by Ann Cook
As soon as she opened the kitchen door she could see her mother at the dining room table. Mrs. O’Bannon, an imposing widow of fifty–two with a tight permanent and a square no–nonsense face, sat with her lesson plan book open. She turned level gray eyes toward Brandy. “Have you forgotten our war with fleas? The dog stays out.”
“She’ll be in my room just a few minutes. I see little enough of her now.” Dropping her feathery tail, Meg slunk, head down, toward the hall.
“Fleas migrate. And the way that animal sheds! It’s a wonder she isn’t bald. Don’t think I don’t know you sneak that dog in at night.”
Before Brandy could reply, her mother tacked in another direction. She had a more important warning flag to hoist. “Summer school began today.” She gave Brandy the look that turned her students’ knees to jelly. “You ought to be going with me to talk to the principal. I could probably still arrange for an internship at school next fall.” Twenty years of teaching had lent her voice authority.
“Let’s not hash that over again,” Brandy said. “I’m a reporter, not an English teacher.”
Her mother slapped her pencil down. “What kind of job security do you have? Reporters shuffle from paper to paper. What kind of pension can you count on?” She thumped the heavy textbook closed. “An honor graduate! You could so easily have a steady, reliable position teaching English and journalism.”
Brandy started for her bedroom. “I got certified in English as a back–up, but you know I’ve always wanted to be a reporter. I’m onto a really good feature. A mystery about a girl who drowned years ago at the old Able mansion.”
Distracted, Mrs. O’Bannon nodded. “I remember my dad talking about it. A lot of folks thought she didn’t really drown.” Brandy looked up quickly, but her mother was back on track. “You’ll never be able to make your car payments.”
Brandy rolled her eyes upward. The pathetic thing was, unless Brandy got the promotion next week, her mother was probably right. From the dining room came her mother’s parting shot. “Marry Mack Lynch and you won’t have to worry. He’ll inherit his father’s business.”
Brandy spun through door after Meg and called back. “I’m not ready yet.” Mack was, however, in spite of his playboy reputation. He’d asked her, but she had stalled, said she wanted to focus on journalism first. She poked her head back around the door jamb. “But you’ll be pleased to know I’m having supper with him tonight.”
In the bedroom Brandy could hear claws scrabbling on the floor under her bed——Meg seeking safety. “Some watch–dog,” Brandy murmured. “Before you’d bark at a prowler, he’d have to find you.” The red–gold head with its curious, cream–colored mask peeped out, then scrambled across the rug, nosed under a pile of Brandy’s cast–off jeans for a favorite chew–rag, and disappeared again among the dust balls.
Brandy admitted that her mother had a point about the way she kept her room. Because she saw it as a way station between college and her own apartment, she had unpacked only her well–marked Folger Shakespeare paperbacks, a current mystery novel, a tape player and a stack of classical tapes she seldom had time to hear.
But she was now a professional. Soon she must hang all the clothes, straighten the shoe rack, re–order the clutter on her desk and vanity. But tonight there wasn’t time. Maybe if her dad had been better organized… For a quiet moment she looked at his silver framed photograph beside her jewelry case. He had been her model, and his study had been littered with books and papers.
Ever since Brandy’s dad died of a heart attack three years ago, Mrs. O’Bannon had been hung up on the question of her daughter’s livelihood, probably because of her own financial struggle. She had met Brandy’s dad after his tour in Viet Nam, while they were both taking education courses. Both landed jobs at the high school in her mother’s home town, where her dad became its most popular social studies teacher. Seniors dedicated the yearbook to him twice.
Unlike her mother, Brandy’s dad didn’t urge her to follow his example. She’d been the English department’s Pride Award winner, but she’d also been the editor of the school newspaper. Her dad always said, “You’re a good writer, Bran. You’ve got curiosity and you’ve got heart. Do your own thing.” And she had.
It hadn’t been easy after his death. She had paid most of her way through college, working in Gainesville department stores and restaurants, sometimes staying out whole semesters until she could save enough for the next one. She didn’t want to accumulate debts. She had graduated older than her classmates at age twenty–four.
