by Ann Cook
A tourist from the motel, an older man, came down a gravel path toward her, concerned. “You all right, Miss?”
Brandy lifted her head. “I need a phone.”
He nodded toward the restaurant wall and pay phone. She remembered her canvas bag. Tugboat had not taken her change. To the man’s obvious surprise, she thumped it and shook off a shower of sand before hobbling over to dial the Sheriff s Office in Inverness.
She had never been as glad to hear a voice. “Jeremiah Strong here,” it said. “What can I do for you?”
Brandy went limp with relief. “Come to Homosassa,” she whimpered, “and lend me a shoulder to cry on. I’m scared.”
CHAPTER 12
An hour after Brandy called Detective Strong, she emerged from a hot shower, kicked her sand spur-laden jeans aside, pulled on a fresh pair and shirt, and stepped into the living room smelling of talcum powder and fresh soap. She felt human again. The Sergeant had driven immediately to the Homosassa marina, persuaded her to leave her boat there, helped her into his car and, picked up two Cuban sandwiches at a local restaurant for a late lunch. He then deposited her at her front door and was waiting on the screened porch for a briefing. She paused in the kitchen to pour iced tea and warm the sandwiches in the toaster oven before joining him. Strong sat with his note pad flipped open, his face a mask of patient resignation.
“You’ve learned a lesson, I hope,” he said. “Almost got yourself killed. ‘Be not curious about unnecessary matters,’ I believe I told you.”
Brandy bristled. “I’m grateful to the bone for your help, Sergeant. But what I was doing was necessary. No one else planned to look for Daria Pine in that shack, and I found what I’m sure is a stash of cocaine. I didn’t interfere with your investigation. I was a volunteer in the search.”
“The volunteer search, young lady, was coordinated by the Sheriffs Office. We weren’t asking for lone rangers.”
A subdued Brandy set down the iced tea and Cubans, while Strong glanced at his note pad where he had already jotted a few precise lines. “Tugboat Grapple has a reputation in these parts, all right. Petty stuff, as far as I can tell, but the locals figure he might be bringing dope in from ships out in the Gulf.”
Suddenly Brandy was shaking with hunger and nipped into the crusty, flattened bread and layers of ham, cheese, roast pork, and salami, trying not to look greedy. An eternity had passed since breakfast, but it was only two-thirty in the afternoon. Between savory mouthfuls, she said, “I think Tugboat—and maybe his wife and Alma May Flint—are behind the vandalism at the Indian mound. Stealing artifacts and peddling them in the black market. They’re at it again. It may be his side line. I overheard Alma May say Melba needed money, mostly because of Tugboat’s gambling. And Alma May herself wants to sell her house, so she may be short of funds, too. They seem to have their own private agenda.”
Strong folded a napkin neatly over his lap. Brandy had never seen him rumpled or his trousers without a crease. She didn’t know whether to credit the detective himself or his devoted wife back in Inverness.
“I’ve got a detective looking for Tugboat Grapple now,” he said. “Smugglers love this coast, all these little inlets and rivers. You probably stumbled into one operation, all right. We’ll find out.”
Brandy tried to eat as tidily as Strong, but she felt mayonnaise oozing from the corner of her lips. While she dabbed her chin, she shuddered at a sudden memory. “He was going to shoot me and bury my body with the mound builders.” Her voice rose. “He could’ve gutted my boat and sunk it in some dead-end creek where it wouldn’t be found for months.” Worse, she knew no one would’ve found her, either.
Lines furrowed the brown forehead. “It isn’t safe for you here, young lady, not until we pick him up.” He looked down approvingly at Meg, sprawled beside Brandy’s chair. “I’m glad you’ve got a dog.” Meg looked up, as though she understood, and the silky tail thumped. “Will she bark? Not all golden retrievers do. Sometimes they’re too friendly.”
Proudly Brandy nodded. “She’ll bark for sure if anyone tries to get in. But Tugboat knows I got away, that I’d talk to the law. Why would he be after me now?”
“He’s probably busy getting rid of his stash, but remember, he’s not a reasonable guy. If you hear anything suspicious, call. Your neighbors in the development are close. That’ll help. Make arrangements to get out of Homosassa.”
