Dead Roots

by Nancy J. Cohen

  Marla frowned, her hands bunching the bedspread. “Jeff said he thought the hotel should be restored to its former glory when I first met him on the grounds. This afternoon, he said it should be torn down. If he’s supporting Albright, then he was lying initially.” She shifted her position, watching Vail button his blue dress shirt.

  “Why would he even care what happens to the resort?”

  “That’s a good question. Mulch accused Brownie of spying for someone. I think it was him. The old guy was talking to this person on the phone and said, ‘I know who you are.’”

  “How well do you know your cousin’s husband?”

  “He comes from a wealthy family. Heir to a toothpaste fortune, I believe, along with a sister.”

  “So money wouldn’t be a motive. He must have another reason for wanting the place torn down.”

  “Maybe he hopes to invest in the theme park. It could be Jeff, and not Bruce, who’s pushing his interest in the new venture.”

  “But you told me Cynthia’s husband admitted he’d like to participate in a living-history experience.”

  Marla uncrossed her legs and stretched. “Why else would Jeff care what happens here?”

  “Old secrets will remain buried if the hotel is destroyed.”

  “Or they’ll be revealed,” she said, thinking of skeletal remains. She filled him in on the letters she’d read so far.

  “No kidding.” His eyebrows lifted. “You’re a descendent of Russian royalty?”

  Her lips curled in a cynical smile. “Like it matters today. Do we have time to read more?” She’d already applied her makeup, so she just needed to put on her jewelry for the finishing touches.

  “We can be a little late. Go on, what’s next?” After belting his trousers, he settled on the bed, rubbing her neck.

  Marla opened the next envelope in order of date and began reading:

  Dearest Vincent,

  Mama told me the most shocking news about Papa’s death. She believed aunt Esther and Uncles Joseph and George may have been responsible because they had been devastated by his disclosure. They feared he might soil our family name by revealing his true origins. Horror of horrors. What if he and Mama weren’t truly married since he used a false name on there marriage certificate?

  Uncle Joseph has been particularly incensed, calling Papa all sorts of names. Andrew wasn’t even Jewish for heaven’s sake but a royal Russian liar who’d stolen a poor peasant ‘s identity. Uncle Joseph said our names would be dirt. Our family would be shamed and our businesses shunned. How could he pull such a deceit over our family?

  She glanced up, studying Vail’s reaction. He had a thoughtful look on his face.

  “So Ruth suspected my great-aunt and great-uncles of hastening Andrew’s death so he wouldn’t disgrace the family name? Could that be what caused the rift between them?”

  “That seems a lame reason, but, then, people have been known to commit murder for less. I suppose the truth could have stained your family’s reputation. When did this happen?”

  “In 1943. I would expect the war took precedence in those days. Hey, listen to this.”

  Mama explained to me how Papa’s quilt about pretending to be a Jew led him to help the caravan that escaped from Hitler. He brought the boatload of Jews in through Mexico, hid the men in the farmer speakeasy, and transported them up north. It’s likely he used the gems to fund the operation. I’ve long suspected those two men who came to see him were Nazi agents, not long-last relations of the pole whose identity he’d stolen, nor Russians seeking recovers the alexandrite stones. They’d warm Cossack hats to fool him.

  “Andrew helped Jews escape from Germany,” Marla said in an awestruck tone. ‘That’s amazing. He had his own version of the Underground Railroad. The secret passages were ideal. He wouldn’t have wanted his neighbors to get wind of his activities. If word got out, his friends abroad would have been endangered. He had to have a network of people working with him. Maybe his friends were caught, and that’s how the Nazi agents found Andrew. They came here to stop him, not to find the jewels.”

  “What jewels?”

  She jabbed a finger at him excitedly. “Alexandrite stones. Aren’t they extremely valuable? That’s what Andrew brought to this country from Russia.”

