by Karen Harper
“I think Aunt Darcy got an envelope but she said she’s waiting for you.”
They chatted on about everything from a cut on Lexi’s knee to how Claire’s arm was healing.
Darcy jumped into the session when Lexi scampered away and updated Claire on things. At least with Darcy she could tell the truth—truth she didn’t know she was going to say before she blurted it out, like how beat she felt—but not why. She was determined to finish her reports for Nick tonight and slog through more of this diary before she took her meds and went to bed.
“Lexi’s doing okay,” Darcy said, “but she misses you. And Jace.”
“I know she does,” Claire admitted. “He’s very good to her and I—I admire him for that, at least.”
“That’s what I thought,” Darcy said, with a head bob. “Of course, you’ll have to get along with him for Lexi’s sake. Meanwhile, any doubts about taking this assignment with Mr. Charisma?”
“He’s been very supportive, thank heavens, because I’m not sure which way to turn on this. Listen, Darce, gotta go. I’m kind of burning the midnight oil tonight to get through this. I hope to finish up tomorrow and head home the next day. I’m not sure if Nick or Heck will bring me, or they’ll put me on a plane from Jacksonville or Daytona, but I know better than to drive that distance alone.”
They said their goodbyes. Still drinking coffee, when she’d ordinarily lay off it this late Claire sat stubbornly at the desk, huddled over the diary under the best light in the room. The latter part of this handwritten document had taken the most water and was the hardest to read. But as soon as she finished this earlier section, she was going to try that part again. There was something intriguing here about Civil War–era Rosalynn’s story, and she’d seen Bronco’s ancestor William Richards’s name in this entry. Bronco had always seemed so desperate for information about the poor man, that if she could just decipher something here, it might get her some leverage with him. Lately, she’d had the feeling he knew more than he was telling.
Her cell phone rang, and she knew it must be Nick. Or what if it was Jace?
She reached for it and stared at the number calling. Cecilia Moran. She took the call.
“Cecilia, this is Claire Britten. How may I help you?”
“By coming over here now. I think I might have said the wrong person hurt Lola.”
“I’m glad I gave you my private number. Tell me. I’ll be glad to help.”
“I have to show you something, so you’ll see what I mean. Oh, I can’t believe Lola would do this, but—Can you come now?”
Claire glanced out the window. It was dark but for lights by the shops behind the hotel.
“Can you just tell me over the phone, and I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“This is too important. I have to show you the proof.”
“I’ll have to see if I can have someone bring me. But I can come into your house alone if you want.”
Adrenaline poured through Claire. She’d been almost weaving on her feet with exhaustion, wanted to go on with Francine’s diary, but this could be huge.
“Yes, please. I can’t sleep a wink ’til I tell someone and I trust you. I have to ask what you think before I tell the detective on Lola’s case.”
“I’ll call a friend and be there as soon as I can.”
Claire ended the call and punched in Nick’s cell number. Heck was transcribing her scribbled notes tonight to give to Nick tomorrow. Besides, she’d feel better if Nick was with her. She only hoped they wouldn’t be driving by any water, but now that they knew someone could follow them, they were careful—almost paranoid.
Cecilia had said “the wrong person hurt Lola.” That could really help Jasmine.
* * *
“Look, Claire, I still say this woman sounds shaky to put it nicely.” Nick was still arguing in the car as they pulled into Cecilia’s driveway and he turned off the headlights. They both craned to look up and down the street to see if another vehicle had turned in, too, but saw nothing. It was still sprinkling, and they’d driven through patchy fog.
He put a strong hand on her wrist, so she wouldn’t hop right out. “You need me in there with you. This may seem to be a blessing out of the blue. But the sisters could have had a fight over Bronco’s attention to Lola, and Cecilia could be dangerous, maybe regrets what she told you before. Or the sisters disagreed how attached Lola was to Francine and vice versa, so Cecilia struck out at her. You really don’t know this woman.”
“I think I do. It’s what you hired me for, Nick, psych people out, remember?”
