Chasing Shadows

by Karen Harper

  “But how could she have afforded to keep it—to keep control?”

  “She was a fine fund-raiser for other causes and charities. I ran the idea of the book I’m doing now past her and would have split the profits with her, though, I admit, that would have been a drop in the proverbial bucket to restore and keep Shadowlawn.”

  “I suppose,” she said, avoiding mentioning her and Nick’s interview with the Montgomery family’s old lawyer, “you could have helped Francine or Jasmine try to oversee the funds and the running of this place even if she sold it or it went to the state.”

  He pushed away from the wall and propped his hands on the edge of the wide table across from her. “You know, Claire, the real ghost at Shadowlawn is the burden of Shadowlawn, hanging on, peering out of every dark corner. I think that just weighed Francine down so much she couldn’t share it with an outsider like me or, worse, the mass market public, the gawkers, those who love ghost stories and tabloid type scandals. Although she may have just been careless with her medicine—and you understand that, since you lost yours today—I think she just decided it was all too much, including her arguments with Jasmine, and she deliberately took too much of her medicine. You know, like that big line in the 1976 movie Network, ‘I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.’ Only, she was not mad, but burdened. Sad but—”

  The police officer appeared in the door, and Win stopped talking.

  “Ms. Britten, the sheriff wants a statement from you before he leaves. Mr. Markwood is going to be there, too.”

  That surprised Claire as the sheriff had told Nick he couldn’t sit in. Would he attend as her employer, friend or her lawyer? But she could do this, she told herself. She’d been through worse, the terrible scenes with Jace, losing him, being shot in Naples. At least Neil’s food had helped her, and this stimulant pill would, too. Win’s calm admission and astute explanation of things had boosted her. Jasmine could be innocent, Francine’s staff, too. Win had just provided the best proof she’d heard yet that Francine could have killed herself, and that would solve and save so much here at sad Shadowlawn.

  “I realize you’ve had a tough day of it, Ms. Britten,” Sheriff Goodrich began.

  He, Nick and Claire were sitting at the dining room table. Neil had cleared her tray away. She felt exhausted, almost dizzy, but she had to stay alert, then get some sleep. Evidently, the lengthy interview with Bronco had gone all right, though an officer was still keeping an eye on him in the parlor.

  “Frankly,” Goodrich said, “I and my resources have had it tough, too. Markwood, you owe the citizens of Putnam County a pretty penny for that chopper.”

  “I can write you a check before you leave.”

  “Is that Hector Munez who searched for the airboat with Neil Costa another lawyer?”

  “A tech assistant.”

  “Running a pretty fancy, expensive operation here—your personal Certified Fraud Examiner, too, in Ms. Britten. Talk about a pretty penny. From what I hear, Jasmine Stanton and Shadowlawn don’t have the means to pay you.”

  Nick looked all business. “Did you have questions for Claire before we head back to St. Augustine this evening?”

  “I have to run Bronco Gates into Palatka for the night, and you said you’d go with him,” the sheriff said. Then he turned toward Claire. “I still think Bronco Gates took you under duress today, didn’t he, Ms. Britten—by force?”

  “Please call me Claire.” She sat up straighter and steadied herself, not looking at Nick but directly at the sheriff. She tried to buck herself up for this ordeal. She was on the other side of what she usually did, but this was just like facing a prosecutor or defense attorney in court.

  She said, “Bronco and I were both under duress. I assume he told you I’d just explained what had happened to his ancestor here. That was a tragic story in itself and not what he wanted to hear. In a way, he identified with the man.”

  “The guy he thinks is a ghost come back to haunt the place? Yeah, he told me. I’m just hoping Bronco didn’t think he had to avenge that loss by getting back at anyone here.”

  Nick cleared his throat but didn’t speak. Strange, but Claire could sense what he was thinking. The sheriff now had two suspects for Francine’s murder—if it was murder.

