Too Much Stuff

by Don Bruns

  “Give her a call and ask her to go to the property and check it out for you. For her it won’t be a big deal.”

  “Why her?”

  She turned to James. “Who has unlimited access to almost every property in the area and no one will question them?”

  She was right. For a natural blonde, she was pretty sharp.

  So I called Maria Sanko, and we all met for coffee at a seaside bar and restaurant called Lorelei.

  The day was heating up, but the breeze from the gulf was perfect. Living in our crummy apartment in Carol City, I sometimes forget how great Florida can be.

  “So, we want to be totally open with you.” James could lie with the best of them.

  A small boat puttered by, the engine stuttering.

  “You’re not looking for somebody’s great-grandfather?”

  “We are. Sort of.”

  A great egret landed on the railing just in front of us, and the big bird hopped to a vacant tabletop. I looked up and a short-haired lady in a dirty apron was bringing a plate of scrambled eggs out from behind the bar.

  She set the dish on the floor and the bird hopped down and started eating.

  “A bird eating eggs,” said James. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  “Only scrambled. He only eats the scrambled ones.” The woman watched the tall white bird for several seconds then disappeared behind the bar.

  “Actually, Maria, you hit the nail on the head yesterday. You said you thought we were probably treasure hunters and we were looking for a wrecker’s camp. Well, Mary Trueblood’s great-grandfather ran a wrecker’s camp. He sacked treasure ships, so looking for the site of the camp is exactly what we’re doing.”

  “I knew it.” She slapped the table, rattling the four coffee cups. “Well, I wish you luck. I always thought it would be neat to find some gold coins down here. I’ve known several people who have. They didn’t get rich, but—”

  “We have an idea that his wrecker’s camp was located at the vacant property behind the doctor’s office. Where O’Neill and Malhotra do their business.”

  It’s the best story we could come up with.

  “Behind Malhotra and O’Neill’s building? The fenced land where the Coral Belle stood?”

  “Yes.”

  “But there was a hotel there. Not a wrecking camp.”

  Obviously there were holes in our story.

  “Well, the information is a little sketchy, but maybe the camp was there before the hotel was built.”

  She nodded, thinking it through as a blue heron landed on the railing.

  The pure-white egret looked up from his meal and squawked as the blue heron jumped down and paraded over to the plate of eggs. The egret flapped his wings and rose about six inches from the planked wooden floor as two seagulls swooped down, one landing on a chair, one on the floor. The egret and the heron both squawked, and I caught the dishtowel from the corner of my eye as it flew through the air, coming dangerously close to Em’s head.

  “Shoo, shoo!” The lady ran from behind the counter, picked up the towel, and rushed the blue heron, who wisely leaped to the railing and gracefully launched himself into the air.

  The two seagulls frantically pecked at the egg on the floor, then took their leave, flying inches above us.

  “Gotta love the peace and tranquility out here,” Em said as she ducked.

  And, to be honest, I did.

  We’d finished our second cups of coffee. The birds had all flown away once the eggs were consumed. Green water lapped at the deck and a small sailboat almost brushed our railing as it headed out from the harbor.

  “So, let me get this straight. You want me to drive down to the lot, walk down the south fence line, and see if there’s any sign of your digging last night?”

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “But if the dogs ran you off—”

  “Honest to God, Maria, you can’t tell anyone about that.” James’s eyes were wide and he grabbed her hand across the table.

  “Because you are afraid you’ll get caught?”

  “Because he’s embarrassed that the dogs almost caught up with him.” Em smiled. Always stirring the pot.

  “Shut up, Em.” He let go of Maria’s hand and regrouped. “We left our shovels. But due to a boat arriving, we don’t think they paid much attention to the—”

  “A boat? At that hour of the morning? Maybe it was a fishing boat.”

  I leaned in. “We thought it was strange, too. Thirty-five people were on this boat. They all had suitcases with them.”

  Maria frowned, looking out at the water.

  “Strange things happen down here. You just never know.”

  “Will you go look?”

  She shrugged. “Why not? There are some nice cottages on that side of the property. I could just be scoping them out, you know, for possible sales.”

  Em had called this one right.

  “Of course, I would like to be considered if you find gold coins.”

  “Yeah.” James and I both shouted together. We weren’t after gold coins. We were after pounds of gold bars. And this biker babe was going to give us a hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  We stayed away, went nowhere near the scene of the crime. Maria met us at a Walgreens drugstore across from the post office.

  “You’re right. There are several small clearings where you can see into the property. Your shovels are there, just laying on the ground.”

  “And what about the ground?” James said.

  “It appears to be dug up where the shovels are laying.”

  We sat in the parking lot, Maria on the soft leather seat of her Harley, the three of us on that cracked vinyl bench seat in the truck.

  “If they’d sent those dogs in to run you off, they would have searched the area and confiscated those shovels,” Em said. “As it is, they didn’t even check the grounds. The entire emphasis last night was on that boat. Maybe the dogs were to protect whatever cargo they had. You said they all carried suitcases.”

