Chasing Shadows

by Karen Harper

  “Could use the company now. Tonight, I was going to fix us—Lola and me—some food I convinced her to like.” He bit back a smile and shook his head. “Frog legs I got me upriver with a little gigging on the way back from the Glades, lookin’ for pythons got loose down there. I cook these legs in peanut oil, eat ’em with hush puppies and hearts of palm. That’s better known as swamp cabbage ’round here. Gotta be careful cutting that outa the tree, ’cause rattlers coil up in the palms if they can, so keep an eye out.”

  Claire and Nick locked looks as they followed him to two of the plastic-woven chairs near where he was cooking over an outdoor pit filled with wood. Yes, he really was cooking frog legs in a sizzling iron skillet set on an iron grate.

  Claire elbowed Nick, then answered for them. “We’re honored. I’ve never had that, have you, Nick?”

  “Actually, I have. My friend who lives in Goodland fixes them.”

  Bronco said, “Tastes like chicken, don’t it, real Florida cracker food. See you boogied up your arm there, Miss Claire.”

  “Yes, I hurt it last week.” This man was being so honest with her, and she wanted to build on that. “I was accidentally shot by someone from a distance, and he hasn’t been caught. He killed the man standing next to me.”

  “Whew!” he said, but he didn’t look surprised or upset. “But then, I didn’t think Lola had no bad friends neither, quiet and sweet like she was.”

  “I suppose you’re disappointed Jasmine asked her to leave Shadowlawn,” Claire said.

  “Real sad, but she loved the puppets, Lola did. Was fine with just doing that with her sister. Folks don’t know what another soul really wants from the outside—got to get to know them and listen real careful like when the gator you want rustles in the bushes on the shore or the copperhead shifts through the thick grass. Lola and I liked to hear the leopard frog chorus on cool winter nights, but she’s not gonna be here for that anymore. I don’t want to go to her funeral, see her laid out and all. I’ll just think of her here—settin’ right where you are now, Miss Claire. I’m just trying to do what I got to so I can survive.”

  Claire was astounded the man was such a talker—almost poetic—when she’d expected she’d have to pull things out of him. How many times had she been taught not to stereotype someone, she scolded herself. She could tell Nick was surprised, too. Bronco Gates was what her mother would have called the noble savage as in some of the James Fenimore Cooper books she’d read her and Darcy.

  “You must love this area and this river,” Claire said as he turned the frog legs in a spatter of peanut oil. She could tell Nick was letting her do the talking but was hanging on their every word.

  “Sure do,” Bronco said. “Neil thinks he’s got ties to it ’cause his great-uncle helped make them movies ’round here, but yeah. My kin go back farther’n that—and some say one still lives hereabouts. Miss Jasmine tell you about the other ghost, not Miss Rosalynn in the house? The one walks the grounds was an ancestor of mine, some kind of overseer, expert on growing indigo, not the slave overseer, or I wouldn’t even mention him. Got himself lynched in a tree out front, maybe for attacking the master here once, somethin’ like that.”

  He straightened from bending over the sizzling skillet. “I’m not real sure those ghost tales about Miss Rosalynn’s true, but I seen my kin’s ghost a-hangin’ from the tree, can show you which one. Well, too much talk about the dead, but with Lola gone—”

  The big man sniffed hard. “You mind steppin’ inside, fetchin’ plates from the cupboard, Miss Claire? We’ll have us a meal in honor of Lola. Then you can come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk. We’ll just set outside here, or we can walk to the hanging tree. Oh, when you go in, don’t you pay no heed to the palm fronds hanging just inside to keep the skeeters out. If I had me a grand house, it’d be called ‘the losing’ room, ’cause that’s where to ditch them suckers.”

  Claire got up and ducked and brushed her way through the rustling, dried palm fronds hanging over the door. Inside, the place was tidy, when she hadn’t expected that, either. No wonder a shy loner like Lola liked Bronco Gates. Despite hunting gators and snakes, when it came to people he seemed gentle and kind. But then, she reminded herself, seemed was a pretty big word.