  Looking the sheriff dead in the eye, even leaning forward a bit to show she didn’t fear him, she said, “So the case you’ve been putting together against Jasmine Montgomery Stanton for allegedly harming her mother could have holes in it? Frankly, after hours of interviews here, I’m coming to the conclusion that Francine had enough problems—and the means—to commit suicide without any interference from either Jasmine or Bronco. Do you really think Bronco would hurt Francine?”

  “Damn it,” he exploded, slapping his hand on the table so hard the nearby candlestick shuddered, “I’m asking the questions here! The man was upset by what you told him, why this, ah—” he glanced down at the notes in his lap—“William Richards was hung. For hanky-panky with the lady of the manor, when it should have been strictly a business relationship.”

  He glared at Nick, then looked back to her with a pointed glare. She steeled herself not to sit back, waver or so much as blink at that barrage. Just as she’d done with Bronco, she’d underestimated this man. He knew that Nick would happily pay for the helicopter to search for her. Maybe he sensed how attracted they were to each other. All they needed was to have that come out in court to detract from the real issues.

  Claire said, “To answer your question about Bronco, you are absolutely correct. Hearing about his ancestor is what upset him.”

  “Hell,” he said, jumping to his feet, “I know you’re going to toe the party line here and say he didn’t harm you.”

  “You can see he didn’t.”

  “He some kind of charity case for both of you? Counselor, you ought to be doing everything you can to nail him to get the heat off Jasmine. Imagine that, a lawyer with a heart. Well, if you’re still defending her, you better get Bronco another lawyer because I’m not charging him for harming Francine, but—with the sheriff of St. Johns County—for the murder of Lola Moran. The sheriff there has two witnesses spotted them arguing in Heritage Walk in Old St. Augustine shortly before she was drugged and murdered. Sheriff Parsons there interviewed Lola’s sister earlier today, and she blames him for an argument he had with Lola.”

  Nick sat forward in his chair. “You’re arresting Bronco for Lola Moran’s murder?”

  “You heard it here. Be grateful. Maybe, once I get him away from you two, I can pry a second woman’s murder out of him.”

  Nick said, “I’m going with him, calling someone in the area I know for his counsel. Are you finished with Claire then?”

  “For now. She looks like she can use a good night’s sleep.”

  Now Claire felt really shaken. Nick was going into Palatka while they booked Bronco? She hoped he didn’t think she’d accused him of killing Lola, because she didn’t believe that. She mustn’t panic. But she needed to take her night meds, to be in Nick’s car back to St. A, then go home, back to Lexi. Oh, well, Heck would have to take her back to the hotel now. Night had fallen, and the weather made it seem even darker outside. Rain streaked the windows as if the entire house were crying.

  “Claire,” Nick said, reaching down to help her up when the sheriff walked out on them, “I swear he just wanted to shake us both, throw his weight around. He hoped you’d turn on Bronco to help him solve the Lola murder.”

  “I still don’t think he killed her.”

  “Motive, opportunity, proximity.”

  “I know. I know! But this is what I do, Nick—though sometimes not very well. Despite Bronco’s temper tantrum, I still don’t think he killed Lola or Francine. I’d just as soon blame the hanging tree ghost.”

  “Step outside with me a minute before I drive to Palatka
behind the squad car taking Bronco. I’d better be there while he’s booked. I’ll make a few calls, get him representation and come back here as soon as I can. I detest authorities who jump to conclusions about murders when nothing’s proven,” he gritted out.

  She knew he was thinking about his father’s death again. She wanted to comfort him. He led her outside, moved away from the door and window light and pulled her into his strong embrace at the far corner of the veranda. She clamped him to her, arms around his waist. He leaned his shoulder against a pillar. Her head fit perfectly under his chin.

  They stayed that way a moment as the rain rattled down. “I was so worried,” he whispered. “I was going nuts to get you back, to find you.”

  However light-headed she still felt—it wasn’t just the Nick-effect this time—she leaned back slightly and looked up into his face. Her hips tilted into his. His eyes seemed silver in the reflected window light.

