HOMOSASSA SHADOWS Read Online Free Page B

They were impoverished people, on the run.” Alma May paused in the kitchen door, holding a pan of steaming soup with a pot holder, eyebrows raised. “Thought you was interested in my house, young lady. I don’t go snooping into a boarder’s business, thank you very much.”
    Brandy’s tone softened. “I am interested in your house, Mrs. Flint. But everyone’s going to ask you about Mr. Hart. Did you see him before you left this morning?”
    Alma May ladled a thick broth of vegetables into three bowls. “Not this morning. Most often he didn’t get up early. I set some cereal and sweet rolls out for him before I left to pick up Melba. He’d been looking peaked. Only been here about a week. Said last night at supper he was going in to see a doctor. He had the trots, I think, and stomach cramps. He’d rented his own boat, so I went on down the creek.”
    “Who’s the other boarder you mentioned, Mrs. Flint?” Brandy asked.
    “The fellow who’s working at the Indian mound on the Little Homo-sassa. Sent down here by the state. Mound’s not far from here, so it makes it easy for him to go back and forth in his own boat. He leaves the house even earlier than I do.”
    The archaeologist, Brandy realized. Hart’s attractive friend in the University of Florida tee shirt. He and Timothy Hart were fellow boarders. That was why they were together last night. That fact didn’t explain the Seminole.
    “Just my luck,” Alma May added. “He’s fixing to leave, too. Taking a couple of rooms at a motel in town. Says he needs the extra space for a few items he wants to study.”
    They finished their meal in silence. Brandy kept glancing out the window. How would she react if she were a settler and a warlike face appeared suddenly above the sill? When they had savored the last morsel of soup and salad, she rose and helped carry the plates and silverware back into the kitchen. “I really appreciate the delicious lunch,” she said, and meant it. “It’s a rare treat to get vegetables fresh out of a garden.” She picked up her canvas bag and moved to the door. “I’d like to come back, if I may, talk to you more about the house and Tiger Tail Island.”
    “I reckon that would be all right,” Alma May said slowly, her blue eyes wary.
    * * * *
    In the late afternoon Brandy swung her boat into its slip at the concrete block house she was renting. For months she and her husband had paid Carole to leave their boat there so that it would be in the water when they wanted to fish or cruise the river. Now Brandy tied the pontoon securely fore and aft, crossed the narrow road, and knelt to hug her aging golden retriever. After she unsnapped the long lead that allowed Meg the full range of the unfenced yard, she banged through the front door. The home itself included three bedrooms, a screen porch, living room, and utility.
    In the kitchen Brandy again set out dry cat food and water for her friend’s haughty cat and fed Meg, then poured a small glass of Merlot and passed on into the living room. Carole gave her a deep discount for a two-week vacation here, as long as she cared for the Persian. Carole had scheduled her own vacation for this time, and those plans locked in the dates for Brandy. Weekends her husband John would make the two and a half hour drive up from Tampa, where his architectural firm had assigned him to work a temporary job.
    Brandy paused at a bookcase by Carole’s easy chair and noted the row of Folger Library copies of Shakespeare’s plays. Carole was one of her more literary friends from university days, where they had both majored in English Lit. Only two weeks ago, Carole had driven to Gainesville to join Brandy for a University of Florida theater production of The Tempest. Brandy pulled out the slender volume of the play and flipped to a few favorite passages before returning the book to its alphabetical place. She had made a curious connection. Timothy Hart died under suspicious conditions on an