by Tom Lowe
“Okay. I’ll speak with the county parks department. Until the coroner does an autopsy, we don’t know an estimated time of death. If it’s a homicide, was she killed here, or killed someplace else and the perp decided to dump her here like the poor kid was some sea creature washed ashore by the tide and surf?”
Grant stared at the body. “At this point, I’d suggest that she didn’t die on this beach. She was placed here. Her hair appears to have been arranged, fanned out around her head. That wouldn’t have happened had she drowned out there and washed up on the beach. Where’s the person who found the body?”
Lawson motioned to a young woman standing more than a hundred feet away, a female deputy with the girl, comforting her. “Name’s Savannah Nelson. She’s a college kid. A nationally ranked surfer. She was out here riding some of the big breakers we get before a storm when she spotted the body.”
“Have you spoken with her?”
“Yes, briefly. She said the beach was pretty much deserted when she was on her surfboard and when she saw the body. She was surfing about a hundred yards away from here.” Lawson pointed south. “She left her board back there and jogged down here. She said the girl was dead or appeared to have been dead when she found her. After tossing her cookies in the sand dunes, Savannah called 9-1-1 and waited for first responders to arrive. She lives in New Smyrna Beach with her father. Mother’s deceased. No siblings.”
“You said pretty much deserted. Did she see someone?”
“I was about to mention that. Savannah said when she was out past the breakers, she looked at the shore and saw a man watching her. She told me that after she caught and rode a big wave to the beach, the guy was gone. No usable description, though.”
Something toward the south end of the beach caught Grant’s eye. It was a TV news crew, camera operator, reporter and soundman, walking quickly down the beach towards them. “Here they come.” He turned to one of the CSI techs. “Let’s get the body covered under a sheet. Have some deputies keep the news media beyond the yellow tape. If one of ‘em even tries to go around it, arrest him or her.”
“No problem,” said the tech.
Grant looked at Lawson. “I’ll go speak with the girl, see if her nerves have calmed down some. Maybe she can remember a bit more.”
THREE
Max seemed to like the changes. Maybe it was because she is a female dachshund, and the subtle variations to our old river cabin fit her well. And it fit me, too. The place was cleaner, brighter, and a lot more colorful. For Max she found the added couch pillows and blankets to her liking—more places to lounge and burrow. And there were more floral scents to catch her nostrils, in and out of the cabin since Wynona Osceola had been spending time with us. Wynona planted red and white petunias on both sides of the winding path that led from my crushed oyster shell and gravel drive to the screened back porch.
From the porch, the view of Florida’s St. Johns River was Old Florida on a picture postcard out of the past. Through the sprawling oak trees, heavy with Spanish moss, you could see the river. Wide. Flat. Mysterious. Dark water moving with a near imperceptible current. The river made an oxbow turn as it flowed past my property on its way to the Atlantic Ocean east of Jacksonville, more than 150 miles from where my place was located near the center of Florida. The Ocala National Forest, primitive, filled with ancient bald cypress trees, natural springs and wildlife, was across the river. My nearest neighbor was more than a mile away.
An ancient shell mound, left behind by Indians known as the Timucua, was on my property. The three acres I owned sloped down to the river. At the water’s edge was the dock I’d rebuilt since buying the place after my wife, Sherri, died from ovarian cancer. Little Maxine, as my wife had named her, had been my companion since Sherri’s death. After a solid meal, Max weighed ten pounds. For me, at a height of near six-three and close to 200 pounds, Max and I made a unique couple wherever we went. My name is Sean O’Brien, and the woman on my porch, Wynona, is not only a special guest in my home … she is very special to me.
From the rough-hewn cypress eaves, Wynona attached hanging baskets of leafy green ferns and impatiens. She was watering the plants on the porch when I came out of the kitchen with two steaming mugs of coffee. I stood at the threshold of the open door and watched her quietly for a few moments. She held a plastic watering pitcher and used one of her fingers to test the soil around some of her exotic orchids before adding more water. Max followed Wynona, holding a squeaky dog toy—a plastic, baby alligator, in her mouth.
