Shallow Grave

by Karen Harper

  “He’s alive!” she told Brit. “A pulse and he’s breathing. But there’s blood on the back of his skull, like on your dad, so maybe he wasn’t meant to be. Call 911!”

  Brit was already punching it in. She was right that there was no ladder, but imprints of one were on both sides of the fence. And, as far as Claire could tell, no piece of denim was torn or even snagged from Jackson’s jeans.

  “I’ll go to the front gate to guide them in,” Brit said once the paramedics were on their way.

  “I’ll call Nick and stay with Jackson.”

  “Stay safe... I’m scared to death there’s a curse on this place,” Brit gasped out and, despite breaking into sobs, took off running.

  * * *

  “I called Jackson’s oldest daughter, Sarah, and she’ll go to the ER at Naples Hospital to meet them,” Brit told Claire. Claire was certain she could still hear the screech of the ambulance’s siren, even though the paramedics with their unconscious patient had been gone for almost an hour. She felt like screaming herself.

  Brit punched off her latest call, then muted the sound on her phone. It had been playing “Talk to the Animals” ever since the word got out about more trouble at the BAA. Newspaper reporters wanting a statement, the local TV Channel 28 news, friends of Brit’s and Jackson’s, and calls from Jackson’s daughters.

  She collapsed next to Claire on a picnic bench behind the BAA’s supply building. Claire had called Nick to explain, and he was on his way. Because of Jackson’s cryptic phone call, his small apartment and the shed had been cordoned off with POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS yellow tape until the officers could obtain a search order and examine it. Officers were scouring the area between Flamingo Isle and the fence, looking for his cell phone, even wading through the water and annoying Jackson’s precious pink pets.

  An officer had taken the ripped piece of denim as evidence. Had Jackson tried to chase someone over the fence and been shoved back? Maybe he’d found a ladder there and tried to climb it and had fallen. The fence had no signs of blood, though the forensic team was on the way. So had he been assaulted? To Claire’s dismay, Brit had told the officers about Gracie Cobham spying on the tiger from that area of the fence.

  But the police had found something Claire had missed. At Flamingo Isle, someone had tried to scuff out drag marks of something heavy.

  “He was always dragging big bags of feed and shrimps for the flamingos,” Brit had told them. “He was feeding them earlier today, so it could be from that.”

  Finally, Nick arrived and was brought back by an officer. “Jace just called me because he couldn’t get you,” he told Brit. “He heard the news from someone at the Marco Island airport. He’ll be here ASAP and insisted I tell you this had to be the last straw for your passion for this place—his words not mine.

  “Claire,” he said, turning toward her, “you’re the eyewitness to the fact Brittany was not on the grounds when Jackson got hurt?”

  “Yes, I can vouch for that. Are there—are there going to be charges against Brit for something? Jackson was fine when we left, then he called to say he’d found something he wouldn’t explain over the phone, and we came back to find him unconscious.”

  “Comatose,” Nick corrected, cell phone in hand. He was way ahead of them now, in what Claire always thought of as his “lawyer mode.” “The hospital had to put him on life support, even before any brain scans. And, no, no one is being charged with anything, but the Backwoods Animal Adventure is to remain closed.”

  “Indefinitely?” Brit asked, blowing her nose and wiping under her eyes.

  “For now, at least. Will you take your attorney’s advice—and Jace’s—on not fighting that?” Nick asked.

  Brit nodded and put her head on her crossed arms on the picnic table. “He’s won, you know. He saw I was vulnerable, and he won and it’s all my fault—my dad, Jackson—this place being closed and cursed.”

  “‘He’ meaning Stan Helter?” Nick asked, keeping his voice low.

  “Satan, one and the same,” Brit said, her words muffled.

  “Listen to me, Brittany,” Nick said. “I’m going to sit with you again when the detective arrives to question you while things are fresh in your mind and then later, if you get called in. Claire will be a solid eyewitness when she makes her statement. But do not make any claims that you think you know who did this or your version of why. Stick to the facts of what happened today. Volunteer nothing else. Do you understand?”

