What Lies Beneath

By Michele White

Florida detectives Megan and Lacy get pulled deep into a bizarre murder investigation that has strange ties to a secretive voodoo community while a group of big-money international investors obstructs them at every turn. They move forward against the unknown forces, trying to protect the community they hold so dear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503585003

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A brisk wind whipped through the night, catching Mama La Tia’s brightly colored cotton skirt. The fabric tangled around her legs as she made her way along a footpath through the dense woods. The heavy scent of rain, Jasmine, and earth hung in the air. Gusts of wind jostled the thick layer of ground litter, causing it to dance about in a type of aerial acrobatics, before once again being strewn chaotically on the ground. She remained oblivious to everything but the task at hand.

The air was crisp. Not the biting cold of winter, yet a noticeable change from the intense summer heat. It was the first cool snap of the season. Enough to cause a serious chill to Florida’s year-round residents. Mama La Tia tugged at her cloak, pulling it tighter around her neck and pressed on through the night. Large granddaddy oaks creaked and strained against the increasing gusts. Their massive limbs reached, sprawling in every direction. It gave the impression of outstretched arms, ready to grab hold of any passer-by. On the ground, bushes threatened to overgrow the isolated path. It amplified a sense of vulnerability. Of being a minute entity in a vast universe. Overhead, clouds moved swiftly. An announcement of the coming storm. This was not only expected, but greatly anticipated. Nothing had been left to chance.

Above shown a full moon, intermittently obscured by the passing clouds. At times the path was plunged into an inky darkness, then just as abruptly, it was awash in fleeting white moonlight. It was at these moments, that Mamma La Tia was able to admire the full moon’s splendor. As far as she was concerned, the conditions were perfect. She could feel the energy bubbling around her as she made her way down the path before emerging into a clearing. There she stood silent, in admiration. This was the edge of an ancient cemetery. Before her spread a sea of graves. Some marked by headstones, others with a mere rock or wooden cross. All bore signs of age and neglect. A few were completely lost to time and weather. It didn’t matter. The souls remained. They were the souls of her ancestors. These were her people. This place acted as the vortex of Hoodoo energy of the Queen’s Covenant community. It held a power she sought to control as she practiced a combination of Hoodoo ritual and necromancy. This entailed conjuring up the energy of the dead and this cemetery was the perfect location.

With a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, she set forth amongst the graves. The bag contained articles of a root worker. Everything required to complete the ritual and spell for the evening. Tonight’s evoked dark deeds of black magic. There were times when Mama La Tia questioned the virtue of her client’s requests. Not to their face of course. To them, she remained professional, for her it was more of an inner struggle with personal karma. However, this was how she made a living. She was the community root worker, a conjurer. She could bring about good fortune or initiate torturous bad luck, even death. All could be had for a fee.

In her late fifties, Mama La Tia remained a striking woman. Her skin still smooth and taut, the color of mocha. She was tall, slim and proud. Her eyes the emerald green of her Gullah ancestors. Although people took notice of her elegant looks, it was her skill as conjurer that provided her the real power. That position brought with it a fear and respect from the others in the community. If she was to maintain that elevated status and mystic, she could not go about casting dispersions or judgment on those who sought her gift. Instead she did her best to keep up appearances of being all powerful, nonjudgmental, and carry out every request. However she knew her power ultimately came from their belief and the the energy of the dead.

As a matter of practicality, she hooked the leather strap of the satchel on a low slung limb for easy access. First she removed a large blanket and several black candles. These were placed out carefully. The bracelets that lined her wrists jingled melodically as she went about the task. The wind complicated the candle lighting, but this wasn’t anything new for Mama La Tia. Once lit, the candles were placed in glass jars. Their light flickered and danced in the night, creating haunting shadowy images which came and went like a mirage in the wind.

A large owl remained perched far above, silently watching. Next she removed a small mojo bag filled with a special blend of ground roots, herbs, a chicken bone, and a handful of dirt. The soil had been gathered from the footprint of the client’s enemy. All had been specifically selected for this curse. The victim remained unaware. With expediency, the items were laid out on the blanket. Then the candles arranged along the perimeter of a circle.

Once satisfied all was in order, Mama La Tia began a slow chant. With arms waving, incense sticks in each hand, she began. She had a distinctive sensation of no longer being the only living being in the cemetery. The wind howled through the trees as her keening increased in volume. She swayed back and forth, trancelike, no longer aware of her surroundings as if she was not from this world. Leaves hit her face as they flew through the air. Large masses of Spanish moss fell from high limbs to the ground, landing at her feet. All the animals had long since taken shelter. The storm was ready to hit, but she was not ready to part with the task at hand. Even under the furry of nature; she remained focused on the chant. She was communicating with the dead.

