Haunted

8

Birdy was right. The Cadence house was well known in Labelle. The same was true of people who lived near the house-including a neighbor who was said to be insane. But the rumors were so dark, they were of a whispering nature, and it took work to pry those stories free.

The men were locals-nice guys-but they weren’t fishermen, despite the houseboat. They were honest-to-god cowboys-a claim I would have doubted if they hadn’t been so modest when describing their jobs. Copenhagen cans in the pockets of their Hawaiian shirts and rodeo photos inside the boat added to their credibility.

Cow hunters, they called themselves. That was persuasive, too. It’s what Florida cowboys have always been, called because in a state that’s mostly swamp, not open plains, more hunting than herding is required. They kept horses at a stable north of Labelle and hired out to cattle ranches, but sometimes used four-wheelers if they didn’t have to rope or chase strays.

Brit and Joey-one not as tall up close, but both men lean with calluses and dark tans. Joey, who was at least six-four, had Seminole hair and high cheeks so appeared to be part Indian. Brit was more talkative, but even he preferred sentences of four or fewer words. I believe so… That’s what I’ve heard… Could be, ladies. That’s the way they spoke, reserved, but perceptive enough to read the situation correctly: Two women, after a hard day, had come seeking a cold drink, but nothing more. Oh… and one of the women was a deputy sheriff, so watch it.

Their easygoing manner changed, however, when I mentioned the Cadence house, then skipped ahead to ask, “Do you know anything about the vaccine company? Slew Vaccine and Herpetile? It’s right next to the RV park.”

Genial hospitality was displaced by an invisible door. The door could be opened or slammed, depending on how things progressed. Brit, suddenly cautious, asked, “What about it?”

I said, “Well, we got quite a scare tonight. I could have sworn we saw a big chimpanzee on the property. We were walking the road near the entrance and there it was.”

Birdy leveled a look at me to remind me Chimps don’t wear sandals.

It didn’t matter. Brit sidestepped the question anyway. “Babcock Ranch is near there-ninety thousand acres. We do a lot of work for Babcock, but all they run is cattle and sod. No monkeys, I’ve ever seen.”

I let him see I was amused by that. “But you know the place I’m talking about?”

“There’s a Church of God down the road my folks used to attend. Or I could be confused about what you’re asking.”

Another evasion.

Joey tried to help out. “You grow up in Labelle, there’s not a crossroads between here and Sebring we haven’t rolled through a stop sign or two. But that’s not the same as knowing a place. The name might be familiar. Were you hoping to see snakes instead of monkeys?” A slight smile when he asked but dead serious while he waited.

I said, “We expected not to have the fire scared out of us. I would like to speak with the owner, but not tonight-and not tomorrow either-if there are wild animals roaming around. A phone call would do. If you know his name, that would help.”

Now they were suspicious. Brit, with a shrug, suggested I try the phone book, then asked his Seminole-looking partner, “What time’s it getting to be?”

Ten minutes, tops, we’d been there. I hadn’t even squeezed a lime into the weak vodka tonic I’d requested. I squeezed it now and, after an uneasy silence, asked, “Did I say something wrong?”

Joey resumed the role of a gentleman host. “’Course you didn’t. The Cadence place, there’s a lot of stories we heard as kids. In high school, too. There’s nothing wrong with stories, but what a man keeps on his property is his own business. Circus animals in Florida, there’s nothing new about that around here”-his eyes found Birdy-“but maybe the laws have changed. Either way, it’s none of our business.”

Birdy’s questioning look transitioned into surprise. I understood. He had just hinted that, yes, chimps-monkeys of some type-might be found at the area. He had also refused to snitch on neighbors, even though they lived thirty miles away.

Birdy got it, too. “We didn’t go there to spy or arrest the guy. Hannah wants to meet the owner for business reasons.”

Brit said, “Oh?”

“Yeah. She’s… well, she’s collecting stories about the old Cadence house. Like you said, it’s got quite the history. There was a TV show a while back, they did a piece. Maybe you saw it. That’s the sort of thing she’s after, which means interviewing people who know the area. Like the stories Joey mentioned.”

Voice flat, Brit said, “News reporters. Sure.”

It was a question, not the statement, which Birdy decided to answer. “No, like I told you, I’m a sheriff’s deputy. But I’m off duty, just tagging along. Hannah’s the one who has to keep notes and do all the work.” She turned, her eyes asking, Should we go?

