SHADOW OVER CEDAR KEY (29 page)

He’s stressed-out and neither is in their element, Brandy thought. Cara sat next to Blade and across from Marcia, Truck between Marcia and Mrs. Bullen, who was poised at one end of the table, opposite Mr. Bullen at the other. Soothing, bread baking smells wafted in from the kitchen and overlaid the tension in the air.

Current Wife had moved her chair as far as possible from the neighboring oyster man, whose idea of dinner clothes was a Windbreaker and a tee shirt. She stared with a puzzled expression at the life-sized, soft sculpture of a manatee and diver suspended in one corner of the room. Marcia sat with bowed head, folding and re-folding her napkin in her lap. Blade had turned up in a natty blue and ivory check sport coat with a red tie. When he arched his eyebrows and smiled down at his new-found half-sister, Truck’s wide face settled into a look of sullen hostility. In the dusk beyond the closed-in verandah, the dry seed pods of the mimosa tree rattled against the screen.

After they were all settled, Brandy waited near the door while Strong strode into the dining room. When he approached the table, Cara introduced him to her father as the homicide detective on the Rossi case. Frank Bullen stood and shook hands.

“I’ll brief you tomorrow, sir,” Strong said. “I missed my son’s last two little league games, and I don’t aim to miss tonight’s. Be back in the morning. The Rossi case is about to go down, and we may know something more on your.” His gaze traveled across to Current Wife. “On Allison Bullen’s case in a few days. Waiting for tests. I’ll keep you posted.”

Nodding, Bullen seated himself again. He pursed his small mouth and picked up a menu. “We can’t stay in Florida more than a day.” He glanced out the window at the broken sidewalk and the old homes across the street. “This is hardly the place I would’ve chosen to rear a daughter. I want to make arrangements for a cremation and take my daughter back to New York.”

Cara set a glass down and looked up quickly. “Nothing’s quite settled yet,” she said and then noticed Brandy.

Brandy slipped across the room and hovered beside Cara’s chair. The young woman turned, reached into her pocketbook, and murmured, “I want to return this,” and passed Brandy a padded envelope.

Bullen was sweeping on. “The Sheriff can reach me at my Manhattan office,” he said to Strong. “I’ll leave my card. After so many years, I don’t expect a full resolution.”

Strong cocked his head to one side and gave him a sorrowful glance. “Could be you’re right. The Bible say ‘That which is far off, and exceedingly deep, who can find it out?’”

But as he turned away from the mystified host, he winked at Brandy, and added in a low tone, “I’ve still got to find a secure phone, call the Dixie County guys.”

“Don’t leave town yet,” Brandy whispered back. “I’ve got something to give you. I’ll meet you outside.” Strong gave her a decisive nod and disappeared through the lobby and into the gathering darkness of Second Street.

Cara waved to Brandy. “Please join us. None of this would be happening if you hadn’t investigated.” Her invitation had the sound of a plea. Cara looked again at her father and added, “We’re talking about our plans.”

Brandy didn’t need to see Marcia’s bleak expression or Truck’s scowl to know how welcome she would be, and she already knew Frank Bullen’s disdain for reporters. It was Cara who surprised her. Cara’s somber eyes had lost the glow they had after their rescue in Suwannee. Perhaps the discoveries had all come about too rapidly, or perhaps John had been right, after all, and she had not helped, but had hurt Cara.

“I was just about to explain my career plans,” Cara said, leaning toward Mr. Bullen. “I’m going to take some courses in photography at the University of Florida. Work toward a degree in Fine Arts. The University has a great program.”

Bullen gave her a slight, sad smile. “I’m afraid that’s just a state school. You’ll want a private arts college. Best in the world, right in New York.” He bent toward Cara. “I hear you’ve had to work waiting tables and even cleaning hotel rooms.” He shook his head. “I won’t have any more of that.” While he turned to consult Current Wife about the wine and the soft-shelled blue crab, Cara’s cheeks flushed and she sat back, dark eyes troubled.

Next to her Blade lifted a highball and shot Brandy one of his appraising looks, lips tilted in a smile but the expression in his gray eyes flat. “Dad and I just missed sharing in the glory today,” he said. “We would’ve found you two. My God, I was at that very marina this morning, getting my boat out.”

“Would’ve been the first time you put that expensive rig to good use,” his father muttered.

But Cara turned to Blade, eager. “You’ll never know how hard Brandy and I tried to get your attention.”

