Silent Scream

by Karen Harper

  Man, had he been that transparent? And in her state of mind, she looked as if she’d like to brain him with that skillet. He might have fought the damn Taliban, but he’d take them over this right now.

  “Put that down. I’ll help you clean up, honey. No, I don’t have cold feet, not for that.”

  She put the skillet down on the stove, not too carefully, and threw the mitt into it. “What then?”

  “I need to tell you something I was scared to.”

  “Another woman?” her voice rose to a near screech. He started toward her now that she wasn’t armed, but he slipped barefooted in the egg mess. He went down on one knee, would have fallen flat, but she grabbed him, held him up.

  “No way,” he insisted. “It’s just I—I’ve been offered a job that I really want to take but there is some danger involved. It’s with Mitch, flying for a good cause, gathering data about hurricanes to save lives, but I thought you might have a fit if I took it.”

  She helped him get up, then grabbed a dishcloth to wipe the eggs off his knee and shin. “Jason Britten, I will have a fit if you don’t tell me things, not if you do. You think my working with big feral cats after my father was killed by one isn’t scary, isn’t dangerous? I may not like a new job for you, but I know you’re sick of flying little planes. Besides, I finally pried it out of you that the drug cartels could want to harm Stingray pilots like you and Mitch, so I’ve been worried about that as it is. Tell me, then help me clean up this mess, and let’s eat some toast and juice and go back to bed—and not just to talk. I love you, Jace, and we’re a team,” she said throwing her arms around him. “So no more secrets!”

  * * *

  “So how secret is this place, really?” Nick asked Dale as they plunged through the thick screen of trees. Claire just kept quiet, studying Dale, trying to take it all in, ignoring even the low whine of mosquitoes.

  “I know some people stumble on it, then tell others. Years ago, the cover story was that the owner was a German industrialist whose factory had been bombed out in World War II, and he just wanted to leave a devastated country. After my great-uncle died, my parents lived in it for a while, but it was too damned big—obviously,” he added as they got their first look at the ruined structure.

  It was a silhouette against the trees, yet its strong cedar bones still stood. Claire gasped. She could see where a grand staircase had been and the doorways, even some rooms. No windows remained; some plants grew inside as if the place had a green beard. The roof, like a moss-covered toupee had partly caved in near the chimney which had obviously served several large hearths. Most of a garage or stables still stood.

  “There was a fire in the mid-1980s,” Dale explained. “Hurricane Andrew in 1992 did the rest. Then water damage, critters, some vagrants... It would be exorbitant to repair or replace, even to tear down. I just pay the property taxes out of my trust fund.”

  They walked through deep sawgrass that grasped their pant legs as if in a feeble attempt to keep them away. Claire had pictured that the place would have been brick, but it must have been mostly wood. Several crows flew out from under the shattered roof, cawing at them as if screaming, “Away! Away!”

  “It must have been grand,” she said.

  “I hardly remember it that way, and remember him only from pictures. I burned his photo album as soon as my mother died. He actually dared to have photos of his ‘grand days,’ as he put it. SS uniforms, swastikas, like huge black spiders on blood red flags. But especially when my mother’s dementia increased, she had either inked out the face of Eva Braun in the photos or actually cut them out. Said she wanted to kill Eva—well, just a figure of speech, born of dementia, and anger, of course, because Eva was long dead.”

  Claire’s gaze slammed into Nick’s. A revelation hit Claire hard, a crazy leap of logic, but who knew? When she’d researched Nazis this morning, she’d seen a picture of the blonde, pretty Eva Braun. Her smile in the photo had been so sweet and sincere, innocent. Hitler’s fiancée, later briefly his wife, was hardly screaming—but—but she looked a lot like Cyndi. Could an old woman with dementia who’d hated Hitler’s wife have mistaken Cyndi for her and, elderly or not, had rage and strength enough to—

  “Look!” Nick interrupted her agonizing as he pointed toward the desolate mansion. “There’s a blonde woman over there in the trees watching us.”

