HOMOSASSA SHADOWS Read Online Free Page A

with stern looking parents in front of this same house and a portrait of an elderly man with a white beard she supposed was a grandfather. A small shelf under the window held two chipped green bottles, a cream pitcher with a broken spout, and a pewter spoon. In a few minutes, the realtor came back into the living room, while Detective Strong coaxed Mrs. Flint to join him. Next Melba took a seat on the sofa and pulled a lighter and a pack of cigarettes out of her bag. She held the flame beneath the cigarette until the end glowed, then dragged an oyster shell ashtray across the maple table toward her. Her middle-aged face had an aristocratic cast—a beak-like nose, high cheekbones, large clear eyes. Her jeans were designer, her hair job professional. Brandy wondered how she had come to live in Homo-sassa.
    “This house seems to have an interesting history,” Brandy said. “A feature story might help it sell.”
    Melba swung her cigarette in a graceful arc. “Perhaps. The Flints were early settlers. And, of course, there was the Yulee Plantation here. Alma May and I like to explore the grounds. It’s a hobby. Sometimes I find broken pottery or glass bottles. I sent for an Archaeological Site short form. It lets us poke around and record what I find. Alma May’s picked up a few items, too. There’s never been a proper survey, though.”
    “Any chance of valuable artifacts there?”
    Melba ran her fingers through her ash-blonde hair and shook her head. “Anything of value would’ve been found over a hundred years ago.” In the library Brandy had read about David Yulee’s extensive sugar plantation. The crew of a Union gunboat had burned the main house, slave quarters, and chapel, but Homosassa still prided itself on the town’s remaining sugar mill ruins.
    Alma May and Sergeant Strong appeared in the doorway. “I’ll let myself out,” he said. He nodded to Brandy and Melba, opened the front door, and crunched back over the oyster sells.
    The old lady began slapping bowls and small plates on the table, then carried in a wooden bowl of salad greens and sliced tomatoes. Brandy could see Alma May’s vegetable garden through the dining room window. “Law’s started poking and prying, all right,” Alma May said and sighed. “We won’t have a moment’s peace.”
    Brandy shifted the subject. “I was asking about the history of your house, Mrs. Flint.”
    “Flints were here long before David Yulee,” she said, her voice sharp. “They had a little old cabin here before the county was settled. Passel of durned Indians burnt it to the ground. Killed everyone with knives and hatchets but my great-grandpa. He was just a boy then. If he hadn’t been out duck hunting, I wouldn’t be here.”
    Melba took another lady-like puff on her cigarette and said in a quiet voice, “The massacre happened during the second Seminole War, of course. In the mid-eighteen-thirties.”
    Brandy remembered the bartender’s comment last night. “What about the Seminoles who hid out on the island?”
    Alma May’s lip curled downward. “Durned savages. I don’t allow no Indians on my place.”
    Melba spoke up again. “Of course, there haven’t been any Indians around here in more than a century. They were all sent west, except for the few hundred who escaped into the Everglades.”
    Brandy glanced at Alma May. “I saw one last night—with Mr. Hart.”
    The old woman’s eyes glinted. “Well, he ain’t staying here. I hear he’s camping out on the island. It’s a big island. Can’t stop that.”
    After they were seated at the table, Brandy broached the subject of Hart’s search. “Last night Mr. Hart talked about making an important discovery around here. I don’t know if it was something worth a lot of money, or just something of historical interest.” She watched their faces.
    Melba looked up quickly, maybe surprised, maybe concerned, and murmured, “Of course, the Seminoles who came through here owned nothing of value.