Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  She picked up the phone and stared at it. “I just talked to him, not an hour ago. He was at Peaches getting coffee. And now he’s gone?” She held the receiver to her cheek as if the last of Bob would spirit himself out of the tiny holes.

  Blanche patted Liza’s face with a tissue. She couldn’t pat this back together. Bob and Liza had been a team. Now it was cut in half? He wasn’t coming back?

  “No one really knows what happened! It’s just impossible. But they found him like that. They couldn’t do a thing.”

  “Who is they? They couldn’t do what? Where?”

  “He was in his car. At the marina. In the middle of the parking lot. Didn’t anyone see him there? Was he having trouble breathing? He must have…” She put one hand on her chest. “I can’t imagine the distress. Alone. Dying.”

  Blanche jumped up and filled another paper cone. She stood there, hanging on every word, trying to make sense of it, the water running down her arm. It was an odd moment, like being suspended in a balloon or floating in the Gulf miles from shore, with no boat.

  “They think he might have had a heart attack, but that can’t be. He’d just had a complete check-up, stress test, all of it, last month. He was perfectly healthy, Blanche. I’m telling you, there’s no reason for this! He’d even given up hamburgers at Stinky’s.”

  Blanche knew otherwise, but she kept it to herself. He was addicted to Stinky’s and the blueberry-nut muffins at Peaches.

  “Who found him?”

  “Bill Gallit, you know, the new guy who manages the marina. He saw Bob’s car, and Bob was just sitting there. Bill walked over to say hello and knew something was wrong. At first, he thought he was sleeping. It must have been right after I talked to him. The coffee was still in the cup holder, untouched. Warm.”

  Ever the one for details. Each word she said struck a blow. Blanche held on to Liza’s fingers.

  “Bill tried to get out of there and come tell me himself, but the police were there in two seconds, swarming the place. Shouting. Sirens screeching. I could hardly hear him. He didn’t exactly have time to chat.”

  Blanche’s stomach lurched.

  “I have to keep the office open.” Liza stammered between sobs. She slumped down behind the desk. Her chair spun away and hit the wall. She adjusted her red silk blouse, twisted and tear-stained. At the moment, she didn’t look like a real-estate whiz, but she was that rare person who was capable of doing it all. She could crunch interest rates and sales figures better than a Dell.

  Now she held back a fresh storm of tears. “I have to watch the phones, but I just don’t want to think at all.” She stood up. “I have to go over there.” She sat down again. “Oh, Blanche, please, will you go?”

  “You know I will. Do anything…”

  Blanche didn’t know what to do, but she had to do something. Liza was her friend, and she had been right there with her after Gran died. Making funeral arrangements. Liza and Blanche—the two of them settled into wicker armchairs on the porch at the cabin, nothing but the geckos running up and down the screens and a bottle of tequila evaporating on the pine table between them. Now here they were again. About to make funeral arrangements?

  She hated to leave Liza alone. The office, somewhat brightened with wicker and orange floral cushions and a thriving schefflera, was not exactly a comforting place. Overall, it was pretty lonely and grey. Official, like death.

  Blanche paced. “Let me make some coffee first.” The moment seemed to call for liquids. She checked Bob’s desk drawers. He was known to celebrate a closing or two with a toast of fine Irish whiskey. She poked around, and there it was, sloshing around with the pens and paperclips.

  Liza was moaning again. Her head on the desk. Blanche busied herself with the booze and the coffee pot.

  Then the phone rang. Liza dove for it.

  She didn’t move. Her face drained of color like someone had let the stopper out.

  Oh, this can’t be good.

  “What’re you saying?” Liza’s voice cracked, rose an octave. “No, that’s not right.” Her fingers opened and the receiver clattered to the desk.

  Blanche stopped fussing, the bottle of whiskey suspended. She reached for the phone but whoever had called was gone.

  “What is it, Liza? Who was that?”

  “Bill again. It’s Bob. His neck, broken. Or strangled! They think he died. On purpose.” Dying “on purpose” seemed to avoid the fact altogether, a denial that Bob had passed away in an untimely, and unthinkable, manner.

