Dead Roots Page 9

  White lightning flashed before her eyes. Then blackness absorbed her.

  Chapter Eight

  “Marla heard a moan escape her lips before her mind allowed consciousness to seep in. Throbbing pain in her left shoulder brought her fully awake. Blinking, she studied her surroundings without comprehension. She lay at an angle on her side in some sort of bowl made from knobby concrete. No, not concrete…coquina. She’d fallen into one of the pits inside the sugar mill.

  With realization came fear. She had definitely felt a push from behind, meaning whoever had propelled her might still be around. She dare not cry for help. Testing first her arms, then her legs, she was gratified to find her limbs intact. She’d have to deal with a sore shoulder for a few days, that’s all. She knew that bumping her head hadn’t produced a concussion because she didn’t feel dizzy. She must’ve been merely stunned.

  Pushing herself to a sitting position, she wondered if the intent had been to cause bodily damage or just to scare her. Ghosts didn’t shove people. Someone at the resort intended harm, whether physical or emotional. Had this same person thrust the painter’s ladder from the wall of the condemned wing?

  Her neck prickled when she heard the bell tolling outside. Listening acutely, she caught no other sound except the rustling of dried leaves and the harsh cry of a seagull. Was it the wind swaying the bell, or someone’s hand?

  An urgent need to escape the sugar mill forced her to her feet. Stretching her arms above her head, she decided the rim was too high for her to reach. Nor were there any footholds on the rough interior, once white but now ash gray. She scraped her fingertips along the hard surface, hoping to find indentations that she could use for leverage. The dents she found were too shallow for use. The pits had withstood the test of time fairly well, even retaining the honeyed scent of boiling sugar.

  Jumping didn’t help. It jostled her sore shoulder, making her bite back a cry of pain. Should she call for help? No; the wrong person might answer. Realizing her vulnerability, she anxiously peered upward but with relief sensed she was alone.

  Surely someone else would come along the path on this warm afternoon. In the meantime, she surveyed the sorry mess of her torn hosiery. Hey, could she lasso her pantyhose on that same protrusion her head had slammed into? That would give her the means to climb partway up. But then what?

  Worry about it later. Slipping off her pumps, she removed her stockings. Too bad about the dress, but it was destined for the cleaners anyway. She hiked up her skirt before swirling the pantyhose over her head. After several tosses, she finally hitched one legging on the jagged prominence. Gritting her teeth at the ensuing ripping sound, she pulled gently until it held. Thank goodness for support spandex.

  Hopefully her assailant had left the vicinity. Taking the chance, she threw her shoes over the edge so they’d be available later. Now for her acrobatic act. Gripping the makeshift rope, she inched her sweaty soles a couple of notches up the side of the pit while her shoulder screamed in protest. Her white-knuckled grasp of the hosiery grew slick, making her fingers slide. With an ominous tearing noise, her pantyhose gave up the struggle, and she landed with a thump on her butt.

  Muttering an expletive, she stilled when her ears picked up scrunching footsteps growing louder. Someone whistled in accompaniment, and the tune sounded strangely like the theme song of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World. Yo ho, yo ho—

  “Help,” Marla yelled. “I fell into the pit.”

  The boyish face of Dr. Rip Spector appeared at the rim. His stark white hair spiked in contrast to his deep hazel eyes. Merriment mingled with curiosity in his expression. “Miss Shore, what are you doing down there? Exploring on this fine day? I’d have thought you’d be eating your Thanksgiving dinner by now.”

  “Can you get me out of here?” She wasn’t in the mood for a social discussion.

  “Dear me, you are in a fix, aren’t you? Should be more careful in a place like this, with ruins and all.” He shifted his bow tie, worn with a blue dress shirt.

  “A ghost pushed me in. Is there a rope handy?”

  He clucked his tongue. “Don’t make fun of the spirits. That may very well be why you’re in this predicament. Wait here. I’ll get something better. “Returning a few minutes later, he brandished a vine fresh from the nearby woods.

