His immediate thought was that this couldn’t be the same woman who had approached the kids on the beach.
Martha Tyler was tiny, no more than five feet. She was also eighty, if she was a day. She had brilliant, sparkling blue eyes and couldn’t have weighed ninety pounds soaking wet. Despite that, she didn’t look frail. Her hair was snow-white and smoothed back in a bob.
“Yes, I’m Caleb Anderson,” he said, thinking that this was a complete waste of time. She clearly wasn’t the woman he was looking for. “I’m awfully sorry,” he began.
She cut him off pleasantly. “Come in, come in. You’ve come this far, young man. If you’ve changed your mind about a reading, that’s just fine. Have some cookies and tea, anyway.”
She drew him into the living room, and talk about Grandma’s house…
As she steered him to a seat on a quilt-strewn sofa, he told her, “Ms. Tyler, I have to be honest with you. I’m a private investigator. I’m here because your name was given to me by a young woman when I was questioning her about the disappearance of another girl. I believe someone is impersonating you.”
“Please, call me Martha,” the woman said. “I can only imagine this has to do with all the terrible troubles going on up in St. Augustine?”
“Yes.”
She was heading for the kitchen. “What is your pleasure, young man? Coffee, tea? I’m fond of tea myself, and I’ve just brewed a pot, but don’t let that stop you from asking for something else.”
“Tea is fine.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she told him.
She disappeared into the kitchen but returned quickly with a tray holding two kinds of cookies—not just chocolate chip, but shortbread cookies, as well—and an old teapot with a cozy wrapped around it, along with cups and saucers. She set the tea tray down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, took a seat in a huge wingback chair and began to pour the tea.
“I do love tea,” she told him. “Not just drinking it but serving it. It’s such a pleasant old custom. In our world today, everyone is moving at the speed of light. It’s nice just to take time in the afternoon to sit down with a pot of brewed tea. Sugar? Milk?”
“No sugar, and just a drop of milk, please,” he told her, leaning forward, anxious to waste as little time as possible.
And she seemed to be aware of it. Though her eyes were on the tea service, she was wearing a small, patient smile.
She handed him his cup and said, “So now you’re worried that someone’s using my name.” She leaned back and sipped her tea. “You must have a cookie. I couldn’t call myself a proper hostess if I let you out of here without tasting one of my fresh-baked cookies,” she told him, her patient smile more obvious.
To his own surprise, he blushed. “I’m sorry. I don’t intend to be rude, but several girls are missing, as you know, and yesterday we found a body. I’m not sure how much you know, though there’s been a fair bit written in the papers and on the news.”
“I read about it on the Internet first, actually,” she told him, then added, when his eyes widened, “even we old folks have discovered the Internet, you know.”
He blushed again and started to apologize, but she waved him to silence and went on.
“Let me tell me you what I know, and then you can tell me if you think I can help you,” she said.
“I don’t think this is a matter for a palm reading,” he said.
“I didn’t intend to read your palm. And I didn’t suggest that my help would be of the spiritual kind. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped patronizing me?”
“I’m sorry,” he assured her. “I don’t know why I—”
He broke off, startled, when she took his teacup and set it down, then put her hands on his cheeks and looked into his eyes.
“You suffered an early trauma, and your dedication to what you do stems from that. I believe you have an exceptional soul, but not a trusting one, maybe because of everything you’ve seen. You like to go by the book—although I admit yours is a rather unorthodox book—because you’re convinced that methodology can take you where you want to go. But there’s more to you—others have seen it, but you don’t accept it yourself. Yet.” Then she sat back and was suddenly all business.
“All right, let’s start with what’s going on. Are you here because of Winona Hart or the woman whose body was found?” She must have seen something in his face, because she suddenly said, “You found the body, didn’t you?”
He nodded. Unsure why he was so comfortable sharing with her, he admitted, “Yes, I found the body. I wasn’t there looking for her—whoever she is. I came down here to look for a girl who disappeared a year ago. The police aren’t officially connecting her disappearance to Winona Hart’s—not yet, anyway—but I’m sure there’s a link. Actually, I don’t think the cops even believed they had a possible serial killer until I found the body yesterday.”