Haunted (12 page)

Carmelo said, “Don’t touch them apples either,” and plopped down behind the wheel, a bag of seedpods at his elbow.

About the waxy-leafed trees, I said, “I guess we ignore the things we don’t expect. Usually, they grow closer to a beach. And I’ve never seen manchineels that big—they’ve got to be a hundred years old. But those apples should have warned me.” Now I was thinking of the Brazilian who had planted exotic trees before the Civil War and the schoolteacher who had written about blistered skin. The mimosa trees were different here: tall, lean, with lichen-splotched trunks, their seedpods longer and thinner than the mimosas in my mother’s yard.

I spoke to Carmelo. “Can I see one of those?” He had lost interest and was focused on the sonar again. When I reached for his sack of seeds, though, he came to life and blocked my hand.

“Mine,” he said. He spoke like a simpleton, but his eyes were sharp and sure and seemed to taunt.

The look on Belton’s face told me
Let
him
have
his
way
.
So I did, no problem. There was a seedpod on the deck I could cover with my foot, then pocket later. Belton acknowledged that option with a nod.

During the return trip, we discussed harmless things—an unspoken agreement to wait until we were alone to talk. It proved to me that Belton’s distrust of Carmelo ran deeper than a misunderstanding.

•   •   •

W
ALKING FROM
the flimsy docks and fish-cleaning table toward the RV park, I nodded hello at the tiny blondes who didn’t
look like twins but did look stoned. Belton waited until they were past to ask what I’d found underwater.

I said, “Maybe it was silly keeping it from Carmelo,” then, without including how frightened I’d been, told him about the canoe.

He was disappointed. “Was there a motor on it?” That sounded important for some reason.

“I only saw one end and didn’t get a very good look. You were hoping it was a bass boat, weren’t you?”

His mind was focused on what he’d just heard. “An aluminum canoe with obvious dents. Like someone used an axe to punch holes?”

“I’m not sure, but whoever did it went to a lot of trouble. If they’d used just one anchor, the bow or stern would stick out of the water.”

“Then it was stolen. They’d probably knock holes. You just didn’t see them.”

“I don’t know what canoes have for flotation, but it’s generally riveted into the forward and aft bulkheads. In fact, whoever did it had to
get in
the water and force it under before they tied off. Weird—why would thieves care enough to bother? They’d either keep it or sell it or cut the thing loose when they were done.”

Belton said, “It certainly wasn’t to collect insurance.”

I shook my head while thinking I should have mustered the nerve to do another dive.

“A damn canoe,” he muttered. “But on the fish finder the thing looked a lot bigger to me. Rectangular, sort of, you know?”

I said, “The water is murky once you get down. There could
be something else on the bottom. Maybe the canoe is next to another boat.”

Thinking aloud, Belton said, “A rental boat—a canoe with a motor. They rent canoes everywhere.” He glanced back to where a kayak and a square-stern canoe lay upside down on the bank. Nearby were two small aluminum boats with kicker motors. Also rentals.

I said, “The odd-looking one is called a Gheenoe. If you hoped to find a boat from the Civil War, why is a motor so important?”

The old man’s focus had shifted to the miniature blondes. They were on a dock, walking single file, while Carmelo, on the next dock, hosed his boat. He appeared to be in a hurry.

Belton said, “That man’s not as stupid as he pretends.”

“No, he’s not. I sensed you two had a falling-out. I hope it wasn’t because of me. I didn’t mean to hit him in the face with that snorkel. And it was just dumb of me not to notice those manchineel trees.”

He replied, “We should call the police,” which startled me until I realized he was referring to the sunken canoe.

“I was going to tell Birdy about it first. But I’ll do whatever you want.”

“It would be nice to know more before we bother the police. Do you think there could have been a . . . well, something inside the canoe?”

I said, “Like a registration, you mean? I didn’t check for hatches.”

“No, you said it was floating upside down. Something could be jammed under there. Stuck, if it was buoyant.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. The image of a dead body came into my mind, floating in darkness, while I battled to find my way out.

Belton put it more delicately. “A cooler with identification, possibly, or a bag. If credit cards are missing, that would mean something. Unless you searched from one end to the other—you were certainly down there long enough—I hate to scramble the police for something that has a benign explanation.”