  Vail rolled off the bed to pace the room in his bare feet. “I saw those gems once in a natural history museum. They fascinated me because alexandrite changes color. It looks grayish-brown in dim light, but in bright daylight, it turns green. And it’s red under incandescent lighting. As I recall, red and green are the Russian royal colors, and the stones are named after Czar Alexander the Second. Mines in the Ural Mountains have long been closed, so gems from there are pretty rare today. Modern alexandrite comes from Brazil and elsewhere, but it’s still expensive. One of the stones I saw in the museum was valued at eighty thousand dollars.”

  “I wonder if the gems belonged to my grandfather’s family, or if he took them from the royal treasury.”

  “Who cares? I can see why people want to find them. Even one stone would be worth a great deal.”

  “Andrew may have spent them all, building the hotel and then helping those refugees escape.”

  “That must be why Polly returned here year after year. She hoped Andrew hadn’t depleted his entire nest egg.”

  Marla nodded. “I gather Grandmother moved the family to the twelfth floor after some incident involving Vincent, but it’s likely Polly believed any remaining gemstones lay hidden among her father’s belongings. From Jasmine Hall she had easy access to the penthouse level.”

  “You said his furnishings were untouched?”

  “Right.” She wagged a finger. “I’ll bet Ruth preserved everything because she was searching for the stones, and that’s why Polly thought they must still exist. To my knowledge, no one’s discovered Andrew’s humidor yet. Maybe that’s where he hid them.”

  A lock of hair tumbled across Vail’s forehead, giving him a rakish look. Marla resisted the temptation to fix his unruly locks and instead unfolded the next sheet.

  I don’t know what Papa said to those men to make them leave, and Seto won’t tell me. Aunt Esther guessed Papa might have given them the remainder of the stones as a bribe to chase them away, but I think Seto had a hand in it somehow. He didn’t speak to me for days afterwards, and you know that’s unlike him. You were always jealous of the attention the dear man showed me, but you need not have feared losing my devotion. I should have been afraid of losing yours, although not for the reasons Mama said. She accused you of marrying me because you expected me to inherit Papa’s money, but when you realized Ruth had everything and the gemstones were gone, you lost interest. I know this isn‘t true, because we were so much in love. It’s I who’ve hurt you. If I had satisfied your needs like a proper wife, you wouldn’t it have lusted after Agnes. When I heard her cries and caught you in her bedroom, I felt a terrible sense of quilt. You wouldn’t have assaulted her if I’d been better in bed. My darling sister suffered from my failures. I should have realized it was my fault instead of screaming at you like I did. Will you ever forgive me? Please, please come back, and we’ll make things right.

  Your loving wife, Polly

  “Sounds like Polly’s husband was a skunk who hoped to become rich through their marriage, and when he saw that wouldn’t happen, he assaulted her sister just for kicks.” Vail’s eyes smoldered.

  “What an awful man. From her previous letters, I gather Vincent ran out on her afterward. Polly blamed herself, but I imagine she eventually got a divorce.” Shuffling through the letters, Marla was gratified to spot a couple of other legal documents. One was Polly and Vincent’s original marriage certificate. The other included a codicil to Polly’s will.

  “Oh my,” Marla exclaimed upon reading the terms. Straightening her spine, she peered at Vail. ‘This cancels my brother’s loan in the event of her death.”

  “What loan?”

  She averted her gaze, studying the leafy patter
n on the bedspread. “Michael lost money when the stock market plunged. He had to borrow to pay back his clients. I found the promissory note he’d made to Polly. He told me about it earlier, and he said he had a plan to fix things.”

  “You don’t suppose—”

  “No, Michael wouldn’t. I’ll bet he didn’t even know Polly made this codicil. Let’s go talk to him. He’ll be at the luau.”

  “Better take those with you,” Vail said, indicating the documents. “Someone has access to these rooms. Maybe it isn’t Andrew’s treasure they’re looking for.”

  Marla slid off the bed and proceeded to the dresser, where she’d laid out her jewelry. Putting her diamond studs in her ears, she considered his suggestion. “Suppose somebody is looking for Polly’s letters. Who else knows they exist?”

  “Didn’t you tell your family about them?”

