Haunted (4 page)

“You’re telling me you grew up living with scorpions?”

“It’s not like I kept them as pets.”

“But they’re there. In your house, I mean. Right now, not just years ago.”

“Loretta’s house, yes.”

“Incredible. My mother, the queen of nonviolent hippiedom, would freak out. Call in the napalm or set the house on fire. That woman won’t even eat eggplant because it’s sliced like steak. Did she ever get bit?”

“Loretta? Once that I know of. It was hiding under the toilet seat. She came running out with her skirt around her ankles, mad as a hornet. First time I ever heard her use the F-word. Plus some other words I was too young to recognize. That woman has a mouth on her.”

Birdy laughed, her spirits improving.

I borrowed my Uncle Jake’s philosophy to counsel her. “Don’t bother them, they won’t bother you. Cockroaches are a different story.”

She nodded at that and stared into the fire. Finally said, “It snowed in Boston today, but here I am sitting with little Miss Hannah Sunshine and nursing a scorpion bite. I could sure use a mojito. If you ever talk me into camping again, I’ll bring a couple of pitchers.”

It wasn’t true that I’d had to convince her, but I conceded, “A mojito sounds pretty good right now.”

Birdy reached for her flashlight, which I’d found in a pile of glass. She used it to check the ceiling for the umpteenth time, the crystal chandelier frosted with cobwebs and dust, moonglow through the main window. Next, the walls, as if searching for enemy snipers. Then she switched the light off and placed it on the floor near her pistol—the pistol holstered, no belt—and refocused on the fire, finally relaxing a little as the Benadryl kicked in.

“How long you think before we can go through my suitcase?”

We?
I almost asked, but guessed that half an hour was a reasonable period. I had dragged her bag into the hall and sprayed it with mosquito spray. Deep Woods Off! was the only thing I had to convince scorpions there were better places to hide.

Birdy muttered something while craning her neck, then said, “This must have been a beautiful house back in the day. Weird. Build a place like this out here in the middle of nowhere. Lonely as hell, too, especially for the guy’s wife. What was her name?”

“Irene. Irene Cadence. She was seventeen and he was forty when they married. Irene wasn’t quite thirty when he died. I couldn’t find what happened to her after that—nothing factual anyway. According to the TV show, she went insane, haunted by
guilt or loneliness—that sort of stuff. But they made that up, had to. It was their way of explaining why a teacher and her students claimed they heard a woman crying up there.” I pointed up to what had once been a music room. It opened through French doors onto a balcony that faced east and a line of trees along the river’s bank.

Birdy said, “She probably went stark raving mad out of boredom. Wouldn’t you have hated to be a woman back then?”

I replied, “My aunts and grandmothers were—sons were a rarity among the Smiths. My two great-aunts, Sarah and Hannah, they had it rough, the way they lived—this was the early 1900s. About the same time this house was built. They raised their own food, chopped firewood and sold it. Not together. I don’t know why, but they went their separate ways.” After a moment, I smiled. “Sarah and Hannah didn’t have much luck when it came to
finding
men either.” I hadn’t mentioned the Peeping Tom. Talking about men was a way of working into the subject without causing a panic.

Birdy asked, “That old book you brought, it belonged to one of your aunts?”

I don’t know why I was surprised she had paid attention to what I was reading earlier. She was a trained sheriff’s deputy after all. “It’s a journal I found in Loretta’s attic,” I said. “Remember me mentioning my great-uncle to the attorney? I went through his papers.”

“Her attorney’s gay,” Birdy said, “but he still had the hots for you. You didn’t notice?”

I was flattered but stayed on topic. “The journal belonged to my Great-great-uncle Ben Summerlin. Maybe three
great
s back—from the late 1800s. It was in a box I found when I was about thirteen or fourteen, but I still haven’t managed to read it all. A lot of pages are stuck together like they got soaked. Or maybe just age. And he used abbreviations—old-timey sort of language. Code sometimes, too. He was a man who didn’t enjoy writing, you can tell. If one word would do, that’s what he wrote. ‘Captain Summerlin,’ people called him. He was a cattleman and a blockade-runner. He owned a forty-foot sharpie,
Widow’s
Son
.
And a dory named
Sodbuster
.”

“A what?”

“Sailboats. They weren’t big, but not so small either. They didn’t draw much water.”

“Why’d he name them that?”

“He didn’t say . . . or I haven’t gotten the right pages unstuck. There’s no telling how people name boats.”

Birdy said, “In cowboy movies,
sodbuster
is what the bad guys call farmers, isn’t it? Interesting name, I guess.”

I had found a journal entry a lot more interesting than that, which I had already shared with Birdy without naming the source. It mentioned a box of coins my long-dead uncle had lost after being chased by Union soldiers. He had run his dory aground and scuttled it.