We were sitting on the aft deck of the houseboat, an orange crate between Birdy and me, while the men leaned on the railing. I wasn’t ready to leave, so I put down my drink and looked from Brit to Joey in a frank way. “Let’s back up here. It was rude of me to pry and I apologize. I don’t tolerate people snooping into my life. No reason you should either.”

The modern cow hunters seemed to appreciate that. After a cue from his partner, Brit said, “Already forgotten.”

That wasn’t true, I could tell. “I’m not a journalist either. I want to be clear about why we’re here. I am getting paid to collect stories about the Cadence property, but the job doesn’t include being nosy about your neighbors.”

I waited, expecting one of them to ask, Paid why? They didn’t. The invisible door, I realized, had opened a tad, but the next move was up to me. I said, “Truth is, I inherited a part-time investigation agency from my uncle and this is”-I had to think back-“only the fifth job I’ve had that requires fieldwork. Mostly I’m a light tackle guide out of Sanibel and Captiva.”

“A fishing guide?” Brit asked the question, but both were skeptical.

I said, “October’s my slow time, which is why I’m doing this. Fly-fishing is what I prefer, but I’ll take just about anything that comes along. Except for peak tarpon season. I’m fussy about clients during tarpon season. Last year, I booked more than two hundred full days, plus some casting lessons. And the Lauderdale boat show, two years in a row, I’ve done demonstrations for Sage fly rods.”

They asked a few questions to test me, then asked a few more because they were convinced it was true and they both enjoyed fishing.

“My uncle was a guide,” I said. “It’s a hard way to make a living. He told me, ‘Some weeks, you think you’ll get rich, but you never do. And some weeks, you think you’ll starve, but you never do.’ That’s the way fishing is, so I keep the agency going on the side. I hope I’ve explained myself.”

Brit, while reassessing Birdy’s legs, said, “Yep.”

Joey said it, too-“Yep”-but added, “We get tarpon up here sometimes. Bass, of course, and snook you wouldn’t believe.”

“I’ll remember that when my bookings pick up. Right now, I’m focused on what I’m being paid to do. If you remember stories about the Cadence house, I’d sure like to hear them-unless it’s too late, which I understand.”

Joey, for some reason, gave me a private wink after catching my eye. Then said to Brit, “You’re the one who loves to talk. Tell ’em some of the things we heard back in high school. Bore the ladies while they enjoy their drinks.”

That broke the uneasiness. We became a chatty, sociable little group, although increasingly quiet while Brit told stories of murder and madness and a woman who could be heard weeping from the balcony on moonlit nights. I got out my spiral notebook and asked questions. But had the good sense not to pry when Brit, after eyeing me, said, “I’d be careful walking that area. There’s an ol’ boy there some say is slap-ass crazy-and not in no fun way. Monkeys would be tamer. If I knew it was fact, I’d say his name, but I try to avoid gossip.”

Birdy assured him, “We can take care of ourselves,” while I finished a drink I hadn’t planned on finishing. It was nearly one when we stood to leave. They insisted on walking us back.

I hadn’t anticipated that.

There is a natural pairing process when four people exit a dock: Birdy and Brit led. That was expected. I’m used to following extroverts in such situations. I felt no awkwardness until the pairings were further defined by the distance that separated our rooms, Birdy’s room being three doors down from mine.

Brit followed when she turned left. I veered to the right and felt a sudden tension, figuring Joey would follow. So far, both had been respectful and polite, but these were two high-testosterone men. They rode horses and carried guns, as they’d told us, and often had to sleep rough with nothing but mosquito netting and the stars. Nice guys, true, but this was a rare weekend in town for them. The advantages of two single women sleeping in separate rooms had to be on their minds.

Pointless, my worrying. When I reached the door, I was alone. My escort was standing, lanky and long, in the moonlight, a discreet distance separating us. I felt relief at first, then it stung my ego. Three doors down, a latch clicked. Birdy, for our benefit, warned Brit, “Okay, but just for a minute,” then they both disappeared into her room.

I had to say something. Inanities such as “Thanks for a nice evening” had already been exchanged, so I decided to soften my escort’s disappointment. “I still have some work to do,” I explained from the railing.

No need for that either. He had already started toward the dock but did manage to reply, “Good luck,” over his shoulder and wave.

He’s married or real, real tired. That’s what my ego decided. Then reminded me, You’re not interested anyway.

True enough. Even so, I felt a spark of girlish redemption when the man stopped, thought for a moment, then turned. “Do you drink coffee in the morning? I get up awful early, but you’re welcome to drop by.”