  But Claire almost dropped the dishes on the floor when she saw, staring at her, sitting primly on the single bunk, a life-sized marionette that looked just like a picture Neil had showed her of Lola Moran.

  * * *

  Claire could tell Nick didn’t want to leave her that evening. He’d been on edge since she told him about the life-sized doll on Bronco’s bed. Nor did he want to leave her alone with Jace, even in a busy hotel lobby. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him about Jace’s phone call and their meeting.

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured Nick. “Jace sounded calm and reasonable. If you’re so worried, why don’t you just sit over in the bar where he won’t see you? Besides, he said he had something to say that might help the case.”

  “How could he know anything about that? We just read the newspaper article, and nothing was mentioned there.”

  “I don’t know. He said he’d be here soon, and I’d rather not greet him with you at my side again.”

  “Okay. Right,” he said, putting up a hand as if he was being sworn in in a courtroom. “Far be it from me to come between a man and his ex.”

  She glared at him. He was annoyed. She was, too, at him, at Jace, at how slowly she felt her work on the case was going. But, she thought, looking at the dark half moons under Nick’s eyes, she was not the only one exhausted.

  He walked away, and she went over to a seating arrangement of chairs with no one there right now and sat. She refused to even look over to see if Nick had gone to the bar or left. Feeling suddenly belligerent, she changed seats so she had her back to him—or where he’d been. She hoped Jace made it here fast and then was quick with what he had to say. He knew she needed her sleep.

  “Hey,” Jace said two minutes later as she stared at her watch, “thanks for being prompt.” He sat next to her; the square, padded arms of their chairs made a barrier between them.

  “How’s your head?” she asked.

  “Hard as ever. I’m all right—see.”

  He did a quick turn to show the back of his skull. The ER he’d been to had shaved a bit of his hair. A bandage about three inches square covered his scalp where he’d...

  “Jace, a tree limb did that?” she blurted.

  “For all I know. Okay, it’s ‘to tell the truth’ time. I didn’t want you to get upset on the phone. When I read that newspaper article this morning, I wanted to see Shadowlawn. I had a day to kill. I wasn’t going to get in your—or Perry Mason’s—way. I parked down the road and walked in.”

  “Onto the grounds?” she asked much too loudly.

  “Keep it down. Yes, a ways off the private lane. Got to that last set of live oaks, near the house, the one on the left side of the front entrance. What a place! Anyway, that was it. Lights out. Someone gave me a good crack from behind. I swear, it’s as if someone dropped out of the tree on me, because I didn’t see or hear anyone on the ground. I woke up facedown and got the hell out of there—and to the hospital ER in Palatka where they stitched me up.”

  Claire finally remembered to close her mouth. “You—shouldn’t have.”

  “Someone else evidently thought so, too. You have any idea who could have hit me? I swear, I heard no one. It’s as if he—she, it, I don’t know—came out of thin air. Is there a gardener or groundskeeper, or an estate guard?”

  “What time was that?”

  “Ah, 10:00 to 10:15 a.m.”

  “So Bronco wasn’t back yet.”

  “Who’s Bronco? Sounds like a cowboy.”

  Her mind racing, she ignored that. Neil had seemed to disappear for at least a quarter of an hour about then. Surel
y, the sheriff had not set up surveillance or a guard on the place.

  “Claire?”

  “So that’s what you think might be information for the case I’m working on? That there’s someone sneaking around the grounds? Maybe an eavesdropper—a kind of spy? And he attacked you.”

  “Yeah, right. Like I said on the phone, you’re a magnet for trouble lately. Danger. You get shot when Fred Myron gets killed. You and your client—or Markwood’s client—find the body of a woman who worked where you’re working now. Then I come to check the place out and get blasted. Look, I know you’re deep into this assignment, but for Lexi’s sake and your own, you’ve got to resign and leave for home. Did you sign any kind of a contract with Markwood, because we can get a lawyer and—”

  “Jace, please, not so fast!” she said, putting her head down and spearing her splayed fingers through her hair as if that could keep her head from exploding. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Get some little lawyer to take on super lawyer Nick Markwood when he was the only one who’d signed a contract? But all that was none of Jace’s business.

