Haunted (6 page)

“Hey . . . Smithie . . . are you okay?” Birdy, who looked out of place in her slacks and stylish blouse, stood next to Theo, who was a foot taller, while the three women gabbed among themselves.

I felt better but wanted to keep moving. “I’ll be right back,” I told her.

Don’t abandon me
was the look on her face.

Theo called, “Hey . . . first, I want to introduce you to three honest-to-god witches. Or ‘sorceresses,’ they prefer. All from Cassadaga, so it’s got to be true.”

Thanks to my mother, I knew that Cassadaga was a village in central Florida founded by an old-time spiritualist. The place is still known for witches and fortune-tellers.

Instead of laughing at Theo’s claim, the women puffed up in importance, bored, but willing to indulge the good-looking archaeologist.

“The correct term is
Magissas
,” the heaviest of the three warned when I was close enough. “From the Greek. And we don’t shake hands.”

Fine with me. I forgot her name and the name of the other
woman within seconds of hearing them. The lean, attractive one was Lucia. Lucia, with her sharp, aggressive eyes, said, “I
do
shake hands,” and we did, but she caged mine with her fingers and wouldn’t let go until I pulled free.

“Don’t be offended,” she said, “it was actually a compliment,” then explained to her friends, “This one has some beasties bottled up inside her head—I’ll tell you later.”

I said, “
Excuse
me?”

Using her eyebrows, she communicated with her friends:
See what I mean?

“Lucia picks up on”—Theo grinned at the woman—“what did you call it? Through skin contact with certain people, Lucia says she can splice into their thoughts, sense past traumas or health issues. Neuro-communication . . . no, -
cognation
. No, neuro-cognition, that’s it.”

Birdy didn’t approve. “You have a P-H-D but still believe that sort of crap?”

Lucia, speaking to Theo, said, “I’m used to it,” then addressed Birdy. “I don’t bother to prove myself unless I find an interesting subject—a person with enough spiritual layers to teach me something. The habitually unevolved . . . simpletons, them I avoid. Theo?” The woman waved away the question Birdy was in the middle of asking. “They’re your friends. I don’t want to upset you. But if she wants proof, I’ll give it to her.”

There was a dreamy, superior quality in Lucia’s voice that would have been more effective without the nasal whine.

My read on the situation: The assistant professor didn’t want to be in the middle. He had been bedding Lucia, despite her age, but
tonight had his sights set on a younger woman, even though she was a cop.

Theo tried diplomacy. “Whatever you say. But, first, I didn’t tell you this but Bertie and Hannah have the keys to the old Cadence mansion. They’re sort of camping there tonight and—”

“They’re
what
?”
the women at the table asked simultaneously. Envious, not incredulous.

Theo said, “Bertie’s aunt bought the place.”

All three straightened, a reflexive deference to my friend’s new importance. One of them asked, “Have you heard the weeping bride yet? I’ve spoken to her many times.”

She was referring to Irene Cadence—the woman on the balcony. I didn’t believe it, of course, but couldn’t help asking, “What did she tell you?”

Theo drowned out my question. “They’re doing the sleep-in-the-haunted-house thing, but a scorpion stung the hell out of Bertie a few minutes ago. That’s why I brought the girls to see you.” He addressed us. “These ladies know more about herbal medicine than anyone I know. Scorpions, the ones here, aren’t supposed to be dangerous, but—”

“They can be damn dangerous,” Lucia warned and got to her feet. “Where did it sting you?”

Birdy said, “If I needed a doctor, I’d call one, okay?” Then weakened. “What do you mean
dangerous
?”

“Stung you where, dearie? It’s important.”

“Well . . . on the neck. It was throbbing but doesn’t hurt much now. Do you mean
dangerous
as in a
delayed reaction
?”

Lucia, in Mother Teresa mode, came around the table. “Let me have a look. How close to the jugular? Judy . . . we’ll need a poultice.”

Both women stood from the table, wobbling some, concerned but obviously stoned.

Birdy, lifting her head, asked me, “What do you think?”

I was disappointed the woman hadn’t answered me about Irene Cadence but said, “You’re doing just fine already. A poultice wouldn’t hurt, I guess, as long as they don’t ask you to swallow or smoke something. What kind of poultice?”

Lucia, who was my height, gave me a cutting look . . . returned her attention to Birdy’s neck and touched a hand to her necklace, a pendant hidden beneath her dress. “Ask her to
swallow s
omething? I’m not surprised to hear you say that. But I don’t practice violence against living things.”

I said, “It pays to be cautious.”

“Yes . . . but it doesn’t pay to be rude. Suspicion is always rooted in guilt. Yours is anyway. Dearie, I
know
what you did.”

