HOMOSASSA SHADOWS (4 page)

At 1:30 P.M. Brandy drove past pastures, lush with new spring grass, and groves dotted with oranges, and into the old town of Inverness. She passed the elegant British style Crown Hotel on North Seminole Avenue and the historic Citrus County Courthouse, in the process of restoration. Finally, people seemed to appreciate historic buildings. A similar job was keeping John busy in Tampa. She noted the quiet waters of Lake Tsala

Apopka flanking the downtown area and tried to remember its Seminole meaning: something like “fish eating place.” The tribe had left its mark here, too.

After parking at the Citrus County Sheriff’s operations center, she found the briefing room, signed in, and joined a reporter from the Citrus County Chronicle and a stringer for the regional section of the St. Petersburg Times. A neatly groomed brunette in a tailored navy suit faced them across her desk, backed up by an imposing row of sheriff s portraits.

She pulled down glasses that had been perched on her head, surveyed a page before her, and read aloud: “The body found on an island on the Homosassa River yesterday morning has been identified as Timothy Hart of Danville, Illinois, age 65. This morning the Sheriff s Office located his next of kin, a younger sister, Mrs. Harvey Blunt, also of Danville. A local officer there went out personally to tell her about her brother’s death. Mr. Hart had been in this area a week. He rented a room on the river from long-time resident, Alma May Flint, 75.”

When the woman paused to adjust her glasses, Brandy raised her hand. “Has the medical examiner completed an autopsy?”

The woman frowned. “I’m getting to that,” she said a little testily. She glanced at the reporter sign-in list. “Miss O’Bannon, Gainesville Star? Wouldn’t have thought there’d be much interest in Gainesville. We don’t see the Star here.”

“Actually, Mr. Hart may be of wide interest in Florida,” Brandy said with emphasis. The others turned to look at her.

“The cause of death is being investigated,” the spokeswoman continued. “We’re waiting for a report from the lab.” She looked up and spoke with more hesitation. “I think I can tell you that Mr. Hart was interested in surviving off the land. But suspicious facts remain.”

“You’re waiting for a toxicology report?” asked the reporter from the Chronicle.

The woman’s expression became bland. “We’re looking at all possibilities.

“Might be poisoning,” the man from the Chronicle said. He grinned at Brandy. “They send the stomach contents off for testing. Pleasant to think about, isn’t it? May take a while.” Brandy remembered that the detective had removed vomit from the scene.

But she wasn’t thinking as much about Hart’s ample stomach and its contents, as about Mrs. Flint’s garden. Tiger Tail Island was uninhabited except for the old lady and her tenants—and the Seminole Indian Alma May said was camping out on the island. What could Hart have been eating? Where could it come from? Would he eat a quantity of some kind of vegetation without guidance? She remembered that Alma May and Melba Grapple hiked over the island, looking for artifacts from the nineteenth century plantation. They would know what grew there. If the Indian was familiar with his people’s history and culture, he would know a great deal about surviving off the land.

Brandy looked around without success for Sergeant Strong. “Is Detective Jeremiah Strong handling this case?” she asked.

The woman did not answer. “This is still an unexplained death. That’s all we have for you now,” she said.

Brandy made rapid notes. Pitiful Timothy Hart. Detective Strong must already know if the medical examiner suspected poisoning. Of course, it could be unintentional or self-inflicted. Strong must be talking to people who knew Hart like Alma May and Melba, and his companions the night before he died. The spokeswoman had not mentioned Hart’s quest, or his belief in some great discovery. Hart had said the archaeologist would be able to explain it, so the specialist must know something about his story. Hart had complained that his companions did not take him seriously. Maybe Sergeant Strong didn’t either.

Back at her friend’s home in Homosassa, Brandy checked her watch, sat on a stool in the kitchen, and picked up the telephone on the counter. It would be an hour earlier in Illinois—3:00 P.M. She dialed long distance information.

Danville, it turned out, was not a large town. After speaking to a Thelma Blunt, who was her husband’s cousin, Brandy located Timothy Hart’s sister, Adele Blunt.

“Mrs. Blunt,” she began after identifying herself, “I’m so sorry about your brother. I met him a couple of nights ago. A very nice fellow. I—”

A crisp voice cut her short. “Yes, of course. But to tell the truth, also a fool.”

