The Manatee Did It

by Kay Dew Shostak

  The officers take their leave as Craig carries a tray of dirty cups inside. Annie calls Cherry’s name before she can head out.

  “Wait a minute.” Annie looks around the circle of us, a group of five unassuming, middle-aged (and more) ladies, her eyes wide and as sparkling as her silver curls in the morning sun. “I don’t care what they say, girls. We solved this mystery. Sophia Island is lucky to have us, so keep your eyes open! You never know what you might see!”

  The End

  Check out my website at www.KayDewShostak.com and I love being friends on Facebook with readers! Thanks for your reviews on Amazon.com

  THE SEA TURTLE DID IT - Book 2 in the Southern Beach Mystery series coming Summer 2020.

  THE SHRIMP DID IT – Book 3 coming soon!

  Check out Kay’s Southern Fiction series set in Chancey, Georgia

  Here is the first chapter of book one. Book nine in the series releases Winter 2020.

  Chapter 1 – Next Stop, Chancey Book 1

  So how did I get stuck driving with my daughter, the princess, during one of her moods? Rap music, to pacify her, adds to my sense of disbelief. Carolina Jessup, you have lost your mind thinking this move can work.

  Rolling hills of dry, green grass and swooping curves of blacktop lead us to a four-way stop. Across the road, sitting caddy-corner, is the sign I found so adorable last October. When we still owned a home in the Atlanta suburbs and moving hadn’t entered the picture.

  “Welcome to Chancey, Georgia. Holler if you need anything!”

  A scream of “Help!” jumps to my lips, but that might disturb her highness. Maybe she’s asleep and won’t see her new hometown’s welcome.

  “Holler? Who says ‘holler’? Who puts it on their sign for everyone to see?”

  Nope, she saw it.

  With a grimace, my voice rises above Snoop Dog, or whoever is filling my car with cringe-inducing music, as we cross the highway. “Honey, it’s different from home, but we’ll get used to it, right? And Daddy’s really happy. Don’t you think he’s happy?” She dismisses my question, and me, by closing her eyes and laying her head back.

  I stick my tongue out at the sign as we pass. I hate small towns.

  Savannah sighs and plants her feet on the dashboard, “All my friends back home want me to stay with them on weekends.” Drumming manicured fingernails on the door handle of my minivan she adds, “Nobody can believe you did this to me.”

  Guilt causes my throat to tighten. “Honestly, Savannah, I’m having trouble believing it, too.” Apparently, she’s tired of my apologizing because she leans forward and turns up the radio. Rap music now pounds down Chancey’s main street, but no one turns an evil eye on our small caravan. Two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, there’s no one to notice our arrival. July heat has driven everyone off the front porches, into air conditioned living rooms. Bikes and skateboards lie discarded in several yards, owners abandoning them for less strenuous activity, like fudgesicles and Uno.

  Jackson is driving the rental truck ahead of my van in which our twenty years of life together are packed tighter than the traffic at home. Oh, yeah, Atlanta isn’t home anymore. As the truck takes a curve, I have a view inside the cab. With their grins and high fives, they might as well be sitting on the driving seat of a Conestoga wagon headed into the Wild West. Next to Jackson in the truck is our thirteen-year-old, Bryan. Beside the passenger window is our older son, Will. Bryan is ecstatic about this move. Will just wants to get it done so he can get back to his apartment at the University of Georgia.

  We slow to take a turn where two little boys in faded jeans lean against the stop sign post. After Jackson passes, the taller one steps toward the road and waves. I press the brake pedal harder and roll down the window. Humidity and the buzz of bugs from the weeds in the roadside ditch roll in.

  “Hey guys.”

  “You moving here?” He punctuates his question with a toss of his head toward the moving truck lumbering on down the road ahead of us.

  “Sure are. I’m Carolina and this is Savannah.”

  The smaller boy twists the front of his red-clay-stained t-shirt in his hands and steps closer. “Ask ‘em.”

  “I am,” the speaker for the pair growls as he shoves his hand out to maintain his distance from the younger boy. “You moving up to the house by the bridge?”

  “The train bridge?”

