They walked by the grove, where there was a charming little pond rumored to invigorate life—a handsomely written plaque commemorating the Spaniard Reynaldo Montenegro and his exploration of Florida.
Brock said to the tour group, “Here we are at the famous grove where Reynaldo Montenegro claimed to have found the Pond of Eternal Youth.”
It was as great tour; even the adolescents continued to ask questions as they walked.
“I’m happy to have been the tour guide tonight,” Maura murmured to Brock. “But I can’t believe that Francine just didn’t show up.”
“If I know Francine, she’ll make a grand entrance somewhere along the line, with a perfect reason for not being on time. She’ll have some mammoth surprise for everyone—something way more important than speaking to the guests. Hey, what do you want to bet that we see her somewhere before this tour is over? Here, folks,” Brock announced, “you’ll see the plaque—an inquisition did come to the New World!”
The copse, illuminated only by the sparkling lights that lit the trail, offered a sadder message—that of tortures carried out by an invading society on the native population it encountered.
They passed the ruins of an old Spanish farm and then they neared the tree.
The infamous History Tree.
The tree—or trees—older than anyone could remember, stood dead center in the small clearing, as if nothing else would dare to grow near. Gnarled and twisted together, palm and oak suggested a mess of human limbs, coiled together in agony.
Maura stopped dead, hearing a long, terrified scream, then realizing that she’d made the sound herself.
From one large oaken branch, a body was hanging, swaying just slightly in the night breeze.
She didn’t need to wonder why Francine Renault had been derelict in her duty.
She was there...part of the tour, just not as she should have been.
Head askew, neck broken. She was hanging there, in the place where others had been hanged through the years, again and again, where they had decayed, where their bones had dotted the earth beneath them.
Brock had been right.
Francine Renault had indeed shown up before the tour was over.
* * *
THE POLICE FLOODED the ranch with personnel, the medical examiner and crime scene technicians.
The rich forest of pines and oaks and ferns and earth became alive with artificial light, and still, where the moss sagged low, the bright beams just made the night and the macabre situation eerier.
Detective Michael Flannery had been put in charge of the case. Employees and guests had been separated and then separated again, and eventually, Maura sat at the edge of the parking lot, shivering although it wasn’t cold, waiting for the officer who would speak with her.
When he got there, he wanted to know the last time she had seen Francine. She told him it had been the night before.
Where she had been all day? In the office, in the yard with the older teen boys and at the campfire.
Had she heard anyone threaten Francine?
At least half of the resort’s employees. In aggravation or jest.
The night seemed to wear on forever.
When she was released at last, she was sent back to her own room and ordered to stay there until morning.
When morning came, her parents were there, ready to take her home.
She desperately wanted to see Brock.
Her parents were quiet and then they looked at each other. Her father shook his head slightly, and her mother said softly, “Maura, you can’t see Brock.”
“What?” she demanded. “Why not? Mom, Dad—I’m about to leave home. Go to college, really be on my own. I love you. I’m going to come home. But...I’m almost eighteen. I won’t go without seeing Brock.”
Her father, a gentle giant with broad shoulders and a mane of white hair, spoke to her softly. “Sweetheart, we didn’t say that we wouldn’t let you see Brock. We’re saying that you can’t see Brock.” He hesitated, looking over at her mother, and then he continued with, “I’m so sorry. Brock was arrested last night. He was charged with the murder of Francine Renault.”
And with those words, it seemed that her world fell apart, that what she had known, that what she had believed in, all just exploded into a sea of red and then disappeared into smoke and fog.
Copyright © 2019 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
ISBN-13: 9781488046094
Wanted by the Marshal
Copyright © 2019 by Patricia Detta
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