Birdy’s eyes squinched into slits. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lucia shrugged. “I’m seldom wrong about these things,” while her eyes stuck to mine: hard eyes that appeared silver by battery candlelight but were probably green or blue.

“If you’re accusing me of something, come out and say it.”

Theo tried to intervene. “Of course she’s not.”

“I already know the answer,” Lucia said, “why would I bother?”

The man I shot
—that’s what she meant. Impossible . . . yet I
sensed it was true. For the second time that night, I said, “
Excuse
me?” which, so far, was the cleverest response I could manage.

Lucia smiled, but the smile flattened before she dropped the subject. “Diviner’s root and camphor and whatever else the girls come up with. A poultice will draw out the poison—something I learned while studying tribal medicine. That’s why I’m worried. The poison”—she lifted Birdy’s chin again—“it’s so damn close to your brain. But of course it’s up to you, dearie.”

The abandoned house—the Cadence mansion, Theo had called it—that’s what this was about. Lucia’s sudden warmth was her way of getting a look inside. Never mind how she had guessed I’d shot a man. No . . . not guessed—it was a trick. Don’t we all carry secret guilt inside? Lucia was a manipulator. She had used a fortune-teller’s device. I realized it. Did Birdy?

Yes . . . she did. Birdy took a seat, her back to the picnic table, and waited. She pretended to listen to Theo while Lucia snuck the bong away and carried it inside. Every few seconds, Birdy and I exchanged looks. Each time, her expression sent a message, but I prolonged the exchange to be certain.

Lucia is a fraud. I know it.

That was Birdy’s message.

There was a second message:
Get lost.

Liberty Tupplemeyer wanted to do some police work on her own.

Speaking to Theo, I said, “Keep an eye on her, you mind? I’m going to introduce myself to those women.”

He was confused, then followed my gaze. “Oh . . . the midget
twins. They’re always so stoned—don’t be surprised by anything they say.”

It wasn’t a warning, he was worried. The archaeologist didn’t want me speaking to the locals.

I told Birdy, “I’m not going far,” meaning I would be watching her, too.

Before I could lure the tiny women into a conversation about Ms. Margaret and Oz, the man awaiting Theo’s attention lured me into a conversation about old bottles and the Civil War. His RV was closer to where two witches and a . . . and
Lucia
were preparing a poultice, so I let him convince me to sit for a while.

Another reason: Tyrone’s trailer was on the path and I’d seen a face appear at the window. Possibly checking if it was safe to go out or simply peeping at women again. For me, hanging close, waiting for Birdy, was more comfortable.

After shaking hands, I said to the older gentleman, “Yes, please, cold tea would be nice.” His name was Belton Matás. Adjusting the gas lantern was Carmelo, a hard-looking man, early thirties, with a vacant smile.

“I’ll get it,” Carmelo said and hurried to an Igloo cooler next
to a tent. Something about his eagerness suggested that his mind was stunted.

Mr. Matás had waved as I walked past. I’d assumed he was waving at me. In fact, he had been signaling Theo that they were still waiting. It was one of those silly social errors I make too often. But the man put me at ease, saying, “You’re even lovelier up close. Please, sit. Do you live nearby?”

On the table, instead of a board game, were maps and a few books. I explained about the old house while I settled into a canvas chair, then said, “Theo—Dr. Ivanhoff—told us about the award he’s getting. But he didn’t say what it’s for.”

Carmelo, from the cooler, called, “More wine, Mr. Matás?” He spoke the name with a Spanish inflection.

Belton Matás, a blank expression on his face, asked, “Award?” then bought a few seconds by telling Carmelo, “A bottle of water, please.” He waited until he’d opened the bottle, taken a sip after miming a toast. “Dr. Ivanhoff had to be talking about someone else. We’ve exchanged a few e-mails, but I didn’t meet him until this afternoon.” He addressed Carmelo. “Help yourself to another beer, my friend.”

“Thanks, Mr. Matás!”

The older man watched him go. “Carmelo’s a local and not very bright. But there’s an honesty about people like him I find endearing—plus he knows this river like the back of his hand. And please, dear, call me Belton. I’ve given up correcting him.”

“He works for you?”

“Almost a week now. I’m what you would call an amateur historian–slash–self-published author”—a nod at the two books—
“which is another way of saying I’m a retired bum. But it’s better than dehydrating in some home for old farts.” He smiled, the lantern reflecting off his glasses. “Excuse my language.”

I touched one of the books. “May I . . . Belton?” It felt okay using his first name.

He placed his hand on the book to delay me. “I didn’t write these. I brought them as—” Carmelo had returned, realized we were talking, so sat cross-legged near the tent. Belton suggested he find a cushion, asked if Carmelo wanted snacks—there were peanuts in the RV—before he returned to the conversation, saying, “Where was I?”

