HOMOSASSA SHADOWS

by Ann Cook

  Brandy pulled her notebook out of a cabinet and flipped through meticulous pages of notes. It didn’t help. Nothing made sense. She winced at the child’s face she had doodled in one margin, the large eyes, round face, tightly drawn back hair. Perhaps she could take comfort in the fact that Daria had not been found. If Strong was right, if someone had taken her, she might still be all right. She wrote Tuesday at the top of a new page, carefully recorded the day’s events, and ended by noting that if no one located Daria by morning, she would search the north end of Tiger Tail herself.

  At last she remembered the answering machine. The red light had been blinking when she called the newspapers. Annie could’ve phoned. But the message did not come from Annie, but from John. “I expected you to call,” he said, an edge to his voice. “I can never reach you at Carole’s place, or on your cell, either.”

  Of course not, Brandy thought helplessly. I gave the cell to Annie. She might not turn it on except to call out.

  John’s voice went on. “I won’t plan to drive up this weekend. You’ll still be busy with this new story you’re working on. Go on, do your own thing. If you see you’ve got some time for us, call me, but I’ve got to go out this evening.” There was a pause. Then he added, “I hope you’re thinking about what I said.” The recording clicked off.

  It was a few seconds before Brandy pressed the erase button. She had complained that John wouldn’t share his feelings, but when he did, it hurt. She hadn’t called today because she’d been trying to find a little girl. Maybe he was looking for an excuse not to join her. As it was, they’d been apart much of the year. As she punched in his number, she wondered what his engagement was for the evening.

  “Got your message,” she said. It was hard, trying to sound perky over a machine. “Things have been complicated here. A toddler is missing. I lent my cell to the mother. She’s panicked.” Brandy didn’t know when to suggest John call her. “I’ll try to reach you later.”

  With a glum face, she opened the refrigerator and was contemplating the unsavory choice of left-over fried shrimp or a frozen half-pound of hamburger when she heard a car pull into the driveway. For a moment she thought John might’ve found time to drive to Homosassa, after all. But the visitor was Grif Hackett.

  As soon as she opened the door, he stepped in and stood looking down at her, sympathy in those iridescent eyes. “They haven’t found Daria yet,” he said

  When Brandy dropped into a porch chair, he pulled one out for himself. “I appreciate your coming to tell me,” she said. “I’ve notified the papers. Strong okayed it.”

  “Can’t hurt. The divers had to call offtheir search. It’s getting too dark. They’ll be at it again in the morning. According to the local news, they’ve called for volunteers.”

  “Annie?”

  “Bearing up. Fishhawk is acting strange. He doesn’t want the Sheriff involved.”

  Brandy’s lips tightened. “I suppose he thinks his spells can bring her back.”

  Hackett frowned and shook his head. “Look, I didn’t come just to bring no news. You can’t sit here all night, worrying. Let’s go out and eat. Then I want to show you something.” With a slight smile, he held up his hand, palm outward. “Don’t worry, not etchings. Pottery. Some remarkable specimens. Remember, I told you I’d like you to see the one with the bird handle. I’m restoring a few pots in my make-shift field lab. Then I’ll take them to the research center.”

  Brandy thought of the tedious evening before her, sitting alone, waiting for news. John would not call back, would not be back. She could, of course, spend her time vacuuming and dusting for Carole. She looked down at her sweatshirt and jeans. Okay for Homosassa, she thought. She lifted a jacket from the back of a chair and closed her notebook. “Why not?” she said and forced a smile. “Beats the prospects here.”

  “There’s a restaurant and lounge by my motel. I had to take a suite. I need the extra room for lab work and packing my gear.” After they stepped outside, Hackett paused beside his van. “Do you know when your husband’s joining you?”

  Brandy looked away. “He’s not coming up this weekend.”

  “And your plans?”

  “Help look for Daria, mainly. I’m still checking on the Timothy Hart case. The two may be related.” She opened the door to Carole’s car in the double carport. “Look, I’ll take my friend’s car and meet you, so you needn’t drive me home.” Safer that way, she thought. Keep him at bay.

  “Like I said,” he said, smiling. “We’re a lot alike. Independent.”

