Haunted Read online

  Birdy hated being called dearie, but had tolerated it, just as she had tolerated the other women fussing over a poultice made of herbs wrapped in cheesecloth. Theo had sat cross-legged on the picnic table, watching, not saying much except to marvel over Lucia’s accuracy

  I asked, “What about the scar? Was she right?”

  “I was sixteen, not fourteen—see what I mean? Even her mistakes are convincing. It’s a technique.”

  “Yeah, but how did it happen?”

  Birdy talked over me. “Same with asking questions. Remember her crack about your guilty conscience? She knows you shot someone, I think.”

  I said, “I thought about that on the way here,” but still withheld my theory.

  “Lucia is smooth. The questions make her routine more believable. You know, force people to participate. It allowed her to manipulate me into giving answers that, like I said, she already knew. Maybe not the specifics, but close enough. Very professional. But how the hell does she do it? Oh”—Birdy snapped her fingers—“and there was something else. I’d bet that Lucia and Theo have known each other for a lot longer than three weeks.” She sniffed her wine again. “Tell the truth, do you think he’s screwing her?”

  “Theo and Lucia?” I asked, but decided it was wiser to take a guess about the scar. “You did something really stupid when you were sixteen, didn’t you? That’s why you won’t say.”

  “The way Theo would chime in, it was almost like he was working as her shill. That would be a deal breaker for me. The timing, a sort of patter they had going.” Birdy ruminated over Theo’s behavior but finally answered, “I wouldn’t call getting a kiss from David Ortiz stupid.”

  I couldn’t place the name but said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope, but it didn’t start out as fun as it sounds. I was at Fenway Park and fell over the railing when I stretched too far for a foul ball. Next to the dugout is a sort of camera pit and I landed on a field keeper’s rake—seven stitches—but Big Papi was right there and swept me up. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I’ll show you the ball he signed.”

  She was a Red Sox fan. I knew she was talking about baseball but had to ask, “What about David Ortiz? Why did he kiss you?”

  Birdy, amused for some reason, replied, “I didn’t say he kissed me” and laughed but was watching the houseboat. The two men were lounging while a new song floated over mown grass and a hint of distant jasmine. She gave the wine another try, then dumped it. “They’re probably locals—fishermen, maybe. So they might have some good stories about the Cadence place. That could be helpful.” She let that settle, then asked, “Do you know anything about country music?”

  I knew what she was working up to. “They’re playing Garth Brooks—but don’t you dare go bothering them this late.” She had called me prudish, which I am not, so it felt okay to play the role I’d been assigned—until I proved her wrong. And I would.

  Birdy stood and straightened her collar, prettying herself up. “Is he popular?”

  “Think of David Ortiz in a cowboy hat,” I said. Then I swung over the railing so that I was the first to introduce myself to the men on the houseboat.

  Birdy was right. The Cadence house was well known in Labelle. The same was true of people who lived near the house—including a neighbor who was said to be insane. But the rumors were so dark, they were of a whispering nature, and it took work to pry those stories free.

  The men were locals—nice guys—but they weren’t fishermen, despite the houseboat. They were honest-to-god cowboys—a claim I would have doubted if they hadn’t been so modest when describing their jobs. Copenhagen cans in the pockets of their Hawaiian shirts and rodeo photos inside the boat added to their credibility.

  Cow hunters, they called themselves. That was persuasive, too. It’s what Florida cowboys have always been, called because in a state that’s mostly swamp, not open plains, more hunting than herding is required. They kept horses at a stable north of Labelle and hired out to cattle ranches, but sometimes used four-wheelers if they didn’t have to rope or chase strays.

  Brit and Joey—one not as tall up close, but both men lean with calluses and dark tans. Joey, who was at least six-four, had Seminole hair and high cheeks so appeared to be part Indian. Brit was more talkative, but even he preferred sentences of four or fewer words. I believe so . . . That’s what I’ve heard . . . Could be, ladies. That’s the way they spoke, reserved, but perceptive enough to read the situation correctly: Two women, after a hard day, had come seeking a cold drink, but nothing more. Oh . . . and one of the women was a deputy sheriff, so watch it.

