Tangled Threat. Heather Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ the palm tree grew in it or through it or with it or whatever.”

      Angie Parsons was cute, friendly, bright and sometimes, but just sometimes, too much. At five feet two inches, she exuded enough energy for a giant. She had just turned thirty—and done brilliantly for her years. She had written one of the one most successful nonfiction book series on the market. And all because she got as excited as she did about objects and places and things—such as the History Tree.

      The main tree was a black oak; no one knew quite how old it was, but several hundred years at least. That type of oak was known to live over five hundred years.

      A palm tree had—at some time—managed to grow at the same place, through the outstretched roots of the oak and twirling up around the trunk and through the branches. It was bizarre, beautiful, and so unusual that it naturally inspired all manner of legends, some of those legends based on truth.

      And, of course, the History Tree held just the kind of legend that made Angie as successful as she was.

      Angie’s being incredibly successful didn’t hurt Maura any.

      But being here... Yes, it hurt. At least...it was incredibly uncomfortable. On the one hand it was wonderful seeing people she had worked with once upon a time in another life.

      On the other hand it was bizarre. Like visiting a mirror dimension made up of things she remembered. The Hartford brothers were working there now. Nils was managing the restaurants—he’d arrived at the table she and Angie had shared last night to welcome them and pick up their dinner check. Of course, Nils had become management. No lowly posts for him. He seemed to have an excellent working relationship with Fred Bentley, who was still the manager of the resort. Bentley had come down when they’d checked in—he’d greeted Maura with a serious hug. She was tall, granted, and in heels, and he was on the short side for a man—about five-ten—but it still seemed that his hug allowed for him to rest his head against her breasts a moment too long.

      But still, he’d apparently been delighted to see her.

      And Mark Hartford had come to see her, too, grown-up, cute and charming now—and just as happy as his brother to see her. It was thanks to her, he had told her, and her ability to tell the campfire histories, that had made him long to someday do the same.

      The past didn’t seem like any kind of a boulder around his neck. Certainly he remembered the night that Francine had been murdered.

      The night that had turned her life upside down had been over twelve years ago.

      Like all else in the past, it was now history.

      Time had marched on, apparently, for them—and her.

      She’d just turned eighteen the last time she had been here. When that autumn had come around, she’d done what she’d been meant to do, headed to the University of Central Florida, an amazing place to study performance of any kind and directing and film—with so many aspects thrown into the complete education.

      She’d spent every waking minute in classes—taking elective upon elective to stay busy. She was now CEO of her own company, providing short videos to promote writers, artists, musicians and anyone wanting video content, including attorneys and accountants.

      Not quite thirty, she could be proud of her professional accomplishments—she had garnered a great reputation.

      She enjoyed working with Angie. The writer was fun, and there was good reason for her success. She loved the bizarre and spooky that drew human curiosity. Even those who claimed they didn’t believe in anything even remotely paranormal seemed to love Angie’s books.

      Most of the time, yes, Maura did truly enjoy working with Angie, and since Angie had tried doing her own videos without much success, she was equally happy to be working with Maura. They’d done great bits down in Key West at the cemetery there—where Maura’s favorite tomb was engraved with the words I told you I was sick!—and at the East Martello Museum with Robert the Doll. They had filmed on the west coast at the old summer estates that had belonged to Henry Ford and Thomas Edison. And they’d worked together in St. Augustine, where they’d created twenty little video bits for social media that had pleased Angie to no end—and garnered hundreds of thousands of hits.

      Last night, even Marie Glass—Donald’s reserved and elegant wife—had come by their dinner table to welcome them and tell them just how much she enjoyed all the videos that Maura had done for and with Angie, telling great legends and wild tales that were bizarrely wonderful—and true.

      Maybe naturally, since they were working in Florida, Angie had determined that they had to stay at Frampton Ranch and Resort and film at the History Tree.

      Maura had suggested other places that would make great content for a book on the bizarre: sinkholes, a road where cars slid uphill instead of downhill—hell, she would have done her best to make a giant ball of twine sound fascinating. There were lots of other places in the state with strange stories—lord! They could go back to Key West and film a piece on Carl Tanzler, who had slept with the corpse of his beloved, Elena de Hoyos, for seven years.

      But Angie was dead set on seeing the History Tree, and when they’d gotten to the clearing she had started spinning around like a delighted child.

      She stopped suddenly, staring at Maura.

      “You really are uncomfortable here, aren’t you? Scared? You know, I’ve told you—you can hire an assistant. Maybe a strapping fellow, tall, dark and handsome—or blond and handsome—and muscle-bound. Someone to protect us if the bogeyman is around at any of our strange sites.” Angie paused, grinning. She liked men and didn’t apologize for it. In her own words, if you didn’t kiss a bunch of frogs, you were never going to find a prince.

      “Angie, I like doing my own work—and editing it and assuring that I like what I’ve done. I promise you, if we turn something into any kind of a feature film, we’ll hire dozens of people.”

      Angie sighed. “Well, so much for tall, dark—or blond—and handsome. Your loss, my dear friend. Anyway. You do amazing work for me. You’re a one-woman godsend.”

      “Thanks,” Maura told her. She inhaled a deep breath.

      “Could you try not to look quite so miserable?”

      “Oh, Angie. I’m sorry. It’s just...”

      “The legend. The legend about the tree—oh, yes. And the murder victims found here. I’m sorry, Maura, but... I mean, I film these places because they have legends attached to them.” Angie seemed to be perplexed. She sighed. “Of course, the one murder was just twelve years ago. Does that bother you?” Staring at Maura, she gasped suddenly. “You’re close to this somehow, right? Oh, my God! Were you one of the kids working here that summer? I mean, I’d have had no idea... You’re from West Palm Beach. There’s so much stuff down there. Ah!” It seemed that Angie didn’t really need answers. “You wound up going to the University of Central Florida. You were near here...”

      “Yes, I was here working that summer,” Maura said flatly.

      “Your name was never in the paper?”

      “That’s right. The police were careful to keep the employees away from the media. And since we are so isolated on the ranch, news reporters didn’t get wind of anything until the next day. My parents had me out of here by then, and Donald Glass was emphatic about СКАЧАТЬ