HOMOSASSA SHADOWS (9 page)

“That’s it,” Brandy said. “That’s what brought poor Timothy Hart to Tiger Tail Island. I wonder if he worried because his ancestor called the object frightening. It didn’t bring luck to the Indians, and it sure didn’t bring luck to Hart.” She drew in her breath. “Tiger Tail the lieutenant wrote about—he’s the Seminole war chief the island’s named for.” She also thought of the Flint family massacre on the island and raised her eyebrows. “The Flint family were the only people killed by Indians in Homo-rassa that I know about, except for a postal rider later.” She looked again at the old journal, a few pages faded and almost illegible, one torn. “I wish the lieutenant hadn’t skipped over so many months.”

“I expect that war was like all the others. Months of boredom and misery and then a few of real terror. The man wouldn’t have the time or the place to write every month.”

The detective flipped a few more pages. “The journal says Henry Hart’s Third Infantry lost three officers and sixty-five enlisted men during the Seminole War. The rest were shipped back to Illinois in February, 1843.”

Brandy dropped onto the bench across from Strong and turned back through her note pad. “Do you think Henry Hart ever did come back? Ever came to look for whatever it is?”

“That record is almost the last in the journal, but maybe he did search later. After about thirty years he wrote one more long entry:”

June, 1870. Came back to Florida, now a state, and managed to catch a ride from Jacksonville to Pensacola and a steamer down the west coast to Cedar Key. From there I got a coach to the miserable little fishing village of Homosassa.

I hired a farmer who knew the land where the settler’s house was burned almost thirty years ago. He said the same family still owns the land, but I couldn’t find the owner. The farmer took me there, but my luck ran out. No one I talked to could translate the key words to the hiding place. I told no one why I wanted to know the meaning. I found nothing of interest except the burnt ruins of Senator David Yulee’s plantation, now only a tall limestone chimney among scrub oaks. When the country people and fishermen saw I wanted to search the grounds, they warned me off——one with a shotgun. They believe the slaves buried silver and valuables before they fled the area, but no one knows where. My guess would be under the chapel. It stood at the end of the major road and is where the slaves would have gone for safety. I suspect a good deal of digging has been going on there. The plantation owners were very rich.

Strong held the journal by its edges and closed the book. “The End.” He shook his head, then gazed out at the dark river. “Interesting that Henry Hart wasn’t the only one who thought something valuable was hidden on Tiger Tail Island.”

CHAPTER 6
 

While the detective read from Lieutenant Hart’s journal, Brandy had jotted down the pertinent facts, including the Maskoki words, spelled phonetically. “Looks like we need a Seminole translator,” she said, remembering that Fishhawk had told Hart he did not know the translation. But was he telling the truth? She did not speculate. Instead she said, “Of course, poor Timothy might’ve been after the Yulee plantation treasure instead.”

Strong slipped the journal back into the briefcase. “I’m not sure which lead the Captain will want to follow. Maybe both. We’re waiting now on the lab. We’ve got to know what Timothy Hart died of.” He fitted the case into a plastic sleeve, saying softly, “Lord deliver us from battle and murder and sudden death.’”

Brandy recognized the quotation from The Book of Common Prayer. “Amen,” she said. Maybe Strong felt the same tragic aura as Brandy had when she waited near Hart’s body.

She dropped her note pad into her bag and cast a last, lingering look at the riverbank where the dead man had lain. “How long will it take for the lab to examine the contents of Hart’s stomach?”

Strong grinned for the first time, his teeth white and even in the deep brown face. “Captain got a special deal. Usually takes six weeks at best. But a new lab just opened in Tallahassee, and someone owes the Captain a favor. They’re not real busy yet. We may know what killed Hart as soon as tomorrow.” The detective glanced up at the house and the saw grass flats and hammocks behind it. “I’d better round up the troops.”

Brandy stepped out onto the dock, suddenly aware that both Alma May Flint and her guest had not yet left the house. They could be watching.

* * * *

By six o’clock Brandy had fed Carole’s Persian cat, given Meg another belly rub, and filled her bowl with dry dog food. Then she sat down on the screen porch to transcribe her scribbles into her larger notebook. Within a few minutes she stopped, caught up in the horror of what she was recording. Across the canal cabbage palms and live oaks were nothing but twisted shapes against the darkening sky. Above, the nightly clutch of vultures circled toward their water tower roost.