Peering into the mirror above the tissue box, make–up kit, and magazines, she flipped back her hair at the temples with a curling iron, and applied a muted pink lipstick. Tonight she’d test her dad’s faith and her own investigative talent. She would interview the latest witness to a haunting, maybe become a witness herself.
She whistled for Meg. On her dad’s last Christmas, the puppy had been his gift to her, a legacy of love. He had not consulted her mother. Obediently, the copper–colored retriever slithered out, deposited her chew rag on the pile of jeans, and followed at Brandy’s heels past the hazard of Mrs. O’Bannon and into the back yard.
As Brandy closed the gate, she thought of her mother’s recollection. If Eva Stone didn’t drown, what happened to her? But first, the ghost. She’d try to persuade Mack to watch the mansion with her. It would be friendlier with two. But before they staked out the Able mansion, she’d interview the student witness.
FOUR
At six–thirty that evening Brandy drove past the police department and city hall toward the lake and parked before a squat building with green shutters and a shamrock over the door. Mack’s giant pick–up was already there. Beyond the Wooten Park tennis courts a light burned at the end of the pier.
Inside the darkened pub a melancholy Irish ballad floated around Celtic tapestries on the walls. An O’Bannon could feel at home here. Mack was leaning over the bar in the lounge, eyes on the television screen, one big hand around a beer mug, ignoring the moist smile of a blonde with teased hair on the next stool.
Brandy steered him to a table under a green fringed shade beside a window. Across the water she could see the ragged shapes of pond pine and cypress, the view the pub owner wanted to preserve. Two miles to the southeast the ninety year old Able homestead and its specter were lost in the distance and darkness.
After Brandy had a glass of burgundy in hand and placed an order for her favorite shrimp–stuffed mushrooms, she brought up the subject of the Able mansion.
“The Ables!” Mack took a generous swig of beer. “Bunch of crazies, kid——especially the women. The old scarecrow lives there now——nutty as a fruitcake. Husband’s a boozer. He checked out of the place years ago. The owner before them let it go to pot.”
“Brookfield Able?”
Mack attacked his large T–bone. “Yeah. His wife’s as wacky as his sister, only more lady–like. Since Brookfield kicked off, she lives in a fancy condo with a keeper.” His voice emerged through a mouthful of baked potato. “That’s how crazy the Ables are.”
Brandy stared into her glass. “I met John Able. He seems sane enough.”
“That branch got it together a little better. Old man went into law enforcement and retired a captain. He’s got a son who’s a county cop now. But the guy you’re talking about——a flake. Some kinda tree–hugger. Lives like a monk in a trailer somewhere on the Dora Canal, trying to be a hot shot builder.”
Out the window Brandy could hear an engine and see a pontoon boat maneuvering into a slip. She tried not to watch the young boatman walk alone up the pier toward the restaurant.
“Architect,” Brandy said in spite of herself. “He wants to be an architect.”
“Whatever.”
When the pub door opened, she lifted her gaze above Mack’s thick shoulder. No mistaking the slender young man stepping into the only pub in Tavares.
Mack warmed to the topic. “You mentioned staking out some ghost a
t the old Able mansion. I don’t know any more than you do about a chick drowning at the Ables almost fifty years ago. And I don’t want to know. Now Axel Blackthorne, the guy who’s buying up the land——he’s good for business, good for the whole county. He’ll bring in more customers.”
Brandy gave him a wry smile. Blackthorne would, indeed, bring in the customers. There were all those manufactured homes, all those shopping strips to fill. She shifted subjects. Like Lady Macbeth, she would appeal to his manhood. “Of course, it would take courage to get the camera shots I want. If there’s nothing there to see, that’s part of the story, and there’s not much time left.” She nodded for emphasis. “The weather’s good. We’d better try tonight. First I’ll do some interviewing, get more details.”
Mack laid down his fork and bent across his ravaged plate. “I’ll put this flat–out, because I care about you. I’m not going out there, and you’re not going out there, either. You’re sure not going out there at night. No telling what varmints are loose in those woods. And old lady Langdon’s got a lug nut loose.” He sat back. “That’s settled. C’mon.” He reached one large hand across the table for hers. “Let’s take a little spin.”
