SHADOW OVER CEDAR KEY

by Ann Cook

  MacGill’s head shot up and he drew in his breath.

  “You panicked. You thought no one would understand. You put her body in the cistern. Bought the hotel a few months later. No one the wiser. No need to explain. Even when the skeleton was found, no one knew who she was, and the kid had a good home.”

  Strong raised his brows and shook his head. “Then after all these years. Rossi comes snooping around. He’s about to find out. Your reputation’s at stake.”

  MacGill’s gray eyes widened and locked with Stong’s. “No! Not a bit of it!”

  Strong held up his hand. “We got your gun, we got your spade. They were wiped, but the fingerprint guys think the new laser process will bring out latent prints.”

  Again MacGill sagged in his chair. “I had a reason, mind.”

  “Sure you did,” said the detective, his jaw firm.

  MacGill looked up. “You don’t understand. I didn’t use any gun or do any digging.” He brought his hand down hard on his knee for emphasis. “Years ago, when I left that woman at the cottage, she was fit as a flea. When the storm got worse, I came back to take her to the school house. She was gone. So was the bairn. Blood all over the floor. Bedding gone. I ran to the school for help, and there’s my friend Mar-cia, full of herself, hugging that same little girl. Looked just like her own, everyone said, lost those twenty years. Marcia talked like the child was hers, brought back by the storm.”

  His eyes misted. “What was a body to think? She drove past us when I took the woman and child to the cottage. Maybe when Marcia got caught in the hurricane, her memories flooded back. She might’ve lost it. Saw the woman with a bairn she thought was hers.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Mind, I don’t know that she did it. I thought she might’ve. What good to tell someone? The bairn’s mother was surely dead.”

  “So you dropped the body in the cistern?”

  The Scotsman sat up straight. “I never saw a body, as God’s my witness.”

  When Strong finally let a shaken MacGill go, and the hotel owner had dragged himself through the door into the lounge, Marcia was waiting for him. When she took his arm and led him to a table, Brandy heard her say, “You look like you could use a drink, a strong one.”

  Brandy thought of the postcard Allison Bullen had mailed from Otter Creek, the one her uncle said his wife received in New York. “Lucky Mr. Grosmiller sent you that card,” she murmured to Strong from her chair beside the screen.

  He flashed a wicked grin. “Look at the record. I never said what she wrote in the postcard. I asked if there was any reason the dead woman would say she stayed at his cottage. Come down to it, M’am, the man couldn’t find it.”

  Brandy glanced down at her notebook. “Clever little trick. Anyway, you’ve established a possible scenario, but I’m not convinced you’ve proved it yet. Never mind MacGill’s gun. Remember, as yet no fingerprints. Almost anyone could’ve stolen it and hidden it in the basement.”

  She ticked off the other candidates. “You’ve got a jealous boyfriend who didn’t want Cara identified. If she found her lost family, she would surely leave Cedar Key. Truck Thompson wasn’t too young to be involved in Allison Bullen’s death. We know as a younger man Thompson was rough on women. Maybe gave a pretty little woman a lift in the storm, and then thought she ought to return the favor. Maybe he got enraged when she wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be the first teenager to turn violent.

  “You’ve also got a half-brother who has every reason not to want his half-sister and fellow heir discovered; and then there’s the devoted foster mother who treated the baby like her own lost child. MacGill suggested her motive. Maybe she killed the mother in a psychotic state, and now she’s trying to keep the grown child.”

  Strong stood and stretched his long arms. “Don’t forget something, young lady—the perp’s got to be connected to a drug ring.” Frowning, he looked down at her. “Speculation’s fun, right enough, but the captain wants evidence.”

  Brandy flipped back a few pages in her notebook and studied her scrawl. In a few minutes she brightened and looked up. “Something I’d written bothered me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I know what it is now.” She snapped the covers shut. “I think I know who killed Rossi, but I can’t prove it unless you help me.”

  Hands on his hips, the detective thrust his head forward. “And how do you know?”

  “Rossi told us,” she said.