  He nods and both boys’ eyes grow larger. They lean toward me.

  “Yes, you can come visit when we get settled.”

  Both boys shake their heads and the designated speaker drawls, “No, ma’am. Can’t.” He pulls a ball cap out of his back pocket and tips his head down to put it on.

  The little one keeps shaking his head and finally asks, “Ain’t you afraid?”

  Savannah moans beside me, “Mom…”

  “No, we like trains. Well, we’d better be going.”

  “You ain’t afraid of the ghost?”

  My foot jumps off the accelerator and finds the brake pedal. My finger leaves off rolling up my window. “What?”

  But they don’t hear me. The boys are running toward the house sitting in the yard full of weeds.

  Savannah grins for the first time today. “Did he say ‘ghost’? Cool.” She turns the music back up, lays her head against the head-rest and we pull away from the corner.

  Ghost? Like there’s not enough to worry about.

  Tiny yards of sunbaked grass and red dirt pass on the left. Across from them a string of small concrete buildings house a laundromat, a fabric store, and Jeans-R-Us. Chancey’s version of an open-air shopping mall. Hopefully, Savannah’s eyes are closed as I speed up to catch the truck. Over a small hill, the truck comes into view along with a railroad crossing. A smile pushes through my worries as I think of the grin surely on my husband’s face right now.

  For years, Jackson talked about moving and opening a bed & breakfast for railroad enthusiasts, railfans, in some little town. Now, a lot of people fantasize about living in a small town. I believe those are the people who have never lived in one—like my husband.

  Only five weeks ago, he came home with a job offer from the railroad. We’d already experienced life with the railroad in our early married life. When we finally tired of his constant traveling, he took a job with an engineering consultant and we moved to the upscale suburbs northwest of Atlanta. Railroad job, or no, nothing was getting me out of the suburbs.

  Then I find condoms in Savannah’s purse, freak out, and accidentally make his dream come true. Well, the small town part of his dream, but the B&B is not happening. Things won’t get out of hand again, not with me focusing.

  At the railroad underpass there is no stop sign or light, but Jackson and the boys are stopped anyway. Arms poke out of both windows of the truck cab. There’s no train coming but Bryan and Will spent more father-son outings in rail yards than parks so they could be pointing at one of a hundred things of interest.

  At first Jackson’s train obsession was cute, but I realize now, I’m an enabler. Like the husband walking down his basement stairs when it dawns on him his den could double as a scrap-booking store. Or the wife suddenly realizing her last ten vacations involved a NASCAR event.

  Past the railroad yard and up the hill overlooking town, the harsh sunlight is muted by thick, leafy boughs drooped over the street. Shade allows for thick lawns encased behind wrought-iron fences or old-stone borders. Sidewalks cut through the lawns and lead to deep front porches and tall houses. The houses stand as a testament to Chancey’s once high hopes—hopes centered on the railroad and the river. As we come to the top of the summit the River runs on our right. Savannah leans forward to look out her window, pushing her dark hair back. Ahh, even she can’t ignore the view.

  “Mom, you realize we are officially in the middle of nowhere, right? Look, nothing but trees and water as far as you can see. Not even a boat in all that water. I guess everybody’s inside watching The Antiques Roadshow.”

  So much for enjoying t
he view. We turn away from the river and start back down the hill, taking a sharp turn to our right. A narrow road maneuvers through a green channel of head-high weeds. The road and weeds end in wide-open sky and a three-track crossing.

  “Great, a stupid train already,” Savannah growls. We can’t see the train but up ahead her father and brothers are out of the truck and pointing down the line. We both know what that means.

  I put the van into park and lay my head on the steering wheel. My sense of disbelief wars with the memory of the joy on my husband’s face. Is it possible for us to be happy here? A train whistle blows as dark blue engines rock past and my head jerks up. Through the blur of rushing train cars I see the other side of the tracks—and our new home.

  Frustration cuts through my sadness because someone is sitting on the front porch. Are you kidding me? A drop-in visitor already?

  (Continue reading Next Stop, Chancey on Amazon at https://amzn.to/2R47IrR Thanks!)