Island of Bones (Haunted Florida Book 1) Page 5

  Then, jumping out of bed, I went to the window and opened the shutters, petted the cat’s head once before pushing him off the sill into the courtyard. He protested with a loud mrwow, and I closed the shutters, this time locking the clasp and the slats as well.

  It’d been a dream, a nightmare. I knew this. My brain knew this. My scientific mind could conjure up fifty million explanations for these visions, yet deep in my soul, in my heart where sometimes the only things mattered, I knew that something bad had happened here. Something involving Syndia’s family and mine.

  My walk to the pharmacy helped clear my mind.

  The moment I paid for the Zoloft, I ripped open the package and swallowed back two whole ones. Then I made a note in my phone planner to make an appointment to have my dosage adjusted. My OCD had been under control until Zachary, until the night my grandmother fell into her coma. Since then, my repressed issues had all decided to come to the surface.

  Great fucking timing.

  As I rounded the street corner back to La Concha Inn under light rain, I slowed down. An ambulance was parked out front, as two paramedics wheeled a covered body into the back. Off to the side, Syndia stood stiff with a tissue at her mouth, her eyes red and glistening. If the woman had looked gaunt and frail when I first met her, she looked ten times worse now. The old woman’s nurse stood behind her, sporting a tight-lipped grimace.

  “Is everything okay?” I walked through the open gate.

  Syndia stared straight ahead. “My mother. She passed away late last night.”

  “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry.” So, that had been her mother.

  “Are you?” She cast a hurt gaze at me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you sorry? You shouldn’t say things like that unless you mean them.” She held my gaze for a few hateful seconds more then stomped up the steps and entered the house. The two paramedics gave me sympathetic looks.

  I felt like I’d been slapped, like I was culpable for what had transpired here. Why did I feel guilty when I hadn’t done anything wrong? The woman had been practically a thousand years old, for hell’s sake. I mean, I felt bad for Syndia, sure, but it was her time to go anyway. My being here had nothing to do with it.

  “People say weird things when they’re in pain,” one of the paramedics said to me.

  I nodded and moved past them. Unable to help myself, I glanced back at the stretcher inside the ambulance. The old woman lay underneath the white sheet, her filmy eyes vacant, her cracked mouth open, saliva drying up. She wheezed, emitting gases and bodily fluids. I gasped, wondering how the hell I could see all that if she was covered.

  The ambulance doors closed.

  I moved past the woman’s nurse, noting the worry on her face and entered the house, hoping to return to my room where I could decide what to do—whether to leave town or stay. Then I saw the other four guests gathered around the dining table watching TV. Amid their unappetizing muffins and bowls of cheap cereal, they chattered as they watched a satellite image of a storm system.

  A big-ass storm system.

  The weatherman, in his snazzy suit, buzzed about the screen. “Here you see Tropical Storm Mara blazing a trail through the Turks and Caicos Islands, traveling at a speed of twenty-five miles per hour…”

  I walked into the dining room and leaned against the wall to listen.

  “The bad news for us here in the Florida Keys is that we’re close to receiving the dreaded National Hurricane Center Tropical Storm Warning, but the good news is that storms traveling this quickly tend to be over soon. Last thing we want is a slow-moving storm that dumps rain on us for days.”

  “A hit and run,” one guest mumbled.

  Another couple stood, the curly-haired wife with the manicured nails picking up her purse and sunglasses. “We need to get going before traffic gets bad. Well, hope you all get out safely. It was great meeting you,” she said to the other couple then headed down the corridor.

  “What about us? What do we do?” the other wife asked her husband.

  “Let’s see what the weatherman says. It might not come.”

  “Even if it doesn’t come this way,” I chimed in shyly. “We’ll still get those outer feeder bands the weather man was talking about and lots of rain. See them?” I pointed to the swirly outer cloud bands on the satellite image.

  “So much for our fun-in-the-sun, tropical vacation!” The husband stood and stretched. “Alright, dear, let’s pack this puppy up and take it home. What about you?” he asked me. “You staying?”

