Island of Bones (7 page)

Louis paused in the doorway, blinking to adjust his eyes to the dark after the sunlight outside. It took him a moment to make out Bessie’s form over in the corner. She was pulling off her rubber boots. They landed with a thud and she turned to face him.

“Let’s take a look then.”

He put the box on a table in the center of the room. While Bessie busied herself trying to find her glasses, he looked around the room.

The windows were shuttered, with only slits of sunlight seeping in. It was one big room with a kitchenette off in one co
rner. There was little furniture —- a couple of old stuffed chairs, a worn sofa, a bed tucked behind a wicker screen, and the large wooden table in the center
.
From what he could see, the walls were covered with shelves, all filled to bursting but with what he couldn’t tell.

“Where the hell are my specs?”

Bessie switched on a gooseneck lamp and the room came to life. The walls were festooned with fishing paraphernalia, blue-bubbled glass buoys, old life preserver rings, a tattered black-and-red hurricane warning flag. Old netting hung from the rafters like spider webs, skeins of boat line were looped between the beams. Every surface was covered with shells and pieces of coral. Pink conchs as sensuous as a woman’s lips, sea fans that looked like delicate bonsai, and countless chunks of branch coral, all as intricate in their designs as snowflakes.

A four-foot stuffed alligator was sprawled atop the sofa, and six sets of shark jaws were lined up on a spice shelf above the small stove
, arranged from the smallest to the largest, a gruesome bone maw with two-inch teeth.

Louis spotted an odd iron contraption on a shelf and went to it. It was rusty and crusted with tiny shells. Bessie saw him looking at it.

“Go ahead. You can pick it up,” she said.

Louis hoisted up the two U-shaped loops on an iron rod. It was heavy.

“That’s from the Henrietta Marie,” Bessie said over her shoulder. “She went down in a storm off Key West in 1701. But the cargo had already been safely delivered to Jamaica.”

Louis hesitated then held one of the loops near his wrist.

“Slaves?” he asked.

Bessie nodded toward the irons. “That one’s probably from a child.”

Louis carefully set the manacles back on the shelf.

“Was this was all you found? No other bones?” Bessie asked.

“No, nothing else.”

Bessie went to a crowded desk, pulled something out of a drawer, and came back. Louis was surprised to see her snap on a pair of latex gloves.

“You didn’t handle it, did you?” she asked.

“Not any more than I had to,” Louis said.

She gave a grunt and bent the gooseneck lamp closer. She carefully lifted the skull out and set it on the table.

“What made you think it’s newborn?” she
asked.

“The
fontanelles.”

“Was the skull in pieces when you found it?”

“No, it was whole. Why?”

“Come over here,” Bessie said
. When Louis came closer, she pointed to what looked like four cracks in the skull. “These things are sutures, where the skull has come together. It takes at least three months for the skull to fuse, more like six.” She looked up at him. “No way this came from a newborn baby. A newborn’s skull would have been in pieces. Like a broken egg.”

“So it couldn’t have survived being tossed around in a hurricane,” Louis said.

“Nope. My guess is it was kicked up from the gulf bottom. Could have been lying down there, snug in the sand before the storm currents woke it up.”

Bessie picked up the skull and peered into the tiny sockets. “How old they tell you it was?”

“Fifty years.”

“Who told you that?”

“State archeology lab.”

“Bureaucrats,” Bessie mumbled. “They didn’t bother to carbon-date it, did they?”

Louis shook his head. “Police didn’t want to pay for it.”

“I’d guess it’s a lot older ’cuz of the color. But you’re never gonna know for sure unless you carbon it
.”

Bessie was using a magnifying glass now to examine the skull. It was quiet except for the groan of the pilings and the lapping of water.

“Pierre said you were an expert on Indians and local history,” Louis said.

“Pierre? Pierre Toussaint?” She glanced up at him. “That old frog still croaking? Tell him he
still owes me twenty bucks from when I beat him at pool.”

She set down the skull and went to a shelf. She stood on her tiptoes, running a finger along the books.

“My husband and me ran a ship salvage operation for thirty years before he died,” she said. “I can’t dive anymore ’cuz of my blood pressure. But my memory’s still good. Folks pay me good money for what I can remember.”

Cursing softly, she hauled a stool over, got up on it, and pulled a huge dusty book off the top. Louis was about to run over and help her down when she jumped lightly to the floor.

“I don’t think this skull is from an Indian burial ground,” she said, lugging the book back to the table. “The Calusas weren’t above sacrificing their firstborn to the gods, but they were careful about where they put their dead. And we’ve found most of their burial mounds.”

Louis’s eyes went to the skull and back to Bessie.

“I’m guessing your skull here came from a shipwreck,” she said. “And it being a child, I’m thinking it came from Emanuel Point.”

“That’s a ship?” Louis asked.

“Nope. A place. In 1559, eleven Spanish ships sailed into Pensacola Bay to start a colony under a captain named Don Tristan de Luna. Think of it —- a thousand people, leaving their homes, risking their lives, bringing everything they needed to survive in the wilderness, sixty-one years before the Pilgrims set foot on Plymouth Rock.”

