Chasing Shadows

by Karen Harper

  But this one was put last, out of order. Almost expecting to see more photos of them in intimate poses, he shuffled through the pictures. That was all. He flipped them over. One had a handprinted note on the back:

  YOU CARE ABOUT THE MOTHER OF YOUR CHILD? DON’T TRUST THIS MAN WITH EITHER OF THEM. GET HOME AND GET WHAT’S YOURS.

  It was signed, A FRIEND.

  * * *

  “Jasmine, it’s absolutely essential that you trust Nick and therefore trust me,” Claire began as the two of them sat on the back, shaded veranda over iced tea and lemon cookies.

  “Well, what’s this about? I’m sorry I didn’t mention Lola, but I told you why. I do trust Nick and realize you have your job to do.”

  Claire put her glass down on the table between them a little too hard. “I know this is all painful, but it’s necessary. There is a possibility your mother did overdose, you know, either by mistake or intentionally. She was very distressed for several reasons.”

  “Of which I’m one, you mean.”

  “I mean I really need to have access to her most recent papers and correspondence since I can’t interview her.”

  “You hardly interview the subject of any death investigation, only those the deceased leaves behind.”

  “But often the what as well as the who the deceased leaves behind is key. So I’m asking you—with Nick’s permission and agreement—to let me go through her things that might cast light on her state of mind. You have everything to gain from that.”

  “And much to lose if you decide to testify that she was so angry with me that she was afraid of me.”

  “Was she?”

  “God as my judge, of course not!”

  Classic guilt—or at least a guilty conscience, Claire thought.

  “Jasmine,” she said, leaning closer to her and looking her straight in the eyes, “we have to move on this fast. Now. Cecilia told me—and more importantly, told the detective investigating Lola’s death—that your mother invested heavily in the Moran sisters’ Puppet Store. They didn’t lease it, they bought it. It’s in a great tourist area in a historic city. You should have told us she did that up front, and about confronting Lola over it. You did, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I did! You would have, too. But that doesn’t mean I hurt her. I was with you when someone killed her, for heaven’s sake!”

  “You were and I will testify to that if need be, but Nick recently received a copy of Lola’s autopsy report. With the rigor mortis, body temperature and lividity timing, you would have had time to visit her and then meet me. Then, I’m sure you realize, our sheriff duo can theorize that you and your mother might have had words over that money, too, let alone over how she doted on Lola, on top of the public knowledge that you two disagreed on what should happen to Shadowlawn.”

  Jasmine gasped and raked her spread fingers through her hair. “All right! I know it looks bad I didn’t mention Lola at first, but you’re grilling me like a lawyer. Whose side are you on?”

  “I’m on your lawyer’s side, and therefore, on yours. Complain to Nick if you want, but he agrees. I need to go through anything that can throw light on your mother’s state of mind.”

  “But she was angry with me and taken in by that quiet little mouse of a maid who more or less bilked her out of money she didn’t have when Shadowlawn and I should have come first!” She stood as if she’d flee. If Jasmine got on the stand in her own defense, it could be a disaster.

  Claire grabbed her wrist. “Sit down and calm down. To survive this—and thereby preserve this treasure house for yourself and others—you need to think rationally, to help Nick and me defend you, if it comes to that.”

  “You believe it will, don’t you?” she demanded, but she sank back in her chair and Claire let go of her wrist.

  “Not if we head it off first. Learn all we can. Plan to fight Sheriff Goodrich, Sheriff Parsons and their plans.”

  “All right,” she said with a sniff. She gripped her hands in her lap and stared at them. “Mother was distraught that I was so upset. She was depressed. Yes, she could have overdosed, but not intentionally.”

  Claire agreed. The fact that Francine had talked to the family’s longtime lawyer about changing her will—would she kill herself before taking care of that? And if she thought Shadowlawn should go to the state or a buyer who could afford to restore it, would she overdose, even accidentally? What if someone helped her along before she could change her current will?