  “Not sure. I’ll check flights out from Key West and decide.”

  “They’re all cancelled,” the man said. “We just heard it on the news. All local flights. Your best bet is to drive to Miami and fly from there, if you get out in time. What I’m worried about is the bumper-to-bumper traffic. By the time we make it, the area’s under a hurricane warning.”

  “Right,” I said. “I’ll have to consider all options.” I’d been through bad Nor’easters before, but not a tropical storm. What was the difference besides rain instead of snow? Wasn’t it just a matter of hunkering indoors until it passed?

  “Well, good luck to you.”

  “Thanks, you too.”

  The couple left, just as Bacon jumped onto the table to take scraps of what they’d left behind. As my gaze followed them out of the dining area, it landed on a fireplace in the living room. Above the mantel was a gilded shadow box, something shiny glinting inside.

  Bacon rubbed against my leg, asking for more food.

  “I don’t have anything, buddy,” I told him. Checking to see if Syndia was anywhere in sight, I reached into the muffin basket, ripped off a chunk of dry muffin and set it on the floor. Bacon sniffed it but turned up his nose. “Sorry, then. Go kill a mouse or something.”

  The cat stalked into the living room and stood underneath the mantel looking back at me, almost as if saying, Come on, come look at this. He seemed very proud of this room, so I walked over and peered into the shadow box on the mantel. A photo of three gold, round pieces topped a frame article from the Key West Gazette. Below it was dated Labor Day, 1951.

  The basic gist was this: Key West resident, Robert McCardle, had found a bag of gold doubloons during his shift piloting the Havana Ferry back from Cuba. The bag had mysteriously appeared on the ferry before which he’d dutifully turned it into the police. As no one had come to claim it, the police let him keep the Spanish gold coins. As a result, Robert McCardle purchased the adjacent home next to his to accommodate his expanding family, but sadly, the man died unexpectedly from a massive heart attack the very next year.

  My heartbeat picked up. Wait.

  Robert McCardle had found treasure in 1951? But I thought my grandfather had been the treasure hunter and fisherman on this property. Shouldn’t it say Bill Drudge? It was like my family’s name had been erased from history.

  “Them only the tip of the iceberg.”

  I whirled around. Miss Violet’s nurse stood there, arms stiff by her side. Bacon hissed at her.

  “Hi.” I extended my hand. “I’m Ellie.”

  She took my hand. “Nottie.”

  “Nice to meet you. What do you mean these are only the tip of the iceberg?”

  She stared at the shadow box. “Rumor say there’s a lot more gold than that one bag McCardle found.” She glanced around nervously, wringing her hands. “He purchased the house next door, you know—your grandmother’s house.”

  “Right, that’s what I’ve heard. Is Room 3 part of her original house?”

  The woman wouldn’t answer me. “They say he hid the rest so nobody would attack him for it,” she whispered. “Robert McCardle did.”

  Attack, or accuse? “Who would attack him for it?” I asked, trying to imagine a 1950s fisherman hiding his treasure in the house like a paranoid madman.

  “Treasure hunters, pirates…”

  “Pirates?” I half-laughed. What century were we
living in?

  “Not the peg leg kind with the feathered hats, but yes,” Nottie assured me. “Anyone looking to steal your loot around here is a pirate, you know.”

  “Got it.” I nodded.

  “Nottie.” The voice was stern and sudden. We turned to find Syndia rounding the coffee table making a slow descent on the poor nurse. “That’s enough. You can go now.” Her frown told me my informant wasn’t supposed to tell me any of that.

  “Sorry, Ms. Duarte.” Nottie took off faster than a cat burglar under the sudden beam of a cop’s flashlight.

  Syndia’s glassy gaze seemed to accuse me of something I couldn’t decipher. “Yes, pirates are a common thing here in the islands. People stealing what’s not theirs.”

  Did she think I was here to take something? I didn’t believe the silly little story on the fireplace mantel anymore than I believed some hotels bragged about being haunted, just to attract visitors. Talk of pirates and hidden treasure was a lure for tourists seeking adventure. Especially coming from an establishment that needed more business such as this one.