“Deliver us from battle and murder and sudden death,” the detective had said. For seven years, soldiers and settlers and Seminoles had endured all three—the Indians slow starvation as well. Battles and murder and sudden death under a canopy of Spanish moss, beside rivers, deep into swamps.

She thought, too, of the terror felt by women and children, facing the pitiless arrow and knife, knowing the certainty of scalping and death; she thought of the famished Seminole women, huddling in wind and rain with their own hollow-eyed little ones. Brandy shivered. Amid all this horror, on a nearby island must lie some haunted, yet treasured thing. Something even now a man would kill for. She thought again of that other haunted island, the one created by Shakespeare. The Tempest had its spirits, too, its sorcerer like Fishhawk, and its own “thing of darkness,” the monster Caliban. He also sought to kill.

When the phone rang, Brandy hurried into the kitchen to pick it up, relieved to have her lurid thoughts interrupted. She expected to field a call for her friend Carole. Instead she recognized a deep, now familiar voice. “O’Bannon, girl reporter?” the voice said. “Grif Hackett here. Want to meet Fishhawk’s wife tomorrow?”

On her note pad Brandy doodled a round head and gave it black hair, pulled back in a plait. “Sounds good,” she said. “My husband had to go back to Tampa. I have the day free.”

He paused for a second. “That puts a new spin on this evening. How about a drink and a bite to eat tonight out by the river? We can set up the time to see Annie.”

Brandy thought of her bare refrigerator. She hadn’t taken time to shop. She also thought Hackett might have a theory about who buried the journal. By now everyone might know about her discovery; news travels fast in a small town. People might hear from those two watchers, Alma May and Melba, or from some loose-lipped Sheriff’s deputy. She might as well tell Hackett. His guess about who buried the journal could confirm her own. And, she had to admit to herself, she enjoyed his company.

“Sounds good,” she said. “What about including Bibi?” Brandy had not found the graduate student welcoming, but she did have an interest in Grif s mound project.

“She’ll be at a meeting in Chassahowitzka with other volunteers. They’re planning to observe the whooping crane migration back north. It’ll begin any day now. Besides, teacher-student fraternization outside of working hours isn’t very wise.”

* * * *

The Tiki bar and surrounding deck rose beside the shadowy river like a bright oasis. Grif and Brandy threaded their way between crowded tables toward two empty stools at the counter. She recognized the bartender by his neat beard and his trick of elevating only one eyebrow. The same man had waited on them the night she met Timothy Hart. Now he delicately touched his small, well-groomed Vandyke.

“Too bad about your chubby pal,” he said to Grif as they settled at the bar. “Read about him in the paper. Seemed like a nice guy.”

“A real tragedy,” Brandy said.

Grif nodded. “He was a sweetheart, but a little goofy. Didn’t know him well. We both stayed at Alma May Flint’s place down river a few days.” He turned to Brandy. “I’ll take a Scotch and water. What about you?”

“Merlot. Chilled.”

The barkeep slid a drink toward Grif, dropped a few cubes of ice into a glass, swished them around, dumped them out, and poured the ruby-colored wine. He grinned at Grif, again raising one eyebrow. “Where’s your Indian buddy? Out tracking something?”

“On Tiger Tail Island, as a matter of fact,” Hackett answered. As he reached for his glass, Brandy noticed his Rolex watch, the smart cut of his jacket. Grif Hackett could have stepped out of Gentleman’s Quarterly. Obviously, he cared about fine things. John was always neat, but he would just as soon shop at K-Mart.

The bartender wiped long fingers on his apron. “Fisherman stopped in from the Gulf the other day. Says he saw a panther come right to the riverbank around marker 47. Snatched a cormorant out of the water. Couldn’t believe his eyes.” To another customer he added, “People have seen black bear, too. Just south of here around the wildlife sanctuary at Chassahowit-zka.”

Up and down the river lights began to wink on. Brandy thought how dark and filled with wild animals the area had been when Tiger Tail and his ragged band hid here. She could not imagine the skills it took to survive in those swampy woods—skills that Fishhawk now wanted the world to remember. But Fishhawk’s wife planned to stay on the island also. And they had a child.

At a nearby table a boy of about three slid out of his chair. Brandy watched him reach small fingers into the bread basket. “How old is Fish-hawk’s daughter?” she asked Grif.

“Younger than that little guy. Almost two, I think.”

The little boy held out crumbs to a gaggle of eager mallard ducks. “No, no, Tommy,” his mother scolded, taking him onto her lap.