  In as calm a tone as she could manage, she told him, “I’m just starting to make headway on this case and a woman’s future is at stake.”

  “Yeah, yours. But Jasmine Montgomery Stanton’s, you mean?”

  “Yes, and the future of that estate, and maybe whether poor Lola Moran’s murder is solved. I don’t feel in danger.”

  “Oh, great,” he said, standing abruptly and hauling her to her feet. “I’m sure you can trust female feelings over facts.”

  “Let me go! I’ll tell Nick what you said, try to figure out who could have hit you. You could report it to the local sheriff, though we don’t like or trust him.”

  “In Putnam County, you mean, not here, where you and Jasmine ‘were questioned’ by the St. Johns County Sheriff Jim Parsons. Amazing how much an innocent bystander can learn from a little newspaper article when the mother of his child won’t tell him anything. And who is the ‘we’ that doesn’t like or trust the sheriff?”

  “I said, let me go.” She stepped back and tugged her wrist free. But he came closer and clamped his hand around her upper arm. Several people in the lobby stopped and stared. “Jace, I need to get upstairs. Thanks for letting me know what happened when you were trespassing, and I’m glad you’re not hurt more seriously. If I learn anything about who assaulted you, I’ll let you know. I wish you good flights to Singapore and back.”

  She wasn’t as afraid that he was going to make more of a scene as she was that Nick was going to rush over, which he did.

  “Hey, Jace,” Nick said, gripping his wrist that held her upper arm, “I thought you’d be wheels up by now, halfway across the Pacific.”

  “Well, look who’s hovering and don’t you wish,” Jace said, letting Claire go but not stepping back. She felt sandwiched between the two of them. “I just came to warn Claire to be careful. She’s living too close to someone else’s problems and dangers—maybe yours.”

  “My problem is preparing this defense case, but suddenly my problems seem to have more to do with you.”

  “That’s enough from both of you,” Claire insisted. “Please leave, Jace, and good night, Nick. As you both know, I need my sleep.”

  Jace turned on her. “As you both know?” he repeated, his voice rising. “It took me years while we dated, were married and had a child for you to tell me about your disease and meds. And you told him after—how long, Claire? A couple of days? A few, intense minutes?”

  Her insides cartwheeled. What she’d kept from Jace had ruined everything between them. And, yes, she had trusted Nick with that almost right away, and she’d even shared it with Jasmine.

  She looked Jace straight in the eye. As angry as she was with him, she had the strangest urge to smooth the loose lank of blond hair on his forehead. He looked not only angry but hurt, and she didn’t want that.

  She turned toward him and said, her voice low, “Let’s just say I learned to tell the truth the hard way. Good night, both of you. Jace—safe flying.”

  As she turned away, she prayed they wouldn’t get into more of an argument, but before she stepped into the elevator, she glanced back. She saw Nick, alone, heading toward the bar. His shoulders were set, and she could almost see steam pouring out his ears. Jace was stalking out the front door of the hotel. So at least that was over.

  At least, over for now. She was still working Nick’s case, but she was thinking Jace might be right that she was a magnet for trouble.

  15

  Claire glanced at her watch as she and Heck walked into Win Jackson’s Photographic Art Shop the next morning. She had a half hour before her appointment with Cecilia Moran, but they’d be driving to her house. Then they needed to head back to Shadowlawn so she could speak with Bronco again. She and Nick had agreed that Heck would sit in on neither of those interviews. She didn’t want to scare Cecilia, and Bronco still said, “No shadow!”

  Heck held the door to the shop open for her. The bell rang, and Win appeared. She had not intended to see him again, but he’d phoned this morning to ask her to stop by.

  He’d explained on the phone, “Bronco Gates called me all upset about Francine’s maid’s murder. He insisted that before you go out to talk to him again, I show you a couple of photos.”

  “Ones with Lola Moran in them?” she’d asked. “I’ve seen one of her.”