I asked, “Are you writing about the battle that took place here? I wish someone would. I couldn’t find a word about it on the Internet.”

The man was way ahead of me. “Fascinating, isn’t it? That’s why I came down from Richmond. Carmelo, he’s got what they call a bass boat and we’ve been up every creek and canal north of the Caloosahatchee. Maybe I should explain. The Caloosahatchee is a bigger river—more of a canal, really. It runs from—”

“I’m a fishing guide not far from here,” I said, giving him a pat on the wrist to apologize for interrupting. “Mostly out of Captiva Island. I fish the mouth of the Caloosahatchee some, but I’ve never been farther than the locks above Fort Myers. I’d love to read one of your books.”

Belton, a roly-poly man in his late seventies, was delighted. “Carmelo,” he called, “I’ve met my second native Floridian in a week.”

Carmelo gazed at the moon while he chewed peanuts. “That very cool, Mr. Matás.”

I hadn’t said I was born in Florida, but it was okay. I have a slight accent, I’ve been told, the Florida accent being milder and different than others who are raised in the South. I continued to listen, after a glance at the picnic table where, within shouting distance, the two witches and Lucia tended to my friend. But where was Theo?

Belton noticed, picked up on my uneasiness. “People come and go here. It’s worse than a bus station.”

“It’s an unusual place,” I agreed.

That gave him confidence. “At the risk of offending, I’ll just come out and say it. Three nights here is more than enough for me. I don’t mind people using drugs, it’s none of my business. But the smell is so strong, I think everyone goes a little crazy after sundown.”

“A little earlier, I felt sort of strange myself,” I said. “But I did have a rum drink.”

“It’s not your fault. Something’s in the air. Night before last, I made a wrong turn—didn’t see the
Serpentarium
sign—and this
animal
came charging out. I’d swear to God it was a chimpanzee or, I don’t know, some crazy person in a costume.”

I sat forward.
“What?”

“It couldn’t have been, I know. I’d been driving for twelve hours, so it was probably a big dog—a Saint Bernard or mastiff. Something that size. Then an old man with a flashlight came out, screaming at me. Have you ever tried backing up a rig like that in a hurry?” He meant the RV camper.

“Did the man threaten you?”

Belton, on a roll, didn’t hear the question. “Then, last night, the
gentleman who lives there”—he indicated Tyrone’s single-wide—“went galloping off when I said hello. It was dark, I must have surprised him. Truthfully, I felt like running myself when I got a look. Today, I found out he works in a sideshow. But when you’re unprepared for a face like his—my lord.”

“His face is that . . . unusual?”

“It was dark. I don’t want to be cruel, but . . .”
Yes
is what Belton was implying.

“It can’t be an easy life for him,” I said. “Is he a tall man?” I was wondering about the Peeping Tom.

“Hard to say, but I can’t get out of here soon enough,” he said and cleaned his glasses, his expression humorous. “If I want to get high, I’ll hop into a nice dry martini. And you’d be welcome to join me. Hannah, I think we might be the only normal ones around here.”

I laughed, but it was nervous laughter as I sipped my tea. “What time were you supposed to meet Theo?”

“We left it open.” Matás looked at his watch. “Only ten o’clock. Feels later. Tomorrow at one, he’s going to show me around the dig site. Trust me, he took some convincing. Dr. Ivanhoff is . . . well, let’s say he has a very robust ego.” The man stopped to think about something, then snapped his fingers. “That award—I know what he was talking about. A historian friend in Atlanta gave me a box to deliver. He didn’t say what it was. Research material, I assumed. I’m sure that’s what Dr. Ivanhoff was referring to.”

I said, “Oh.” My mind was on Theo, but not because of an award. I was connecting his absence with the journal I’d left behind.

I stood to go. Belton’s face showed disappointment. “Not yet—there’s something I want to show you. Carmelo, bring that box of bottles.”

“Bottles?”

“They can be quite valuable, you know. This afternoon, we found a bunch that are circa Civil War period. I think you’ll find them interesting. Or . . . am I boring you?”

I said, “I’ve got a small collection myself.” Which was true—snorkeling the bays around Sanibel and Captiva, my Uncle Jake and I had found bottles and crockery that dated back to Spanish times. Matás asked for details. He appeared delighted by what I had to say. Even so, I was uneasy about leaving Birdy alone. Finally I said, “Excuse me for a minute,” and walked toward the picnic table to check on her.

Birdy saw me. She attempted a long-distance message by setting her jaw, with a slight swing of the head. I didn’t understand until she added a private thumbs-up, did it in a forceful way that told me she hadn’t been drugged or poisoned and wanted more time with the witches. When Theo reappeared from nearby trees, I was convinced.

I turned back, interested to see what Belton Matás had discovered.

