Tangled Threat. Heather Graham

legends and wild tales that were bizarrely wonderful—and true.

      Maybe naturally, since they were working in Florida, Angie had determined that they had to stay at Frampton Ranch and Resort and film at the History Tree.

      Maura had suggested other places that would make great content for a book on the bizarre: sinkholes, a road where cars slid uphill instead of downhill—hell, she would have done her best to make a giant ball of twine sound fascinating. There were lots of other places in the state with strange stories—lord! They could go back to Key West and film a piece on Carl Tanzler, who had slept with the corpse of his beloved, Elena de Hoyos, for seven years.

      But Angie was dead set on seeing the History Tree, and when they’d gotten to the clearing she had started spinning around like a delighted child.

      She stopped suddenly, staring at Maura.

      “You really are uncomfortable here, aren’t you? Scared? You know, I’ve told you—you can hire an assistant. Maybe a strapping fellow, tall, dark and handsome—or blond and handsome—and muscle-bound. Someone to protect us if the bogeyman is around at any of our strange sites.” Angie paused, grinning. She liked men and didn’t apologize for it. In her own words, if you didn’t kiss a bunch of frogs, you were never going to find a prince.

      “Angie, I like doing my own work—and editing it and assuring that I like what I’ve done. I promise you, if we turn something into any kind of a feature film, we’ll hire dozens of people.”

      Angie sighed. “Well, so much for tall, dark—or blond—and handsome. Your loss, my dear friend. Anyway. You do amazing work for me. You’re a one-woman godsend.”

      “Thanks,” Maura told her. She inhaled a deep breath.

      “Could you try not to look quite so miserable?”

      “Oh, Angie. I’m sorry. It’s just...”

      “The legend. The legend about the tree—oh, yes. And the murder victims found here. I’m sorry, Maura, but... I mean, I film these places because they have legends attached to them.” Angie seemed to be perplexed. She sighed. “Of course, the one murder was just twelve years ago. Does that bother you?” Staring at Maura, she gasped suddenly. “You’re close to this somehow, right? Oh, my God! Were you one of the kids working here that summer? I mean, I’d have had no idea... You’re from West Palm Beach. There’s so much stuff down there. Ah!” It seemed that Angie didn’t really need answers. “You wound up going to the University of Central Florida. You were near here...”

      “Yes, I was here working that summer,” Maura said flatly.

      “Your name was never in the paper?”

      “That’s right. The police were careful to keep the employees away from the media. And since we are so isolated on the ranch, news reporters didn’t get wind of anything until the next day. My parents had me out of here by then, and Donald Glass was emphatic about the press leaving his young staff alone.”

      “But a kid was arrested—”

      “And released. And honestly, Angie, I am a little worried. Even if it has nothing to do with the past, there’s something not good going on now. Haven’t you watched the news? They found the remains of a young woman not far from here.”

      “Not far from here, but not here,” Angie said. “Hey,” she said again, frowning with concern. “That can’t have anything to do with anything—the Frampton ranch killer committed suicide, I thought.”

      “One of the cooks killed himself,” Maura said. “Yes, but... I mean, he never had his day in court. Most people believed he killed Francine—he hated her. But a lot of people disliked her.”

      “But he killed himself.”

      “Yes. I wasn’t here then. I did hear about it, of course.”

      Angie was pensive for a moment, and then she asked, “Maura, you don’t think that the tree is...evil, do you?”

      “Trees—a palm laced in with an oak. And no. I’m quite accustomed to the spooky and creepy, and we both know that places don’t become evil, nor do things. But people can be wicked as hell—and they can feed off legends. I don’t like being out here—not alone. There will be a campfire tonight with the history and ghost stories and the walk—we’ll join that. I have waivers for whoever attends tonight.”

      “What if someone doesn’t want to be filmed?” Angie asked anxiously. “You tell the story just as well as anyone else, right? And the camera loves you—a perfect, slinky blonde beauty with those enormous gray eyes of yours. Come on, you’ve told a few of the stories before. You can—”

      “I cannot do a good video for you as a selfie,” Maura said patiently.

      “Right. I can film you telling the story,” Angie said. “Just that part. And I can do it now—I think you said that the stories were told by the campfire, and then the historic walk began. I’ll get you—right here and now—doing the story part of it. Oh, and you can include... Oh, God!” Angie said, her eyes widening. “You weren’t just here—you saw the dead woman! The murdered woman...I mean, from this century. Francine Renault. And they arrested a kid, Brock McGovern, but he was innocent, and it was proved almost immediately, but then... Well, then, if the cook didn’t do it, they never caught the killer!”

      Maura kept her face impassive. Angie always wrote about old crimes that were unsolved—and why a place was naturally haunted after ghastly deeds had occurred there.

      She did her homework, however. Angie probably knew more than Maura remembered.

      She had loved the sad legend of the beautiful Gyselle, who had died so tragically for love. But, of course, she would have delved as deeply as possible into every event that had occurred at the ranch.

      “Do they—do they tell that story at the campfire?” Angie asked.

      Maura sighed. “Angie, I haven’t been here since the night it happened. I was still young. My parents dragged me home immediately.”

      She was here now—and she could remember that night all too clearly. Coming to the tree, then realizing while denying it that a real body was hanging from it. That it was Francine Renault. That she had been hanged from a heavy branch, hanged by the neck, and that she dangled far above the ground, tongue bulging, face grotesque.

      She remembered screaming...

      And she remembered the police and how they had taken Brock away, frowning and massively confused, still tall and straight and almost regally dignified.

      And she could remember that there were still those who speculated on his guilt or innocence—until dozens of people had spoken out, having seen him through the time when Francine might have been taken and killed. His arrest had really been ludicrous—a detective’s desperate bid to silence the horror and outrage that was beginning to spread.

      Brock’s life had changed, and thus her life had changed.

      Everything had changed.

      Except for this spot.

      She could even imagine that she was a kid again, that she could see Francine Renault, so macabre in death, barely believable, yet so real and tragic and terrifying as she dangled from the thick limb.

      “Oh,” Angie groaned, the one word drawn out long enough to be a sentence. “Now I know why you were against doing a video here!”

      Angie had wanted the History Tree. And when she had started to grow curious regarding Maura’s reluctance to head to the Frampton Ranch and Resort—especially since the resort was supposedly great and the expense of rooms went on Angie’s bill—Maura had decided it was time to cave.

      She hadn’t wanted to give any explanations.

      “Angie, it’s in your book, and you sell great and your video channel is doing great, as well. It’s fine. Really. But because they did recently find