“Rachel? Became...a cop?” Brock shook his head, not sure if he was angry or amused. Rachel had never wanted to break a nail. She’d been pretty and delicate and... She’d also been a constant accessory of Nils Hartford.
“I guess your old friend Flannery was afraid to tell you.”
“I don’t know why he would be. I’m just a little surprised—she seemed more likely to be on one of those shows about rich housewives in a big city, but I never had a problem with her. That the Hartford brothers both became employees—that’s also a surprise. They made me think of Dirty Dancing. They were the rich kids—we were the menial labor. But the world changes. People change.”
“Flannery’s point, so it appears, is that a number of the same players are in the area—may mean something and may not. There have been, give or take, approximately a thousand murders in the state per year in the last years. But that’s only about four percent per the population. Still, anything could have happened. Violent crime may have to do with many factors—often family related, gang related, drug related, well...you know all the drills. But if we do have a serial situation down there—relating to or not relating to the past—everyone needs to move quickly. Not only do you know the area and the terrain, you know people and you know the ropes of getting around many of the people and places who might be integral to the situation.”
“Yes. And any agent would want to put a halt to this—put an end to a serial killer. Or find the girls—alive, one can pray—or stop future abductions and killings.”
Egan nodded grimly and tossed a small pile of photos down before him. Brock could see three young, hopeful faces looking back at him. All three were attractive, and more grippingly, all three seemed to smile with life and all that lay before someone at that tender age.
“The missing,” Egan said. He had big hands and long fingers. He used them to slide the first three photographs over.
The last was a divided sheet. On one side was the likeness of a beautiful young woman, probably in her early twenties. Her hair had been thick and dark and curly; her eyes had been sky blue. Her smile had been engaging.
“Maureen Rodriguez,” Egan said. He added softly, “Then and now.”
On the other side of the divided sheet was a crime scene photo—an image of bones, scattered in dirt in a pile of sheets. In the center of the broken and fragmented bones was a skull.
The skull retained bits of flesh.
“According to the investigation, she was on her way to Frampton Ranch and Resort,” Egan said.
Brock nodded slowly and rose. “As am I,” he said. “When do I leave?”
“Your plane is in two hours—down to Jacksonville. You’ve a rental car in your name when you arrive. I’m sure you know the way to the property. Detective Flannery will be waiting to hear from you. He’ll go over all the particulars.”
Brock was surprised to see that Egan was still studying him. “You are good, right?” he asked Brock.
“Hey, everyone wants to head to Florida for the winter, don’t they?” he asked. “I’m good,” he said seriously. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we can put the past to rest after all.”
* * *
“I LOVE IT—just love it, love it, love it! Love it all!” Angie Parsons said enthusiastically. She offered Maura one of her biggest, happiest smiles.
She was staring at the History Tree, her smile brilliant and her enthusiasm for her project showing in the brightness of her eyes and her every movement. “I mean, people say Florida has no history—just because it’s not New England and there were no pilgrims. But, hey, St. Augustine is—what?—the oldest settlement continually...settled...by Europeans in the country, right? I mean, way back, the Spaniards were here. No, no, the state wasn’t one of the original thirteen colonies. No, no Puritans here. But! There’s so much! And this tree... No one knows how old the frigging oak is or when the palm tree grew in it or through it or with it or whatever.”
Angie Parsons was cute, friendly, bright and sometimes, but just sometimes, too much. At five feet two inches, she exuded enough energy for a giant. She had just turned thirty—and done brilliantly for her years. She had written one of the one most successful nonfiction book series on the market. And all because she got as excited as she did about objects and places and things—such as the History Tree.
The main tree was a black oak; no one knew quite how old it was, but several hundred years at least. That type of oak was known to live over five hundred years.
A palm tree had—at some time—managed to grow at the same place, through the outstretched roots of the oak and twirling up around the trunk and through the branches. It was bizarre, beautiful, and so unusual that it naturally inspired all manner of legends, some of those legends based on truth.
And, of course, the History Tree held just the kind of legend that made Angie as successful as she was.
Angie’s being incredibly successful didn’t hurt Maura any.
But being here... Yes, it hurt. At least...it was incredibly uncomfortable. On the one hand it was wonderful seeing people she had worked with once upon a time in another life.
On the other hand it was bizarre. Like visiting a mirror dimension made up of things she remembered. The Hartford brothers were working there now. Nils was managing the restaurants—he’d arrived at the table she and Angie had shared last night to welcome them and pick up their dinner check. Of course, Nils had become management. No lowly posts for him. He seemed to have an excellent working relationship with Fred Bentley, who was still the manager of the resort. Bentley had come down when they’d checked in—he’d greeted Maura with a serious hug. She was tall, granted, and in heels, and he was on the short side for a man—about five-ten—but it still seemed that his hug allowed for him to rest his head against her breasts a moment too long.
But still, he’d apparently been delighted to see her.