Shocked, Brandy paused. Then she said, “Before his death Mr. Hart spoke to me about some discovery he expected to make in Homosassa. Do you—

“I warned him,” she said. Her tone did not soften. “He never should’ve retired from the furniture store. Management still wanted him. He got a puny little pension, and he’d begun to waste that on this fool hunch he had.” Her voice rose. “But you see, he inherited an old farmhouse and some land from our great-grandmother. Well, we were both actually entitled to the farm, but she always favored Tim. The boy in the family, you see.

Brandy waited.

“Well, he found a wretched old journal in the attic, and it got him all in a dither.”

Brandy sat up straighter. “And did you see the journal yourself?”

“He showed it to me, but to tell the truth I couldn’t make out the handwriting. All faded and spidery, you know. I don’t think Tim really read it, either. But he got very secretive.” She wound up triumphantly, “Then he rushed off to Florida like a chicken with its head cut off.”

Brandy slipped a pencil out of a cabinet drawer. “Do you know how old the journal was or who wrote it?”

Adele Blunt now sounded bored with the conversation, and more hesitant. “Tim claimed it was written by an ancestor. A soldier, I think, in Florida. Served in some Indian war or other.”

“Can you recall a name or date?”

The other woman’s tone grew acidic. “I’ve told you all I know. Tomorrow I’ve got to find someone to sell Timothy’s old rattletrap car he left there and make arrangements with a crematorium. It won’t be easy. His funeral policy might not be good there. Then I’ve got to have his ashes flown back home.”

Inconsiderate of Hart, Brandy thought, to put his sister to so much trouble. She kept the sarcasm out of her voice. “You don’t plan to come to Homosassa yourself?”

Indignation spiked in Mrs. Blunt’s voice. “I see no reason to. I can’t do anything for Tim now except bury his ashes in the family plot.”

Brandy tried another question. “Mrs. Blunt, has anyone from the Sheriff s Office talked to you about the journal?”

“Some man did call, told me they hadn’t decided yet what he died of. Might be something he ate. Tim was gullible about alternative medicines, herbs and things not properly tested. A fool, like I said. The man from the Sheriff s Office didn’t ask about a journal.”

“Did you tell him—”

“I’ve given you quite enough time,” Mrs. Blunt snapped. “I can’t believe I’ve talked this long to a reporter. The family doesn’t want a lot of ugly publicity. That’s all I have to say.” She hung up.

Brandy still had a couple of hours before John would arrive. On the screened porch she recorded highlights of the conversation in her notebook. At the end she jotted her first goal: find the journal.

CHAPTER 3
 

As the porch clock neared six, Brandy pushed thoughts about Timothy Hart, his murder, and his mysterious search out of her mind. Her husband would be there soon. Early yesterday Brandy had not been thinking of death. She had cruised down the river, worried only about her on-going disagreement with John. Tonight she would try again to make him see her point of view.

The sun was low when John drove into the carport. Charcoal clouds, rimmed in scarlet, hung in the western sky. He emerged from his minivan, two heavy books under one arm, the other hand dragging a small suitcase hooked to a stuffed briefcase. She knew from the sag in his shoulders and the weariness in his brown eyes, that he was not only tired, but disappointed. Probably not with his job, even though he was bringing work with him on a holiday weekend. His frustration, she knew, was with her.

When he stepped into the screened porch, she lifted her face to him. “Looks like you need a couple of days off.”

He brushed her lips with his, set down his briefcase and bag, and laid his books—a biography of Alexander Hamilton and one of his favorite sources, Classic Cracker Architecture, on the wicker table. Meg jumped up from her spot beside Brandy’s living room chair, rushed onto the porch, and raised her creamy muzzle, tail wagging. He gave her copper-colored head a rub as his eyes sought Brandy’s.

“I missed you,” he said. “Hope you’re having a good vacation.” He dropped into a chair beside the table and fingered his mustache, a habit when he felt tense. His was a firm, square face. Its strength, the upright set of his shoulders and his lean body had always thrilled and somehow comforted her—until this obstacle had risen between them. Tonight he slumped and ran one hand through his dark hair.