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “He was there when they lifted him out of the car. It looked really bad.…” It was all she could manage before she dissolved again.

  Blanche blurted out: “What does that mean? Murder?” It was too late to take it back. The word shot from her like an arrow and hit the mark. But surely cause of death could not be determined until the medical examiner had a look.

  Liza crumpled into the chair.

  “Oh, Liza.

  Murder is something that is definitely done on purpose. He was sitting in his car…

  It doesn’t make any sense at all.

  Why? Who?”

  And why, of all people, Bob?

  Five —

  Say It with Murder

  No! There was no reason for this. Blanche made herself reserve judgment, but her mind was whirling. What reason—the word was related to rational—could there be for murder? Especially here. Him. Bob was a leader, rallying the preservationists, showing up at every potluck and wedding—a familiar figure in his brown suits. Professional, crisp. Generous.

  Blanche had to find Chief Duncan. He wouldn’t be able to take it back, and he wouldn’t have a reason. After all, he probably wouldn’t tell her a damn thing, at least not until Bob’s family knew about the death and officials confirmed the circumstances. But Duncan was Blanche’s go-to. He was Duncan—the law, an island institution, a rock on shifting sand.

  Well, that’s stretching it. Duncan could be unpredictable, but he was true.

  It would be the first murder—if that’s what it was—on Santa Maria Island, a place where people left their doors open and bikes unlocked. The safest spot on earth. Residents and snow birds knew each other. No murderers were among them; Blanche was certain of that. They had the occasional burglary and bar fight—even a stabbing or two to punctuate the Fourth of July—mostly tourist related, and few and far between. The worst incident reported lately was an item in the Island Times about under-age drinkers caught throwing water balloons on Kumquat Street.

  And then there was Conchita Beach. The drug drops—a new turn of events—and, yet, infrequent. Still, they had become a nagging sore spot in this otherwise peaceful corner of the world.

  But, murder? Here?

  I

  Blanche sighed. Deflated, she squeezed Liza’s shoulder and set the coffee and water in front of her, and the bottle of whiskey. Liza cried. Blanche wasn’t much of a crier. She was more of a rager, and this rage punched about inside her, urging her to find out what happened.

  She eyed the bottle and took a swig. It burned like holy hell, which was fitting. She was still standing there, one hand on her chest, warm guilt spreading through her for taking up drinking in the morning. That feeling went away, fast. What she wanted to do was sit down with Liza and finish it off.

  Liza lifted her head. “Please, Blanche, go. Now. You have to see what is going on over there. I just can’t imagine. Bobby…”

  “I’m going,” she said.

  Blanche closed her eyes. The perking coffee filled the office with a homey scent. It was small comfort. When she looked around, nothing had changed. There was Liza. The picture of disaster.

  She refilled Liza’s cup and swept a mess of soggy paper cones and tissues into a wastebasket. She pressed the last tissue into Liza’s hand.

  “If you could find out anything, Blanche…”

  “I’ll try, but I really hate to leave you here.”

  Liza shook her hea
d. “I’ll be OK.” She splashed some whiskey into her coffee.

  “I’ll get back. Soon,” Blanche said. She tried to sound reassuring, but her voice shook.

  She slid the bottle closer—after she took another belt. Oh, God. What am I doing? She hoped it would be empty when she came back.

  “You need some lunch, Liza. I’m going to ask Marge to send over a salad.” Tomatoes and cucumbers seemed ordinary, and that’s what they needed. Something ordinary. The thought that Bob had been at Peaches right before his death made her wonder if Marge had seen something out of the ordinary. She had to ask.

  Liza nodded and slumped over her folded arms, her back erupting with sobs. Blanche gave her one last squeeze. “And I’m going to find Duncan.”

  She hurried down Marina Drive and dashed into Peaches’. Marge was chopping celery behind the deli counter, her hairnet askew. She drew a knife out of the mayo.

  “Girl. What a day.” Her face, usually a wreath of smiles, drooped. The news was everywhere in the damp, heavy wind. Everyone on the island knew.

  They both looked down the street. People were hurrying toward the marina. Red lights flashed against the blue sky.

  “Marge, have you seen Dunc?”