“Then who maybe killed Francine with an overdose? Who knew Lola would be in the puppet shop, knocked her out with an overdose of something first, then killed her? Lola sounded like a skittish person, right? Don’t you think it had to be someone she knew and trusted who was with her right before she died?”
“Like Bronco?”
“Damn it, are you listening to me? Like her oddball sister for all we know, the one who stages a funeral with a bunch of puppets, the one who, you said, hates Jasmine!”
“All right, I hear you. How about I call you on my phone, then leave the line open when I go in to talk to her? You kidded me about woman’s intuition earlier today, and I took offense, but that’s partly what’s telling me this woman can be trusted, however eccentric she is. I think she’s going to give us Bronco on a silver platter and save Jasmine in the process before Sheriff Goodrich arrives at Shadowlawn with bells on—and big media coverage—to arrest her. Is that what you want?”
“You know I want Jasmine exonerated. But I want you safe, too!”
“I’ll be all right. I refuse to be a liability to you. Here, I’m calling your number, so pick up. I just hope what she tells me in private she’ll repeat to the authorities to get at least Sheriff Parsons here in St. Augustine off Jasmine’s back. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, remember? I’ll be careful.”
Nick muttered something she didn’t care to hear as he answered his phone and she got out of the dark car. When she approached the porch, a single light overhead popped on, so again, Cecilia had been watching. There she stood, no heavy eye-and-lip makeup this time, so the Barbie-doll look had muted, but her wild hair still swirled around her shoulders.
Cecilia gestured for Claire to step inside. She nodded but her stomach flip-flopped. So their voices would pick up, she slid her phone into the outer, short pocket of her purse. She’d keep it over her shoulder this time, chest high. She had to admit Nick’s argument had gotten to her.
The interior of the living room was dimly lit. A few of the marionettes had migrated out of the back room and sat here. The one that looked like Lola sat on the end of the sofa where they had talked before. For once, without Win’s prodding, this reminded Claire of a horror movie: as old as it was, she’d seen Psycho on TV last year. That crazy Norman Bates kept a sort of mummy of his long-dead mother around.
Claire tried to get hold of her fears. “That puppet looks a lot like the one of Lola that Bronco has,” she observed, trying to paint a picture with words for Nick.
“Identical. I’d like to take his back. He said he keeps it on his bed.”
“You’ve spoken to Bronco?”
“He called. Said he was sorry for my loss—and his. But come into the back room, and I’ll show you what I learned. I was so hurt—angry, too.”
Claire scuttled close behind her, hoping her words were loud enough for Nick. “Okay, let’s go out to the Florida room. Do you mean you’re angry at Bronco?”
Cecilia didn’t answer but pointed to a marionette hanging from the ceiling in the Florida room. The crowd of other puppets was gone now but the Lola puppet head identical to the one in the living room still sat on a small table, the head with her ashes in it.
“Look,” Cecilia cried. “Look at this!” She thrust a photo at Clair
e. Claire stared at it. Taken at night of the same view she’d seen before in Win’s studio, it was the shot of the so-called hanging tree, the one which looked as if a man’s body was dangling there.
“Oh,” Claire said, turning toward the phone in her purse, “a picture of the tree at Shadowlawn where Bronco believes his ancestor was lynched.”
“But look at this puppet!” Cecilia insisted, giving the bare-bodied puppet overhead a shove, so it rattled and swung. “Then look at this. Come closer!”
Claire hesitated as Cecilia yanked open a drawer and dug down into it. For one panicked moment, Claire feared Nick might be right. She almost screamed, Gun! but only managed to jump behind the woman to see what she was digging for as she pulled out a—what looked to be a man’s historic suit of clothes, Civil War era, though it was in such good shape it could not be authentic.
