by Ann Cook
At last she set her wrist watch alarm for 5:00 A.M. and picked up the glass. Time for the notebook. Had she missed anything? For several minutes she read, frowning, flipping back and forth between the pages. When she closed the book, she stared out at the darkened street, her fingers still gripping the cover. Brandy hoped she was wrong, but she had been overlooking important points. She felt like a cartoon character with a light bulb suddenly blazing above her head. She did not feel safer because of what she had read, but surprised. Her options were few.
Brandy began to relax as the last drops of the smooth, sweet sherry slid down her throat. She snapped off the lamp on the end table, and curled up under the quilt. Meg stretched out on the floor beside her, coppery head and pale muzzle resting on her paws. As Brandy closed her eyes, she knew Detective Strong, as usual, would not approve of her actions. Neither would John. Maybe if the Sergeant read Lieutenant Henry Hart’s journal again, he would recall that the Seminole warrior had placed the artifact in a tobacco pouch before hiding it in a hole of water. That fact would show that the treasure Timothy Hart expected to find had actually been in the cistern and had been stolen. She would lend the detective her notebook. He should make the same deductions she did about the theft and murder. First, she would call and leave him a tip.
But the most priceless missing treasure of the tribe was not an artifact, but a vivacious, black-eyed little girl, worth more than all the relics in all the world’s museums. Again Brandy felt the weight of sadness. She could not be as hopeful about finding Daria.
She dropped off to sleep, still thinking of Annie and her grief. About 1:00 A.M. she awoke to a tiny, repetitious sound, Meg’s nails clicking on the hardwood floors. The retriever had prowled through the apartment and stationed herself at the back bedroom window. Deep in her throat, she was growling. Brandy slipped off the couch, crept into the bedroom, keeping in the shadows, and peered out into the blackness of a moonless night. She could neither see nor hear anything. At last she trudged back into the living room, Meg trailing after her. Brandy crawled again onto the couch and dozed fitfully until 4:45 A.M. If her conclusions last night were correct, she and Strong would discover the truth tomorrow.
CHAPTER 17
When the alarm woke Brandy, she heard Meg whimper beside the couch and fumbled to turn off the ring. “Hurt your ears, girl? Want to go outside?” Meg leaped up and danced in place. The joys of dog ownership. Brandy slipped on her scuffs, stepped into Lily Anne’s bedroom to pull a terry cloth robe from the closet, and stuffed her apartment key into a pocket. Then she started downstairs with Meg on her leash. The night’s rest had reduced the swelling in her ankle and she could walk with more comfort. Cautiously, she opened the rear door into the dark.
She could see no one. If Meg had heard someone downstairs in the night, that person was now gone. The rain had stopped, replaced by a chill wind. Only a faint light glowed in the east. She should be away by dawn. She peered around the corner of the building. The pick-up truck no longer lurked in the side street. While Meg sniffed an inviting patch of grass, Brandy checked out her own Toyota coupe in the parking lot, glad no one involved in the Hart case could identify it. She would be hard to spot and follow.
But as soon as she opened the door to her own apartment, a knot settled in her stomach. Every room had been ransacked—kitchen drawers pulled out, sofa cushions upended, bookcases emptied. Meg stiffened and stalked into the living room, ears lifted. In a daze Brandy marched on into the bedroom. More rummaging had gone on here. Bedclothes were strewn about, dresser drawers opened and the contents spilled, the dressing table moved, even the mattress pushed askew. Brandy sank down on the bed, shaking. The back window had been forced.
What if she had stayed in her apartment? To steady her hands, she gripped the sheets and tried to think rationally. As far as she could tell, nothing was missing. The television, VCR, and radios had not been touched. Brandy had nothing of value except the tobacco pouch, safely upstairs. Clearly, someone believed she had something worth much more. For a moment she thought of calling the Gainesville police immediately. But that would delay her. She had to get away. She would feel safer among people. She needed to be in Tampa, and this afternoon she’d be with Strong.