  Syndia already knew I’d heard Nottie’s version so I went with it. “Wouldn’t McCardle have told his wife where he hid the rest?” I asked. “I mean, why would he keep such important info to himself?”

  “Men didn’t confide in their wives in those days. Her role was to run the house, not the finances. Besides, he became paranoid after finding the gold. He always felt that someone would take what was rightfully his.”

  Sounded like guilt to me. A bag of gold suddenly showed up on your ferry and you got to take it home, rich as butter pie? Reminded me of the story of Sarah Winchester, perpetually afraid that the ghosts of those killed by her family’s famous Winchester rifles would haunt her, so she built a home with endless rooms, doors, windows, walls, and staircases.

  In this case, Robert McCardle had hid his treasure to keep the bad men away.

  “Anyway, it’s none of your concern. Can I help you with something else, Miss Whitaker?” Her eye stared at me with lifeless intensity.

  “So you’re telling me this…treasure…is still in the house somewhere?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She wouldn’t answer, so I looked back at the shadow box, noticing now a brass plaque at the top. Printed on it—La Concha’s Very Own Legend.

  “You better get on the road, Miss Whitaker.” Syndia stared at me. On the TV behind her, the 11 o’clock hurricane advisory had just begun, and the weatherman’s excitement had just risen a notch. “That tropical storm that’s coming? Just turned into a Category 1.”

  SEVEN

  Something didn’t add up.

  A lot didn’t add up.

  First, how would a bunch of gold just show up on a busy ferry, and only the captain saw it? Wouldn’t he have been the most busy person on the vessel? Wouldn’t a random passenger have found it first? Second, why would the police have let McCardle keep the gold? Did they take a nice cut of the proceeds for being so generous? Third, if McCardle’s family, my grandmother’s neighbors, did become rich over all this, why was the place falling apart? Money like that would’ve lasted a nice long time, wouldn’t it?

  I didn’t know. Like I said, didn’t add up.

  Apparently, their luck had run out, starting with McCardle’s heart attack the following year.

  If the story Nottie told me had been fabricated to lure in customers, then why wouldn’t Syndia make a bigger deal of it? Why not bill their establishment as one big treasure hunter’s wet dream come true? Promote the heck out of the place as a pirate’s cove. I realized, suddenly, that was why there were old statues of a pirate out front. And a parrot. And a shell.

  They had tried doing just that, but nobody fell for themed Florida hotels anymore. They were relics of the past. Did Syndia seriously think I was here to steal her gold? Enough to ask me if I was Mariel Drudge’s daughter, enough to turn pale upon learning who I was and mentioning my grandmother’s home by name?

  Come on, seriously.

  Even if there were gold buried somewhere on this compound, how the hell would I find it? Sure, let me just whip out my psychic sledgehammer and tear the place apart. But there were more pressing issues to consider at the moment, and that was whether or not to go with a storm a-comin’.

  I took a walk around the compound, checking out areas I hadn’t yet seen. Where the other couples were staying, for example, the building looked newer but not renovated. I was hoping to assess how structurally sound the buildings were in the event I decided to stay, but then my mother Face-Time’d me.

  “How did I know you’d be calling me today?” I smiled into the phone.

  One look at her face, and I knew she was in Mom mode. “Ellie, you need to come back to Boston. There’s a storm headed that way.”

  “It’s just a tropical storm. It’s not a massive hurricane.”

  “Ellie, it’s a Category 1 storm, and might I remind you you’re on a tiny island?”

  “So?”

  “So, all the ocean needs to do is surge up a few feet, and you’ll be underwater.”

  I hadn’t considered the storm surge, but from where I’d stood at the dock’s railing, the water level was way below the foundation of this area. It wasn’t like the house was on a beach. “You know, this place might not look much from the outside, but I feel like it’s safe.”

  “You can’t know that, Ellie,” Mom argued. “You’re not a hurricane code expert. Just…get on a plane and come home, please. Listen to your mother for once.”