“Oh, a man’s historic outfit, maybe from around the Civil War,” Claire said, still speaking toward her phone. “But why—”
“I can’t believe she did it, but she loved that man. I told her not to trust anyone, and you shouldn’t either, especially Bronco Gates! Lola must have made this puppet for him, then sewed this outfit for it. Look at this picture she had hidden in another place in her bedroom! Bronco—or someone—hung this puppet from the tree to try to prove there was a ghost there. I’ll bet he thought people didn’t believe him about that. Lola said that Neil made fun of him, too. Maybe Bronco just wanted a reason to hang around if Shadowlawn was sold, and that ghost would get him attention and give him ties to the land and a reason to stay.”
“These photos—did you get them from Win Jackson?” Claire asked, though she saw they weren’t the quality of his work.
“Who’s he?” Cecilia demanded, her voice rising. “Lola said she had a big argument with Bronco about sex. She must have also argued with him over this, since she couldn’t have known he was going to pull a trick with it.”
“Go on. I’m listening.”
“She must have brought it back here, but I only figured all that out going through her things after she died. Now, I’m thinking Bronco went to our shop when she was there. She wouldn’t sleep with him or marry him. Why, he could have lifted poor Lola up to hang her with one hand. If he hurt Lola, maybe he hurt Miss Francine, too! Maybe Miss Francine knew he was putting pressure on Lola and that Lola helped him fake that ghost.”
That was a jumble of ideas—all speculation—but Claire hoped Nick heard it. “So who took this photo then?” she asked.
“Why Lola, with her cell phone. Printed it out, too. Makes me wonder what else is on her phone.”
“Haven’t you looked? Do you still have it?”
“The police took it from our shop. You’ll have to ask them.”
So much for that, Claire thought. If only Nick could get his hands on it. Who knew what the quiet but spunky Lola could have photographed around Shadowlawn, inside and out? Right now, she’d rather have Lola’s amateur photos than Win’s artistic ones.
“Have you told Sheriff Parsons this new theory that maybe Bronco staged the ghost picture? And that he might have hurt Lola?”
“I’m going to tell him tomorrow. I—somehow I trusted you. I wanted to run it by you first.”
“Why don’t you call him right now while I’m here with you? If he’s not there, just leave a message on his phone or tell whoever is on the night desk what you told me about Bronco? Won’t you sleep better then?”
Claire felt increasingly desperate. How she wished she could ask Nick on the phone if she was doing the right thing. Of course, it was possible Bronco had killed Lola. He was strong and could be volatile. Had Lola suspected him of more than trying to stage a ghost scene—maybe harming Francine—and accused him of that? Or did they just have a lover’s quarrel? She still thought Neil—or even Lola—was more likely to have tampered with Francine’s medicine than Bronco. But if Bronco was taken in and formally questioned, it could help Jasmine.
“Sleep?” Cecilia challenged. “I can’t sleep. And you—you look like you can’t, either. But yes, all right, I’ll call the sheriff.”
“I’ll talk to him or his lieutenant when you’re done, so he realizes I know what you said,” Claire added.
When Cecilia went to pick up the wall phone in their kitchen, Claire turned away and said to Nick, “Did you hear all that?”
“She’s definitely distraught and maybe delusional. But let her call in. I’ll make the same call just after to give our background for being here, but not mention I heard it all over the phone. Their looking closer at Bronco will at least muddy the water, so Jasmine’s not the only A1 suspect. Sit tight with Cecilia, try to calm her.”
Great, Claire thought. Finally, Nick was on her side about this. But Claire was starting to shake, and her stomach kept cramping from nerves. She should have taken her meds and been in bed an hour ago. So who was going to calm her?
She paced a bit, keeping the line open to Nick but eavesdropping on what Cecilia was saying on the phone. Standing there, her gaze skimmed a series of framed documents on the wall. She’d been so busy concentrating on the puppets that she hadn’t noticed these before. Leaning closer to read the print, she saw Cecilia had won statewide four-hundred-meter dashes in high school. The others were certificates for her participation and placements in the St. Augustine sprint competitions the last three years. She’d placed quite high, and there was one picture of her dashing across the finish line.