  Marge shook her head. “No.” She waved the knife and banged it on the counter with an emphatic twang. “I can’t believe this, Blanche. Bob was just here picking up coffee. How could this happen?”

  Blanch focused on a splat of mayo on the glass cabinet behind Marge’s head.

  “Oh, God, Marge, I don’t know.”

  “Wish I could go over there. It’s a hep-less feeling, ain’t it? I got this lunch crew and need to stay put.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

  “I’m going. Got to find Duncan, but, before that, I want to send a chef’s salad over to Liza.”

  “Of course.” Marge looked around like it was the first time she ever saw ham and lettuce.

  “Was there anything funny you noticed when Bob came in this morning? Different, maybe? Anyone, but Bob, hanging around over here?” She couldn’t say, before the murder. It would all come out soon enough. The awful truth.

  “No. Seemed kind of usual around here. No one in and out but the regulars.” Her gaze wandered, the corners of her mouth quivered.

  “How was Bob?”

  “He was fine. Busy. Ol’ Bob. In a hurry, but always had a good word, ya know.” Marge stared at the case stacked with muffins. “He didn’t want a blueberry nut today. Was watching the weight and all, he said.”

  Blanche mulled this bit of information. Bob was not uneasy, or even fearful, moments before his murder. It had to be a surprise. A terrible, random surprise?

  She laid a ten-dollar bill on the glass deli counter. “Do you think Billy would run that salad over to Liza?”

  Marge said, “Done.” She chopped and fretted.

  “If you think of anything, I mean, about Bob and this morning…Will you give me a buzz? I’d like to let Liza know. Don’t know what else to do,” Blanche said. “Maybe I can find out something before they move out of there.” A thought stabbed her. Before they move him out of there. Dead. “I promised Liza.”

  “Oh, Lord, of course, go on now.” With vigor, she resumed piling lettuce, cheese, and ham into a clear plastic container and bagged a saucer-size white macadamia cookie, for good measure. “We’ll get these goodies to Liza. Girl’s gotta eat.”

  Six —

  Disaster on the Double

  Blanche crossed over the drive toward the marina within a couple of blocks of Sunny Sands and Peaches in the island shopping district. The street and the rest of the nearby mall were empty. She hardly recognized the place.

  A pall hovered beneath the puffy clouds and blue sky. Bob had been ordering a cup of coffee at his favorite deli, and then he was dead.

  What had gone wrong?

  For one thing, the town hall meeting had been unsettling, and she wondered about possible connections: that Bob died, or was killed, so soon after the plans were formally unveiled at the meeting. And how about Bob and his check from the historical society? That the two disasters—the meeting and the murder—occurred back to back struck Blanche as more than just a coincidence.

  At the marina, she looked around for Langstrom. He was not circulating in the crowd and promoting the so-called “beautification” plan. He’d missed an opportunity. What a pity. Here was a major island event, and, for once, he was not in the middle of it finding a way to use it to his advantage. It was a relief, though a small one, not to lay eyes on him.

  She hung back on the edge of the parking lot and tried to think. But all she could do was feel. Bad. The familiar corner, usually jammed with the locals’ pick-ups and SUVs, instead looked like a set for a disaster movie. Diesel spewed from the back of one vehicle, grinding away, no driver in sight. A bell dinged over the harbor. The scanners squawked and gulls answered, swooping in from the bay. The police scribbled in note pads and wandered around, united in mayhem and confusion. A lot of them. Force and authority on parade without any apparent purpose and organization.

  A red truck with bright gold stripes boxed in Bob’s mint-condition Mercedes standing alone. A sad monument to murder.

  Blanche’s heart stopped. Bob’s car was empty. The medical examiner’s van pulled away. A white mound visible through the rear windows. It revved tiredly over a low-pitched hum among the bystanders, and Bob was gone. She stumbled toward the van, but it was futile. What was she going to do? Run after the medical examiner and insist on some answers?

  She stood at the edge of the lot. It was a strange place to murder someone, in the wide open in the middle of the day. And Bob was such a big guy. Someone strong, efficient and evil, had killed quickly, confident in getting away with it. Or someone who just didn’t care about what he, or she, was getting into. But careless murder rarely occurred. Someone cared enough to do it. It was the careless murderer who got caught. Blanche couldn’t believe a person like that would be walking around on the island. It had to be a stranger. Everybody else was like family.