The watchful owl abruptly took flight letting out a screech. It circled once, swooping down at Mama La Tia before disappearing into the woods. As it passed, all the candles went out simultaneously. At that moment Mama La Tia’s eyes snapped open. She felt it, she had communicated. The message had been conveyed to the dead. All that was left for her client was to sit back and wait for the anticipated retribution. As she gathered up the items, the first drops of rain began to fall. By this time, the moon was completely obscured by clouds, but it didn’t matter. It was large, full, and its lunar powers strong. This was the best time to gather grave water. It was a source of energy used in many Hoodoo rituals and spells. She couldn’t pass up an opportunity to replenish her dwindling supply.

After folding up the blanket, Mama La Tia retrieved several Mason jars from the large satchel. These were carefully placed on certain grave markers throughout the small cemetery. With the task complete, she stood back and admired her handy work. What would appear disturbing, if not outright bizarre to most, she found reassuring. This storm was an assurance of a good harvest of a much needed source of powerful energy. With one last pleased look, Mama La Tia pulled her hood over head, grabbed the satchel and retreated through the obscured forest path back home. A few mere yards down the path, an emerging fog enveloped her form in a shroud, effectively making her vanish into the night. She would perform a personal cleansing ritual before she slept; releasing her of the evil she’d placed on an unsuspecting victim. Her conscious would not be so easily cleansed. All power comes with a price.

CHAPTER 1

The sun glinted off an old no trespassing sign as the truck rounded a curve and headed due east. The road was dirt. The sides lined with palmetto and briar patches. The briars were followed by a sea of planted scrub pine. The soil wasn’t rich enough for farming or even a decent weed cover. Areas not coated in fallen pine needles remained exposed sugar sand. All combined, it created an effect of hopeless desperation. Needless to say, it wasn’t a popular choice for a personal domicile. The region was so isolated and remote the government placed a military bombing range here and no one complained.

I sucked in a deep breath of pungent, pine scented air, happy I wasn’t one of the few who had chosen to call this place home. This place being, the Ocala National Forest. Locals refer to it simply as The Forest. It consists of a 380,000 acre expanse of untouched Florida nature between the Ocklawaha and St. Johns rivers with more than 600 lakes, rivers, and streams within its boundaries. Don’t get me wrong, there are large expanses of incredible beauty here, while other areas remain a forlorn vacancy. This road happened to be solidly in the latter part.

As a whole, the Forest is unique. It serves as a valuable water shed with multiple reservoirs which supply Ocala’s vast subterranean aquifer; an underground body of water which traversed the entire county. At ground level, it’s home to the largest contiguous stand of scrub pine left on earth, along with a decent population of black bear, mosquitoes, gnats and rattlesnakes. Despite a certain unique beauty amongst the tall pines and briars, it was one of the harshest environments in Marion County. Under an unrelenting sun, every plant, animal, and insect had to compete for a meager existence. I preferred the rolling open green pastures of the thoroughbred farms in Ocala. Then again, it’s where I live so I admit to some bias.

Are you sure this is the right way? There should have been a turn off by now, Lacy, said, her voice saturated with anxiety.

Not surprising, considering Florida nature wasn’t one of Lacy’s strong suits. I was impressed it’d taken this long before the remote isolation started to unnerve such a diehard city transplant. The Forest was the antithesis of her old stomping grounds of New York City.

You tell me, you’re the one giving directions, I said, giving a sideways glance, aware the remark was needlessly contentious. I didn’t care. I was hot and frustrated. Born and raised in the area, I knew all too well how easily it was to get turned around and lost in the massive expanse of The Forest. We’d been driving for over a half an hour off pavement. I began to have concerns over the reading on the fuel gage. It wasn’t like you could pull over and fill up anywhere and I hadn’t loaded a spare gas can for the trip. It was supposed to be more of a quick in and out.

Lacy shot me a warning look, to which I rolled my eyes in response.

All I’m saying is, this road looks to go nowhere. And when I say road, Lacy said using air quotes, that’s being generous. It’s more like a trek down a dirt path. I bet the pioneer wagon trains heading west had it better.

The point was hard to argue. The Forest held a scramble of lime rock roads and sand trails. The kind in desperate need of a motor grader. It was a place where off road vehicles got stuck more often than not. A situation we were precariously close to experiencing first hand if I didn’t remain focused on driving. It took everything I had not to become another statistic. To make matters worse, there was no cell service anywhere within miles. If we got stuck, we were on our own.

So where exactly do you purpose criminal type scrappers should hang out? Maybe Main and First would suite you better, I said.

No need to get snarky, Lacy shot back, then rechecked the directions.