I said, “I should have done a couple more dives. Or thrown an anchor, we could have snagged the thing and pulled it up to get registration numbers.” I hesitated before adding, “I’ll go back, if you want—but what about him?” Carmelo had pushed his boat away, ignoring the two tiny women who watched him start the engine.

Belton understood my meaning. “Your intuition is uncanny, my dear. What to do indeed.”

“I knew there was a problem between you two.”

“Oh, there is. But he doesn’t know yet. This morning, I saw him talking to Theo. This was before Theo’s big scene with Dr. Babbs—but
after
I told him to stay away from the guy.”

I said, “Told Carmelo to stay away from Theo.”

“That’s right—him and anyone else who might take advantage of what I found in that cistern. I suspected those two have some kind of private deal going. Now I know. I was taking my morning walk and there they were, sitting like kings, on his bass boat. That guilty look people get sometimes? I pretended like I didn’t see, just kept walking. Don’t forget, I exchanged several e-mails with Theo before coming here.”

“You surprised them?”

“Not intentionally. Let’s call it a stroke of good luck.”

I agreed with Belton’s instincts but not his reasoning. “I’m not taking sides, but I don’t see anything wrong with people talking to whoever they want. And, without Carmelo, you wouldn’t have found the cistern, let alone those bottles. On the other hand, I see your point—there is
something
about Theo that—”

“I lied to you about the cistern,” Belton said, then softened it with a sigh. “Well, I didn’t exactly lie. Carmelo was the one who was lying. He didn’t know the place existed until I showed him satellite photos. The deep spot on the river? Yes, he knew. But not the old homestead. Even then I had to help him with the GPS. He made up that story about deer hunting when he realized I might have found something valuable. His way of staking a claim, I suppose.”

“But he didn’t make up the story about the manchineel trees,” I said.

“About being burned? He might have. He’s a lot smarter than he lets on—and he does know that river. He tried to scare you, Hannah. That’s what I think. He used those little apples as an excuse. A double entendre, hidden meaning. See? The man’s shrewd.”

“Because he didn’t want me to go into the water? Then why take us there in the first place?”

“Carmelo thinks I’m a naïve old man, which is to my advantage. Being underestimated is always an advantage, so I’m happy to keep
him
happy. That’s why I passed along his deer-hunting story.”

We were on a path that would soon exit into the clearing where
RVs and campers were parked. I stopped. “You’re paying him? A guide should keep his clients happy, not the other way around. What’s this
really
all about?”

Belton urged patience with a gesture. “For now, I need Carmelo’s knowledge and his boat. Unless”—he paused to think—“well . . . unless you’re willing to drive me around in one of those little rental outboards. I have Carmelo booked for two more days, but I’d rather pay you.”

It was one of those bright-idea moments that caused the man to smile but only made me suspicious. I said, “There’s something you’re not telling me. In fact, there’s a lot you’re not telling me.”

“I admitted I have a secret—you don’t remember?”

“Of course I do. And I’m not taking you back there unless I know the whole story. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to dive that spot again.”

“Not if it puts you at risk. Can we discuss it later? Tonight, I’ll buy you dinner and a good bottle of wine, but right now, dear, I need a shower and a nap.”

Belton Matás had a wide amiable face that was disarming and he knew it—as did I. He was also an old man in poor health who was exhausted. I didn’t want to push too hard, but I had come close to drowning after all. “Save the whole story for later,” I said. “I’m fine with that. For now, a summary will do.”

“You are one stubborn woman.”

I replied, “Would you rather spend tomorrow with Carmelo? Or in a boat with me?”

The man had a sense of humor and surrendered with a sigh. “Okay, here are the bare basics: Theo and another person were
hunting for the same thing. Theo’s still after it. That’s why we exchanged e-mails. Carmelo doesn’t own that boat, it’s Theo’s—or he at least made the down payment. Happily, they both think I’m a fool.”

I waited, thinking he would say more. He didn’t. “That’s it? You’re talking about the money stolen by the bank robber, John Ashley. Thirty-five thousand in silver.”

Belton shook his head. “No, you’re wrong. Remember Dr. Babbs’s story about a Civil War payload? That’s part of my secret. The story’s not a myth. I have copies of documents; an officer’s letters, in my office. A Union paymaster, 1864. He was sent to purchase cattle and pay troops at Fort Myers. When he was ambushed, he dumped the gold rather than let the Confederates take it—actually, what they called the Cow Cavalry. Cowboys, not Confederate soldiers.”