  She sat up, wiping under her eyes again. “Yes, but please make sure Jace doesn’t do something crazy—like confront Helter, buzz their compound or something. He’s like that, literally flying off, losing his temper now and then.”

  “I know,” Claire told her, putting an arm around her shaking shoulders.

  Nick crouched by the picnic bench between Claire and Brit. “And don’t say anything like that about Jace to anyone but us,” he said. “He admitted to me earlier today he was really upset with Ben for tying you so tight to this place. He loved Ben too but felt it might be time for you to let go here.”

  “Let go here and just hang on to him,” Brit whispered, her voice bitter. “That’s him—all or nothing.”

  Nick and Claire exchanged a wide-eyed glance, then both looked away. Feeling she needed to beat off a terrible thought that hung between them, Claire blurted, “Brit, you’d better call your mother back. Make sure she doesn’t come out here today. It would just remind her of the other day—the other tragedy.”

  “You’re right, but I hate to turn on my phone. It’s like everyone’s lurking there, waiting to pounce and rip me apart.”

  Claire and Nick exchanged yet another look. Her choice of words like lurk, pounce and rip me apart showed she was still obsessed with her dad’s death. He frowned; she shook her head.

  “Use my phone. Here,” Claire told her and dug it out of her purse. She saw her narcolepsy meds there and the herbal substitutes she’d been trying to take lately—narco med lite, she thought of them compared to her subscription meds. She handed Brit her phone and grabbed the small bottle of water in her purse—and though she yearned to take the hard-hitting meds, she reached instead for the herbals.

  * * *

  Two days later on Wednesday evening, Duncan Glover perched on the side of their pool, gently kicking his feet in the water. Marta sat in a lounge chair with burritos and a soft drink, worn out after the day of work at the restaurant. Both Claire and Lexi were in the shallow end of the pool near Duncan. Though they had offered him an inflated whale, he’d opted for the child-sized, orange life preserver and still wasn’t in a hurry to get in. Without his scuba diver friend Sean here right now, the boy had developed a big case of what Darcy would call “the yips.”

  “We won’t go anywhere near the deep end,” Claire assured him. “You’ll be able to stand up right here.”

  “I don’t know how to swim, not really.”

  “That’s why you have the life jacket on, just like the one that makes Lexi float, see?”

  “My dad threw me in once. Said learn to swim that way, but I didn’t. I sank and swallowed water.”

  “Your father is not here,” Claire said, her voice steady and almost stern. “Your mother and your friends, Lexi and I, are here now. Hold my hands and come on in, either just slide off the edge and I’ll catch you or come down the steps.”

  The boy nodded, stood and went around to the steps, holding on to the aluminum rail with both hands as he descended. Claire waded over to meet him, and Lexi paddled close. When he was almost hip deep, Duncan glanced around at the fence, as if he were studying the hanging orchids, but Claire knew better. The poor, damaged child—despite a solid wood fence—was looking for his father.

  “Duncan, did you understand that Mr. Nick has arranged for a police order that your dad must stay away from you and your mom, even if he would come back in this area?”

/>   He shrugged. “Sure, but he doesn’t pay no heed to that. He said so when—the last time he came back.”

  Such residual pain, spreading out like the ripples of this water. She thought of today when she’d left Brit with both her upset mother, Ann, and an angry Jace. Claire had asked the trembling Brit, who had insisted on making sure the tiger had calmed down from his pacing, “Could Tiberia have heard Jackson yell or seen an intruder and that’s what set him off?”

  “He’s mostly been that way since Dad died. Paces until he’s exhausted, licks himself as if he needs to get clean and falls asleep,” she whispered back. “I just feel I’m losing someone else dear to me.”

  Claire remembered one of the snippets of a million things her mother had once read to them, things that had given her an English major education before she even declared a psych major or set foot in a university. She told Brit, “Hemingway wrote once something about not losing someone you’ve been really close to. You’ll always have your father in your memory and heart, and we’ll all pray Jackson pulls through.” That had seemed to comfort her, however much Ann had looked puzzled and Jace had frowned.