First and Main was home to the Ocala Police Department Headquarters where we both worked as detectives. A tenuous situation on my part if I didn’t learn to reign in my tongue. At times, mainly when I get grumpy, I tend to display a lack of a judicious filter between my mouth and brain. Things that are OK to think and not say come out at an audible volume. I realize it’s happening, but somehow can’t seem to stop myself. This situation is complicated by the fact that Lacy Andina, besides being my partner, is also my boss. She’s a fair person, but she had limits.

I took a deep breath and tried to get more air to flow through the cab. Normally heat doesn’t bother me, and the day was mild compared to the past few months, but deep in the pines of the Forest the air felt hot and stagnant.

Sorry, I said.

Yeah, no problem. I know you can be a bitch.

It’s just that scum like Little Ray really get to me. They can drag a town down in no time. No new business wants to come to a city with crime. He goes around hitting commercial buildings, stripping the air-conditioner units for the copper wire. It makes us look like a third world country. It’s enough to drive businesses away. Once companies leave, they take the jobs and with no jobs, there’s no future for our town.

I hate to break it to you, but jobs are already scarce, everywhere. Our county isn’t special that way.

That’s my point. This town needs more companies who pay decent wages and offer full time positions. How can we attract prospective companies with high crime statistics? Idiots like Little Ray take us all down, I said.

Maybe it’s like the chicken or the egg question. If they had a good job, people like Little Ray wouldn’t go around stealing scrap, Lacy said, not really paying attention to me.

My reply was an eye roll. Lacy was too busy looking at the map to notice. It didn’t matter, I was preaching to the choir. This is what happens when you spend so much time with the same person. After a while, you know their opinions, their stories, there are no surprises. Lacy tuned me out. I understood, but again, I was born and raised here. Been on the Ocala police force for over six years. I was thoroughly tied to this community. I cared.

My name is Megan Callingham. I’m 30 years old, single, 5 feet 9 inches tall with a build that resembles a flag pole. Top that all off with a mop of unruly red hair and you tend to stand out in a crowd. Toss it all together and you end up being known around town by most everyone. If not on a first name basis, then enough to offer up a smile and hello. It can be either a blessing or a curse, depending on the situation. None the less, the overall effect on me was a solid feeling of belonging.

What the hell, are you running a campaign? Lacy said.

No, just thinking out loud.

Well I agree, but for me I mainly want to get the chief off my back. Little Ray’s causing a big PR problem. The mayor has started to weigh in on the situation. That kind of interest always brings out the unpleasant side of the chief. Something I would personally like to avoid, since he turns around and takes it out on me, Lacy said.

She rode shot gun and had gotten directions from an iPhone until we went off pavement miles ago. With no signal, she shifted to the official printed map of the Ocala National Forest. Although a map seemed logical, The Forest was notorious for unmarked dirt roads and vast uncharted areas. This made the map a more useful source of fire kindling than practical directions. Then there was the cumbersome size in the confines of the small cab of my antiquated Ford 150 pick-up. Lacy’s expression reflected frustration. It didn’t look promising.

The chief’s worried this thing with Little Ray is drug related, She added.

Ocala was growing. That meant an increase in crime. The sale of illicit drugs was a part of that equation. Our community was not immune to the ills of the world. Still, I doubted Little Ray’s motive was simply to get his next fix, or make a quick sale.

The guy’s too squirrelly. He’s into too many business deals to be a user. Users aren’t that organized. Nor do they cover their tracks that well. He’s been elusive; always leaves a space between him and the crime so there’s no direct connection. At least nothing that would hold up in court. If this was about drugs, it would have to be bigger than Little Ray. More like organized crime and I’m not getting that vibe.

Lacy offered a shoulder shrug and continued to fold and refold the map. Organized crime makes it sound worse. If he was simply a victim of addiction, the case would be easier to handle. But I have to agree, it doesn’t have the feel.

I became irritated by her wrestling around with the stupid map. It was loud and annoying. More than that, I hated the idea of drugs or organized crime in our community. Despite growth and the connection to the world via the Internet, our town retained a small town feel. People still knew and cared for their neighbors. I didn’t want that to erode.

You realize that map is useless don’t you? I snapped, filter disengaged.

Then why print them? Lacy said, equally agitated.

She had a point. I tried to be more sympathetic.

Well whatever his story, Little Ray’s a thorn in my side. He’s been vandalizing high dollar generators and AC units. The chief is catching heat from the mayor and passing it along to me, Lacy said.

Some scrappers actually serve a necessary community service by picking up abandoned debris or trashed items. It’s kind of like recycling. It eases the burden on the landfill.

Yeah, the guy’s a real prince. An asset to our community, Lacy said.

I was about to return the sarcasm when the steering tugged hard to the side catching me off guard. With the threat of the front right tire getting buried in sand, I refocused my efforts on driving. It was all I could do to navigate and keep us out of the ditch.