Bessie was still bent over the book. “They brought everything
they needed to survive —- slaves, priests, wine, horses. And their children.” She paused. “The colony was wiped out by a hurricane before they even finished unloading the ships.”

Louis shook his head. “Pensacola is way up in the panhandle. That skull couldn’t have come from there.”

“Didn’t say it did. I’m thinking this could be a baby that died at sea.” She turned a page slowly. “My husband, Bill, and me worked the wreck so I got pretty familiar with it. I remember reading about a baby’s funeral held on board before they got to Emanuel Point.”

She pointed to a paragraph. “Yup. I knew it. Right here in the Luna translation, from the manifest. ‘August ten, 1559.
Infante Isabella Maria Carreira de los Reyes.
Mortis A Seis Mes. Vios Con Dios Preciosa Angelita.’
”

Louis bent to look at the line in the book under Bessie’s finger. Then he looked at the skull. He had been right. It was very old and very far from its home.

“Isabella,” he said softly.

He felt Bessie’s eye
s on him and looked down at her. He could see there were questions in her eyes, things she wanted to ask him. Like why he cared so much about a baby who had died hundreds of years ago. He looked away.

“What you going to do with the skull?
” she asked. “I mean, if you don’t want it, I’d love to —- ”

“No, I’m going to keep it,” Louis said.

She nodded, her eyes locked on his.

Louis
put the skull back in its box and closed the flaps.

“Thanks for your help,
Mrs. Levy,” he said holding out a hand.

She
pulled off her latex gloves, gave him a smile and her hand. It was calloused, with a firm grip. “I could be wrong, you know. This might not be who I say it is.”

But he wanted it to be somebody. “How many old baby skulls could there be out there?” he said with a smile.

Bessie shook her head. “This place is built on skeletons, young man. Millions of humans, millions of sea animals, dead and gone. Florida is just one big long island of bones.”

She switched off the light and for a second the water lapping on the pilings below his feet made Louis think of someone sighing.

“Come on,” Bessie said. “I’ll motor you back to land.”

Louis sat up in the Mustang’s seat and rubbed his neck. He checked his watch. After seven. Five hours of sitting down the block from Frank Woods’s house, another wasted day. The only thing the guy had done all day was take out his trash.

Enough of this shit
. He turned the ignition, but saw a blue Honda pull into Frank’s drive. Diane got out and went to the front door.

Saturday...another one of their weekly dinners together. He shut off the motor and waited. Five minutes later, they came out and left in Diane’s car. He followed them to the Shoney’s restaurant on Cleveland Avenue and waited until they got inside. This time, he decided to go in and watch them.

He wasn’t sure why. Maybe just to see if Frank was acting squirrely or to get some sense of their relationship. Diane had clearly been upset after their dinner last week. Maybe it had finally dawned on her what might happen if her father did turn out to be a killer and she regretted having him watched. People who hired Louis often came to regret it.

He had discovered that relatives really didn’t want to know the truth
—- whether it was about a cheating spouse or a violent weirdo hanging out in the far branches of the family tree. If Frank Woods turned out to be a killer, it was a sure bet that his daughter wasn’t going to be happy knowing that the same bad blood ran through her own veins.

He spotted them in
a corner booth. Diane looked tired and distracted. Frank was hunched over, staring vacantly out the window. Louis slipped into a booth nearby, out of their sight lines. He ordered a cup of coffee and sat back to watch.

Frank lit a cigarette. Diane made a face and said something. Frank turned his face to blow the smoke away from her. They both hid behind their menus.

They spoke and Louis strained to hear. Diane was asking her father how his job was. He shrugged and muttered something, tapping the cigarette in the ashtray. Diane folded her hands in front of her face and looked at her father. She was facing Louis and he could see her expression. Exasperation? Or worse, contempt?

There were more attempts at talk, but they always trailed off into silences. The waitress brought their meals. Fish and salad for Diane. A big cheeseburger and fries for Frank. They began to eat, seemingly grateful for something to do.

Diane said something and Frank shook his head slowly. She leaned forward, still talking. Frank kept his eyes on his plate.

Her words rose over the clatter of dishes. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” he said.

“But you’re
—-”

“Let it be, Diane. Just let it be.”

Frank pushed his plate away and leaned back in the booth, lighting a fresh cigarette. Diane went back to moving the food around on her plate, her eyes downcast.

The waitress came up to Louis’s table with the coffeepot. He shook his head. He had drunk five cups already and had nothing to show for this night but a bursting bladder.

Frank got up. Diane did, too, picking up the bill.

Thank God...

Louis waited until they were outside, then left. They were standing by Diane’s Honda, talking, this time with more animation. Louis had no way of getting closer to hear without showing himself, so he stayed behind the bushes.

Suddenly, he saw Diane put her hands to her eyes. She turned abruptly and got behind the wheel of her car. Frank stood there for a moment, eyes on the ground, cigarette in hand. Then he crushed the glowing butt between his thumb and index finger and put it in his pocket. He got in the car. Diane pulled out, heading fast down Cleveland Avenue.

