by Anne Frasier
Maybe he’d lied to her about Strata Luna and the glasses. That wasn’t proof of who he was. And for a few minutes she’d fallen for it.
She pulled out the gun again, and she pointed it at him. “Get out. And if you ever come around my daughter, I’ll kill you.”
He pushed himself away from the table and got to his feet. Then he began backing toward the door, never taking his eyes off her or the gun, keeping his hands, while not raised, at least visible and in front of him.
“You said I was never around,” he said. “That’s true, and it’s not true. You said I was never there for you. True, and not true.”
“You’re getting a little too wordy again.” And she was thinking about the blue paint. Like that had been any help.
“You used to come here when you were little. You spent summers here.”
“So?” Whoever he was, he could have found that out. From somebody. It wasn’t a secret.
“I came here once too.”
“You are so full of it.”
“No, I did. I found out you spent summers at the plantation, and you know how your aunt was. She pretty much welcomed anybody. Any starving out-of-work artist was taken in. I stayed here for a month. I helped build a new deck on the river. You used to go down there and swim during the day.”
“That’s creepy.” Maybe she’d been around David too much, but she found herself being blunt and pulling up a lot of unprofessional terms. But this wasn’t work. This was her life. “I don’t remember you.”
“I didn’t call myself Jackson Sweet. I was Sam. Just Sam.”
“Sam Nobody,” she said, remembering.
“That’s right. You asked me what my last name was, and I said Nobody. And you laughed. You thought that was funny.”
Was he the same person? She’d liked Sam. He’d taught her how to roll onto her back and float—in case she ever found herself in a drowning situation in the middle of a river or in the middle of a lake. And a bike . . . something about a bike. He’d helped her ride her aunt’s bike. It had been too big, and he’d lowered the seat.
But that didn’t mean he was her father. On the contrary, it explained how he knew so much about her. He’d been some drifter who’d stopped at the plantation, who’d taken advantage of Anastasia’s hospitality.
“One last thing,” he said. “I want to tell you one last thing.”
“Say it.”
“If I find Tremain I’ll kill him.”
“If you do anything to impede this investigation I’ll have you arrested for obstruction of justice.”
Unruffled by her threat, he said, “Can I give you a hug?”
What? “Hell no!” She underscored those words with a move-along motion of her gun.
He held up his hands in more of an I-give-up than an under-arrest gesture. “Okay. I understand. It was good to see you, Elise.” And then he left. Spinning around on the heel of his worn leather boot, he turned, opened the door, and jumped off into the darkness.
Once he was gone, Elise felt the presence he left behind. Strong. Powerful. As if the body had been his mask, just the form and shadow he dwelled inside.
She lunged forward, locked the door, and secured the dead bolt. But the solid sound, combined with the visual of metal sliding into place, didn’t make her feel any safer.
CHAPTER 23
Elise picked up her phone and began going through Gould’s texts.
Call me.
Call me.
Call me.
Did you make it to the office?
Then, Are you okay? Just text me so I know you’re okay.
And finally: If I don’t hear back, I’m coming to look for you. Just let me know you’re okay.
Her phone was displaying one bar, and she wondered if he’d tried to call and been unable to get through. That would be a giveaway as to where she was. She typed on her iPhone screen: I’m fine. I’m at the office.
Elise detested lies, and lying to her partner bordered on a mortal sin in her book, but if she told Gould where she was he’d be in his car heading toward the plantation before the text finished sending. She couldn’t deal with him now. She needed distance.
He responded immediately: Okay. Let’s talk tomorrow.
An assumption that she’d want to talk to him. She typed: Let’s don’t.
He didn’t text back.
Good.
She scrolled through her contacts, checked the clock on the wall to make sure it wasn’t too late, then, with one crutch, she walked carefully down the hall to the bedroom to use the landline phone. Before punching in the numbers, she removed her shoulder holster and placed it on the end table next to the bed. She zipped off her short leather boots, easing out of her left one, careful of her wrapped ankle, then she fluffed a pillow and leaned back against the headboard. Another pillow went under her foot to elevate it.
Strata Luna answered her call with her straightforward, no-nonsense voice.
“I just had a visit from someone interesting,” Elise told her.
“How you doing, baby?” Strata Luna said.
Everyone in the police department might have lived in fear of crossing the woman, but for some reason, probably because of Elise’s connection to Jackson Sweet, Strata Luna had taken a particular liking to Elise.
“I’m doing okay.” But Strata Luna’s concern made Elise’s throat tighten for a second before she got control of herself. She needed to quit being a crybaby.
“You can call me anytime. And if you need anything, Strata Luna is here for you. You know that, don’t you? I been thinking about you. Worrying about you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier.”
“Did you get my card? I woulda sent flowers, but I wasn’t sure if you were home. Drove by your house and saw all the construction trucks there and the plastic over everything.”
“I’m staying out of town for a while. And thanks for the card.” Elise readjusted her position in the bed, sitting up a little higher. “I’m calling because I had a visitor. A man.”
“That can be good or bad. But usually bad.” Strata Luna chuckled.
