The attorney swiveled to me. “Have you heard of the place?”
I said, “I think so, but I can’t remember the context. The Langfords were early Florida cattlemen. But Cadence isn’t a common name here… Or I could be confusing the two.”
“I meant the house,” he said. “About four years ago, a hack reality show called Vortex Hunters did a segment on the place. And the idiotic lien holders played along. Lots of eerie night footage and contrived research about murders and suicides, and negative energy-that sort of thing. It’s true that Charles Cadence was murdered or committed suicide way, way back-the TV show hinted that his wife killed him or hired a Florida gangster. A later owner also died there. But-”
“Was this during Prohibition?” I asked. I was interested because I’d read that mobsters from New York and Chicago had operated out of the area. I mentioned Al Capone, but drew a blank on other names.
The interruption derailed the attorney, but he handled it with patience. “No, I think the TV writers invented their own gangster. He was a Bonnie-and-Clyde type. A guy who’d been raised in the swamps, knew how to live off the land-that was their angle-which is why the cops couldn’t catch him. But, as I was saying-”
“I bet it was John Ashley,” I said.
“John who?
I repeated the name but didn’t explain that John Ashley had been a real person. He had murdered and robbed and traveled with a girlfriend. I knew about Ashley because he had been born near Sanibel and there were rumors concerning him and one of my great-aunts.
“Ashley…” the attorney said, trying to recall, then decided it was unimportant. “The point is, show me a hundred-year-old house where someone hasn’t died. That would be unusual. Television cares about ratings; screw the facts. So they staged a reenactment-the psycho gangster, blood on the walls, children screaming-all that sort of nonsense… But we’re getting off topic. Here’s the real problem…”
The man clicked open another file while Birdy aimed a sarcastic grin at me. “A haunted house. Let’s do a sleepover. We can make s’mores and sing ‘Kumbaya.’”
From your lips to God’s ears-a favorite expression of an old fisherman friend, Cordial Pallet. Little did we know.
The computer screen changed. Multiple photos: a rusted cannon partially exhumed, a close-up of several clay tobacco pipes, a brass button stamped CSA, chunks of spent lead, a rusted stirrup that appeared too tiny for a man’s foot.
CSA: Confederate States of America.
The attorney explained, “These were found on the property. Mostly near the creek and the house, but some other sites, too. Turns out, they’re all Civil War period. Before the state will issue permits, due diligence requires a long list of surveys-flora and fauna, water quality, that sort of thing. In this case, an archaeological survey turned up the things you’re looking at. From what I’ve read, there were only five or six significant battles in Florida. North Florida, mostly, so I can’t blame Mrs. B for not anticipating the mess she’s now in. But here’s what put the brakes on the whole project.” He reached for the mouse and clicked again.
A human skull, jaw missing. Like the cannon, only partially exhumed. Close-ups of three brass buttons stamped with eagles. Then another excavated spot containing two skulls, a human pelvis, and several femurs, the bones black from age or fire.
Birdy, who has a master’s in law enforcement and a minor in archaeology, sat forward. “Oh my god.”
The man, however, was fixed on my reaction. I told him, “So far, this is interesting. Some of my relatives fought in the Civil War-for the North and the South. And John Ashley, he was famous in this area. No, infamous would be the word.”
“Part of your family is from the North?”
“No. All Floridians, but it wasn’t unusual to be on different sides. And one of my great-uncles was a blockade-runner. His papers are stored in my mother’s attic. I’ll dig them out, if you want.”
The attorney said, “I like the way you think,” but my friend, Birdy, didn’t get it.
I explained. “Back then only a few hundred people lived in this part of Florida. It’s possible my great-uncle knew Charles Cadence. The Brazilian, too, maybe. When we get home, I’ll see what I can find.” I paused, then asked the man, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He knew more about me than he had revealed, that’s why. Embarrassed, he glanced down, jotted some notes on a pad, and said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” then talked about the photos. “Archaeologists now suspect the acreage owned by Mrs. B was the site of a battle that historians thought took place near Orlando. Brief but very bloody. Or that they’ve found a battle site that didn’t make the history books. More of an extended skirmish than a battle, they think. Their guess is extrapolated from the number of artifacts found over X amount of surface area-some sort of damn formula they use. Worse, they also suspect the house might have been built on or near a field cemetery.”
The man sighed and said to Birdy, “No way your aunt could’ve seen this coming. They’ve brought in a supposed expert. Until his team’s done, the development project is dead in the water. We’re talking years, not months-possibly never.”
Birdy asked several questions before I said, “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”
The man opened a drawer and placed a file on the desk. “Because Mrs. B asked me to, I did a search on you. I’ve confirmed that you’re a state-licensed and -bonded private investigator. But with almost no experience, from the number of reports you filed with the state.”
“I never claimed otherwise,” I replied. “It was my uncle’s agency.”
The man nodded and waited.
“My uncle was a sheriff’s detective before he started chartering. He had wealthy fishing clients who hired new staff every season. They often needed background checks done, so it was a handy license to have. I worked in his office during junior college, which I didn’t finish-as I’m sure you already know.” The last part came out sharper than I intended.
“No need to get defensive,” the attorney said. “You’re a friend of the family. We trust you. So Mrs. B wants you to help with an idea I came up with. It’s a long shot. But the more I think about, maybe not such a long shot after all.” He swiveled around, opened the folder, and handed us each a sheet of paper. “This will help you understand.”
The document had to do with real estate laws.
Disclosure laws vary from state to state, but Florida does not require sellers or agents to disclose homicide, suicide, deaths, or past diagnosis of communicable diseases to buyers. However, Florida law does forbid Realtors from selling “stigmatized properties” without full disclosure. A stigmatized property is defined as a structure or parcel of land where real or rumored events occurred that do not physically affect the property but can adversely impact its monetary value…
Several phrases were highlighted in yellow. The attorney recited them without having to refresh his memory by looking. “Real or rumored events that can adversely impact a property’s value. Note the wording. Think about the Vortex episode. A lot of people saw it. Presumably, there are potential buyers and neighbors, too, who actually believe the property is stigmatized. Haunted, cursed, bad karma-the house scares people, in other words. The seller didn’t disclose that to me or Mrs. B at closing. He also didn’t disclose the fact that a Civil War battle took place there, that it’s possibly even the site of a field cemetery. Did he know or didn’t he? Well, the fact is, it doesn’t matter. The seller sure as hell knew about the TV show. Superstitious baloney or not, I’m convinced this is Mrs. B’s way out.”