Cow hunters,
I thought while Belton continued, “They surprised him with a couple of small cannon, and his boat was sinking, but he survived. In a later letter, he described what he called a brick sepulcher near the spot—a cistern, you call it. He was impressed by the workmanship. The next day, troops were sent to recover the gold and were ambushed—a battle that didn’t make it into the history books.”

“Small cannons,” I repeated, said it in a way that told Belton it meant something to me. The leather-bound journal; he had to be wondering what I knew, but he didn’t press.

“I’d rather explain the rest over dinner.”

“Who’s the other person? You said Theo and someone else are after the gold, so why—”

“Hannah, dear,
please
.
I’m dead on my feet—and I if I don’t take my meds on time, well . . .”

The last part was embarrassing for him to admit, which touched my heart.

I said, “I’ll walk you to your camper,” and gave him a little pat. On rough sections of sand, I took his elbow to steady him, a proud man—but not an honest one. Not yet.

Civil War gold wasn’t transported on boats powered by outboard motors.

Birdy and I had texted back and forth that afternoon, which is why I was surprised she was in uniform when she tapped on my door at the River’s Edge Motel. It was around five, two hours before sunset, but I had been too busy with calls to a local librarian and a friend named Tomlinson, as well as my research to notice the time.

“There’s a question of jurisdiction,” she said. “Wouldn’t you know? The property lies in the corner of three counties. Like crosshairs, when you look at a map. So I wore my uni to impress a sheriff I’d never met and a detective I hope I never meet again. What a pain in the ass. She doesn’t like working with women. Go figure.”

I said, “You’re talking about the archaeological site and Theo?”

“That, too. But there’s a bigger case I didn’t know about. Finding human bones is always a big deal, but, turns out, three people
have disappeared in that area in the last five years and none of the cases has been closed. When Leslie called and mentioned bones, cops from every department showed up.” In reply to my blank look, she added, “Leslie . . . as in
Dr. Babbs
?”

The first thing that came into my head:
That’s why Belton’s here. He is searching for someone.

My friend, going into the kitchenette, noticed my expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. Who’s missing? I remember reading something in the news, but it’s been a while. Are you saying those bones might not be from the Civil War?”

“That’s because people go missing every day, so they drop the story unless it’s a child or we find a body. These were adults, two males and a thirty-year-old woman, all unrelated cases. The woman was a beauty queen, from her pictures and bio. Hate to say it but that’s enough to keep a case alive. No one really gives a damn about the men.” She opened the fridge and looked inside. “Good god, you made iced tea. On plane flights, I bet you pack a thermos in your carry-on.”

“Sweet tea,” I said. “Good tea is hard to find when you travel. What do you mean ‘disappeared in the same area’?”

Birdy said, “I know, I’m addicted,” and poured a glass over ice. She drank it half down, poured more, then sat at the desk where there was a motel binder containing a list of restaurants and other tourist stuff. “One man and the woman, their cars were found abandoned within a few miles of the old Cadence house. I don’t know any details about the second guy. Usually, men are deadbeat dads or on the run. But the woman was the morning weather girl
at an Orlando station, a cheerleader in college—Tallahassee, I think. I remember reading about her. That was before I moved down—about four years ago.”

I said, “She was never found? I followed the story for a while, but they stopped writing about it so I figured she was okay. It seems like more than four years. You didn’t answer my question about the bones.”

“Nope. Five years next September. At the dig sites, no, there’s nothing that appears to be modern era, but they still have to check.” Birdy sipped her tea while her eyes took in the journal, my notebooks, then found the mimosa seedpod on the night table. “You’ve been working all afternoon.” She studied me. “And you look upset.”

I said, “It was something I just read. I doubt if Theo’s smoke treatment killed any scorpions, but it dried more pages free in the journal. That Civil War was so . . . damn ugly, the way people from the same country treated each other. Reading about it in history books is one thing. But when a man you’re related to writes about it through his own eyes . . . well, all that ugliness becomes real.”

I saw a flicker of a smile. “You said
damn
.”

