SHADOW OVER CEDAR KEY

by Ann Cook

  Tiffany Moore. She wondered if the intern would be part of their celebration.

  As John pulled out of the parking lot, Strong strode over and shook a finger in Brandy’s window. “Go straight to Miss Waters’ house first. Her Mama’s wore out with worry. She’s waiting there now.” He straightened up, hands again on his hips. “You got nothing else to concern your head about. This Rossi case will go down soon. And maybe the murder of Allison Bullen, too. No more messing, M’am, in police business.” He flashed a quick smile and winked. “Unless I ask you.”

  Strong, master of the mysterious comment, she thought.

  * * * *

  Marcia Waters came to the door of the frame cottage with haunted eyes. As she held it open, her gaze never left Cara’s face. With shock Brandy realized how the artist had aged. Her confident stance was gone. She was more stooped, every gesture more tentative. Between foster mother and daughter now lay the tattered teddy bear, a barrier as clear as a physical barricade in the room. Cara gave her an awkward peck on the cheek and strolled into the living room. What Marcia had lost in self assurance, Brandy thought, Cara had gained.

  Cara’s eyes fastened on her foster mother. “I got through the hurricane okay. We have a deeper problem. You know you kept me from finding out who I am.”

  Marcia’s long fingers spread helplessly toward Cara. “I can try to make you understand.”

  Brandy stopped in the doorway. “Look, you two have a lot to talk about. I’ll go on to the hotel.”

  Marcia turned toward Brandy as if aware of her for the first time. “Detective Strong was good enough to call me. I’ve been briefed about the kidnapping. I’m just so grateful to you.” Her voice twisted into silence. When she clasped her hands before her, Brandy realized it was to prevent their shaking. She looked from Brandy to Cara. “Cara and I have to talk, yes. I have to try to explain. But there’s something else. Officer Doggett called. Mr. Bullen—Mr. Bullen and his wife are due at the airport at four-thirty.” She can’t say “Cara’s father,” Brandy thought.

  Cara glanced at Brandy, an anxious pitch to her voice. “Don’t go. I need you at the airport. You can have a good soak in the tub here, and you’ve got fresh clothes in your suitcase. You can take a nap in my bedroom while I clean up. I’ll rest in Mother’s room. Then we’ll go together to meet the plane.”

  Brandy checked her watch. Already two-thirty. It would be quicker to stay until the Bullens arrived. She’d call the hotel now, then check in later. Marcia laid a timid hand on Cara’s arm. “I’ll fix some sandwiches. You both must be starved.” Brandy had started back to the car for her suitcase and notebook when she overheard Marcia’s soft request. “Fact is, I’d like to go to the airport, too.”

  * * * *

  After Brandy surrendered the bathtub to Cara, she lay down in her young friend’s room, closed her eyes, and thought about Rossi’s murder. If Cara was kidnapped because of the damning photograph, what had happened to it? Moose had said on the phone that he “had it,” that “it” was valuable, that he wanted his “fair share.” Would he have destroyed the picture, or had it instead given him sudden power? Not for a minute did she think Moose or the stuttering marina owner had dug Rossi’s grave that night. And not for a minute did she think the picture explained the attack on her in New York.

  She sat up, drowsy now, and leafed through her bulging notebook, then scribbled what she could remember of the houseboat. Somewhere in her notes must be a lead. When she had jettisoned the marina shorts and shirt in the bathroom, she found she still had Moose’s key ring and its set of three keys. She held them up now and studied them, trying to remember. She had seen something on the houseboat that might be important. Now what was it?

  CHAPTER 21

  The airport lay on a spit of land between a marsh and a patch of weeds and wild flowers, a 2,400 foot strip two miles from town with no directional lights, no fuel, and no personnel. At four-thirty Brandy, Cara, and Marcia waited beside the field in the rental car, Cara’s new-found confidence waning by the minute. The strain of Marcia’s break with Cara was clear in her foster mother’s hollow eyes.

  Above the orange wind sock they heard the plane’s engines, saw the sleek little jet slow, bank, settle into a long glide, and strike the ground with a light bounce. In a few minutes Frank Bullen in a gray business suit emerged from the plane’s doorway and came down the metal steps. His wife’s tall figure sidled along behind him in a beige silk pants suit with wide, billowing legs. Bullen’s features were as bland as Brandy remembered, perhaps a trifle plump, his mouth small, his manner deliberate. He glanced at the first familiar face, Brandy’s, and raised a gray eyebrow.

