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Authors: Ann Cook
Trace Their Shadows
Trace Their Shadows
Ann Turner Cook
Mystery and Suspense Press
San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai
Trace Their Shadows
All Rights Reserved © 2001
by Ann Turner Cook
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ISBN: 0-595-20410-4
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Contents
To my husband, Jim, who always believed I was a writer
To my friend Marie Claire Anspaugh for her valuable editing assistance
To Dr. Edgar W. Hirshberg, professor emeritus of the University of South Florida, and his Life Enrichment Center Creative Writing class, and to the Tampa Writers Alliance for their help and encouragement
1990
Brandy O’Bannon looked up at the dormer windows, shrouded in Spanish moss, not because she believed in ghosts——she was open minded on the question——but because a good ghost story could save her job on the paper.
“People say a woman’s face appears on the top floor,” she said from her seat in the pontoon boat. “At night they see a figure gliding along the shore.”
John Able stepped to the bow and picked up the end of a precisely coiled line. “You talk like you believe such stuff.”
With an effort she kept her tone light. “The origin of the story interests me. Isn’t it true a woman disappeared here almost fifty years ago?”
“Something like that may have happened.” John glanced back at her, frowning. “You must be a romantic. Think all old houses are haunted. In your interview, don’t mention that notion. My great–aunt’s a sensible woman.” He reached with a boat hook for a piling. Brown water slapped the metal pontoons. “It upsets her. Starts gossip. I certainly don’t want to annoy her now.”
Brandy fell silent. The ghost story was the main reason she had come. If the old lady would talk, Brandy could write about a mystery in an historic house facing demolition—a story to prove her talent.
Able knelt and looped a clove hitch around the weathered post. At the motion a cormorant lifted from the water, flew to the roof of the ruined boat house, and spread its black wings in the dying sunlight.
She remembered her editor’s words. No initiative, Mr. Tyler said. Not aggressive enough. When she helped on the county news beat, he said her stories lacked spark. Next week when the regular county reporter advanced to the Leesburg daily, Mr. Tyler would ask someone to replace him. He wouldn’t choose Brandy——unless she hooked him with this feature.
She steadied herself on the small table behind the captain’s chair and smoothed down the skirt of her modest sun dress, an apricot print that set off her blue eyes and blended with her amber bob, a dress suitable for a summer call on a seventy–year old great–aunt. “I have to show my editor I have a nose for news,” she said.
John Able helped her through the boat’s aluminum gate and onto the splintering planks of the pier. “I invited you here for one reason, O’Bannon. To explain to the public why we need to save the house.”
They started across the pock–marked lawn beside a chain link fence that separated the house from a new development. “Don’t be such a skeptic. After all, a woman vanished here. Maybe her spirit didn’t.”
He gave her a withering look. “In architecture we deal with certainties. Spatial relationships. Geometry. Not some vague something no one can verify. There’s plenty of history here. You don’t need to fall back on the haunted house cliché. I didn’t invite the National Inquirer.”
Mathematics suited him, she thought, noting the sharp planes of his young face, his creased pants, his neatly trimmed mustache. A tin soldier really. No spontaneity. And no curiosity.
Above them the gray frame house loomed like a neglected monument, its copper roof tarnished, its walls almost bare of paint. It rose a full four stories, a long narrow box, taller than the dark heads of the cypress and cabbage palms, a solitary shape against the late afternoon sky.
Together they climbed a curving stone staircase and halted on the porch before a pair of ornate doors with peeling paint. Over the spikes of saw palmettos in the next lot, Brandy could see a bulldozer among the piles of upturned earth, could smell the rotting Florida water lilies uprooted on the bank. John punched the bell. “I only hope I’m not too late.”
She would help John Able if she could, Brandy told herself, but she would also dig for facts, even disagreeable ones. She had angled for this interview, dreamed of a journalism career through high school and college. She would not be intimidated now.
She looked up at John. “Are all architects so interested in old houses?”
“In the first place, I haven’t qualified as an architect yet. But I am interested in Florida vernacular——early homes like this one. It’s a hundred years old.”
“Your great–aunt must hate the thought of losing it,” Brandy said as the door opened.
Sylvania Langdon was, like her house, surprisingly tall. All of her growth must have gone into that remarkable upward thrust, leaving little extra flesh for her arms and legs. She peered down through silver–rimmed glasses with eyes that were gray and piercing.
“I came right after work,” John began. “Like I told you on the phone, I brought a reporter who’s interested in writing about the house. Brandy O’Bannon, with the Tavares Beacon.” Brandy squeezed out a smile. Sylvania would know her paper was a free weekly, picked up in most Tavares stores, and she felt skewered by that dour gaze. John did not seem to notice. His attention was focused on his great–aunt. “I’d like to talk to you about your plans to sell the house.”
Brandy edged over the threshold, while the older woman gave her a thin–lipped nod.
Although John had mentioned his great–aunt’s age, Brandy would not have guessed seventy. With straight back and brisk step, Sylvania led them into a wide hallway, past the staircase, and toward a window capped with a crescent of blue and red glass. Here they turned under an archway into a long, dim room that once would have been called a parlor. The heat was oppressive. A floor fan stirred the stale air around a fireplace, two faded upholstered chairs, a mahogany secretary, and a shabby couch flanked by piecrust end tables.
