HOMOSASSA SHADOWS (16 page)

After starting her boat’s engine, she cruised slowly down the canal that rimmed the rear of the house and garden. A shovel leaned against the shed. In the opposite field she was surprised to see a series of potholes around the wax myrtles. Some one had been methodically digging test holes around the old site. She thought of the tour Hackett had given her of the Safety Harbor mound and had a sudden inspiration. These two women could be illegal pot hunters of long experience. Tugboat could have a hand in this. He’d have contacts. They all needed money, and Hackett said there was a market. She’d seen Melba carry a Tupperware container from the yard into the kitchen. The three could be in business. She wondered if they’d added Hart’s treasure to their inventory.

All was silent from behind their drawn shades. But how could pot hunting or even vandalism of the mound be connected to Daria’s disappearance? Brandy pictured the two intractable women—especially Alma May—and remembered Fishhawk’s talk of witches. Would these two hold a friendly little girl to force Fishhawk to stop his search and leave the island?

After Brandy entered the river again and returned to her own boat slip, she studied the auxiliary electric motor in the pontoon’s bow. They seldom used it, but John had wired it to the battery for the gasoline engine. Tomorrow the electric motor might serve a purpose. It was silent and drew less water than the usual prop. With it, she could move stealthily around Alma May’s house and tie up in the shallow canal, unheard. She liked the idea. Forgotten was her decision to take Strong’s advice. Finding Daria was more important. If she located the phantom hole of water, so much the better. If the Sheriffs Office called for volunteer searchers, Strong would know she’d answer. All of Homosassa was the target, and Brandy couldn’t trust the two women to comb through Alma May’s property for Daria.

Back in her temporary house, Brandy hurried into the kitchen and called the Gainesville Star to report Daria’s disappearance. She also alerted the Citrus County Chronicle and advised both papers to check with the Sheriff s Office. A story in the morning papers might produce a lead. Her final call was a message to Strong: check out the Flint house. In the front yard Meg woofed to come in while the Persian cat leapt down from the living room couch and wound herself around Brandy’s ankles. She fed them on the screened porch, then slumped in a chair at the table, unable to concentrate on anything but little Daria. Overhead she heard the thump of helicopter blades. A pilot had joined the search.

Brandy pulled her notebook out of a cabinet and flipped through meticulous pages of notes. It didn’t help. Nothing made sense. She winced at the child’s face she had doodled in one margin, the large eyes, round face, tightly drawn back hair. Perhaps she could take comfort in the fact that Daria had not been found. If Strong was right, if someone had taken her, she might still be all right. She wrote Tuesday at the top of a new page, carefully recorded the day’s events, and ended by noting that if no one located Daria by morning, she would search the north end of Tiger Tail herself.

At last she remembered the answering machine. The red light had been blinking when she called the newspapers. Annie could’ve phoned. But the message did not come from Annie, but from John. “I expected you to call,” he said, an edge to his voice. “I can never reach you at Carole’s place, or on your cell, either.”

Of course not, Brandy thought helplessly. I gave the cell to Annie. She might not turn it on except to call out.

John’s voice went on. “I won’t plan to drive up this weekend. You’ll still be busy with this new story you’re working on. Go on, do your own thing. If you see you’ve got some time for us, call me, but I’ve got to go out this evening.” There was a pause. Then he added, “I hope you’re thinking about what I said.” The recording clicked off.

It was a few seconds before Brandy pressed the erase button. She had complained that John wouldn’t share his feelings, but when he did, it hurt. She hadn’t called today because she’d been trying to find a little girl. Maybe he was looking for an excuse not to join her. As it was, they’d been apart much of the year. As she punched in his number, she wondered what his engagement was for the evening.

“Got your message,” she said. It was hard, trying to sound perky over a machine. “Things have been complicated here. A toddler is missing. I lent my cell to the mother. She’s panicked.” Brandy didn’t know when to suggest John call her. “I’ll try to reach you later.”

With a glum face, she opened the refrigerator and was contemplating the unsavory choice of left-over fried shrimp or a frozen half-pound of hamburger when she heard a car pull into the driveway. For a moment she thought John might’ve found time to drive to Homosassa, after all. But the visitor was Grif Hackett.

