by Scott Cook
There was nothing about the Civil War soldier, of course. Big fat surprise! Nothing about George Nolen, either. Again, I thought that was odd. I thought I’d busted on Mrs. Lucinda Granger as well, until I started looking at birth and marital records.
Granger was her maiden name. She was married in Orlando in 1940 to a William Eagle Feather. There were records of two miscarriages and one successful birth in 1950 for Richard Eagle Feather. Then a divorce in 1953 and a remarriage that same year to a man named Carson Harney, and the birth a year later to twins Michael and Susanna.
“Hmmm…” I muttered to myself. “Interesting…”
Then I went in the other direction. Lucinda’s father was born in 1885 and his mother was married to Arthur Granger in 1883 and was born Elouise Tobias in 1863… to Ezekiel and Victoria Tobias.
“What the Christ…” I asked no one. “Scott’s gonna find this very interesting.”
I’d found the connection between the three disturbed graves, at least. I didn’t know what it all meant or why somebody would dig up Zeke’s and Lucinda’s graves… but the Rick Eagle Feather thing certainly tied them to George Nolen.
My last stop was the main branch of the orange County Public Library. I’d try to find some old newspapers from the nineteenth century and see if anything popped out at me. There is some very interesting stuff about Orlando from the middle of that century. For instance, a fort named Gatlin was established in the 1820’s and played a pivotal role in the second Seminole War in 1835. Then a family named Jernigan set up shop around the area to raise cattle. Not long after, Orange County was formed and the town of Orlando incorporated in 1875 and then again in 1885.
The Civil War certainly came to town as well. It was interesting and I could’ve probably spent hours reading old papers and journals. I know Scott would, if he hadn’t already. Yet nothing was standing out that related to the case. Maybe Zeke Tobias had something to do with Indian fighting before the war and that had some connection to Rick Eagle Feather’s family, I wasn’t sure. But Scott said that Rick is a Calusa, not a Seminole… so I couldn’t see or find anything significant. At least not in the stacks.
I was in what I assumed was a rarely visited portion of the library. In an old local references section on the top floor. It was a Thursday and not many people were in the library to begin with, but my section was like a ghost town.
That’s why when I felt the presence of a man approaching me at my little reading table my internal alert went off. The guy tried to come up quiet, and he did, but the silence of the area I was in was so complete that you could’ve heard a feather drop.
People didn’t sneak up on you in a library for any good reason I could think of. I heard his soft footsteps a few seconds before he appeared. It gave me time to slide my hand into my small purse and wrap it around the butt of my Glock 43.
I think he was surprised when I looked up sharply and met his gaze, “Got a problem, pal?”
The man was of medium height and build, probably mid-twenties. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans and his head was completely shaved. The only hair on his head was a closely cropped Van Dyke beard and two slashes of eyebrow that seemed to frame hard, cruel brown eyes.
“Nah,” the man said with what seemed like a sneer. “I don’t need no help, baby. I’m here to help you out.”
“You don’t look like any librarian I’ve ever met,” I said frostily.
The man waved a hand dismissively in the air and I noticed that his fingernails seemed dirty, “Yeah… nah, I ain’t no librarian.”
“If you’ve got something not stupid to say, then let’s hear it,” I snapped. “I’m in no mood for bullshit.”
He scoffed, “Upitty little bitch, ain’t ya’?”
I narrowed my eyes at him, “Why don’t you take your little pecker and go fuck yourself with it.”
His pale face darkened and he lunged forward, sweeping the encyclopedia, large binder and several loose sheets of paper that I’d laid out on the table to the floor. He put his palms flat on the table and leaned in close, his dark eyes boring into mine. When he spoke, his breath had a weird smell. It was nasty, but not like halitosis. I could smell cigarettes and booze and something else I couldn’t explain. A sort of… foul chemical stink.