  Their easygoing manner changed, however, when I mentioned the Cadence house, then skipped ahead to ask, “Do you know anything about the vaccine company? Slew Vaccine and Herpetile? It’s right next to the RV park.”

  Genial hospitality was displaced by an invisible door. The door could be opened or slammed, depending on how things progressed. Brit, suddenly cautious, asked, “What about it?”

  I said, “Well, we got quite a scare tonight. I could have sworn we saw a big chimpanzee on the property. We were walking the road near the entrance and there it was.”

  Birdy leveled a look at me to remind me Chimps don’t wear sandals.

  It didn’t matter. Brit sidestepped the question anyway. “Babcock Ranch is near there—ninety thousand acres. We do a lot of work for Babcock, but all they run is cattle and sod. No monkeys, I’ve ever seen.”

  I let him see I was amused by that. “But you know the place I’m talking about?”

  “There’s a Church of God down the road my folks used to attend. Or I could be confused about what you’re asking.”

  Another evasion.

  Joey tried to help out. “You grow up in Labelle, there’s not a crossroads between here and Sebring we haven’t rolled through a stop sign or two. But that’s not the same as knowing a place. The name might be familiar. Were you hoping to see snakes instead of monkeys?” A slight smile when he asked but dead serious while he waited.

  I said, “We expected not to have the fire scared out of us. I would like to speak with the owner, but not tonight—and not tomorrow either—if there are wild animals roaming around. A phone call would do. If you know his name, that would help.”

  Now they were suspicious. Brit, with a shrug, suggested I try the phone book, then asked his Seminole-looking partner, “What time’s it getting to be?”

  Ten minutes, tops, we’d been there. I hadn’t even squeezed a lime into the weak vodka tonic I’d requested. I squeezed it now and, after an uneasy silence, asked, “Did I say something wrong?”

  Joey resumed the role of a gentleman host. “’Course you didn’t. The Cadence place, there’s a lot of stories we heard as kids. In high school, too. There’s nothing wrong with stories, but what a man keeps on his property is his own business. Circus animals in Florida, there’s nothing new about that around here”—his eyes found Birdy—“but maybe the laws have changed. Either way, it’s none of our business.”

  Birdy’s questioning look transitioned into surprise. I understood. He had just hinted that, yes, chimps—monkeys of some type—might be found at the area. He had also refused to snitch on neighbors, even though they lived thirty miles away.

  Birdy got it, too. “We didn’t go there to spy or arrest the guy. Hannah wants to meet the owner for business reasons.”

  Brit said, “Oh?”

  “Yeah. She’s . . . well, she’s collecting stories about the old Cadence house. Like you said, it’s got quite the history. There was a TV show a while back, they did a piece. Maybe you saw it. That’s the sort of thing she’s after, which means interviewing people who know the area. Like the stories Joey mentioned.”

  Voice flat, Brit said, “News reporters. Sure.”

  It was a question, not the statement, which Birdy decided to answer. “No, like I told you, I’m a sheri
ff’s deputy. But I’m off duty, just tagging along. Hannah’s the one who has to keep notes and do all the work.” She turned, her eyes asking, Should we go?

  We were sitting on the aft deck of the houseboat, an orange crate between Birdy and me, while the men leaned on the railing. I wasn’t ready to leave, so I put down my drink and looked from Brit to Joey in a frank way. “Let’s back up here. It was rude of me to pry and I apologize. I don’t tolerate people snooping into my life. No reason you should either.”

  The modern cow hunters seemed to appreciate that. After a cue from his partner, Brit said, “Already forgotten.”

  That wasn’t true, I could tell. “I’m not a journalist either. I want to be clear about why we’re here. I am getting paid to collect stories about the Cadence property, but the job doesn’t include being nosy about your neighbors.”