Wynona laughed as Max set the toy down on the wooden cypress floor and sat sideways on her haunches. Max coughed a subtle bark somewhere in the back of her throat. “We’ll play in just a sec,” Wynona said, watering a mauve and yellow orchid. Max tilted her head and snorted. I watched them and tried not to interrupt the moment with a big laugh.
I had invited Wynona here after she suffered a gunshot wound to the stomach. She had been part of the police team sent to arrest a suspected hitman near Miami. At the time, Wynona had been working as a detective with the Seminole Tribe. Before that she had been an FBI agent for eight years. Her mother was Seminole. Her late father had been Irish. She grew up on the Seminole reservation in South Florida. Wynona had flawless olive skin, long, dark hair and light brown eyes filled with great depth.
At the time of the shooting, Wynona was pregnant, carrying our child. She lost the baby, a little girl, during an emergency operation to save her life. After that, Wynona was emotionally and physically drained. I convinced her to take an extended leave of absence from her job and recuperate in my home by the river. Three months later, I didn’t want her to leave. I knew Max felt the same way. What might happen in the future was not certain. But what I knew was that Wynona, with her internal and external beauty, her complex depth and analytical mind, sense of humor and compassionate heart, was the first woman since Sherri that I had fallen in love with and my world had changed for the better. “Want some coffee?” I asked.
She turned around and smiled. “I’d love some coffee.” She set the watering can down, picked up Max’s toy and tossed it half the length of the porch. Max scampered after the plastic alligator, snatching it in her mouth before gravity could bring it to a stop on the plank wood floor.
I handed Wynona the cup of coffee. “Smells good,” she said, sipping it. “Let’s have our coffee on the dock and share it with Mother Nature.”
“Let’s do it.” I opened the screen door for her. Wynona used both hands to hold the thick mug, walking down the three wooden steps to the yard. Max scampered ahead, the gator toy sticking out of the left side of her mouth like a crooked cigar stogie. We walked beneath the live oaks, morning sunlight filtering through the thick Spanish moss in a pastel softness that seemed to cover the entire yard. In the center of the yard were the orange trees I had planted, the hum of bees in the blossoms. The breeze blew up from the river, carrying the scent of wet moss, citrus, and black mud.
As we approached my dock, I spotted something in the center of the river—something I never see at this time of the year. And it was coming toward the dock.
• • •
Detective Dan Grant walked down the beach toward the girl and the female deputy who stood near her. Grant smiled as he came closer, the girl looking uneasy. Not fearful, but rather anxious, her mouth tight. “Are you Savannah Nelson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Dan Grant with the Volusia County Sheriff’s Office. I know you have had a bad day, and that you’ve already spoken with Detective Lawson. I just have a few questions for you.”
Savannah glanced at the female deputy who nodded and said, “I’ll head back to the scene. Feel free to call me if you need someone to talk to, okay?”
“Okay.”
The deputy smiled and left. Grant said, “You must really like surfing.”
“I do.”
“It takes guts to catch waves with a tropical storm right offshore.”
“I watch for lightni
ng. I’ve been lucky. The storms out there generate the kind of waves I need to ride to be competitive in tournaments.”
“I guess you gotta make hay when the sun’s shining or the rain’s falling.” He smiled. “Savannah, tell me about the person you saw watching you.”
She exhaled through her nose, looked out at the sea and then eyed Grant. “I couldn’t see him very well. I was just about to climb on my board when I saw a man on the beach. He wasn’t standing near the surf. He was closer to the dunes. He had some kind of jacket or hoodie on … the hood on his head.”
“I suppose that wasn’t odd considering the weather.”
“I guess not. But, even from a distance, I had a weird feeling.”
“What do you mean … weird feeling?”