“You listen up, ya’ little cunt,” He growled. “Cuz we’re only gonna say it one fuckin’ time. You and your snooper boyfriend just mind your own fuckin’ business, hear me? We don’t wanna see— “
When I pressed the muzzle of my small 9mm against his Adam’s apple, I pressed hard enough to cut off the rest of his diatribe. I even felt a pop as the cartilage flexed behind the metal.
“Now you listen to me, dipshit,” I said in what I hoped was a dangerous Jarvis-esque tone. “I don’t want to hear another filthy word come from that sewer under your nose that doesn’t tell me who you are and who you work for. This is a small gun but makes a nice big hole… at least when the hollow point bullets I keep in the magazine blast their way out the back of ya’. Now talk, fuckface!”
“You ain’t gonna shoot me,” He croaked.
I slid my chair back and stood, taking a step to my left and around the side of the little table. I still held my gun on him, though.
“You heard what I said,” the punk, maybe a gang banger or something, sneered. “You and Jarvis stay outta this.”
“Outta what, Einstein?” I quipped.
Now that the table wasn’t exactly between us, the asshole thought he’d be cute and make a grab at me and my pistol. I took a half step back with my left foot and sent my right straight into his groin. I realized quickly enough that the kick hit something solid. He was wearing a cup!
“You’re gonna pay for that, bitch!” he growled, although he had a self-satisfied sneer on his ugly kisser.
Although it’s true that human beings are most vulnerable along the body’s line of bisection… males in particular since they’re foolish enough to keep their gonads on the outside… it’s not always foolproof. One thing Scott taught me early on was that a kick to the mommy/daddy button isn’t always a sure thing and in fact can get a girl in serious trouble.
It may come as a surprise to find out that guys don’t like it… so if you miss… or if they’re wearing a freakin’ cup… they might get very angry and want to make you pay for your impertinence.
However, I wasn’t without a backup plan.
When he lunged for me, no doubt with the intent of getting ahold of me and doing something unkind to my girly portions, I side-stepped, grabbed his wrist in both of my hands, pivoted, dropped the knee and hip tossed him onto the table. Unfortunately, as he fell, he began to flail wildly with his arms and legs and one of his booted feet caught me in the gut.
It wasn’t a full-on kick, but it was enough to knock me over and cause me to double up a bit. Luckily, though, I also was able to pick up my gun and level it at the prick just as he stumbled to his feet.
“This ain’t over, you little whore!” He barked but did not choose to advance. I think he knew I would’ve shot him.
Instead, he turned and ran off. Probably for the best. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I do think that discharging a firearm inside a public library might mean a fine or even get your library card confiscated.
I took a moment to catch my breath, got to my feet and straightened myself out. I picked up the books and papers and set them back on the desk before reaching into my purse for my phone.
“Gee…” I said to no one. “I wonder if this little incident means something? Psssh! Naaahhh…”
6
Unlike Orlando, whose history goes back nearly two hundred years, Davenport is most definitely one of Disney’s children. The areas south and east of the Walt Disney World Resort were a direct response to the theme park and to the population explosion that its inception engendered.
Whenever I came out that way, I wondered what it must have been like before 1971 to drive north on Highway 27 past I-4. Just miles and miles of woodlands unti
l you reached State Road 50. Now, however, housing developments and shopping centers abound.
Davenport did have some interesting geographic features. Many people think that Florida is just one giant flat peninsula.
However, that’s far from the truth. Once you get south of Lake Okeechobee, it’s certainly the case and on the coasts for the most part. However, the Appalachian mountain chain does extend its hilly finger deep into Central Florida in the form of rolling hills of respectable height. In Ocala and Mount Dora, for example, you could easily believe that you’re in the foothills of Georgia or the Carolinas. Even as far south as Davenport, some bumpiness still makes its presence known. It’s interesting because the hills blend with a variety of lakes and wetlands. Much of Central Florida from north of Orlando down to the big lake and almost out to Tampa is riddled with sink hole lakes ranging from small ponds to lakes with miles of open water.
