by Karen Harper
“Come along,” Jasmine said, “then we’ll sit down with Nick for lunch and we can make plans to continue our talk later. That would be best, wouldn’t it?”
“I—Yes. Before I talk to your staff or Win Jackson, anyone else you might suggest?”
Claire was surprised that this woman had somehow unnerved her. She’d talked to more distraught and certainly more dangerous people than this. Or was it Rosalynn, the woman in the portrait, in the mirror, in the atmosphere of this place, who rattled her? The painting made her look as if she would say something. If she could talk, it could solve what happened to Francine in this room. And it could explain what had happened to Rosalynn herself to make that beautiful, commanding-looking woman commit suicide. Mysteries seemed piled on mysteries, as heavy as the perfume in this room.
Claire hurried out, and Jasmine closed the door firmly behind them, then pulled a key out of her skirt pocket and locked it. She rushed down the front staircase with Claire close behind, out the back door onto a slate courtyard. The humidity and heat slapped at them. Strangely, even in the air, the floral scent Jasmine wore was prominent. But then, Claire saw a nearby cluster of bushes, oleander and hibiscus, but also a white bloom that might indeed be jasmine, or maybe gardenias. Too late for magnolias, anyway. She would have asked, but she didn’t want to steer the conversation with her own questions—yet. She was still trying to get a fix on this woman.
As they left the courtyard, Claire glanced down a stone path toward the river, draped with cypress, live oaks and other trees. It was just as Win had captured it in one of his photos, so he must have been right here when he took it—last month he’d said, which must be about the time Francine had died.
“A small, old family graveyard,” Jasmine was saying as she led Claire a little ways from the house. “Of course, no one else is buried here these days. Mother wanted to be, but I couldn’t see it and put her with my father in the Palatka cemetery.”
“I see,” Claire said, but she wasn’t sure she really did. Why hadn’t Jasmine honored her mother’s wish on that? Had there been some deep resentment between them? Claire had to admit she could understand resenting the way one’s own mother had reared a daughter.
Jasmine went on, “I don’t want anyone coming in here. But of course it would be on the tour if Shadowlawn is opened to visitors or is ever sold.” She nearly spit those words out. “Over my dead body, not my mother’s,” she added under her breath.
“Forgive me for asking, but can you afford to keep this place? Keep it up?”
“Investors? I don’t know. I have to get clear of suspicion first. She wanted to let the State of Florida, or the National Registry of Historic Places, have control, even possibly a wealthy outside buyer. There is no reason why this can’t remain in family control and still be profitable enough to fund restoration and upkeep. But that disagreement, as I said, is no motive for murder, I don’t care what they say. Over here, this brick tomb with iron grates. I can’t abide the place, but Mother found some sort of strength and solace here.”
“Oh, you can see the old cast-iron caskets inside,” Claire said, stooping slightly.
“Yes, Rosalynn and her Civil War–colonel husband. Hers is nearest to us. See, marked Rosalynn Montgomery? Years ago, I once thought I’d seen her in the house at night, throwing herself off the gallery, but it was just alcohol and teenage raging hormones—and I’d been smoking pot. You know, Mother said, If we open this place—the house, not this tomb, she meant—they will come. Visitors to learn about our past, paying guests to keep things going. Strange how a family fortune can disappear. But if anything would raise the dead and have poor Rosalynn spinning inside there, it would be letting Shadowlawn pass from family hands. Mother thought it best for the past to be preserved by deeding it or selling it away, but I could not accept that and—and Rosalynn wouldn’t, either.”
“Nick said this was once an indigo plantation. Could the fields be worked again—not that I know what indigo is worth now.”
“Most of the land has been sold off. You’re looking at what is left. And you’re looking at the Montgomery woman who is left to carry on the legacy—the burden—and I hope I’m looking at the woman who is going to help me and Nick prove I did not harm my mother, any more than she would overdose accidentally or intentionally on her medications. I swear to you,” she said, coming closer and gripping Claire’s good shoulder in a rush of emotion and flowery aroma, “someone murdered my mother, and you have to find a way to help Nick and me prove it.”
8
Neil Costa served Jasmine, Nick and Claire lunch at the massive dining room table where a long board hanging above served as a swinging fan.
“It’s automatic now,” Jasmine explained, “but I hate to think of some small slave child standing in that corner working it by a cord years ago while everyone ate a delicious meal in front of him.”
“And,” Neil put in as he collected their chicken salad plates, “they had bowls of ice from the old ice house sitting in the center of the table to cool the room—instant, old-fashioned air-conditioning.”
Claire was pleased to find that Neil Costa, the longtime house manager, appeared to be calm and easygoing. He did not seem like a servant but a family friend. His demeanor and manners were a bit old-fashioned, an impression which his thick Southern accent enhanced. Nick had said he was like an English butler, but he was dressed casually in white slacks and a short-sleeved silky white shirt. He was a big, clean-shaven man with a high forehead and close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair. He had a mellifluous voice, and Claire knew she’d enjoy interviewing him. He’d agreed to that tomorrow afternoon, so she’d be coming back here with Heck. Neil was evidently a jack-of-all-trades in the house, while Bronco Gates, who was away for a few days, took care of the lawns, landscaping and outside repairs.