  “The newspaper woman?” He emphasized each word. “I hadn’t expected you here. This is a private matter. We don’t want publicity.”

  Cara’s fingers shook as she took Brandy’s arm and extended the other hand, brown eyes shining. “I’m Cara. Brandy’s been helping me find you. She’s kind of been my guide.”

  Bullen’s voice dropped. “Well, then.” He paused, his eyes appraising Brandy. “We all have a lot of catching up to do.” He took Cara’s hand, studied her with a subdued smile, then moved in beside her, deftly replacing Brandy. Mrs. Bullen halted at the bottom of the steps, her chestnut page boy lifting in the slight wind. As she began ankling in high-heeled pumps across the uneven asphalt, Bullen stepped forward, held out his arm, and turned again to Cara. “My wife, the current Mrs. Bullen.” He gave Cara a tight smile.

  The last Mrs. Bullen, Brandy thought, was presumably Cara’s mother, and her mind turned to “My Last Duchess” in Browning’s famous sonnet. She wondered if this next wife had a first name. She’d never heard him use it. The current Mrs. Bullen offered Cara her hand. “Such a charming young lady,” she murmured, bending her elegant head to Cara’s level. Then standing tall again, she stared at the bleak airfield around her, breathing in the fresh smell of green plants and salt water, a startled expression in her eyes.

  Marcia stood humbly to one side in her plain white blouse and long skirt, her strong artist’s hands folded before her, her cheeks drawn, her lips pressed together.

  “This is my foster mother, Marcia Waters,” Cara explained, touching Marcia’s arm. “She’s been very good to me.”

  Bullen inclined his head toward her. “Someone from the Sheriff s Office told me you’ve reared Belinda. Of course, under the circumstances, that was a generous thing to do.” Again the careful smile. “I’ll certainly see you are appropriately compensated.”

  Marcia opened her mouth, then without making a sound, closed it. In her anguished silence, Brandy heard the cry of a frightened toddler alone in a storm, the voices of the school girl and her devoted foster parents, the pleas of a mother now for her grown daughter’s love.

  But Bullen’s attention was no longer on Marcia Waters. His glance swept the desolate airstrip and its fringe of scrub oaks. An osprey swept through the faded sunlight to its nest in a longleaf pine. Someone will need to pick up the pilot and our bags later,” he said. “Don’t see any taxis or much of anything else.”

  The trio followed Brandy to her car, where the Bullens climbed into the rear with Cara, and Marcia slid into the passenger seat. “I can come back,” the artist said. “I have a panel truck.” In the rear view mirror Brandy saw Mrs. Bullen’s eyebrows lift.

  Marcia appeared not to notice. “Would you care to stop at our house? You could visit with Cara there.”

  Bullen wiped his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief, leaned back, and sighed. “That’s very kind—Mrs. Waters is it? But I think we need to go to the hotel. It’s been a tiring day.”

  Brandy thought of Cara’s last two harrowing days and bit her lip.

  “Drop Marcia off, then,” Cara said, “and we’ll take them to the Island Hotel. I used to work there. It’s quite historic, and it has a gourmet restaurant.”

&nbs
p; Mrs. Bullen turned her stately profile and gazed out the car window at the cedars and live oaks, at the Victorian homes and the Gulf, at the dark outline of Atsena Otie Key. “Quaint.” She looked at Cara beside her. “Our Manhattan townhouse will be quite a change, of course.”

  Cara gave her a look of faint surprise. “I’d look forward to a visit,” she said.

  In the hotel, while Cara stopped at the counter, Mr. Bullen looked around the lobby, then turned to Current Wife. “Go to the desk and explain the accommodations I need. Perhaps the clerk can recommend something modern.”

  Brandy went in search of MacGill. She wanted to give the pair and Cara some space, and to find some time alone to update her notes. Something she’d already jotted down kept trying to surface, and she still couldn’t remember the elusive detail about Moose’s houseboat.