God they need to get a motor grader on this road, I said in exasperation.

That copper wiring in the twenty grand AC units, on those commercial buildings didn’t need to be recycled. And that wasn’t the first place they hit either. If you add all the vacant homes that have been vandalized, you end up with a substantial amount of damage. That’s hardly an enhancement to our town, Lacy continued.

I wasn’t defending him. I was just saying, not all scrapper people are lacking morals. Besides, we can’t get ahead of ourselves. We don’t know for certain Little Ray was involved. We’re only here to ask a few questions, I said, taking an odd role. Usually it was Lacy who was the one to rein me in.

Lacy gave up on the map and looked out the window at the desolate landscape. You’re right about this road. Maybe that’s why he lives out here. It’s not as if we can routinely cruise by his place to keep an eye on him, Lacy said.

I’d already had similar thoughts, yet didn’t chime in. It was enough keeping the truck moving forward.

In many ways, Lacy and I we’re opposites. She’s a couple years older, a good half foot shorted, curvier in a way that attracted men like flies to honey and very much a city gal. She came from a long line of New York City cops. She was content to follow suit and live out her life in the Big Apple. But as with many best laid plans, things didn’t work out as expected. When she wasn’t looking, her personal life imploded. Funny how that can happen when you’re too busy helping everyone else. In the mist of the turmoil, she decided to make a fresh start. That landed her here in Florida.

At the time of the transfer request, she was under emotional duress from a cheating fiancée and enamored by the delusion that all of Florida was comprised of sunny beaches and buff male lifeguards. By the time the ink dried and the dust settled, she plopped down here with a thud. Reality can be a bitch.

The steering tugged again as we rounded another bend. The deep sand threatened to suck the tires under. Not far ahead sat a dilapidated mobile home. It was an older model, a single wide that had seen better days, but I doubted it started out all that impressive. It was situated on piles of precariously stacked concrete blocks and lacked underpinning or adornment of any kind. In lieu of curtains, beach towels hung in the windows, long since faded by the sun. The only indication the trailer hadn’t been abandoned was a large pile of garbage which appeared to be actively growing, creeping closer to the front door. So much for the recycling theory and beautifying America.

This has got to be it, I said with mixed emotion. On the one hand, I was glad we didn’t have to drive any farther under such horrendous conditions. However the place didn’t throw off any happy vibes.

How can anyone live like this? Can you imagine what a headache it would be just to run to the grocery store? And what about the kids getting to school? It’s clear a school bus couldn’t make it down that road, Lacy said.

Do they have kids? I asked. The question didn’t come from any great concern over the children’s transportation needs. I wanted to know what we might be walking into. Kids would decidedly be a complication.

I don’t have any solid information. Don’t know how many residents, age or gender, nada. Evidently the census people did make it out here.

Same goes for the trash pickup and code enforcement, I said.

Aside from household garbage, there was an equal amount of debris generously scattered about the property. I scanned the terrain, looking for a safe place to park. I didn’t want to get a flat from all the broken glass and rusted metal. Nor did I want to make myself an easy target. It had been my experience, people who lived this far off the beaten path weren’t the social type. Their reasons might vary, but privacy was universally valued. We’d yet to identify ourselves as law enforcement, which made us fair game for target practice. I spotted a pad of grass behind a lone tree that suited the situation perfectly.

Word on the street says Little Ray lives here with his old lady, Lacy said and did air quotes.

So how do you want to handle this? I asked.

Little Ray wasn’t prone to violent crimes, but he had been known to pull a gun or knife if fate didn’t rule in his favor. He wasn’t particularly cunning, yet remained wily enough to evade apprehension several times. Not exactly a confidence booster for local law enforcement. Then again, we had to abide by the law. Little Ray tended not to let such impediments hinder his decision making. He did whatever suited at the moment. Toss in a penchant for felonious tendencies, and he was a wild card. It seemed prudent to remain aware and vigilant on our approach.

We’re only here to ask a few questions, Lacy said.

He doesn’t know that.

Good point. I’ll do the talking, you keep your eyes open, cover my back, Lacy said and strode off.

With a bad feeling about the situation, I fought to maintain a positive attitude and trotted a few steps behind. We got no more than a few yards before the screen door to the trailer flew open, slamming against the aluminum siding. A woman, who I assumed to be Little Ray’s ‘old lady’, stuck her head out, unsmiling.

Whatever you’re selling, we ain’t buying.

In lieu of a shotgun, she held a lit cigarette in one hand and a Budweiser in the other. Her hair color looked like a science experiment gone awry. It wasn’t even a close attempt at a naturally occurring human hue. The left side hung limply against her neck, while the rest sat tenuously pinned atop her head. Can we say Bed Head?