•   •   •

B
ELTON—
I was comfortable saying his name now—pulled the lantern closer and chose a map, which he flattened. “This afternoon, Carmelo led me to a spot not far from here—the guy’s fished and hunted this country since forever.” He placed a thick
finger on the map, which was actually a satellite photo. It showed a chunk of land, miles and miles of wetlands, cypress and grazing pasture, and a curling ribbon of blue that was Telegraph River.

“This map doesn’t narrow it down much,” I said.

“I’m afraid it’ll have to do for now,” he replied—being cautious, which I could appreciate. I wouldn’t have asked a fisherman exactly where he had caught such and such a fish. Bottle hunters deserved the same courtesy.

“I don’t blame you.” I smiled and focused on the satellite image. The river, hidden by trees, was seldom visible as it snaked south toward the Caloosahatchee River, but a telltale swath of green traced its path. The river’s headwaters narrowed into the creek where we had crossed the railroad bridge, but neither the campground nor the old Cadence house were large enough to see. North of us were more wetlands and swamp, all undeveloped. Miles of nothing, fenced cattle range and wilderness preserve.

I said, “You were smart to hire a guide. I wouldn’t want to get lost in this area. But why were you hunting bottles?”

Belton heard glass clattering in the tent. “Carmelo! Please try not to break another one.” Then a patient pause before he replied to me. “Think of it as amateur carbon dating. Find a bottle embossed with a date—let’s say, 1860—you can be absolutely certain it wasn’t placed there in 1850. Obvious. But let’s take it a step further. If the bottle is buried under a few feet of muck, whatever lies in the same strata can be linked to a similar date. Give or take a decade, of course. And the type of bottle: groups of men drink rum and ale, babies and old people need medicine. Bottles were
rarer back then but still disposable. They had a shelf life.” He looked up. Carmelo was carrying a Tupperware box that clanked.

I enjoyed the next few minutes inspecting dozens of glass shards and several unbroken bottles. One was a rectangular medicine flask,
Sassafras Tonic
embossed above the manufacturer’s mark and location,
Vicksburg,
Tenn.

“Confederate?” I asked.

“Not necessarily. It’s not dated, so I have to research the maker. The bottle is seamed”—he held it to the lantern—“it’s flat-based, so it could have been made after 1865. I try to stay objective, but”—his smile was more like a wink—“I think you’re right. And here’s why.”

From a separate box, he placed a green translucent bottle that was heavy-lipped and out-of-square. “Pontilied” is how he described the bottom, which was sharply concave. The front was embossed:

XXX
PORTER ALE
WALTHAM, MASS.

“Check the back,” he suggested, then watched, having fun because I was interested.

Before the glass had hardened, a date had been etched: 1864. The color and shape were so unusual, I said, “I’d love to photograph this.”

“You’re a photographer, too?”

“Just learning. A friend loaned me a camera with a lens that’s good for low light. It sees colors most people don’t.”

“Drink enough of this Porter Ale, you’d see all kinds of things,” he grinned. “And someone did.”

From the same box, he removed a dozen shards that were similar. “They had quite a party. Or stayed in one place for a while. This came from just downriver—a mile, I’d say.”

I scooted closer to the lantern and held up the bottle: thick green glass; air bubbles trapped within—air from the lungs of a long-dead craftsmen. I said, “This is more like art. What I appreciate most? Besides you and Carmelo, the last person to touch this might have been a soldier during the Civil War. It creates a sort of closeness, you know? Makes me wonder about him. Was the man lonely? Did he survive? I once found part of a Spanish demijohn that gave me the same feeling, and—” Suddenly, an unexpected thought popped into my head.

“Is something wrong?”

I held the bottle out for him to take. “What about fingerprints? I shouldn’t be touching this if the soldier’s prints might still be—” I stopped again, shook my head, and laughed. “What am I saying? They didn’t know about fingerprints back then. I’m usually not so dense.”

Belton Matás didn’t consider me dense. “There’s no way to match them, but fingerprints on one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old glass isn’t silly. I’ve found thumbprints in handmade bricks from that period, ceramics, all sorts of things. You’re actually very perceptive.”

I asked a few questions. He asked about the old house. “Why
not sleep in a hotel?” I offered a partial truth: My friend’s aunt owned the property and wanted to know if rumors had turned the place into a sideshow attraction.

“The only one way to find out,” I explained, “is to stay there for a night or two and keep notes. Plus, being this close to Halloween, we thought it might be fun.” Which had been true—until the sun went down.

“Fascinating,” he said. It was a word he used to nudge my story along. The whole time, through his thick glasses, he studied me with pleasant approval that could have been mistaken for fondness. Soon, he nodded as if he’d made up his mind about something and said, “Carmelo, please bring my briefcase. I want to show Hannah our map.”