  I waited, expecting one of them to ask, Paid why? They didn’t. The invisible door, I realized, had opened a tad, but the next move was up to me. I said, “Truth is, I inherited a part-time investigation agency from my uncle and this is”—I had to think back—“only the fifth job I’ve had that requires fieldwork. Mostly I’m a light tackle guide out of Sanibel and Captiva.”

  “A fishing guide?” Brit asked the question, but both were skeptical.

  I said, “October’s my slow time, which is why I’m doing this. Fly-fishing is what I prefer, but I’ll take just about anything that comes along. Except for peak tarpon season. I’m fussy about clients during tarpon season. Last year, I booked more than two hundred full days, plus some casting lessons. And the Lauderdale boat show, two years in a row, I’ve done demonstrations for Sage fly rods.”

  They asked a few questions to test me, then asked a few more because they were convinced it was true and they both enjoyed fishing.

  “My uncle was a guide,” I said. “It’s a hard way to make a living. He told me, ‘Some weeks, you think you’ll get rich, but you never do. And some weeks, you think you’ll starve, but you never do.’ That’s the way fishing is, so I keep the agency going on the side. I hope I’ve explained myself.”

  Brit, while reassessing Birdy’s legs, said, “Yep.”

  Joey said it, too—“Yep”—but added, “We get tarpon up here sometimes. Bass, of course, and snook you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I’ll remember that when my bookings pick up. Right now, I’m focused on what I’m being paid to do. If you remember stories about the Cadence house, I’d sure like to hear them—unless it’s too late, which I understand.”

  Joey, for some reason, gave me a private wink after catching my eye. Then said to Brit, “You’re the one who loves to talk. Tell ’em some of the things we heard back in high school. Bore the ladies while they enjoy their drinks.”

  That broke the uneasiness. We became a chatty, sociable little group, although increasingly quiet while Brit told stories of murder and madness and a woman who could be heard weeping from the balcony on moonlit nights. I got out my spiral notebook and asked questions. But had the good sense not to pry when Brit, after eyeing me, said, “I’d be careful walking that area. There’s an ol’ boy there some say is slap-ass crazy—and not in no fun way. Monkeys would be tamer. If I knew it was fact, I’d say his name, but I try to avoid gossip.”

  Birdy assured him, “We can take care of ourselves,” while I finished a drink I hadn’t planned on finishing. It was nearly one when we stood to leave. They insisted on walking us back.

  I hadn’t anticipated that.

  There is a natural pairing process when four people exit a dock: Birdy and Brit led. That was expected. I’m used to following extroverts in such situations. I felt no awkwardness until the pairings were further defined by the distance that separated our rooms, Birdy’s room being three doors down from mine.

  Brit followed when she turned left. I veered to the right and felt a sudden tension, figuring Joey would follow. So far, both had been respectful and polite, but these were two high-testosterone men. They rode horses and carried guns, as they’d told us, and often had to sleep rough with nothing but mosquito netting and the stars. Nice guys, true, but this was a rare weekend in town for them. The advantages of two single women sleeping in separate rooms had to be on their minds.

  Pointless, my worrying. When I reached the door, I was alone. My escort was standing, lanky and long, in the moonlight, a discreet distance separating us. I felt relief at first, then it stung my ego. Three doors down, a latch clicked. Birdy, for our benefit, warned Brit, “Okay, but just for a minute,” then they both disappeared into her room.

  I had to say something. Inanities such as “Thanks for a nice evening” had already been exchanged, so I decided to soften my escort’s disappointment. “I still have some work to do,” I explained from the railing.

  No need for that either. He had already started toward the dock but did manage to reply, “Good luck,” over his shoulder and wave.

  He’s married or real, real tired. That’s what my ego decided. Then reminded me, You’re not interested anyway.

  True enough. Even so, I felt a spark of girlish redemption when the man stopped, thought for a moment, then turned. “Do you drink coffee in the morning? I get up awful early, but you’re welcome to drop by.”

  “Coffee or hot tea,” I answered. “Either’s fine, but how early’s early?”

  “Before sunrise. I gotta have my horse trailered by six.” A pause before explaining, “Brit’s off ’cause of his fire-starting class. So I’m working alone.”

