SHADOW OVER CEDAR KEY (13 page)

She slumped on the bed, still holding the paper, and reached for a tissue from a box on the bedside table. Her mother, the English teacher, would call that last
it
an unclear pronoun reference. Did John refer to the weekend, or the marriage? And who made this sudden request? She could guess. What severe problem could develop on a weekend? Tomorrow, while she researched her story and tried to help Cara, he would be with his adoring intern, her blueprints at the ready and all her curves in the right place. She had heard newspaper people say that a journalist should marry only another journalist. No one else could understand the demands of a deadline.

Brandy was blowing her nose when she heard a faint rap on the door. It would be Cara. She lifted her head. She had to call her friend Thea. Maybe she should stay with her. She’d need Thea’s help to find her way around New York. She reached into the purse she had flung beside the lap top, eons ago, before dinner, before she slipped on the marriage-work balance beam. John would need more than an hour to drive the sixty miles home. She couldn’t phone yet. Giving her eyes a last swipe, she drew out her credit card case.

“Okay, Cara,” she said, opening the door. “I’m coming downstairs to make my calls. I’m set for the flight Monday at 8:10.” She pulled the door closed behind her and looked at the grave young face waiting in the shadows. “But you’ll have to drive me to the Gainesville airport.”

In the lobby Brandy leaned over the counter toward the clerk. “My husband had an unexpected emergency. Did you notice who called?”

The clerk took a few seconds to adjust her glasses, then scarcely opened her lips when she spoke, as if reluctant to answer. Yet a glimmer in her eyes revealed a hidden relish. “He did have a call this evening. A young lady.”

Somehow, Brandy thought, I’ve antagonized this woman. Maybe not shone enough deference to her boss. She heard a movement behind her.

“Abandoned? The girl with the perky nose?” The pitying look in Nathan Hunt’s icy eyes, the furrows on his well-shaped forehead, seemed to her more calculating than sympathetic.

“An emergency,” she mumbled.

The blond eyebrows lifted as he edged nearer and laid a hand beside Brandy on the counter. “Let’s commiserate over a drink. The bar’s still open.” She was aware of his aggressive gaze, of his green onyx ring banded in gold, of his expensive cologne.

“Thanks, but Cara and I have some calls to make.” She glanced across at her friend, who had dropped into a lobby chair close to the phone booth.

He grinned. “Maybe later? A man shouldn’t desert such a pretty woman. Reeks of over-confidence.” He gave her a light touch on the shoulder as the clerk beamed up at him. “I’ll be in the lounge if you change your mind. I’m interested in your story, even if your husband isn t.

Why do I keep bumping my shins on you every time I turn around? Brandy thought. Why is such a cosmopolitan playboy hanging out in a backwater town like Cedar Key, claiming to be a fisherman?

Mentally filing Nathan Hunt away for future speculation, she crossed to Cara. “I’ll see if I can reach Betsy Mae Terry and then call my New York friend. You ought to go on home.”

Cara’s eyes showed the strain, but she shook her head. “I’m not eager to see Marcia tonight. You know how she feels.”

Brandy sighed. She was partly responsible for the break between them. “You shouldn’t blame your foster mother too much. She’s afraid she’ll lose you if we find your biological family.” Brandy remembered John’s cautionary warning. “And even if we do, it may not be a happy discovery. There might be a reason why no one has searched for you or your mother.”

Opening her purse, she rooted in the bottom for her address book with the Otter Creek cashier’s phone number before trudging back into the booth. The phone for Betsy Mae Terry rang six times before the woman picked up. She might already have been in bed. A slow, foggy voice answered, but Mrs. Terry did agree to see Brandy Sunday afternoon.

Next Brandy dialed Thea Ridge in New York. Six years ago, after Thea graduated, Brandy had thrown a farewell dinner party for her suite mate at a Gainesville restaurant. The next day she has seen Thea off for New York, where her friend’s well-connected uncle had handed her a word processor’s job in his Manhattan law firm, fulfilling Thea’s dream of working in Manhattan.

Her old friend’s voice boomed in her ear. “Be a treat to see you, Bran, get in some overdue catching up. But it’s short notice. I’d be glad to steer you around town. You’re welcome to stay here, but you’ll have to sleep on the floor, okay?”

Brandy tried to picture Thea in that far off Greenwich Village world. Her figure had the kind of tall boniness that designer clothes craved. On the job her suit would be tailored, her nails manicured, her brown bangs neatly trimmed, and below them, her big eyes outlined in black. They served as beacons for an agile mind. But it was after ten. Now Thea would be in jeans or her long, baggy nightshirt with the University of Florida logo on the front.