Brandy dragged from the bedroom closet a small, worn suitcase. She’d leave it in her car as a decoy. Into it she tossed cleaning rags from the utility room and empty aluminum cans from the trash. If someone wanted to steal from her, they’d probably go for the suitcase, hear the rattle, and think they had a box with an artifact. Then tugging on the leash, she stopped Meg from snuffling around the sill and the clothes on the floor, and pulled her toward the bedroom door. Even if Meg recognized the intruder by smell, she couldn’t signal that identity to Brandy. She and Meg mustn’t disturb anything else. The police might investigate a break-in later, but not this morning. In her kitchen she tossed two daily servings of Meg’s dry food into a plastic container, looked around—still with disbelief—and closed and locked her apartment door.
Back upstairs, her mouth still felt dry and her chest tight. She pulled on blue slacks and a white shirt, wrapping a blue scarf at the neckline, and placed the first aid kit with the Seminole pouch under her notebook at the bottom of her canvas bag. She wanted to be ready to hand it to strong. After she slung a sweater over her arm, she lifted the hanging bag with the gray suit and blouse out of the closet and picked up her dress shoes.
She didn’t expect to be alone except on the trip down, and then she’d be on a well-traveled highway. The canvas bag with the pouch wouldn’t leave her sight.
No time for breakfast now. She’s stop a few miles south, a short distance from the Interstate, in the tiny town of Micanopy. She’d have to kill time. She saw no point in arriving at the Seminole Cultural Center before mid-afternoon when, as she’d told Strong, many involved in the Hart case would gather for tomorrow morning’s ceremony. Grif would meet her there, as well as Strong. Tugboat, Melba, and Alma May had probably heard they were going to Tampa and might follow.
The night before Brandy had puzzled over her notes and carefully examined what she’d been told, what she’d seen, even what she had foolishly said herself. Then she had concentrated on all the facts as she relaxed into sleep. In the morning she had reached a conclusion. If her theory proved correct, the monster would be unmasked in Tampa.
Before she left Gainesville, Brandy put in a call to Detective Strong. He wouldn’t be in his office at five-thirty in the morning, but someone would take calls for the Sheriff s Office. First she explained to the responding officer that someone had searched her apartment and gave her address. The officer was more surprised by the rest of her message. She gave him a brief summary of the facts she had recorded and made sure the officer wrote down the entire message
“Better have Sergeant Strong ask the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office to stand by in Tampa,” she added. A shiver raced through her. “He may need them. He may wind this whole case up today or tomorrow.” Her main suggestion, though, she added in a one word tip, one she hoped might lead the detective to Daria.
By 6:00 A.M. Brandy had loaded her clothing for the trip and settled Meg in the back seat. A half an hour later she drove south down the oak-lined main street of Micanopy, one of Florida’s oldest little towns, now a haven of antique and book stores. Her pulse slowed. No one here had ever heard of Timothy Hart. A few clouds shifted in the dim sky, and when she stopped and opened the car door, she drew in the sweet scent of early morning.
Fortunately, one restaurant was already open, catering to early Gainesville commuters or possibly to turkey hunters. She parked where she could watch Meg, tethered to a tree by the window, and between forkfuls of scrambled eggs and sausage, thought about the Seminole chief Micanopy, the town’s namesake. Maybe the Indian who had been captured by Lieutenant Henry Hart had served under that chief. The community lay in the same general area as Homosassa, but inland. Back in the car, Brandy patted the box that contained the pouch. One of Micanop
y’s warriors could’ve carried it before he killed Alma May Flint’s family, before he hid the artifact. Whoever that Indian was, he caused the murder of Timothy Hart more than a century and a half later.
Brandy meandered down the highway, grateful to feel more relaxed than she had in a week. There wasn’t much traffic, but she kept the speedometer at fifty. She didn’t plan to arrive early.. .After checking her map, she detoured west to small Dade Battlefield Historic State Park, where she studied the battlefield markers and toured the Visitor Center. Here she learned that a Seminole ambush of 107 soldiers in December of 1835 by Micanopy and his warriors left only three of the soldiers alive, and that event exploded into the Second Seminole War. Brandy was wryly amused that an engagement won by Indians became a “massacre,” while another won by the army became a “battle.” But the history of the war clarified why the hatred grew so intense among the army, settlers, and besieged Seminoles.