And God it was good to hear her voice and hear that laugh. Why hadn’t Elise called her earlier? And now she felt bad that she was calling, not to talk, but calling because she needed something. But she and Strata Luna were from different worlds, worlds that shouldn’t cross. Elise had long ago chosen to look the other way when it came to Strata Luna and her “girls” and her business of sex at Black Tupelo. But to be friends with Strata Luna, a madam . . . They both understood that it wouldn’t work.
“Not that kind of man,” Elise said. She thought about Gould. She thought about the ridiculous spell. Maybe she was being too hard on him. If she didn’t have this Jackson Sweet thing on her mind she’d talk to Strata Luna about Gould. She needed to talk to someone about him. “I’m staying out of town at my aunt’s old plantation, and I had a visitor tonight. Someone who said his name was Jackson Sweet.”
Through the phone, Elise heard Strata Luna gasp. That was followed by silence, and Elise could just imagine the older woman biting her lip, wondering how much she should say.
“Jackson Sweet . . . That can’t be, honey. You and I both know that can’t be.”
Strata Luna was all about smoke and mirrors, and she was not beyond lying if it served her purpose. Her life had been built on lies and deception, even when it came to the people she cared about. Elise knew Strata Luna cared about her, but if she had to choose between Elise and Jackson Sweet, Strata Luna would choose Sweet. Even though Strata Luna claimed to need no man, Elise had long suspected the root doctor was the love of the Gullah woman’s life.
“He told me you could confirm that he was still alive,” Elise said. “And he told me he gave you the blue glasses to pass to me.”
“Oh, darlin’.” The woman was spee
chless, and that didn’t happen to Strata Luna very often. “I don’t know what to say. Jackson Sweet. Alive.”
Her loyalty was with Sweet. Even if she knew he was alive, she wouldn’t say so. Not without his permission. That was something Elise had always admired about Strata Luna. Her sense of loyalty, even if it was the loyalty of thieves. “Why don’t you think about it,” Elise said. “Sleep on it. I don’t want to put you in a bad position.”
“Dear, I can’t help you. Strata Luna can’t help you. You saw his grave. I took you there.”
“An unmarked grave.” Really, just an indentation in the ground.
“A root doctor like Jackson must be buried in a secret place, otherwise there’d be nothin’ left of the corpse or the dirt. You know that.”
She was talking about conjurers using his body and the dirt he’d been covered with for spells. Goofer dust, or dirt from a conjurer’s grave, was supposed to be some of the most potent hoodoo around.
What surprised Elise was the fear in Strata Luna’s voice. And she thought about the veil that had seemed to lift briefly from the man who’d sat across the table from her. And she thought about the chill that had crept into the room. Strata Luna feared no man, but she obviously feared Jackson Sweet, love or no love, dead or not dead. “That’s okay,” Elise said. “Don’t worry about it. Please. It was just good to talk to you.”
“Oh, you too, my darlin’ girl. You too.” The relief in the woman’s voice was telling. “You should stop by ol’ Strata Luna’s one of these days. We can have sweet tea in the backyard. I got my girls to talk to, but a lot of them are just too damn flighty for me. Head in the clouds. Come by. I could read you too if you like. Because I’m sensing some confusion. Maybe I can help.”
“I’d like that. Well, the tea and conversation. Not sure about a reading. I’m trying to stay away from that stuff.”
Strata Luna laughed and made a tsk, tsk sound. She was back to her old self. “You ain’t never gonna get away from that, darlin’. You might as well give up. You might as well quit fightin’ it. Hey, how about a man? How about I send you over a man? I have the perfect man for you. He’ll make you a nice dinner, and bake you a nice pie, and he’ll draw you a bath with candles everywhere, and he’ll rub your back and shoulders, and put on soft music and make the sweetest love to you. And like any good man, he’ll leave when he’s done.”
Elise laughed. “No, thanks. I’ll pass.” Although she’d painted a lovely picture.
“Well, you know who to call if you change your mind. No charge either.”
Elise told her good-bye, and they both disconnected.
CHAPTER 24
Noises that came in the middle of a deep sleep were confusing. Internal or external? So hard to know. Elise lay in Anastasia’s room, trying to figure out if the sound had come from somewhere in the house, or if it had been part of a dream. She checked the clock next to the bed. A little after three. She’d intended to stay awake all night, just to be sure the man claiming to be her father didn’t make another appearance, and she’d been doing okay until around two.
She was ready to file the noise away as a dream when she heard a dull thud, not from the pool area and not from the kitchen, but from somewhere above her head.
She was still dressed, still wearing the clothes Gould had helped her remove hours earlier. Silently she tugged on boots, then eased into her shoulder holster. Using her phone’s flashlight app and silently cursing herself for leaving her regulation Maglite at home, she slipped from the room. Forgoing the crutches, she made her way down the hall, opened the door at the end, and took a narrow flight of stairs to the second story, all the while favoring her good foot. On the second floor, she examined the rooms one at a time, mentally checking them off as she went.
