I squinted to read the small handwriting. Sure enough, that’s what it said.
“It doesn’t seem all that different from what my boss, Anita, does, except she sends my assignments through the computer,” I pointed out. I still had most of my memory, but the “pin method” might not be a bad thing for Bernice since she had the occasional senior moment.
He held out his hand. “By the way, I’m Cooper Naylor, but everyone calls me Coop.”
“Hi, Coop.” We shook hands. “So, how are you holding up overall?”
“I’m still standing, but I’ve had some bad moments this afternoon. I mean, I can hardly believe it that Bucky keeled over on a fish tank—that’s what they were saying at the Island Hardware store. Just yesterday, he was working a tough job with me—planting and trimming for one of our nursery clients. We worked the whole day, and he wasn’t even breathing hard. Jeez.”
“So, he didn’t have any health problems?”
“Nope. And I know for a fact that he got a physical every year—we both did—’cause you have to pass a certification test to run heavy equipment.” He frowned. “At least I think we did.”
“Sounds plausible.” Best to keep to myself that Detective Billie already suspected foul play.
“I keep all of the notes that Bucky pinned to my shirt. If I could just remember where I put them.”
“The police can always check state records about the certification.” I looked at the house again; it already felt empty. “Did Bucky have any . . . enemies?”
His face shuttered down and his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I cleared my throat. “If Bucky’s death turns out to be suspicious, it might be helpful to know if anyone had it in for him.”
“I told you that he was a great boss.” Coop’s mouth set in a stubborn line.
“Of course, but I saw at least one person today at the town-council meeting who didn’t care for Bucky—”
“Travis?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s just plain scum, and I’ll tell anyone that who wants to hear it.” Coop’s voice kindled with anger. “He didn’t treat Bucky right, and a lot of islanders know that aside from me.”
“What exactly did Travis do?”
“I can’t talk about this anymore,” he cut in. “It just isn’t the time, and I need to get a hold of myself and figure out what I’m supposed to do with Bucky’s business.”
“Did he have any children?”
“No kids. No brothers or sisters—that I remember.”
“So, it’s up to you to keep the biz going?”
“Miss whatever-your-name-is, you’re trespassing, so I’m going to have to ask you to move along.” He gestured toward my truck with a shaky hand. Tears spilled down his sun-weathered cheeks in tiny rivulets, colorless as pure water.
Instantly, I felt sort of guilty about pressing him for information. He was right; it wasn’t the time. “Look, if you want to talk with me again, I’m going to give you my card. It has my e-mail address and phone number.” I slipped it into his pocket. “Will you remember?”
He patted his shirt. “Yep. I always check my pockets.”
“Thanks, Coop, and I’m sorry for your loss.” I meant it. I started to leave, but he looked so forlorn just standing there, I turned and hugged him. “Take care.”
He gave a brief nod and bit his lip.
As I pulled up to my little corner of paradise ten minutes later, I parked my truck under the blue and white awning of my gleaming, silver Airstream. Aah. A symbol of freedom in its hut-like sturdiness, it was truly home, sweet home. And a haven away from the trauma of Bucky’s death, Wanda Sue’s interrogation, and Coop’s grief.
It had been one hell-on-wheels type of day.
The sun had already set and darkness was creeping in.
As I jumped out of Rusty and hurried toward the warmth of my trailer, I noticed the fifth-wheeler parked next door seemed unnaturally quiet. No activity emanated from any window. Of course, the temperature had started dropping, so maybe my new neighbor was hunkered down for the evening.
Cole’s van, on the other side of my site, also showed no sign of life. Good. I could make a nice dinner (order a pizza and salad) and break the news about Bucky’s death and misplaced engagement ring—in that order—hoping the day’s trauma at the town hall might distract him from the lost diamond. I winced even as I articulated the cruddy plan to myself, but I was desperate.
