Bad Hair Day 7 - Dead Roots Read Online Free PDF Page A

timbre. “He bought thirty-five hundred acres and planted sugarcane, Sea Island cotton, and citrus. At his peak, he owned three hundred slaves. In 1924 a hurricane caused extensive damage, and it required too much money to rebuild. His son sold the property to Andrew Marks.
    “When Marks took over, he decided to change the place into a winter retreat for vacationing northerners. That’s when he built the main hotel. I’m going to show you the earlier structures: the sugar mill, some tabby slave cabins, Planter’s House, where Rutfield resided with his family, and the conservatory.”
    The social director smiled. “I highly recommend the Sugar Garden Restaurant adjacent to the greenhouse for afternoon tea. It has a delightful view of the formal gardens. When you get a chance, check out our renovated structures. The movie theater is now housed in the former barn, and the steakhouse is located where horses once lived. The barbecued ribs are astounding .”
    “Yo, Marla,” hissed Joan. “Have you set a date?”
    “What?”
    “When are you getting married? I’ll have to reserve the day on my calendar.”
    Marla glanced at Vail’s stern profile. He’d stepped apart from the women, but Rochelle still dogged his footsteps. His expression told her he was trying hard, but failing, to pretend interest in the historical monologue. “We’re, uh, still coordinating our schedules.”
    “You’re not going to tie the knot at the same synagogue where you wed Stan, are you?”
    “I doubt it. Dalton isn’t Jewish.”
    Joan’s eyes widened at the same time her parents, hovering within listening distance, gave a collective gasp.
    Marla turned her head toward Champagne, whose finger pointed to a small pile of shells on the ground.
    “The Indians who lived here harvested shellfish for food,” the blonde stated. ‘They piled empty oyster shells into four-foot-high mounds known as middens. Early builders used this material to make a primitive form of concrete called tabby. Ten bushels each of shells, lime, and sand were mixed with ten barrels of water to make sixteen cubic feet of wall. Planter’s House is constructed of this material, with walls nearly two feet thick. You can still see the tiny holes from spreader pins that held the wooden forms where the liquid tabby dried.”
    She paused. “Unfortunately, Rutfield disregarded local traditions by erecting his house on hallowed ground. In so doing, he eradicated an Indian burial mound, and the land has been cursed ever since.”

Chapter Three
    “You wanted to know about ghost stories,” Champagne said to Marla, leading the group down a path toward jutting stone ruins. ‘We’ve had various incidents reported that have no clear explanation. The paranormal team that’s here this weekend might be able to shed light on them. Personally, I think the hauntings are real.”
    “Do the stories relate to Rutfield or to his successor, Andrew Marks?” Marla asked, watching her footing over sandy ground sprinkled with fallen pine cones, dead branches, and the occasional stray coconut. As they approached the sugar mill, pines gave way to trees more typical of a tropical hammock: malaleucas and cabbage palms, sapadillos and seagrapes. The smell of decay weighted the air.
    “You’ll hear different tales regarding both men, plus some other strange things. Follow me.”
    A dozen construction workers, swarthy men wearing stained clothing and weary expressions, trudged past toward an open field. Although the outbuildings must have been in different stages of renovation, Marla hadn’t noticed the annoying buzz of saws or whine of drills. Instead, bird songs and the distant swish of waves reached her ears. Since it was a holiday weekend, why weren’t the men at home with their families?
    At the ruins, Champagne paused to bounce on her feet. She waited until the laborers receded in the distance before continuing her spiel. “People have seen a lady in a long white gown roaming these