first heavy plastic tank next to the engine and start filling the second. “Today I’m planning to bring several items to the rooms I’ve rented at the motel,” he said. “I’ve taken an agitator there for washing pottery shards. We won’t be long at the mound.”
With languid grace, Bibi sauntered over to stand next to Grif. For a large-boned woman, she moved with a surprisingly liquid quality. Brandy thought she’d probably had training in dance.
“I can help you clean the fragments with a toothbrush,” she said.
Grif did not reply directly. “Bibi not only volunteers at the museum,” Grif said to Brandy. “Last fall she went to the Chassahowitza Wildlife Refuge a few miles south of here and helped build an observation blind and a pen for the winter’s incoming whooping cranes.”
Brandy turned to Bibi Brier with renewed interest. “You’ve been very busy.”
“I grew up in Crystal River,” Bibi said, eyes still on Grif. Brandy recognized the hero worship gaze.
If Grif was affected, he didn’t show it. “Well, let’s go. It’s already late. Fortunately, I don’t have to do anything except bag a few items.”
The three stepped down into the pontoon. Grif took his place at the console, while Brandy and Bibi crawled over the tools and perched on a bench in the rear. “I’ve got a suggestion,” Brandy said before Grif cranked the engine. “Drop me off at Alma May’s to pick up my own boat. I’ll follow you to the mound. I need to get back to my place by lunch time.” John would be waiting.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself, but after we turn off the Salt River into the Little Homosassa, you’ll need to watch for rocks. Stay right behind me. The river’s pretty shallow this time of year.”
A few minutes later he stopped at Alma May’s dock, then idled off shore while Brandy settled herself behind the wheel of her own pontoon. Beside Alma May’s small craft rocked a sleek Grady White boat with a 150 horsepower engine. Brandy glanced up at the house. Through the open living room window she recognized Melba Grapple, and beside her, a tall, bulky figure. Brandy remembered Alma May was a widow. As she turned the key, shifted into reverse, and cut in behind Hackett, she wondered if there was a Mr. Grapple.
After about a quarter of a mile, Grif wheeled his boat into the Salt River. For a moment Brandy had the incongruous view of the Crystal River nuclear power plant tower thrusting up above distant hammocks. Grif cruised through Shiver’s Bay and into the narrower Little Homosassa, where he beached his boat across from the mouth of a shallow creek. Both Bibi and Grif jumped out and dragged the bow further ashore. Brandy pulled in beside him, tugged her own craft up beside his, and climbed once more over the bow railing. Beyond the tiny beach rose a slope, dotted with red cedars and cabbage palms. A few slender trunks curved out above the water. Brandy did not see a mound.
Bibi stretched, stared at the ground lifting up before them, then wrapped her arms around herself. Although she wore a long-sleeved shirt, she didn’t seem confident it would protect her. “I’m staying with the boat,” she announced. “I’ll help with anything you want to take back. I don’t need to go up there again.”
Grif frowned. “Mosquitoes, I suppose,” he said. “Well, suit yourself.” He sighed. “I’ve got two people who’re supposed to help me, and neither one’s willing to work on the mound.” Brandy realized Fishhawk did not want to come even this close.
Shells popped under his feet as he walked toward Brandy, holding out a can of insect repellent. “The mosquitoes will be fierce. The Seminoles used fish oil mixed with juice or ashes of indigo. This probably works better.” He watched while she sprayed her arms and legs and rubbed some of the liquid on her face, then reached back into his boat and dragged out a bedraggled jacket. “Better put this on, too, for the long sleeves. You wear a
With languid grace, Bibi sauntered over to stand next to Grif. For a large-boned woman, she moved with a surprisingly liquid quality. Brandy thought she’d probably had training in dance.
“I can help you clean the fragments with a toothbrush,” she said.
Grif did not reply directly. “Bibi not only volunteers at the museum,” Grif said to Brandy. “Last fall she went to the Chassahowitza Wildlife Refuge a few miles south of here and helped build an observation blind and a pen for the winter’s incoming whooping cranes.”
Brandy turned to Bibi Brier with renewed interest. “You’ve been very busy.”
“I grew up in Crystal River,” Bibi said, eyes still on Grif. Brandy recognized the hero worship gaze.
If Grif was affected, he didn’t show it. “Well, let’s go. It’s already late. Fortunately, I don’t have to do anything except bag a few items.”
The three stepped down into the pontoon. Grif took his place at the console, while Brandy and Bibi crawled over the tools and perched on a bench in the rear. “I’ve got a suggestion,” Brandy said before Grif cranked the engine. “Drop me off at Alma May’s to pick up my own boat. I’ll follow you to the mound. I need to get back to my place by lunch time.” John would be waiting.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself, but after we turn off the Salt River into the Little Homosassa, you’ll need to watch for rocks. Stay right behind me. The river’s pretty shallow this time of year.”
A few minutes later he stopped at Alma May’s dock, then idled off shore while Brandy settled herself behind the wheel of her own pontoon. Beside Alma May’s small craft rocked a sleek Grady White boat with a 150 horsepower engine. Brandy glanced up at the house. Through the open living room window she recognized Melba Grapple, and beside her, a tall, bulky figure. Brandy remembered Alma May was a widow. As she turned the key, shifted into reverse, and cut in behind Hackett, she wondered if there was a Mr. Grapple.
After about a quarter of a mile, Grif wheeled his boat into the Salt River. For a moment Brandy had the incongruous view of the Crystal River nuclear power plant tower thrusting up above distant hammocks. Grif cruised through Shiver’s Bay and into the narrower Little Homosassa, where he beached his boat across from the mouth of a shallow creek. Both Bibi and Grif jumped out and dragged the bow further ashore. Brandy pulled in beside him, tugged her own craft up beside his, and climbed once more over the bow railing. Beyond the tiny beach rose a slope, dotted with red cedars and cabbage palms. A few slender trunks curved out above the water. Brandy did not see a mound.
Bibi stretched, stared at the ground lifting up before them, then wrapped her arms around herself. Although she wore a long-sleeved shirt, she didn’t seem confident it would protect her. “I’m staying with the boat,” she announced. “I’ll help with anything you want to take back. I don’t need to go up there again.”
Grif frowned. “Mosquitoes, I suppose,” he said. “Well, suit yourself.” He sighed. “I’ve got two people who’re supposed to help me, and neither one’s willing to work on the mound.” Brandy realized Fishhawk did not want to come even this close.
Shells popped under his feet as he walked toward Brandy, holding out a can of insect repellent. “The mosquitoes will be fierce. The Seminoles used fish oil mixed with juice or ashes of indigo. This probably works better.” He watched while she sprayed her arms and legs and rubbed some of the liquid on her face, then reached back into his boat and dragged out a bedraggled jacket. “Better put this on, too, for the long sleeves. You wear a
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