  She told him, “I managed to mess up today, but you did find me—and I’ve found you. I’m so sorry I misjudged Bronco. But then, in the end, I don’t think I did. He is not Francine’s killer, probably not Lola’s, either.”

  “I’ll work on that. But onward and upward for us, no matter what we have to face?”

  She nodded. They bumped chins as he tilted his head and took her mouth in a crushing kiss. For one moment, nothing else mattered. All their troubles seemed so distant, out there in the river or the rain. He lowered his hand to grip her bottom, to almost lift her to him. Her breasts crushed against his chest. She felt dizzy, even faint, so sleepy and exhausted, but her body responded and her spirits soared.

  Voices nearby. They stepped apart, though Nick still held her arm. The sheriff’s stern tones, Jasmine’s voice, pleading.

  “They must be bringing Bronco out,” Nick said. “I don’t want Heck driving you back in all this. Jasmine said you can stay the night in a room down the hall from hers, and Heck will sleep on the sofa downstairs. She knows you need your sleep. You and Heck shouldn’t be out in this rain, especially after what happened to us in the dark the other night. In the midst of all this, Clayton Ames and his lackeys are still out there somewhere.”

  “Yes. All right. I need to sleep fast. I’ll take my night med and be out.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we’ll head to St. A in the morning. Then I’ll take you home tomorrow, though I’ll have to come back and forth for a while. I hate that I have to run off, but I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he repeated as he dug his car keys out of his jeans pocket.

  She followed him back down the veranda toward the cluster of four officers who surrounded Bronco at the open front door. He looked solemn and resigned. She still didn’t think that was guilt on his face as he stared out toward the hanging tree. He frowned, then squinted at it, so she turned to look, too.

  Was she seeing things in her exhaustion, or was that old ghost figure hanging there in the tree in the dark and rain? And—and a woman’s form, a woman with long loose hair—just beyond the tree, half hiding behind it! No way, not Rosalynn’s ghost!

  She heard a huge clap of thunder, then a second.

  Nick pushed her down behind the pillar nearest to the front door and shouted, “Gun! Gun!”

  28

  Jace arrived early at the Changi Airport, eager to be off on the flight. This might even be goodbye to Singapore, if he could get a change of assignments. He’d emailed that request to the airline office onsite at LAX.

  He ducked into the news store, bought an international paper and scanned the books, almost as if he were going to be a passenger and needed something to read on the flight home. A display rack of books caught his eye: The Simple Guide to Customs and Etiquette in Singapore; Singapore: Enchantment of the World; and one touting Singapore as The Garden City.

  When he noted that the enchantment book was for juveniles, he bought it for Lexi. Despite Claire’s problem with her mother reading to her and Darcy all the time, she did read to Lexi. But he’d read this to their daughter, because he’d never really taken time for that. Someday he’d bring her here for a visit—Claire, too, God willing.

  He sat in a restaurant, ordered sweet-and-sour pork with lemon rice while he flipped through the newspaper. That Malaysia Airlines plane that had been missing for over six months had not been found, though Australia was heading up the search now. It must be somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, but where? Worse, it was suspected the pilot might have diverted it and brought it down.

  A chill raced up his spine, and he shuddered. That airliner had been flying to and from exotic places, too—Kuala Lumpur heading for Beijing. He hated to admit it, but pilots obsessed about airline accidents. Not being ghoulish, but reading about others dying because they were doing what they loved—the same thing all pilots loved—was a horrible but effective way to learn what not to do in the air.

  Private pilots sometimes committed suicide or mass murder by deliberate crashes, too. He recalled a suicide flight in Indiana about four years ago where some guy flew a Piper Cherokee into an Internal Revenue Service office building, killing someone on the ground, too. Man, no one liked paying taxes, but that was really over the edge. And yet, lately—and with the way his father had treated him and his mother—he could almost grasp desperate despair.

  But this crash detailed in the newspaper was a Boeing 777 with only two-hundred-twenty-seven passengers compared to his large Airbus which carried over five hundred. One loss was too many, though. And all those people, never to see their loved ones again...