  But that seemed to be little Duncan’s problem now. His horrid, hateful father was still and might always be in his head and heart.

  * * *

  Claire had high hopes that Bronco and Nita’s wedding day would go well, though not much else had this week. Jackson was still comatose—as a matter of fact, in a drug-induced coma until his brain swelling went down. The police had gone out to Gracie’s house and found it deserted. The BAA was closed, and the police had not figured out who might have come over the fence to possibly harm Jackson.

  Since the abutting land was the Trophy Ranch, an officer had spoken to Stan Helter and two of his guides—who evidently knew nothing about anyone climbing ladders or leaving telltale marks. Helter had said he’d assign a perimeter guard, though. He said the guy who guarded the front gate was on vacation. Meanwhile, Claire and Nick had racked their brains about whether Gracie and “the boys” could be involved and planned to question her themselves even though the police had found that they weren’t at home.

  But today, in preparation for a house wedding, background music was playing—one piece had too much violin in it and Claire fast-forwarded past it. Guests would soon be arriving, and both the Florida room and back patio area looked lovely. Once she made sure that Marta and two hired helpers reporting to her were under control in the kitchen, Claire went into the guest bedroom to see how Nita looked in her gown. Nick was out on the patio, hunkered down with Bronco and Heck as if they were laying battle plans.

  “Oh, Nita, you look so beautiful!” Claire exclaimed. She saw Lexi and Jilly had wormed their way in here, Lexi toting her flower girl nosegay around already, though no way she was getting the rings tied to the little silk pillow until later. Gina was here too, fussing with the wisp of a veil Liz had made for Nita to go with the gown. Liz and Gina both were living, breathing proof that people could survive tough times, Claire thought, trying to buck herself up.

  “People will be here soon, and Nick’s going to play doorman!” Claire realized she had almost sung that out as if to cheer them all up. “Bronco’s with Nick and Heck, and looks great too,” she told Nita in a calmer voice.

  The gown really was special. Since Liz usually designed corsets, the bodice was a close-fitting shimmering pale blue.

  “Gina,” Liz said, “do you plan to catch the bouquet when she throws it?”

  “If I don’t, Heck will,” she said with a little laugh. “But the only thing I’m eloping with in the near future is American med school!”

  “I will try to catch it,” Lexi piped up. “I will keep it for my Barbie doll because I’m not sure she’s really married to Ken or not. Is she, Mommy?”

  “Still dating after all these years, I think. Now, how about you and Jilly come with me until Nita comes outside? And don’t bother Marta in the kitchen, asking for mints or punch. Come on.”

  And so it went, a whirl of business and happiness for their dear friends Charles, aka Bronco, and Juanita, who exchanged their vows without a hitch, repeating carefully after the guest priest. After they were declared husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Gates, there were hugs and kisses all around, and Nita threw her bouquet right into Gina’s stomach, so she had to catch it. Heck loved that.

  Claire tried hard to put away, just for a while, thoughts and worries about Jace, who was mostly brooding in the corner and left early. Like the bride and groom, Claire and Nick as host and hostess circulated among the decorated tables while guests ate. Nick led a toast, and everyone lifted their champagne glasses and enjoyed the cake. Then, as was custom in Nita’s Mexican family, the bride and groom opened gifts with everyone still there. Nita looked radiant and Bronco, so proud and happy.

  Claire could only hope they would accept the gift from her and Nick.

  Meanwhile, Jasmine Montgomery Stanton, the woman who was at the center of the first murder-suicide case Claire had worked with Nick, had sent a $500 Home Depot gift certificate from St. Augustine, since Bronco used to work for her and “‘I know you’ll be fixing up a lovely house or apartment for your family to come.’” Bronco proudly read that note out loud.

  “Wow!” Nita cried when she opened the envelope from Nick, Claire and Lexi. Bronco just stared at it. “We were going to just drive south and stay somewhere for a few days! Three nights at the Ritz Carleton here in Naples from the Markwoods!”