  CHAPTER 22

  Brandy’s conference with the detective in the hotel sitting room took only a few minutes. Strong’s first reaction to her plan was scathing. “What you mean, girl, Rossi told us who killed him? Rossi didn’t tell us squat.”

  Undeterred, she picked up her notebook and spoke with deliberation. “I’m almost sure he did. I can prove it. If you cooperate, we can nail Rossi’s killer tonight.”

  Strong hesitated, doubtful, and scratched the back of his head. He’s trying to think of a way to let me down easy, Brandy thought. He knows I’m not worried enough about proper police procedure. She hurried on. “Say yes, and this evening will be the last time I meddle in either murder case. I promise.” That statement garnered his attention. He dropped his hand and straightened up, watching her like a skeptic watches a magician and his hat.

  “I swear,” she said, “after tonight I’ll disappear until your captain calls a press briefing. That’s the next time you’ll see me.” When his eyes brightened at the prospect, she seized her advantage. “If my plan works, even if I’m wrong about Rossi’s killer, you’ll still bag the one who’s guilty.”

  The detective visibly weakened. Brandy pressed on. “It can’t do any harm to try. You didn’t mind fooling MacGill. This won’t be that different. Look, tonight you’ve got the perfect opportunity. All the suspects will be at the same table. Just listen. You’re the main participant in the scheme. It’ll be a law enforcement operation.”

  Her promise to stay out of the Sheriff s Office business, she thought afterward, and not her logic finally convinced him. For several minutes Strong listened to the plan, raised a few half-hearted objections, and then capitulated.

  “I’ve got to make a call to Dixie County, you understand,” he said at last. “Got to have their cooperation, and at the last minute. Give me two hours to get my ducks in a row.”

  She shook her head. “An hour and a half max. The Bullen dinner won’t last long. MacGill was whacked out after the grilling, but he’ll recover fast if he needs to. And remember, everyone’s got to believe you’re going back to Bronson tonight.”

  The detective heaved a sigh and turned toward the door of the lounge. “Better hustle, then. I missed my kid’s Little League game last Saturday, thanks to this case. I can say I’m not going to miss another tonight.” He gave her a rueful glance. “Even though I will.”

  Brandy remembered something Marcia had told her about her expeditions in nature photography, something that would help Brandy’s scheme. “Before you leave town, I need to give you something you can signal me with. I can get it from Cara.”

  While Strong left to find a secure phone, she rushed to call Cara before she and Marcia left their house. “Cara, I haven’t time to explain, but I need the audio tape you and Marcia made of the Great Horned Owl. Can you slip it to me before dinner?” Cara’s puzzled tone implied Brandy had finally gone around the bend, but she could deny Brandy nothing. “I’ll bring it,” she said.

  “Don’t tell Marcia.”

  Brandy had still not seen MacGill. She would catch him or leave a message. A half an hour later, Strong and Brandy watched the Bullen party pull into the parking lot and enter the dining room to join Cara, Marcia, and Truck. Two small tables had been pushed together for the six members of the group. Mrs. Bullen had changed into a sleek, glittering bodice with an ankle length skirt. As Bullen pulled her chair out for her, Brandy heard him hiss, “You’re o
verdressed. If we weren’t staying at another hotel, I’d have you change. For God’s sake, this isn’t the Rainbow Room in New York.” His wife glanced down, for the moment embarrassed.

  He’s stressed-out and neither is in their element, Brandy thought. Cara sat next to Blade and across from Marcia, Truck between Marcia and Mrs. Bullen, who was poised at one end of the table, opposite Mr. Bullen at the other. Soothing, bread baking smells wafted in from the kitchen and overlaid the tension in the air.

  Current Wife had moved her chair as far as possible from the neighboring oyster man, whose idea of dinner clothes was a Windbreaker and a tee shirt. She stared with a puzzled expression at the life-sized, soft sculpture of a manatee and diver suspended in one corner of the room. Marcia sat with bowed head, folding and re-folding her napkin in her lap. Blade had turned up in a natty blue and ivory check sport coat with a red tie. When he arched his eyebrows and smiled down at his new-found half-sister, Truck’s wide face settled into a look of sullen hostility. In the dusk beyond the closed-in verandah, the dry seed pods of the mimosa tree rattled against the screen.