  “That doesn’t look strong enough,” Marla said. Not that she had much choice. She didn’t relish being left alone while he summoned help from the hotel.

  To her surprise, the leafy vine held her weight. She hauled herself upward by crossing one palm over the other while the ghost chaser grunted at the other end. Afraid she’d lose her grasp, she held on tight. By the time she collapsed outside the pit, she could barely breathe.

  “You look as though you’ve been through the wringer,” Dr. Spector commiserated, his labored breathing indicating the exertion had claimed his energy as well. Then again, he might have been the one who’d initiated her adventure. Odd that he was the only member of his group in the vicinity. Where were all the rest? Eating turkey and mashed potatoes?

  “I’m lucky you happened by the old ruins,” she said, rubbing her aching shoulder as she slipped into her shoes.

  He pointed to a pile of equipment lying at the open archway. “I came to get some readings. There’s a lot of electromagnetic energy in this particular area, but it fluctuates with the time of day. I want to compare the results to my measurements from yesterday.”

  “Don’t ghosts come out only at night?”

  “I’ve captured anomalies during the day as well as at night. Spirits can be active any time.” He squinted as they moved into the sunlight. “We do more readings at night because there are fewer distractions, and it’s quieter. It’s also better for video to have a dark background.”

  “Why do things show up on camera that you can’t see with the naked eye?” she asked, curiosity overwhelming her need to rest.

  “Presumably these entities emit near infrared radiation, what we term NIR. You can capture this with a video camera but not with your eyes. It’s also possible that if you saw an entity in front of you, your brain might not recognize it, and so it’s dismissed. Once the camera registers the anomaly, your mind can process it properly.”

  Oh yeah, like I’m not going to see something that’s directly in front of me. “Are you saying you can take a picture of an actual ghost?”

  His eyes crinkled. “Not exactly. The most common type of anomalies that we catch on film are orbs. We might also see vortices or energy rods, and you know, unusual sources of light. Rarely do we capture an apparition.” He tilted his head. ‘The old lady, your aunt. Is she all right?”

  Marla’s skin crawled. “Aunt Polly passed away some time in the early morning. Apparently, she’d been ill and may have taken too much of her medication. Why do you ask?”

  His startled surprise seemed genuine. “I saw a figure move across her window last night. Remember we chatted on the terrace? After you left, I set up my equipment in Oleander Hall. While the video cameras were running, I went outside to do a quick inspection of the exterior wall. That’s when I caught movement on the periphery of my vision.”

  “Could you tell if the form was a male or female?” This could be important, if he’d spotted someone inside Polly’s room. Then again, how had he known which window belonged to her?

  Spector scratched his head. “Sorry to say, but I was more focused on the corner suite in the haunted wing. We’ve definitely gotten some EVPs in there, and I was looking for any potential sources from outside.”

  “EVPs…what’s that?”

  “Electronic voice phenomena…voices captured on audio tape or digital recorders that are not heard by human ears. We try to duplicate them from other sounds in the vicinity to eliminate natural causes.” He paused. “I did point my camera toward your aunt’s window, but the figure had vanished in the interim.”

  “Do you take digital photos?” If so, she’d like to see them for herself.
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  “Most of the time. I also use thirty-five millimeter because it takes better resolution photos, plus you get a negative which proves the photo wasn’t altered. I’ll often cover both angles by using a digital until I see something, then I’ll whip out my thirty-five. But that’s when I’m not carrying the video camcorders. We’ve got infrared, fiber-optic, and digital video equipment that we can hook up to our computers and let run all night.”

  “I see. And have these films revealed anything yet?”

  “We’re still analyzing the data.”

  “With the photos, how do you know you’re photographing an orb rather than a speck of dust on the lens?”

  “Orbs have a spherical shape. I’ve caught them where we have EMF fluctuations. We’ve got videos where anomalies have gone through walls, hit ceiling fans, veered around people. If you have free time while you’re here, I can show you.”

  Marla shifted her feet. “I’m more concerned about what you spotted in my aunt’s window. Did you see anything else?”

