SHADOW OVER CEDAR KEY (27 page)

Strong swung off Route 19 and made the final turn toward Fowler’s Bluff. In the fish camp parking area he pulled around a fallen oak limb beside John’s car, switched off the engine, and heaved his long legs out from under the wheel.

“Wait while I run in and call Gainesville,” John said. He opened his door and looked down at Brandy, nestled beside him, at her ragged shirt and damp shorts, at her wan eyes. He shook his head. “You’re in no condition to drive the rental car back to Gainesville.”

Strong leaned against the Ford while John sprinted across a yard littered with twigs and Spanish moss, up the worn steps, and into the store. “Be patient and long suffering,” the detective said, mostly to himself. “So shall thou have dominion over all wicked works.”

Brandy nodded with satisfaction at his words. She had closed her eyes when John came back, the muscles in his forehead taut, anger plain in the tilt of his chin. “All work at the construction site’s stopped.

Contractor’s mad as hell,” he growled. “We had to redesign a steel support system to preserve the old structure. Something about it’s not right. I never should’ve left an intern in charge.” There’d been a problem with Tiffany Moore’s renderings, Brandy knew. That was why she’d called John Saturday at the hotel.

Even though Brandy did not want John blamed, she felt a twinge of vindication. The architectural profession was replete with excellent women, but she had never thought one of them was Tiffany Moore.

With gentle pressure John took Brandy’s hands in his and helped her from the car. “I’ve got to get to the bank building as soon as I can. I can straighten out the problem. The contractor can’t go on without me. It could mean my job with the firm.”

Cara leaned over the back seat, appealing with her eyes to Brandy. “Brandy, come home with me this afternoon. Clean up and get a good rest. You could make a fresh start tomorrow.” Her voice became more urgent. “You could meet my father with me. You talked to him in New York. I wouldn’t know him if I saw him.”

Without looking at Cara, Brandy took John’s hand. “Do what you have to. Go on to Gainesville. Your work’s more important right now. I’m safe. Anyway, I don’t want to wait at the job site while you solve the problem. And I need to return the car.”

John drew her to him and kissed the top of her head. “I don’t want you driving back alone, not until I’m sure you’re okay. Take a room at the hotel and rest.” He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “In the meantime, I’m asking Detective Strong to follow your car to Cedar Key, in case you get any other looney ideas.”

For a second longer he held her. “Call me tomorrow morning when you leave. I’ll pick you up at the airport car rental.” His tone softened, and turning away from the others, he murmured, “Then we’ll have a real celebration.” She gave him a final hug.

It was not until Brandy had settled behind the wheel, Cara beside her, that she realized he would spend another evening working with

Tiffany Moore. She wondered if the intern would be part of their celebration.

As John pulled out of the parking lot, Strong strode over and shook a finger in Brandy’s window. “Go straight to Miss Waters’ house first. Her Mama’s wore out with worry. She’s waiting there now.” He straightened up, hands again on his hips. “You got nothing else to concern your head about. This Rossi case will go down soon. And maybe the murder of Allison Bullen, too. No more messing, M’am, in police business.” He flashed a quick smile and winked. “Unless I ask you.”

Strong, master of the mysterious comment, she thought.

* * * *

Marcia Waters came to the door of the frame cottage with haunted eyes. As she held it open, her gaze never left Cara’s face. With shock Brandy realized how the artist had aged. Her confident stance was gone. She was more stooped, every gesture more tentative. Between foster mother and daughter now lay the tattered teddy bear, a barrier as clear as a physical barricade in the room. Cara gave her an awkward peck on the cheek and strolled into the living room. What Marcia had lost in self assurance, Brandy thought, Cara had gained.

Cara’s eyes fastened on her foster mother. “I got through the hurricane okay. We have a deeper problem. You know you kept me from finding out who I am.”

Marcia’s long fingers spread helplessly toward Cara. “I can try to make you understand.”

Brandy stopped in the doorway. “Look, you two have a lot to talk about. I’ll go on to the hotel.”

Marcia turned toward Brandy as if aware of her for the first time. “Detective Strong was good enough to call me. I’ve been briefed about the kidnapping. I’m just so grateful to you.” Her voice twisted into silence. When she clasped her hands before her, Brandy realized it was to prevent their shaking. She looked from Brandy to Cara. “Cara and I have to talk, yes. I have to try to explain. But there’s something else. Officer Doggett called. Mr. Bullen—Mr. Bullen and his wife are due at the airport at four-thirty.” She can’t say “Cara’s father,” Brandy thought.

