HOMOSASSA SHADOWS (24 page)

The Seminole spun around and looked at her for the first time with such malevolence that he startled her. What had she done to them except befriend Annie?

But he answered her question. “Oh, the witch is here,” he said. “Has been here. But I don’t think it will stay. I think its job is done.”

The remark did not reveal much about his conception of the witch. Alma May was planning to sell her house; surely Melba would leave, too. Tugboat wouldn’t stay on the island, and neither would Fishhawk himself, or anyone else. Everyone’s job was done, but Daria was still lost.

In spite of Fishhawk’s obvious bitterness, Brandy plunged on. “What about the ghosts—Hart’s, the dead settlers’?”

For a moment the hardness went out of Fishhawk’s eyes. He glanced toward the north end of the island. “I don’t know. If they were Indian, the right ceremonies would help their ghosts go west. About whites, I don’t know.”

“But Mr. Hart, doesn’t he have to be avenged?”

Fishhawk turned his gaze to the coarse wire grass at his feet and did not answer. For a moment Brandy had a mental image of plump, gullible Timothy Hart’s ghost hovering like mist around the house and cistern, still seeking his treasure.

“Look,” Grif said. “Maybe I could help out by taking Annie and her stuff back to town with us.”

Fishhawk raised his head and faced the wind that blew clouds from the Gulf. “No,” he said. “I took my eyes off my baby on this island. I’m not taking them off my wife.”

As Brandy and Grif started back down the path, Brandy saw Fishhawk reach for Annie’s hand. Several times Brandy looked back. Fishhawk stood staring after them until the two Indians disappeared from her view behind the shadowy cedars.

In silence Grif and Brandy pushed off and careened down the creek between high grasses until the pontoon boat reached the intersection with the canal and the Homosassa River. Beside the shoreline the Flint house rose against the bleak sky as quiet and still as it had the morning Brandy found Hart’s body. She had thought Alma May would never give refuge to

Tugboat, but she was sure she had spotted him there earlier. Perhaps the two women had picked him up when they went out that morning. He might have leverage over them. He could tell the law about their own pottery theft.

Brandy glanced up at a heavy, gray sky. A sharp scent of rain hung again in the air. As the deputy near the cistern tipped his cap, she shouted “Stay dry!” She knew he wouldn’t say whether the technician found useful tracks or prints. Maybe she could wheedle the facts from Sergeant Strong, if he ever called.

She settled herself on the rear bench, her back to the wind, and watched a long line of boaters stream past from the Gulf, trying to outrun the weather. Grif s own boat rocketed forward, gaining what distance he could before they reached the manatee “go slow” signs. With Tugboat on the loose again, Brandy felt anxious. She had expected the Sheriff’s Office to hold him. Yet she knew Strong had only her word that he had threatened her life. What if he left no sign at the shack? She could only hope the Sheriff s Office could charge him with smuggling or vandalism or theft at the mound. At any rate, something had changed Melba since the Sheriff’s Office decided to pick up her husband.

Time to throw in the towel and flee to the safety of her Gainesville apartment. She would probably never know who killed Timothy Hart, or what happened to his precious artifact.

Grif grinned back at her from the helm. “You want lunch?”

This time she shook her head. “Got to pack. Also need to ask a neighbor to take care of Carole’s cat. I’ll try to reach her tonight to tell her I’m leaving, and I’ll leave a note.” Brandy also wanted time alone, time to think, to try to make sense of the murder and the kidnapping. “Drop me at the marina. I need to drive Carole’s car back.”

In a few minutes Grif angled in next to the pier and reached with his boat hook to catch a post. “I’ll bring Meg with me,” Brandy said, rising. “She travels well.”

“No problem. My stuff will be stowed in the back of the van. There’s room for your pooch in the mid section.” He checked his watch. “It’s one o’clock. Be back for you in about an hour.”

Brandy clambered out on the dock, dragging her crutches, then leaned on them and looked directly at Grif. “Remember, no misunderstandings. This is strictly a ride home.”

Still grinning, he held up his right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

Brandy fought to keep down the discomfort she now felt from being alone with him.

For a moment she balanced with her crutches on the narrow pier while Grif backed into the canal to turn around. The wind slapped waves against his boat. Charcoal clouds rolled across the sky. “See you then, and thanks,” she said, and made her way slowly toward Carole’s car, glad she had the key in her bag.

