Trace Their Shadows Read online

  She pulled on the matching blouse, chosen like the slacks because it didn’t need ironing, while she waited for Meg to scoot out from under the bed. Then she let the retriever into the yard and strolled over to the powerful Sierra pick–up throbbing in the driveway. As she took the high step into the cab, she wished just once he would ask his dad for a sports car.

  “What’s so mysterious?” she said. “I’ve got a busy schedule.”

  He leaned toward her, wrapped one barrel–shaped arm around her shoulder, looked through the rear window, gunned the engine, and rocketed backward into the lane. “We’ve had an understanding for a zillion years,” he said, uncoiling his arm and wrenching the wheel around. “It’s about time we made some definite plans.” He patted her knee. “Time’s a–wasting. I found just the place for us.” They shot past down town, curved north, and slowed before a pair of concrete block walls connected by an arch labeled “Forest Heights.” Beyond lay row upon row of new concrete block houses, a few sodded yards, a few scraggly slash pines. There were no other trees and no rise to the ground.

  Mack eased the Sierra under the arch. The houses all gave the same impression——heavy, pitched roof porticos above massive front doors, pride of place given to big garages, a walled–in look, a diminished house size in the rear——mini–fortresses. The builder had been at pains to provide small differences, mainly in planters and window treatments. Mack drew up before one much like its neighbor. “Got the down payment for this baby in the bank right now.”

  Brandy floundered for words. She remembered the photograph in John’s living room of the quintessential cracker house, its wide porches, breezeway, openness. Yet these tract homes were expensive, far better than any she had ever lived in. Mack, for all his bluster, was a good man, an attractive man. He could date any girl in three cities. John had his own girl friend. What was wrong with her?

  “Mack, it’s a lovely house. You’re too generous.” She kissed one sunburned cheek. “But I told you, I don’t know if I’m ready yet for the suburban routine.”

  His blunt features gathered in a scowl. “God almighty, I guess it’s that frigging job you got. If you want to work a few years, do like your mom says. Teach here in town. You’d have better hours.”

  Brandy didn’t bother to tell him what her mother’s at–home hours were. It was true they were more regular, if as long, as a reporter’s. “I have to think about it, Mack, okay?” She reached up and ran her fingers though his close cropped blond hair. “I have to turn this story in Monday. After that, I promise I’ll give you an answer.”

  An hour later Brandy sat at her laptop in the Beacon office and typed the first draft of a lead for the story she had promised Mr. Tyler:

  “The skeleton of a long–dead girl, rumors of a ghost, and the sale of a historic Lake Dora home all converged at a dramatic Sheriff’s Office briefing in Tavares Thursday afternoon.”

  She bit her lip, leaned back, and inspected it. Maybe she should start with the main point, what her journalism professor had called the “nut graph.” She typed another opening:

  The report that a reputed spirit slipped into a locked boat house at night led to the skeleton of Eva Stone, a girl who disappeared forty–five years ago on the property of Tavares pioneer Brookfield Able, Sr. A Beacon reporter, accompanied by the grand–nephew of Brookfield Able, Jr., investigated the sighting and spotted the long–buried bones that have re–opened the missing person’s case, according to Lieutenant Albert Grady of the Lake County Sheriff’s Office.

  What would John think when he read her story? She would have to name him. When Brandy persuaded him to look into the abandoned boat house for family mementos, he had suspected her of a hidden agenda. Now it would be there, stark and clear. For the third time he would feel manipulated. She would have to try to make him understand.

  Quickly she jotted down the topics that would follow and conjure up a personal, human interest spin. Typing rapidly, she elaborated on how the skeleton had come to light, how she was chased across the lake by another boat, how John was bitten by a cottonmouth.

  When she had rapped out the completed draft, she poked her head into Mr. Tyler’s office. “See what you think of the first paragraphs of the Able mansion story.”

  Wordlessly he pulled it up on his computer screen, scanned it, and sent her a summons. “Did you get the names of the two fishermen that followed you across Lake Dora?”

  “I hadn’t time to ask their names. I was trying to save my skin and report what we’d found.”