I hadn’t yet processed the entries I’d just read and wasn’t ready to discuss them. “Was there any mention of them renting a canoe? I’m talking about the missing people. Or owning one?” Birdy gave me a confused look, so I added, “We found a sunken canoe this afternoon. It was underwater but anchored. Someone went to a lot of trouble so it wouldn’t be found.”

“
Really.
No, but I didn’t ask. The weather girl was on her way to Labelle to attend a rodeo, so you can scratch the canoe theory. She’d left Orlando after midnight but didn’t show up.”

I said, “I’ve been to a few rodeos and certainly didn’t see any TV stars walking around. I wonder why she went.”

“Weather girls aren’t considered stars, I don’t think. In Labelle, though, well . . . maybe she was making an appearance.” Birdy looked through the window, the houseboat beyond. “Or could be she liked cowboys. Yesterday, I couldn’t have related”—Birdy vamped a look—“but now I do.”

“All the way from Orlando for a rodeo. Where’d they find her car?”

“Both cars were found in the woods—different places, and years apart, but similar—within four or five miles of the Cadence place. There’s no evidential connection, but that hasn’t stopped the rumors. I’ve got names of two cops who might talk to you off the record. What they told me is, the place is poison. The Cadence house.” She smiled. “You’ll have all the proof you need the house is stigmatized.”

Poison.
Birdy had used that word in an earlier text, which I’d found interesting because, at the time, I was doing an Internet search on manchineel and mimosa trees—there are dozens of varieties of mimosas. Matching the seedpod to a photograph hadn’t been easy, nor conclusive.

More information had come from my friend Tomlinson, who seemed to know a lot about “experimental drugs”—possibly because he lives aboard a sailboat and travels. In Brazil there is a
species of giant mimosa that locals used in traditional medicine. Sometimes used the roots, often the seedpods. Tomlinson claimed that powder made from the seeds had recreational uses as well. But agreed the photos I had texted didn’t confirm that the Telegraph River mimosas were from Brazil.

I was sitting on the bed, my feet on the floor, and opened the second notebook. It contained notes from my interview with the librarian and abbreviated versions of the stories Brit had told us. I handed the notebook to Birdy, along with a pen. “Write down the names of the deputies, if you have them handy. I’ve got some other things to tell you, but you go first. What about the spot Theo dug up?”

She talked while she swiped at her iPhone. “He wasn’t authorized. That much, Leslie will swear to, but that’s not enough. I had my hopes up because the GPR produced several three-dimensional images that looked like coins scattered over more coins about four feet deep. That’s the spot where Theo dug. Metal, plus what appeared to be more human bones. No doubt about the metal, but, when we got there, Theo had already filled the hole in.”

“Today, you mean?”

“Early this morning. Leslie was pissed.” She paused to write the names and numbers, then handed the notebook back to me. “He wanted to wait until the other cops arrived, but I talked him into going ahead. We took turns with the shovels until we got close,
then
we waited. After that, with a dozen uniforms and detectives watching, we used trowels and brushes, which took damn-near forever. They weren’t impressed by what we found. I don’t blame them.”

I checked the names she’d written down. Both were unfamiliar.
“I bet I know why—Theo stole all the valuable stuff. The coins—of course he took those. Could Dr. Babbs tell from his radar unit if they were gold or silver? I know a man—a former lieutenant governor, in fact—he has a metal detector that supposedly can tell the difference.”

“Not so fast. There’s no evidence that Theo took a damn thing. That’s the problem, which was no surprise when we saw what was there. No coins, just stacks of crumbling cans and jar lids. You know, metal that looked like coins in the photos. That’s probably why Theo filled in the hole. Oh, and a pocket watch. That was interesting, at least. And the bones might be cattle bones.”

I said, “All that work for a garbage dump? Dr. Babbs told us he’d made a remarkable discovery.”

“You’ve got a lot to learn about archaeology. Garbage collectors from the future, that’s what field scientists are. Leslie was happy as a kid on Christmas morning. Apparently, canned food was a big deal during the Civil War. The Borden Company, same one as today. Food in cans was issued later in the war, mostly, and mostly to Union soldiers. To an archaeologist, that’s a great find. How did Union supplies end up in the middle of nowhere Florida? Pocket watches were a new thing, too. Every cop there was, like,
What a waste of time,
but not Dr. Leslie. He’s a kook—a lot of them are—but cute in his way.”