Brandy finished her sandwich and wiped moist fingers on a paper napkin, but she did not dismiss his advice. Perhaps she could try to get some answers from the detective while his guard was down. “Do you think Grapple could be connected to Timothy Hart’s murder, or Daria’s disappearance?”
Strong sighed, laid down the remaining crusts of his sandwich, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. “Young lady, we can’t even prove Hart was murdered. We can think it, but we think a lot of things we can’t prove. Maybe he had a hankering to eat weeds. I don’t know why his body was turned over and searched, but that doesn’t prove murder. Maybe someone found him and was curious. We can’t be sure the little girl’s disappearance is connected with Hart, either. Both things happened within a few days on the same isolated island, but it could be coincidence.”
If the detective had news of Daria, she thought he would tell her. “Did a deputy check out Alma May’s house?”
“I got the message, but we haven’t yet. Not enough for a warrant, but we’ll try.” Strong dropped his arms and clasped his hands between his knees. “We’d have found the child if she was outside on the island or in the waters, dead or alive. I think she was taken somewhere else. People called in leads, but none of them panned out.”
Brandy thought of the vanished children who are never found, many from Florida. How easy it would be to destroy Daria’s tiny body! Her eyes felt moist.
Strong brought her back to the present. “What do you plan to do before we pick up Grapple?” he asked. “There’s no police department in Homosassa. Folks here rely on the Sheriff s Office in Homosassa Springs, and they’re spread pretty thin.”
Brandy hesitated. “I’m supposed to stay through next week,” she said finally, “but Grif Hackett offered to give me a ride back to my apartment in Gainesville tomorrow. He’s taking some stuff to the Florida Natural History Museum for study.”
Strong lifted his eyebrows and studied his hands. “Your husband’s in Tampa, isn’t he? Why not go there?”
Brandy gathered up the sandwich papers and folded them into a tight bundle. For a few seconds she did not answer. Once she was in Tampa, far from Homosassa and her office in Gainesville, she would lose any chance to tell the Timothy Hart story, or to be involved in either search. “I don’t have a car here myself,” she said. “John dropped me off about a week ago. In Homosassa I use my friend Carole’s, but I couldn’t take it to Tampa or Gainesville. My car’s in Gainesville. I can pick it up there.”
“Husband won’t come after you?”
“I don’t like to ask him to miss work,” she added, lamely.
She knew John would drop everything and come if she asked him, but what a scolding she would get! And she was only trying to do her job as a reporter. She was not ready to see John, to feel his disapproval and disappointment in her. Their old disagreement would surface.
“Even though you were almost shot? Your husband needs to know.” The detective fastened her with a direct stare. “You two now live apart? You want this man Hackett to take you home instead? I see.”
He stood, replaced the note pad in his pocket, and passed his hand over his forehead, ready to erupt in a Biblical quotation. “Can you go upon hot coals and your feet not be burned?” he murmured. He’d given Fishhawk much the same advice.
Brandy did not respond. With such firm Biblical roots, of course he wouldn’t approve of her seeing Grif. And detectives were intuitive.
At the door Strong said, “I’ll call when we pick up Grapple. In the meantime, lock up, keep a light on and the dog with you, and don’t sleep wh
ere you usually do. Call 9-1-1 if you need help. I’ll ask patrol to swing by a time or two tonight. I don’t think this Grapple guy will try anything now, but he might not want you to testify about the cocaine, if that’s what you saw.”
Brandy stood with him at the door, her thoughts again on the search for Daria and what she felt sure was Hart’s murder. “Sergeant,” she said, “this puzzle will never fit together without the key piece.”
He paused, one big hand still on the door handle. “And I suppose you know what that is?”
“Of course. Timothy Hart’s artifact.”
He nodded. “Could be.”
“If it’s already been found, someone could be trying to smuggle it out of the area.”
“We’ve watched, and we’ve looked for it,” he said. “No luck so far. We can’t keep the Seminole Indian from taking his canoe into Homosassa for supplies. Or Mrs. Flint or the real estate woman from going in, either. But no one’s been spotted mailing anything or passing off a package to anyone. We’ve already searched Mrs. Flint’s house and grounds once.” He shrugged massive shoulders. “Probably whatever it is deteriorated years ago.” But to Brandy that tantalizing thing was the motive for at least one crime, possibly two.