  “I saw lights flickering on the beach, but by the time I’d moved my gear past the dunes, nothing showed.”

  “Too bad.” Marla still thought it meaningful that he’d glimpsed an oddity in the vicinity of Polly’s room. Her skin itched, compelling her to move on. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get cleaned up,” she told Spector while he stuffed his equipment into his backpack. Thanks again for your help.”

  The ghost chaser hustled to join her on the path to the hotel. “I’d like to learn more about your family history,” he said in a rush as though reluctant to let her go. “Tragedies, love affairs, squabbles.” He slanted her a curious glance. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that final meeting between Andrew and his two guests?”

  “Only that he died shortly thereafter.”

  “With its rich historical background, this place already is a magnet for tourists. You’d think the city council would want to preserve it. Any idea how the vote went yesterday?”

  “I’m not sure they’ve reached an accord. I haven’t seen any of the council members today, so I assume they went home for the holiday.” Marla winced as she tripped over a tree root and jostled her sore shoulder.

  “Can you imagine tearing down this magnificent hotel? It’s a showplace for the era in which it was constructed. What a shame to lose so much history,” Spector told her.

  “The council members don’t care. To them the bottom line is all that counts. Which would make the city more money: renovating older structures, or tearing them down and bringing in wealthy investors for a new attraction?”

  “The entities that dwell here are attached to the resort and the remaining outbuildings.” Spector wrinkled his brow. “They must be disturbed by the construction. Maybe that’s why the workers are encountering so many accidents. It’s the only way the spirits can communicate their displeasure.”

  You got that right. But aren’t you here to help move them on to their final rest? Or won’t that happen until they complete their unfinished business?

  They strolled past a crew of gardeners pulling weeds from a bed of red and pink impatiens. The men, swarthy individuals wearing soiled overalls, stared at her with blank expressions. Didn’t they get time off for a holiday meal?

  “There’s also the impact to the environment to consider,” Spector added in a thoughtful tone. “A major construction project would disrupt the local ecology. I’ve seen hundred-year-old live oaks on the property, not to mention the tropical hammock, mangroves, and shoreline. If you ask me, money is changing hands, and that’s where this notion of a theme park comes from.”

  “Mr. Butler would rather see the resort fixed up. His bosses must be the ones soliciting the real estate people.”

  “Didn’t your family own this place in the past? Too bad you can’t buy back the property.”

  “Look at all the work that needs to be done. Whichever way the wind blows, it’ll cost a fortune.”

  “It’s incredible how long it takes them to do repairs,” Spector agreed. “With so many workers, they should be more efficient. Perhaps they’re delaying things on purpose.”

  “You could have a point.”

  Glancing at his watch, he squawked. “Oh no, I’m late for our restaurant reservation. Take care, my dear.”

  He hurried away before Marla could question him further about his investigation and other things he might have noticed.

  No matter. He’d reminded her that she should talk to Seto Mulch. Icing her shoulder would have to wait. Why had Mulch assigned a gardening crew on a holiday? What did he know about the maintenance work on the hotel? Was he privy to the family secrets?

  After sparing time in her room to wash and change into a clean pair of black slacks and an apricot top, Marla scribbled a message to Vail on the telephone pad before heading outside. Hearing elated shouts and applause coming from the tennis courts, she aimed across the grass toward the caretaker’s cottage that bordered the woods to the west. She’d studied a map and figured his place burrowed through the hammock toward the grand entrance rather than the beach. Wearing canvas walking shoes helped her avoid the pinecones strewn along the sandy ground. Shifting her purse, she rolled her sore shoulder with a grimace of pain.

  “Miss Shore, what are you doing here?” trilled a female voice. Marla whirled. Brownie the chef emerged from behind a stand of bamboo and hurried toward her.

  “I thought I’d have a chat with Mr. Mulch,” Marla said, wondering at the falsely cheerful grin on the woman’s face. “He’s the only one left from the early days, so I’m hoping he can clarify some things for me about the resort history. And you? With so many groups here this weekend, I’d think you’d be busy in the kitchen.” Or maybe you don’t want to ruin your nail polish so you delegate your duties instead.