Claire’s head jerked, and she clutched the phone. When Nick had chased the person who was spying on them at Shadowlawn, he’d said it couldn’t be a woman, that Jasmine could never have run fast enough to elude him when he’d chased her.
So besides the people they suspected, could they be chasing a killer who was an outsider to Shadowlawn?
23
After the night she’d had so far, Claire couldn’t sleep, which was weird. Usually, by now, she’d have measured out and taken her first dose of nighttime liquid medicine and be dead to the world. But her mind was racing. She was sitting up reading Francine’s diary long after she should have gone to bed, but she couldn’t even keep her mind on that as thoughts and doubts pounded her.
Bronco was not all on the surface, as Win had claimed. As a matter of fact, “dumb” Bronco Gates might have pulled one over on Neil, who seemed to look down on him or even on the “brilliant” Dr. Win Jackson. Had Bronco planned to manipulate both men into thinking a puppet was a ghost, so they’d agree he had ties to the land and secure him a place at Shadowlawn if it was sold? That, at least, Claire could believe, but she had real trouble thinking Bronco could have hurt Francine, even if he had struck out in anger at Lola.
And Lola had evidently had more backbone than anyone knew. Her sister Cecilia did, too. Claire had told Nick about her skills as a runner, but he still thought the person spying on and knocking their car in the water had been sent by Clayton Ames. As for Neil, he was obsessed with his freaky museum, so what did that say about his state of mind?
And Jasmine...?
The notes Claire had given to Heck to type up tonight now might be way off base. But still, who killed Francine? Her meds, herself or someone else? Nick seemed so grateful for what Claire had done here, but right now it looked like a screwed-up mess to her. She was starting to feel she was the master of disaster. If only something in this diary would help!
She kept coming back to a part Francine had starred for some reason, but it wasn’t about her own life. It evidently concerned Rosalynn Montgomery, and it was on the pages where Claire had also seen mentioned the name of Bronco’s Civil War–era relative, William Richards, the indigo expert the family had brought in to oversee their cash crop.
Claire ran her index finger along the tight rows of Francine’s writing and whispered aloud the words she could read, Maybe no ghost, but surely W. Richards was hanged from that tre
e. It was passed down that he ran the entire plantation when R’s husband was away serving the Confederate cause. Rumors she was...
Here Claire was stumped again at a blurred word. Rumors she was pretty? Of course she was. Stunning in that portrait. Rumors she was precious? But neither of those things would be spread by rumors and precious didn’t make sense.
Then, when Claire glanced up at the small, framed photo of Lexi she’d placed on the nightstand, she knew. Rumors she was pregnant. She’d read earlier something about with child. That had sounded so old-fashioned. But now Claire knew: during the war when Rosalynn’s husband was away, fighting for the cause, Rosalynn had become pregnant. And from what Claire had read on the previous page—she flipped back to it—the rumor must have been that the father of her child was William Richards!
The rest fell into place. The husband came home after the war. Rather than face him and admit betrayal, Rosalynn threw herself off the second floor gallery to her and her unborn baby’s deaths on the flagstones below. Either before that or after, Rosalynn’s husband and lover fought each other. In a duel? With fists? Her husband died in that confrontation, and William Richards was either lynched or legally hanged.
“Shadowlawn reeks of tragedy,” Claire whispered. “It has to end.”
It made her very angry that the historic deaths of Rosalynn and William were solved but not the ones she and Nick were obsessed with now. Claire had only one more day at Shadowlawn, then Nick was driving her home with Heck following, though the men were coming almost right back.
She couldn’t wait to get home, yet her work here seemed unfinished. Praying she wouldn’t be haunted by dreams of death, past or current, that maybe she could decipher more of what she really needed from this diary, she slipped it under the other pillow of her bed.
Her hands trembled when she measured out and drank the liquid that led to oblivion and renewal. She turned off the light and curled up on her side. Should she tell Bronco what she’d learned? She could try to use that to make him admit he’d argued with, had maybe hurt—or killed—Lola. But it still felt like a stretch that he’d hurt Francine, too...