  Chief Duncan marched along the dock. He was about as easy to wrestle to a standstill as a dirigible, but she was determined to get something out of him. He was one of her main sources at the Island Times, and they were fond of trading jokes over awful coffee. A talker, he almost always opened up.

  Then she hesitated. Duncan shouted orders into a radio. A harried boat owner gestured to the chief, who shook his head, and yelled back. His voice carried above the noise, an incongruous figure, avuncular and corpulent, in green, against the flashing blue and red lights reflecting off the canal and the bottoms of white sailboats on davits.

  She ducked behind a sign advertising charter fishing trips, and when she looked up, he was gone.

  How did that happen?

  She drew a notebook out of her bag. The blazing blue sky, the salty, musty smell of fish in the harbor, the shouting. Who what where when why and how. She wrote fast, with one eye on the parking lot and one on the lookout for Duncan. She’d sort out the scribbling later. When she did find the chief, she’d have some details and context to offer in exchange for information. It was always a give and take with Dunc. Eventually, she’d have to talk to Clint about writing up a piece for the Times even though she felt too close to this one.

  “What in God’s name is going on around here, Blanche?” Melly Ragani popped up beside Blanche. Mel clucked, her hair in wispy disarray, her arms fluffing up and down. “Just how. Tell me this is not true!”

  Blanche shook her head. “Oh, Mel. Did you see Liza?” Mel’s real estate office was down the block from Sunny Sands.

  “No.” Her eyes were misty and round with fright. “The office was dark. I hope she went home to get some rest but I don’t know how.” Then a surprised look. “Have you been drinking, Blanche?”

  “I’ll say. I wish we’d finished the whole bottle. Liza and me.” She fished in her bag for gum.

  “My goodness, I could certainly use a little something.” Mel fanne
d herself, and they both glanced across the marina at Decoy Duck’s, the local watering hole where worries drowned and celebrations skimmed along. The front window with its gold lettering was dark, the pink neon sign turned off.

  “Have you heard anything, Mel?” She was loath to use the word murder. Again. She’d said it once already and regretted giving voice to possibility.

  “No. Except for the worst… Killed! Right here in the marina.” She screeched. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. A whiff of Tabu.

  “You heard that? Where?”

  “Duncan let it slip. Oh, he was furious. Clapped that big old hand over his pie hole and scooted right off! Never saw our Duncan move that fast.”

  “Well, that couldn’t be a pretty sight.” Blanche was stunned at Mel’s announcement and relieved he’d disappeared. The irritated Duncan was to be avoided until he calmed down, which was his fairly usual state but probably not now. Not by a long shot.

  “Blanche, just tell me. Who would kill our Bobby?”

  “No one you or I know. By the way, how would they know Bob was murdered? And know it so soon?”

  “Oh, there was no doubt. I saw them take him away, his head rolling to one side. Some signs of a struggle when they lifted him out. Oh, Blanche, I’m telling you it was awful.” She stopped. Her hands fluttered to her cheeks. “I have to make that chicken fajita casserole for Liza. Her favorite. I just don’t have any idea what else to do.” Mel taking care of Liza. It filled Blanche with the tiniest bit of hope. Well-wishers thought of noodles and tortillas at a time like this when the body needed food for the soul. Blanche knew from experience that Mel’s casserole would be good for both body and soul.

  Mel hurried off, and abruptly turned back, the purple chiffon sailing around her. “Oh, dear. Was about to get in touch with you, Blanche. Some fellow name of Sal came around asking about Tuna Street. Seems he has his eye on property along there.”

  Blanche froze, if that could be, standing in the ninety-plus-degree heat. “What exactly did he want? What did he say?”

  “Why, said he was looking for beachfront. Like they all are. I told him to get lost. Politely, of course. Nothing for sale along there. I know you’re not going to give up that cabin. Although, I have to tell you, Blanche, the guy threw out some crazy numbers for a lot or two along there. Over two million.”