Trace Their Shadows

by Ann Cook

  “Wait,” John said, and strode quickly over to intercept her at the curb. He spoke to Sylvania for a few minutes, then motioned Brandy to join them. Sylvania turned from one to the other, her long face set in disapproval.

  “Come, come. I’m in the middle of packing. I don’t have time for foolishness.”

  John glanced down at his shoes, as if to collect his thoughts. “Eva Stone’s mother asked us to tell you something that may be a shock to you. She didn’t want you to read it in the newspaper or hear it from detectives.”

  “Maybe you ought to find a place to sit down,” Brandy said. “The minister’s study, maybe?”

  Sylvania crossed her arms over her spare chest. “Whatever it is, you can tell me right here. I barely took time for church this morning. I sign the contract on the house tomorrow. John might as well know that right now.” She lifted her chin. “The Sheriff’s people promised to be through tearing up the yard by then. And that’ll be an end of it.”

  Irritated, John looked straight at Sylvania. “All right then. We’ll tell you here. Mrs. Stone has explained to the Sheriff’s Office——and to Brandy here——that Eva Stone had a child by Brookfield.”

  Brandy thought Sylvania should have taken their suggestion to sit. She almost tottered in her black oxfords. Brandy watched her face. Unless Sylvania was a very good actress, her eyes showed surprise.

  “A child?” she asked faintly.

  “A boy,” Brandy said. “He was raised as an adopted son by the Stones themselves. Mrs. Stone never revealed who he was until now. You may have met him. He’s prominent here.”

  “The restaurant owner Weston Stone,” John added.

  They walked a few steps toward Sylvania’s shabby Ford. Then Sylvania paused, her hands clasped before her. “Can that be proved?”

  “The Sheriff’s Office is probably checking on it right now,” John said. “There’ll be records. The baby was born in Jacksonville.”

  Brandy weighed in. “Why would Mrs. Stone make up something like that, after all these years? It certainly won’t enhance Eva’s memory. Mrs. Stone says she wants to set the record straight while she’s still alive. She and her husband concealed the truth because they didn’t want to give the baby up to Brookfield. They thought their daughter committed suicide because of him. You’ll be convinced when you see how much Weston Stone looks like your brother.”

  Sylvania’s forehead knotted. “If this is so, why in the world did-n’t Eva tell my brother about the baby? He said nothing to me or anyone else.”

  John shuffled his feet. “We don’t know whether she told him or not,” he said.

  Then the facts seemed to strike her. She tossed her large head. “That girl couldn’t have! She couldn’t have! Brookfield would never abandon his own child.”

  She’s ignoring the more terrible possibility, Brandy thought——that he may have wanted to silence Eva forever. The older woman turned abruptly toward the car, her large hands shaking, her shoulders bent.

  Brandy spoke up quickly. “Mrs. Langdon, Eva’s mother is planning a graveside service tomorrow. She’s very much aware that Weston is Brookfield’s son. As his sister, she wants you to come, and the other members of the Able family. I’m sure Weston’s wife will call you.”

  Distracted, Sylvania only nodded as she folded her long body into the driver’s seat.

  Brandy dropped John off at his civil engineering office, where he hoped to complete some computer changes in a design, then stopped at a drug store to make a purchase in the hair care department. When she drove home, she kept a watchful eye out for the faded blue sedan. Apparently its driver had been scared off.

  After lunch she called Mrs. Brewster, and half an hour later stood once more in the home economic teacher’s bedroom while the older woman pinned a garment together around her and knelt to adjust the hem.

  “I don’t like working so fast,” Mrs. Brewster mumbled, her lips prickly with pins. “I take pride in my work.”

  “Think of it this way,” Brandy said. “You’re a part of an important investigation.” Mrs. Brewster promised to have the dress ready early the following afternoon.

  At home again she picked up the telephone, reached information, then called a Gainesville clinical psychologist’s home. “I need an opinion,” she said, after introducing herself to an answering machine. “I’ll be home this evening. You lectured to my class at the University of Florida a year ago. You said we could call if we had an important question.” She left her phone number. The psychologist had once worked at the mental health facility in Arcadia. Brandy hoped she would verify a part of her theory.