  The lounge where they stopped first was timbered in dark wood and jutted out on pilings above the river. At the copper bar on the second floor sat a fisherman with gray whiskers and few teeth. He was flanked by a scattering of tourists. At one end of the counter hunched the heavy-set man Brandy knew as Tugboat Grapple, propped unsteadily on his elbows. He had covered his bald head with a billed cap at a rakish angle, and his belly sagged over his belt. He peered with watery eyes at the young female bartender. “Let’s have a little service here, girly.”

  “Come on, Mr. Grapple,” the girl said. “You’ve had enough. Don’t you think you’d better go on home now?” She glanced behind her for back-up.

  “God-a-mighty no, I don’t wanna go home now!” The big man’s voice soared in an imitative treble. “Ever seen my stick of a wife?” He laughed and looked around for support. A hush fell over the lounge while the bartender stepped to a phone.

  “Another close-up of Melba’s husband,” Brandy whispered to Hackett.

  Grif picked up his a scotch and water, took a firm grip on her arm while she gathered up her wine glass, and guided her to a table for two by the picture window. “To name that man ‘Tugboat’ is to insult a useful water craft,” he said. “I had a run-in with him recently in Chassahowitzka.”

  “I heard Alma May say he gambles. I wonder why Melba doesn’t leave him?”

  “Getting rid of Tugboat might not be easy.” He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “But she’s got leverage. He can’t make her too angry. She seems to support him now.”

  A small man in slacks and a sports coat came in from the restaurant downstairs, stopped beside Tugboat, who was banging his mug on the counter, and spoke to him quietly. Tugboat swung around, teetered on his stool, then apparently made a decision. He slammed down a bill and glared at the man in the suit. “I’m clearing out now, you little buzzard,” he said. “Next time I come back, I’ll be rich enough to buy this stinkin’ joint.” The remark was not lost on Brandy.

  Tugboat was lurching toward the door when he reached Brandy and Grif s table. He paused, bent down, and thrust his weathered face toward her. She caught a strong whiff of whiskey. Grif s fingers clenched over the edge of the table. She had never seen him angry before.

  “I seen you around,” the boatman said to her, his voice like gravel. “Heard about you from old Melba. Sticking your nose in folk’s business.” As he leaned closer, Grif began to rise. Tugboat ignored him. “Folks in this town like their privacy. That goes especially for reporters.”

  Grif pushed in front of the table, grabbed a surprised Tugboat by one beefy arm, and shoved him toward the door. The boatman, off balance, tried to shake himself loose, thought better of it, and staggered with Grif behind him toward the outside. In silence the customers watched the former river guide reel alone into the parking lot. The fisherman at the bar gave Grif a toothless grin. In a few minutes Tugboat wobbled onto the floating dock. He fumbled with lines looped around the pier cleats and spoke to the Rottweiler. It leaped up from the deck and stood quivering at the bow. Then the engine roared beneath the restaurant window and Tugboat’s Grady White shot out into the river.

  Grif and Brandy watched him go. Brandy was shaken. She ordered a second glass of Merlot.

  “Don’t worry,” Hackett said. “He’s drunk. Probably won’t remember in the morning that he threatened you.”

  Brandy felt tightness in her throat. She didn’t like having Tugboat Grapple set
against her. It helped that Hackett felt protective. Still, Tugboat had given her the glimmer of an idea. He implied he was coming into money, lots of it. How much were aboriginal artifacts worth now, especially since they could no longer be removed legally? Someone had looted the mound. And she also wondered how much Timothy Hart’s missing artifact was worth. Everyone seemed to know about it now.

  Grif and Brandy ordered crab stuffed shrimp. The large window beside them overlooked a tiny island, encircled by water that shimmered under the dining room lights.

  “Did Alma May feel bad about losing you as a boarder?” Brandy asked.

  He shrugged. “She and Melba have other fish to fry. I think they were glad to see me go.”

  “I tried to talk to Alma May and Melba about Daria.” Brandy plunked down her fork, annoyed just remembering. “Alma May sounded almost glad the child was gone. She said now the Indians will all leave. We know Fishhawk was messing around the old site, but Melba was, too—not to mention Alma May herself.”