Strong opened the screen door. “After this attack on you, I might be able to get a search warrant for the Grapple home. I’ll see if the crab fisherman or his son can confirm your story, and I’ll send someone out to that shack.”
As soon as the detective’s Ford sedan eased out of the driveway, Brandy ducked back into the living room, her fist clenched at her side. She didn’t feel safe even yet, but she wouldn’t call John for help. He’d just remind her of his warnings, and how her snooping screwed up everything. Anyway, in his last message he didn’t sound eager to drive back to Homosassa, and if he did, that would be the end of her investigation. In Gainesville she would still be close and in touch with events here, and she’d have her own car.
Brandy surveyed the living room. She’d been promising herself she would clean up for Carole. She should if she planned to leave town. Pants and shirts and underwear from Brandy’s most recent wash draped the arm of a chair, the morning papers for the last three days littered the end tables and couch, cup rings smeared the glass-topped table, and she knew cat and dog hairs clung to the carpet. In the kitchen she had washed her few dishes, but left them to drain on the counter, and she’d spilled something sticky on the kitchen floor. Then there was the cat box. The Persian never went outdoors. She sighed.
In the utility room she gathered up a pail, mop, and broom and from the dining room closet, the vacuum cleaner. Women like Carole found satisfaction in house cleaning, in converting untidiness to order. Not Brandy. A few days later it had to be done all over again. She always grumbled that if house keeping were done well, no one knew it was being done at all. That was the problem with a neatnik husband.
By the time she finished her chores, the afternoon was fading. No call from the Sergeant, none from Annie, and of course, none from John. By 8:00 P.M. Brandy had thawed the ancient hamburger and fixed a patty, embellished with a slice of over-ripe tomato and, after removing its green edges, a week-old slice of cheese. To her Spartan meal she added a few stale potato sticks. She was sitting at the coffee table, staring at her open notebook, when the phone finally rang.
“Sorry I couldn’t call earlier,” Hackett said easily. “I had a request to check out a site in Chasshowitzka. I went out there, but I can’t do anything now. The precious whooping cranes are still deciding when to migrate north, and everything’s locked down. You going with me tomorrow?”
Briefly Brandy told Grif, without details, that Tugboat had threatened her again. She could fill him in later. She didn’t want to rehash the whole experience, and she didn’t relish listening to more “I told you so’s.”
“I’m thinking about it,” she answered. “But I’ve got loose ends to tie up. I never got back to see Annie. For one thing, I have to collect my cell. I needed it this morning. And I still want to check out the area around Alma May’s for signs of Daria that might’ve been overlooked. You leaving early?”
He sounded thoughtful. “I could wait. Call me tomorrow afternoon. Is Tugboat still out and about?”
“Sergeant Strong expects they’ll pick him up. They haven’t yet.”
She hung up, then stalked about closing windows, although she hated to shut out the chorus of creek frogs, the fresh scent of the spring night, and at dawn, the mockingbird’s song. Taking comfort in the neighbors’ lights shining into the darkness, she called Meg in from outside. The retriever settled in her fleece-lined doggy bed in the small back bedroom, where a daybed had been the Persian’s domain. Meg was bewildered at the change. The cat definitely disapproved. To establish her rights, she kneaded her claws in the bedspread, then leapt down and pranced from the room, tail high, to find a less crowded refuge. Brandy crawled onto the couch, ruffled Meg’s red coat, and lay, wide-eyed, listening for the hum of the deputies’ cruisers.
Lines about Shakespeare’s island monster, Caliban, again drifted into her consciousness. She had always been drawn to the magic of The Tempest. But who was the local monster? “This thing of darkness,” she whispered, “as disproportioned in his manners as in his shape.. .A devil, a born devil, on whose nature nurture can never stick.” Unless it was Tugboat, Tiger Tail’s monster was clearly in disguise.
