Below the Surface

by Karen Harper

  The rest of the commission members sat in the front row. Looking at Amelia—who seemed so haggard and nervous that Bree was shocked she was even here today—did nothing but make her more upset and uneasy. Ben sat in the chair behind his wife, as if to keep an eye on her.

  Sam Travers was here, sitting in the back of the room, flanked by his divers, Ric and Lance. Bree had expected them to be on that job in Sarasota already, but Sam would do anything to help protect the gulf he loved and needed for his work. Josh Austin and Marla Sherborne were in attendance, both managing to sit in range of the cameras. Bree was trying to ignore the hoard of statewide media, with their microphones on poles that they thrust toward the podium. Several cameramen sat cross-legged on the floor in front, as if this were some presidential news conference announcing peace or war. In a way, around here, maybe it was.

  “Of course, we are all deeply saddened,” Chairman Godwin went on, “by the tragic loss of Daria Devon, and we continue to extend our condolences to the family. We are grateful Briana can be with us today at this difficult time with her findings on what is essentially the health report of our precious Gulf of Mexico. Briana?”

  Applause, no less. She wasn’t sure the chairman would be so grateful when he heard her report. Cole and Manny were the only ones who knew what she intended, because she thought Mr. Godwin might completely discount her report or try to stop her. After all, he wanted the outcome to be a healthy gulf that could handle more development and a casino yacht. Speaking of that, as she glanced at the crowd, she saw Dom Verdugo was here.

  Standing in front of everyone, she teared up at first, picturing Daria here with her, wishing fervently this would still go well, even after some bastard had tried to pull the sick-sea-grass rug out from under her.

  Her hands shook as she put her index cards on the podium and reached for the remote control that would run her now all-too-brief presentation. She put the first slide up on the screen. It was all black with the words in white: This Report Is In Loving Memory Of Daria Claire Devon, 1978–2006.

  “Thank you, Mr. Godwin, and all the commission for your support and kind words about my twin sister. As you know, for the last six months, Daria and I have closely monitored and photographed the turtle grass meadow near the Trade Wreck, approximately four miles out in the gulf. Mr. Godwin is now passing around a handout with information on our fifty-eight dives and a chart indicating the health of the grass, a consistently downward trend.

  “We used to call this our grassroots project, but later called it SAV for Submerged Aquatic Vegetation. I don’t need to remind you that sea grass roots are key to the ecohealth of the entire area. Sea grass roots hold the sea bottom in place, and the grass itself produces oxygen and shelters marine life. Yet our gulf sea grass is dying.”

  The occasional camera flash from the media bothered Bree. Even when she wasn’t looking directly into the flashes, they bored into her brain. Her own voice over the microphone seemed much too loud, though no one was reacting that way. People were leaning forward, intense, listening to each word. Despite the icy air-conditioning, she felt herself start to sweat, but went on.

  “Before I show you some slides, I want to make two major points. First, I want to reiterate that, in the six months Daria and I studied the site, the grass went from bad to much worse. As a result, other marine life is greatly impacted, even endangered. Life on shore suffers, too, and not just because we can catch fewer healthy fish to eat or swim in less clear waters. Secondly, I must tell you something else almost as upsetting to me.”

  She cleared her throat and darted a look at Cole. His big body was tensed up; he was frowning. He’d argued at first that she should not throw down the gauntlet, that she would make herself more of a target. She’d convinced him that, in a way, she was buying herself life insurance. How obvious would it look if something strange happened to the second sister who was making a stand against pollution, including that from a casino cruise ship, in this area?

  “Someone,” she said, “is out to sabotage the proof of our findings. Only this morning on a last-minute dive, I discovered—along with Cole DeRoca of your commission—that the shrinking, browning and fading sea grass meadow had been dug up and an area of much more flourishing grass put in its place.”

  Murmuring. A few gasps. A lot more strobe flashes. Bree gripped the edges of the podium and stared the audience down.

  Josh Austin looked stunned. He whispered something to Mark Denton, who was madly taking notes. Mark nodded. Marla Sherborne’s mouth had dropped open.

  Sam seemed to register no emotion at all. It hit her then. One of the logical recommendations would be the necessity of deeper dredging to make more tidal cuts, which would induce seawater flushing. And Sam’s business would profit from that, in a big way.

  As for Dom Verdugo, he looked almost smug as he tugged the cuff-linked wrists of his shirtsleeves down under his blazer. Yes, he would want a healthy-looking sea grass meadow so he could insist the gulf was stable and could take the demands of his big boat and the people it would bring in. And he had the money and a jet to bring in more robust grass from across the state or even from the Caribbean.