Cara glanced at Brandy, an anxious pitch to her voice. “Don’t go. I need you at the airport. You can have a good soak in the tub here, and you’ve got fresh clothes in your suitcase. You can take a nap in my bedroom while I clean up. I’ll rest in Mother’s room. Then we’ll go together to meet the plane.”

Brandy checked her watch. Already two-thirty. It would be quicker to stay until the Bullens arrived. She’d call the hotel now, then check in later. Marcia laid a timid hand on Cara’s arm. “I’ll fix some sandwiches. You both must be starved.” Brandy had started back to the car for her suitcase and notebook when she overheard Marcia’s soft request. “Fact is, I’d like to go to the airport, too.”

* * * *

After Brandy surrendered the bathtub to Cara, she lay down in her young friend’s room, closed her eyes, and thought about Rossi’s murder. If Cara was kidnapped because of the damning photograph, what had happened to it? Moose had said on the phone that he “had it,” that “it” was valuable, that he wanted his “fair share.” Would he have destroyed the picture, or had it instead given him sudden power? Not for a minute did she think Moose or the stuttering marina owner had dug Rossi’s grave that night. And not for a minute did she think the picture explained the attack on her in New York.

She sat up, drowsy now, and leafed through her bulging notebook, then scribbled what she could remember of the houseboat. Somewhere in her notes must be a lead. When she had jettisoned the marina shorts and shirt in the bathroom, she found she still had Moose’s key ring and its set of three keys. She held them up now and studied them, trying to remember. She had seen something on the houseboat that might be important. Now what was it?

CHAPTER 21
 

The airport lay on a spit of land between a marsh and a patch of weeds and wild flowers, a 2,400 foot strip two miles from town with no directional lights, no fuel, and no personnel. At four-thirty Brandy, Cara, and Marcia waited beside the field in the rental car, Cara’s new-found confidence waning by the minute. The strain of Marcia’s break with Cara was clear in her foster mother’s hollow eyes.

Above the orange wind sock they heard the plane’s engines, saw the sleek little jet slow, bank, settle into a long glide, and strike the ground with a light bounce. In a few minutes Frank Bullen in a gray business suit emerged from the plane’s doorway and came down the metal steps. His wife’s tall figure sidled along behind him in a beige silk pants suit with wide, billowing legs. Bullen’s features were as bland as Brandy remembered, perhaps a trifle plump, his mouth small, his manner deliberate. He glanced at the first familiar face, Brandy’s, and raised a gray eyebrow.

“The newspaper woman?” He emphasized each word. “I hadn’t expected you here. This is a private matter. We don’t want publicity.”

Cara’s fingers shook as she took Brandy’s arm and extended the other hand, brown eyes shining. “I’m Cara. Brandy’s been helping me find you. She’s kind of been my guide.”

Bullen’s voice dropped. “Well, then.” He paused, his eyes appraising Brandy. “We all have a lot of catching up to do.” He took Cara’s hand, studied her with a subdued smile, then moved in beside her, deftly replacing Brandy. Mrs. Bullen halted at the bottom of the steps, her chestnut page boy lifting in the slight wind. As she began ankling in high-heeled pumps across the uneven asphalt, Bullen stepped forward, held out his arm, and turned again to Cara. “My wife, the current Mrs. Bullen.” He gave Cara a tight smile.

The last Mrs. Bullen, Brandy thought, was presumably Cara’s mother, and her mind turned to “My Last Duchess” in Browning’s famous sonnet. She wondered if this next wife had a first name. She’d never heard him use it. The current Mrs. Bullen offered Cara her hand. “Such a charming young lady,” she murmured, bending her elegant head to Cara’s level. Then standing tall again, she stared at the bleak airfield around her, breathing in the fresh smell of green plants and salt water, a startled expression in her eyes.

Marcia stood humbly to one side in her plain white blouse and long skirt, her strong artist’s hands folded before her, her cheeks drawn, her lips pressed together.

“This is my foster mother, Marcia Waters,” Cara explained, touching Marcia’s arm. “She’s been very good to me.”

Bullen inclined his head toward her. “Someone from the Sheriff s Office told me you’ve reared Belinda. Of course, under the circumstances, that was a generous thing to do.” Again the careful smile. “I’ll certainly see you are appropriately compensated.”