Brandy could see John Able saunter from the lounge into the dining area, cradling a highball. She thought he spotted her. Maybe now he was her only chance for help. Maybe his attitude had softened.
When the waitress brought the check, she gently shook her head and pocketed it herself. “My treat. I asked you to meet me. And sorry, I’ve got to be up early. I’ve still got copy to write.”
He stood, stretched, glanced behind him at John’s table, and hovered for a moment above her. “Suit yourself, kid. I’ll go work out at the gym before it closes, but take my advice. Don’t get tangled up with that Able bunch.” He flexed biceps that made her girlfriends swoon and grinned. “If you gotta late date, remember——I could make spaghetti outta that guy.”
“My acquaintance with John Able,” Brandy said,”is strictly professional.”
When she stopped a few minutes later at John’s booth, he looked up, eyes wary. She slid into the opposite seat. “May I? Please——go ahead with your patty melt.” She took a sip of the remaining burgundy. “I found the name of the girl who drowned at your Aunt Sylvania’s house. Maybe you knew it. Eva Stone.”
She could visualize the yearbook picture——the high forehead, the large eyes, the shining sheath of dark hair.
In the background hung the thin, clear tones of an Irish harp, and then a wistful voice——“O you are not lying in the wet clay…”
John touched his trim mustache and hesitated before he spoke. “The Stone family still lives here. At least I believe her mother does.” A fact to store away, Brandy thought.
“… for it is a harvest evening now,” the Irish voice sang, “and we are piling up ricks against the moonlight…”
“Eva Stone was a beauty,” Brandy said. “I looked up the news story.”
The harp faded and the Irish singer breathed the final lyric “…And you smile upon us eternally.” Was Eva Stone “smiling eternally?”
John’s brown eyes went grave. “Some interesting information came my way today. Aunt Sylvania’s buddy Blackthorne called me at my job. Wanted to give me some advice about the house. He said to leave well enough alone. Doesn’t want me looking for another buyer. He even hinted he’d make it worth my while. Said he has connections who would help me find an apprenticeship.”
“Is that important?”
He sighed. When he was troubled, she noticed, he rubbed his forehead. “I spent six years studying to become an architect. Now I’ve got to do a three year internship with a firm. They’re not easy to find. After that, I get to take the four day exam. Right now I’m working as a draftsman at a civil engineering company.” He shrugged. “Blackthorne builds shopping malls, business properties, housing developments. He’s a power in Lake County.”
Brandy stared into her empty glass. She wasn’t the only one under pressure. “What are you going to do?”
He carved decisively into the ground beef, jaw set. “I’m not going to back down. I made an appointment tomorrow afternoon to take three architects through the house. They’re all from the Lake County Historical Society. Aunt Sylvania’s a member, so she can’t very well object. They could nominate the house to the National Register of Historic Places. With luck, I can still find a buyer who sees its potential.”
Privately, Brandy thought his plan was a long shot. “I heard Curt Greene today,” she said. “He’s the architect who’s trying to save woodlands and lake front. I think he has his eye on the property east of Sylvania’s house. That might help.” Leaning forward, she met his eyes. “I’m going to level with you this time. I still plan to investigate the legend that’s grown up around the house. Maybe the publicity about the missing woman will actually help.”
Once more she was conscious of a quiet Irish vocal, “…it was a moment when I sensed a miss in the beat of time…”
She tested him with another Shakespearean reference. “I feel like Owen Glendower. I plan to ‘call forth her spirit from the vasty deep.’”
For the first time she saw his rare smile. “But will she come?” He remembered his Henry IV. Maybe he wasn’t all angles and algebra.
Outside on the lake Brandy could see only the flicker of a fisherman’s light. “I’m going to watch at the house tonight. I hoped you’d help me.”
John pushed his plate away and reached into his pocket for the tip, his tone once again frigid. “Get my family involved, right? I can’t help you there.”