Sorry to bother, Lacy said.

The woman tried to focus. Her outfit consisted of a worn T-shirt that said ‘Let’s Party’. It was stained and disheveled, as were her shorts. You had to give her credit for matching. The sun created a harsh display of wrinkles and splotches, but her body had yet to acquire the full force of middle age spread and sags. I would have assumed we’d woken her from a nap if it hadn’t been for the contents in her hands. This also led me to believe her lifestyle wasn’t helping her inner beauty to thrive. The overall effect made it hard to pin down an age, but if pressed, I’d ball park her in her middle to late thirties.

Lacy flashed a badge and announced our intentions of having a conversation.

The woman stepped forward allowing the door to freely slam shut behind her with another loud bang. After a long pull on her cigarette she eyeballed us from head to toe as she blew out the smoke, couching her elbow with the other arm.

You got a warrant?

The remaining smoke seeped out from her nose and mouth as she spoke. It wasn’t a good look. But I kept the thought to myself for once. Instead I smiled, and said, Now that’s not being very friendly.

Lacy shot me a quick look. A reminder as to our agreement that she was the one doing the talking and I was the set of eyes. I didn’t argue. The woman was unpleasant enough to scare away roaches. I gave a nod and stood to the side, doing a discreet visual of the property. Near my feet sat a chicken bucket with bones and half eaten leg sticking out. The container was knocked on its side, the half eaten food spilled out onto the ground. The base visibly saturated in grease. An army of ants actively undertook the task of cleanup. Good for them.

I ain’t got nothing to say to no Cops. Little Ray ain’t here. I don’t know where he’d done run off to.

It sounded a little too pat to believe. We’d yet to mention Little Ray. It reminded me of a two year old declaring they hadn’t stolen the cookie before being accused. I sensed this woman had cookie all over her face. With no vehicle in sight, it seemed reasonable enough that Little Ray was indeed out. Yet I suspected she knew darn well where he was and what he was up to. The problem was, getting her to share. She didn’t strike me as the type looking to make friends on the fly. I left Lacy to handle it.

You have a name? Lacy asked.

She moved her eyes slowly over Lacy until she settled on an eye to eye stare. Maybe considering if it was worth the fight. Cinderella, she finally offered.

OK Cinderella, or now that we’re friends, I’ll call you Cindy. When was the last time your prince charming was here?

Again with the stare. Her eyes drilled into Lacy and Lacy gave it back as good as she got. After a few beats Cindy wavered. He was here early this morning. Said he was going fishing with a friend. That’s all I know. Little Ray don’t report to me.

This friend have a name?

Since the two seemed to be getting on so well, I took advantage of the opportunity to widen my search radius. It wasn’t as if I expected to find a horde of copper wire or generator parts, but you never know. Unfortunately, Cindy wasn’t as oblivious to my actions as I’d thought, and wasn’t keen on my snooping.

Hey you, Red, you stay put right where you are.

I’m trying to have a conversation here, Lacy said, in an attempt to distract Cindy’s attention away from me and back onto her.

What the hell she think she’s doing? You said you ain’t got no warrant. This said while looking directly at me and not in a friendly way. Cindy had been to this rodeo before.

I’m admiring your landscaping theme, looking for ideas for my place, I shot back. Maybe not the nicest thing to say, but I doubted anything would have helped. She was getting on my nerves and it appeared the feeling was mutual. Apparently we weren’t destined to be best friends.

This friend of Little Ray, does he have a name? Lacy pressed, vying for Cindy’s attention.

Whether Cindy was in need of another beer, cigarette, or just waiting on her rat carriage, she wanted us gone, and quick. She’d apparently had enough neighborly company.

Skeeter Hobbs. And don’t ask me where he lives ’cause I don’t know and I don’t care, She said.

With that she flicked her cigarette butt at Lacy and disappeared back into the trailer. Once again allowing the screen door to slam shut. But this time it was followed by the sound of a more formidable door being closed, then locks being engaged.

The cigarette butt laid at Lacy’s feet, the burning ember still a glow. She looked down and snubbed it out with a foot. Seems that living out here, you’d be more aware of the dangers of forest fires.

I shrugged my shoulders. And here I was hoping she’d invite us in for tea and cookies.

Doesn’t look that way. I’ll have to fight back the disappointment, Lacy quipped.

We both picked our way back through the clutter and trash to the truck. Once buckled in I pointed the truck back toward civilization. All and all, that went better than expected, I said.

Lacy made a sound in between a humph and a snort. I don’t know how you can be pleased with that exchange. The woman was about as cooperative as a cat getting a bath. Little Ray was nowhere to be seen, and we wasted over an hour’s time driving here.