And Mark Hartford had come to see her, too, grown-up, cute and charming now—and just as happy as his brother to see her. It was thanks to her, he had told her, and her ability to tell the campfire histories, that had made him long to someday do the same.
The past didn’t seem like any kind of a boulder around his neck. Certainly he remembered the night that Francine had been murdered.
The night that had turned her life upside down had been over twelve years ago.
Like all else in the past, it was now history.
Time had marched on, apparently, for them—and her.
She’d just turned eighteen the last time she had been here. When that autumn had come around, she’d done what she’d been meant to do, headed to the University of Central Florida, an amazing place to study performance of any kind and directing and film—with so many aspects thrown into the complete education.
She’d spent every waking minute in classes—taking elective upon elective to stay busy. She was now CEO of her own company, providing short videos to promote writers, artists, musicians and anyone wanting video content, including attorneys and accountants.
Not quite thirty, she could be proud of her professional accomplishments—she had garnered a great reputation.
She enjoyed working with Angie. The writer was fun, and there was good reason for her success. She loved the bizarre and spooky that drew human curiosity. Even those who claimed they didn’t believe in anything even remotely paranormal seemed to love Angie’s books.
Most of the time, yes, Maura did truly enjoy working with Angie, and since Angie had tried doing her own videos without much success, she was equally happy to be working with Maura. They’d done great bits down in Key West at the cemetery there—where Maura’s favorite tomb was engraved with the words I told you I was sick!—and at the East Martello Museum with Robert the Doll. They had filmed on the west coast at the old summer estates that had belonged to Henry Ford and Thomas Edison. And they’d worked together in St. Augustine, where they’d crea
ted twenty little video bits for social media that had pleased Angie to no end—and garnered hundreds of thousands of hits.
Last night, even Marie Glass—Donald’s reserved and elegant wife—had come by their dinner table to welcome them and tell them just how much she enjoyed all the videos that Maura had done for and with Angie, telling great legends and wild tales that were bizarrely wonderful—and true.
Maybe naturally, since they were working in Florida, Angie had determined that they had to stay at Frampton Ranch and Resort and film at the History Tree.
Maura had suggested other places that would make great content for a book on the bizarre: sinkholes, a road where cars slid uphill instead of downhill—hell, she would have done her best to make a giant ball of twine sound fascinating. There were lots of other places in the state with strange stories—lord! They could go back to Key West and film a piece on Carl Tanzler, who had slept with the corpse of his beloved, Elena de Hoyos, for seven years.
But Angie was dead set on seeing the History Tree, and when they’d gotten to the clearing she had started spinning around like a delighted child.
She stopped suddenly, staring at Maura.
“You really are uncomfortable here, aren’t you? Scared? You know, I’ve told you—you can hire an assistant. Maybe a strapping fellow, tall, dark and handsome—or blond and handsome—and muscle-bound. Someone to protect us if the bogeyman is around at any of our strange sites.” Angie paused, grinning. She liked men and didn’t apologize for it. In her own words, if you didn’t kiss a bunch of frogs, you were never going to find a prince.
“Angie, I like doing my own work—and editing it and assuring that I like what I’ve done. I promise you, if we turn something into any kind of a feature film, we’ll hire dozens of people.”
Angie sighed. “Well, so much for tall, dark—or blond—and handsome. Your loss, my dear friend. Anyway. You do amazing work for me. You’re a one-woman godsend.”
“Thanks,” Maura told her. She inhaled a deep breath.
“Could you try not to look quite so miserable?”
“Oh, Angie. I’m sorry. It’s just...”
“The legend. The legend about the tree—oh, yes. And the murder victims found here. I’m sorry, Maura, but... I mean, I film these places because they have legends attached to them.” Angie seemed to be perplexed. She sighed. “Of course, the one murder was just twelve years ago. Does that bother you?” Staring at Maura, she gasped suddenly. “You’re close to this somehow, right? Oh, my God! Were you one of the kids working here that summer? I mean, I’d have had no idea... You’re from West Palm Beach. There’s so much stuff down there. Ah!” It seemed that Angie didn’t really need answers. “You wound up going to the University of Central Florida. You were near here...”
“Yes, I was here working that summer,” Maura said flatly.
“Your name was never in the paper?”
“That’s right. The police were careful to keep the employees away from the media. And since we are so isolated on the ranch, news reporters didn’t get wind of anything until the next day. My parents had me out of here by then, and Donald Glass was emphatic about the press leaving his young staff alone.”
“But a kid was arrested—”
“And released. And honestly, Angie, I am a little worried. Even if it has nothing to do with the past, there’s something not good going on now. Haven’t you watched the news? They found the remains of a young woman not far from here.”
“Not far from here, but not here,” Angie said. “Hey,” she said again, frowning with concern. “That can’t have anything to do with anything—the Frampton ranch killer committed suicide, I thought.”
“One of the cooks killed himself,” Maura said. “Yes, but... I mean, he never had his day in court. Most people believed he killed Francine—he hated her. But a lot of people disliked her.”
“But he killed himself.”