Outside a car rumbled down the short street, turned where the street ended at the river, and drove slowly back. A deputy’s nightly rounds. Somewhere a boat’s engine sputtered to life. She did not look out. Once, Meg grumbled deep in her throat, padded into the living room, and then returned to lie down with a thump. Brandy closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Finally she rose and fixed a bowl of cereal. That usually helped.
Of course, their Caliban could be a woman. She took a crunchy mouthful. A witch, like Caliban’s mother. Maybe a sociopath, focused only on his—or her—own selfish needs. She thought about the missing treasure, too, a thing hidden by a Seminole warrior on the island, something the white man would value, something frightening, a seed of evil. It had certainly caused pain.
At last she returned to bed and rolled toward the wall. “This thing of darkness,” she repeated, not sure whether she had in mind the perpetrator or the artifact itself—probably both.
CHAPTER 13
For her morning coffee and bagel, Brandy sat at the table on the screen porch, feeling calmer. The world around her seemed routine, normal. A pileated woodpecker was already at work, pecking berries from the tall cabbage palm in the front yard. Twice he shook his scarlet crest and called out to his mate in the woods beside the creek. The early fishermen had already chugged out of their slips for a day on the Gulf.
Brandy was congratulating herself on her good luck—a night free of danger, when the phone rang. “Sheriff’s Office,” said an unfamiliar voice. “Detective Strong said to tell you they finally picked up Mr. Grapple.”
Brandy grinned with relief. “Thanks,” she said. “You made my day. Now I need to talk to Sergeant Strong.” The line went silent. At last someone fumbled with the phone and she recognized the detective’s exasperated tone.
“Good Lord, woman,” he said. “I’ve got other work to do.”
Brandy ignored the comment. “About Alma May Flint’s house. Can you send someone now? With Tugboat out of the way, I could meet him there. I don’t think she will let me in by myself.”
He breathed heavily into the mouthpiece. “Might be worth checking out. You sure don’t need to be there, but okay, I’ll send someone.”
Brandy checked her watch. She wanted time to see how Annie was doing. “About one o’clock?
“One it is, close as he can make it.”
“I’m a volunteer searcher, you know. Are others still on the island?”
“Finishing up today,” he said and hung up.
Brandy would visit Annie, retrieve her cell—she wouldn’t go any place again without it—and take a last l
ook around the northern section of the island, not only for signs of Daria but also for any clue about Timothy Hart’s treasure. It would be her last chance. She had already dressed in jeans and a well-worn, long-sleeved shirt, appropriate for the search.
This was Thursday. Last week she’d been expecting John on Friday. No chance this weekend; he made that clear. But she’d call him when she got back to Gainesville later today. Right now she needed to focus on the tasks she’d set out for the morning. Daria disappeared early Tuesday. The two days seemed like an eternity.
Before Brandy had taken care of Meg and the Persian, she had a call from her friend in the Gainesville Star’s bureau office. “Anything stirring on the dead man or the missing child?” she asked.
“Nada,” Brandy said. “Nothing to report, not yet. I’m still working on it. I may come on home early.” She didn’t tell her friend why.
On impulse she dialed her own cell number. It wasn’t in service. Either Annie had turned it off or the battery had run down. As Brandy replaced the phone, she glanced with satisfaction around the clean rooms. If she left that afternoon with Hackett, they would not need another dusting and scrubbing, a point in favor of returning to Gainesville today. With Tugboat in custody, she felt safe. Still, he could be slippery. It made sense to leave. After a search of the kitchen cupboard, she found a jar of peanut butter, spread it on two slices of bread, lifted an apple from the refrigerator, its skin only slightly brown in spots, tucked both in small plastic bags, and dropped them into a larger one for lunch, adding a small thermos of iced tea.
Brandy paused in the yard to administer Meg’s morning belly rub, then heard her complaining growl as she drove away in Carole’s car without her. She hoped Grif would be willing to transport Meg, as well. She certainly wouldn’t leave without her.
At the marina Brandy parked near the motel where she had moored her pontoon boat yesterday, and paid a fee for the overnight slip. When she topped off the pontoon’s gas tanks, the bony young man with the wide smile and the backwards cap was clearly curious. “Left in a hurry yesterday,” he said, studying her. “Looked like you got into trouble out on the water. You okay?”