Lacy looked out the window at the bleak landscape, obviously upset. She had a reputation as a tough interrogator. She could tell when someone was lying or holding back. It wasn’t as if Cindy had gotten the better of her. None the less, she hadn’t been intimidated and given up information either. Lacy took it personally. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

At least we snagged a name, she said with a sigh.

That’s not all we got, I said, with a mischievous grin.

CHAPTER 2

What are you talking about? Lacy asked. We’re riding in the same vehicle, so I know you were at the same residence. All I got was attitude.

While you were exchanging pleasantries with the princess, I spotted something of interest in the trash pile about her prince.

Lovely. So now aside from Budweiser being their beer of choice, we know what brand of cereal they prefer, and their favorite take-out? That practically solves the case.

I ignored the sarcasm.

Oh ye of little faith, this is way better than trivial background information. That pile of trash appeared to be a work in progress of long standing. At minimum, I figure it would take months to generate that kind of accumulation from two people. And just as an aside, it doesn’t appear as if they have any children. There were no used juice box containers or no snack packs. You know, the kind of things one usually associates with kids. This I drew from my experience sitting for my sister’s two boys, both under age ten.

Up until now I’ve seriously underestimated your trash interpretation skills. Good to know about the kids though. Because some people shouldn’t reproduce. Just the same, the information isn’t as exciting as you seem to think, Lacy said.

With a headshake, I continued, It gets better. From where I was standing I could see a side of the pile you couldn’t. There was a shovel propped against the trailer with what appeared to be very recent kitchen garbage leaning against the blade. What makes it so interesting is the name Phos-Cal Mine was clearly stenciled on the wooden handle.

Lacy looked on blankly for a few beats, the significance not registering. Without further comment she seemed to dismiss me and spun back around, facing forward. I watched as she retrieved her phone and began to fiddle with it, in an attempt to get a signal. Irritated by how easily she’d dismissed the observation, I didn’t bother to inform her of the futility of the effort. There would be no cell reception until a few miles after we hit the paved road.

The fresh kitchen trash against the shovel blade indicated the shovel was recently used. It had been placed there no more than a day or two ago.

Well if it was an attempt to clean up, they have a hell of a long way to go.

It was then I realized the problem. Lacy had lived here little more than a year and remained unfamiliar with certain aspects of the community at large. Phos-Cal Mines is one of the largest phosphate mines in America and it happens to have a branch here, in Marion County, I said.

This seemed to vie for her attention over a phone with zero bars for reception. There’s a phosphate mine in this county?

There’s more than one. I’m not sure how many remain currently up and running, but at one time there were several active mines. This region was known as Bone Valley. Others use the nickname, the phosphate district. It has to do with the same subterranean geological structure that allows the aquifer to exist. Phos-Cal along with other mines dotted throughout the surrounding counties supply more than 80% of the nations phosphate needs and 30% of the world’s phosphate.

OK, you’ve got my attention and I have to admit I’m surprised. When I think of mining it brings about images of diamonds or coal. You know, valuable minerals or fuel sources trapped in rock buried deep below the earth’s surface. So I don’t understand how mining can exist here in Florida. There isn’t any deep underground. You hit water after a few feet. In some places inches. As you mentioned, the county is sitting on a giant aquifer. Houses can’t have basements. I can’t see mining for anything without hitting water right off, Lacy said.

I was no expert on any aspect of the mining industry, but had seen enough abandoned local mines to know Lacy had a point. Once abandoned, a mine quickly filled with water. They became popular swimming holes for teens. Locations for cave divers to practice.

Just the same, mining is big business in Florida. It’s gone on since the Native Americans. They mined the limestone and used the chert for tools and weapons. Then the Spanish took it up when they arrived in the 1500’s. As far as modern commercial mining goes, it began in earnest around the turn of the century. I think the year 1889. That first mine was in Dunellon.

Lacy looked at me as if I had two heads. So now along with trash interpretive skills you’re telling me you know an abundance of useless mining trivia? I’m not seeing how any of this is useful in wrapping up the case against the scrappers and the air conditioning units.

Phos-Cal Mines has a branch in Marion County. Most of the phosphate in this area is close to the surface. That makes it attractive for commercial mining because it’s cheaper. They don’t have to go down so far. Many places use strip mining. Others do actually dig, and the depth varies. However, none approach the depth of the mines you mentioned for coal, gold, or diamonds. Those can go down several miles in the earth. But with depth comes increased expense and danger.

Seriously, how do you know so much about this anyway?

Everybody who grows up here has to do a history project on it in the 10th grade. Plus I had a good friend in high school who’s dad worked at the local Phos-Cal mine and my dad did a few plumbing jobs out there and brought me along."

I read the paper and never heard of a local mine. If it has the economical impact you imply, why wouldn’t it ever be mentioned in the paper? Lacy said.