As I swung open my Airstream door, Kong did his usual flying leap at me, and I enjoyed a few moments of doggy love before I grabbed his leather leash and headed him to the beach for the second time today. On the way, I took another peep through the darkness at my mystery neighbor’s fifth-wheel trailer; there was still no sign of activity, except the chili-pepper lights were on, and a toy flamingo played Spanish guitar on top the picnic table to the Latin tune “If You Had My Love.”
Could J-Lo be next door? She owned a house in Miami, if the gossip mags were right.
I made a mental note to pump Wanda Sue for information.
After Kong had completed his task, I hustled him back into the Airstream and proceeded to beautify myself for the upcoming “truth and consequences” talk with Cole. But as I showered and slapped on a little makeup, my thoughts keep drifting back to the Bucky part of my day. Then I flashed back to Coop’s heartfelt reaction and guilt rose up inside me like bile. I couldn’t just use his death to divert Cole; it was wrong. Better to “fess up”—as Wanda Sue would say—and take the consequences.
Bucky’s demise had to be respected.
Finishing up with my Peachy Keen lipstick, a thought suddenly popped into my head: how could a killer have sneaked up behind Bucky to administer the death blow without Bucky noticing and turning around? The town-hall building had a tiled floor, so the killer’s footsteps would’ve been audible.
I stared at my own freckled face, looking for an answer—and I had it: Bucky must’ve known his murderer. The killer had lured him into feeling comfortable. Then, when Bucky turned toward the fish tank, the killer struck with a blow that came down hard on the back of his head. Bucky then went face down in the tilapia tank, causing it to tip over and shatter.
Dollars to donuts, that’s how he died.
But who did it?
All I knew was that it could not have been Wanda Sue.
I sighed, focusing once more on the image in the mirror with a critical eye. Black dress (bought from Secondhand Rose thrift store), freckled arms and freckled legs (a curse), and thick, scarlet curls (a blessing—and my best feature, hands down). Not bad, especially since my thin, albeit rather flat-chested, body was hidden by the drapy material.
I put on another layer of Peachy Keen.
Maybe getting married would be the best thing for me. I could stick just to writing about murders and not investigating them, which had proven to be bad for my health in the past. A husband wouldn’t want me to spend my nights chasing down criminals and putting myself in harm’s way.
Except that I wouldn’t see Nick nearly as often.
And I wouldn’t be doing something that I loved.
Maybe getting married would be the worst thing for me.
A wave of distress overcame me. So, I was right back at square one in a total quandary about whether I wanted to get married or not.
How could I still be having those thoughts when I was engaged to Cole?
Come on, girl. Get it together.
Just then my cell phone dinged.
I picked it up—and almost threw it down again. Liz Ellis.
Sighing, I flipped it open.
The plant killer has struck yet again. I guess the picture of the leather fern wasn’t enough to convince you; take a look at my areca palms. I lost ten of them today.
I scanned the picture. So the palm trees had shriveled, brown fronds? How was that a front-page story?
When is it going to be enough for you to take action?
Call me if you want to make amends.
Liz Ellis.
P.S. I’ve contacted the island attorney and intend to sue you for journalistic discrimination.
Cray Cray Liz strikes again.
As I contemplated answering her, a loud knock on my door caused me to raise my head. I checked the clock: 6:30 p.m.
Cole? Early?
Kong began to yap excitedly with a shrill, happy bark of recognition. I headed through the Airstream and swung open the door—to behold Wanda Sue, who stood there in a neon yellow warm-up suit that almost exactly matched her canary-colored hair. She carried a pair of orange coveralls draped over her arm and wore cork-heeled wedgie sandals.
“Brrrrrrr, hon! The thermostat is dropping, and I’m colder than a dead pig in the sunshine.” She rubbed her hands together and stamped her wedgies on the ground as she shifted from foot to foot to stay warm. “Aren’t you gonna get me out of the wind?”
“Uh . . . sure. I’m sorry.” I’d been mesmerized for the hundredth time by the ability of her massive beehive hair to stay intact, in spite of a gale-force wind. She must use liquid cement to achieve that kind of sturdy bouffant.