Brandy thought of the ghostly shape that was supposed to brood at the fourth floor window, then sweep down the long stairs.
Sylvania stopped at a fireplace below the portrait of a stern faced man and looked directly at John. “I hear you got your degree last month in architecture. I suppose you’re one of those preservationists. Want me to restore the old place.”
Brandy looked up in surprise. There was no regret in the older woman’s voice. “No one says where the money would come from for a new roof or plumbing. Not to mention air conditioning.” She pulled a handkerchief from a sagging pocket and wiped perspiration from her forehead. “My friend Mr. Blackthorne offered to rid me of this burden, and I’m grateful. He’s due here directly.”
John moved toward her, his dark eyes earnest. “The house qualifies for the National Register. Someone’s got to start preserving Lake County’s heritage, or it will all be gone. Your buddy Blackthorne’s throwing up manufactured homes cheek to jowl. There won’t be any natural shoreline left.” He lifted his arms in a sweeping gesture. “Yours is the only house around here built in the last century.”
Sylvania drew herself up. “And what do I use for money after I move? How do I buy into a retirement home?”
“Let me look for another buyer, Aunt Sylvania.” His hands came down, palms up. “Let me see if I can’t find someone——a group, maybe——that would buy the house and restore it. You can still get rid of it. Just don’t sell to someone who’s going to knock it down.”
Brandy reached into her shoulder strap bag for her note pad and pen, her eyes on Sylvania. Yesterday afternoon she had heard John Able mention the house at a county commissioner’s reception. She’d approached him then, said she’d like to write a story about the history of the house, maybe dredge up a sympathetic buyer among Lake County preservationists. Surely that showed initiative.
Sylvania was not wavering. “I know you’re quite the scholar, young man,” she said, “but you don’t get top marks in understanding. I’m old enough to do as I like, and I’ve already taken the best offer. The matter’s settled.” She lowered her long body into one of the chairs and followed Brandy’s glance to the portrait above the fireplace. “My brother, Brookfield Able,” she said. “I inherited the place from him.”
The effect of the portrait was hypnotic. Sylvania’s brother, a powerfully built man with a heavy black mustache, stood with a shotgun in one hand, the other on the head of a black and white bird dog, and stared out over the room with an imperial gaze. Brandy compared Brookfield Able’s portrait with his grand–nephew. The high cheekbones were similar, but the younger man had a slimmer build and his eyes were not as harsh. Pity he had no imagination.
“I’m not giving up,” John said. “Please don’t sign anything until I’ve made some calls.”
Brandy sank down next to John. “Would your brother have wanted the house torn down, Mrs. Langdon?”
The old lady had a regal look, in spite of her unkempt white hair, shapeless smock, and black oxfords. She turned to Brandy. “Brookfield was not a sentimentalist. He lived here only a short time in the nineteen–forties, when he was first married. Long enough to build a hideous boat house and do some remodeling. But Grace didn’t like being this far out of town. The house made her——”she hesitated “——squeamish. After they moved out, my husband and I stayed here to take care of the place, though Elton never liked the house either.”
She looked down at Brandy’s jottings and clasped long, thin fingers together in her lap. “Elton and Brookfield worked together in the family citrus business. After Brookfield’s death two years ago, I inherited the house.” She paused for a fraction of a second. “I wound up living out here alone. I don’t plan to any longer. And that’s an end of it.”
People in Tavares said no one could live in the house for long, no one but Aunt Sylvania. Something about the atmosphere. Now she was throwing in the towel. “Aren’t there any heirs who care about the house?”
She shook her head. “None of us except John’s daddy and granddaddy had children.” For a split second she paused again. “I talked to Brookfield about the house before he passed away. I know what he valued, and it wasn’t this property. I’ve always followed his wishes.”
Outside the summer sky was growing darker. Brandy leaned forward, fingers tight around her pen. John had made his fruitless pitch. Now she wanted her story. “Mrs. Langdon, I plan to write a history of the house.”
Sylvania’s expression softened. “Family history is my special interest.”
Brandy glanced at John. He touched his mustache and raised his eyebrows, but she remembered that reporters must be forceful and plunged ahead. “I want to ask a few questions about the tragedy that happened here. I’m sure you know people think this house is haunted. There must be a reason.”
Tilting her head back, Sylvania clenched her fingers and briefly closed her eyes.
“The ghost is supposed to be the figure of a woman,” Brandy said. “What really happened here almost fifty years ago?”
Sylvania stiffened as Brandy dated the interview on her note pad——June 7, 1990.
John stood, strode to one of the small side windows, his hands in his pockets, and looked out at the gathering dusk, plainly irritated. But to Brandy, her story was more important.
“I need facts,” Brandy said, pen poised. “If the house is going to be torn down, we ought to set the record straight.”
Sylvania gestured with one big hand toward a bookshelf with two periodicals, The Florida Genealogist and The Journal of the Florida Genealogical Society. “Check with the Lake County Historical Museum in Tavares about the house. It was built out in the country for safety, after a fire burned half the town in ‘88. Later on, the family used it mainly as a hunting and fishing lodge. You’ll find a book at the museum about Tavares pioneers. My granddaddy was also named John Able. A Director of the Tavares Citrus Growers’ Association.”