by Karen Harper
“Yes,” Claire said. “Now there are two deaths to be investigated.”
“I’ve got to warn you,” Neil said, “the sheriff asked both of us when you’d be back here, and I felt I had to tell him. He probably wants to talk to you, too.”
Nick put in, “That figures, but he has no jurisdiction where Lola’s death occurred, unless he thinks it happened in this county and she was moved, which I doubt. I’m glad I came along today. I’m familiar with his tactics. He has no real case, so he puts pressure on everyone, hoping something pops free.”
“All that aside, please come in,” Neil said. “Jasmine will be down for a late breakfast in a few minutes. Usually, she’s up early but it’s understandable after events. I have coffee and pecan rolls for all of you, then we’ll get down to business. I’d like to show you my movie museum.”
Claire said, “Win Jackson, movie buff that he is, told me about that. I’d love to see it.”
Neil’s worried expression lit up before he frowned again. “Dr. Jackson told me once it was ‘small potatoes.’ He thinks he has a way with words and with the history of old movies, but I’m telling you, the man is a cinema snob. So what if other snobs labeled Creature a B-grade movie? I’m thinking of advertising my collection online, pulling more people in. I would never sell my things on eBay like some have suggested. They are family heirlooms from my great-uncle who helped with lighting for the making of the trilogy. After all, if we could just promote the ghosts who live here, my creature display could tie right in to creatures of the night!”
Claire thought he was making a joke, but evidently not. So, she thought, Neil was not necessarily against the mansion becoming a public attraction. And the tension between him and Win went both ways.
Claire’s gaze snagged Nick’s as they went inside. Behind Neil’s back he mouthed to her, “Ghosts and creatures? I just want a murderer!”
“At least,” she whispered as Neil and Heck walked on ahead toward the dining room, “after the surprise and horror of yesterday, what worse could happen?”
12
“No doubt, mistakes were made on both sides,” Neil told Claire with a shake of his head and a shrug.
She had asked him whether Francine and Jasmine had ever disagreed about the future of the estate in his earshot. As they sat in the library, facing each other in high-backed leather chairs, he seemed eager to help, but he was in the flight-mode position and he hadn’t answered the question. His upper body was turned toward her, but his feet toward the door. It was one of the basic body language giveaways that a person wanted to escape being questioned.
“Disagreements in families—of course, we all have that,” he went on. “I was aware of their differing opinions. And I must tell you, I prefer your calm mode of questioning over my dealing with the county sheriff after Francine’s death and then, briefly last night, when he came to see Jasmine over both of you finding Lola’s body. So hard to imagine—so hard to get over seeing her like that.”
His eyes teared up. Perhaps Lola had meant something to him as well as to Francine. For one who studied each word a person spoke, Claire noted well he’d said, so hard to get over seeing her like that, when he hadn’t seen Lola like that. Had he? He frequently ran errands, but could he have gone clear into St. Augustine, visited—and killed—Lola and come back?
Claire tried another tack. “So, who could have known where Francine’s anxiety medicine was kept and how dangerous an overdose could be?”
“Other than Francine herself, Jasmine, I suppose, but you’d best ask her. Lola, of course, God rest her soul. It was known by her—me, too, of course—that the pills must be in her bathroom, down the hall from Rosalynn’s room—that’s what we’ve always called it. Oh, I did pick up Francine’s prescription in Palatka a couple of times at a pharmacy, never at her doctor’s. Well, the doctor who prescribed the Propranolol was in St. Augustine anyway.”
He’d smoothly spit out the difficult name of the drug, but then, if he’d had to pick up prescriptions, that was understandable. But did it mean he could have taken a few of the pills from a fresh prescription to add to her food later? Sometimes Claire had a flash of hating this job: she was obsessed with looking for lies and guilt.
Besides that, Neil was trying to assert that he was telling the truth by repeating of course. But she still didn’t feel he was lying—perhaps just nervous. He had his whole future at stake here, whether it was only that he and his museum would be kicked off the property or whether he was guilty of harming Francine. Not only did he want to protect himself, but Jasmine, too, if she wanted to keep the estate in the family. That is, unless Neil knew that, even if Jasmine kept Shadowlawn, she wanted what Win had called a “small potatoes,” shoddy museum off the grounds.
“Could Bronco Gates have known where Francine’s meds were?” she asked.
“Only through overhearing, though it is pretty logical where the pills were. He does know the house as well as the grounds, so he could have searched for them. As you’ll see when he returns, the man seems to appear out of nowhere and is silent on his feet. A hunter and killer at heart—well, I didn’t mean of people, of course, just of beasts like gators and pythons.”
Claire’s pulse pounded. Neil was trying to cast suspicion on Bronco. Once she talked to Bronco, that all had to be probed.
“Do you consider Bronco a friend?” she asked.
“To Francine or to me?”
“To you.”
“We’ve worked well together for years. Each knows his bailiwick, his part of the kingdom, so to speak. You know, back to a question you asked earlier. I believe Bronco did know about her medications, at least that she was on edge and that she was better when she ‘popped a pill’ as he put it. He said that when she took him to task about a month ago over his skinning an alligator out back, leaving the skins stretched on the ground. But I’d say everyone got along well on her staff, as different as we all were.”