  At her desk Brandy went carefully over her notes on Eva Stone’s murder. About six the psychologist called back. She remembered the class, remembered the topic. Her cool, professional tone was reassuring. Briefly, she confirmed Brandy’s recollection.

  Brandy had one other call. Steve Able promised again to bring his equipment to the cemetery.

  ***

  Monday brought a sky of muddy clouds and oppressive heat. John was waiting for Brandy outside his trailer. Again he seemed alone. Maybe Sharon had decided she was not expected at the service. She would, of course, have impeccable judgment. Or perhaps she would come with John’s parents.

  “I ordered a small basket of flowers,” John said, taking the passenger seat. “Lord, how I hate funerals.” He looked fresh and appealing in a crisp, light weight suit. He had managed to pull shirt and coat over his arm. Today, Brandy thought, this should all be over——hopefully the case itself, and sadly, her excuse to see John.

  On the road to the Lakeview condominium, Brandy kept her eyes on the rear view mirror. Once she thought she glimpsed the blue car, but she couldn’t be sure. If she were being followed, the other driver was at quite a distance. And this time Brandy was not alone. At the security gate, she identified herself to the guard, drove into the complex, and drew up next to the lake where a red–tipped hedge bisected the paved area. They spotted Grace on a stone bench under the pink blooms of a tall crepe myrtle, busy with her knitting needles. Brandy honked the horn and waved.

  As John climbed out to escort Grace to the car, she rose, dressed more in the style of the forties than the nineties in a small, navy blue hat, a voile navy dress with white trim, and dainty white pumps. She hung her knitting bag over her wrist, pulled on a pair of white gloves, and took John’s arm.

  “It’s good of you to come,” Brandy said as Grace ducked into the front seat, holding her hat in place with one hand. “This can’t be easy for you.” The older woman’s eyes darted in Brandy’s direction.

  “We were at Sylvania’s place yesterday,” Brandy added as John seated himself in the back. “When the tire iron was found near Sylvania’s house, I mean.” She pulled away from the curb. “I suppose you read about it in the morning paper.”

  “A detective came to see me,” Grace said, a sour turn to her lips. “Of course, I know nothing about any of that. The last person to handle the tools was Elton Langdon.” She gripped the knitting bag, still watching Brandy closely. “Of course, anyone could’ve taken them out of the car before I left.”

  “Did your father ask you later about the tire iron?”

  “He didn’t say anything to me. I was just borrowing his Buick. I didn’t pay any attention to the tools my father kept in it.”

  Brandy dropped her voice. “I suppose the detective told you about Weston Stone.” Grace’s hands fumbled with the handle of her bag, and her eyes fluttered downward. “Yes, he told me what Mrs. Stone said. I think he felt it would become public knowledge and perhaps I should be told about it first.”

  Brandy thought Detective Morris would want to know if Brookfield’s wife had heard about Eva’s baby. “Had Brookfield ever said anything to you about a child?”

  “Of course not!” Her voice shook. “I don’t like to speak evil of anyone, especially when their life was so tragic. But it’s hard for me to believe that story of Mrs. Stone’s. She’s just repeating wha
t Eva must’ve told her.” Grace’s voice became one of sweet reason. “It would be shrewd for her to claim a rich man like Brookfield for the father.”

  Brandy didn’t respond. Eva Stone as gold–digger or black–mailer didn’t match her image of the dead girl.

  Grace folded her hands. “I’m just saying, I don’t take Mrs. Stone’s word. Eva Stone was a very popular young lady. She had lots of boy friends.” She looked briefly out the window. “Even if it were true, this has nothing to do with me. Brookfield was acquainted with Eva Stone before our courtship began.”

  Brandy took this in quietly. Brookfield had proposed to Grace by mail from England, after he’d returned from leave. He must’ve been seeing Eva and Grace simultaneously while he was home. It didn’t make Brookfield appear to be a man of moral integrity. But then, Eva was also seeing Ace Langdon.