It seemed that Neil was also chief cook and bottle washer, as they used to say. Part of his realm was the modern kitchen which had been added just beyond what used to be a huge library at the back of the house. No more hustling hot foods under silver domes from the old kitchen house through the covered walkway to the table. Neil also lived at the back of the house in renovated servants’ quarters. Jasmine had mentioned he had a small living room, bedroom and bath in his private realm.
After lemon sponge cake and iced coffee, Jasmine escorted them out onto the shaded veranda to say goodbye.
“I look forward to later discussions to learn more about your mother,” Claire told her. “And thank you for the very personal tour of this beautiful home.”
“You know, I need to think of it again that way now. I’ve lived so long in other places, St. Augustine, Tampa, Denver.”
“Denver?”
“Yes, actually the town of Evergreen outside Denver. My husband had a business there before he died much too early of a sudden heart attack. I did miss this when I lived away. The graciousness of it, the fabulous past, the scents...”
But, Claire noted, she hadn’t said she’d missed her mother, and here she was an only child, a daughter. And since Jasmine had mentioned scents, Claire saw her opening.
“I’ve been meaning to ask about the unique perfume you wear. Is it gardenia, or is it made from your namesake flower?”
“It’s jasmine, Mother’s fragrance she distilled from flowers here on the grounds. It has a reputation for being an aphrodisiac. Karma, the god of love in India, tipped his arrows with jasmine, they say.” She took Nick’s arm, leaning into him a bit.
“Their answer to Cupid?” Nick put in.
She nodded. “But I wear it for its antidepressant properties—yes, really. Research it, as I’m sure you will do much else on this assignment, won’t she, Nick?”
“With all you and Win Jackson are teaching her, she may as well toss her laptop and smartphone in the river,” he said with a tight smile.
“Well, you asked abo
ut indigo earlier, Claire,” Jasmine went on, “but you just look up jasmine. The flowers must be picked at night because the sun drives the scent from the blooms. I guess for that reason and its white color, some call it the ghost flower. But, truly, it’s a popular essence for aromatherapy for more than its aphrodisiac associations. Shadowlawn matriarchs have grown and distilled it here since the Civil War, though I’m just using what Mother...what she left behind.
“So anyway, it’s her legacy to me—besides this place,” she added with a sigh. “How I wish the jasmine had kept her on an even keel without having to use her mood-enhancing pills. Honestly, we ought to all wear jasmine not only because it lifts one’s mood, but, they say, also leads to mental alertness.”
“I could use that,” Claire said, though she didn’t explain why, even though it seemed that Jasmine was now almost baring her soul. And did the fact that Francine made and wore a scent that was an antidepressant mean that she was depressed enough to be suicidal? Even someone who seemed to be on an even keel, as Jasmine put it, could tip so far as to attempt suicide, the perfect but dreadful storm of wanting to escape from life for some reason.
Now Claire empathized even more, not with Jasmine, but with Francine. She must have fought depression as well as anxiety, and Claire could totally sympathize with that. After all, the woman had been taking drugs to fight a frightening health problem, just like Claire.
She realized she was no longer only on this assignment for a fee or even to help Nick or to save Jasmine from suspicion or arrest. She suddenly felt close to poor Francine, and, whatever it took, she was going to learn what happened to her.
* * *
After an early dinner that evening in St. Augustine, Nick and Claire walked the seawall overlooking the mooring area for boats near the hotel. Many were sailboats but yachts bobbed at anchor, too. The owners rode in to shore on small motorboats or rowed.
Heck would be meeting them at the hotel soon to escort Claire to interview Win Jackson. For now, Nick was glad for some private time with her.
They laughed at some of the names on the bigger boats they could read from here: Retired and Rejoicing. Roaming and Juliet. Sailor’s De-lite, and what Claire claimed was her favorite, Billable Ours.
“Definitely owned by some rich lawyer,” she told him. Their gazes snagged and held, as happened so often—too often, he supposed. He always had the craziest urge to touch her.
“I have a fishing boat that seats four, but that’s it,” he said. “With an outboard motor. I hardly have time for it anymore.”
“I believe you. When I checked out your place to see if it was huge, I saw you have a reasonably-sized house and boat, especially for where you live.”
“You drove by?”
“I let my fingers do the walking. Google browser for Street View Maps. Well, don’t look at me like that! It’s just another form of research. I had to check you out.”
“If I’d had a place the size of Shadowlawn and a massive yacht, you would have said ‘yes’ to working with me faster than you did?”
“I just wanted to know more about you.”
“I get that. I like that.”
He studied the beautiful Billable Ours, then Claire’s profile. Her hair was almost the color of the flaming sunset behind them.
“So ask away,” he said. “If there’s something that’s privileged info, I’ll take the Fifth.”
“Are you working on a defense for Jasmine already?”
“Ah, always business,” he said, pretending to pout. Was it his imagination or did she subconsciously thrust out her lush lower lip to match his? That little movement hit him below the belt. “Okay,” he said, forcing himself to look out over the mooring field again, “yes, I am. And I’m banking on what you find in your interviews to help me.”