So much, she thought, for a possible conspiracy theory among these two men, though selling or deeding Shadowlawn to the state might have disenfranchised them both. For a conspiracy to work well, the plotters needed to have close connections and try to cover for each other, and Neil seemed to be giving hints that Bronco was a loose cannon—as Win had, too.
“So you were here and upstairs part of the time on the day Francine apparently overdosed,” she prompted.
“My own house records will show that. I don’t have them here now, though, because Sheriff Goodrich told his detective to take them into evidence. But I recall that Lola had just left to help with a birthday puppet show in St. Augustine, and Bronco was on the grounds somewhere. Jasmine came and went. There was a decent wind that day, and I was airing out the upstairs, opening windows. Installing air-conditioning for the mansion would be exorbitant, but even with all the shade here it can get warm upstairs. Francine was aware we’d need AC year round if we brought in an audience, so that cost might also have gone into her thoughts about turning the mansion over to the state or even selling it the right way.”
“An audience—an interesting word for a movie buff like yourself. Would it have made any difference to your museum if the family opened the grounds and house or the state took over and did that?”
“Shadowlawn should and could remain in family hands if Jasmine could just find funding. Whatever happens, I would hope that my unique, if small, museum could be sponsored by the state or by anyone who bought or opened up the house. After all, the river near here was the black lagoon in a series of cult and popular culture movies, and the state of Florida ought to be proud of that.”
Neil sat up straighter and finally shifted his body out of the flight mode. His voice rose as he declared, “If mistakes were made, I regret it, concerning this long legacy of the family I serve!”
“Employees are often not loyal these days, so that’s very admirable,
” Claire tried to assure him. It was the second time he’d said mistakes were made. But he hadn’t said by whom. Had he done something rash he was regretting? Her job was to ponder and parse every word, but was she getting too paranoid, too personally involved in this case? She felt for poor Francine, and she certainly wanted to please Nick—her own self-analysis right now.
“Let me ask if you saw any signs that Francine was more distressed or nervous than usual just before her death.”
“A bit. No doubt, her public disagreement with Jasmine set her off, but you can strike that out, Heck,” he said, turning toward him. “Pure opinion on my part. But she did say to me she was sleeping less. Yes, I guess she did seem a bit depressed and irritable.”
Signs of suicidal thoughts, Claire noted. And, if distressed, she might have upped her dosage of the pills and accidentally taken too many without help from anyone else. Or she might have meant to end it all and let Jasmine have things her way, despite the financial struggles she would face.
“Do you think she might have taken more of her panic attack pills to counteract how she felt?”
“I wouldn’t know. The sheriff took her pill bottles to, no doubt, count the pills and consult on her dosages with the pharmacy. Poor Lola might have known, of course. Again, I’m trying to stick to facts for you, not impressions or opinions.”
“I appreciate that, but from such a close friend and observer of the deceased, those can be valuable, too. You haven’t been sworn in, and we’re not making an affidavit or testifying in court here. Now, if it’s a good time with your duties, I’d love to take a break and see your museum—and Heck would, too.”
* * *
Jace parked his rental car about a hundred yards down the road from where the GPS on his smartphone indicated Shadowlawn Plantation should be. He hadn’t gotten much info from either the newspaper article or his map, but he’d picked up the location from Google searches. It made him angry that Claire had taken an assignment that brought her way out here, hundreds of miles from home. Palatka wasn’t exactly Podunk, but this road along the river reminded him of some travel channel show about the past, and he much preferred living in the present.
He guessed he got that from his gung-ho marine dad, though he hated to admit he’d inherited any traits from him. His father might shout Semper Fi, but he’d never been faithful to Jace or his mother. In and out of their lives, sometimes call of duty, sometimes just restless—or chasing women. Jace had been raised by a drill sergeant who wanted perfection. He’d demanded complete trust and honesty, then the lying bastard had taken off for good. It was for good; Jace always told himself he was glad to be rid of him and his mom was better off, but she’d never really gotten over him. Finally ready to retire, Master Sergeant Jason Britten had died in Iraq taking care of young marines like he was their father. Jace might have flown for the navy—trying to connect with his Dad—but he’d refused to become a gung-ho marine. But, hell, Jace still had to admit he both loved and hated the man.
Walking down the road—after a driver of a pickup had stopped to ask if he needed gas or help—he found the long lane with the small sign Shadowlawn at the end, and decided to walk toward the house. He’d listen for guard dogs, didn’t want to be caught on the private entry lane and no way was he going to tip off or infuriate Claire or Nick Markwood by just driving in if they were here. He’d get back to St. Augustine by nightfall, call Claire and ask her to meet him in the restaurant or lobby downstairs in her hotel. After she found a body yesterday, surely he could pull her strings—Lexi, danger—to get her back home. He’d up her child care support, anything to get her out of here and away from Markwood. Jace wouldn’t trust a rich lawyer as far as he could throw him.
He hated to admit it but he still loved—well, at least, cared deeply for—Claire.