  13

  For one moment, Claire feared the woman watching them might be lifting a rifle, but it was a camera with a telephoto lens. Still, Nick pulled her behind him.

  “Hello!” Dale called out. “Can we help you? You’re trespassing, you know.”

  “It’s obviously not lived in,” the woman shouted back and came out of the trees. “But still such a beautiful place. I can explain why I’m here.”

  Claire breathed out hard. The woman was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved navy shirt, probably to keep mosquitoes at bay. Her clothes were tight fitting, even belted. She was probably in her fifties, much too tan for safety’s sake these days, with a heart-shaped face framed by hair so blond it looked white. She was extremely slender—gaunt, really. And she walked with the slightest hint of a limp.

  “May I ask who you are?” Dale went on as she came closer and stopped about ten feet from the three of them. “I’m the owner here.”

  “Then you must be a descendant of the German man. I couldn’t learn a lot from the county property records.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “The Nazi. You realize that makes this site even more important and unique than if it were just built and owned by a wealthy early landowner.”

  Dale looked speechless and shaken. His worst nightmare, Nick’s too, would be for it to get out that Dale had a relative tied to Hitler. Talk about prejudicing a jury and causing a media circus. They’d been through that trauma before.

  “I’m Marian James with the Endangered Properties Committee—not the same as the county historical society. We’re into historic preservation, though, and—sorry to say—I took a phone call about nine days ago from the poor woman who was murdered, your former fiancée, Cyndi Lindley.”

  Dale gasped. “Why would she call you?”

  “She wanted to let me know about the great history of this place and invited me out here. She said it could lead to magazine articles, news stories, even television promotion for our group. Well, I was away and when I returned and got her phone message at the office, I learned she was dead—murdered—and...frozen.”

  Nick said, “But I’m sure you understand that Mr. Braun needs some privacy at this time. For himself and this property.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ms. James plunged on. “Please accept my deepest sympathy on your loss, though I read in the paper she was your former fiancée. But I’m hoping you’ll still want this story told. Why, ties to the Nazis and Hitler just a couple of miles from the Everglades—what a story. It will echo far beyond Naples. Our efforts are well endowed by some wealthy individuals, and they could help you turn this place into a protected historic area or at least have a historical plaque here. So sad that this house has died,” she added as she came slowly closer, “and Cyndi cared about it, and now she’s dead too.”

  “The publicity—not at this time,” Dale said, almost stammering. “I—I may sell.”

  “What a pity. But one more thing,” she said, not retreating one step when Dale tried to move past her. “Cyndi mentioned over the phone that she thought someone might be following her, trying to scare her. I just tell you that—and would be willing to testify—if the police wonder who could have harmed her. I could also tell she was heartbroken and really angry about something.”

  Claire doubted most people could get that much from a recorded message when there was no real conversation. Was this woman to be trusted? Had she actually talked to Cyndi, maybe met with her in Cyndi’s attempt either to get publicity for herself or even to find a way to blackmail Dale? Wh
at Marian James had just said could be taken two different ways. If Cyndi had a stalker, that could help to clear Dale of suspicion. But if Cyndi was angry over their breakup, it could suggest she confronted Dale and he, accidentally or not, strangled her sometime within the last nine days. If this woman was telling the truth.

  Nick said, “Where did you park to walk way in here, Ms. James? And what a coincidence you’re here the same time we are. If you have further comments or observations, please make them to me, Nick Markwood, Dale’s attorney at Markwood, Benton and Chase,” he said, pulling his card out of his billfold.

  Claire’s thoughts still rampaged. Indeed they had not seen her car, though she was now telling Nick a friend dropped her off and would be back soon. And was it mere chance she showed up here when they did? The more she studied this woman the more she thought she could be the person who had followed her and Kris.

  Still, she knew she was getting too suspicious of absolutely everyone. She was even having a tough time liking or trusting Dale as well as Ben Vance, and he was her employer and a well-respected former senator, not that politicians were ever to be trusted.