As the first drops of rain began to fall, she pulled into her carport. In the yard she unfastened Meg’s lead, banged through the screen door, and let Meg onto the porch. Made it in time, she thought, as rain began to pound the road before the canal and boat slips. She stumped into the kitchen. No message light. She dialed the Sheriffs Office in Inverness and asked for Detective Strong. He was out, a secretary said. He would call.

“Tell him to make it in the next half hour,” Brandy said, disappointed.

Next she dialed the marina where her pontoon boat was held. Her pontoon was there, awaiting the detectives. In the bedroom she whipped back her pillow and snapped open the lid of the first aid kit. The pouch still lay in its moist bed. In the bathroom she poured a thin trickle of water on the deerskin, thrust the slick plastic box into a zippered bag from the kitchen, and laid it at the bottom of her suitcase. On top of it she piled nightgown, underwear, two pairs of shorts, and jeans. She stuffed her few soiled clothes into an empty garbage bag. After performing the cat chores, Brandy called the neighbor to ask if she’d mind the regal Persian and rinsed the breakfast dishes. She was grateful she had done a more thorough cleaning job before she’d been trapped in the cistern. Peanut butter and bread, a few raw carrots, and left-over iced tea would suffice for a meager lunch.

Stuffing her cell in a pants pocket, she leaned the crutches against the cabinet and shuffled back to the porch table with her meal on a tray. Meg raised her buff-colored nose from her paws and her tail thumped the floor. “Leaving soon,” Brandy said. “And this time you go, too.”

She tore a sheet of paper from her notebook and dashed off a long message to Carole. She’d keep the house key, give an extra one to the neighbor, and mail hers to Carole after her friend returned home.

Then she picked up her notebook from the porch table where she’d left it. Before thrusting it into the large canvas bag, she leafed through the last entries, then sat back, frowning. She’d been eager for some time to mull over her notes. Now she realized she hadn’t thought with sufficient care about all the details. She turned back to the beginning. She might have enough facts about Hart and the artifact at least to pose a few questions. For one thing, what about Melba?

Brandy had been thinking of her almost as an appendage of Alma May, but Melba was smarter. She was a successful business woman, perfectly capable of acting independently. She’d been around Timothy Hart, even if her husband hadn’t. And Brandy had seen her sneak something into Alma May’s house through the back kitchen door. Melba knew about the journal, and she could climb down a rope as well as anyone. She might even be partnered with Tugboat in more ways than marriage. As for Hart’s murderer, Brandy couldn’t see how Tugboat could’ve pulled off the poisoning. He seemed more like a later opportunist.

For several minutes she read through the pages while the rain drummed on the aluminum roof. Brandy had almost despaired of Strong’s call when the phone rang. She picked it up and listened with relief to his firm voice. “Sorry, little lady. Got your message, but I’ve been busy with a case in Inverness. Your experience at the cistern ought to finally teach you a lesson.”

Brandy sat forward, her mouth tense. “What about Tugboat Grapple?”

Strong paused. “The news for you isn’t too good. The detective who questioned him says he denies everything. The crab fisherman and his son can’t verify your story. They didn’t see him or the rifle. The narcotics guys couldn’t find a trace of cocaine in the cabin. He had plenty of time to get rid of whatever you saw. All we got is maybe stolen pots. Not much to go

Her hands tightened on the phone. “And in the meantime, what happens to Tugboat?”

“His wife and Mrs. Flint came to the station in Homosassa Springs and his wife posted bail. The corporal says she looked scared to death, but she sprang him. Go figure.”

“I think she’s so frightened of him—or someone—she’s almost sick. Any fingerprints or footprints that might help?”

“Too early to know. Anyway, I’m not sharing that information yet with the press.”

Brandy almost signed off before she remembered why she had called the detective in the first place. “Sergeant, wait. I found an artifact in the cistern, not the valuable one Hart expected to find, but the tobacco or shot pouch the journal says it was stored in. It’s rare itself. According to what I’ve read, no deerskin ones are left. I want to hand it over for your investigation. I think it proves there was an artifact in the cistern, one that’s much more priceless.”

Strong’s voice rose again. “Who knows you have the pouch?”

“I haven’t told anyone, but my husband might have. He doesn’t know much about the case. He wasn’t interested.”