Like so many old Southern mansions, the plantation house was a maze, with narrow stairs and passageways that led to servants’ quarters. Children had once played chase in the hallways, and perhaps a child had taken his last breath in some sad bedroom that overlooked a well-kept lawn. Wings had gone unfinished, halted by war and boarded up to eventually rot and collapse. A tunnel that had once led to the river, maybe for rumrunners during Prohibition, had long ago been forgotten. Whatever the house had been and whatever history it had experienced had been lost over time, and now it was simply a beautiful and decaying space of secrets and mysteries.
As a child, Elise was told to stay out of the tunnel, that it was unsafe. And now, as an adult, she understood that rumrunners were known to have booby-trapped hidden rooms for unsuspecting police.
She passed storage areas where heavy plastic had been hung over gaping holes that may or may not have been doorways at one time. The plastic snapped and popped as air from somewhere moved in and out. Time seemed to shift, and Elise had a memory of sleeping upstairs in the little room her aunt had decorated just for her. In there, she’d stayed up much too late reading Anastasia’s old Nancy Drew books. Nancy herself had probably been in just such a house, and gone up just such a set of stairs. And maybe that’s where Elise’s interest in detective work had begun. Those nights tucked safe in her bed on the second story, the sound of Anastasia and her bohemian friends echoing through the floorboards from the dining room.
This place.
The smell was so familiar, and it brought with it such nostalgia.
Time was moving too fast, Elise realized with dismay. It seemed just a short while ago that Audrey was heading off to school for the first time, and now she would be graduating and going off to college in three years. Old people were always saying, “Where has the time gone?” Now Elise understood the bafflement in their voices, and the confusion in their gaze as they tried to attach the present to a past that still seemed so tangible.
Once she was sure the second story was clear, she headed up to the third floor, climbing a set of wooden stairs that had most likely been hewn by slaves from a forest that hadn’t existed in decades, every step haunted by a memory she couldn’t quite catch. Something that made her stomach clench in fear, something that was a wisp that shifted when she tried to see it.
Shouting.
And violence.
And something else.
Elise paused with her hand on the railing. The wood was uneven, cut with a knife blade, then worn away by many hands. Hands of men, hands of women, hands of children.
And Jackson Sweet.
Had a man named Jackson Sweet been here?
She tried to put him in that timeline she pulled up in her brain. Her birth. The house on Davern Street where she’d lived with her adoptive family. Her visits here, to the plantation, where she’d felt loved by Anastasia.
She reached the third story—and spotted the glow of a dim light falling across the hallway floor, coming from a small room. Elise pulled out her handgun and slowly approached the open doorway, flinching with each footstep and each creak of old floorboards. With a well-practiced move, she swung smoothly into the room, gun raised and steadied with a hand on her arm as she did an assessment of her surroundings.
The cramped room was drenched in darkness, faintly illuminated by a single floor lamp, a red scarf draped over the shade to mute the bulb. The base of the brass lamp was ornate, the clawed feet and nails something Elise recognized from childhood. Curled, brown-edged wallpaper in a fleur-de-lis design crumbled from walls to reveal dark wooden slats beneath. In one corner of the room was a narrow bed with purple sheets that tumbled to the floor. Hardcover books littered dressers and end tables, along with empty bottles of booze and dirty plates of half-eaten food.
Tangelo peels.
Somebody was living here. It explained the missing food, the weird sounds. The question was, who? Melinda? The guy who claimed to be Jackson Sweet?
She continued the visual sweep of the small space, relieved to note the lack of hiding places. She checked beneath the bed. Nothing but a plate and an apple core.
&n
bsp; Assured that the space was empty, she stepped into a smaller room directly across the hall. On one side, as was often the case in old houses, the ceiling slanted to the floor. That tight space was filled with storage clutter that had accumulated over the years. Cardboard boxes, an ironing board, plastic bags, piles of fabric, some old curtains. In the middle of the mess was a large wooden steamer trunk.
Big enough for someone to hide in.
She gripped her gun a little tighter and set the phone aside, leaning it upright on a cardboard box so the light was directed at the trunk.
The latches weren’t latched.
With a swift movement, Elise threw the lid open and jumped back, bracing her gun arm with her hand while keeping the weapon trained on the trunk.
In the semidarkness, she was able to make out the shape of a body.
“Come out of there,” she said.
No response.
“Now!”
No response.
She grabbed the light and focused it on the deeper recesses of the trunk, chasing away the shadows. It didn’t take a detective to figure out what she was looking at: a body curled on its side in a fetal position. A very old body, as in a body that had been in the container a long, long time.
Elise leaned closer, panning the light across the clothing. The style was late seventies, the shirt yellow-and-black-checked flannel. She took note of blond hair and a mustache. Jeans. Brown belt. The man’s forehead had a dent in it, probably caused by a fatal blow or a fall.
Footsteps behind her caused Elise to straighten. Turning, she brought the gun around with her, fully expecting to see the man who claimed to be Jackson Sweet standing there. But this was a woman, the same woman Elise was pretty sure she’d seen in the pool the night she’d almost drowned. Not Melinda. No, the woman standing in front of her, gray hair curling wildly around her face, her dark eyebrows above even darker eyes, was without a doubt Aunt Anastasia.