“Coffee or hot tea,” I answered. “Either’s fine, but how early’s early?”

“Before sunrise. I gotta have my horse trailered by six.” A pause before explaining, “Brit’s off ’cause of his fire-starting class. So I’m working alone.”

He sensed me smiling. “Is that funny?”

I said, “If Brit’s learning how to build a fire, I suppose it is.”

“The boy could use some help in that area, too. But this is a state certification thing. Ranches do a lot of controlled burns to clear out undergrowth. I could explain it to you over coffee.”

I already knew about burn backs yet it made me feel better. “I appreciate that, Joey. If I’m up, I’ll knock on the hull. Do you prefer Joey to Joe?”

“Either,” he said, “but not Joseph. That was my father-according to Mom.” Dark laughter while he added, “That man got around a lot, but never stuck around, if you know what I’m saying.”

I replied, “I’m sorry to say I do.”

“His last name was Egret. Like the bird. If I wasn’t used to the darn thing, I’d think about changing.”

“Joe Egret,” I repeated softly.

“And you?”

“Plain Hannah Smith. Your name sounds familiar for some reason.” It was true. Joey Egret… Joseph Egret… it was attached to some person or memory in the back of my mind.

“Same with Smith,” Joey said. “Nothing plain about that name… Captain Hannah.”

Laughter, and he was gone.

AT ONE-FIFTEEN A.M. I gave up trying to sleep and settled back with my great-uncle’s journal. Written on the cover was:

Receipts & Expenditures

Benjamin F. Summerlin

Master/Owner Vessels for Hire

Widow’s Son (40' Sharpie)

Sodbuster (24' Dory)

The first entry that referenced the Civil War was twenty pages in:

13 August 1861 (Habana, Cuba): $3 silver for a new hat mine being stoled by a drunkard on Duval St. War-he says the dumb bastards finely dun it & the Greys has kilt thousands at a place called Bull Run but the Blues won Pensacola & kilt only 100. These numbers do not seem right to me. I have been learning my Spanish rather than risk Yankees for neighbors…

Captain Summerlin had been a candid, insightful man. The book smelled of incense and smoke after sitting over the fireplace-chrysanthemum resin, Theo claimed-a scent so strong it made me wince. Hopefully, the thing would air. It had already benefited from the dry heat. New pages could be separated with the help of gentle pressure or a fingernail.

Not all, though.

Spiral notebook at my side, I started at the beginning, after reinspecting the fresh cracks and newly dog-eared pages. It was a leather-bound volume produced by Wilmington Maritime of North Carolina. Designed for bookkeepers, not a seagoing cattleman who cared more about numbers than spelling. Captain Summerlin had used it as a ship’s log and a notebook and also a place to doodle. On the inside cover were clumsy attempts at birds, a dolphin, and what might have been a cow.

On the next pages were sketches of women. Much attention had been devoted to their hefty breasts and hair, but no effort made to adorn them with clothing, let alone the kindness of a nose that resembled a nose. They all beamed back at me, however, with cheery, inviting smiles. Two wore flowers where Eve would have worn them.

You lecherous old man, I thought yet smiled. The sketches breathed life into my long-dead relative. He wasn’t old when he’d taken pen in hand-early thirties, which was my own age. He had found a way to entertain himself when he was alone. No harm in that. Better still, the sketches proved that indecent thoughts weren’t new to our family’s bloodline.

That alone provided some comfort after the thoughts I had been battling.

No wonder. I was lying in the chill of a wall air conditioner, wearing only a T-shirt, while Birdy and her cowboy guest did god-knows-what just three rooms away. The marine biologist was on my mind. Officially, we had stopped dating, but he was still an occasional late-night visitor-a welcome visitor-and it had been a while since he had come tapping at my door. He was out of the country or I might have called him to talk.

Restless didn’t accurately describe my current state of mind.

I had no physical interest in the airline pilot or the attorney I’d been seeing. No commitments either. There was no reason in the world I shouldn’t replace my sleeplessness with harmless conversation if, say, someone within walking distance was also awake-aboard the houseboat, for instance.

I was rationalizing. I knew it but didn’t care.

So far, I had refused to allow myself to go to the window and check. Captain Summerlin’s bawdy sketches, however, seemed to grant full permission. I laid the book aside and opened the curtains: a light was still on in an aft cabin of the boat.

Joe Egret. I thought the name softly, trying to nail the connection. The window didn’t provide sufficient motive, so I cracked the door and used my ears: trilling frogs and wind cloaked the river’s silence, but Garth Brooks would have been easy enough to hear. There was no music.