“Sure, I’ll sleep anywhere. I have two nights, max. It’ll save time.”

“It’s a studio apartment. We’re lucky to have it. I wish I could farm my roommate out to friends, but you’ll need her here to get in.” A nasal tone grated in the background, but Brandy couldn’t make out the words. “I would’ve welcomed the excuse.”

Through the glass door Brandy made a thumbs-up sign to Cara. “Two nights, max, Thea. My plane gets into JFK about 12:45 Monday. I’ll take a cab, be there by two.”

Thea laughed. “Not by New York traffic time, you won’t. My roommate should be out of bed by the time you get here. She works nights. I’ll leave work and try to be home by 5:30.”

Brandy peered at the scribble in her address book under
Rossi.
“Monday afternoon I need to find an address on East Tenth Street.”

Thea paused. “You’re getting into East Village there, friend. Maybe that area was okay in the past, but this is 1992. Got to be more careful. A lot more druggies there, but my roommate knows the area.”

Brandy’s only return flight option was Wednesday at eight in the morning. She had a lot of ground to cover in a day and a half, maybe far too much.

As she emerged from the booth, she signaled Cara. “Come on. Let’s have a nightcap in the lounge while you tell me anything else you know about the skeleton found here. After that, you’ve got to go home and face Marcia.”

In the darkened lounge, she recognized Hunt’s sleek ducktail and his cultivated voice, joking with the cocktail waitress at the bar. At a table under a wall lamp, Brandy dragged her dog-eared note pad from her purse. Once again when the barmaid’s round face bobbed toward them, Hunt swiveled around, saw Brandy, and raised his glass level with those flat blue eyes. His lips mouthed “hello.”

Brandy ordered a prudent white wine, and Cara did the same, then leaned forward, fingers gripping the edge of the table. “A couple of years ago I read all the 1973 July issues of the local papers. That was the month the skeleton was discovered.” Her forehead furrowed. “The reports said the police found fragments of cloth with it. They didn’t help identify the victim, but they came from a chenille bedspread.”

As the waitress set down their glasses, Brandy reached for her credit card. The woman held up a pudgy hand. “Taken care of.”

Hunt stood behind the waitress with an inviting smile. Brandy could ignore his magazine model good looks, his clothes out of
Gentlemen ‘s Quarterly,
a grin that would make other female knees go weak. Still, she had to admit that unlike John, he had shown an interest in her work.

Brandy turned back to Cara, trying to concentrate on her skeleton story. “If she’s our woman from Otter Creek, sounds as if she were killed in a bedroom.”

Cara nodded and dropped her voice. “Maybe. They didn’t find any jewelry, any remnants of a purse, nothing else except a corroded aluminum flashlight, a big one. The police thought it was the murder weapon. The medical examiner said the cracks in the front of the skull and the bad break there matched the flashlight.”

Brandy made a quick note. “We’ll ask the Otter Creek cashier tomorrow what she remembers about the woman and child who stopped there.” Brandy was aware that Hunt was studying Cara, the look in his eyes intense. Cara would be vulnerable to his suave attentions, Brandy thought. She wanted him to ignore her young friend. Fortunately, he had seemed to focus all his attention on Brandy herself. It surprised her. Cara was much more available.

“So here’s where you’re hiding out!” Startled, they turned as Truck’s hulking figure lunged into the doorway and marched over to the table. “I been looking all over for you. Let’s go.” He still wore black boots, a heavy shirt, and denim pants that smelled faintly of shell fish.

Brandy glanced up, her voice firm. “Cara’s having a drink, It’s been a tough day.”

MacGill followed Truck into the room, and before the younger man noticed him, slid into the bench beside Cara. “Pack it in, Truck,” he said. “Have a beer on the house. You worry too much about the girl, lad.” Pulling a long face, the proprietor looked around the lounge. “Rossi’s death will be in tomorrow’s papers. I’ll soon seen how many bloody cancellations I get.”

Truck’s lips tightened under the heavy mustache. “You worry too much about the hotel, friend.”

MacGill’s misplaced spade apparently still rankled. A lithe Nathan Hunt moved forward and took a chair next to Brandy. “The party gathers.” He set his highball on the table. Brandy faced him, hoping to catch him off guard. “Tell us about yourself, Mr. Hunt. We don’t know anything about you except that you’re from Miami Beach. With a murder investigation going on, looks like you’d want to clear out. Spoils the fishing.”

