Free Trace Their Shadows by Ann Cook Page B

dealing with that lush she’s married to. Let her finally get rid of this place. She wants to sell it.”
    John’s voice was level, but firm. “I got your message at work, but if I find a buyer with the same offer, someone who’ll preserve it, what’s the harm to her?”
    The developer turned toward the crew still working on the walkway. “No harm, I suppose,” he said. “But you won’t find a buyer by Saturday.” He waved toward the workers behind him. ”The development’s well underway. We’ll put a board walk and benches all along the water front. Take down some cypress to improve the view.” He smiled. “You know the old Florida saying: You can make more money from Yankees than oranges. We can get three homes on Sylvania’s one lot.”
    As Blackthorne stumped over to talk to his foreman, John frowned and shook his head.
    Brandy put a hand on the blistered boat house wall. “Your Aunt Sylvania won’t be home tonight,” she murmured. “Tonight’s your only chance to see what’s inside.”
    John shook his head. “You want to court the Dobermans again?”
    “I’d help you. We could come across the lake in the boat and tie up in the slip. The dogs couldn’t get to us there. I’ll be the lookout. Besides, Sylvania wouldn’t care. She wants it all destroyed anyway.” Brandy ran her fingers over the corroded lock. It hadn’t been opened for years.
    Above the clatter of a cement mixer, workmen were pounding posts into the damp soil. John glanced at the new boardwalk. “Well,” he said, pausing at the spindly pier, “I guess Aunt Sylvania really wouldn’t care. Tomorrow a crew will pull down the walls. Haul everything away.” He frowned. “We’ll take a quick look. I’ll bring my bolt cutter.” He gave a decisive nod. “Come over a little before eight.”
    Mr. Tyler had cautioned Brandy not to trespass. She didn’t mention the warning to John, already striding across the lawn toward his car. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got to check out a stress problem at work.”
    She trotted after him, still swinging the muddy white pumps in one hand. It was almost as if he had forgotten last night’s anger. “About seven–forty–five tonight, then? It’s not as though we’ll disturb anything.”
    He halted under the live oak beside her car, the planes of his face half in sunlight, half in shadow. Her heart gave a sudden lurch. Another evening together. Maybe he hadn’t lost interest, maybe that wasn’t a girlfriend leering from his dresser top.
    But he responded in his ice–man voice. “I’m doing this for the family. Maybe I’ll turn up something related to the history of the house.” A wary look came into his brown eyes. “I’d better not find you’ve got another agenda.”
    Still hostile and suspicious, she thought. Not, she had to admit, without reason.
    ***
    That afternoon Brandy covered a legislative hearing and left a story for Mr. Tyler on the laptop. By six–thirty she was driving home under her street’s overhanging oaks. As she passed the sole neighbor’s corner house, she was glad to see Mack’s pick–up was-n’t waiting in front of her mother’s. No need to tell him she planned to search a deserted boat house with John. He’d either be jealous or vow again that the Able family was all crazy. Likely both.
    In the kitchen she turned down her mother’s offer of fish broiled on the hibachi, slapped together a tuna sandwich, and was careful not to explain her plans for the evening. After a quick shower she changed into pair of jeans, pulled on a light–weight jacket, and made a few passes through her tousled hair with the curling iron.
    From a desk drawer she took a page of notes and stuffed them along with her note pad and pen into a her canvas bag. “My research on ghosts,” she muttered. “Just in case.”
    When she pulled up beside John’s Mustang, the sun had already dropped below the fringe of cabbage palms at the rear of the park. She tried not to look at