  Under an overcast sky they rode in silence through Tavares, down a tree–lined street on the outskirts, and through the junipers and brick pillars of Memory Gardens. Here Brandy eased along under a stand of live oaks, their branches heavy with Spanish moss. To the right in the old part of the grounds, tombstones leaned toward an occasional cement crypt. The sun had disappeared, and the graveyard lay under a heavy bank of flat clouds. In the moist air nothing stirred.

  They parked on a sandy road beside a long leaf pine. To the left among a newer section of flush headstones, a canopy had been erected over several rows of folding chairs. Before them rested the casket itself, blanketed by a spray of calla lilies and roses. In the front row sat the frail figure of Eva Stone’s mother in a wheel chair, her feathery white hair a corona around her head. On one side knelt the minister and on the other stood Weston Stone, his hand on the back of her chair.

  As the three of them made their way toward the canopy, Brandy recognized Sylvania’s ashen face, rising up in the back row. Beside her, like a bulwark against the world, sat Axel Blackthorne. John nodded to Brandy, then found a seat next to his mother and father. Brandy and Grace slipped into the last row. At one side Ace Langdon approached the mourners. The old pilot eyed the crowd, searching Brandy supposed for an attractive young mourner as a seating companion.

  Brandy turned back toward the casket and tried to repress her memory of the stained skull. As the young minister, who never could have known Eva Stone, took his place before the casket, Brandy realized how closely she had identified with the dead girl. She could not think of Eva as a gold digger, as Grace obviously did. But could she be sure her own image was the correct one?

  With a flash of iridescent black, a covey of grackles settled in the nearby sand pines to watch as the minister opened the Book of Common Prayer. “Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery,” he began. “He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death.”

  The prayer might have been written for Eva Stone. Had she continued here as a shadow? Someone in the rear breathed a heartfelt, “Amen, Lord.”

  Brandy looked behind her. In the corner of the back row she was startled to see the dark, kindly face of Lily Mae Hall, come to pay her respects to the girl she couldn’t save. Maybe this sole witness could help Brandy nail down her theory.

  TWENTY–THREE

  When the service ended, Brandy took her place in the line filing past Mrs. Stone. Weston stood by her wheelchair, and next to him, his wife, a poised, well–groomed woman with a gracious smile. Then came their two sons, one about seventeen, a slimmer version of his father, and a younger boy, his hair slicked back, his small figure neatly turned out in a jacket and bow tie. Last and fidgeting uncomfortably in the heat, was the youngest, a girl of perhaps ten with dark hair and luminous eyes. Almost an Eva Stone in miniature.

  When Brandy’s turn came, Mrs. Stone accepted her hand and pressed it, her blue eyes glistening. “It’s hard,” she said, “but I’ve finally said good–bye to Eva. All these years I’ve had a feeling of incompleteness. Now she’s come home at last.”

  Brandy could see the tidy markers of the Stone family beside the casket. Eva would be laid to rest next to her father. Mrs. Stone’s own name was already engraved on the same long headstone. Fleetingly Brandy wondered if Mrs. Stone had ever heard the ghost stories about the house where her daughter had died. She would never ask.

  “I’m glad finding her remains has helped you,” Brandy said.

  Mrs. Stone lowered her moist gaze. “The deputy said they even found remnants of the dress she wore that day. I’d made it for her. We shopped together for the wide belt buckle and the buttons that went all down the front. She picked out the beads to go with it.”

  Of course, Brandy thought. This was a mother who would’ve made her daughter’s clothes. Brandy patted the fragile hand. “I’m sure they’ll all be returned to you. They’ll be mementos you can keep.”

  Then she moved on and watched while John introduced himself to Weston Stone. Sylvania held out one hand to Weston next, her gray eyes searching his face, and said rather clumsily, “I’m Sylvania Able Langdon. They tell me I’m your aunt.”

  Startled, he took her hand.

  She looked down from her great height at the younger two. “These are your children?”

  “My older son’s here, too,” Weston said, turning to the youth beside him. The younger ones shook hands shyly, uneasy among the unfamiliar faces, the older boy with more dignity.