  “Again, what time did that boat arrive?” I knew, but wanted to hear it again.

  “Three thirty.” Em pointed to her watch.

  “So we dig at two thirty tomorrow morning. Just in case there’s another boat at the same time.” I was determined to find what my shovel had hit this morning.

  “I won’t be there. That’s past my bedtime, kids.” Maria pointed to her watch. “Speaking of time, I’ve got a house to show. Remember, if you find gold coins—”

  She twisted the handle, adjusted the Harley engine to a throaty roar, and pulled out onto Highway 1.

  “Think she’ll keep quiet?” I asked.

  “I think she likes the idea of being a part of this little scheme.”

  “Gold coins and all.”

  “We’ll dig tonight, pard, but,” he turned to Em, “I hope we pay more attention to who shows up.”

  She bristled.

  James drove back to Pelican Cove.

  “This time, I’m gonna take a short break, partner. Not much to do till early this morning is there?”

  I studied him as we pulled into the parking lot.

  “She’s married, James. You do know that.”

  “She’s a big girl, Skip.”

  Em nudged me and I opened the door and stepped out.

  “I’m a big boy,” he said.

  “Not necessarily a smart boy,” Em responded as she walked away.

  James watched her, then turned to me and shook his head.

  “I think it was Will Rodgers who said it best, my friend.”

  “What was that, James?”

  “He said, ‘Never miss a good chance to shut up.’”

  “I never knew the man.”

  “Yeah, well, he made sense.”

  James walked in the direction of Holiday Isle, and I assumed he’d be occupied for the next several hours.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I left Em at the poolside bar with the popular Bobbie as I headed out t
o the check-in, a small building at the front of the resort. Our resort.

  The girl I’d talked to when we found the body was sitting there staring at her computer screen.

  She looked up when I opened the door.

  “Oh, wasn’t that creepy?”

  “It was.”

  Doing a mock shiver, she smiled at me. “I still get goose bumps to think that, you know—and you? You had to see it. Oh, my God. You had to look at the body. Was it gross?”

  “It was.”

  She shuddered for real.

  “I’ve got a question for you. Are you familiar with the water-front suites about a mile and a half down the road called Ocean Air Suites?”

  “Sure. I’ve got a friend who cleans rooms there.”

  “Really? It’s right next to that vacant lot, right?”

  “Uh-huh. The strange lot that’s fenced in.”

  “Who owns the suites?”

  “You want to know who is her boss?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Doctor James O’Neill.”

  “Really? The same guy who has the chiropractor business?” I don’t know why that surprised me, but I wasn’t expecting it.

  She laughed. “He’s an orthopedic surgeon. I think there’s a difference.”

  “Something to do with bones.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know Doctor O’Neill?”

  “Not really. He tends to keep to himself. Jan doesn’t know him either. She says he doesn’t show up very often. I think his practice keeps him busy.”

  “She’s met him?”

  “I think so. Maybe one time he showed up late in the morning with a group of tourists. Yeah. That was it. They were supposed to come in maybe two a.m. and the boat was delayed. She was cleaning rooms and he showed up with these people at nine in the morning.”

  “Okay.”

  “But the place is kind of weird. There are days when she’ll get a call and they don’t need her.”

  “Off season, when it’s slow?”

  “Not necessarily. It’s like that whole group will check in really late, sleep all day, and check out the next night. Not till maybe eleven p.m. So they lay her off for two days and then she’s got to clean every room the next day. Happens once or twice a month. She’s looking at some other job opportunities because this one is shaky. But the economy being what it is—”

  “People who check in late and check out late? Ah, tourists. Who can understand them?”

  “I just know that we need them.”

  She smiled and looked back at her computer.

  I joined Em at the bar, my beer already on the counter, light brown and bubbly, sparkling in the late afternoon sun.

  Bobbie looked at me and frowned.

  “My God, this girl, Amy,” Em said, “with James, she’s having an affair on top of an affair.”

  “She’s on vacation, Emily. You can’t have too much fun.”

  She smiled and sipped her beer, licking the foam off the top.

  “Your good friend seems to have more fun than he should.”

  I agreed. But I didn’t want Em telling me that. It was a guy thing. James was James. Em never seemed to get that.

  “Hey, I found out something interesting. That motel, excuse me, those suites on the north side of the fence—”

  “Yeah?”

  “They belong to the orthopedic guy next to the Vein Care Center.”

  “So he’s got an investment close to his office. So what?”

  “Well, it’s just funny. This Doctor Malhotra owns the boat dock property and Dr. O’Neill owns the suites. And early this morning we see the boat come in and people disappearing at the suites’ side of the property.”

  “I think you’re making too much of that.”

  “Maybe, but you factor in that there were attack dogs for security.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  “And the fact that Jan, who works there, says guests sometimes check in very late and check out late the next night. Don’t most motels and hotels have checkout by noon?”

  I very seldom stayed in a hotel. I could barely afford the rat hole we lived in outside of Miami.

  “That’s the group we saw. The early morning arrivals.” Em looked me in the eyes. “By the way, you’re getting pretty good at this detective business.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Look at all you’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m no closer to the gold.”