  “Then you’ll let either me or both Nick and me go through her things—without sorting through them first?”

  Jasmine looked up again, glaring. “If I haven’t already, you mean? How dare you! But yes, let’s get Neil out here right now and tell him to bring everything down from the attic where I had it taken because I couldn’t bear to look at it in that room where that dead woman stares down all day and night!”

  “Let’s leave Neil out of this for now. Take me up there right now so I can assess what’s there.”

  Jasmine sat up straighter and turned toward her. “Look, Claire, this is all one horrible nightmare where I feel like I’m fleeing, like I’m fighting for my life, like dead people are grabbing at me! You can’t know how that is.”

  Actually, Claire thought, she did.

  18

  Claire didn’t see Nick or Neil in the house as she followed Jasmine up the center servant stairs toward the attic, lit by only their two flashlights.

  “Of course,” Jasmine said, “since they had pre-Civil War dances up here, you can go up the staircase at the end of the upstairs hall, but I prefer to keep that sealed. By the way, bats get in somehow, but you won’t see them in broad daylight unless they are hanging upside down.”

  Claire shivered, though it was warm here. The stairs creaked. The very walls reeked of dust. A strange whisper buzzed, evidently the wind. Claire recalled Nick saying something about voices or music emanating from the attic at night, but in such an old house, strange sounds were understandable. Still, her pulse began to pound.

  The attic walls were cypress wood. The vast room did not have a high ceiling and was lined by the dormer windows, which had wooden window seats under each. With long-gone cushions, they must have been tiny alcoves for flirting and chatting. Yes, ghosts seemed to hover here. The room had obviously never been electrified, for three, dust-shrouded antique chandeliers still hung from the ceiling. She looked for bats but didn’t see them.

  Strange, Claire thought, but the scent of jasmine perfume was back again, hanging heavy here. She hadn’t smelled it on their hostess since that first day. Perhaps Jasmine had worn it out on the veranda, too, but it just hadn’t hit her until they were closed in here. Or she might have put some on when she went into Rosalynn’s room to get the flashlights. And why did she have two flashlights in there? It was where Francine had slept, not Jasmine herself, who was in one of the five other bedrooms.

  As Jasmine began banging shutters open, they turned their flashlights off. Daylight fought its way through dancing dust motes. They both sneezed. It was pretty obvious that Lola, even if she cleaned house downstairs, didn’t do much up here. But at this end of the large, open space, light revealed the extent of the clutter.

  It reminded Claire of the TV show she and Darcy liked, The Antiques Roadshow. Here was stored a keyhole desk with a broken leg, a worn velvet settee, the headboard of a bed, a roll of carpet, an umbrella stand, humpbacked trunks, crates, boxes—all with a velvety cloak of dust except for two large cartons.

  “Where to start, right?” Jasmine asked. “Those two boxes over there,” she added, pointing to the ones Claire had noted, “are her most recent things I brought up. It was like—once she was buried—I wanted this to be buried, too, that is, what I didn’t need to settle her will and the estate, which is still ongoing. It hurt so much to go through them, to know th
at she’s gone forever, so I just stored them for now. Actually, I just threw things in these boxes, so I suppose they’re a mess.”

  That sounded so sincere, Claire thought. But was she sad because Francine was dead, or because she regretted causing that?

  As they walked toward the boxes, Jasmine went on, “She remade her will from time to time. The last one—Nick’s seen it—is ten years old and keeps the property in the family.” That much was true, Claire thought. But she’d let Nick confront Jasmine later about whether she knew of the new will Francine had planned.

  “Then I’ll start with those two boxes and go back a bit from there if necessary.”

  “Exactly what are you looking for?” Jasmine asked, suddenly turning toward Claire and stepping between her and the boxes as if to protect them. Her voice rose; she propped fists at her hips. That sudden change in body language seemed to scream at Claire.