“But what’s your strategy? I mean, in general, how do you protect clients? You were ruthless—well, maybe that’s the wrong word—defending Sol Sorento, and you didn’t even have emotional ties to him like you do—did—to Jasmine. I know one thing you did was give an alternate theory to what the prosecution was pushing, that Sol had suffered a head injury and wasn’t to blame. That’s kind of like an insanity defense, right?”
When he turned toward her, their faces were close and neither wore sunglasses. He shifted his feet. Even in court she’d gotten to him, and here came that caveman feeling again. Before Claire, he had never wanted to just pick a woman up off her feet and sprint away with her.
“Right. Ah, yes. More or less.” Some clever lawyer, he thought. He sounded like a stammering teenager. He cleared his throat again. Her eyes might be green but they swam with golden flecks. “Another tactic is to discredit evidence or key witnesses.”
“Which I was, not an eyewitness but an expert witness. You did an almost-good-enough job on me.”
“Distracting the jury is the name of the game,” he admitted. “I can try to convince them the prosecution’s case is flawed, the truth can’t actually be known, that evidence is inadmissible, that the chain of custody for evidence was tainted, et cetera.”
“What I don’t understand, counselor, is how you can defend someone you think is probably guilty, and I don’t mean Jasmine.”
“Everyone has a right to a defense in this country. I try not to take a case in the first place if I think the person’s shady. Sol—well, I took him on partly because he’d once invested in a business my father had and I wanted a chance to interview him about that. But I’d have trouble defending someone like the Boston bomber or someone I was sure murdered his family or—”
“So you do truly believe in Jasmine’s innocence?”
He looked her right in those stunning eyes. “I do.”
She nodded. They leaned closer together. A boat motor started nearby. No, it was a sound from above, and they both glanced up.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked, sounding suddenly breathless. “I’ve see those in Naples lately, too.”
“A white drone, small one. Can’t tell if it has a camera or not. Those are everywhere lately, and novice users are going to cause a problem, especially near airports where they could bring down a plane.”
“So my ex says. He was flying out of Los Angeles when one was almost in their flight path.”
Lifting a hand, Nick shaded the setting sun from his eyes. “It’s hard to see against the western sky. I’ve heard people are flying in cocaine from boats offshore on those. Since 9/11, our government has justified them for self-defense against terrorists, but those who hate us can use them, too. Eventually, the bad guys think of everything.”
“Nick,” she said, touching his arm, then quickly pulling her hand back, “I’m really committed to Francine’s case now—to Jasmine’s, I mean. I know you are doing it for her, but I’m doing it for Francine, too.”
He nodded, leaning nearer to her again. “Then we’re really in this together.”
They drifted closer, inches apart. His entire body went into overdrive. Even with the evening breeze from the bay, he felt hot.
“Yes,” she said. “Good. That’s good.” She took a step back and looked away.
“Let me walk you back to the hotel to wait for Heck,” he said. He’d almost said, to your room, but then he’d do something to prove he needed an insanity defense, and it was against his rules to mix business with pleasure. Physical attraction—it was only that with Claire, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to screw up their still tentative working relationship. Heck should be here any minute, and he’d turn her over to him as assistant and escort. He only hoped he could concentrate on work after they left for Win Jackson’s art photo shop which was closing up in—Nick glanced at his watch—fifteen minutes.
* * *
Claire could tell Win Jackson didn’t like Heck here, taking notes, though he’d agreed to it earlier and said he understood with
her injured arm that she needed help with an interview log. She didn’t tell him she’d been shot, and he didn’t ask. Or perhaps he knew. He could have seen the news, researched her as she had him.
Heck, who had been talkative on the way over—especially when he’d learned she could speak some basic Spanish—knew enough to keep quiet unless spoken to. He had his laptop open on his knees and sat behind Win’s big office desk, almost in the corner.
Claire had managed to maneuver Win to sit in one of the two chairs in front of his desk while she took the other. It provided a more informal setting, helped her to watch his body language and, in general, it was good to position the person being interviewed where he or she didn’t feel boxed in.
After some preliminary questions for the record and the usual formalities—that this interview was voluntary—Claire said, “By the way, I saw the exact spot at Shadowlawn where you must have shot that amazing first photo you showed me. You said it was taken about a month ago, so was that before or after Francine died?”
“A couple of days before. I was here at the shop developing it when I got the phone call from Neil Costa that she had died.”
“Was that a shock to you, or had you seen any signs she was ill or weak?”
“Neither, but she was always nervous. We’d served on several local charity and historical preservation committees and fund-raisers together, so I knew her in different situations. I was all for her turning Shadowlawn into a living museum if that’s what it took to save and restore it. It was sad that she and Jasmine disagreed about the options, but you know that.”
“Did you advise Francine one way or the other about Shadowlawn?”
“I didn’t think it was my place to do so, though I admit, it could have been tricky and dangerous to find a private bidder who would preserve it if the state didn’t take it over. But I think it was right to let the public share in its history and beauty. It needed funding for a lot of restoration. I would have photographed or even filmed that step-by-step.”
