HOMOSASSA SHADOWS (10 page)

“Give me a Bud,” he called to the bartender.

The barkeep scurried to the cooler and handed over the beer. “Sure thing, Tugboat,” he said. Tugboat Grapple, at last. Brandy surveyed the new arrival with interest.

“Damned good fishing today in the flats,” Tugboat said. “Redfish and sheepshead almost jumped in the boat.” He grinned at the man with his wispy goatee behind the bar. “Why don’t you grow real face hair.” He rubbed the bristly thicket on his own face. “Look, kid. This is a real beard.”

The bartender flushed.

Tugboat downed the first beer. “Two more, to go.” He grabbed the next two bottles by the necks, threw down a few dollars, and had started back to the pier, when he stopped abruptly and looked back at a restaurant table on the deck behind the bar. Brandy swiveled her stool to watch. Alma May and Melba were turned away from the bar, talking, salad, sandwiches, and coffee before them. Melba was speaking rapidly, accenting her remarks by making jabbing motions with her fork.

Tugboat spoke with a voice that could boom over the sound of roaring gasoline engines. “Well, lookee here! My wife and her friend. How’s the house sale going, now you gals don’t have no buyer?”

Alma May’s sharp face glanced back. “We’re doing just fine, thank you very much. I might even decide not to sell for a spell.”

Melba’s regal figure seemed to shrink in her chair. “I’ll be along home soon. We’re just finishing up here.”

“Been another hard day...” he paused, “picking up knickknacks from the old plantation?”

“Melba’ll get home directly, Tugboat,” Alma May said, her voice as decisive as ever. “We still got business to talk about.”

He threw back his head and gave a harsh laugh. “I know your business. Bingo down at the Seminole Casino in Tampa. Guess you gals got money to waste.”

“If we go, reckon we might see you there again,” Alma May snapped.

Tugboat grinned. “My own friend’s waiting on deck.” He sauntered back toward the dock, swung aboard his boat, and stooped to stroke the delighted Rottweiler. After licking his hand, the dog jumped back to the bow. As his master gunned the engine, the big dog leaned again into the wind. Brandy moved closer to the bar. “That guy lives in Homosassa?” she asked the bartender.

He began rinsing glasses. “Yep. Long time resident. Pleasant customer.” He lingered sarcastically on the word “pleasant.” “Bet that Rottweiler’s his only friend.”

“I gather he’s married to Melba Grapple.” He nodded and elevated the eyebrow, as if to show he had not been intimidated.

“I met her a couple of days ago. Seems like an unlikely match.” Grif nodded, as if he already knew the story.

The bartender gazed down river at the rear of the Grady White. “He used to be a fishing guide, before he started drinking too much. Had a loyal clientele then. Knows the river and the gulf better than anyone. That’s how he met Miss Melba. A well-fixed lady from up north.”

Brandy sipped her wine without taking her eyes off her informant. “Still, he seems crude for her.”

The bartender slipped a row of glasses one at a time into an overhead rack, his words as slow and deliberate as his hands. “He knew the Gulf, like I said. Miss Melba was a tourist several years ago. She went out fishing with some friends. Their boat broke down. Storm came up quick, like they do here. Caught those folks and swamped their boat. The story goes Melba was scared silly. They would’ve all been lost for sure, when along comes old Tugboat on a fast track back to port. Hauled them out of the water and into his boat like drowned rats and towed their boat in. Made him a hero. He was a rugged looking guy then, too, but he had it all together. An exciting guy, I guess, to a woman who probably hadn’t been courted much.” Brandy thought of Melba’s gaunt but elegant face, her bony frame. Again the bartender stroked his tiny beard; then he shook his head. “Now he lives off his wife, as far as anyone can tell. But he lives well.”

When a waitress came from the restaurant with their salads, Brandy turned to Grif. “Sad story,” she said, frowning. She had picked up her fork when she saw the two women rise. They had both noticed Grif and Brandy. Alma May’s lips tightened and she turned away, but Melba had regained her self-assurance. She gave the two of them a brusque nod before they swept out.

* * * *

In the morning, coffee still in hand, Brandy called the Sheriff’s Office in Inverness and asked for Detective Sergeant Strong. When he came on the line, he didn’t sound pleased.