Louis followed them back to Frank’s house. Diane didn’t even wait until Frank was in the house before she backed out of the driveway and raced off. Louis watched the lights come on behind the drapes of Frank’s living room and then he followed the red taillights of Diane’s fast-disappearing car.

She kept going
down Cleveland, heading for the Caloosahatchee Bridge. She was obviously headed back home to her apartment over in Cape Coral. Good. He could call it a night. Louis slowed, starting over to the left lane so he could head over to McGregor and get back out to Captiva.

Suddenly, the Honda braked and did a hard right onto Martin Luther King Boulevard. Louis cursed and swung the wheel, getting a horn from the truck behind him. He sped to catch up to Diane.

She braked hard again and swung left. Louis pulled up just in time to see her go into Boopie’s Beer & Wine.

She came out a couple of minutes later, clutching a small paper bag. Two black men in the parking lot stared at her as she got in her car.

Louis put his car in reverse, ready to take flight again. Diane’s Honda didn’t move. Louis waited. But Diane hadn’t even started the engine. He couldn’t see her from where he was, so he put the car in gear and inched forward. Now he could see her profile. She was just sitting there behind the wheel, her face painted pink from the neon of the liquor store’s sign.

Diane brought the paper bag to her lips and took a drink. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the headrest. Then she took another drink.

The two black men were watching her. She didn’t even see them. She took a third long drink.

“Christ,” Louis whispered.

He was thinking about getting out and going over to her car, but she suddenly started the motor. A moment later, she pulled out.

Damn, he had to follow her
, just to make sure she got home okay.

She drove more slowly now, getting across the river and into the parking lot of her apartment complex without mishap.
She walked slowly up the stairs to her door, her purse and the paper bag in hand, and went inside.

Louis let out a tired sigh. This was nuts. He couldn’t afford to keep wasting time on this, and Diane Woods certainly couldn’t afford to keep paying him for it
. Frank Woods had not done a thing that could possibly connect him to Jane Doe’s murder, and the more Louis saw of Diane, the more convinced he was that she was just paranoid and maybe just a little embarrassed by her odd —- but normal —- parent.

He was quitting
the case.

Louis pulled himself from the Mustang and went up to Diane’s door. He rang the bell.
 

The outside light went on and the door jerked open. Diane stood there, still wearing her dress, but with her shoes off and her collar open. Her face was flushed. She was holding a crystal goblet of clear liquid. Louis could smell the gin.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“We need to talk.”

She walked away, leaving the door open. Louis came in and watched her as she went into the kitchen, put the gin bottle in the cabinet, and closed the door. Every move she made was with the careful effort of a drunk trying not to look like one.

The apartment was quiet except for the hum of a refrigerator. Louis looked around, taking in the neat rows of bestsellers on the bookshelves, the mauve and gray furnishings, the careful fan
of
Gourmet
and
House Beautiful
magazines on the coffee table, the perfect arrangement of Lladro porcelains on an elegan
t
étagère. Not a fingerprint on glass, not a book jacket frayed, not a speck of dust anywhere. The place screamed taste and order.

She came back to the living room, smoothing back her hair with one hand and holding the gin in the other.

“Okay,” she said, dropping into a chair. “So talk.”

“I don’t think this is working for either of us,” Louis said.

“You promised me one more week.”

Louis shook his head. “There’s no point
. I’ve followed your father everywhere he goes, which isn’t too many places. He does nothing, and I mean nothing, suspicious.”

“But he had the newspaper clippings.”

“So what? Why don’t you just ask him why he cut them out? Jesus Christ, Diane, he’s your father.”

She looked away, her eyes falling on the glass of gin. He knew she wanted to take a drink but something was stopping her. Could she possibly think he didn’t know she was drunk?

She lowered her head into her hand, her fingers splayed across her forehead. “I can’t talk to him.”

“But you can think him capable of murder.”

She closed her eyes, her chest rising with a deep breath. “Get out. Quit if you want.”

Louis sighed, and turned toward the door. He heard her slurp softly. When he looked back, her cheeks were flushed and the glass was empty.

“Okay,” Louis said. “I’ll finish out the week.”

She looked up at him, her eyes trying to focus. “Do what you want.”

Louis opened the door, and let himself out. He paused at her window, peering through the slats in the blinds.

Diane was wobbling back to the kitchen. Louis watched as she pulled open three different cabinets before finding the gin. She raised the bottle to her mouth and slugged down a shot.

He turned away and started down the steps. A car door slammed in the parking lot and a man got out.

Louis froze on the top step. Shit, it was Frank. And there was nowhere to go, no place to hide before Frank saw him.

Louis stopped on the top step as he watched Frank Woods lock his car. He turned and looked up at his daughter’s apartment, his eyes settling on Louis, fully illuminated in the amber light.

Frank spun and hurried back to his car, jumping inside. Louis started to call to him, but stopped.

Hell, what could he say? I was just here telling your drunk daughter I wanted to quit spying on you?

Frank threw his car in reverse and squealed out of the parking lot. For a second, Louis thought about following him. But what was the point?

Louis rubbed his gritty eyes. The hell with it. He was tired and he was going home. There was one Heineken left in the fridge and it had his name on it.