The economical impact is significant. All total for the state, it accounts for nearly 2 billion dollars in production a year. Mainly limestone and dolomite which are used in road construction, but there are other minerals that remain important commercially like phosphate.

What is phosphate even used for?

Primarily for the manufacturing of fertilizer, but higher quality vanes, which are common around here are also used in the manufacturing of things like toothpaste, soft drinks, detergents and cleaners. It’s surprising how much stuff it’s in, when you start reading labels.

Still doesn’t explain why I’ve never heard anything about it before now. I find that odd, Lacy said.

The main reason is, they try to keep a low profile. Plus, since the nature of what they are after tends to be in sinkhole prone areas, the mines remain away from high density housing areas. In essence, they’re off the beaten path and out of sight. They tend to make bad neighbors.

Why’s that?

To gain access to the veins of minerals, they use blasting. Most mines have a buffer zone of unused property between them and everyone else. However more recently there are environmental concerns. The veins of minerals are intricately involved with the same structure as the aquifer. Blasting raises concerns for some as to the potential of contaminating the water supply.

Sounds like a valid concern. But you’re saying they play by out of sight, out of mind?

For the most part. The people who live closest still complain about the blasting and use of dynamite, but they’re outnumbered at the voting polls. The paper tends to keep their complaints out of the print.

Got to love small towns and all the cronyism, Lacy quipped.

They do provide a fair number of good paying jobs, I said, knowing it sounded lame.

And you have to remember, the mines were here before the majority of developments came by a good decade or more. It’s hard to complain your house is next to something you don’t like when it was there prior to your purchase.

I pulled out onto an actual paved road, relieved to be out of the forest and its treacherous driving conditions. I rolled my shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension in my muscles.

Not sure how this ties in with the shovel and Little Ray, Lacy said

The shovel was new and currently being used. It was from the active Phos-Cal mine. It was on Little Ray’s property.

So he stole a shovel. Still not feeling the excitement.

Granted it looks like an incidence of petty theft, but my gut tells me it’s more, I said.

He might have worked there at one time and accidently left it in his truck. Or someone he knew might have taken it and somehow it ended up at his place. I doubt we could prove anything. Even if we did, big whoop. Heck for all we know, Phos-Cal might have given it to him for some reason, Lacy said.

I doubt any of those possibilities played out, but I’m not interested in going after him for petty theft. I have no doubt Little Ray nabbed the shovel and that it happened recently. The stencil was clear and crisp. Plus, the way the trash was piled around it, that shovel was placed there no more than a few days ago, maybe even yesterday.

Again, so what? Lacy said.

Remember my high school mining project? I’ve spent some time out at the local Phos-Cal mine. That place has huge generators, crushing and sifting equipment, several outbuildings, plus the main office. All structures have commercial air exchange units. Phos-Cal Mines is a big operation.

Lacy thought about this for a moment before a smile played across her lips. You’re thinking Little Ray was out there casing the mine for items he could sell for scrap. That’s when he got his hands on the shovel?

Exactly. So if we know his plan is to hit the mine next, we can be ready and catch him in the act. It would make our lives a whole lot easier.

And if we caught him in the act, he might plea out and confess to the other crimes in exchange for a lighter sentence, Lacy said, leaning back in the seat. I like it.

A few miles onto the main highway on the way back to town, our phones began to chirp announcing missed calls and awaiting messages. We were back on the grid, I said, and scrolled through my calls.

Great, I need to call the station, Lacy said, doing a scan and evaluating the pertinence of the missed calls.

Augh, I groaned.

What’s up?

I have 8 missed calls, 7 from Beth.

My parents are deceased and I have two siblings, both older making me the baby of the family. My brother Nate is a local school teacher, married with no kids. I guess he gets enough of the younger crowd at work. We get along, but he tends to keep to himself. My sister Beth and I are much closer, but our relationship is far from smooth sailing. She’s married to a peanut farmer and they live on our family farm. The same place where we were raised and only a few miles from my current digs. They have 2 young boys who I adore, and a menagerie of pets. Our conflicts usually stem from the fact my sister likes to treat me as her third child. Needless to say, this doesn’t sit well with me and leads to a repeat of the same argument over and over.

Whatever it is, it must be important to her, you better call or she’ll keep pestering you, Lacy said, a phone to her ear as she waited to be patched through.

Lacy was right. This was typical Beth. A little over a year ago my sister went into business for herself. Lacy played a large role in the decision and in general, it has worked out for the best. Beth now owns, manages and works at the Sunshine Bakery and Cafe on the square in downtown Ocala. It was the perfect melding of her various talents and baking skills. It also provided her with a purpose outside the family and she makes many locals happy, myself and Lacy included.