  “Also,” Bree plunged on, though her voice sounded too strident to her, “someone hacked into my computer, which held six months’ worth of photos, literally hundreds, so that I would have no visual proof and look discredited. Our triple backups were also stolen. But I can show you one slide of my sister and me that we had printed up before the digital ones were taken.”

  She put a slide on the screen of the two of them, hovering over the sea grass, smiling through their masks. Daria had used the camera’s automatic timer to get that shot; it had the name and number of their shop underneath. They had planned to use this photo for publicity, but decided at the last minute that the sea grass looked too sick for their big smiles. How strange that hidden, rejected photo had saved the day. Was the person who was playing with their lives hidden, too? Was he someone she knew—someone here today?

  “Please ignore the Two Mermaids promotion,” Bree said, “and take a look at the sea grass just under us and behind the lettering. This picture is about three months old, halfway through the project, but you can still see how puny and brown the sea grass looks, compared to the excellent shape of this newly sodded grass, which would do a Naples golf course proud.”

  She ran a series of slides, calling attention to an especially straight edge of the bed and to a view showing that the grass had been planted below the level of the rest of the surrounding sand. “Note also,” she added, “that you do not see tiny sea life, such as arrow crabs, clinging to the new, flourishing grass. When it was dug up and taken out of water, those creatures perished, and no new ones have had time to find a home here. In closing, just let me say that not only I, but also Cole DeRoca, can testify that these are two very different sea grass beds—the one my sister and I were hired to monitor and the transplanted one some enemy of truth has gone to desperate lengths to deceive all of you with. Desperate lengths,” she emphasized again, almost shouting, and sat down before she could blurt out her suspicions about Daria’s death.

  The room exploded in questions. Marv Godwin jumped to his feet, holding up both hands to quiet everyone. “All right, we promised you a Q and A session,” he said. “As for Briana Devon here, let’s remember she’s only the messenger….”

  And what, Bree thought, was the rest of that saying? Oh, yeah, don’t kill the messenger. Had she protected herself today or set things up so someone would try to do exactly that?

  18

  Bombshell At Clear The Gulf Commission Hearing, the headline in the Naples Daily News read the next morning. A photo of Bree at the podium took up a quarter of the front page, with the slide of her and Daria underwater in the background. The article didn’t accuse anyone but mentioned that the fallout might include temporary restrictions for onshore building and might “sway even more voters from backing at-sea gambling.” If that was the ultimate fallout, Bree thou
ght, and Dom Verdugo became a suspect in the turtle grass switch, he would be even more furious at her than before.

  Bree’s report about someone replacing the sea grass meadow was also the lead story in the local morning newscasts she checked. Mark Denton phoned to tell her the story was being carried statewide and he and “the candidate” admired her courage. An e-mail from Senator Marla Sherborne, one of nearly a hundred sent to the shop’s Web site, said that “the ripples” were being felt even in Washington.

  It was not, Bree thought, as she sat at the table with her head in her hands over her barely touched breakfast, the way any sane person who had been attacked in more ways than one should keep a low profile. But she’d decided to flush out whoever was hurting the gulf—and whoever had hurt Daria. Would that be the same person?

  When Cole emerged from the shower after another night on her sofa, his hair was slicked to his head. He pecked a kiss on her cheek as if they were an old married couple and poured his own coffee. He’d already eaten.

  “Any more phone calls?” he asked.

  “I turned my cell off, and the TV. The e-mail count keeps going up. Everything’s exploding,” she said, turning the paper toward where he sat across from her. As he bent over the article, she pointed to the word bombshell.

  It annoyed her that he looked so good, compared to the way she felt. She’d spent half the night awake again, afraid of bad dreams and going over and over candidates who might have substituted healthy sea grass for sick, and for possible fathers of Daria’s child. Of course, there were many unknowns, but something Manny’s daughter had asked about Daria kept sticking in Bree’s brain. Had Daria gotten over Josh? Or had they run into each other somewhere and boom! Old passions had exploded? Even if that were true, it seemed the man was seldom alone. Nikki was on the campaign trail with him, and he always had Mark Denton at his elbow.

