loose-jointed sort of way.

Birdy had enjoyed their flirting. Traded barbs and puns, with her sharp wit. Ivanhoff had obviously found her attractive. A
fixation
—was that a term that applied to Peeping Toms? I didn’t know. Nor was I certain it was the archaeologist. The shape was tall enough, but there was no Greek fisherman’s cap and no sign of a walking stick. Dr. Theo had carried one, carved cypress, which I considered a foppish affectation. Birdy, in her current frame of mind, had claimed it was a phallic symbol that hinted at the man’s availability. Which had seemed silly but humorous in a
girlish, sleepover way, but wasn’t fun now, standing alone in darkness, separated from a stranger by fifty yards of weeds, trees, and a stone wall.

I stood, glancing from Birdy to the man, watching him watch her. Then he crouched, perhaps aware I had disappeared from the porch.

Finally he saw me. Straightened to his full height and turned his back. Did it in a nonchalant way to pretend I wasn’t there or that he wasn’t spying. In my hand was the key to my SUV. I pressed
Unlock
. The flashing lights startled him but weren’t bright enough to confirm his identity. The man stretched as if bored and ambled toward the river, which was down the road, through the trees and down a bank. His sneaky behavior irritated me. It also gave me courage. I angled toward the road, the stone wall between us, and shined the flashlight. When the light hit him, he was too far away to reveal details. And he walked faster. I hollered, “Who are you?”

He didn’t turn. Instead, he hunkered down low and jogged toward the trees with an odd limping stride as if he had a bad leg.

That spooked me. The archaeologist didn’t limp. There was an unhealthiness about this man’s behavior and his lack of body control. And I’d been right: he was wearing a hoodie or a cape on a night that was cool and dry, not cold.

From the porch, Birdy called, “Are you talking to me?”

I hollered back, “Go inside.”

“What?”

I said it again, my hand on the gate.

She yelled, “Are you kidding? Not without shoes and a blowtorch, I’m not.”

I had taken the time to put on jeans and a denim shirt of copper red but had yet to retrieve my friend’s clothes from her room.

When I
get her clothes, I’ll pack her gun,
too,
I decided, then hurried to my SUV before remembering something else: hidden under the backseat was another gun—a stainless 9mm that Birdy had wanted to see because it was custom-made, a very rare model. It had been left to me by my Uncle Jake. I’d fired the weapon only once in my life and had no desire ever to use it again.

Take the pistol or leave it in the SUV?

I left it behind.

•   •   •

B
IRDY SWALLOWED
a Benadryl but refused to dress until I had searched every inch of her slacks, blouse, and shoes to prove there were no scorpions hiding there. I had done the same for myself but not as carefully.

She was cutting the timing close, although we didn’t know it. The archaeologist would soon surprise us by rapping on the door.

“Poison crabs,” Birdy said and made a guttural sound of disgust. “That’s what they remind me of. Crabs with stingers. And bristly legs. One of those bastards ran right up my forehead. Like tiny robots—they remind me of that, too.”

I didn’t see a connection between scorpions, crabs, and robots but let her talk while I rubbed Benadryl on her neck, the sting
mark swollen but displaying no red lines to suggest she needed a doctor. No constricted breathing either. “Does it still hurt?”

“Son of a bitch, if I was a better shot, I’d go in there and shoot every one of them.”

Several boxes of shells would be required to complete the job, but I didn’t say it. I had returned to her room alone, scorpions on the floor and walls, too, not just the rafters. If they were in the walls, they were in the rest of the house, but I had closed the door as if that would keep us safe.

Something else I did: checked every window I passed to confirm it was nailed shut, no sign of the peeping man outside. And I had retrieved Birdy’s semiautomatic pistol from beneath her pillow. Her overnight bag, which lay open on the floor, was another matter. Examining clothing and extra shoes would take time. Her bag was the only reason she had agreed to return to the house.

We were by the fireplace in the parlor now, where I had been told not to build a fire but had anyway. The slow flames softened the hiss of a Coleman lantern in the middle of the floor. No furniture in a space with twelve-foot ceilings and marble-manteled windows and a chandelier too high for teenagers to steal. Cobwebs and dust, a cigarette pack crumpled in the corner with beer cans, in a house that had been built by a Virginia cattleman. Charles Langford Cadence, a man who had been murdered or had shot himself.

I had done some research since we’d met with the attorney, which is why I knew a lot more about the property. I also knew that John Ashley, the gangster,
might
have done the killing. An old
newspaper clip I found rumored that he was guilty, but Ashley was legendary in the region by that time and legends are rumor magnets.

On the other hand, John Ashley was a proven killer. Between 1914 and 1924, he had terrorized Florida and the Bahamas. He and his gang—which included a girlfriend named Laura—had robbed trains and banks and murdered innocent people. They became international outlaws when they raided the Bahamas, killing several and hijacking shipments of rum.

After each heist, Ashley escaped into Florida’s interior. The TV show was right about that: he had grown up in the Everglades and could live off the land. The wild country between Palm Beach and Fort Myers was familiar to him. There was no evidence he had murdered cattlemen along the way, but Ashley had been charming and talkative. He was certainly aware that Charles Cadence had built a grand house on the Telegraph River—and had married a much younger woman, a beauty named Irene.