To say the place keeps her hopping would be a grand understatement. I know she wouldn’t trade it for the world. Just the same, at times Beth gets herself into a bind and calls on me for back-up. I don’t mind helping out, but there have been occasions when she seems to ignore the fact I actually have my own life. Bottom line, Beth refuses to take my job seriously. To her it’s passing time until I meet Mr. Right, get married and finally settle down. She’s also quick to mention my biological clock is running out.

She say what’s so important? Lacy asked.

Let me listen to the messages, I said and zipped through all 7. No, she just wants me to call her immediately. I assume she’s in one of her binds, I added, not particularly alarmed. With Beth, this could mean anything from a shortage of sugar to the boy’s needing a ride home from soccer practice. At times, my sister can be a bit of a drama queen.

Wow, she left a message with me too, Lacy said, looking over at me while she listened to the voice mail. Says you’ve been ignoring her calls and for me to have you call her ASAP. Might as well do it now, she sounded kind of flustered.

I took the advice and dialed.

Hello, Megan? What took you so long? Didn’t you get any of my messages?, Beth said.

Yes, I’m fine, thanks for asking, and you? I responded, already irritated. This is how it often goes between the two of us. We love each other, but she has a way of pushing my buttons.

Seriously Megan, I hope you respond to public calls faster than this. What if I was having a heart attack?

I took a deep breath and mentally counted to three. What can I do for you Beth?

I need you to stop by the cafe as soon as possible.

I looked at my watch. It was half past one and I was famished. OK, I’ll be there in a bit.

Now wouldn’t be soon enough. There’s been a murder, Beth said.

I choked on my own spit. What?

You heard me. I’ve been calling you all morning. I asked you to call me immediately.

We’ll be right there, I said, tossed the phone down and gave the truck some gas.

CHAPTER 3

I pulled into the station and parked in the normal spot. At this time of day there was no point searching for a space on the square, and I didn’t want to get in the way of the emergency vehicles responding to the murder. Once parked, Lacy and I hoofed it, practically at a jog. As the cafe came in view, I was surprised by the normalcy. The place appeared to be business as usual. I’d expected a congregation of onlookers, an ambulance, some degree of chaos. The usual commotion which accompanies the sudden loss of a life.

This seems off, Lacy said, putting voice to my thoughts.

A flicker of apprehension whispered in the fringe of my mind. We were dealing with Beth. A woman prone toward the dramatic. Even an occasional tendency to exaggerate or bend the truth to get me to do her bidding. Yet I couldn’t believe Beth would stoop so low. She had used the word murder. People didn’t exaggerate or confuse being hurt with death. Murder added another ominous dimension that even death didn’t hold. Death, although sad, was most often completely innocent. Certainly my sister wouldn’t be so flippant as to claim a murder just to get us to the cafe in record time. All she had to do for that was offer fresh baked cookies or a blueberry muffin. I really am that easy.

At the door we had to step aside to let a group of patrons leave. They were talking and laughing, no sign of distress. Again, not the norm for a murder scene. Inside, I spotted Lessie May working the counter. She was an older woman who remained my sister’s one and only employee. She was a stabilizing rock to my sister’s peevish and at times, borderline neurotic personality. Together the two of them ran the place, baked everything fresh that was sold in the cafe along with a fair amount of catering and special orders.

Lessie May looked up with her usual smile, gave a tiny nod in acknowledgement, then went back to making a sandwich. I don’t care how stoic a person is normally, murder is enough to upset anyone’s applecart. Yet, Lessie May was calm and steady, her normal self. Something wasn’t adding up. I looked around for my sister and came up empty. The place was winding down from the main lunch rush, but several customers remained creating a pleasant buzz of friendly conversation and light laughter.

Beth must be in the back, I said, walking straight through with purpose. I had to admit I was already angry for being played. Lacy followed close behind.

My sister was busy taking a pan of cookies out of the oven. I scanned the room looking for a body, and saw nothing. I could feel my temper rise and fought to maintain control. It never did any good to get into it with Beth. She always had a reason for her actions. A empress of rationalization. What was even more disturbing, was normally, I could follow the reasoning. Scary stuff.

After a deep calming breath I spoke up. Hello Beth, We’re here.

Evidently she hadn’t seen us walk in and the sound of my voice so close gave her a start. She jumped, resulting in a burnt finger from the hot cookie sheet.

My God Megan what are you trying to do, give me a heart attack? She went to the sink and stuck her injured hand under cold running water.

I’m sorry, but I could ask the same of you. You said there’d been a murder. I don’t see any dead body, I said in a clipped but surprisingly even voice.

Lacy eyed the tray of fresh baked cookies, already moving on from what appeared to be a false alarm. A more resilient person in regards to my sister’s antics.

Beth dried her hands on a towel and looked at me