  Crying, she hugged Claire and Nick and kissed Lexi, who was practically hanging on her skirts anyway. Liz’s gift was, of course, a sexy, pale green brocade corset everyone applauded while Nita blushed and Bronco grinned. Gina and Heck gave them a laptop Heck had revamped with all sorts of user-friendly features.

  “One more thing left,” Bronco said, picking up a large white envelope from the gift table. “Thought we’d seen them all from you friends, and we can’t thank you enough, ’specially Claire and Nick for this great gift of our honeymoon as well as the wedding.”

  He handed the envelope to Nita, and she slid a polished fingernail under the flap. Claire wondered who had brought that in, but then some things had been mailed. Yesterday, setting up, Marta had answered the door for a UPS delivery truck.

  “Oh!” Nita cried as she drew out a large photograph. “A pretty house!” She looked back into the envelope but that was apparently all.

  Bronco leaned over her shoulder to stare at it.

  “There’s writing on the back,” Claire told them.

  Nita flipped it over. “It says,” she said, wide-eyed, reading the large hand printing, “‘This house in East Naples is yours if the bridegroom will work for the Trophy Ranch full-time. It will be fully insured by Florida Gulf Coast Life Insurance. Also, Bronco will be given a full life insurance policy. I know a good man when I see one and an occasional out-of-control gator and too many snakes are not my friends. Let me know when you want to see the house. Stan Helter.’”

  “So, a well-baited hook,” Nick whispered to Claire, who finally remembered to close her mouth. “A hook fully insured by Helter’s buddy and mine, Grant Manfort.”

  20

  Though the last thing Claire wanted to do was attend the symphony since she was so tired the day after the wedding, they did want to talk to Lane. And they’d had a message on their answering machine in which he had said if they were coming to the concert, he’d like to take them to a nearby musician hangout for a drink afterward.

  Without Nita to babysit, they dropped Lexi at Darcy’s for Sunday evening and drove to Artis, as the philharmonic hall was called. It was a beautiful building, lighted to show off its architectural grandeur. Claire realized she hadn’t been here in months. Their seats were in one of the elevated boxes to the right of the stage, in a short first row with a fabulous view.

  “He didn’t skimp on good seats for us, did he?” Nick asked as they s
ettled into the plush chairs.

  “Good. I’m going to study him, though Brit said when he’s lost in his music, he’s in another world—not himself. Which is good, as far as I’m concerned. His ‘self,’ at least as we’ve seen it so far, leaves something to be desired.”

  “Do you really think he’d hire someone to sneak into the BAA to hurt—to kill—his father?”

  “Incomprehensible, I know, especially to those of us who lost our fathers early and miss them still. But I know he wrote that fake note and stashed it where it would turn up at some point. Ann finally remembered that it was Lane who suggested she look in Ben’s Bible for a reading he might have underlined, and voilà—there is was, in print when Ben never printed. Lane may be talented and brilliant, but he’s not smart.”

  “We’ve still got Gracie and Helter as possibilities, and I’d sure rather it turns out to be one of them. The idea of a son betraying his father, even if they didn’t get along—and who would he hire to have done that?”

  “Let’s just hope Lane realizes he’s made a fool of himself with us and does better tonight. I know he’ll be excellent in performance, but I mean afterward.”

  “And there’s always that possibility I don’t want to accept—that maybe Ben did make the mistake or intentionally walked in that cage himself. But if Lane’s guilty, he still may be giving the performance of his life. Look—speak of the devil,” he said, leaning forward to gaze down at the audience on the mezzanine.

  “Who? Lane’s not out on the stage yet.”

  “Grant Manfort, and do I have a big bone to pick with him over offering all that free insurance coverage to Bronco in Stan Helter’s buyout scheme. But tonight’s hardly the time. Tomorrow, I’ll try to face him down on that, so—Wait, you know who he’s with?”

  “I don’t recognize her, but I remember seeing him at Ben’s memorial service,” Claire said, squinting to see at that distance through the lights. Grant and an attractive woman, perhaps in her fifties, were about a third of the way back on the main floor, dead center.