“I’m used to people watching me surf. But it was like he was doing more than watching me. For a few seconds, he watched me through a pair of binoculars. I felt like he was staring … maybe waiting to see if I was going to wipeout or something. Some people watch car races to see the crashes … that’s the feeling I got from the dude.”
Grant was silent a moment, looking at more news media arrive down the beach. “Did you recognize the body … did you know the girl?”
“No, at least I don’t think I did. I looked at her face only long enough to get a bad feeling that she was dead. And then I tried to feel for her pulse. I couldn’t find one. When I saw a crab on her finger, I got sick to my stomach.”
“Did you notice any human tracks in the sand near the body?”
“I don’t remember seeing any. And I glanced around her and the mermaid tail. It was horrible. Do you know the girl’s name?”
“Not yet.”
Savannah hugged her arms, looking back toward the crime scene, goosebumps on her upper arms. “I still feel sick. Do you think somebody killed her?”
“We won’t know that until we get the autopsy results.” He looked back toward the police line tape, more news media approaching.
• • •
Channel Three reporter, Megan Fisher—a tall brunette, stood beyond the yellow tape and watched the CSI investigators work the scene. She looked down the beach, spotting a detective she recognized, Detective Dan Grant. And he was speaking with a girl. Megan got her cameraman’s attention and gestured toward Grant and the young woman standing near some sand dunes in the distance.
• • •
“Wanna know something bizarre, Detective Grant?” asked Savannah.
“What’s that?”
“I’m applying for a job at Weeki Wachee, to work part-time in the mermaid program when I go back to the University of South Florida. Now, I’m having second thoughts about that.”
“Weeki Wachee is across the state. This, most likely, is an isolated incident.”
Savannah pulled a lock of damp hair behind her right ear. “Like many girls, when I was young, I always wanted to be a mermaid. And it wasn’t because of The Little Mermaid movie. It’s because I’ve always loved the sea and everything in it. I grew up around here and was on the beach almost every day. My dad is a commercial fisherman. My mom, before her death, competed in the Olympic freestyle swimming races. She was an excellent surfer, too.”
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. What are you studying in college?”
“Oceanography and marine biology. The sea’s been my passion since I could crawl.”
He nodded. “I have to get back over there to the crime scene.”
“So, it is a crime … she was killed, right?”
“Maybe. We’ll know soon. Are you parked near here?”
“In the main lot.”
“If the news reporters know you found the body, they’ll be hounding you with questions. Why don’t you walk down the dune line back to your car? Here’s my card. If you can think of anything else that might help with the investigation, give me a call.”
She took his card, looked at it, then leveled her eyes at him. “Detective, I’m not really the type of girl who gets scared easily. But, if it was a murder, and that guy I saw did it … if he thinks I can identify him … will he come for me?”
Grant looked across the beach as deputies kept the news media back while the coroner’s team removed the girl’s body, lifting the gurney wheels above the sand. He eyed Savannah. “It never hurts to be vigilant. But, if you feel you’re being watched or followed, call me. Okay?”
Savannah stared at the body on the gurney, and even in the heat of a summer day in Florida, she felt a chill along her spine. “Okay.”
FOUR
Max had never seen anything so large in her life. She scampered to the end of our dock, not sure whether to wag her tail or bark at the strange creature. She did a hybrid move—her tail up, a throaty growl among a couple of yaps. Wynona laughed, watching Max and her antics as a large manatee surfaced in the river less than thirty feet off the end of the dock.
I said, “Max is used to seeing big gators, but this is a first. I don’t think she’s ever seen a manatee. I’m surprised to spot one this far upriver now.”
Wynona watched the manatee for a moment. “Why is that?”
“Because of the season. It’s summer. Manatees are usually found in brackish waters around the state. They come upriver during the winter to spend time in the springs where the water temperature is consistently warmer. Blue Springs State Park is one of their favorite places. It’s not too far from here.”