“Little lady,” he said, “don’t expect special treatment. You want to know about the lab results, you come in like the other reporters and hear the spokeswoman’s statement. Say, about eleven o’clock.”

Brandy rolled her eyes upward, but she had determined to be agreeable. “Thanks for the information, Sergeant. No quotation to help start the day?”

Strong paused, then said in his give-me-patience tone, “Seek not out the things that are too hard for thee, neither seek the things that are above thy strength.”

Brandy smiled. She had no intention of following this advice. “Thanks again, my friend. I hope you’ll let the press know whose fingerprints are in the briefcase.”

“All in good time,” he said and hung up.

After putting out fresh water for Meg, she fastened the retriever again to her chain and stake in the front yard. Brandy was glad the dog enjoyed socializing with the neighbors, who kept an eye on her. Still, Meg lay down under an orange tree in a huff, disappointed that again she wouldn’t share the day with Brandy. Brandy gave her a final pat before stepping into Carole’s small sedan for the drive to Inverness.

At the Sheriff s Office, the brunette with the starched face and heavy glasses addressed the press in a careful monotone. “The lab report is in earlier than we dared hope,” she began from behind her desk. “Timothy Hart’s stomach contents have been analyzed. He died of poison. Pokeweed, a native Florida plant. His death may have been accidental, but because of the quantity and parts of the plant ingested, the Sheriff s Office is treating his death as homicide. He continued to eat only the poisonous roots and berries and leaves after he would’ve been quite ill. Likely someone else is involved.”

The Chronicle reporter raised an eager hand. “Has the Sheriff s Office discovered the source of the pokeweed?”

The spokeswoman studied her nails, considering. Then she said, “Deputies found a possible source on Tiger Tail Island, where the victim was staying, but it was relatively inaccessible.” Hart tramped all over the island, Brandy remembered. Grif had helped him buy his high boots. “The press can help the investigation,” the spokeswoman went on, “by alerting the public to the danger of pokeweed, and asking readers to notify the Sheriff s Office of other locations in the area.”

Brandy knew it would be useless to ask about the briefcase. The results would not be in, and why tip the others to its existence? The interview was clearly over. She jotted a few notes. She knew her editor wouldn’t give a play to Hart’s death unless she uncovered some truly bizarre aspect, or a Gainesville connection. The fact that Hackett worked with the Florida Museum of Natural History in Gainesville might provide that connection; also she could always hope that Timothy Hart had been right about the value of his prospective find. In the meantime, she’d stick to her story about writing the history of Tiger Tail Island.

At a library computer she quickly accessed the Internet and read an entry about pokeweed: “A perennial with a green stem when young, later turning purple, and growing to a height of four to twelve feet with a diameter of an inch; producing greenish-white flowers in July and August.” Unfortunately, it was spring, too early for blooms. They would’ve made it easier to spot the plants. The description continued, “The deep purple berries, when ripe, are a source of red dye. Young, green shoots can be eaten when cooked, but berries, mature stalks, leaves and roots are poisonous.”

Brandy sat back, tense with concentration. The Seminoles, of course, would know these properties. They must’ve cooked pokeweed shoots during hard times, even into the twentieth century. They would know how to find the plant. Fishhawk, taught by his medicine man grandfather to cherish Seminole history and culture, would surely know. Would Alma May, descendant of pioneers and an island gardener? What about Melba Grapple? Brandy could see her hiking over the island in her own high boots, archaeology form in hand. She was shrewd, capable of intelligent research, of careful planning. Any one of them could’ve discovered the journal, even been shown the entries by poor gullible Timothy himself—could’ve decided to eliminate him and take up the search themselves, or already found the object, seen its value, and gradually poisoned him.

Alma May would believe that whatever was concealed on her land belonged to her. She’d probably be right about that. Melba might share her own amateur expertise with her friend and earn a reward, or she might choose to act alone, or even with her unkempt husband. Fishhawk certainly would believe the treasure, whatever it was, belonged to the Seminoles who hid it, not to the landowners. Indeed, Indians did not believe that land, created by the Great Breath Maker, could be bought by man any more than the sky. Brandy could see justification in that view.