100 silver dollars gawn,
he’d written with an ink quill pen some months later. The date: December 1864. Jettisoned, hidden, or stolen, the journal had yet to reveal.

Birdy, remembering, asked, “What would a hundred silver dollars be worth now? Captain Summerlin, I like his name.”

“Two or three thousand dollars,” I said, “depending on their condition. I looked it up on the Internet. Silver dollars is how they paid cattlemen in those days, Union and Confederates both.”

“He sold to both sides?”

“Some did,” I said, and let my eyes move around the room. “This had to be a good area for cattle. That’s not much of a river out there, but I bet it was like a highway in those days. Captain Summerlin might have mentioned it in one of his later entries. Not by name, but the location seems about right.” Then I tried to get back to the subject of men by asking, “That archaeologist we met, Theo Ivanhoff, did he seem a little strange to you? In an odd, sneaky sort of way?”

Even when she is yawning from Benadryl, Birdy’s brain works faster than most. “I knew you didn’t like him. That’s why you bit his head off when he went on a talking jag—all because of your uncle the blockade-runner. There had to be a reason. You’re usually so polite.”

She was right about the professor. I didn’t like him.

“I wasn’t mean about it, I just corrected him,” I replied. “I’m glad to hear you say
talking jag
. I thought you were hanging on every word. That man doesn’t know when to shut up.”

“No,” Birdy said, giving her hair a flip. “I was picturing him in the shower. I bet you were, too.” Said it in a fun, devilish sort of way, her mood back to where it had been before a scorpion landed on her face. “I’ve got forty credit hours in archaeology. Might have
majored if the guys were better-looking. Theo’s a five, ordinarily, but he is a solid twelve on the King Tut scale.”

The timing was right to discuss the man I had seen peeping. I started to say, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. When I went outside to get the first-aid kit—”

Three soft raps on the door interrupted me.

“Who the hell could that be?” Birdy said. “Probably teenagers getting a jump on Halloween.” She reached for her pistol. “Stay here. I’ll go.”

Dr. Theo Ivanhoff was trouble. I sensed it, and, before the night was done, he would prove it by trying to sneak a wedge between Birdy and me. Instigate an argument, play one off the other—I had seen this method before.

Even with her sheriff’s deputy instincts, Birdy seemed oblivious. The two of them had archaeology, an empty Friday night and loneliness in common. She liked the shape and size of the man, I suppose.

Softened by firelight, Theo was decent-looking, I had to admit, but in a way I consider feminine, like a sheik in a silent movie. Smooth skin, gaunt, his hair combed back just right, and dark eyes that were more alive for the angles of his face. But the angles were slightly off, pinched like a ferret, a man who sniffed his opponents before deciding how to behave. His clothing was a warning, too, the way it demanded attention: black jeans, a black
collarless shirt buttoned tight, no belt, no socks, his billfold on a chain like he’d just climbed off a Harley or out of bed. Add a white collar, he could have passed for a priest vacationing in Hawaii.

When Theo noticed me staring, he said, “You’re still not convinced it wasn’t me. Are you?”

I had told Birdy about the peeping man while I observed Theo, but there had been no reaction, just amused patience. Like I was a child. I said, “The nearest house is two miles on the road to Arcadia. The main road is half a mile—more, I’d say—but your trailer’s close, right there by the river. Don’t sound so offended. You’d think the same if you saw what I saw.”

He had the irritating habit of hooting “Well, now!” a cartoonish signal of victory or discovery. He used the device before saying, “You don’t know anything about this area, do you? If you don’t mind walking, I can take you to where forty people are camped not more than a mile from here. Or get in my canoe, there are houseboats hidden in some of those bends, the trees so thick you couldn’t spot them from the air. I said it wasn’t me. Now, in essence, you’re calling me a liar.”

In essence—
an educated man who draped words like fashion scarves.

Birdy said, “She’s not accusing you,” then swiveled in her chair to me. “Anyway, he wasn’t breaking any laws.”

“This land is posted,” I said. “Why didn’t he stop when I asked who he was?” I turned to Ivanhoff. “You had to get written permission to stay here, didn’t you?”

Theo, settling back now that I was on the defensive, said, “The investment group
invited
me. I didn’t have to ask.”

I should have expected that. Earlier, he’d spent twenty minutes telling us how important he was, saying, “Federal law requires they bring in an expert before they cut down every damn tree for miles and build houses. Or whatever cardboard community they’re planning. But they can’t touch the place until I say it’s okay. I’ve been here a month and I’m in no hurry. The so-called lead archaeologist only stops by on weekends—and only if his arthritis isn’t acting up, the old prick. Recceology’s not his strong suit, so I’m the person actually in charge.”