Brandy drove on at a leisurely pace and halted for a late lunch in Dade City, named for the major who had fought and lost to Micanopy’s Seminoles. All during the trip she watched her rear view mirror. No out-sized pick-up loomed into view.
When Brandy swung onto Tampa’s Orient Road, she checked her watch again. Still only 2:00 P.M. She and Strong had agreed on late afternoon. To kill more time she turned into the only fast food restaurant near the Seminole Reservation, planning to pick up a Tampa newspaper and buy a cup of coffee. As soon as she stepped into the cool interior, she spotted a familiar couple, a short, wiry woman with a pinched face and, seated across the table, a hat rack of a woman in a trim business suit. Melba spoke earnestly, punctuating each remark by brandishing her fork. “We get enough money, I’ll be able to leave that awful man for good,” she was saying.
Alma May saw Brandy and motioned to Melba to be quiet. “Looks like you got here ahead of that fellow works with bones,” she said. “Haven’t seen him go by yet. Figure you two got pretty thick back in Homosassa.”
Brandy was startled, but not altogether surprised to see them near the Casino. She’d heard Tugboat claim they often came here. She saw no reason to be evasive. “I’ve come to cover the interment of the mound builder child. It’ll be tomorrow morning,” she explained. “Also, to visit my husband, who’s working in Tampa.”
Melba, as always, was more tactful than her friend. “I’ve got business appointments later this afternoon in Tampa,” she said. “But we came early for a little bingo.” Thankfully, the meeting was not developing into a confrontation, at least not until Alma May added her final touch. “I reckon them Indians will be here, too. Remember, my house and property is still mine. I never sold it to no one. Won’t be a court in the land will hold any different.”
Brandy wondered if they were staying at the nearby Seminole hotel. She nodded pleasantly, bought her coffee and newspaper, and carried them out to the car. When she turned into the Seminole Cultural Center grounds a few minutes later, she noted that the parking lot for the casino was packed and nearby a long line of cars waited before a tobacco shop for tax-free cigarettes. Ironic that the whole complex, including a large hotel and restaurant, was here as a happenstance of history.
During the Second Seminole War Tampa’s Fort Brooke had provided protection for the settlements on Florida’s west coast. In 1979, when a parking garage was built on the site, contractors found 150 Seminole skeletons in the old cemetery. To help the Seminoles properly inter these dead locally, the tribe was awarded a reservation of thirty-eight acres. The Indians built a museum around a memorial to their Fort Brooke dead, then crowded in the gift shop and a profitable bingo palace. Very shrewd.
Brandy was surprised that the tribe had allotted only a half dozen parking spaces in front of the large, tin-roofed gift shop and museum next to the casino. When she pulled in, she didn’t see Strong’s car or Grif s van, but felt a wave of relief that she also didn’t see Tugboat’s pick-up. She had completed the first phase of her plan successfully. Apparently, she had given Tugboat the slip. She wondered if Grif had. She also wondered exactly when Strong would arrive. He’d suggested late afternoon. She checked her watch—2:30 P.M. It would be foolish to wait out here for the detective. In spite of her efforts, she had arrived early.
Brandy laid her locked suitcase with its phony contents on the back seat, partly covered by an old jacket, as if she had tried to conceal it. She knew she might invite a broken window, but the risk seemed to be the cost of trapping her burglar, if not a killer. She sat for a moment, wishing she knew how to reach Annie, but she’d never asked for the Seminole couple’s Tampa address or phone number. Anyway, Annie might not want to be bothered. She would have many supportive friends here. Brandy reached back and petted her patient golden retriever. Perhaps she could beg Meg’s way in and ask to fill her water bowl. She could always count on Meg to behave.