  “You need a confirming source, Miss O’Bannon. You can’t prove that another boat tried to run you down. As it happens, the unfortunate Mr. Able can vouch for the way you found the skeleton. Except for those details, every paper in the area printed the same facts in the morning paper.”

  Squelched again, Brandy murmured, “They don’t have the ghost.” But without a quotable witness, neither did she. Brandy didn’t tell him that she herself had seen a wispy shape in the window and later on the lawn, not without photographs or another witness.

  “By Monday I’ll have interviewed almost everyone who was there the day Eva Stone died,” she said. “So will the Sheriff’s detectives, but I have personal contacts, people who will talk to me. I can add some facts that’ll give the story pizzazz. And I do have some leads about the murdered girl.”

  Leaving his cigarette burning in his ashtray, Mr. Tyler pressed the tips of his fingers together and peered over his glasses. “Don’t get too big for your britches. Leave the criminal stuff to detectives.” She nodded, but as she turned to close the door behind her, she noticed he still had not picked up the cigarette.

  At her desk she opened her note pad to the phone number she had been given at the Martin Luther King Center and placed the call. After six rings, she was ready to hang up when a breathless woman’s voice answered.

  “I’m a reporter on the Beacon staff in Tavares,” Brandy began. “I’m researching the old Able homestead on Lake Dora. If you’re the Mrs. Hall who worked there once, I’d like to talk to you about it.”

  For a few seconds the voice on the other end was silent. “I reckon that’d be okay, young lady,” the woman said finally. “Let’s see now. I be gone this afternoon, but I be home tomorrow afternoon. Got to baby sit my grand baby.”

  Brandy felt a charge of excitement. Here was the last person to see Eva Stone alive. “Could I see you about two?”

  “I reckon so.” Mrs. Hall repeated her address.

  Out of a sense of duty to John, Brandy also called Curt Greene’s office again. Greene still had not persuaded anyone to make a bid on the house. Too much work to do on it, too little time to arrange financing, too little utility for a place so far from town. In spite of the zero with Greene and her editor, she could try her next source, Brookfield’s widow. Then she had a chance to hit one out of the park with Lily Mae Hall.

  FOURTEEN

  Grace Able had an unlisted number, but by exaggerating her press credentials on the phone to the condominium manager, Brandy eventually reached the widow’s apartment. She remembered that the indispensable Mabel Boxley was in Canada but eventually Grace picked up the phone.

  “I see very few people,” the widow said, “but we’ve met and I know your mother. I suppose I’ve got to talk to some newspaper person. I saw the story about the skeleton in the Leesburg paper this morning. Shocking. Then I had a call about it from someone in the family.” Her tone sank. “The news brought back terrible memories. If Mabel had been here, she would have handled everything.”

  Brandy remembered Grace Able’s bland, oval face in the old photograph album, the disappointed look in her blue eyes when she took a second place for her bromeliads. Brandy had not seen her talking to others at the flower show. Ace Langdon said Brookfield kept a “tight rein” on her. In the family picture Grace had looked subdued beside her husband, perhaps dominated. Yet she seemed devoted to Brookfield’s memory. She might’ve developed a similar dependency on Mabel Boxley.

/>   Brandy found Grace’s building about a quarter of a mile from busy Route 27. She identified herself to a security guard at a station, drove through a retractable gate, and parked before the lake. In the thickly carpeted lobby she stopped at a reception desk and announced herself.

  Grace’s apartment, down a north corridor wing and past the entrance to the pool and sauna, had a door labeled with the logo of A & S Citrus Company. After Brandy punched a bell in the shape of a camellia, a stout woman in a maid’s apron opened the door. She was not the indispensable Mabel.

  From the other side of the room, Brandy heard Grace’s genteel Southern accent. “Do come in, Miss O’Bannon. Join me by the window. Alice is just fixing tea.”

  Brandy entered a generous–sized living room, its square lines softened by mint green carpets and drapes. Before a bay window two needlepoint chairs were drawn up beside the small Duncan Phyfe table facing the lake. From one of the chairs Grace set aside a knitting bag and gestured for her guest to sit down.