She wanted to avoid the inevitable discussion. “Let’s relax. It’s nice out here. Sit down, and I’ll get two beers.” She hurried through the living room into the kitchen and lifted the cans from the refrigerator. “I had an adventure today,” she called brightly. A delaying tactic. She took mugs from the cabinet. “I found a body yesterday. It was horrible. I’d met the man...”

“Bran,” he said as she came back with the drinks on a tray, “you can tell me about that later. Our problem won’t go away. I’d like to have an understanding, one way or the other.”

Brandy had a good track record for getting what she wanted. It helped as a reporter. Wheedling demeaned her, but it was called for now. “Come on,” she said. “I’m not thirty yet. There’s lots of time to have a baby. I’m just getting off the ground at the paper. One more truly great story and I could be a feature writer.”

He rubbed his forehead. Wistful eyes searched hers. “Won’t you even look for a job in Tampa or St. Pete? It would make everything easier.”

She shrugged and took a seat beside him. “There isn’t a vacancy at either newspaper. Anyway, you may not stay in Tampa after the old courthouse is renovated.”

He reached over and took her hand. “That’s not the point. I want a family. I thought we agreed on that in the beginning. It’s the point of getting married.”

She was not making him understand. “I’m not like your mother, you know,” she said gently. “I don’t want to give up everything I’ve worked for. I don’t know any men who would quit a job they love to bear and take care of a child. Especially when they’re just getting started.”

“I’ve waited five years.”

She poured some beer into her mug, her mouth tighter. “I’ve got friends with children. They worry all the time about baby sitters. They’ve got no freedom. They’re always rushing to get home. With a schedule like that, how could I cover a story like the one I just ran across in Homo-sassa?”

He hadn’t touched his drink. “No one’s asking you to totally give up your career.”

“Later, honey, when I’m established. I’m not saying ‘never.’ I want to plan a baby when we have a good, steady income.” She spoke quietly. “I want to be able to take a few years off. Have money saved up to tide us over. See our way clear to fund a college education.”

He dropped his head, his beer forgotten. “There’ll never be a time for you,” he said. “Never quite enough money. There’ll always be a story you want to do next. I’ve read about older couples who wait. Then they spend thousands at clinics, and still don’t have a baby.”

Disturbed, Meg rose from where she had flopped down and again wagged her fluffy plume of a tail. The peace-maker, Brandy thought. John rubbed her head again. “Meg would be wonderful with a child.”

Brandy felt a rising sadness. There was no good resolution. When she did not respond, John swept up his briefcase, shook his head, and tramped into the dining room. A few minutes later Brandy heard him in the bedroom. He would be hanging his jeans and a suit to wear back to the office Monday. For a long time she sat in the growing darkness, staring at the boat in the canal. She had meant to make a good supper—cook roasting ears, snap beans, maybe grill a steak on the back deck overlooking the tidal creek. Now she didn’t feel like it. When she finally went into the house, she saw John had set down his laptop, and spread his papers and sketches over the large dining room table, along with a few Mozart and Bach CD’s. Working and listening to music was apparently how he planned to spend the weekend. Well, she had a project, too: Timothy Hart.

“Let’s go out for chicken wings,” she said. They climbed into John’s minivan in silence, not quite hostile but devoid of intimacy. He did not reach over and give her a pat as he usually did. John wheeled into the parking lot of a small, cypress-paneled restaurant near the ruins of the nineteenth century sugar mill. When they were seated, the conversation quickly returned to their chronic problem.

“I’ve been asked to fill in as a coach on a boys soccer team,” John began as a waitress set out plates of wings and Greek salads. “I used to play in col
le
g
e
.”

Brandy smiled. “Why don’t you? You’d get some exercise during the week.”

He stirred his salad with his fork. “I’m afraid it would be too painful.

The other coaches are all dads.” They finished in silence.

* * * *

Back at the house, Meg lay unusually still on the living room carpet between their chairs, her brown eyes turning from John to Brandy, sensing something wrong.

John switched on the television to the local public station. The National Geographic was airing a program about baby animals. Brandy abandoned him to a den of wolf cubs and returned to her notebook.

That night in bed she patted his arm and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, but he pulled away, silent, as he often did when they had quarreled. Brandy rolled over, her back to him, feeling rejected. Probably just as well. Now anytime he touched her, she assumed his desire was not for her but for a baby.