  “I can’t remember. It might not be the letters they’re after anyway.”

  “That leaves the will, codicil, and marriage certificate.”

  A startling idea crossed her mind. “What if Polly never divorced? Wouldn’t Vincent be entitled to half her estate?”

  “I don’t think so. She could have made a case against him for abandonment. Besides, she clearly leaves everything to you in her will. Aren’t her bank accounts in both your names?”

  “That’s right, but Polly has some additional assets that will fall under her estate.”

  “You can let the lawyers deal with it.”

  Marla was grateful he didn’t ask how much Polly’s estate was worth. She wasn’t quite sure herself, when it all added up. She didn’t want to think about that now. Losing her aunt was still a fresh wound. “I wonder if she ever found Vincent again. Maybe the rest of these letters will tell us.”

  “We don’t have time right now.” He gestured. “We’re late already.”

  Gathering her purse, Marla stacked the papers together with a fresh rubber band and was about to stuff them deep inside her purse when she stopped. “You know, it might be safer to put these somewhere else.”

  On his way to the door, Vail halted to glance back at her. “Why?”

  “No one will mess with your stuff. You take them.”

  He gave her a suspicious glare, as though pondering the different ways she might lose possession of her handbag. “There’s always the hotel safe.”

  “Yeah, right. That would give George Butler carte blanche to acquire them.”

  “I can’t imagine why he’d be interested in your aunt’s papers,” Vail said dryly in a tone that implied otherwise.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I had a look around his office while he was out. I found the sale documents for the resort property, and it appears Ruth sold the place outright, with no strings attached. So there goes my theory about my family retaining part ownership of the resort. Butler also has a set of blueprints that show the secret passages and thirteenth floor.”

  “Interesting.” Vail took the bundle of Polly’s letters. “We’ll put these in my car.” On the way to the elevator, he said, “You’d mentioned something about a storeroom?”

  “Butler’s office, which I suspect may have been Andrew’s initially, has a secret entrance to the passages. It leads to a storeroom with an exit outside. I gather this was where the rum was stored during bootlegging days. Customers came by boat, were let inside, then followed the tunnels to the speakeasy. I suppose this is the same route Andrew used to smuggle in the Jewish refugees. They could have been transported across the Gulf from Mexico.”

  She pushed aside her thoughts as they approached the pool after detouring by Vail’s car to lock the letters in his glove compartment. Sounds of laughter, clanging dishes, and steel-band music drifted her way as she padded along the crushed-shell path to the festive dinner. Party lights were strung among the lit globes, whose posts were decorated with colorful leis. Beyond a congregation of chattering guests, a long buffet table stretched, laden with filled steamer trays. Delicious smells permeated the air: barbecued chicken; roasted sweet potatoes; fried plantains; warm, buttery bread; and apple pie. Marla’s mouth watered as she greeted her relatives, most of whom sat with plates in their laps and grease on their lips. Couples danced in a section of the pool deck cleared of lounge chairs. An open bar to the side was doing brisk business.

  “Marla, where have you been?” Anita chided her, a bright smile on her face. Her white hair looked a bit limp, and Marla decided she could use a bit more layering. Again, the notion that a salon should be on-site rose to mind.

  “We’ve been making some interesting discoveries,” she told her mother in a low voice.

  “Really? Tell me about them later. Aren’t the kids adorable?” Anita waved at her grandchildren, Jacob and Rebecca.

  Marla hastened over to greet Michael and Charlene. Anxious to confront her brother, she got caught in a swirl of cousins and didn’t get the chance until everyone had mellowed from too many rum punches and bellies full of food.

  Relaxing for the first time all day, Marla lay on a lounge chair next to Vail, letting the tropical drink potion erase all problems while a gardenia-scented breeze caressed her skin. Stars in the night sky twinkled at her as she peered toward the ocean, trying in vain to distinguish the horizon and wishing she could make sense out of recent events.