“I remember seeing some when I was a little girl in canals near the Everglades. They’re remarkable animals. They’re so large, they have no natural predators in Florida. Even the gators leave them alone.”
Max jumped up on one of our wooden benches for a better look. I sipped my coffee and watched the manatee come closer to the dock, feeding on the water hyacinths near the shore. In a way, the animal resembled a large walrus without the tusks. I pointed to the manatee’s back, the old wounds like bullwhip scars on its thick hide. “The gators leave them alone, but not some boaters. See the scars?”
“Yes.”
“They’re from boat propellers. Manatees are too slow to quickly submerge when a fast boat is coming toward them. The result is the prop chewing through their hide. Too often, the younger ones are mortally wounded and die because of the injuries.”
“That’s a shame. They’re so peaceful. Like big, cuddly teddy bears. Gentle giants. I’ve seen people swimming alongside them in the springs. They tolerate humans well, or at least they don’t mind sharing space in the water with us.”
“Adhering to no wake boating speeds in manatee refugee areas would help.”
Wynona watched the manatee feed on the hyacinths. “It’s amazing something that large only eats water plants.”
I laughed. “Maybe it’s because they burn very little energy swimming so slowly. They seem to drift more than swim, using their big tail as a paddle. The front flippers are sort of like twin rudders.”
The manatee submerged under the surface. Max titled her head, a slight whine. I said, “They may look like a walrus, but they’re actually related to land animals—the elephant.”
The manatee surfaced, its head rising above the water, tendrils of hyacinth plants hanging from its big head like strands of hair. Max stood, turning a half circle on the bench. Wynona smiled and pointed. “It looks like he or she is wearing a wig. What a comical sight.”
“Some of the early explorers to America, sailors—even pirates, would see manatees feeding in high vegetation areas and witness what we’re seeing, the plants hanging around their heads. The sailors used to say they thought they’d spotted mermaids in the distance, especially in a mist or fog.”
Wynona laughed. “Are you sure they weren’t in a fog from the rum? Maybe a little lonely for feminine company after months at sea.”
I grinned. “That’s probably the more accurate story.”
Wynona stood closer to the dock railing, her eyes narrowing, staring at something. “Sean, look at the manatee’s left flipper. It looks like fishing l
ine is wrapped around it.”
I stepped closer and looked. The manatee was chewing at a web of silvery fishing line entangled around its flipper. “That’s got to be very uncomfortable. Maybe we can do something.”
“What can we do?”
Wearing shorts, I pulled my T-shirt off, slipped out of my boat shoes, opened a toolbox I kept under one of the benches and picked up a fishing knife, a single serrated blade with a wooden handle. I slid the knife under my belt. Wynona pursed her lips. “What are you going to do?”
“I want to see if I can cut that spider’s web of fishing line off the manatee.”
“Are you going to get in your Jon-boat and paddle over to it.”
I looked around the riverbank, searching for alligators sunning themselves. “No, the boat will be too awkward. “I’m going in the water. I’ve swam with manatees in Blue Springs. Spot the gators for me. After I dive in, if you hear a big splash along any parts of the shoreline, yell out to me.” She started to protest as I walked to the end of the dock, diving into the dark water and swimming silently toward a thousand-pound manatee that needed my help.
FIVE
Detective Dan Grant was the last to leave the scene. He stayed behind after the body was loaded into the coroner’s dark blue van and driven away for an autopsy at the county morgue. Grant didn’t have to wait for the report to confirm what his gut was telling him—the girl was murdered. Maybe there would be an indication of rape—some reason for the death—the killer fearful that the victim would have identified him, had she lived.
Grant walked up and down the beach within one hundred yards of where the body was found, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He knew there was nothing routine in finding a partially nude dead girl wearing a mermaid tail. It was the stuff of thriller movies—the macabre scene ready for a director to yell “action,” cameras rolling until the word “cut.” And then the actress would slip out of the mermaid costume and be done with the scene. But that part wasn’t in this script, which was all too real in a surreal way.