  Although Brandy noticed the ruffled ivory blouse, the tiny pearl earrings, she was most struck by Grace’s unlined face. Brandy had forgotten how much younger Grace looked than she had expected.

  “Such a serene place,” the older woman said when Brandy complimented her on the apartment. “I’m so fortunate to have it. And so fortunate to usually have my dear Mabel to help me, and Alice to clean.”

  The pink blossom of a double hibiscus floated in a crystal bowl on the table. Through a sliding side door lay the flagstones of a patio, bright with salvia and marigolds. Grace Able had apparently found harmony after her husband’s death.

  Outside Brandy saw residents strolling along a sidewalk beside a row of crepe myrtle or sitting on benches beside the sunlit water.

  Grace folded her slender fingers. ”The news about the skeleton is a shock, of course. My place here has been a haven from the cares of the world.”

  Alice put her head out of the small kitchen. “I’ll serve you ladies tea, and then I need to scoot down the hall. Mabel asked me to return some things to the desk in the lobby.”

  “So tactful, you see,” Grace said, leaning forward. “I expect Alice knows we need to talk privately.” The smooth brow furrowed. I simply wasn’t prepared for such dreadful news. I couldn’t believe it.”

  The widow’s glance drifted to a bookshelf along the opposite wall and a portrait of Brookfield in his Air Force uniform, a rakish tilt to his billed cap. Beside the finely tooled leather frame hung a plaque that displayed a first lieutenant’s bars and a pair of silver wings. “I keep thinking there must be a mistake about the skeleton.”

  Brandy needed to bring up more unpleasant facts. “I’m afraid the remains were identified positively as Eva Stone’s,” she said. “The worst part is that she may have been killed.” The word “murdered” was not easily said to Grace Able.

  Grace fingered her pearls. “I was afraid of that. Such a lovely girl. I hardly knew her, but like everyone else, I liked her.”

  Even if she spoiled your engagement party? Brandy thought but did not ask. The delicate brows rose. “I understand you have an interest in this tragedy?” It was a polite question, but the words had an edge.

  The maid carried in a tray with a silver tea pot, fragile China cups, and a plate of tiny cinnamon pastries.

  “Partly, I suppose, because John Able and I found it.”

  “Sylvania must be quite upset.” As Grace poured the tea, the hint of a smile showed on her lips and vanished.

  In their first interview Grace had admitted that the two women did not like one another, even though Grace had married the one person in the world Sylvania cherished. Maybe the marriage had caused the animosity. “I’m troubling you with all this, Mrs. Able, because I’m trying to find out just what went on that afternoon forty–five years ago when Eva Stone disappeared. I’m trying to interview everyone I can who was there.”

  The older woman allowed herself a glacial smile. “In other words, you want to know if we all have alibis.” She rested her head against the back cushion of the chair and closed her eyes. “Well, let’s see what I can remember. We all had to talk to the deputies then.” In a few seconds she sat forward and spoke in a regretful tone.

  “The last thing I did at the house that afternoon was to help Brookfield’s mother gather up the linens. I was to take them to the laundry in town the next day. She’d borrowed some of our towels and sheets, too.” Grace crossed her arms in her lap. “Let’s see, we’d had a late lunch. Most of the girls had already gone home. I do recall that Eva Stone’s car was still there.”

  “I believe one other girl left late because of a flat tire.”

  “Yes, that’s so. I remember now. Poor thing hadn’t come with a spare or a jack. I got the yard man, and he managed to get the tire changed. He found what he needed in my car.”

  “Do you remember Mr. Langdon there then?”

  She gave a lady–like little snort. “Oh, him! He was no good for anything then, and he hasn’t been good for anything since. He came out after the poor old yard man had finished the job. Didn’t get up in time to go hunting with the other men.” Her lips turned down at the corners. “I suspected he stayed around to flirt with Eva Stone. He couldn’t take his eyes off her all weekend.”

  “Sylvania must have felt hurt. Mr. Langdon was her date.”

  “I expect she was. She didn’t talk to me about it. Of course, I was so excited about my own engagement, I didn’t notice much else.”