As soon as she opened the door, he stepped in and stood looking down at her, sympathy in those iridescent eyes. “They haven’t found Daria yet,” he said

When Brandy dropped into a porch chair, he pulled one out for himself. “I appreciate your coming to tell me,” she said. “I’ve notified the papers. Strong okayed it.”

“Can’t hurt. The divers had to call offtheir search. It’s getting too dark. They’ll be at it again in the morning. According to the local news, they’ve called for volunteers.”

“Annie?”

“Bearing up. Fishhawk is acting strange. He doesn’t want the Sheriff involved.”

Brandy’s lips tightened. “I suppose he thinks his spells can bring her back.”

Hackett frowned and shook his head. “Look, I didn’t come just to bring no news. You can’t sit here all night, worrying. Let’s go out and eat. Then I want to show you something.” With a slight smile, he held up his hand, palm outward. “Don’t worry, not etchings. Pottery. Some remarkable specimens. Remember, I told you I’d like you to see the one with the bird handle. I’m restoring a few pots in my make-shift field lab. Then I’ll take them to the research center.”

Brandy thought of the tedious evening before her, sitting alone, waiting for news. John would not call back, would not be back. She could, of course, spend her time vacuuming and dusting for Carole. She looked down at her sweatshirt and jeans. Okay for Homosassa, she thought. She lifted a jacket from the back of a chair and closed her notebook. “Why not?” she said and forced a smile. “Beats the prospects here.”

“There’s a restaurant and lounge by my motel. I had to take a suite. I need the extra room for lab work and packing my gear.” After they stepped outside, Hackett paused beside his van. “Do you know when your husband’s joining you?”

Brandy looked away. “He’s not coming up this weekend.”

“And your plans?”

“Help look for Daria, mainly. I’m still checking on the Timothy Hart case. The two may be related.” She opened the door to Carole’s car in the double carport. “Look, I’ll take my friend’s car and meet you, so you needn’t drive me home.” Safer that way, she thought. Keep him at bay.

“Like I said,” he said, smiling. “We’re a lot alike. Independent.”

The lounge where they stopped first was timbered in dark wood and jutted out on pilings above the river. At the copper bar on the second floor sat a fisherman with gray whiskers and few teeth. He was flanked by a scattering of tourists. At one end of the counter hunched the heavy-set man Brandy knew as Tugboat Grapple, propped unsteadily on his elbows. He had covered his bald head with a billed cap at a rakish angle, and his belly sagged over his belt. He peered with watery eyes at the young female bartender. “Let’s have a little service here, girly.”

“Come on, Mr. Grapple,” the girl said. “You’ve had enough. Don’t you think you’d better go on home now?” She glanced behind her for back-up.

“God-a-mighty no, I don’t wanna go home now!” The big man’s voice soared in an imitative treble. “Ever seen my stick of a wife?” He laughed and looked around for support. A hush fell over the lounge while the bartender stepped to a phone.

“Another close-up of Melba’s husband,” Brandy whispered to Hackett.

Grif picked up his a scotch and water, took a firm grip on her arm while she gathered up her wine glass, and guided her to a table for two by the picture window. “To name that man ‘Tugboat’ is to insult a useful water craft,” he said. “I had a run-in with him recently in Chassahowitzka.”

“I heard Alma May say he gambles. I wonder why Melba doesn’t leave him?”

“Getting rid of Tugboat might not be easy.” He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “But she’s got leverage. He can’t make her too angry. She seems to support him now.”

A small man in slacks and a sports coat came in from the restaurant downstairs, stopped beside Tugboat, who was banging his mug on the counter, and spoke to him quietly. Tugboat swung around, teetered on his stool, then apparently made a decision. He slammed down a bill and glared at the man in the suit. “I’m clearing out now, you little buzzard,” he said. “Next time I come back, I’ll be rich enough to buy this stinkin’ joint.” The remark was not lost on Brandy.

Tugboat was lurching toward the door when he reached Brandy and Grif s table. He paused, bent down, and thrust his weathered face toward her. She caught a strong whiff of whiskey. Grif s fingers clenched over the edge of the table. She had never seen him angry before.

“I seen you around,” the boatman said to her, his voice like gravel. “Heard about you from old Melba. Sticking your nose in folk’s business.” As he leaned closer, Grif began to rise. Tugboat ignored him. “Folks in this town like their privacy. That goes especially for reporters.”