  Rochelle skipped into view, giggling with her crowd of friends, and Marla signaled her over. ‘You should thank my cousin for keeping watch like you ordered this afternoon,” she addressed Vail. “She helped me get out of Butler’s office unnoticed.”

  The detective’s angular face eased into a smile. “Remind me to pin you with a deputy’s badge, young lady,” he said. Reaching for Marla’s hand, he squeezed her fingers.

  She squeezed back, then let go. She’d just spotted her brother Michael alone for the first time that evening. After excusing herself, she sauntered to the bar, where he had just ordered another drink, one too many, in her opinion.

  “Michael, can I have a word with you?” she said.

  His brown eyes met hers quizzically. “Sure, what’s up?”

  He looked so carefree, she almost hated to ask him. “Were you aware Aunt Polly’s death canceled your loan?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What do you mean?” Michael said, gripping his gin and tonic.

  Marla ushered him away from the bar, where others might overhear their conversation. “You borrowed money from Aunt Polly. Was this how you repaid your clients?”

  He glared at her. “What if it is? I mentioned to Polly that I had a problem, and she offered me the solution. It’s not as though I asked her for a loan.”

  “Polly’s dead. Murdered. And according to a codicil she wrote, you don’t have to repay her.”

  His face contorted with astonishment. “She died in her sleep, and I don’t know about any codicil. I sold some stuff on eBay, so I’ve started to send her monthly checks. I planned to repay her in full.”

  “Don’t you see how this looks? Aunt Polly didn’t die a peaceful death. Someone smothered her. And suddenly you don’t have to come up with twenty-five thousand dollars anymore.”

  Michael took a large gulp of his drink. “Y-you know I wouldn’t harm anyone. Tell me you believe me.”

  His earnest face erased her doubts. With sisterly affection, she patted his arm. “Of course I do, but I hope you have some sort of alibi.” Had Vail mentioned the time of death? “Promise me you won’t say anything about this. It’s not common knowledge how Polly died, and we’d best keep things quiet for now. Since the groundskeeper turned up dead, the investigation will get more intense.”

  He tilted his head. “Why are you getting involved? You’re supposed to be on vacation. I gather you and Dalton are helping the cops.”

  Marla shrugged. “I owe it to Aunt Polly. No one else cared enough about her, and we were just getting close. I feel like she’d want me to find out what’s going on. We have a few leads, but not the links that tie them together.”

  “Well, let me
know if I can help.” He shuffled his feet, as though their sudden intimacy embarrassed him.

  “I will.” She winced at the sight of Anita bearing down on them. “Here comes Ma. You deal with her. I want to talk to Bruce about his interest in the theme-park development.”

  She didn’t corner Cynthia’s husband until later that evening. Distracted by her cousins, she got caught up in their discussion on water conservation while the hours flew by. After her relatives dispersed, she headed to the campfire in a clearing by the sugar mill ruins. Perfect place for ghost stories, she thought, waving at one of Spector’s teammates in the distance. Remembering the report of a vortex by the chimney stack, she resolved to revisit the crumbling stones during daylight.

  While Vail collected their skewers and allotted bag of marshmallows, Marla basked in the heat from the crackling fire. The aroma of rich humus mingled with pine to scent the cool air as she listened to the chitter of night creatures. In the background, the rhythmic music of waves kissing the beach created an ongoing symphony.

  Unwilling to be lulled into tranquillity, she veered toward Bruce, who’d plopped onto a wooden bench, one of many set in a semicircle around the fire. “Hey, cuz,” she yelled to Cynthia, who was already engaged in a heated dialogue with Joan and Julia. Marla looked for Lori, but didn’t see her or Jeff anywhere. Brow wrinkled in worry, she forced herself to focus on her task at hand.

  “Bruce,” she said to the tall man, whose height gave him a permanent stoop, “I wanted to ask you something. Have you reconsidered your position regarding the living-history experience?”

  He ran stiff fingers through his black spiky hair, “I’m still in favor of the sale if the original plantation is restored properly, with care to preserving the environment. I think it would be valuable for our Florida heritage to rebuild the sugar mill complex.”