“…On a frosty night a bashful star… stood frozen in the sky…” sang the gentle voice.
A frosty night indeed. Brandy had never spent this much time with a man without arousing his interest. Meet the ice–man, she thought. Not a hint of a thaw. Not even the offer of a drink. Maybe he didn’t like the look of Mack Lynch. Maybe Mack was right. He was a wimp.
She shoved her chair back, her own voice suddenly business–like. “I also have the name of a witness to the supposed ghost. I plan to interview him before I case the place myself.”
***
About eight–thirty Brandy swung from Tavares onto busy Route 441 and followed it to a strip shopping center near Mount Dora. When she spotted a telephone booth beside a supermarket, she put in a call to her mother. “Don’t expect me until quite late,” she said when Mrs. O’Bannon answered. “I’ve got a hot lead on the story I mentioned last night.”
She expected her mother’s flinty reaction. “My Lord, you act as if you worked for the Washington Post! A girl your age shouldn’t be out alone at night.”
Brandy made a face into the receiver. “Mount Dora’s hardly Tombstone. No lecture, please. Just feed Meg.”
Farther east she pulled into the Burger King parking area. Seymour Hammond turning out to be an underfed youth with a mop of hair over one eye. Brandy ordered coffee and ice cream, introduced herself, and favored young Hammond with her most winning smile.
He peered back with his one visible eye. “My mom told me you were coming. Said you want to talk about summer job opening for teens. Find a seat. I’ll take a break in half a shake.”
Brandy settled into an empty booth in front of the plate glass window, spooned her ice cream, and watched while the lines dwindled. After Seymour served the last customer, he signaled a female companion at the counter, then slid into a seat across the table. Brandy reached for her note pad. For a few minutes she asked questions about his job needs and search, his qualifications, his career goals. Then she eased into the major subject.
“There’s something else. I’m also working on a story about the old Able mansion on Lake Dora. Last June another paper reported you and some friends saw something unusual out there.”
The question clearly made Hammond uncomfortable. With a paper napkin he scrubbed a faint stain on the table. “So that’s the real reason you’re here. I can’t tell you much.”
Or doesn’t
want to, Brandy thought.
He stopped rubbing, clasped his fingers together on the table and looked up. “I really didn’t see anything myself.” Judging by the forelock dangling over one eye, she found that fact predictable.
“We were planning a late cook–out on my buddy’s pontoon party boat, okay? I was fixing some hot–dogs on a grill at the bow. We’d been cruising around and it was getting dark. My buddy had just put on the running lights. We were idling along a few yards off shore, a couple of miles from town, across the lake, you know. It’s awful isolated out there.”
He paused. Obviously, he did not relish the memory. “First thing I knew, some of the girls started pointing and whispering and pretty soon getting pretty hysterical.” Seymour’s gaze shifted outside to the dark parking lot. Then he faced her again. “My buddy, he gunned the engine and took off like a bat out of hell. I was hanging onto the butane stove.”
“What exactly did the girls see?”
His bony fingers twisted a class ring, and he glanced at Brandy’s note paid. She put it back into her bag. “Let me call a girl who was there,” he said. “She’s the only one who’ll talk at all. She’s taken a lot of kidding. But maybe she’ll be willing to talk to you.”
He disappeared into a back room to use the phone. A few minutes later he emerged to say his friend Charlotte would meet Brandy at the Burger King, but the girl had to drive there from south of town. Charlotte didn’t want to see Brandy at her parents’ home. With that cryptic comment, Seymour hurried back to the counter and did not look her way again. Twenty minutes later Brandy saw a car driven by a lone girl turn into the parking lot. When the driver sat another five minutes, hands still on the wheel, peering through the windshield into the fast–food restaurant, Brandy realized her witness might not want to come where she could be overheard.
She dropped her empty paper cup and plate into a trash can and slipped outside. Her intuition proved correct. When Brandy rapped on the driver’s window, Charlotte motioned for her to come around to the passenger seat. As Brandy ducked in beside her, Charlotte faced her, blue eyes seeking Brandy’s, face pale under a smooth cap of blonde hair.