He moved away from the narrow lane that headed toward the house, walking about five yards off it, going from tree to tree where he wouldn’t be spotted. He gasped when he glimpsed the place. Huge. He crept a lot closer and peered around a live oak close to the mansion.
Jace heard a sound behind him and started to spin around. But the jolt to the back of his head sent him facedown into the grass. Then there was only night.
* * *
Saying he’d make them all lemonade, Neil had disappeared about fifteen minutes ago out toward the kitchen, so Claire and Heck sat and talked. She had felt more tense than she usually did in interviews, so she took the time to unwind. She was surprised Neil was gone so long, but they were interrupting his regular duties, and he’d said he’d take drinks to Jasmine and Nick. Claire thought of going to find Nick to ask if he’d like to tour the Creature museum with them, but he’d said he’d seen it once and she hated to butt in on him and Jasmine right now. She and Heck went over his notes, but when Heck wanted to discuss them, she told him, “Not here. The walls might have ears.”
“Ghost ears?”
“Someone told you all that, huh? No. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“In the spirits from the past that haunt us in our hearts, yes,” he said as Neil finally came back in with the lemonade, ginger cookies and the key to the museum. Perhaps he’d ducked out to arrange things there.
After their refreshments, they followed him down the old brick walk to what was once the outdoor kitchen block. He unlocked the door with a flourish and led them in, snapping on a switch that lit three overhead lights. So he had put some money into this place, she thought.
The interior was one large, high-ceilinged room with curved partitions which funneled visitors into narrow passageways that spiraled inward. The entire room was painted black—no, that was some sort of inner lining, maybe painted drywall. She noted, as they stepped farther in, the lighting system sent shivery, silver waves onto the walls and ceiling, no doubt to give the illusion they were underwater. The curved entryway displayed posters and explanatory signs.
Neil said, “The creature—Gill-man—had a bad habit of taking kidnapped women down to his underwater sanctuary. I’ve tried to re-create that.”
On the first wall, he pointed at a series of movie posters under glass.
The first one was from Creature from the Black Lagoon, 1954 in 3-D! A printed sign next to it read, “Outdoor scenes filmed on the St. Johns River near here.” Another read, “Mention of the monster in Stephen King’s book and horror movie of the same name, It.” The creature was grotesque-looking, with amphibious, clawed hands and a finned face. The woman wearing a bathing suit being abducted was, of course, terrified.
The second poster advertised Revenge of the Creature, 1955. “The St. Johns River stood in for the Amazon River during this filming,” a sign read. There was a second sign, “First movie role by Clint Eastwood in a bit part as lab technician Jennings.”
Claire jumped when Heck spoke close behind her, “Well, everyone who makes it big got to start somewhere.”
They shuffled along to the third poster. It advertised The Creature Walks Among Us, 1956. This one had been filmed in 2-D, whatever that was, and the creature looked changed.
“He mutated,” Neil explained, touching her elbow to lead them farther in. Around the turn, the creature reared above them, seven feet tall, claws uplifted, mouth open. Claire sucked in a gasp.
“Looks real, doesn’t he?” Neil asked, beaming.
“He was greenish in the poster, but now he looks—yellow.”
“They had to make one yellow suit for the underwater filming,” Neil told them, looking, she thought, like a proud father showing off his new baby. He pointed to the second mounted creature farther in, this one green. “That’s airtight, molded sponge rubber. For the underwater scenes, air was fed to the actor through a rubber hose. In the story, Gill-man keeps killing members of an expedition one by one to protect all he holds dear. You can watch the last movie—Revenge—on YouTube, but I have it here, too, ready to run over in that corne
r, if you have time. I have many other photographs about the filming, pages from a script, diagrams of the sets, much more, over here, see?”
They walked along a wall of pictures, most black and white. She wondered what Win Jackson would think of the river shots. Several pictures were of Neil’s great-uncle who had worked on the lighting for the film, as well as other cast and crew members.
“I wish we had time, Neil,” she told him, “but I have a few more questions for you. You said Bronco would be back this afternoon, so I’d like to schedule talk time with him.”
“Oh, sure. Business before pleasure, always. On the way out, we can see if he’s back yet.”
Claire couldn’t believe how relieved she was to get outside. That crazy place cast a spell. She’d have to walk down by the river soon to see if it looked like the photos here.
As for the woman clutched in the monster’s arms, she wasn’t quite a redhead but had auburn hair. And her screaming mouth—Claire’s memory of Fiend Face jumped at her again.
She wondered if the undulating light waves had made her a little queasy. She sucked in a big breath. Glancing down at the river lined by ancient trees with moss hanging over it, she could almost imagine the Creature there.
Neil asked, “Did Jasmine or Mr. Markwood tell you Bronco lives in a trailer on the grounds—over that way? I tell him if my museum Creature ever gets loose, his trailer would be the first place he’d visit. Oh, I see him now, his truck, that is, driving in,” he said, pointing at a black pickup truck that had seen better days. “Let’s give him a little time to get settled, and I’ll explain about your interview with him. If he hasn’t heard the news about Lola’s murder, he’s going to freak out, so I’d better let him know and give him time to settle down before you talk to him.”