Hunt continued to smile, no humor in his eyes. “I will clear out when I’ve safely stowed my boat in case the storm hits, and when the detective gives the okay.”

“Damn near everyone’s a suspect,” Truck growled. He had acquired a mug of beer, but he still stood. “Hell, I don’t even know the frigging guy. Saw a bunch of deputies across the bay tonight, swarming all over the cemetery. Bunch of comedians. That coon from the Sheriff s Office don’t know shit from shinola.”

The table went quiet. Brandy broke the silence, even though she knew the futility of reasoning with Truck. “I wouldn’t let the good detective hear you say that.” What interested her most was that Strong had taken her suggestion about the cemetery.

Cara flushed and stared into her wine glass. “Brandy’s investigating, too. She’s going to New York Monday morning to find out what Mr. Rossi knew. Maybe he was killed because he stirred up the old Island Hotel murder case.”

Brandy frowned at Cara. She had not planned to advertise her trip. “It’s true I’m checking out tomorrow, Mr. MacGill,” she said. “Since John had to leave early, Cara’s taking me to Gainesville.”

MacGill raised his hand and signaled to the woman behind the bar. Truck’s small eyes fastened on Hunt, who was still gazing at Cara with a frozen smile. The big man shifted his weight and edged closer to Cara. “All this murder talk makes things rough on my girl.” He bent toward Cara. “Makes her feel bad about her real folks. Makes her want to get away, be a photographer somewheres else.”

He squatted on his heels beside her and looked into her drawn face. “Soon’s oyster season’s over, I’ll take you on a vacation, anywhere you want to go. You can forget all this stuff. When we get spliced, I’ll let you spend all your time with a camera, if that’s what you want.” Brandy sensed Cara stiffen. Truck would
let
her. He doesn’t have a clue, she thought. Cara herself scarcely seemed to hear him.

“If I could only remember,” she whispered, her mind still on the first murder. “I was
there.
On some level I must know what happened to my real mother.”

No one at the table disputed that Cara was, indeed, the child Rossi had been trying to find. But no one had told Rossi.

The plump arm of the barmaid reached down and set a whiskey and water before MacGill. “Why don’t you try hypnosis, honey?” she said. “I saw a TV show where a guy put some woman under, took her all the way back to when she was almost a baby. Like two-years old. The woman remembered all kinds of little things. She could describe the house she lived in and what the maid looked like who took care of her. It might work for you.”

Cara looked up. “Do you really think so? Maybe I could find someone who practices hypnosis at the university.”

The table went quiet again. Brandy was aware that Hunt’s arm now lay along the back of her chair. She looked at her watch. Almost eleven. Surely John would be home. She rose.

“I’d drive you to the airport,” Hunt said. “Any time at all. Just ask.” His grin was back. “I want to hear more about the old murder case. That’s a real mystery.”

“Cara’s taking me, thanks,” Brandy said. “We can talk about the case another time, perhaps.” She moved away from the table as Truck heaved himself to his feet.

“You didn’t give me an answer.” He bent toward Cara. “What about we get away?”

She gave Truck an unsmiling glance. “Don’t get all riled up. You can drive me home.” She might’ve been addressing a child. “I’ll pick up the station wagon in the morning.” She faced Brandy. “See you at breakfast.”

Truck beamed and followed her out the door. As Brandy turned to leave the lounge, Hunt’s limber body leaned uncomfortably close, exuding an undeniable magnetism.

“New York’s a big place,” he said. “You’ll get lost. Better play it safe. Do your investigating where you know your way around, like right here. You could begin with me.” She found herself remembering the flimsy latch on her bedroom door.

“Thanks for the advice, but I’ll have help. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I need to call my husband and pack.” She felt his eyes on her as she left the room.

The phone rang four times before John’s impersonal voice came on the answering machine. When she left a message that she would call again tomorrow, she suppressed the alarm in her voice. Where was he at eleven o’clock?

After jotting a few lines in her notebook and carefully dating them October 1992, she crawled into bed, missing John’s warmth, his arms around her. His pillow still held the spicy scent of his cologne. She picked up Dante’s
Inferno
and flipped through a few cantos. She had loved the quirky savagery of his circles of hell. But the atmosphere in Cedar Key tonight did not put her in the mood for them now. Although the blind was drawn as John left it, she knew beyond the window lay the black waters of the lagoon, and below, the wide doors that led into the basement. A kind of hell had happened there twenty years ago, and the punishment was overdue.