“Yes. I wasn’t here then. I did hear about it, of course.”
Angie was pensive for a moment, and then she asked, “Maura, you don’t think that the tree is...evil, do you?”
“Trees—a palm laced in with an oak. And no. I’m quite accustomed to the spooky and creepy, and we both know that places don’t become evil, nor do things. But people can be wicked as hell—and they can feed off legends. I don’t like being out here—not alone. There will be a campfire tonight with the history and ghost stories and the walk—we’ll join that. I have waivers for whoever attends tonight.”
“What if someone doesn’t want to be filmed?” Angie asked anxiously. “You tell the story just as well as anyone else, right? And the camera loves you—a perfect, slinky blonde beauty with those enormous gray eyes of yours. Come on, you’ve told a few of the stories before. You can—”
“I cannot do a good video for you as a selfie,” Maura said patiently.
“Right. I can film you telling the story,” Angie said. “Just that part. And I can do it now—I think you said that the stories were told by the campfire, and then the historic walk began. I’ll get you—right here and now—doing the story part of it. Oh, and you can include... Oh, God!” Angie said, her eyes widening. “You weren’t just here—you saw the dead woman! The murdered woman... I mean, from this century. Francine Renault. And they arrested a kid, Brock McGovern, but he was innocent, and it was proved almost immediately, but then... Well, then, if the cook didn’t do it, they never caught the killer!”
Maura kept her face impassive. Angie always wrote about old crimes that were unsolved—and why a place was naturally haunted after ghastly deeds had occurred there.
She did her homework, however. Angie probably knew more than Maura remembered.
She had loved the sad legend of the beautiful Gyselle, who had died so tragically for love. But, of course, she would have delved as deeply as possible into every event that had occurred at the ranch.
“Do they—do they tell that story at the campfire?” Angie asked.
Maura sighed. “Angie, I haven’t been here since the night it happened. I was still young. My parents dragged me home immediately.”
She was here now—and she could remember that night all too clearly. Coming to the tree, then realizing while denying it that a real body was hanging from it. That it was Francine Renault. That she had been hanged from a heavy branch, hanged by the neck, and that she dangled far above the ground, tongue bulging, face grotesque.
She remembered screaming...
And she remembered the police and how they had taken Brock away, frowning and massively confused, still tall and straight and almost regally dignified.
And she could remember that there were still those who speculated on his guilt or innocence—until dozens of people had spoken out, having seen him through the time when Francine might have been taken and killed. His arrest had really been ludicrous—a detective’s desperate bid to silence the horror and outrage that was beginning to spread.
Brock’s life had changed, and thus her life had changed.
Everything had changed.
Except for this spot.
She could even imagine that she was a kid again, that she could see Francine Renault, so macabre in death, barely believable, yet so real and tragic and terrifying as she dangled from the thick limb.
“Oh,” Angie groaned, the one word drawn out long enough to be a sentence. “Now I know why you were against doing a video here!”
Angie had wanted the History Tree. And when she had started to grow curious regarding Maura’s reluctance to head to the Frampton Ranch and Resort—especially since the resort was supposedly great and the expense of rooms went on Angie’s bill—Maura had decided it was time to cave.
She hadn’t wanted to give any explanations.
“Angie, it’s in your book, and you sell great and your video channel is doing great, as well. It’s fine. Really. But because they did rec
ently find what seems to be the remains of a murder victim near here, I do think we need to be careful. As in, stay out of these woods after dark.”
“There is a big bad wolf. Was a big bad wolf... But seriously, I’m not a criminologist of any kind, but I’d say the killer back then was making a point. Maybe the bones they found belonged to someone who died of natural causes.”
Angie wasn’t stupid, but Maura was sure that the look she gave her tiny friend at that moment implied that she thought she was.
“Maybe,” Angie said defensively.
“Angie, you don’t rot in the dirt on purpose and then wind up with your bones in a cache of hotel laundry,” Maura said.
“No, but, hey—there could be another explanation. Like a car accident. And whoever hit her was terrified and ran—and then, sadly, she just rotted.”
“And wound up in hotel sheets?”
Maura asked incredulously. Angie couldn’t be serious.
“Okay, so that’s a bit far-fetched.”
“Angie, it’s been reported that the remains were found of a murder victim. Last I saw, they were still seeking her identity, but they said that she was killed.”
“Well, they found bones, from what I understand. Anyway,” Angie said, dusting her hands on her skirt and speaking softly and with dignity and compassion, “I wish you would have just said that you were here when it happened. Let’s get out of here. I’m sorry I made you do this.”
“You didn’t make me do it. If I had been determined not to come back here, I wouldn’t have done so. But it’s going to get dark soon. Let me shoot a bit of you doing your speech by the tree while I still have good light.”
Maura lifted her camera, looked at the tree and then up at the sky.
They wouldn’t have the light much longer.
“Angie, come on—let’s film you.”
“Please—you know the stories so well. Let me film you this time.”
Tangled Threat ; Suspicious Page 3