I said, “No more tequila for you if you think Leslie Babbs is an attractive man. Were the cans and things too fragile to touch? I’m wondering why they were found in one pile. People weren’t fussy about littering in those days. What I’m getting at is, why did they bury it all in one place?”

“Of course he didn’t touch anything. I helped him rig a scaffolding so he could use a handheld macro lens and a laptop to snap stills. All he had to work with was the surface layer, but he got some decent shots—the name Borden Meat Biscuits was stamped into a couple of lids. That was pretty cool. Contextually, Theo had done very little damage. I don’t know why unless it’s because he got interrupted—or it didn’t cross his mind there might be something
under
all that rust and tin.”

I said, “That’s it? Theo’s not going to be arrested?”

“For what? No eyewitnesses, no proof. You and I saw him inside Leslie’s camper, but you heard Leslie’s version this morning. He said he doesn’t remember giving Theo permission. There’s a reason he doesn’t want to press the issue, I think.” Birdy stood, walked to the nightstand, and picked up the seedpod, not particularly interested but before I could stop her.

“What’s this?”

“I’m not sure yet. Now that you’ve touched it, go wash your hands.”

She dropped the thing as if it were hot. “Why?”

“I just told you—I’m not sure what it is. But, if I’m right, it might explain why so many bad things have happened at the Cadence house.”

“My god, you could have warned me.” She went to the sink, hands up, palms turned inward, like a surgeon awaiting gloves. As she washed, she asked, “Those are poison, you mean? What’s that have to do with the Cadence house?”

I said, “You’ll be the first to know when I find out. You were
talking about Dr. Babbs. That he didn’t want to press some issue, but you didn’t say why.”

“Oh. Leslie and Theo got drunk together one night and something happened. I’m not sure what. It was in Leslie’s camper . . . Weren’t you there this morning when he told me?”

“You don’t have to scrub the skin off,” I said. “I tried to eavesdrop but missed that part.”

Birdy shut off the water and found a towel. “Oh . . . Leslie said he got a little carried away—he didn’t say carried away doing what—but told me not to believe Theo no matter what Theo claimed. That means it was either illegal or immoral. So I’m thinking drugs—Theo’s a druggie, remember. He
experiments
, whatever the hell that means. Or Theo brought Lucia and her friends to the camper and Leslie had some wild fun with them—or maybe Theo. Or maybe all of the above.”

The idea didn’t shock me, but I must have appeared shocked because Birdy laughed when I said, “Group sex with those women?
Dr.
Babbs?
”

“Don’t underestimate nervous little men with doctorates. I had this professor at BU”—Birdy turned with the towel in her hands—“well, let’s just say skill is more important than the toolbox.”

When she didn’t elaborate, I said, “You always do that.”

“What?”

“You know. I can’t help liking those kind of stories—everyone does. Which is why you dangle them out there, then leave me hanging.”

Birdy, still laughing, said,
“Dangle,”
and walked past me to the
window. Stood there, the late sun flooding in, and thought while she folded the towel. “You know, the spot Theo dug up is only about fifty yards south of the Cadence house. That might explain why he was spying on us last night.”

“I knew it was Theo. What did the deputies say about him?”

“I asked about his family, too. They were carnival people—exotic animals and sideshows. His parents moved from somewhere near Fort Myers and got into the antivenom business. Snakes, they already owned a bunch and knew how to handle them. This was a long time ago. No one was sure when but Theo’s mother supposedly died of a snakebite. But the woman I mentioned, this prick of a detective, she said that was just a rumor.”

I said, “It would explain why Theo’s so bitter about the vaccine business.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he was acting. People like him, they’re chameleons. That’s probably why he has a fairly clean record. He was arrested only once for possession, but the county cops have been called out on several complaints. Mostly complaints about animals running loose.”

I said, “Don’t tell me.”

“Chimps or monkeys. I asked the same thing but no one was sure. They definitely had a lion for a while and a trained bear—carnival animals left over. Complaints about Theo, though, there was one for conning some guy, but the rest were nine-one-one calls from women. Usually Peeping Tom stuff, and one almost-assault, but she backed down and refused to press charges.” Birdy’s eyes found me over the rim of her tea glass. “Sexual assault—as in attempted rape.”