  “I understand Brookfield and the other men came back shortly after you left.”

  “I guess that’s so.” Daintily she nibbled a pastry. “I remember driving off after we put the linens in the car and I’d gotten my tools back. I passed one or two of the fellows on foot. I didn’t see Brookfield until that night when he came in town to tell me what had happened. I went out to the house the next day and stayed all night to try to comfort Brookfield’s mother and help with the Stones.” Her account tallied with Ace Langdon’s.

  “Mrs. Able, this is difficult to mention, but I’m trying to get all the relevant facts. Were you aware then that Eva Stone had once been in love with your fiancé?”

  The older woman looked down. “He knew her before we began dating, of course. Before I met Brookfield in college. Brookfield and I hadn’t put her on the guest list. She just came, I suppose to see Brookfield. When she showed up, I felt sorry for her. She worked in her father’s little café, you see. She was never a part of our crowd. I thought maybe Sylvania or her parents had invited her at the last minute.”

  The door creaked ajar and Alice poked her head into the room. “I need to finish in the bedroom, Mrs. Langdon.”

  “Of course, Alice. Come on in. We’re about done.”

  Grace had not really said whether she knew about Brookfield and Eva’s romance. Brandy decided that she probably had.

  “The fellow who’s buying Sylvania’s house was there too,” Grace said, briskly, as though eager to finish. “The developer Axel Blackthorne. I’m sure Sylvania asked Axel. Brookfield said they’d been friends a long time. She must have realized she couldn’t count on that dreadful Ace Langdon as a partner, not for dancing and all.”

  Something else to follow up, Brandy thought. “And you weren’t worried about Eva Stone as a rival?”

  For a moment a look Brandy could not identify flickered in Grace’s eyes. Fear? Sorrow? Pain?

  “Brookfield and I were always a solid team. We didn’t need anyone else,” she said at last. “I never doubted him, and he never gave me reason to.” Her eyelids fluttered down again. “Thinking about all of this has been hard, Miss O’Bannon. It was terrible when Eva’s parents came out to the house that night. Brookfield was just frantic. The tragedy clouded our whole first year. Everyone seemed to think she killed herself because we were getting married. I couldn’t stand the place after that.

  “Brookfield loved hunting and boating, and his dad expected us to live there. His parents were getting too old to use it mu
ch, but in the end we decided not to. I didn’t go back after we moved out.”

  Brandy rushed in her next topic. “You must have heard rumors that the house was haunted. When did they start?”

  Grace dropped her voice. “I really don’t know exactly. After we married, I would never go back up to the fourth floor. We’d all slept there the night of the banquet. That was the last place I’d seen poor Eva alive. The atmosphere in that house…” She gave a tiny shiver. “There was something dark there, something evil. I’m telling you that in confidence. Sylvania would kill me.” Her voice trailed into silence.

  “Did you ever see anything unusual there?”

  Her eyes widened. “Just shadows, really. Brookfield said they were my imagination. But I was glad to leave.”

  Alice re–appeared in the bedroom door, flourishing her dust cloth. “I need to get into the living room, M’am.”

  Grace stood, the ivory skin around her eyes suddenly drawn. Brandy recognized the signal. The interview was almost over. “Did Brookfield ever tell you anything that might help the Sheriff’s Office uncover the truth?” she asked.

  Grace shook her head slowly, her mouth still tense. “I can tell you this. Brookfield would never have let anything or anyone come between us.” As she moved toward the door, Brandy studied her. How did she manage to create an impression of fragility? Grace was not frail, only lean, and as tall as Brandy. Some Southern women cultivated the gift——if it was one.

  Grace opened the door. “Please excuse me. I really must get to work on my column for the condominium newsletter.”

  Alice picked up a stack of books on the bookcase and swished her duster under them. “You want me to turn in these library books, Mrs. Able?”

  Grace shrugged. “No, I’m not quite through with my research.”

  What research, Brandy wondered, would interest the reclusive Grace Able? She seemed to read Brandy’s mind. “My gardening column, you see,” she said. “It does take work.”