  Without locating the proprietor, Brandy returned to the sound of Mrs. Bullen’s distinctive trill. While Bullen himself waited just inside the double doors, his wife was poised at the counter, speaking to the awed clerk. “The hotel’s charming, but of course, Mr. Bullen needs a phone in his room. Clients may need to reach him.” Her gaze swept over the plain wooden chairs, the iron stove, the time-worn staircase rising in shadows at the end of the room. She shrugged the shoulders of her silk tunic. “We really prefer something a bit more contemporary.”

  It would not matter to the Bullens, Brandy thought, that Civil War soldiers on both sides had trod those steps, and wealthy long-ago merchants, and a railroad magnate of the early 1860’s who expected Cedar Key to be the prime port on the West Coast.

  As Current Wife rested her hand with its expertly manicured nails on the counter, Brandy noticed she was wearing, in addition to the exquisite diamond she’d had on her left hand in New York, a gold and pearl pendant with matching earrings. Probably needs a safe, she thought. Not likely in Cedar Key, not since the 1860’s.

  The young desk clerk, much impressed, peered over her glasses and then telephoned a new motel at the end of the street. To Brandy she announced that Mr. MacGill was not feeling well and couldn’t see her, but that her room was ready. The clerk also had messages: Blade would meet his father for dinner at the hotel, and Doggett had called to report that a deputy was bringing Cara’s station wagon home. It had been found, Doggett said, at an abandoned hunting camp. Because of the hurricane, the owner had gone to check on his property. Otherwise the camp would’ve been deserted for months.

  Bullen turned to Cara. “Splendid. You’ll have your car tomorrow. I’ve asked your stepmother to take you shopping in the nearest good-sized town. She’ll pick out the smart clothes I want you to wear in New York.”

  Cara had no chance to react. As Bullen was speaking, Brandy could see Truck Thompson’s fish house van careen up to the curb. The hotel doors burst open, and the oyster man’s solid body hurtled into the lobby. “You lied to me!” he shouted at Cara. “You didn’t go to no friend’s house! I been crazy with worry.” Brandy wondered what Frank Bullen and his wife would make of the soiled black jacket and fisherman’s boots.

  Cara put one slender hand on the oyster man’s arm. “Someone should’ve told you. I was kidnapped. The Sheriff’s Office found Brandy and me today.” She looked up at Truck’s scowl. “This is my father, Frank Bullen from New York.”

  Truck swung around to face the older man, close-set eyes ablaze. “Don’t figure on taking her off somewheres, like New York. Cara belongs in Cedar Key. We took her in. I been watching out for her ever since she was a shirt-tail young’un. Cara and me got an understanding. I got a fine business. She can have whatever she wants right here.”

  Bullen shook his head, unperturbed, like a person watching an exotic species. “I’m afraid we’ve made our plans, but since you’re a friend of hers, you must join us for dinner. My daughter will bring Mrs. Waters, and my son will be here, too. About seven at the hotel, shall we say?” Bullen ignored Truck’s reddened face and looked at Brandy. “Will you be able to drive us over to the motel? Perhaps Belinda—Cara.” again the bleak smile—”will be kind enough to bring us our suitcases.” He looked again at Cara. “It’s been an extraordinary day. We’ll have a real talk in private tomorrow.”

  As the Bullens settled into her car’s rear seat, Brandy wondered if this man had any real emotions at all. Perhaps a lifetime of steely control had merely blunted their expression. But when he took out the monogrammed handkerchief again to wipe his forehead, his hand shook.

  Brandy watched in the rear view mirror as he stared out at the deserted gazebo in City Park. “Belinda’s mother could’ve had any luxuries she wanted.” His voice softened. “The best of everything, the both of them. At home I protected her. She turned her back on it all. Chose to run off to the other end of nowhere, get picked up and bludgeoned to death in some cheap tourist cabin. I imagine she was meeting some man.” Then the bitterness seemed to drain from his voice. “Her daughter seems more reasonable.”

  * * * *

  When Brandy returned to the hotel, she met Detective Strong coming out of the sitting room between MacGill’s apartment and the lounge. He towered above her, a half-smile on his lips. “You’re a first class note taker. I expect you’re a good observer, too. Got a favor to ask.”

  Brandy halted, surprised. But he had hinted he might need her.