“Well, it turned out okay,” Brandy said. “The Sheriff’s people got the bad guys.” She knelt beside Cara. “I won’t join you, but I want to share some news.” The strained table talk ceased. She felt sure everyone was listening. “Sergeant Strong just told me the marine patrol moved the houseboat to a pier near Old Town. Moose is dead. Shot. I guess someone higher up was afraid he’d talk. Or maybe he was trying his hand at blackmail.”

Cara’s lips tightened. “I won’t pretend I’m sorry.”

“The deputies didn’t find the photograph you took at Shell Mound, though,” Brandy added. “But someone else had been searching for it.” Except for her voice and the rustle of the mimosa tree, the room was silent. She glanced around. “I know where that photograph is. I saw Moose hide it.”

Cara drew back, frowning. “You don’t mean to go there yourself!”

“For heaven’s sake, Cara, child’s play after what we’ve been through. Twinkle-tongue’s arrested. Moose is dead. The pier’s right off U.S. 19. There’s always a lot of traffic. Anyway, I want to get my camera back.”

“Are the deputies still there?”

“No, but look.” she held up Moose’s key ring. “I’ve got a key. You’re busy. I’ll give you a call when I bring it back for the Sheriff’s Office.” She dropped the key in the pocket of her slacks.

When she rose, she was reasonably certain the rest of the table had overheard, but she had one more base to touch. All the suspects needed the same information. At the counter she leaned on her elbows and spoke to the hotel clerk. The woman’s curiosity about Brandy and the Bullens should have reached fever pitch. She could be relied on to spread the news.

“I’ll be gone for a couple of hours,” Brandy said. “If my husband calls, say I’ve already gone to bed. I don’t want to worry him. I haven’t gone to my room yet, but tell Mr. MacGill I’ll be late. I’m going back to the houseboat to get my camera and an important photograph Cara took. I don’t want to be locked out of the hotel.” She gave the clerk a Mona Lisa smile, tucked her notebook under her arm, and strolled to the door where Strong stood beside his car.

The air barely stirred. After the violent wind of the previous night, it now hung moist and heavy over the quiet street.

“You’ll need a small tape recorder and this audio tape,” she said to Strong. “Play it near the houseboat, so I’ll know you and your guys are covering me. It’ll sound natural. Probably at least one owl nests along the river there. I’ll start on board when I hear it.”

Strong stepped into his Ford Taurus. “I got a tape player in my kit. Use it sometimes for interviews. We’ll nab the perp when he shows up. He’d be trespassing, for starters. You shouldn’t need to get on the boat at all.” He sat for a moment, shaking his head. “I must be out of mind, letting you try this.”

“Not to worry. It’ll be easy, but the suspect’s got to believe I’m going to get the photograph.”

After he drove down the street, Brandy started the rental car. Strong would need time to stake out the houseboat and her suspect time to exit the hotel, she pulled into the café across the street.

At a booth she re-read her notes, wolfed down a hamburger and a cup of coffee, and stalled for an hour. Before she left the table, she lifted her pencil flashlight out of her purse and thrust it into her pocket.

On the road again, Brandy drove down Second Street, rolled across the three bridges out of Cedar Key, and swung northeast. Between thin clouds a ghostly moon appeared and disappeared like a pale Cheshire cat. She took the shortest of three routes to Chiefland. Old Town on the north side of the Suwannee River was only a few miles farther. The whole trip should be about forty miles, even on back roads, less than an hour. She slowed, remembering again she must give Strong a chance to prepare.

CHAPTER 23
 

Brandy and Cara had survived on pure adrenaline for two days. Brandy still felt energized. One last surge was all she needed, and she was confident. They had already outwitted two clods in two days. By comparison this scenario was easy. All she had to do was present herself on the houseboat, after she knew Strong and his men were ready, pretend to go for the picture, and leave the rest—as Jeremiah Strong would say—to the professionals. John wouldn’t approve, of course, but this would be her last act in the case.

She picked up more traffic when she hit U.S. 19. After the lights of Fanning Spring vanished from her rear view mirror, she crossed the river, passed through tiny Old Town and curved west, then south on a sandy road that wound down to a deserted pier. Next to the wooden dock lay the shadowy bulk of the houseboat. A restaurant that once served riverside meals was shuttered, and no light shone from a trailer that sat under a canopy of trees by the shore. One dim bulb burned at the end of the pier. Across the water, the bank lay in utter darkness, and above her the wind sighed through cypress leaves.