  After they were all settled, Brandy waited near the door while Strong strode into the dining room. When he approached the table, Cara introduced him to her father as the homicide detective on the Rossi case. Frank Bullen stood and shook hands.

  “I’ll brief you tomorrow, sir,” Strong said. “I missed my son’s last two little league games, and I don’t aim to miss tonight’s. Be back in the morning. The Rossi case is about to go down, and we may know something more on your.” His gaze traveled across to Current Wife. “On Allison Bullen’s case in a few days. Waiting for tests. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Nodding, Bullen seated himself again. He pursed his small mouth and picked up a menu. “We can’t stay in Florida more than a day.” He glanced out the window at the broken sidewalk and the old homes across the street. “This is hardly the place I would’ve chosen to rear a daughter. I want to make arrangements for a cremation and take my daughter back to New York.”

  Cara set a glass down and looked up quickly. “Nothing’s quite settled yet,” she said and then noticed Brandy.

  Brandy slipped across the room and hovered beside Cara’s chair. The young woman turned, reached into her pocketbook, and murmured, “I want to return this,” and passed Brandy a padded envelope.

  Bullen was sweeping on. “The Sheriff can reach me at my Manhattan office,” he said to Strong. “I’ll leave my card. After so many years, I don’t expect a full resolution.”

  Strong cocked his head to one side and gave him a sorrowful glance. “Could be you’re right. The Bible say ‘That which is far off, and exceedingly deep, who can find it out?’”

  But as he turned away from the mystified host, he winked at Brandy, and added in a low tone, “I’ve still got to find a secure phone, call the Dixie County guys.”

  “Don’t leave town yet,” Brandy whispered back. “I’ve got something to give you. I’ll meet you outside.” Strong gave her a decisive nod and disappeared through the lobby and into the gathering darkness of Second Street.

  Cara waved to Brandy. “Please join us. None of this would be happening if you hadn’t investigated.” Her invitation had the sound of a plea. Cara looked again at her father and added, “We’re talking about our plans.”

  Brandy didn’t need to see Marcia’s bleak expression or Truck’s scowl to know how welcome she would be, and she already knew Frank Bullen’s disdain for reporters. It was Cara who surprised her. Cara’s somber eyes had lost the glow they had after their rescue in Suwannee. Perhaps the discoveries had all come about too rapidly, or perhaps John had been right, after all, and she had not helped, but had hurt Cara.

  “I was just about to explain my career plans,” Cara said, leaning toward Mr. Bullen. “I’m going to take some courses in photography at the University of Florida. Work toward a degree in Fine Arts. The University has a great program.”

  Bullen gave her a slight, sad smile. “I’m afraid that’s just a state school. You’ll want a private arts college. Best in the world, right in New York.” He bent toward Cara. “I hear you’ve had to work waiting tables and even cleaning hotel rooms.” He shook his head. “I won’t have any more of that.” While he turned to consult Current Wife about the wine and the soft-shelled blue crab, Cara’s cheeks flushed and she sat back, dark eyes troubled.

  Next to her Blade lifted a highball and shot Brandy one of his appraising looks, lips tilted in a smile but the expression in his gray eyes flat. “Dad and I just missed sharing in the glory today,” he said. “We would’ve found you two. My God, I was at that very marina this morning, getting my boat out.”

  “Would’ve been the first time you put that expensive rig to good use,” his father muttered.

  But Cara turned to Blade, eager. “You’ll never know how hard Brandy and I tried to get your attention.”

  “Well, it turned out okay,” Brandy said. “The Sheriff’s people got the bad guys.” She knelt beside Cara. “I won’t join you, but I want to share some news.” The strained table talk ceased. She felt sure everyone was listening. “Sergeant Strong just told me the marine patrol moved the houseboat to a pier near Old Town. Moose is dead. Shot. I guess someone higher up was afraid he’d talk. Or maybe he was trying his hand at blackmail.”