  I debated whether or not to tell her what was going on here. The stuff I was finding out. Sometimes, when I involved my mother in my decision-making, she made things worse by telling me her “gut” feelings. “There hasn’t been a mandatory evacuation yet,” I said. “If there is, then I’ll definitely leave.”

  “You’re being stubborn. I just don’t get why,” my mother said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

  “Mom, why did you say that Nana had to sell this house again?”

  “She couldn’t afford to keep it. A single mother raising a small child in the fifties, Ellie. Single mothers didn’t own houses in those times unless they’d been left with a lot of money or life insurance, and my grandfather was a poor fisherman. He didn’t make sure she was taken care of in the event of his death. He should’ve used his free time to find a second job instead of go treasure hunting.” She scoffed. “Didn’t find shit anyway.”

  But then Robert McCardle came home with treasure, while my grandfather was declared dead, boating accident.

  It wasn’t no accident, Nana’s voice rang through my mind.

  You’ll be husbandless. The neighbor’s words from my time travel dream snaked into my mind. And then I’ll take your house.

  I smelled cigarette smoke. I stopped in the corridor and stared ahead at a tangled mess of wild plants. Nobody was there. No smokers, though smoke could’ve wafted in from anywhere.

  Whore…

  Who the hell kept calling me that?

  “What is it, Ellie?” Mom asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I kept staring ahead. My mind wandered. “You know I don’t believe in that.”

  “You did when you were little, before we found out what was really going on. Ellie, are you taking your medicine?” It could’ve been normal maternal concern, but I felt like there was something she wasn’t telling me.

  “I’ve been doubling up.”

  “Good.”

  “Why do you ask?” I pushed through a section of the plants and stepped deep into the brush. Obsessed. Compulsive. “What would happen if I stopped taking them? It’s been a while, so I kind of forgot.”

  “Your obsessions take over. Negative thoughts attack, and you’ll blame it on yourself. You’ll hallucinate in your sleep, sometimes out of sleep.”

  “Are you sure that’s all? Is that why I started taking them?” I asked, plants scraping and scratching at my pale arms. What if they hadn�
�t been hallucinations? What if they’d been real visions of real things and all this time I’d been suppressing them?

  “Well, yes. Where are you going? What’s with all those plants?”

  My eyes fell on something rustling in the bushes. “I was just checking something. Thought I saw a cat,” I lied. Whatever it was, it made the plants move around like a dinosaur wading through grass.

  “Okay, well, look for flights then let me know what you find.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “Even if you have to drive out of Florida, Ellie. We can get you a flight from Atlanta or something. Just get out of Key West.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you later.” I hung up without saying goodbye.

  There was no way I was leaving. Too many questions burned my mind, and the same gut feeling that kept my mother at bay from this place lured me in deeper. Questions like, what the hell was walking through the grass? I parted the leaves of a massive bush, expecting to see a cat or a raccoon and froze. My heart stopped. There in the grass was a person lying on the ground. A man in a fine-tailored suit covered in dark red blood. Was he real? What was he doing here? I suppressed the urge to throw up, though my mouth filled with warm saliva. Suddenly, it was like an invisible pair of hands lifted the man’s legs up and began dragging him through the grass, a little bit at a time with clear effort.

  I meant to scream. I needed to, but I was paralyzed. The sound caught in my throat.

  “Why are you here, Miss Whitaker?”

  I whirled around, my heart pounding through my ribcage. Jesus Christ, why did this woman keep sneaking up on me? Did she not see the dead body being dragged through her property? I looked back again to point it out, but the man was gone. Nothing there but plants and weeds.

  “Holy shit…” I grunted out. “Can you…not do that, please? Not come up behind me like that?” I scoffed and backed out of the foliage.

  “Answer my question. Why did you come here?”

  I snapped. “That’s not your business, but since you seem so suspicious of me, I came to spread my grandmother’s ashes. Happy now?” I dropped my hands at my sides. “This might be your home today, but my grandma lived here a long time ago. She loved this place with all her heart. My mother was born here. Do you understand, Ms. Duarte?”