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