Marcia opened her mouth, then without making a sound, closed it. In her anguished silence, Brandy heard the cry of a frightened toddler alone in a storm, the voices of the school girl and her devoted foster parents, the pleas of a mother now for her grown daughter’s love.

But Bullen’s attention was no longer on Marcia Waters. His glance swept the desolate airstrip and its fringe of scrub oaks. An osprey swept through the faded sunlight to its nest in a longleaf pine. Someone will need to pick up the pilot and our bags later,” he said. “Don’t see any taxis or much of anything else.”

The trio followed Brandy to her car, where the Bullens climbed into the rear with Cara, and Marcia slid into the passenger seat. “I can come back,” the artist said. “I have a panel truck.” In the rear view mirror Brandy saw Mrs. Bullen’s eyebrows lift.

Marcia appeared not to notice. “Would you care to stop at our house? You could visit with Cara there.”

Bullen wiped his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief, leaned back, and sighed. “That’s very kind—Mrs. Waters is it? But I think we need to go to the hotel. It’s been a tiring day.”

Brandy thought of Cara’s last two harrowing days and bit her lip.

“Drop Marcia off, then,” Cara said, “and we’ll take them to the Island Hotel. I used to work there. It’s quite historic, and it has a gourmet restaurant.”

Mrs. Bullen turned her stately profile and gazed out the car window at the cedars and live oaks, at the Victorian homes and the Gulf, at the dark outline of Atsena Otie Key. “Quaint.” She looked at Cara beside her. “Our Manhattan townhouse will be quite a change, of course.”

Cara gave her a look of faint surprise. “I’d look forward to a visit,” she said.

In the hotel, while Cara stopped at the counter, Mr. Bullen looked around the lobby, then turned to Current Wife. “Go to the desk and explain the accommodations I need. Perhaps the clerk can recommend something modern.”

Brandy went in search of MacGill. She wanted to give the pair and Cara some space, and to find some time alone to update her notes. Something she’d already jotted down kept trying to surface, and she still couldn’t remember the elusive detail about Moose’s houseboat.

Without locating the proprietor, Brandy returned to the sound of Mrs. Bullen’s distinctive trill. While Bullen himself waited just inside the double doors, his wife was poised at the counter, speaking to the awed clerk. “The hotel’s charming, but of course, Mr. Bullen needs a phone in his room. Clients may need to reach him.” Her gaze swept over the plain wooden chairs, the iron stove, the time-worn staircase rising in shadows at the end of the room. She shrugged the shoulders of her silk tunic. “We really prefer something a bit more contemporary.”

It would not matter to the Bullens, Brandy thought, that Civil War soldiers on both sides had trod those steps, and wealthy long-ago merchants, and a railroad magnate of the early 1860’s who expected Cedar Key to be the prime port on the West Coast.

As Current Wife rested her hand with its expertly manicured nails on the counter, Brandy noticed she was wearing, in addition to the exquisite diamond she’d had on her left hand in New York, a gold and pearl pendant with matching earrings. Probably needs a safe, she thought. Not likely in Cedar Key, not since the 1860’s.

The young desk clerk, much impressed, peered over her glasses and then telephoned a new motel at the end of the street. To Brandy she announced that Mr. MacGill was not feeling well and couldn’t see her, but that her room was ready. The clerk also had messages: Blade would meet his father for dinner at the hotel, and Doggett had called to report that a deputy was bringing Cara’s station wagon home. It had been found, Doggett said, at an abandoned hunting camp. Because of the hurricane, the owner had gone to check on his property. Otherwise the camp would’ve been deserted for months.

Bullen turned to Cara. “Splendid. You’ll have your car tomorrow. I’ve asked your stepmother to take you shopping in the nearest good-sized town. She’ll pick out the smart clothes I want you to wear in New York.”

Cara had no chance to react. As Bullen was speaking, Brandy could see Truck Thompson’s fish house van careen up to the curb. The hotel doors burst open, and the oyster man’s solid body hurtled into the lobby. “You lied to me!” he shouted at Cara. “You didn’t go to no friend’s house! I been crazy with worry.” Brandy wondered what Frank Bullen and his wife would make of the soiled black jacket and fisherman’s boots.

Cara put one slender hand on the oyster man’s arm. “Someone should’ve told you. I was kidnapped. The Sheriff’s Office found Brandy and me today.” She looked up at Truck’s scowl. “This is my father, Frank Bullen from New York.”