  Sylvania and Blackthorne passed on quickly. Ace not at all. Among the final mourners came Grace, who bent toward the old lady and spoke softly with a faint smile. Then she stood to the side, twisting her white gloves in one hand, watching the others, then with a slight scowl, focusing her gaze on Brandy. Probably was eager to leave, Brandy thought. Grace was not the only watcher. Outside the canopy and in uniform, the sturdy figure of Steven Able rocked on his heels beside a tall cedar. Nearby a discreet Detective Morris surveyed the guests as they broke into groups.

  John drew Weston Stone aside as soon as the final relative shook his hand. Brandy sauntered up to Captain Able and his wife, standing near John under a cluster of sand pines, in time to hear Weston’s last remark.

  “I suppose I should see the house,” he was saying. “After all, it’s where my mother died. But I have a strange revulsion at the thought of it.”

  “That’s understandable,” John said, “but from an architect’s point of view it’s a marvelous old nineteenth century home. You really ought to see it before it’s pulled down. The Sheriff’s office has completed its search.”

  The captain hooked his thumbs in the pants pockets of his tidy suit. “They’ll get to the bottom of this,” he said, while his wife gave a quick nod. Brandy half expected her to produce her husband’s glasses from her purse so he could better examine his newly discovered relative.

  John’s lips tightened. “Now there’s nothing to hold up the sale of the property.”

  Sylvania was crossing the pine needles toward them, her walk more tentative than Brandy had ever seen it, her large head thrust a little forward and her hands swinging loosely at her sides. Behind her, even more slowly, came the burly developer.

  “I hope she’s not as peevish as usual,” Brandy murmured to John.

  “Not much has happened in her life to make her cheerful.”

  Sylvania halted before Weston Stone. “I’ve done a lot of genealogical research. I know all about the Able family,” she said in a rush, her gaze probing his face——the dark eyes, the tell–tale high cheekbones. “I’ve got the Ables back to the seventeenth century in Cornwall. You might be interested, now that you know your relationship to the family.”

  Weston’s eyebrows elevated slightly. “I’m trying to adjust to the news. It’s been quite a shock.” His tone remained correct but cool.

  She plunged on. “You ought to see the house on Lake Dora before it’s gone——and the portrait there. I think you’ll find it surprising.” Her eyes met his.

  She isn’t like Gr
ace, Brandy thought. She doesn’t doubt Mrs. Stone’s story. Is it just his resemblance to Brookfield, or something she knows?

  John spoke up quickly. “With your permission, I’d like to bring Curt Greene to see the house again with Mr. Stone. Mr. Greene can explain its finer points. He’s not only an architect. He’s also with the Historical Society. We’ve been trying to interest someone in restoring the house for the National Register.”

  A surly Blackthorne wedged himself between Sylvania and Weston and stared at John. “Don’t get that started again.”

  “It’s all right, Axel,” Sylvania said, laying one hand on his arm. To Weston she added, “I’ve moved to my new apartment, but most of the furnishings are still there. I’d be glad to meet you at the house tomorrow afternoon.”

  Blackthorne frowned. “Do you think that’s wise, Syl?”

  As they turned to leave, Brandy heard her say, “It doesn’t matter now, Axel. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Weston looked toward Mrs. Stone. “I’ve got to get Mother——I should say, my grandmother——home. She’s exhausted.” He shook hands again with John and the Captain, then spoke quietly to Brandy. “I can’t feel friendly toward anyone who was with my mother that last weekend. Not until I know who killed her.”

  Beside the circular drive Brandy could see Steve standing at his cruiser. He motioned to her and ducked his head inside the car, as John took her elbow and pulled her aside. “You’re busy,” John said, his face quite close to hers. “I’ll hang a ride to the office with my dad. You can manage Grace without me now.” He hesitated, and for a minute she hoped he would say something else, but he dropped her arm, turned quickly, and followed his father’s broad back toward the drive. When would she see him again? Probably Sharon was waiting at his folks’ house——or at his trailer.