Damn… damn it to hell.

I felt free to say whatever I felt because I was alone. Several sharp comments later, I decided, Instead of complaining, do something productive.

I returned to the journal.

Theo-or someone-had found the entry about the missing hundred silver dollars. I was certain because the book opened naturally to the place as if it had been butterflied open and mashed flat. That angered me, angered me enough to push biologists and cow hunters out of my mind.

Men-nothing but trouble.

Yes, they were, especially with none around to show an interest in me.

I turned the air down, got back in bed, and tried to put myself in Theo’s place if he had, indeed, copied entries from the journal. The Civil War and the missing silver dollars would have been his only interest. So I referenced dates and tried to create a bare-bones time line that might point me to where Capt. Summerlin had scuttled his dory, then buried or hid or dumped a box of coins.

Back and forth between the pages I went. First, I had to work out the man’s abbreviations and odd spellings. At times, he inserted numbers for letters which seemed a form of code. I soon gave up trying to figure that out. Then I focused on content. Between August 1861 and December 1862, only three of the forty-some entries mentioned the war. These were vague or sardonic references to shortages of salt and coffee, and a jab at the Confederate Navy’s inability to take St. Augustine. Between 1863 and 1865, however, the war received more of my great-uncle’s attention.

What had changed?’

The answer, I decided, was in a file on my laptop, which I had already summarized in longhand after stringing my hammock that afternoon:

From the war’s start, Florida’s 140,000 residents had mixed sympathies. The Union depended on locals to control Key West, Tampa, Pensacola, and Jacksonville. Only 14,000 Floridians joined the Confederate Army.

In 1863, the Battle of Vicksburg changed everything. It closed the Mississippi River as the South’s main supply conduit. That left only Florida to provide cattle, salt, and other staples of war. Cattlemen and mariners, whatever their sympathies, were caught in the middle. The Union had to cut off supplies. That meant killing Florida’s cattle where they stood and controlling waterways. It sparked the cattle wars and salt wars of inland Florida. Blood began to flow.

The Caloosahatchee River, which connected two oceans (aided by a short overland trail), was a major prize. The Union took Ft. Myers at the mouth of the river. But control of Ft. Thompson-an outpost near Labelle-varied. There was heavy fighting, especially near Tallahassee, Jacksonville, and also at Lake City where 10,000 troops engaged. After six hours of fighting, 3,000 lay dead.

By 1864, the Cattle Wars had shifted and hardened sympathies. Union sympathizers formed a unit called the Florida Rangers. Those who sided with the South formed the 1st Battalion “Cow Cavalry.” Men without politics but who owned boats and cattle could get rich if they wanted. Or they could risk their lives by aiding a cause they hadn’t believed in from the start.

A few cow hunters and captains did both. Even for them, times were hard. Beef on the hoof was valuable, but worthless without salt to cure and preserve the meat. In the end, it was salt, not gunpowder or gold, that controlled the fates of Florida and the South.

After I’d reread the summary, I sat back, wondering about the accuracy of what I’d written. Salt… Such a common item. My eyes moved to the kitchenette, where a plastic shaker sat on the counter. For me, a dollar would buy a year’s supply. Not during the Civil War. Salt was mentioned in historic references, but it was Ben Summerlin’s journal that proved its value in a world without refrigeration. Those same entries also provided clues to where he might have scuttled his dory Sodbuster-and why he was on the run from Union soldiers.

I yawned, glanced at the window, then buckled down to copying the entries, but used ellipses to skip over sentences that did not apply. When Capt. Summerlin omitted a location or date, I included a question mark. When his writing was illegible, I noted that, too. The code he’d used began to make sense: the first letter of a word followed either by hyphens that approximated the number of letters the word contained or sometimes by a number. Because of the man’s poor spelling and his whims, translation required guesswork. S with three hyphens could mean sail or seed or salt, while S4 was a profanity-shit. I chose words that seemed to fit but added a question mark when dubious.

The temptation was to jump straight to the scuttling incident in December 1864. But I stayed on task, determined to finish entries from 1863 before turning out the light.