  Marian James started to walk away, then turned back. “I really should call the police with all this. If I told them about poor Cyndi’s stalker—if she was right about that—it could change the way some people always blame the man in the victim’s life, so I’m sure that could be a help to you. I see in the newspaper and TV photos she was very pretty. Maybe she attracted a stranger who killed her instead of someone else close to her.”

  Claire could tell Nick had a comeback, but he kept quiet. With a nod at the still stunned Dale and a narrow-eyed look at Nick and Claire, she turned and walked away, yes, with just the slightest hitch in her step, not really a limp. As she disappeared behind the twisted trunks of the ficus trees, Claire thought it was almost like a ghost vanishing, but this one would no doubt materialize again and could spell real trouble for Dale if he didn’t cooperate with the Endangered Properties Committee.

  * * *

  Nick told Claire he didn’t want to leave Dale right now. He wanted to calm him down and plan a strategy if Marian James went public with her story. So Claire drove Nick’s car home from Dale’s house and Dale would drop him off later. Besides, she knew Nick wanted to look around Dale’s place since the police had searched it.

  At home, she spent an hour with Lexi and Trey—“How long before a little baby can finally talk, Mommy?” her daughter had asked—then grabbed a sandwich and headed for Black Bog. What a help it was to have Nita tend the children and Bronco as extra security. Claire was in a hurry now, as Kris had left a message that they were getting close to uncovering the next body.

  She kept her eyes on the road as her thoughts pounded her again. Nick didn’t want her anywhere near Dale’s case, but psyching things out was in her blood. Cyndi Lindley was emerging as a clever, greedy person, not entirely sympathetic, despite having been murdered. Claire had already checked the woman’s Facebook page and had gone way back through the pictures—mostly of herself, pouting sexily, some in a skimpy swimsuit—real bait for voyeurs, so maybe she had attracted a stalker. Why hadn’t Dale gotten turned off if he’d checked her page—or had he just gotten turned on by it? Also, there were a few pictures from two years ago that showed Cyndi with her beefy first fiancé, a real bruiser. She planned to show those to Nick to see if he could get Detective Jensen to look into that angle.

  She was so wrapped up in thoughts she almost missed the turnoff toward Black Bog. She hit the brakes, and the car behind her—following much too close—honked and roared around. Claire slowed on the narrow approach road.

  The guard at the gate opened it electronically and waved her on through. It would have been good to have such security to protect the Twisted Trees mansion, she thought, as she pulled into a parking place next to Kris’s Jeep.

  Claire was tempted to run, not even stopping to ditch her big purse, but the planks bounced and she slowed. They had said they didn’t want her or any of the team to take their own photos, except for the official ones Doug shot, so she reluctantly put her phone away, thinking again of Marian James’s expensive camera at the Twisted Trees mansion.

  Nick had assured Dale he’d get a stop on the photos with a threat of illegal trespassing if necessary. And despite the fact it was a Saturday, he’d already called a junior partner to get on contacting Ms. James and her so-called committee immediately. He said he hadn’t warned her on the property because that might have made her quickly disperse or publish her photos.

  Out of breath, Claire joined the dig team and leaned closer to see.

  “Bog body number three,” Andrea told her, looking up, then into the grave again. “I’ve named him Leader—more formal than Chief or Boss. He commands attention and respect.”

  “He’s tall,” she said, “or maybe it’s just that he’s not curled up like the others. And he’s dressed well. That robe has some sort of faded stripes. And look at that polished stone bracelet around his wrist. It reminds me of the necklace on Reaching Woman. Whatever happened to that? I’d like to study it.”

  “All the artifacts are specially cleaned, handled and stored,” Andrea told her. “As for the stripes on his garment, berry juice dye and beautifully done. It’s obvious that he was an important person—but who and why, Claire. That’s your bailiwick.”

  “What’s that in his hand?” Claire asked as the three diggers carefully removed more peat from his head so they could uncover his face.

  “Some sort of rod or staff,” Kris said. “Maybe symbolic.”