As an archaeologist, Grifs curiosity, of course, would be aroused, but he said the Seminoles could not have anything of real value, and he was the only one with authority. Museums might be interested in the object, but they could not pay the vast sum Timothy Hart seemed to expect. And who would commit murder to place an additional artifact in a museum? Only Fishhawk might be tempted to do that. Too bad the thing had been hidden on private, not public land, where the State of Florida would have control.

Brandy realized Detective Jeremiah Strong must know about the pokeweed already, must be far ahead of her with his inquiries. She printed a copy of the Internet report and trotted down the steps to the car. At least she had been invited to meet Fishhawk’s wife, and could ask a few discreet questions herself. First, she needed to know more about the Seminole culture and the basics of archaeological digs. Down the street she found the stately nineteenth century courthouse that housed the Citrus County Historical Society, ran up its white stone steps, and made her way through corridors under construction to the Resources Office. In its book store she bought the few sources she needed.

With the delicate scent of orange blossoms wafting through open windows, Brandy drove back to Homosassa, her mind on the upcoming interview. The phone began ringing as soon as she had parked and walked into the kitchen. It was Grif. “How about meeting me at Alma May’s dock about 2:30 P.M.? I’ll ferry you down Petty Creek. It’s tricky. You need to watch for mud banks and oyster bars, and sometimes low water.”

If Brandy wanted to meet Fishhawk’s wife, it sounded like an offer she couldn’t refuse. “That would be great.”

“Her name’s Annie,” he added. “Not very Seminole, but she’s a modern Indian. Baby’s name is Daria.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there.”

In the utility room Brandy pulled on heavy boots. Then she tucked a camera and a small note pad into a canvas bag, debated taking a tape recorder, then decided it might spook the Seminoles. When she headed for the boat alone, Meg gave a low, woeful growl, and Brandy stopped to refill the retriever’s water bowl. She was glad to see the tide was coming in and the breeze was from the north. It wouldn’t blow the water back out of the shallow creek, but keep it high enough for them to make the run to the island camp. She was anxious to learn details for her feature about the island, and more about the Seminole couple themselves.

CHAPTER 7
 

At Alma May’s dock Brandy did not spot the landlady or Melba. Their jon boat was gone. Hackett waved a cheery hello to Brandy. “Brought Fish-hawk’s wife and kid to the island late this morning,” he called. The lock of hair fell across a forehead already damp from the early afternoon sunlight. “Annie’s not too thrilled about leaving her apartment for a wilderness camp-out, even if it is Seminole style.”

Brandy hitched her pontoon’s bow and stern both to a post, then climbed aboard the other boat. She noticed that Hackett had swept it clean and stowed his crates neatly along the sides. “I don’t see how Fish-hawk and his wife can throw any light on what happened to Hart,” she said, “but I might get a feature article about Fishhawk’s experiment.”

Hackett switched on the starter, the engine throbbed to life, and he turned to look behind him as he backed away from the pier. “Works for me.” He looked around and winked. “It gives me extra time with you.”

Flustered, Brandy fixed her gaze on the winding creek before them, trying to sort through her feelings. Attracted, yes. Flattered, yes. And yet, there was still John, crouched over computer or desk back in Tampa, annoyed with his wife, insensitive to her feelings, but not expecting her to be interested in another man.

Hackett continued smiling. “We’re kindred souls.” She did not answer.

He followed Petty Creek, winding upstream until at last he eased up to the mud bank, cut the engine, sprang over the bow, and pulled it ashore.

Single file they slogged up the narrow path, Brandy first. She supposed Fishhawk had beaten back the saw grass and spartina to make it easier for his wife and daughter, not for her and Grif. As she trudged up the last rise, a quick movement near an oak startled her. When she paused, a small, round face peeked around the trunk. It was a solemn little face, thatched with short black hair pulled tight at the temples. A tiny hand crept along the rough bark, exploring.

“Hello, there,” Brandy called. “Are you Daria?” Shyly, the little girl inched around the tree toward Brandy, her perfect white teeth showing in a hesitant smile. Brandy suffered a sickening flashback. For a moment she saw the little teeth, the jaw bone of the Safety Harbor child in the vandalized mound. With rapid strides Hackett caught up and looked down. “How’s my girl? We’ve come to visit,” he said. “Can you tell your mother company’s here?”

“I don’t think she’s old enough to talk yet,” Brandy said. Walking upright seemed to take most of her concentration.