Recceology was the study of battlefields, he’d explained. Civil War battle sites had to be mapped before they could be bulldozed. Even minor skirmishes, like the one that had taken place here, between the house and the river, in 1864 or ’65. Theo hadn’t said what his actual work was, though, nor had he invited us into the areas he had cordoned with rope. Three areas, about a quarter acre each. There were dirt mounds and sifting screens, signs posted by the government that read
Federal
Antiquities
Site.
Access
Prohibited
.

Theo had done some probing, too, by asking Birdy, “What kind of development does your aunt have in mind? Condos or a planned community? They’re keeping it all hush-hush, which is just stupid. They’re better off if I know.”

I didn’t trust the man but found some of what he had to say interesting. The same with his references to the nearby RV campground and houseboats, because those were the people I needed to speak with. Then I made a mistake by asking, “You’re what’s
called a
ricky-ologist
? Are there other Florida sites you’ve excavated?”

An expression of contempt flared while he corrected my pronunciation, then he had expounded on his expertise. Twenty minutes, we’d stood there listening.

I didn’t want to risk another lecture now, so I cut the man off before he could start, saying to Birdy, “I bet your aunt’s insurance company considers trespassing a crime.”

“The grande dame of Palm Beach,” she said to Theo. “My aunt’s just an investor, not the owner. Well . . . this part of the acreage is assigned to her, I guess. But we don’t arrest people for trespassing unless there’s a complaint.” Taking the middle ground before taking sides. Then she tried to dismiss it, saying, “A week before Halloween, a place like this is bound to attract some weirdo visitors. Drunken kids, the UFO types.” Birdy caught herself before adding
That’s why we’re here.

Theo eyed her for a moment. “You’re right. That’s why the RV park’s full.” Then turned his sights on me. “Why do you call her Birdy when her name’s Bertie?”

Birdy warned, “Because she wants to,” and continued with what she was saying. “The house has a reputation—all that paranormal baloney, so who cares? I say we find a hotel and get a drink. It’s still early and, let’s face it, we can’t sleep in a house full of scorpions.”

Theo, who claimed he’d stopped by because he saw fire flickering in the windows, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his Birkenstocks beside him. Size fourteens, was my guess. He’d already told us he had rum and tequila in his camper—hinted he
had some grass, too, but shut up fast when he learned my friend is a sworn officer of the law. I expected him to repeat the invitation a few times before trying to cut Birdy out of the herd. That was his intent: cause a spat, or sufficiently offend me, and it would be just the two of them. Scorpions, however, interested the man. He sat up a little straighter. “How many have you seen?”

Birdy told him what had happened.

Theo, getting to his feet, said, “I can get rid of those, no problem. I’ve got just the stuff in my camper. While we’re at it, I’ll introduce you to the mysterious stranger Hannah saw.”

Birdy, annoyed, said,
“What?”

“I knew who it was from the start.”

“Why didn’t you just come out and tell us?”

Theo grinned, “You wouldn’t have believed me,” while he threaded a foot into his Birkenstock, which he used as an excuse to throw an arm around Birdy for balance, having fun with the situation while he hopped on one foot. “Seriously, you tell me about a hunchbacked guy with a limp and I say, ‘Oh yeah, that’s the Roswell Man—half human, half alien—he’s a nice guy,’ what’s your reaction going to be?”

“That you’re full of shit,” Birdy said.

“Exactly, but it’s true. His name’s Tyrone. The RV park, carnival people, they’ve wintered there for years. He takes walks at night because of the way his face looks. I’m not making this up. That’s how he bills himself,
Roswell Man
, the place in New Mexico where his mother was probed—you know,
screwed
—by an alien.”

Birdy said, “Oh,
please
.”

“That’s Tyrone’s act, for christ’s sake. Or sometimes he’s a
chuman
—half chimp, half man. That’s the scientific term, by the way. He’s got posters on his walls.”

“Chimp-man?”

“
CHU-man.
He has some kind of skin condition, like scales instead of skin, but it sort of looks like fur. There are country hicks willing to believe anything, apparently.” After a beat, Theo added, “Maybe Hannah’s heard of him.”

I held my temper but countered, “I didn’t say he was hunchbacked,” while Birdy staggered beneath Theo’s weight, laughing, no longer annoyed.

The good-looking archaeologist hooted into her ear, “Well, now!” and flashed me a look to sharpen what came next. “I love proving amateurs wrong.”

•   •   •

W
HEN
T
HEO WENT
inside his pop-up camper, Birdy whispered, “The guy’s a total prick.”

It had taken him a while to get the door open. And when I’d asked, “Where’s your car?” he had snapped at me, “A friend’s using it—is that okay?”