  “It’s carved,” Doug said. It was hard to hear him because he was bent low in the grave. “We found some other items with him, but we’ve already sent them inside.”

  Still awed, Claire whispered, “The staff and robe are no doubt symbols of his office, his importance. But what is his relation to the executed pair? At least he doesn’t seem to be stabbed or worse—his heart’s not cut out, is it?”

  “He’s apparently intact,” Yi Ling said. “Even dead and buried and muck-covered, he still has an aura of power or knowledge.”

  “I hope he wasn’t judge and executioner of the other two,” Claire said. “But then, why would he be buried near them, especially if his death is a natural one? And Reaching Woman seems to be stretching her arm toward him, as her other one was toward Hunter. Maybe caught somehow between the two men.”

  “You’re right,” Kris said. “If he’s a kind of judge that sentenced both of them to death, why be buried with them? Maybe Reaching Woman is meant to be begging for mercy, something like that. Leader stands, the other two have bent knees. But all that’s what we hope you can figure out, Claire.”

  Everyone went silent as Doug, Yi Ling and Aaron brushed away the last bits of centuries-old peat and soil from Leader’s face. His eyes were wide open. At least his mouth was closed—stern, firm—no hint of terror or a scream. Did his open eyes mean his people meant for him to be looking at the other two, looking into the future, or into the land of the dead which the bog represented?

  Claire suddenly felt overwhelmed with all she was expected to theorize. She was trembling uncontrollably as if she were freezing when the day was warm. It scared her even more to realize something else: Leader couldn’t help but remind her of Nick.

  * * *

  Dale was still shaken, and Nick couldn’t calm him down. He had looked around Dale’s house from which the police had confiscated items and fingerprinted a lot of places, leaving graphite powder Dale had not cleaned up.

  “I think you need to stay here for a while and calm down. Maybe take a nap, clean up the remnants of the police search,” Nick told him when Dale came out of the bathroom for the fourth time. His stomach must be really upset too. The guy was falling apart. Guilt? Fear? Suppressed anger? Damn, he wished he had Claire here to read the signs.

  Nick went on, “I called Bronco to come get me so you
can stay here for a while. Maybe you shouldn’t drive right now.”

  “I don’t like to be here anymore. I’ll head back to my temp place downtown. At least Bronco knows how to get here, huh? Nick, I’m sorry that he and Nita are going through this. Cyndi is kind of haunting me from the grave—from her ashes, that is—telling that woman all about my background, which my family did a good job hiding.”

  “I’ve put things in motion to muzzle her for now. Maybe one of the heavy hitter donors she mentioned will want to buy Twisted Trees from you. Just be careful if you drive, okay? And if your secret about who built the mansion goes public, don’t act like you’ve been trying to hide it. Say you just didn’t have the time to restore the place. You can’t go anywhere now or it would look bad, but after we see this through—and no one’s made a move to arrest you—you might want to clear out of the entire area.”

  “Nick,” he said, grabbing his arm as they saw Bronco pull up in front, “just don’t throw me to the dogs. I didn’t kill Cyndi!”

  “Then just be sure you level with me and your defense team. Maybe you won’t even be indicted or arrested. But this Hitler connection is a big deal if it gets out, especially since Cyndi wanted to use it to get attention, money, revenge—something. And you didn’t want that.”

  “So a second motive for my strangling her? Damn that ‘Endangered Properties’ woman! I wish she’d just disappear.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Nick warned. He squeezed Dale’s shoulder and headed out to the car as he heard Dale close the door firmly behind him. He worried for a moment he should go back in, but he didn’t think Dale, even distraught, was either a flight—or a suicide—risk.

  “Hey, boss,” Bronco greeted him, getting out of the car and coming around to the passenger side. “Thought I might have to come in for you. When I told Nita where I was going, she got all shook again.” A thin, sprightly woman was coming down the sidewalk tugging at her short-legged, perky-looking Chihuahua on a bright red leash that matched the dog’s collar. She had a slight limp, but it wasn’t slowing down her speed.