  Man, he couldn’t wait to get home. He could honestly say that for the first time in a couple of years. He pictured Lexi bouncing off the walls and screaming, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!” Then Claire would come to the door, on edge at first until she heard him out, that he wanted a second chance and was willing to change his life to earn that.

  He was pretty sure Claire would be done with her assignment for that slick lawyer Markwood by now. He pictured her back in Naples, safe, catching up on cleaning the house, laundry, yakking on the phone to Darcy, checking out her anti-fraud website for her new business Clear Path that meant a lot to her, so it would to him, too, now.

  Clear Path. Yeah, he could see his way home now, home to Naples and back to her.

  * * *

  Nick sprawled half beside, half on top of Claire when the gunfire started. Adrenaline poured through her. Her pulse pounded, jolting her alert for the first time in hours. Her brain flashed back to the shooting at the courthouse when all this started. It was so clear, like a moving picture: heat, bright sun. Fred Myron sprawled in grass and blood, another shot, her arm hit, people shouting, then Nick there...

  Nick’s shout was echoed by the sheriff’s to his officers. “Gun! Gun! Shooter at ten degrees north. Behind the tree. Running now! Pursue!”

  Claire lifted her head. The officers drew their guns and almost vaulted off the veranda. Keeping low, running, they scattered into the darkness. Only one of them seemed to have a light. She saw one officer pick Bronco up off the ground where he’d shoved him and push him inside their vehicle. Another officer fired back in the dark and rain.

  A shot shattered the police car window in the vehicle where they’d put Bronco.

  “I saw a woman,” Claire whispered to Nick. “And that puppet back in the tree, see? Forget Clayton Ames this time, unless he’s hired Cecilia.”

  “Put nothing past him but—you saw her?”

  “Her silhouette—her hair.”

  They watched as Jasmine and Neil crawled on their hands and knees into the house and began to turn off the lights that made them easy targets. Nick didn’t let Claire budge. Was Win still here? Yes, she saw him hunkered down behind a pillar on the other side of the door. Evidently, everyone had been out here to see Bronco taken away.

  The wait—silence now—seemed endless. The rain sti
ll thudded down; the wind picked up. From time to time, they heard men’s shouts, calling out positions. The voices became more distant, then came closer. “Got her!” someone yelled.

  Yes, Claire could see in the bouncing light of an officer’s big flashlight that she had been right. There was a form—a puppet, no doubt in a familiar outfit she’d seen at Cecilia’s house—hanging in the tree.

  “It’s Cecilia for sure,” she said. “The puppet she made for Bronco is back in that tree. Maybe she decided to avenge her sister’s death by shooting him, or by mocking him with that puppet. Or, if she’s this reckless—and she does seem unbalanced—could she have been so angry with Lola since she spent so much time with Bronco that she killed her? Maybe she saw her own close relationship with Lola threatened. But I’m not sure she could have boosted Lola up high to hang her. Nick, I’m so out of it and rattled I can’t think straight.”

  “Yes, I see the puppet. If she came out here to kill Bronco, she was crazy and desperate to try it with all these cop cars here. And if she’s nuts enough to try this, who knows what else she’d do.”

  From the misty dark came two officers, their guns still drawn, half dragging, half carrying a slight form between them. It was Cecilia, limp, sobbing but evidently not hurt.

  “Sheriff, she had the gun,” an officer shouted.

  Jasmine’s voice rang out as people rose to their feet. “That’s Cecilia Moran, my mother’s maid’s sister,” she told them.

  “Ah,” Sheriff Goodrich said. “I recognize her, too. The plot thickens.”

  Nick whispered to Claire, “If I hear one more cliché out of him, I’m going to have to push it back down his throat.”

  “Counselor Markwood,” the sheriff’s voice boomed out, “I don’t think you need another client, but now I’ll have two very interesting suspects to take in.”

  Cecilia shouted, “Bronco killed my sister. I know he did. And he’ll get away with it—murder, just like Jasmine did for killing her mother!”