She hurried in, and took a seat on my sofa very near the furnace vent. After a few moments of taking in the warmth, she visibly relaxed. “Honey, I’ve spent my life here and in North Florida, and I can tell ya, it’s true that your blood thins. Mine is probably like water by now.”
“I feel it, too, and I’ve only been a couple of years on Coral Island,” I agreed, seating myself across from her in an armchair. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“Manna from heaven, girl.” She grinned. “You look prettier than a glob of butter on a stack of pancakes.”
“Thanks.” High praise indeed. In five steps, I was in the kitchen area, reaching for the coffee pot. One of the many things I loved about my Airstream was that it was so compact—no spot in my funky home-on-wheels took more than a dozen steps to get to. I could eat a pizza and, in two bites, be situated in the bedroom watching television and, by the time I munched on the crust, be back in the kitchen for another slice. I was like the old woman who lived in the shoe—minus the kids.
Who could argue with that type of easy living?
Maybe a husband.
“Are you and Cole gonna buy a house once you’re married?” Wanda Sue asked.
I dropped the coffee scoop, spilling my Island Java all over the counter in a smattering of smoky granules. “I have a home. My Airstream.” I brushed the coffee to the edge of the counter and carefully nudged it back into the scooper. No need to waste good, unused grounds.
As I tipped the scoop into the filter and filled the pot with water, my mind began to race. Would I have to sell my Airstream when Cole and I were wed? How could I? This sleek, silver abode was my dream place; I’d lovingly restored it from the bottom up. And it was . . . well, perfect.
“Life changes when you get married, honey.” Wanda Sue’s eyes met mine as I moved back into the living area—hers full of gentle understanding. “Guess you didn’t think about that part. Most people don’t. But your whole world will be turned upside down with a new hubby. I loved being married, don’t get me wrong, but living with my dear, departed hubby required some adjustments.” She leaned back on the sofa, her face taking on an expression of reverie—glazed eyes and soft smile. “He was up at dawn; I’m a late riser. He liked cats; I’m a dog lover. He liked the mountains; I liked the beach.”
“Okay, I get the picture,” I cut in with some alarm. “But Cole and I have lived together before; we spent a couple of years in Orlando in this Airstream.”
“But you weren’t married. That puts a different spin on everything.”
My racing thoughts amped up to a mental marathon of panic. Don’t go there. I could not allow myself to go there. “I’ll get the coffee.” After a few minutes, I returned with two steaming mugs and handed one to Wanda Sue.
“Don’t worry none. Your love for Cole will make them little life adjustments a breeze.” She raised her mug in a silent toast and then took a deep swig. “Trust me, it’ll happen like that.”
A breeze? Sounds more like a tropical storm. Or even a hurricane. I gulped my coffee, causing it to burn my mouth on the way down. Sputtering, I tried to inhale a few cooling breaths.
“You okay, girl?”
Still coughing, I nodded. “Enough about me. How are you doing after all the trauma today?”
“Surviving, I guess.” She gave a visible shudder. “I’ve never seen anything like that before . . . poor Bucky. After Madame Geri took me home, I took myself a little rest and checked my blood pressure with one of those cuff thingies. The apostolic pressure was just a little high.”
Did she mean the BP Holy Scale? Nah. “You might want to check in tomorrow at the island walk-in clinic and have the nurse-practitioner look you over.”
“Will do, especially ’cause I think my stress levels may stay pretty high with life changes looming. Whatever happens to me, I’ve got to keep my Dixie-chick cool and be prepared.”
Huh?
She set down her mug and held up the orange coveralls. “I got these from my friend, Betty Lou, who did time for grand theft auto.”
“She stole a car?”
“Not really. She bought it from her nephew. She thought he just gave her a good deal. Turns out he’d carjacked some guy in another state and then sold it illegally to Betty Lou. When the police picked her up, they didn’t believe her story.”