  “You’ve only been here a couple of days, boyfriend.”

  I liked it when she called me that.

  Standing up, she motioned to me. We walked to the beach, and she took my hand. At that very second, life couldn’t have been any better. Of course, that never lasts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  We had dinner at the Ocean View Inn and Pub. The place was on the gulf side of the Key and did not overlook the ocean. That didn’t seem to matter. It was still the Ocean View Inn.

  “Are you sure you want to eat here?” Em was watching ten guys across the bar, laughing loudly, cussing a blue streak, and slamming down their beers as fast as they could.

  The bar/restaurant/inn was directly across the highway from Pelican Cove. It was close, walkable, and Bobbie volunteered that the bar food here was passable and it was cheap. She also said some pro football players owned the place and it was world famous. I sensed a theme in Islamorada.

  The sign out front said: OLDEST ESTABLISHED LIQUOR LICENSE IN THE KEYS. Everything seemed to revolve around the Keys and alcohol.

  Sitting down, I immediately saw there was something sunken into the dark wood bar. A small plaque was embedded there as well. “Spike from Henry Flagler’s railroad,” it read.

  “Em, this is cool. It’s a spike from Flagler’s folly.”

  She gave me a suspicious look, then gazed up and down the bar. To her right was a guy who looked like an ex-football player. His curly hair hung in ringlets and his muscle had turned to flab.

  Next to him were two older fishermen, the creases in their faces showing the effects of too many days in the sun. Judging by the empty bottles, they were well into their fifth round. Arguing about a football game or player, they went at each other.

  “Sum bitch should have stayed a farmer. Never was NFL quality, Danny. Never was.”

  “Well I say he has two year, two years to prove his mettle. You just think you know it all and—”

  “I’d lay a Benjamin down on that. He’ll be gone in two.”

  I signaled the barmaid, a rough-looking woman with a weathered face and her hair pulled back in a knot. She wore a stained white tank top and sported an ugly red scar running down her right cheek.

  “Two beers. Yuengling.”

  She stared at us sullenly and I thought immediately of Bobbie. Were all the bartenders in Islamorada surly?

  We checked out the long bar and the far wall with pictures of fishermen, their catches hanging high, as we ate our fried ocean perch and french fries. Not the healthiest meal in the Keys, but the Ocean View was world famous. And that was something. World famous. It made us proud.

  She set two more beers in front of us without asking, apparently signaling there was a two-drink minimum for the atmosphere.

  Giving us a suspicious look, she said, “Where you from?”

  “Miami,” I replied.

  In the din of laughter and conversation she shouted out, “Are you here for the tournament? You don’t look like tournament types.”

  “I didn’t even know there was a tournament.”

  She squinted her eyes, as if she didn’t know whether to believe me or not.

  “Swordfishing. They go out at night, three, four miles offshore where the water’s warm. They fish from seven till lines up.”

  “Lines up?” Em asked.

  “Three a.m. They pull their lines. Second night the same thing. Whoever has the most weight, wins.”

  I wasn’t much of a fisherman. “How m
uch does a swordfish weigh?”

  “Hundred, hundred ten. Wouldn’t you say, Willie?” She motioned to an old leather-skinned man down the bar.

  He grunted.

  She put down our check, and I handed her the debit card. It’s amazing how fast a thousand dollars can slip away. A nice resort, a few good meals, oil and gas for the truck.

  “If you’re not here for the tournament, what are you here for?”

  “Just, you know, vacationing.”

  She stared at me for a moment. “Don’t look much like vacationers either.”

  Just then a cheer erupted on the other side of the bar, and a couple of men started singing off-key and loudly.

  We walked out into the humid evening.

  “Did you catch that, Skip?”

  Walking across the deserted highway, she grabbed my arm.

  “Big fish?”

  “That’s not what I was referring to.”

  “Then what?”

  “She said lines up at three a.m., and we saw the boat at three thirty.”

  “You think?”

  “Timing is suspect.”

  “Sure didn’t look like a fishing boat. And I don’t think you’d have thirty-five people out there. It just doesn’t seem right.”

  “Seems funny they pull in their lines at about the same time you saw the boat.”

  My girlfriend is right more than she’s wrong. I pondered the thought, and I was certain that was no fishing boat.

  I heard the throbbing engine before I saw the headlight. A Harley-Davidson came roaring around the bend, and we both ran for the grass. I turned to look and couldn’t make out much, except the driver was helmeted. Whoever it was, was riding like the wind. That bike blew by us and disappeared down the road.

  “Could have been the gold fender,” I gasped when we got to the other side.

  “Could have been Maria Sanko.” Em wasn’t winded at all.

  “Could have been our lives if we hadn’t picked up our speed.”

  It was still early and Holiday Isle was cooking, the music and noise drifting across the water.

  “Want to go?” Em was making the suggestion.

  So we walked to Rumrunners and there were James and Amy, cuddling at the bar.

  “Tell me, Skip, would you fool around with a married woman?” Em studied them for a moment.