At the entrance two totem poles with carvings of Seminoles in turbans and leggings towered by the door, along with a larger-than-life statue of a warrior sculpted from wood. The three stood beside soft drink dispensers. The large American flag decorating the window was embossed with a Seminole on horseback. Two cultures side by side, but separate. With Meg’s shortened leash gripped in one hand and carrying the water bowl in the other, Brandy opened the gift shop door and stepped into a large room with a concrete floor. Long tables cluttered with Indian beads and jewelry filled the interior space, displaying palmetto fiber dolls, bright, multi-colored skirts and children’s clothing, and racks of Seminole postcards. The walls were hung with large oil portraits. One she recognized as Fishhawk, resplendent in Medicine Man regalia, belted scarlet tunic and oval, scarlet hat decorated with a feather. She remembered how he had tried to cleanse Tiger Tail Island of its witch, how he had apparently failed.
The only other person in the room, a dark-skinned middle-aged woman with a long black braid down her back, stood at a counter near the door to the outside exhibit. Brandy had again expected more visitors. She approached the clerk.
“I’m Brandy O’Bannon, a newspaper reporter. I’m meeting Fishhawk—Mr. Franklin Pine—here,” she began.
The woman looked at her gravely with black, expressive eyes. Like Fish-hawk, she gave nothing away, “I’ve been expecting you,” she said. “The reservation police were contacted by the Sheriff s Office. I’m told a detective from Citrus County is meeting you here as well.”
“I’m working on a story about Fishhawk Pine and his wife,” Brandy said. “And trying to help them.”
The clerk glanced down at Meg and frowned. “Mrs. Pine called, too. She said to let you look at everything here. They’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t have a place to leave my dog.” Brandy followed the clerk’s gaze. “I’d like to get her some water in the rest room. She’s well-behaved. May she stay?” The woman pursed her lips and looked again at the retriever. Brandy didn’t wait for her answer. She hurried with Meg into the women’s room, emerged with the water, and set it down for Meg.
“While I’m waiting,” she said, “I’d like to pay the entrance fee and see the exhibits, especially the museum.” It would have an attendant, and surely more customers. She glanced down meaningfully at Meg, who wagged her fluffy tail, rumbled a low, friendly greeting, and gazed up with what seemed like hopeful eyes.
“I don’t know,” the woman said. “Not supposed to. We’ve got animals here.”
“I’ll keep my dog on a tight leash. She won’t bother any of them, honestly. Otherwise, I can’t go in myself.”
The woman frowned. “The docent needs to leave early today. If no one else is here, he’ll lock up early.”
Brandy took her answer as a “yes.” She pulled her billfold from her bag, paid the $5.00 entrance fee, and added an extra two dollars for her pet. “I won’t be long,” she said. Silently, the cashier rang up the sale and unfastened a chain across the doorway.
As soon as Brandy stepped on the wooden walkway that bridged a narrow stream, several large white geese cackled loudly and strutt
ed about, flapping their wings. Meg cringed and took refuge behind Brandy. “They’re watchdogs like you, silly,” she said and yanked the retriever on past. “They won’t hurt you, but they do make a racket.”
Before them rose a thatched presentation area and stage, attended only by a few wandering roosters and hens. Meg lunged at a Road Island Red and sent it squawking, but Brandy tugged her back onto the path and coiled the leash even more snugly around her wrist. To the right lay a small, fenced lagoon, where a number of medium-sized alligators lounged on an island, and beyond them, she saw a cage of snakes, mainly rattlers and fat water moccasins. Several almost dry, stale-smelling streams laced the grounds, spanned by little bridges. This was not Disney World—no manicured hedges or velvet lawns here. Mostly the grass was weedy, the banana plants, and ferns rank, the water covered with greenish scum, all intended, she supposed, to remain in its natural state.
Brandy paused under an oak, fringed with Spanish moss, then walked on past a stand of cabbage palms, motionless and untrimmed under the partly cloudy sky. No one else appeared in the area. To her left, beyond the open air auditorium, lay the ceremonial grounds, its many chickees vacant, and before her an overturned, thirty foot cypress canoe ringed by broad, green elephant ears and still under construction. She glanced around in vain for Fishhawk. One of his jobs was to demonstrate canoe making. But all was silent. Across a stream stood the octagonal museum, the burial place for the Indian bones from Fort Brooke.