  “Mrs. Flint can sound more uncaring than she actually is,” Hackett said. “She just has a thing about Indians.”

  “I don’t think either of them plan to look for Daria at all. If I don’t hear she’s found tonight, I’m going to search near their house myself. I half suspect them.”

  Hackett grinned. “Better be careful.”

  “I’m a volunteer. I won’t get very close to the house itself. I’ll start at the old cabin site. I asked Alma May to tell me where it is.”

  When they had finished dinner, Hackett led Brandy downstairs and across the parking area toward the lobby of the motel. “The pots I found will help take your mind off Daria. The pieces are ready to wrap and pack for the drive to Gainesville. I’ve seen photographs of one design, but I’ve never looked at an authentic specimen before. I want to take some good pictures. The pots make you appreciate what those guys did with almost no tools.”

  In the lobby Hackett stopped at the desk for messages. The clerk, a middle-aged woman with a tower of blonde-gold hair, leaned across the counter toward Grif.

  “I took a phone message for you, Mr. Hackett,” she said, her voice soft and inviting. “Also a woman stopped by to see you a few minutes ago. She waited a while in the lobby and left.” After the clerk handed him a slip of paper, he looked at the phone number and stuffed the paper in his pocket. He was more interested in an envelope with a foreign stamp that had been forwarded.

  “From a museum contact in Mexico City,” he said. “They’re showing a new Maya exhibit. I’m interested in Central America, that’s where the real digs are going on. Prehistoric cave stuff is really new.”

  While Grif studied the letter, Brandy turned toward the plate glass window fronting the parking lot, feeling slightly groggy. She regretted the second glass of wine with dinner. A face stared back from a low slung sports car parked before the motel. Bibi Brier. She made no move to leave her seat behind the wheel. Brandy wondered if it was her note the archaeologist had poked into his pocket. Bibi did not look happy. “Look, Grif,” Brandy said. “Your grad student must be the woman who came to see you.”

  “Forget it. She’s bad news.”

  As Brandy walked on, she noticed the sports car stayed in its parking space.

  When they stopped at Grifs door in the hall, he added, “I keep in touch with what’s going on in my field around the world. We can’t collect artifacts in Florida like we used to, but other countries can, and American archaeologists lead the pack.”

  He opened the door into a sitting room. Although its windows overlooked the river and pool, Hackett had drawn the drapes. “Don’t want anyone snooping,” he said. “When the word gets out you’re an archaeologist, old ladies and little kids come out of the woodwork with sappy questions. Besides, I don’t want this stuff swiped.”

  On one table along the wall he had stacked several plastic boxes with tight-fitting lids and packets of bubble-wrap. “My little field lab,” he said. On a table Brandy saw pottery fragments sunk on edge in a box of sand and next to it a tube of Elmer’s glue. Beside the tube sat one clay pot fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle, the missing pieces filled in with mortar of a similar color. On another table he displayed two more specimens.

  “Look at the bird one. My prize.” Brandy stared at a pitcher the size of a large coffee mug. On opposite sides of the short bowl protruded the finely sculpted, matching heads of two birds with big eyes and thick bills. The base was marked by incisions suggesting flowers in a heart-shaped design and decorated with dots.

  “A Weeden Island punctuated pot,” Hackett said. “Those Indians were here before the Safety Harbor people, but their pottery was an influence.”

  Brandy examined several tall pots as well. He identified them as “Safety Harbor Incised.” They had squat bases and narrower necks, the whole cut with lightning-like lines and small circles. Brandy was impressed. “What would pot hunters get for these?”

  “I don’t know the market right now, but they could certainly sell to private collectors.”

  Suddenly she felt him draw near. He laid one hand on her shoulder, turned her to face him, and with the other lifted her chin. “I admire you, you know,” he said quietly. The blonde lock fell over his forehead. “You’re everything a woman should be. Lovely looking, bright, caring, independent.”

  Brandy began to shake her head.

  “I love how protective you are. Look how you feel about Annie and Daria. I see how interested you are in everything around you, how talented you are.” His hand moved to her waist. “Don’t run off just yet. Come to Gainesville with me this week.” She didn’t feel clear-headed. Instead she felt the warmth of the wine. Without speaking, she looked into those spectacular blue eyes. He pulled her against him, and she felt the heat of his body, the urgency of his hands. In the back of her mind a bell rang, low. But John had said, “Do your own thing.”