In 1928, during a hurricane, the Lake Okeechobee dam burst. The torrent swept over central Florida and killed nearly two thousand people—probably more. Many bodies were never recovered or identified, but the Cadence house survived. The same year, a Chicago developer bought the property but was left penniless after the stock market crash. The next two owners also went broke. The tax debt was satisfied by foreclosure and the house was converted into a school. Children of farmers and cowhands attended, but the school was closed abruptly after only six years.

Why?

The Internet didn’t offer an answer. My best guess was that around the same period, a disease called deer tick fever caused a panic in the Everglades. A bounty was placed on deer—animals that played no role in spreading the disease, as it turned out—but Florida’s deer population was decimated anyway.

I discovered two interesting journal entries from a lady who
might
have taught at the school. If true, it was my introduction to a ghost or apparition that was associated with the Cadence house in later years—
the woman on the balcony
, I came to think of her. Or
young Mrs. Irene Cadence
.

In January 1939, the teacher wrote: “I am much vexed by the tantrums in recent days of otherwise good children who are from good homes. Today, Mary, a subdued girl who earns fine marks, excited the class when she ran outside, pulling at her hair and screaming. She did so without cause and despite the frigid weather. This incited other children to follow, some who claimed to hear a woman crying on the balcony. I blame this on deer fever, not the tragedy said to have occurred in this house. Girls at a certain age are sensitive and such stories impress deeply. Mary’s temperature, however, was normal when we finally calmed her and warmed her near the fire . . .”

Another entry, dated February 1939: “Five children have now been sent [home] by a blistering of the skin, mostly of the hands and wrists but thrice in the appearance of blisters or carbuncles on their faces. A painful tenderness near my cheek warns that I, too, have been infected, as do recent nightmares. How wretched the screams of that poor woman on the balcony! We expect a visit from Dr. Hansen of Ft. Myers most any day now . . .”

The producers of
Vortex Hunters
had found these same lurid tidbits. I confirmed it by downloading an episode entitled “The Malediction of Cadence Place.” Most of it was sensational nonsense but did include some history that was useful—especially a few facts about Charles Cadence’s wife, Irene. That’s how I knew she’d been considered a woman of great beauty with skin the color of “parchment” and raven-black hair.

The house had remained empty until the 1960s, when it was remodeled by an artist—a member of New York’s avant-garde and a friend of LSD proponent Dr. Timothy Leary. One December night, he fell from the balcony and died. The coroner’s report listed alcohol and “other drugs” as contributing factors.

I had shared this information with Birdy. She had delighted in the stories because they were fun to hear, the two of us alone in the empty house, but she wasn’t frightened—until now. I lifted her chin and asked, “Does it still throb?”

“Like I got jabbed by a hot needle. The thing crawled from my cheek into my hair—I can still feel it. What I need is a mojito and a bath. How far’s the nearest hotel? I bet they have a bar.” She finished buttoning her blouse, the starched collar unusual for camping, but it looked good, the way it framed the angles of her face.

I said, “On the bright side, we don’t have to worry about palmetto bugs.”

“Enough with the palmetto bugs. They’re cockroaches, only bigger and they can fly,” she said. “Just a nicer name. I hate roaches, too. In college, there was a garbage strike and roaches took over our dorm. Middle of the night, a girl would scream, I
didn’t even wake up, it got to be so common. That was before I switched to law and moved out of the liberal arts wing, which had a lot of flaky people to begin with.” Birdy paused. “Cockroaches, scorpions—I’m not sleeping in that room anymore, so forget it. Just wait until one bites you.”

I knew we needed another hammock and a box of bug bombs if we were going to spend a night or two in this place. Bunny Tupplemeyer’s attorney had said overnighting wasn’t a must but could be useful. He had decided that evidence the house was
not
haunted would help prove his claims were based on law, not superstition.

From the SUV, I’d brought canvas chairs and she sat—but not without first flipping the thing to check for visitors.

“They sting, not bite,” I said, while I filled a Ziploc with ice from a cooler that contained tea, bottled water, and a few yogurts. “When I was ten, maybe twelve, one nailed me on the thumb while I was stacking firewood. Then, a few years ago, I picked up a tarp and got it in the palm of my hand. Ice helps. Try this.” I handed her the bag.

“Did you cry?”

“I wanted to.”

She said, “Hardass. I should’ve known.”

“No, it’s the way things are on the islands.” I was referring to the house where I had grown up and where my mother, Loretta, still lives, in a little fishing village, Sulfur Wells, across the bay from Sanibel and Captiva Islands on Florida’s Gulf Coast. Birdy had been there often enough that I didn’t have to say the house was older than the house we were in. Or that it sat on an Indian
pyramid built of shell. “Outside, mostly, we find little reddish scorpions, but no worse than ant bites. The big black scorpions, like those in there”—I tilted my head toward the hall—“they’re common on the shell mounds. Burns like fire, I know, but the pain goes away if you don’t have a reaction. I’ve heard they came from Cuba or Mexico on the Spaniards’ boats, but I don’t know that’s true. Loretta doesn’t like them, but she hates cockroaches worse, so you learn to get along. You never find cockroaches in a house that has a scorpion.”