  Cara’s lips tightened. “I won’t pretend I’m sorry.”

  “The deputies didn’t find the photograph you took at Shell Mound, though,” Brandy added. “But someone else had been searching for it.” Except for her voice and the rustle of the mimosa tree, the room was silent. She glanced around. “I know where that photograph is. I saw Moose hide it.”

  Cara drew back, frowning. “You don’t mean to go there yourself!”

  “For heaven’s sake, Cara, child’s play after what we’ve been through. Twinkle-tongue’s arrested. Moose is dead. The pier’s right off U.S. 19. There’s always a lot of traffic. Anyway, I want to get my camera back.”

  “Are the deputies still there?”

  “No, but look.” she held up Moose’s key ring. “I’ve got a key. You’re busy. I’ll give you a call when I bring it back for the Sheriff’s Office.” She dropped the key in the pocket of her slacks.

  When she rose, she was reasonably certain the rest of the table had overheard, but she had one more base to touch. All the suspects needed the same information. At the counter she leaned on her elbows and spoke to the hotel clerk. The woman’s curiosity about Brandy and the Bullens should have reached fever pitch. She could be relied on to spread the news.

  “I’ll be gone for a couple of hours,” Brandy said. “If my husband calls, say I’ve already gone to bed. I don’t want to worry him. I haven’t gone to my room yet, but tell Mr. MacGill I’ll be late. I’m going back to the houseboat to get my camera and an important photograph Cara took. I don’t want to be locked out of the hotel.” She gave the clerk a Mona Lisa smile, tucked her notebook under her arm, and strolled to the door where Strong stood beside his car.

  The air barely stirred. After the violent wind of the previous night, it now hung moist and heavy over the quiet street.

  “You’ll need a small tape recorder and this audio tape,” she said to Strong. “Play it near the houseboat, so I’ll know you and your guys are covering me. It’ll sound natural. Probably at least one owl nests along the river there. I’ll start on board when I hear it.”

  Strong stepped into his Ford Taurus. “I got a tape player in my kit. Use it sometimes for interviews. We’ll nab the perp when he shows up. He’d be trespassing, for starters. You shouldn’t need to get on the boat at all.” He sat for a moment, shaking his head. “I must be out of mind, letting you try this.”

  “Not to worry. It’ll be easy, but the suspect’s got to believe I’m going to get the photograph.”

  After he drove down the street, Brandy started the rental
car. Strong would need time to stake out the houseboat and her suspect time to exit the hotel, she pulled into the café across the street.

  At a booth she re-read her notes, wolfed down a hamburger and a cup of coffee, and stalled for an hour. Before she left the table, she lifted her pencil flashlight out of her purse and thrust it into her pocket.

  On the road again, Brandy drove down Second Street, rolled across the three bridges out of Cedar Key, and swung northeast. Between thin clouds a ghostly moon appeared and disappeared like a pale Cheshire cat. She took the shortest of three routes to Chiefland. Old Town on the north side of the Suwannee River was only a few miles farther. The whole trip should be about forty miles, even on back roads, less than an hour. She slowed, remembering again she must give Strong a chance to prepare.

  CHAPTER 23

  Brandy and Cara had survived on pure adrenaline for two days. Brandy still felt energized. One last surge was all she needed, and she was confident. They had already outwitted two clods in two days. By comparison this scenario was easy. All she had to do was present herself on the houseboat, after she knew Strong and his men were ready, pretend to go for the picture, and leave the rest—as Jeremiah Strong would say—to the professionals. John wouldn’t approve, of course, but this would be her last act in the case.

  She picked up more traffic when she hit U.S. 19. After the lights of Fanning Spring vanished from her rear view mirror, she crossed the river, passed through tiny Old Town and curved west, then south on a sandy road that wound down to a deserted pier. Next to the wooden dock lay the shadowy bulk of the houseboat. A restaurant that once served riverside meals was shuttered, and no light shone from a trailer that sat under a canopy of trees by the shore. One dim bulb burned at the end of the pier. Across the water, the bank lay in utter darkness, and above her the wind sighed through cypress leaves.