No, it wasn’t. The camper sat alone in a clearing, the trailer tongue on a cement block. It caused me to wonder
Is the place really his?

Birdy was suspicious, too. “His girlfriend probably has the car. Or wife. Let’s play along and see who we meet at the RV park. Are you okay with that?”

So far, but I feared she was rationalizing a way to spend more time with Theo and enjoy the strong Rum and Cokes, which his
long arm now presented us from the door. The door closed, Theo saying, “Gotta find some stuff and powder my nose, ladies. Make yourselves at home.”

I took a sip. “I can’t imagine the sort of life a person has calling himself Roswell Man. Makes me sad even to think about. In grade school, there was a boy who had skin so scaly, he finally stopped coming. Real scales—a medical condition that was incurable.”

Birdy made a cooing noise to empathize, but her mind was on the night sky. “You know . . . camping might be the way to go out here. Even with this moon, the stars are bright.”

I said, “Supposedly, the condition gets worse with age.
Ichthy
 . . . I can’t quite recall the name, but it’s
ichthy
-something. An
ichthyologist
studies fish, which has to do with scales, that’s why I remember. It’s a terrible disease for a child. I had a problem with acne in my teens and thought it was the end of the world. I always went out of my way to be nice to that boy.”

“Pimples?”
Birdy acted as if that was funny until she noticed me glaring. “Sorry, forgot about your temper,” she said, then lowered her voice. “Somehow Theo guessed you’re here to prove the ghost stories are bullshit. That’s why he’s passive-aggressive. He doesn’t want the property developed, so he sees you as one of the bad guys. Not in those words, he’s too smooth. Or thinks he is.”

Theo and Birdy had done some whispering while they walked ahead of me through the trees, through the gate, down a one-lane asphalt road to the Telegraph River, which didn’t look like a river because it was so narrow, cloaked by moss and shadows.

I took another sip: Coca-Cola on ice, but mostly rum. “Your aunt is more interested in legalities than the truth. You could have
told him that. She doesn’t care about ghosts any more than she does asbestos or mold.”

“Hell with him. Always keep men and crime suspects guessing. He’s pompous, that’s all. When I told him Dame Bunny has a million bucks invested in this project, he shrugged it off like it was no big deal. But he is kind of amusing.”

Replying to Birdy’s tone, not her words, I said gently, “If you want him to take you out for a drink, that’s okay. I’ve got work to do.” I had left Capt. Summerlin’s journal on the mantel, hoping the hot, dry air would loosen some pages.

Birdy exhaled a derisive “Hah! What, he’s been here only three weeks? Like he owns the place already. He’s not even the lead archaeologist on this project. Notice how he glazed over that?” A moment later, she added, “But he is young. And he does have an interesting face.”

I thought,
Uh-oh.

A small generator, quiet as a sewing machine, surged, brightening the lights, while we waited, including a yellow bug light hanging from a limb near a charcoal grill and a fire pit and a hammock strung between trees, but the kind made in Mexico, not a jungle hammock with netting like mine.

Birdy considered the outdoor orderliness of the place, the little pit and potted plants, before observing, “He’s made a comfy little nest for himself, hasn’t he?”

I said, “If it’s actually his.”

When Birdy replied, “Oh, please,” I again thought,
Uh-oh.

Theo ducked out the door, carrying a sack and an oversized
light with a battery pack. “Let’s deal with your bug problem first,” he said.

We returned to the house.

•   •   •

I
WASN’T ENCOURAGED
by the man’s spider-killing technique. Inside the house, Theo built the fire higher and closed the fireplace flue. I had already lugged Birdy’s suitcase, air mattress, sheets, and a pillow into the room, pausing to smash a few scorpions en route.

Birdy was behaving unusually girlish, even with a 9mm pistol in her purse, a Glock loaded with hollow-points. She stayed on the porch until Theo called her in.

“Chrysanthemum resin,” he announced, opening the bag. “It’s a trick I learned from one of the campground regulars. Mosquitoes and chiggers were driving me nuts until I used this. She’s an amazing woman—studied with some tribe in the Amazon. A regular witch.”

He sifted a handful of powder into the fire, the flames blue-edged when they flared, but then were smothered by more powder.

“You’re studying witchcraft, too? You could be a psycho, for all we know.” Birdy was flirting again—or was she?

Theo enjoyed the humor. “Half the women in the RV park claim to be witches. And not just the carnie women. I don’t care what they are as long as there’s something they can teach me. Natural remedies are a hobby. Early battlefield surgeons, that’s all
they had. One of my favorite professors used to say that alchemy is chemistry’s Dutch uncle. But it’s medicine’s grandfather.”