“Smart man. Probably didn’t want you involved. Remember the cabin on the mound and the cistern trap? I’ve got some words for you to think about. You never listen, but I’m going to tell you all the same.” He paused. He’s recalling a quotation, Brandy thought, rubbing Meg behind the ear. He could always think of one that fit.

“This advice comes from the Psalms. Pay attention. ‘I waited patiently for the Lord, and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry. He brought me up also out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings.’” Strong stopped for emphasis. He had managed to come up with a reference to her rescue from the cistern. “My own advice to you, Miss O’Bannon, is to take the Bible’s. You’re safe now. Keep your feet on that rock. Don’t be going anywhere. Not even out of your house, and be sure the neighbors are there.”

“Then you’ll approve of my plans,” she said. “I’m going home to Gainesville this afternoon. Getting out of Homosassa altogether. Tomorrow I’m driving to Tampa.”

Strong’s tone elevated. “Where your husband is?”

“Yes. John doesn’t know I’m coming yet. I’ll call him tonight.” She dropped her voice. “Grif Hackett’s driving me to Gainesville because I don’t have my car. I can pick it up there, and then go on the next day to Tampa. Hackett’s taking the Safety Harbor girl’s bones to the Tampa reservation.” She tapped her notebook. “Fishhawk and his wife will meet him at the Seminole Cultural Center. We’ll all be there tomorrow, Saturday, and the service for the Safety Harbor child will be Sunday morning.”

Brandy held the phone between her ear and her shoulder and lifted the notebook into the canvas bag. “I’m leaving here in a few minutes. Can you come to Gainesville today to get the pouch? I’ve got more to tell you.” Brandy imagined his dark face, his big hand passing over his forehead, thinking. “And do you have any news about the search for Daria?”

“That’s what we’re working on. Be easier for me to come to Tampa tomorrow.”

“Make it late afternoon,” she said. “You can always reach me on my cell. I’ll have the pouch. Come to the Seminole Cultural Center on Orient Road, just off Hillsborough Avenue.” She gazed out into the glistening rain and visualized the gathering, some of the figures still in shadow. “But finding Daria’s certainly your most important job.”

The detective’s voice sounded weary. “I’ve learned from sad experience that you probably won’t take my advice.”

When Brandy put down the phone, she sat waiting for Grif, still clinging to the canvas bag with her notebook. She’d been tearing from one place to another without enough reflection. When she was alone at her own apartment, she’d finish studying her notes. Several facts nagged at her, but she did not like where they seemed to lead. One thing she did know—she would be at the Seminole Cultural Center tomorrow. There she’d be safe, surrounded by people, and there she expected to find answers—as well as her biggest feature story yet.

CHAPTER 16
 

As soon as Brandy spotted Grif’s van turning in at the area entrance, she hobbled into the bedroom for her suitcase, pulled on her rain coat, and fastened her note on the refrigerator with a magnet. After locking the front door, she sank down on a chair by the porch door. Outside, rain still pounded the street and splashed in the canal. When Grif pulled into the carport, Brandy limped to the van door, dragging her suitcase behind her. He leapt out and helped hoist Meg and the pad for her bed onto the middle bench of the van. After giving the retriever a reassuring pat, Brandy climbed gingerly into the passenger seat. Although she could now walk without crutches, Grif spotted them on the porch and swung them into the van with her suitcase.

“Got everything?” he asked. She nodded, thinking more about his box with the Safety Harbor child’s bones than about her suitcase. She’d spotted the box in the rear, resting on a coil of rope beside hand spades, small picks, and screens. The bones were secure in their plastic container, but in spite of the skeleton’s age, the thought of its being in the van made her uneasy.

“The weather’s going to slow us down,” Grif said as he drove between the entrance pillars. She heard a car start up behind them and turned to peer out the back window. Through a curtain of blowing rain, she could make out the hood and bloated wheels of an over-sized pick-up similar to

Tugboat Grapple’s. You’re being paranoid, she told herself. It probably belongs to someone in the park.

The research center on the University of Florida campus was about seventy miles northeast of Homosassa, her own apartment three miles south of the university. Although the roads were good, they were only two lanes most of the way. Brandy felt frustrated. It would take more time than usual. She had a fierce desire to get this drive over with, to be back in her own apartment. When they reached U.S. 19, Grif drove north through the traffic of Crystal River, then past wide pastures rimmed with pine trees, and up the overpass above the Florida By-Pass Canal.