  “No, these are fairly recent ones of the ghost, the one Bronco claims was his ancestor.”

  “Really? You photographed a ghost?”

  “Let’s just say it depends on the eye of the beholder.”

  Win escorted her into a back storage room while Heck stayed in the display room. She asked Win, “Why didn’t you mention these ghost shots when I was here before?”

  “I couldn’t see the point. Still can’t, but Bronco helped me set things up when I took my river photos, so I owe him a favor. He also let me take shots of gators, one he was rasslin’, no less. And Claire,” he added, turning to her from where he was flipping through photos in a file drawer, “you should know I’ve called Jasmine to ask if I can shoot more at Shadowlawn, not the grounds, but inside the house—soon. If it’s restored, redone or sold, I’d like to preserve all that, too, living history, before someone else gets their hands on it. Exterior landscape and panoramic photos are my forte, but this is important.”

  “I can see why,” she said, wondering how big a stake this man really had in Francine’s and Jasmine’s disagreement to keep, sell or deed Shadowlawn. She couldn’t think of anything he would gain if it went public or stayed private. He surely had enough shots of the river to last a lifetime. And yet, he must not be rolling in money, because he had mentioned needing to keep the shop open, even when he wasn’t there.

  “Would you sell copies of the pictures?”

  “Actually, I’d love to do a photographic homage to Shadowlawn. Take a look at this.” He handed an eight-by-ten photo to her. It was taken at night, a glossy print with one large live oak illumined by a flash. And, yes, there appeared to be something—someone?—hanging from a tree branch partly obscured by Spanish moss.

  “See that light grayish body?” he said pointing it out before he slid another photo on top of the one she held. “Here, from another angle. This one looks more—”

  “More like a man’s body,” she finished for him. “Ugh. It makes me recall poor Lola hanging amid those marionettes.”

  “I can’t imagine. Poor girl. Reading between the lines in the newspaper—and having known Francine—I’ll bet Lola was just an innocent bystander. Maybe someone thought she knew more than she did.” He slid a third photo in. “So sad. Here—I’ve taken ones in the daylight and others at night where there was nothing to be seen, like in this one. A trick of the light, I think, but Bronco’s convinced. I’ve taken it from o
ther angles, too. Some show it, some don’t.”

  “The form only shows up at night?”

  “Evidently. When Bronco or I walked up to the tree, we saw nothing where it appeared something had been. Nothing at all by daylight. Even Bronco admits that. Sometimes I think he stalks the grounds in the dark, part of his definition of a groundskeeper. But in these night pictures—see here?—some ambient light comes from the front house windows, if lights are on inside. Especially lights, I think, from Francine’s room, the one where they say the female ghost comes out and jumps off the veranda.”

  “They say? So you’ve never seen or photographed that one?”

  He shook his head. “I suggested to Francine once that we invite that Ghosthunters TV show there, but she’d have no part of that.”

  She noted he’d said we, but then it was possible in working with and maybe advising Francine, he’d thought of them as working partners. He had, no doubt, been Francine’s friend.

  “If the mansion does go to the state or someone else at auction,” she said, “I suppose advertising a ‘haunted house and grounds’ would help promote it.” She handed the photos back to him. “So why do you think this is so important to Bronco?”

  He slid the photos back in the file drawer. “He wants to know why his great-great-great, etc., relative was lynched, I guess. He only knows the when and who. He’s asked around, even tried the local library, which was a stretch for a man who reads nature’s signs and not much else. But I’m hoping he’ll help me by carting my equipment around if I shoot in the house, so my assistant can stay here and keep the store open.”

  “You’re waiting for Jasmine’s permission to take interior shots?”

  He nodded. “I’d give Shadowlawn a share of the profits, which might help with the restoration.” They went back out to join Heck who had put his laptop on the counter and was looking at pictures labeled Old-Time Havana on the screen before he saw them and closed the lid.

  “That project sounds like a great idea,” Claire told Win. “I’d love to know what Jasmine thinks about that.”