Visiting Davenport and the surrounding areas was a bit like going to a slightly different and yet familiar world. The Serenity Hill Cemetery gave me the impression that I might be as far away as New England if I let my imagination wander.
Located on Ronald Reagan Boulevard on the southeastern side of I-4, the cemetery seemed to stand by itself. There wasn’t a housing development or business within half a mile or more, and this seeming remoteness only added to the property’s mystique. The graveyard was located on a large and rolling hill, its rambling grounds slowly declining as it went back from the frontage on Ronald Reagan where it eventually met with a series of small ponds. The property was surrounded by wild oak, slash pine and eucalyptus trees that framed its wide-open grounds perfectly. The cemetery itself was dominated by a three-story chapel and mortuary located a hundred yards from the wrought iron gates and that seemed to loom over the majority of the graveyard beyond. Here and there large old oaks and elms spread their branches wide, casting bits of shade and somehow added to the austerity of the place rather than to its décor. Especially in winter when the leafless branches were strongly suggestive of skeletal remains.
The sun was shining brightly when I pulled through the gates and I found myself feeling a little bemused disappointment. It should’ve been gloomy and overcast or perhaps even dusk. There should’ve been a spooky ground fog rolling specter-like across the grounds. It just seemed natural for a boneyard to be cloaked in a maudlin or even eerie atmosphere. Especially one where several graves had been disturbed of late.
I parked under the huge stone Porte-cochere of the chapel and stepped out of my Jeep. The day was cooler than the previous one, with a high that was only supposed to reach sixty-five. So I wore navy slacks, dress topsiders, a powder blue shirt and my navy blazer as well. Comfortable in the cool air and professional. Everything the modern private investigator should be when calling in at a house of the dead.
The foyer of the chapel and its adjoining meeting and gathering rooms was imbued with the scent of old wood and plaster. A sort of dry staleness that was just this side of cloying and yet was exactly what was expected. Although the ceiling was high, the solemnity of the building seemed to absorb any sound until you could believe that none existed and you might be compelled to blurt something out. To utter any sound to reassure yourself that you still dwelled in the land of the living.
I hadn’t heard a bell nor was there anyone to greet me. So when a man suddenly appeared from a dim corridor, I thought he might possess some level of prescience. The man was portly and of slightly less than medium height. He was appropriately dressed in a black suit and his salt and pepper hair was combed over a probable bald spot in a large sweeping arc. His eyes were coal black and his skin nearly as pale as parchment. When he spoke, he spoke in a low and deep register that practically dripped with an earnest and somber gravity.
“Good morning, sir,” He said. “How may I help you?”
Now this was more like it! The kindly yet slightly creepy caretaker or funeral director who materialized from nowhere. I thought to ask if he enjoyed dining on the corpses after sunset or if his laboratory was well-equipped for him to conduct experiments in the hopes of resurrecting dead tissue… I didn’t, though. Such ideas just might be taken the wrong way.
“Good morning,” I replied. “I’ve come on behalf of Mr. Palermo… regarding the… incidents regarding three of your… uhm… residents…”
“Yes… yes… you will make an excellent addition to swell the ranks of my growing army of the undead … muahahaha!”
Okay… he didn’t actually say that. What he did say was:
“Ah yes, the private investigator. Will you follow me into my office, please, Mr. Jarvis?”
Oh man… I so wanted to ask if they had 999 happy haunts here… and if there was room for 1,000… but again, I held back. Somewhere deep inside the dusty and cobwebbed corridors of my mind, a small and sepulchral voice was telling me that I was being awfully immature about this.
The man’s office was surprisingly cheerful. Blonde wooden desk and furnishings with tan leather upholstery. Light colored paneling and almost painfully white plaster made up the wainscoting. The entire rear wall was dominated by large open windows that gave a spectacular view of the grounds and let in a pleasant scent of lilac and possibly Jasmine. Pleasant if you didn’t mind gazing out over a field of the departed, that is.