  “I’ll know it if I see it,” Claire told her. “How about I get Heck and Nick to help us carry these down to the library? These boxes look heavy, and we’d need to be very careful on the stairs.”

  “Yes, well, I guess I’m glad you dragged me up here,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve got to face things, not just store them. By the way, I’ve given Win Jackson permission to photograph the interior of Shadowlawn for a book project he has in mind. We’ll share the profits, and he doesn’t need to see all this clutter when he works up here.”

  She heaved a second huge sigh that seemed to deflate her stiff stance. She walked a few steps away and sank carefully onto a leather, iron-banded trunk. “This attic is like the head of this place, the stored memories, just like people keep in their heads...”

  Her lower lip quivered. Her shoulders shook. She began to cry silently. Two tears slowly started down her cheeks, but, gripping her hands together in her lap, she made no move to brush them away. Sincerity or a clever plea for sympathy? Claire had come to be skeptical of Jasmine and her lightning mood changes, but this seemed real. She knew not to try to comfort her. She needed to stay neutral. It wasn’t her place to be pulled in emotionally—which seemed a stupid thought considering how she was falling so fast for Nick.

  “You have a child, don’t you?” Jasmine asked.

  Surprised at the shift in subject, Claire said, “Yes. A four-year-old daughter.”

  “Well, Shadowlawn is my only child, and I’m its daughter. I couldn’t save my mother, but I need to save this place, do what’s best for it as I see it, so please keep that in mind as you go through these things.”

  “Yes,” Claire promised. “I will.”

  * * *

  “Hey, Bronco,” Nick called out as the big man came around the tree guarding his trailer. “Didn’t want to startle you, but I wanted to ask you a question.”

  “Sure,” he said, walking toward him with a fishing pole in his hand. “Shoot.”

  “I thought I saw someone on the grounds a while ago. I couldn’t tell who it was. He ran past here, toward the river,” he said pointing. This close, Nick saw Bronco had gator teeth stuck in the brim of his hat.

  “Wha’d he look like?”

  “Couldn’t get close enough to tell.”

  “I find someone like that, I’d kick him out,” Bronco muttered. “I sometimes run off kids—haunted house and all—but that was at night.”

  Nick had meant to ask him about Jace being knocked out over by the so-called ghost tree, but he didn’t want to suggest Claire had been asking outsiders in here, so he said, “This might sound crazy, but have there ever been any incidents under the lynching tree near the front door?”

  “Like you mean, seein’ the body? Claire tell you she seen it in Dr. Jackson’s pictures?”

  “Yeah, she did.”

  “He’s coming here tomorrow to do some pictures for Miss Jasmine and I’m gonna help him, cart his stuff around and all that. Done it before when he took shots of the river and outside the house. Neil just told me he’d like to hire the doc to do some photos of someone in one of those monster suits he’s got, maybe get publicity for his museum, start putting stuff online which I don’t mess with none.”

  “The internet is a blessing and a curse. A great way to stay in touch and do business, but it can be abused really bad, too.”

  “Like live people,” Bronco said. “But I’ll keep a sharp eye out for strangers, daytime and night.”

  Nick thanked him and started to walk away, but Bronco called after him, “You think I should help Neil by puttin’ on that monster suit or not, if that’s not askin’ for free lawyer advice?”

  Nick turned back. “He wants you to wear it?”

  “While he films—or talks Doc Jackson into doing it while he’s here. Making a short flick, not sure.”

  “I think you should only do it if there’s something in it for you, Bronco, and tell him no otherwise. Say,” he said, walking farther back and seeing a good opening for a question he hoped wouldn’t tick Claire off, “do you and Neil plan to still live on the grounds if Jasmine keeps this place? Has she said one way or the other about that?”

