Читать книгу Chasing Shadows - Карен Харпер - Страница 13

6

Instead of trying to outrun the car or slam into it, Nick glanced behind and hit the brakes. Drop back! Get the idiot’s rear license plate...

But the other vehicle dropped back even slower, moved over, hid behind another vehicle—a big UPS truck, which blew the horn at the shifting confusion. Nick swore under his breath and accelerated. Claire craned around to try to see the white car in the spew of water from their car and the truck.

“I don’t see it now,” she said, her voice shaking. “Should I call 9-1-1 or the highway patrol number?”

“I can’t block a lane or go back. Maybe he’ll get off at the next exit. And what would we say? There’s some nut who thinks it’s Halloween over a month early, some damned kid, and, by the way, we don’t have his license plate, not even sure of the make of the white car. Or someone’s en route to an audition for a slasher movie like that old one, can’t think of its name.”

“It—it reminded me of that painting. I can’t think of its name, either. Actually, it brings back some of the cataplexic nightmares I used to have where I thought I saw dead people stalking me, leaning over me. Do you think it’s some sort of warning to us?”

“I think it’s some SOB jerk who just happened to choose us—and probably some others here where it’s elevated and scary. I’m not stopping, but I’ll contact the highway patrol later to report it and see if anyone else saw the same thing.”

He shook his head and flexed his hands on the wheel. “Maybe we’ve both fallen asleep together and had a bad dream,” he tried to joke, but it came out flat.

“You okay?” he asked. “I still can’t believe that happened.”

“More or less okay. You know, a lot of places are now giving ghost tours. I read St. Augustine is. Maybe he was loose from one of those—or driving home from some Disney haunted-house job and he thinks it’s funny to freak people out.”

He could tell she, too, was trying to make light of it. He appreciated the fact she was made of pretty stern stuff, so now or never.

“In the autopsy report,” he said, wishing his pounding heart would calm down, “you noticed Francine was found on her bedroom floor near the French doors that opened onto the balcony. Actually, it’s a wide gallery that goes around all four sides of the mansion on the second floor.”

“Yes. I thought that was an interesting, very specific detail.”

“I think the ME included it for a reason. I was going to tell you later, but considering what happened, I’d better mention that Shadowlawn is supposed to be haunted—but not by some moron in a car. One of Francine’s ancestors threw herself off the gallery to her death from those French doors.”

“Oh, that’s awful. Then there’s a history of suicide in the family! And that woman supposedly haunts the place? People have seen her ghost?”

“Both Francine and Jasmine say they have. There’s a second one—ghost—supposedly on the premises, one whose story is evidently unrelated. Some kind of overseer was hanged from one of the huge live oaks there on the front lawn, evidently lynched for murdering the owner after the Civil War, maybe late 1800s. When you interview some of the house staff—well, they’ll bring it up. It’s in that history book of the house, too.”

“I saw the mention of an early, violent death, but it didn’t say much else. I really don’t believe in psychic phenomena. As I told you, once I got over thinking I saw dead people and learned it was just my meds and my disease, I was so relieved. Is there a possibility that Francine or Jasmine are unstable or taking some other kind of meds that could make them delusional?”

“If so, their female ancestors and estate workers were, too. Jasmine said once that only the women in the family see the woman on the balcony. The other ghost supposedly wanders the grounds and riverbank at night and has been seen by at least one of the men you’ll interview—Gates. Be sure to ask about that when you talk to him. And the artist Win Jackson.”

She dug out the interviewee list. She’d merely skimmed it because it was only names and titles. “By the artist, you mean the photographer, Dr. Winston Jackson, PhD.”

“Right. His photos are works of art. Wait until you see them.”

“And the house manager Neil Costa and the groundskeeper guy, Bronco Gates? Bronco, really? A cowboy in North Florida?”

“He busts St. Johns River gators and Everglades pythons, not horses, but I’m going to let you make your own judgments on all of them.”

“‘Stranger and stranger,’ said Alice in Wonderland.”

“Yeah. Shadowlawn and its people are a world unto themselves, maybe more like that Wizard of Oz movie.”

“Ever read the book that came from, a children’s novel? My mother read it to us. It’s darker and scarier than the movie by a long shot. Darcy and I used to have bad dreams over it. Crows trying to peck out eyes, horrible spiders. A lot more than just those flying monkeys. That kind of book and those grotesque fairy tales with ogres and wolves in the woods haunted us.”

They were both silent after that. Even when the sun finally broke through, Nick felt a chill. He should tell her more, warn her about some things, but then he’d be not only prejudicing a witness to whatever might happen, but he might scare her off.

* * *

St. Augustine charmed Claire from the first. It seemed compact and welcoming with the small-town ambience that Naples had outgrown. The old, historic part of town where they’d be staying was lovely, with restaurants, shops, a walking mall and Spanish architecture. St. A, as Nick called it, laid claim to being the oldest continually occupied European settlement in the United States, since the Spanish had settled it—the signs boasted—in 1513.

As they took advantage of the valet parking at the hotel on the bay, the sun devoured the shroud of rain and their unease from what they’d been calling the attack of “Fiend Face.” Nick checked both of them in at the Bayfront Hilton, telling her he had some calls to make, including Heck, his home office, the Seminole County Highway Patrol and Jasmine. He said he’d meet Claire in the lobby in an hour and a half, gave her his room number and sent her upstairs with a valet he’d already tipped.

