She jotted a few notes. She knew her editor wouldn’t give a play to Hart’s death unless she uncovered some truly bizarre aspect, or a Gainesville connection. The fact that Hackett worked with the Florida Museum of Natural History in Gainesville might provide that connection; also she could always hope that Timothy Hart had been right about the value of his prospective find. In the meantime, she’d stick to her story about writing the history of Tiger Tail Island.
At a library computer she quickly accessed the Internet and read an entry about pokeweed: “A perennial with a green stem when young, later turning purple, and growing to a height of four to twelve feet with a diameter of an inch; producing greenish-white flowers in July and August.” Unfortunately, it was spring, too early for blooms. They would’ve made it easier to spot the plants. The description continued, “The deep purple berries, when ripe, are a source of red dye. Young, green shoots can be eaten when cooked, but berries, mature stalks, leaves and roots are poisonous.”
Brandy sat back, tense with concentration. The Seminoles, of course, would know these properties. They must’ve cooked pokeweed shoots during hard times, even into the twentieth century. They would know how to find the plant. Fishhawk, taught by his medicine man grandfather to cherish Seminole history and culture, would surely know. Would Alma May, descendant of pioneers and an island gardener? What about Melba Grapple? Brandy could see her hiking over the island in her own high boots, archaeology form in hand. She was shrewd, capable of intelligent research, of careful planning. Any one of them could’ve discovered the journal, even been shown the entries by poor gullible Timothy himself—could’ve decided to eliminate him and take up the search themselves, or already found the object, seen its value, and gradually poisoned him.
Alma May would believe that whatever was concealed on her land belonged to her. She’d probably be right about that. Melba might share her own amateur expertise with her friend and earn a reward, or she might choose to act alone, or even with her unkempt husband. Fishhawk certainly would believe the treasure, whatever it was, belonged to the Seminoles who hid it, not to the landowners. Indeed, Indians did not believe that land, created by the Great Breath Maker, could be bought by man any more than the sky. Brandy could see justification in that view.
As an archaeologist, Grifs curiosity, of course, would be aroused, but he said the Seminoles could not have anything of real value, and he was the only one with authority. Museums might be interested in the object, but they could not pay the vast sum Timothy Hart seemed to expect. And who would commit murder to place an additional artifact in a museum? Only Fishhawk might be tempted to do that. Too bad the thing had been hidden on private, not public land, where the State of Florida would have control.
Brandy realized Detective Jeremiah Strong must know about the pokeweed already, must be far ahead of her with his inquiries. She printed a copy of the Internet report and trotted down the steps to the car. At least she had been invited to meet Fishhawk’s wife, and could ask a few discreet questions herself. First, she needed to know more about the Seminole culture and the basics of archaeological digs. Down the street she found the stately nineteenth century courthouse that housed the Citrus County Historical Society, ran up its white stone steps, and made her way through corridors under construction to the Resources Office. In its book store she bought the few sources she needed.
With the delicate scent of orange blossoms wafting through open windows, Brandy drove back to Homosassa, her mind on the upcoming interview. The phone began ringing as soon as she had parked and walked into the kitchen. It was Grif. “How about meeting me at Alma May’s dock about 2:30 P.M.? I’ll ferry you down Petty
At a library computer she quickly accessed the Internet and read an entry about pokeweed: “A perennial with a green stem when young, later turning purple, and growing to a height of four to twelve feet with a diameter of an inch; producing greenish-white flowers in July and August.” Unfortunately, it was spring, too early for blooms. They would’ve made it easier to spot the plants. The description continued, “The deep purple berries, when ripe, are a source of red dye. Young, green shoots can be eaten when cooked, but berries, mature stalks, leaves and roots are poisonous.”
Brandy sat back, tense with concentration. The Seminoles, of course, would know these properties. They must’ve cooked pokeweed shoots during hard times, even into the twentieth century. They would know how to find the plant. Fishhawk, taught by his medicine man grandfather to cherish Seminole history and culture, would surely know. Would Alma May, descendant of pioneers and an island gardener? What about Melba Grapple? Brandy could see her hiking over the island in her own high boots, archaeology form in hand. She was shrewd, capable of intelligent research, of careful planning. Any one of them could’ve discovered the journal, even been shown the entries by poor gullible Timothy himself—could’ve decided to eliminate him and take up the search themselves, or already found the object, seen its value, and gradually poisoned him.
Alma May would believe that whatever was concealed on her land belonged to her. She’d probably be right about that. Melba might share her own amateur expertise with her friend and earn a reward, or she might choose to act alone, or even with her unkempt husband. Fishhawk certainly would believe the treasure, whatever it was, belonged to the Seminoles who hid it, not to the landowners. Indeed, Indians did not believe that land, created by the Great Breath Maker, could be bought by man any more than the sky. Brandy could see justification in that view.
As an archaeologist, Grifs curiosity, of course, would be aroused, but he said the Seminoles could not have anything of real value, and he was the only one with authority. Museums might be interested in the object, but they could not pay the vast sum Timothy Hart seemed to expect. And who would commit murder to place an additional artifact in a museum? Only Fishhawk might be tempted to do that. Too bad the thing had been hidden on private, not public land, where the State of Florida would have control.
Brandy realized Detective Jeremiah Strong must know about the pokeweed already, must be far ahead of her with his inquiries. She printed a copy of the Internet report and trotted down the steps to the car. At least she had been invited to meet Fishhawk’s wife, and could ask a few discreet questions herself. First, she needed to know more about the Seminole culture and the basics of archaeological digs. Down the street she found the stately nineteenth century courthouse that housed the Citrus County Historical Society, ran up its white stone steps, and made her way through corridors under construction to the Resources Office. In its book store she bought the few sources she needed.
With the delicate scent of orange blossoms wafting through open windows, Brandy drove back to Homosassa, her mind on the upcoming interview. The phone began ringing as soon as she had parked and walked into the kitchen. It was Grif. “How about meeting me at Alma May’s dock about 2:30 P.M.? I’ll ferry you down Petty
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