  “What I want you to do is this. I gotta question MacGill, and I don’t wanna take notes right in his face. A tape recorder makes a guy clam up.” He dropped his voice. “I got no deputy with me. I want you to sit quiet-like in a corner and write down what the guy says, how he acts. You know MacGill, and I don’t. You’re more likely to know if he’s telling the truth. Anyway, I need a witness.”

  Brandy nodded, feeling bad for the Scotsman but good for the feature story she would eventually write.

  “Likely I’ll carry him into Bronson for more questioning tomorrow, but he’ll talk better now, here in his own place.”

  When Brandy returned with her notebook, Strong led her into the darkened sitting room and placed her in the shadow of a tall Japanese screen. “We won’t try to fool the guy. He’ll know you’re here, but I hope he’ll forget about you.” He hesitated. “Guess I could tell you the latest development. I had a call from Dixie County. They’ve finished going over the houseboat. Moved it to a pier near Old Town. Bad thing is, the guy called Moose is dead. They found him in the river, shot. Best guess is late morning or early afternoon.”

  “No big surprise there,” Brandy said. “He’s got another partner, I figure, more dangerous than the marina owner. And the Shell Mound photograph?”

  “Couldn’t find it. But they don’t think the killer did, either. Everything in the boat was a mess, like there’d been a right smart search.”

  Brandy looked thoughtful. “Sounds like Moose got greedy. I heard him try to make his partner pay for the picture. He forgot he knew too much. Not too bright ofhim, but that was typical Moose behavior. He went ashore and left us alone on the boat. That’s how we got away.” Her mind raced back to the interior of the houseboat’s cabin. She would have to think of a place the deputies didn’t.

  When MacGill appeared in his doorway, Strong explained that, for MacGill’s own protection, Brandy would make a record of the interview. Thrusting out his lower lip, MacGill gave Brandy a long look, then seemed to accept her role. He sat down, rigid, crossed his legs, and folded his arms across his chest. “You’re a canny lad, Detective Strong. Shouldn’t I have a lawyer?”

  Strong leaned forward, his big hands relaxed between his knees. “Well, technically you could, but I don’t suppose there’s anyone handy now in Cedar Key. You’ve got nothing to hide, and this is just a preliminary talk, sir, very informal.”

  MacGill kept his arms folded, but after a few seconds, he nodded.

  The detective began by complimenting the proprietor on his civic pride, the work he’d done on the hotel, his reputation
for helping people. Gradually the Scotsman’s arms dropped to his lap, his tension faded.

  Strong went on in a calm voice. MacGill’s testimony was valuable, he’d be better off telling everything he knew about the Bullen case. MacGill tilted his head, wary.

  “We think you can help us with Allison Bullen’s disappearance,” Strong said, his voice earnest. “I looked at the report the officers made at the time. That cashier gave them the names of everyone she saw in the restaurant that night. It’s a pretty long list, but your name’s on it.”

  MacGill started. “That proves nothing. Before the storm, mind, lots of people were there. Truck Thompson, for one.”

  Strong smiled agreeably. “A wild kid then. The cashier said he got gas that night. But you’re more the kind wants to help someone. A woman with a little child, frightened and caught in a storm.”

  When MacGill looked down, Strong pursued. “And you with some empty beach cottages. Everyone gone because of the hurricane warning. Most natural thing in the world. You gave her a lift, put her up for the night free.” Strong shook his head in admiration. “The good Samaritan.”

  MacGill stared at the floor.

  “’Course, something unexpected coulda happened. We found the fabric from the cottages with the woman’s bones. We got folks say it’s the kinda bedspread the housekeeper used on the couches. Got the remains of a big old flashlight like the ones in each cottage.” He sighed. “I been in touch with Allison Bullen’s uncle. The bank just opened his wife’s safety deposit box. She died a few days ago. Can you think of any reason Allison Bullen would’ve sent a post card that said she was staying at your place?”

  He paused and MacGill sat silent, head again tilted forward. At last he looked away; his shoulders slumped. Then he shifted his body and slapped one thigh. “She was helpless, scared to death. I should’ve told someone. I meant to help her and the wee bairn.”

  Strong nodded sympathetically. “’Course you did. You probably never even knew her name.” His voice grew more intense. “But the medical examiner thought that big flashlight was the murder weapon. A misunderstanding between you, maybe? You never meant to hurt her.”