The father leaned across the table. “The sign says, Don’t feed the ducks.’” When the toddler cried and struggled to get down, she gave him a hug. The father added, “The sign also says ‘Don’tfeed the alligator.’”

“Not a place for kids,” Hackett said, frowning. “Now ducks will be littering the walkways.”

Brandy turned away. “Not a relaxing meal for the poor mother.”

Hackett raised his mug and peered at her over the rim. “Not a relaxing day for you, either, I hear. Mrs. Flint says you and the detective made some sort of a discovery this afternoon. Tell me about it.”

Brandy hadn’t meant to launch immediately into finding the journal. She had wanted to use the fact to leverage information from Grif. But she was prepared for Alma May and Melba to have been observant.

“We found the journal, all right. The Sheriff s Office has it. They’ll run it by the lab.” She watched him carefully. “Interesting that it wasn’t in Hart’s room. It was buried outside.”

Hackett shook his head. “Unlikely the poor guy did that himself. Not if he was so ill.”

Brandy took a sip of wine, studying the deeply tanned face beside her. “Detective Strong figured it hadn’t been buried long. It rained the day before Hart died. It hadn’t been washed up or damaged. I figure Alma May had the best shot at taking it. After all, the journal must’ve been in her house, and she wasn’t too hospitable to the Sheriff’s Office. The Sergeant had to get a search warrant. Alma May would’ve had time.”

“Could be.” He picked up a menu and turned through it. “And did the journal help you decide what happened to Hart?” He didn’t bother to look
u
p.

Brandy hedged. “I don’t think the Sergeant wants me to discuss it yet. I suppose the contents will all come out eventually.”

They ordered seafood salads. “About meeting Annie,” Grif said “I told Fishhawk I’d pick her up at the marina. She’s to call me on my cell. All he’s got is that cypress canoe, and no kicker. I’ll give you a buzz after I find out when she’ll see you. Probably be afternoon. Chances are you can help by giving her rides into town for groceries. If I know Annie, she won’t live on sofki and fry bread, and she won’t want to paddle that canoe all the way to the marina.”

“Fishhawk said a friend was driving her up from Tampa. Does Annie work at the casino?”

The corners of Hackett’s mouth turned down. “No way. Seminoles themselves don’t work there. Anyway, Fishhawk doesn’t like the casino. They both work at the Cultural Center. It tries to preserve the history of the tribe and the old ways. I wouldn’t say the casino does.”

“Your Indian friend seems to think whatever Hart was looking for belongs to the Seminoles.”

“You’re on the money there,” Hackett said. Brandy remembered that the journal said the Seminole who found the treasure wanted to give it to a medicine man. Presumably one like Fishhawk.

Hackett’s blue eyes locked with hers. “You’re really into finding out about Hart, aren’t you?”

She began her answer slowly, “There’s a story in it, I’m sure.” Then she finished in a rush. “Besides, I think somebody killed him, and his family doesn’t seem to care. I don’t want the killer to get away with it.”

He grinned. “We’re two of a kind, Brandy—independent, ambitious.”

She nodded, thinking of John. She wished he understood her that well. “I’m afraid my husband doesn’t realize how much my job means to me. He’s ready for the whole family bit.”

Hackett gave her a wry grin. “Sounds familiar. My ex was the same. Sorry, that’s not the life for me.” Brandy thought of her own parents. If she herself hadn’t arrived in their lives when she did, her mother would’ve gone on for a Ph.D. and taught at a university instead of a high school.

Behind them the little boy tumbled, eyes alight, from his chair beside the railing, pointing. The narrow snout, then the scaly, five-foot body surfaced in the black river, as it had the night Brandy met Hart and his friends. “Wanna see gator,” the boy called, bending down. As he thrust his small head under the top bar and squirmed between the wooden supports, his father leapt up and darted forward to grab his hand. Hackett watched and shook his head.

While the father and mother carried their whimpering son up the few steps toward their car, a Grady White boat like the one Brandy had seen at Alma May’s dock pulled into the pier. At the bow a sturdy black and brown Rottweiler stood at alert. Aboard, a solitary man, well over six feet and stocky, reached out and secured the boat to a post, then lumbered onto the restaurant deck and up to the bar opposite them. His shaved head loomed above the other patrons like a boulder, his heavy chin sported a wiry, black heard. Put a few ribbons in it, and he’d be the image of the South Carolina pirate Blackbeard. He wore a tattered tee shirt and jeans. When one hand slapped the counter, he exposed a string of blue anchor tattoos up one arm.