  Chin thrust in the air, Brownie gave her a disdainful glance. “Everything is well organized. I just brought Seto his dinner. The old guy likes to eat by himself.” She winked, her long lashes shading eyes the color of melted chocolate. “Good luck getting him to talk. He’ll spout off against those real estate developers, but you won’t get him to give anything else away. Don’t think I haven’t tried.”

  “Just what are you interested in finding out?” Marla said sharply.

  A veil slipped over the pastry chef’s expression. “With all these ghost stories, Seto must have seen something. He’s been taking care of this place forever. I think his goal is to join the spooks when his time comes.” Her sultry laughter trailed off as she strode away, leaving Marla staring after her.

  How peculiar. Did Brownie know about Andrew’s legacy, including his gems? Was that why she coddled the groundskeeper, to learn what he knew about the lost wealth?

  Compressing her lips, Marla emerged from the trees in front of a Bahamian-style cottage painted coral with white shutters. It had a modest porch holding ceiling fans, a couple of patio chairs, and a worn welcome mat. The jalousie windows were open to let in a fresh breeze.

  As she climbed the steps, she heard the old man’s voice talking loudly. Either he had another visitor, or he was on the phone. While she stood frozen, debating whether she should ring the bell or leave, she couldn’t help overhearing his words.

  “Sending your spy won’t get anything out of me, sonny. You haven’t found what you’re looking for before, and you won’t find it now. A pretty face don’t sway me, even if she is a good cook. I been here so long that I’m a fixture. I seen plenty, but what’s past is best lain to rest.”

  He cleared phlegm from his throat. “Of course I agree with Butler. Old bones are better left buried. A bit of plaster, some fresh paint, modern plumbing, and we’re back in business. You tell me whose side you’re on.”

  He paused to listen, then his voice rose. “I’m not a fool. I know who you are. It’s stamped on your features as bright as day. The apple don’t fall far from the tree, sonny. If you’re here to cause trouble, be warned that I’ll stop you. Ain’t no doubt about it, yes sirr
ee.”

  After Mulch slammed down the receiver, Marla counted to five slowly before punching the doorbell. Tramping footsteps heralded his approach, then the door swung wide to reveal the old man chewing on a celery stick. In the fading sunlight, she noticed the creases in his face had deepened so that he appeared fatigued.

  “Sorry to bother you on a holiday,” Marla began, “but I wanted to have a word with you. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “I suppose I can listen while my meal is heatin’ in the oven.” Signaling for her to enter, he stood aside for her to pass. Inside, Marla faced a cozy living room with comfortable furnishings, old-fashioned lamps, and a scent of pine and woodsmoke. Her glance lit on the fireplace, its interior blackened from use.

  An image popped into her mind of Polly’s room at the hotel. A fireplace adorned one wall. Was that where she’d seen the moving shadow? Marla hadn’t thought twice about it at the time. The recess appeared decorative rather than functional, but that wasn’t unusual in Florida. Fake logs deluded transplanted northerners into believing they still lived in a cold climate. Her room didn’t have a fireplace, nor did Anita’s.

  “Something wrong?” the old guy asked her, swallowing a last bite on his stalk.

  Sure, let’s start with that conversation you just had on the telephone. Was Brownie the spy you were referring to? Who were you addressing as sonny? What did you mean, old bones were best left buried?

  “Oh no, I was just admiring your place,” she said aloud. “How long have you lived here?”

  He gave a hearty chuckle. “Ever since I can remember. My daddy worked for Rutfield before Andrew Marks took over. Andrew brought in fresh money and fixed things up. I was so excited when he hired me. Hard to believe I started as a busboy in the main dining room, ain’t it? I was fifteen then, back in 1927. Those were the good ole days.”

  Marla did a quick calculation, putting him at ninety-two years old. “Andrew was my grandfather. They say he had some mysterious visitors the night he died.”