Her spacious room with a balcony overlooked the sparkling bay crowded with boats. She unpacked a bit and took a fast nap. She’d done next to nothing yet, but she felt tired. She knew it was her emotions that needed calming as much as her body. For starters, merely being with someone as compelling and attractive as Nick was a challenge, let alone the task she was facing. She popped a dark chocolate ganache as if it were a pill.

She took a lightning-fast shower, changed her clothes and spread her notes out on the king-sized bed. She’d written four pages of them on her lap as Nick had described the people he wanted her to interview. And first thing in the morning, they were going to Shadowlawn to meet Jasmine.

She called Darcy’s number and talked to Lexi, telling her there were tourist trolleys here just like the ones in Naples they’d gone on last summer. Lexi was going to play miniature golf and eat out with Jace later that evening, but they hadn’t seen him yet today. Then Claire hurried downstairs to meet Nick.

He was waiting for her in the lobby, still on the phone, but he got off as she approached. “Hey,” he said, “don’t want to rush things for you, but Jasmine says Winston Jackson’s art photography shop just down St. George Street is hosting a series of St. Johns River pictures, including some of Shadowlawn. You could see them, meet with him informally before setting up an interview. It’s a short walk from here, but I’m starving, so how about we grab something on the way?”

“Sounds good. I’d like to schedule an interview with him. He may be more objective than the two men who worked for Francine, and it’s best to start with a neutral witness. I know he was a sort of advisor to her about the mansion, but he wasn’t on her payroll. On checking out Winston Jackson and on the food, you read my mind.”

He did seem to do that sometimes. Which, considering how attracted she felt to him, was not necessarily good in this still awkward, strictly business partnership.

* * *

“You mean, you aren’t coming in?” Claire asked Nick as they approached the Jackson Photographic Art Shop after grabbing salads and pizza at a picturesque place called Pizzalley’s.

“I might set off alarms. You can say you’re working on Jasmine’s behalf to get an interview without a lawyer present. But you can say I’ve retained you if he starts asking questions. I’ll sit on that bench over there and get caught up on phone calls.”

“That’s fine,” she told him. “Thanks for not hovering. You’re right that I need to do this myself, with you and Heck assisting when needed. I won’t report everything I’m thinking to you as I work on this. I need objectivity for my report to mean much. Enjoy the sun and the tourist parade.”

The first of two large, framed photos in the window of the shop was of the famous Spanish fort Castillo de San Marcos that still guarded the waterfront here. Each detail of shade and sun, each crevice on the parapet of the solid stone blocks—the photo was a work of art with the blue-green bay, crystal sky and banks of clouds behind it.

Before she went in, she took off her sunglasses and studied the other large, framed photograph labeled simply, St. Johns River Scene. It seemed panoramic with its depth and details. The silvery Spanish moss drooping from the gnarled cypress trees hanging over the curve of riverbank, the patterns of mottled shade on the gray-brown water. She could almost feel and smell the place. There was something otherworldly about it that gave her the shivers.

A man’s voice behind her said, “Immense beauty and primeval rot. Taken last month yet timeless.”

She turned to face a man her height. His hair was shoulder-length and mussed, and he wore dark-rimmed glasses and a flower-patterned shirt that looked Hawaiian.

“Lots more like that inside,” he said. “I’m hosting a juried show, but I never reward my own work.”

“You are Winston Jackson.”

“Guilty. Win Jackson, photographer, collector, movie buff, local historian. And you are a lady with a pink sling that clashes with your stunning Titian hair.”

She hooked her sunglasses over the sling and extended her hand. Bright! Talented! Eccentric! were the words that buzzed in her brain to describe him. He wore the sort of glasses that darkened in the sun because here, under the awning, they were lightening to show intense brown eyes. His mouth was full, his nose a bit crooked, but he emanated intelligence, like a slightly mussed professor.

“I’m Claire Britten. I’ve been retained to gather information about the loss of Francine Montgomery in the hope of helping settle certain legal issues for her daughter, Jasmine. I’ve been told you knew—and know—them both, and I’d be grateful if you could spare me time for an interview, not today, but soon, perhaps tomorrow afternoon or evening.”

He held her hand a bit too long. His grip was steady. Were long, thin fingers part of being an artist? He gave her a little courtly bow from the waist.

“Of course,” he said, releasing her hand. “Anything to help Jasmine, the estate and the unique treasure she’s now been entrusted with. Have you seen Shadowlawn yet?”

“No, I haven’t. Soon.”

“Well, at least let me introduce her, that is, the mansion in some of my work inside. Shadowlawn’s ambience and provenance are definitely feminine. Several others are viewing the photographs, and I only stepped out for a moment, when I realized they weren’t going to buy. Even artists must be practical, you know.”

They went in, and he introduced her to his assistant, Len, a young African-American man who was cleaning what appeared to be a large antique camera with accordion folds behind the lens. Three people perused the hanging works, and “Please call me Win, not Winston,” escorted her to the back of the large display area with two huge photographs of the most magnificent white-pillared, two-story plantation house she had ever seen. It looked as if she could walk from under the gnarled live oaks framing the photo, push aside the Spanish moss and stride right up the velvet green grass into the double doors.

“Gone with the Wind revisited,” she whispered, awed at the stunning photograph.

“Better than Tara,” he insisted. “This place is real. And endangered. I’ll do whatever I can to help Jasmine save it. And save herself.”