7 August, 1863 (Sanybel): The Blues has blowed up rum stills from Pensacola to Key Marco without no whimpering but has now burnt all saltworks along the coast. This will win them a bullet from many if a chance given. Shooting cattle aint won them no friends nether. Nor will their looting gerillas when they come ashore drunk…

21 August: Thank the Lord for green turtle meat cause of the fix we are in. Damnt if I know how to make salt & who does cause salt is like breathing air. Them that do know quick find the attention of the Blues & whatever dynamite needed. This is because saltworks is always built on the coast which is handy but aint smart. Men such as Captain Gatrell & brothers has been studying this matter & we will meet soon.

12 September, 1863 (Sanybel): Yankees from Juseppa Island found salt pans on La Costa Beach & threatened hanging. Damnt spies is among us. I will never again run away after such sneaky business as this. Acourse the Yankee bastards accused me with nary proof. Prove this in court I told their snot nosed lieutenant. I am both judge & jury which you would do well to remember sir, he says. Addressing me as sir saved the snot nose a licking for I will not tolerate rude behavior from them sech as he. As to my expenses for them salt pans & other supplies, they are as follows…

24 February, 1864 (Key West Turtle Kralls): News is that pony horses is sellin for $2000 in Confederate paper but you kant buy a hogshead of salt for 10 times that. This was tolt to me by a Yankee officer at Ft. Taylor. He come aboard to inspect for contraband but cut things short after asking about the name Widow’s Son. He had never seen a 40’ sloop bilt of yeller pine & rigged with leeboards that can be razed in shoal water. I’ll bet she’s fast, he reckoned. I gave him the handshake & says, She’ll float on fog & nary cut a mark.

It is a smart name I chose cause 18 demijohns of rum was stowed among cigars & molasses under the man’s feet. But no salt. Even Habana aint got no salt.

15 April, 1864 (Old Tampa): Off loaded molasses & seen the worst with mine own eyes. People muddy as hogs is digging up floors of meat houses & leaching salt that has leaked into the soil. They shovel dirt into hoppers & fire the mess with a blacksmiths furnace. Cheesecloth is dear so it is rank burlap they use as a filter after water boils. 50 people stand in line for a days filthy work & come away with a cup of something that grinds like sand in the teeth but has the tang of salt. Damnt this war & damnt an ocean that won’t part with its salt unless you’re a drowning man. Or own a furnace the size of a steam engine for rendering…

19 April (off Manatee River): Salt Famine! These are words I could not imagine 3 years ago but is now spoken in every port & it is time to act, by God. Gerilla fighting is what is left us. But how to bait a trap when bait is the prize? Gatrell & brothers has voted & not 1 black ball against…

Salt Famine! My great-uncle had underlined the phrase twice and added the only exclamation mark I’d found thus far. He had also underlined steam engine, but did not explain his reference to a vote.

What did it all mean?

In my notes, I underlined the same words, then stretched and went to the restroom before I resumed reading.

20 May, 1864 (Cattle Docks at Punta Rassa): Gatrell & brothers has packed axes & tackle & smudge pots cause we will have to cut our way through the skeeters. It aint far from the bridge but a long stretch of river up [NAME BLOTTED] which runs north off the Caloosahatchee. There be the place to boil salt or so I recollect. As to my Cuban wife, not one word from her as to me spending next Christmas in Habana…

His Cuban wife? I didn’t know which thread to pursue. Many of the entries were new to me and this was the first mention of a wife. But I was also riveted by Capt. Summerlin’s unfolding plan. Or what I perceived to be his intent. He, a man named Gatrell, and Gatrell’s brothers wanted to manufacture salt. They were seeking a source inland which wouldn’t be spotted by the Union Army-and they were willing to fight to do it. This all seemed evident.

Gradually, as I burrowed through the early months of 1864, I understood the seriousness of Ben Summerlin’s plans. I also began to suspect he might have something to do with Civil War graves on the Cadence property. If true, it was one of those weird bonding coincidences that hinted at the orderliness of family destiny and fate.

Captain Summerlin and I had something else in common: he, too, had been worried about spies getting into his journal. More and more, he protected himself by scribbling out words-names, usually. Names of associates and also the name of the river he had visited that summer, a river that fed into the Caloosahatchee from the north, which couldn’t be far from Labelle. It was here, I suspected, that he, Capt. Gatrell, and Gatrell’s brothers were setting a trap or laying bait-I wasn’t yet certain.

Was it the Telegraph River? I combed some of the illegible entries for meaning but stopped when I heard voices outside. Birdy was saying good night to Brit. A minute later, she tapped at my door.

It was one forty-five in the morning, but she’d seen my light. I expected her to have a devilish smile on her face when I answered.

No… my friend the deputy sheriff was scared.