Grif pushed in front of the table, grabbed a surprised Tugboat by one beefy arm, and shoved him toward the door. The boatman, off balance, tried to shake himself loose, thought better of it, and staggered with Grif behind him toward the outside. In silence the customers watched the former river guide reel alone into the parking lot. The fisherman at the bar gave Grif a toothless grin. In a few minutes Tugboat wobbled onto the floating dock. He fumbled with lines looped around the pier cleats and spoke to the Rottweiler. It leaped up from the deck and stood quivering at the bow. Then the engine roared beneath the restaurant window and Tugboat’s Grady White shot out into the river.

Grif and Brandy watched him go. Brandy was shaken. She ordered a second glass of Merlot.

“Don’t worry,” Hackett said. “He’s drunk. Probably won’t remember in the morning that he threatened you.”

Brandy felt tightness in her throat. She didn’t like having Tugboat Grapple set against her. It helped that Hackett felt protective. Still, Tugboat had given her the glimmer of an idea. He implied he was coming into money, lots of it. How much were aboriginal artifacts worth now, especially since they could no longer be removed legally? Someone had looted the mound. And she also wondered how much Timothy Hart’s missing artifact was worth. Everyone seemed to know about it now.

Grif and Brandy ordered crab stuffed shrimp. The large window beside them overlooked a tiny island, encircled by water that shimmered under the dining room lights.

“Did Alma May feel bad about losing you as a boarder?” Brandy asked.

He shrugged. “She and Melba have other fish to fry. I think they were glad to see me go.”

“I tried to talk to Alma May and Melba about Daria.” Brandy plunked down her fork, annoyed just remembering. “Alma May sounded almost glad the child was gone. She said now the Indians will all leave. We know Fishhawk was messing around the old site, but Melba was, too—not to mention Alma May herself.”

“Mrs. Flint can sound more uncaring than she actually is,” Hackett said. “She just has a thing about Indians.”

“I don’t think either of them plan to look for Daria at all. If I don’t hear she’s found tonight, I’m going to search near their house myself. I half suspect them.”

Hackett grinned. “Better be careful.”

“I’m a volunteer. I won’t get very close to the house itself. I’ll start at the old cabin site. I asked Alma May to tell me where it is.”

When they had finished dinner, Hackett led Brandy downstairs and across the parking area toward the lobby of the motel. “The pots I found will help take your mind off Daria. The pieces are ready to wrap and pack for the drive to Gainesville. I’ve seen photographs of one design, but I’ve never looked at an authentic specimen before. I want to take some good pictures. The pots make you appreciate what those guys did with almost no tools.”

In the lobby Hackett stopped at the desk for messages. The clerk, a middle-aged woman with a tower of blonde-gold hair, leaned across the counter toward Grif.

“I took a phone message for you, Mr. Hackett,” she said, her voice soft and inviting. “Also a woman stopped by to see you a few minutes ago. She waited a while in the lobby and left.” After the clerk handed him a slip of paper, he looked at the phone number and stuffed the paper in his pocket. He was more interested in an envelope with a foreign stamp that had been forwarded.

“From a museum contact in Mexico City,” he said. “They’re showing a new Maya exhibit. I’m interested in Central America, that’s where the real digs are going on. Prehistoric cave stuff is really new.”

While Grif studied the letter, Brandy turned toward the plate glass window fronting the parking lot, feeling slightly groggy. She regretted the second glass of wine with dinner. A face stared back from a low slung sports car parked before the motel. Bibi Brier. She made no move to leave her seat behind the wheel. Brandy wondered if it was her note the archaeologist had poked into his pocket. Bibi did not look happy. “Look, Grif,” Brandy said. “Your grad student must be the woman who came to see you.”

“Forget it. She’s bad news.”

As Brandy walked on, she noticed the sports car stayed in its parking space.

When they stopped at Grifs door in the hall, he added, “I keep in touch with what’s going on in my field around the world. We can’t collect artifacts in Florida like we used to, but other countries can, and American archaeologists lead the pack.”

He opened the door into a sitting room. Although its windows overlooked the river and pool, Hackett had drawn the drapes. “Don’t want anyone snooping,” he said. “When the word gets out you’re an archaeologist, old ladies and little kids come out of the woodwork with sappy questions. Besides, I don’t want this stuff swiped.”