I was downing my coffee rapidly, hoping the caffeine jolt would help me make sense of Wanda Sue’s story. “And?”
“Well, she did three months in prison before the nephew turned up and told the truth. Then she got out. She got the island attorney to sue, got a lot of money, and bought a fancy condo in Lauderdale.” My landlady paused and sighed. “But this hideous outfit is what she had to wear when she was in the slammer.” She threw down the rumpled, orange, cotton coveralls, and a button popped off.
I wrinkled my nose. The pants smelled like an armpit. Pukeycolored and baggy, even Kate Moss would look like Ugly Betty in that getup.
“You see what I mean? This is what I’ll be condemned to wearing if I go to jail for Bucky’s m-murder.” She choked back a sob. “I can’t be seen dead in these things; my little grandson, Kevin, will be haunted by the image of his granny-convict.”
I guess orange is the new black.
“We’ve already established that you’re not going to prison,” I said in a firm tone. Personally, I thought the other aspects of being in jail, such as living behind bars or eating crummy food or sharing a cell with a real criminal would outweigh the coveralls, but we all have our priorities. “I won’t let that happen to you. Promise.” I reached over and squeezed her hand briefly (and kicked the coveralls back in her direction).
“I’m counting on it.” She offered me a tremulous smile.
I leaned back in my chair, coffee mug in hand. “I have to ask this, Wanda Sue. You didn’t see or . . . do anything, when you went back to the town hall?”
Her eyes kindled with indignation. “How could you even think that? You’ve known me nearly three years, and have I ever given you reason to believe that I could do harm to another person?”
“No, no, of course not.” I added hastily, “It’s just that . . . well, Detective Billie said that you dated Bucky, and had sort of a bad breakup . . .” I hesitated.
“So?”
I glanced down at the swirling darkness in my mug. “He might’ve said something like you threatened Bucky with a frying pan and he filed a complaint against you.”
Wanda Sue retrieved the crumpled coveralls and folded them on her lap. But she didn’t answer.
“So, it’s true?”
“Not exactly.” She picked at the rough material.
“Which part?”
“Mayb
e it’s an itty-bitty true.” She held her thumb and forefingers about two inches apart. “But I never intended to actually hit him. You know us southern women. We’re passionate about our men, especially when they’re cheatin’ on us.”
I set my cup on the coffee table. “I’m all ears.”
She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly in one long, dramatic sigh. “All right, I’ll give you the whole story: I was going through one of those life phases a few years ago, before you came to the island, and I felt middle age creeping up like a shadow at my heels. Then Bucky started showing interest in me at the town-hall meetings, and . . . well, he swept yours truly off her feet with ‘wining and dining’ and little gifts. It wasn’t that serious—more like the time you were dating Pop Pop.”
“I wasn’t dating Pop Pop.”
“Of course you weren’t, honey.” She gave me a knowing wink. “Anyway, things were going along pretty good, when I started seeing another side of Bucky.”
“Mean temper?”
“Ladies’ man.” She pursed her mouth.
“Bucky with the Bad Comb-over?” The words came out before I could stop myself.
“Oh, Lordy, his baldness just seemed to make him more attractive to women—that and the cowboy boots. Women just couldn’t resist him. And it wasn’t like he was trying too hard to fight them off, if you know what I mean. I could barely stand it after a couple of months. Then, one day, I was frying up some ham and collard greens at his place when some floozy called him. Right then and there. Can you believe that? I threw the frying pan on the floor and stomped out.”
“Why did he file a complaint?”
“Oh, the grease must’ve splashed on his shirt.” She sighed. “After all of his lyin’, I was glad to get him out of my life.”
“I’ll bet,” I chimed in, but was still having trouble seeing Bucky as a Don Juan. “Now the frying-pan incident is explained, who do you think might’ve hated Bucky enough to kill him? I mean, did he steal other men’s wives?”
“Not that I can recollect.”
“Was he dating anyone new? Nick Billie said he was seeing a woman in Paradisio.”
Coastal Corpse Page 8