  He sensed me smiling. “Is that funny?”

  I said, “If Brit’s learning how to build a fire, I suppose it is.”

  “The boy could use some help in that area, too. But this is a state certification thing. Ranches do a lot of controlled burns to clear out undergrowth. I could explain it to you over coffee.”

  I already knew about burn backs yet it made me feel better. “I appreciate that, Joey. If I’m up, I’ll knock on the hull. Do you prefer Joey to Joe?”

  “Either,” he said, “but not Joseph. That was my father—according to Mom.” Dark laughter while he added, “That man got around a lot, but never stuck around, if you know what I’m saying.”

  I replied, “I’m sorry to say I do.”

  “His last name was Egret. Like the bird. If I wasn’t used to the darn thing, I’d think about changing.”

  “Joe Egret,” I repeated softly.

  “And you?”

  “Plain Hannah Smith. Your name sounds familiar for some reason.” It was true. Joey Egret . . . Joseph Egret . . . it was attached to some person or memory in the back of my mind.

  “Same with Smith,” Joey said. “Nothing plain about that name . . . Captain Hannah.”

  Laughter, and he was gone.

  • • •

  AT ONE-FIFTEEN A.M. I gave up trying to sleep and settled back with my great-uncle’s journal. Written on the cover was:

  Receipts & Expenditures

  Benjamin F. Summerlin

  Master/Owner Vessels for Hire

  Widow’s Son (40' Sharpie)

  Sodbuster (24' Dory)

  The first entry that referenced the Civil War was twenty pages in:

  13 August 1861 (Habana, Cuba): $3 silver for a new hat mine being stoled by a drunkard on Duval St. War—he says the dumb bastards finely dun it & the Greys has kilt thousands at a place called Bull Run but the Blues won Pensacola & kilt only 100. These numbers do not seem right to me. I have been learning my Spanish rather than risk Yankees for neighbors . . .

  Captain Summerlin had been a candid, insightful man. The book smelled of incense and smoke after sitting over the fireplace—chrysanthemum resin, Theo claimed—a scent so strong it made me wince. Hopefully, the thing would air. It had already benefited from the dry heat. New pages could be separated with the help of gentle pressure or a fingernail.

  Not all, though.r />
  Spiral notebook at my side, I started at the beginning, after reinspecting the fresh cracks and newly dog-eared pages. It was a leather-bound volume produced by Wilmington Maritime of North Carolina. Designed for bookkeepers, not a seagoing cattleman who cared more about numbers than spelling. Captain Summerlin had used it as a ship’s log and a notebook and also a place to doodle. On the inside cover were clumsy attempts at birds, a dolphin, and what might have been a cow.

  On the next pages were sketches of women. Much attention had been devoted to their hefty breasts and hair, but no effort made to adorn them with clothing, let alone the kindness of a nose that resembled a nose. They all beamed back at me, however, with cheery, inviting smiles. Two wore flowers where Eve would have worn them.

  You lecherous old man, I thought yet smiled. The sketches breathed life into my long-dead relative. He wasn’t old when he’d taken pen in hand—early thirties, which was my own age. He had found a way to entertain himself when he was alone. No harm in that. Better still, the sketches proved that indecent thoughts weren’t new to our family’s bloodline.

  That alone provided some comfort after the thoughts I had been battling.

  No wonder. I was lying in the chill of a wall air conditioner, wearing only a T-shirt, while Birdy and her cowboy guest did god-knows-what just three rooms away. The marine biologist was on my mind. Officially, we had stopped dating, but he was still an occasional late-night visitor—a welcome visitor—and it had been a while since he had come tapping at my door. He was out of the country or I might have called him to talk.

  Restless didn’t accurately describe my current state of mind.

  I had no physical interest in the airline pilot or the attorney I’d been seeing. No commitments either. There was no reason in the world I shouldn’t replace my sleeplessness with harmless conversation if, say, someone within walking distance was also awake—aboard the houseboat, for instance.