  For the moment she swayed against him. She could smell his cologne, a brand she’d wanted to buy for John. It was too expensive. Grif pressed moist lips, open against hers, and she felt his fingers lift her shirt, explore beneath. Her knees went weak. She saw the open door into the bedroom, felt him gently ease her into the doorway. As she took a step forward, her glance swept over a large Tupperware box that sat on a table inside the room, the lid pushed to one side. Brandy could see cocoa-colored, slender shapes. The bundle burial, she thought, the aged little bones, the remains of a child like Daria, probably stuffed into the container with her tiny shell necklace and her blue Spanish beads. The sight stopped her. She stared into the box, shook her head as if to clear it, then pushed him away, her eyes still on the tiny skeleton. When John said, “Do your own thing,” he didn’t mean this.

  “No, Grif. I’m not that independent,” she said, her voice shaky. “I should leave.”

  Hackett stiffened, the muscles in his face taut, his fingers still tight around her arms. He had hustled a man the size of Tugboat through a door. His gaze followed hers to the box. For a moment she was frightened, he was so quiet. But he released her and stepped back. “Suit yourself.” he said, “There’ll be another time. You’ll see.”

  She picked up her canvas bag and turned toward the hall door, while he remained in the center of the room, his stance confident. He did not move to stop her. “Don’t stay in Homosassa this week,” he said. “Come with me.” She could hear the throb in his voice. “I leave day after tomorrow. Don’t answer now. I’ll see you before I go.”

  Brandy nodded without speaking. She still felt confused, but she knew she had come to her senses, and the four-hundred-year old child’s bones had somehow helped.

  She stumbled out into the hall. In the lobby she felt the blonde clerk’s eyes bore into her back as she hurried outside and drew in a deep breath of fresh night air, glad she had driven herself tonight. Before she could step into her car, a tall woman strode toward her, moving with now familiar grace. For the second time tonight Brandy recognized the same flinty face. Bibi Brier thrust herself cl
ose enough for Brandy to see fierceness in her eyes.

  “I checked up on you, you know,” Bibi said, her tone measured. “I’ve got friends who know Carole Brewster. You’ve got a husband working for a Gainesville architectural firm. He’s in Tampa now. He’ll be interested in knowing how you spend your evenings.”

  Words froze in Brandy’s mouth. She had never considered John’s reaction to her friendship with Hackett. She wanted to say, “But nothing happened!” But Bibi Brier had spun on her heels, stepped into her sports car, and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER 11

  No messages waited on Brandy’s answering machine. She mixed a cup of hot chocolate, and sat down in the living room to watch the late news, emotions in turmoil. What did Hackett mean to her? He was attractive and he did seem to understand her, to care about her, and to demand nothing from her that she was not willing to give—unlike John. But other women could flit easily from one relationship to another. She doubted she could.

  A newscaster mentioned the disappearance of an eighteen-months old Seminole girl on Tiger Tail Island in Homosassa and asked for anyone with information to call the Sheriff’s Office. The station showed a shot of searchers shuffling through a tangled field and a photograph of Daria that appeared a few weeks earlier in the Seminole Tribune. The paper featured a section where proud parents could display their children’s pictures. Tears came to Brandy’s eyes. No one mentioned the death of Timothy Hart on Tiger Tail Island. A few days ago the poor man had been big news.

  When Brandy finally fell asleep she did not dream of Grif Hackett, as she feared she might. She dreamed instead that she stood in a room with the drapes open, while outside the window a huge osprey flew past, its claws grasping a limp body.

  * * * *

  In the morning Brandy awakened from a restless night. John had not responded and no call had come from Annie. Time to join the search for Daria along the Homosassa River. After coffee and toast, she pulled on high boots and a long-sleeved shirt with a pair of jeans. After picking up her note pad, she fastened Meg to her stake and gave the retriever fresh water. She was patting her canvas bag, feeling naked without her cell, when the kitchen phone rang. Hackett spoke softly.