Brandy waited for half an hour, her bravado leaching away with each minute. Where was Strong? She didn’t see his sedan, but she knew how skillful these law enforcement officers were. They were all probably concealed in the trailer or vacant buildings, Strong’s car hidden behind the scraggly row of scrub oaks. He might even be in the houseboat itself, where he would be closest if Brandy needed him.

For a few minutes longer she listened to a deep throated chorus of frogs. The hull’s rubber fenders crunched against a piling, and from the bank came the rank odor of rotting water weeds. At last, when she had almost decided something had gone wrong, she heard the resonant five hoots of the great horned owl—hoo-hoo-oo, hoo, hoo-oo—fainter than she had expected, but distinct. She couldn’t tell if the mournful sounds came from the houseboat or the riverbank, but they were the signal. Obviously their suspect had not yet arrived. With a deep breath, she slipped the key ring from her pocket. She recognized the swamp buggy key and the one to the boat’s ignition. That left the key to the houseboat door. She padded down the dock to the houseboat’s metal gate. Under her tennis shoes an aged board groaned. Slipping up the latch, she stepped aboard.

Again she waited. No sound now but the croaking of the frogs. She tried the key in the cabin door. At first it balked, then the lock clicked. Probably nothing will happen, she thought. Her suspect might not have swallowed the bait. Too smart. Either way, she won. If she found the murderer’s picture, it wouldn’t matter whether she lured her suspect aboard or not.

She sidled into the wheel house and into almost pitch blackness. Pulling her small flashlight from her pocket, she swung it around the room. The deputies had not straightened up the cabin since they last searched, or someone had come after them. Debris had been tossed everywhere—pots and pans on the galley floor, the compass wrenched loose from its housing, the sofa bed pulled out, cushions strewn across the floor. She hoped the wide strips of duct tape still covering part of the windows would blot out the glow from her flashlight. In a corner lay her Nikon, proof the ransacker wasn’t hunting for valuables. Better not touch anything yet, she thought. The hard part will be waiting to spring the trap.

It was then that she heard a soft movement behind the closed pocket door. Someone breathing? A foot shuffled on the step. Her heart gave a giant leap. But it must be Detective Strong or a deputy, signaling again from the bedroom. Still, she held her breath. Don’t look for the picture, she thought. Give the suspect plenty of time to come aboard. She crept to the window, peered out at the darkened pier. Silence. And then she heard the noise again behind her, a scratching. The door shifted and slowly rolled back. Instinctively, she backed into the hard, cold surface behind her, pressing her spine against the bow window. Surely Strong would identify himself now. Instead, a low, muffled voice came from the doorway, the words clear. “Get the picture. Now.”

With trembling fingers Brandy flicked off the flashlight. From the pocket doorway another thin shaft of light probed the wheel house, inched toward her. Behind it a head emerged, encased in black knit. Nauseated with fear, knees weak, she clutched the back of a chair. A ski mask, of course. The figure’s whole lithe body was sheathed in black, commando fashion. Now she saw the gun. The tone was sharp, urgent, as she had expected, but she’d thought the detective would hear it.

“You’ve got one minute to get the picture or you’re wasted.” She strained to hear Strong or the deputies and heard a shuffling noise on the pier.

“Strong!” she yelled. “Now!”

A squirrel leapt from the dock onto the boat railing, then bounded away. Silence again. A short ugly laugh from the doorway. The figure stooped, glided closer, leveling the gun, its barrel like a cannon. “Get the picture!”

If she found and gave over the picture, she would surely die. She could identify a murderer, one who had already killed at least twice. Her frantic gaze flitted from item to item, sorting, rejecting, at last seizing the one chance. She forced herself to speak. “I was mistaken.” Her voice quivered. She tried to control it. “I looked when I got here. The picture isn’t here.”

The gun moved closer. “Maybe I won’t shoot you.” Again the hard laugh, razor-like. “Some deaths are worse than shooting. Old Moose kept lots of knives in the galley.”

She could see the row of knives in a wall mount. The blades glinted in the narrow beam. “You win,” she quavered. “You searched every place but the right one.” She edged toward the galley. Her fingers touched the fire extinguisher. “Look at the brackets.” Was that low, shaking voice hers? She wanted to dash for the deck, dive into the black water. But the tall figure blocked the only exit, still pinned her with its flashlight and its gun.