  “If’n Miss Francine would have let it go to outsiders, we figured we was both done here. Miss Jasmine, we’re not sure. When I’m cartin’ the doc’s photo equipment around, I’m gonna ask him to put in a good word with her, even if the one he was pretty close to was Miss Francine. ’Preciate it if you’d do the same, ’cause Miss Jasmine prob’ly listens to you.”

  “I’m sure she’d listen to you, too, Bronco. She’s fighting hard to clear things up right now. Claire and I are helping her. But I’m sure she’ll take your ties to this place into consideration if she can keep it.”

  As Nick turned to walk away again, he saw the puppet Claire had mentioned of Lola Moran had been moved outside and was sitting primly in one of Bronco’s old lawn chairs. A shiver snaked up his spine. For some odd reason, his dad’s voice leaped at him, teaching him the Twenty-third Psalm when he was small. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

  Shadowlawn and its people were getting to him. There was something evil here. He stretched his strides to go find Claire.

  * * *

  That afternoon Claire and Nick commandeered the library. Working from opposite ends of a long, narrow table before the back window, they each took a box and went through it, unpacking it first to assess what was there, then sorting and prioritizing what to read. Heck was sitting on the veranda just outside with his laptop, reading through newspaper articles about Jasmine’s case he’d downloaded back in St. Augustine as well as working on files from Nick’s other pending law cases.

  “Wow,” Claire said, paging through a small, leather-bound book from the bottom of her box. “A diary that goes way back, looks like she kept it for years! Yes, way back. Maybe there’s something in it about your father and her.”

  “Old love affairs are not of immediate use here, partner. Keep digging.”

  “Oh, I will. I shouldn’t take anything off property, but I don’t trust Jasmine not to go through this stuff herself when we leave. Do you think she’d let us take these boxes with us?”

  “Like you said, not a good idea. But you’re right about chain of custody. I’m surprised the illustrious Sheriff Goodrich missed this stuff. He should have searched the place and come up with it—unless it wasn’t visible at the time. If there’s a trial, we’ll have to enter this as evidence and let him see it, if we intended to use any of it.”

  “He was probably too busy planning his campaign for state senator to look around much. I swear, Nick, it’s only that he doesn’t want to share the glory with anyone else that he’s not working closely with Sheriff Parsons in St. A, or we’d have a murder indictment against Jasmine already.”

  “Why do I bother with law partners when I have you?”

  “Very funny. But one more thing
to convince you I’m whacked out lately. Do you smell that jasmine perfume on any of the things in your box?” she asked, sniffing at the diary as she fanned the pages.

  “No, but maybe that’s a woman thing.”

  Claire flipped to the back of the diary to see how recently it ended. Lots of spidery writing but no dates. She’d have to establish that by references when she studied it.

  “Nick, give me a couple of papers with her signature on it, or maybe some other writing of hers. Despite how authentic this diary looks, I’ll need to compare her writing with other signatures and script to get a standard—rule number one in the forensic document courses I took.”

  He handed her several papers. She folded them carefully, putting them in the diary. When a knock sounded on the door, and Neil poked his head in, she slipped the diary in her purse to go over tonight with more time. Although she’d previously decided not to take things off-site, this was too good to pass up and she’d need time to evaluate it without Jasmine or Neil hanging over her shoulder.

  Neil announced, “I’m preparing a late lunch on trays for you all since you seem busy—Oh, that stuff from the attic. I carried it up there for Jasmine. She packed it away rather hastily a couple of days after Francine died.”

  Darn, Claire thought. So he knew these documents were there, could have gone through the boxes, pulled things out—if he had any reason to. Neil had been so nervous when she’d interviewed him, and he had a lot to lose.

  “We’d certainly appreciate the lunch,” Claire told him.

  “Yes, well, I’ll be feeding one more mouth tomorrow with Win Jackson here again, this time in my territory instead of only outside. Frankly, I plan to watch the man like a hawk because Jasmine gave him permission to stage things—rearrange them for best effect, so to speak—and I pride myself on that.”