“My name is Bradford Trobridge,” My host explained as he waved me into a chair. “I’m the head caretaker and funeral director here at Serenity Hill.”
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Trobridge,” I said. “This is an unusual situation and requires some tact, which I can see you possess in spades.”
Trobridge smiled thinly, “In truth, Mr. Jarvis, such incidents are far more common than you might think. Between artifact hunters and fortune seekers, there are several hundred cases of reported interment site disturbances in the U.S. each year.”
An involuntary shiver worked its way through my body, “That’s… surprising. In this day and age.”
“Modern surveillance techniques are making things more difficult for these villains,” Trobridge said, a little pique making its way into his tone. “It’s more than criminal in my view. Once someone is delivered to their eternal rest… the ground is sacrosanct in its way. To disturb it is… unconscionable. Even a necessary exhumation for the purpose of a medical or police issue, while perhaps necessary is… distasteful.”
I nodded, “These recent disturbances have upset you, I can see.”
He frowned, “Indeed… and our surveillance techniques have failed us.”
“Yes…” I said carefully. “From what I understand, certain cameras have been disabled.”
”That’s to be expected in a crime like this. What I don’t understand…”
“Is how our security officer failed to notice either the inoperative cameras or the activity itself,” Trobridge said tightly. His manner verged on anger but he held himself in check. “For my part, I find it impossible to believe that anyone could be that careless.”
“You believe he’s culpable?”
“Don’t you?”
I nodded, “I don’t like to hang my hat on a snap judgement… yet as you say, when something is so glaringly obvious, it’s hard not to. What interests me is why the man is still employed.”
“Without proof,” Trobridge said unhappily. “We can’t confront him with a direct accusation. He claims innocence.”
“Naturally. You don’t mind if I speak with him,” I stated. “And in that circumstance, I can be… less diplomatic.”
Trobridge smiled thinly again, “Please do. I’ve spoken with Mr. Palermo on the matter. He’s of the same mind as I… fire the man regardless. Even if he’s not criminally negligent, he’s incompetent and that’s grounds enough for us. However, Mr. Palermo wished to wait until you began your investigation before taking any definitive action.”
“Good,” I said. “I’ll try friendliness first. If that fails to produce results… well…”
“Excellent,” T
robridge said and stood. “I have a service to oversee shortly. You can find Mr. Proust in his office just down the hall. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“Would it be possible to see whatever records you have on your current and past employees as well as specific information on the three graves?” I asked. “I realize that Ezekiel Tobias will probably have little, however…”
“Certainly,” Trobridge said, extending his hand. “I’ll have my secretary compile that information for you. Good luck and please feel free to call upon me for anything you require.”
I went down the corridor and stopped at an unmarked door at the end. It was the only one that wasn’t open, so I assumed it was my destination and knocked.
“Come on in,” A man’s voice, heavily accented with the south, called out from behind the door.
The door opened onto a small cubby of an office. Small metal desk and a bank of video monitors along with two metal folding chairs and complete with a uniformed man sitting behind the desk. He stood to greet me. The man was balding, pudgy and sported an impressive mustache whose bushy ends dangled below his lower lip. He was about five foot eight and his khaki uniform had shield shaped patches on the breast and right arm.
“What can I do ya’ for?” he asked neutrally.
“You Proust the security man?” I asked, as if he could possibly be somebody else.
“That’s me, Clint Proust,” He extended a hand and I shook it. “Let me guess… you’re the P.I. Palermo hired on account of them grave robbers?”
“Yeah… he thought you might be able to help me out. Scott Jarvis.”
“Jarvis…” he said thoughtfully as he sat down. “That name sounds familiar… wait, ain’t you the dick who writes them books?”
I nodded and sat myself in one of his charming metal chairs, “Eight and counting.”
“Yeah…” Proust said thoughtfully. “Buddy of mine just read your new one… the one about the lunatic did all them bombins’ up in Orlando and whatnot. Shade was his name, right?”
