Free Trace Their Shadows by Ann Cook Page A

her card. “Can I see you again?”
    His former grin and the dimples returned. He slipped the card into his carry–all and looked her up and down. “Little lady, if I was thirty or forty years younger, you’d see a whole lot more of me.” On the stairs he paused at the carved newel post, looked back, and winked. “I’m staying at the Comfort Inn. If you don’t reach me there, try A & S Citrus. I still stop into the office now and then.”
    As he vanished up the stairs, Brandy joined John and followed Sylvania’s tall form down the hall. The older woman opened the outside door, her back rigid as a totem pole. “When I get home tomorrow,” she said, “that old boat house will be gone at last.” She stood for a few minutes looking over the ragged hedge and the weeds along the driveway, then fixed her stony gaze on John. “I’m looking forward to my nice new air conditioned apartment.”
    From the porch Brandy spoke up quickly. “I noticed the boat house is locked. Doesn’t look like it’s been opened for a long time. Could there be anything in there you’d want to keep? Maybe something of your brother’s?”
    Sylvania’s lips turned down. “Lands, all Brookfield kept there was fishing tackle and gear for his boat. He hadn’t used the boat house for years before he died. And Elton——“ She gave a little snort. “He didn’t care for any sports. Didn’t hunt or fish. He certainly wouldn’t have put anything in the boat house. Good riddance of bad rubbish, I say. I’m glad Axel will tear it down and haul off the trash.”
    Head down, John led the way toward his Mustang. Beyond it, half–concealed under the trees, Brandy could see the fender of her own hatchback. “John,” she said, stopping and turning toward the spit of land and the boat house, “I don’t think you should let Blackthorne throw everything away, not until you’ve seen what’s there. Sylvania obviously doesn’t know.”
    John made a wry face. “Aunt Sylvania’s probably right. People don’t usually keep the family jewels in a boat house.” But his long strides had halted and he sounded uncertain.
    “Could be gear from the 1940’s. Even war time stuff. Sylvania said he built it right after he came home and didn’t use it long. You really ought to check it out. Memorabilia’s valuable now. Sylvania wouldn’t even think about that. It would add detail to my story.”
    Again Brandy felt a twinge of guilt. Her main interest in the boat house was not family mementos. It was how the figure Charlotte described was able to walk right through the closed back door.
    In a few minutes they stood before the sagging plank structure. Its boat slip faced the lake with a sizable storage shed covering the ground at the rear. The yard entrance fastened with the rusty padlock Brandy had seen the night before. On the lake side a pair of weathered doors swung outward, allowing boaters to step onto a narrow platform and enter the shed through a front door, now also padlocked.
    The purr of a car engine interrupted their inspection. Across the chain link fence Blackthorne’s Cadillac eased along the grass and stopped beside the new board walk. The developer clambered out. “I need a word with you two,” he called, placing plump hands on the bars of the gate.
    Brandy prepared to be bawled out again for being attacked, but John took the initiative. “Did you turn the Dobermans loose last night?” he asked.
    Blackthorne’s heavy face remained unperturbed. “My watchman may have. He has orders to look out for Mrs. Langdon. If he saw somebody on her property, he might turn the dogs on them. He’d think it was a burglar.”
    Brandy was sure he knew about the attack——knew and did not repent. Blackthorne passed his hand over his balding head and went on in a milder tone. “I wanted to ask you to go easier on your great–aunt, Mr. Able. She doesn’t deserve more trouble dumped on her now. Just leave her alone. She’s got enough headaches