  Yet Bree kept recalling that Daria had told her once out of the blue—no, they had just seen one of Josh’s TV ads, where he and Nikki were walking the beach hand in hand—that Nikki had suffered two miscarriages and they were desperate to have children. How long ago had that been? Certainly, in the last seven weeks or so. At the time, Bree hadn’t even wondered where Daria had come up with that intimate information. Just gossip, that’s what she’d passed it off as. But was it firsthand knowledge? And would someone like Josh, who seemed to have almost everything he wanted, need to prove he could father a child?

  “A million dollars for your thoughts,” Cole said, looking up from reading the article.

  “I thought they were only worth a penny.”

  “Not anymore,” he said, putting his coffee cup down. “Inflation plus your fifteen minutes of media fame’s upped the ante. I can’t wait to get working on the paneling for the Fun ’n’ Sun today to see how Verdugo is reacting. He looked pretty smug for a while at the meeting, but I saw him storm out.”

  “Cole, remember how I said I’d like to get away?”

  “You can’t run now. Besides, I’ve committed to get that casino yacht project going so I can keep an eye on Verdugo and his boys. I couldn’t go with you.”

  “I think I mentioned that Josh and Nikki Austin invited me to spend some time at their place in cane country? Clewiston’s not far, and I wouldn’t stay long. Maybe just for the day, if they’ll fly me there like they said.”

  “Bree, Josh may not be as high on our watch list for hiring your attackers as Sam Travers and his divers or Verdugo and his goons are, but he—”

  “He bears watching, and that’s exactly what I’d like to do. Or, barring that, since he’s so busy, I’d settle for picking Nikki’s brain.”

  “So you’re thinking whoever fathered Daria’s child might be a more important lead than someone desperate to stop your report on an endangered environment?”

  “I don’t know what I think, except that those are the two most obvious motives and I’ve got to keep pushing at possibilities. Even if Josh were somehow involved, I can’t believe he’d ever harm Daria, especially if she was carrying his child.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard the saying that absolute power corrupts absolutely? The man is a politician with big ambitions. Despite the Hollywood morals in this country today, an illegitimate child by his old flame could ruin his marriage, which is no doubt tied to big sugar money in his campaign coffers. It could sully his reputation, when he’s built up this ‘you can trust Josh Austin’ facade.”

  “But I’ve known him for years and believe he can be trusted to…”

  Bree covered her eyes and burst into tears. She heard Cole scrape his chair back. He came around the table and pulled her up into his arms. Then when she got up to head for her bedroom, he sat in her chair and tugged her into his lap.

  She forced herself to stop crying. She got the hiccups but kept talking anyway. “I didn’t know that was coming,” she said, wiping her eyes with her napkin. “It’s all I do lately, swing from heroics to hysterics. It’s just that I was going to claim I know Josh well, when I obviously didn’t even know my own twin sister.”

  “Just rest this morning, okay? Then walk over to the Fun ’n’ Sun to meet me for lunch, and we’ll go to the Grog Shop. Let Manny run things downstairs while you check the e-mail, in case there’s anything there that would give you another lead. Call me on my cell if something turns up. And I’ll try to psych out Verdugo.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” she said, trying to sound in control again. She gave him a weak salute as another hiccup jolted her.

  “Somehow, sweetheart,” he said with a sigh, “I don’t think you’re the kind of first mate—or any other kind of mate—who takes orders well.”

  “Something here for you,” Manny told Bree as she went downstairs to check the e-mail on the Two Mermaids Web site after Cole left. “That red-haired diver, Lance, the one brought back your flippers, just dropped it off. A sealed letter from Sam Travis, something to do with business.”

  As if it were a letter bomb, she took it gingerly from Manny. He sat at Daria’s desk. Bree saw he’d put a new nameplate and his family pictures where her sister’s things had been. His morning cup of yerba maté was in a mug Daria had always used for coffee. A screwdriver and wrench lay there, as if his realm of the back room had begun to migrate to the front office. Biting her lower lip, Bree went to her own desk and slit the envelope open. In Sam’s bold handwriting, the note read,

  I know you’re still shook but think about this. It’s a good time for you to sell out to me, like I offered last year. Remember your brother-in-law was all for it. Have your lawyer contact mine. I’ll take Manny on, raise my earlier price, and buy out your property there, if you want to move and move on. S. Travers

  She could not believe his gall. Red pulsating lights seemed to explode behind her eyes. With all she and Daria had worked for, did he think she’d turn tail and run? She had a good mind to rip this to shreds, but it might be evidence later of a motive for Daria’s death if Sam was involved in any way.

  “What is it?” Manny asked, getting up from Daria’s—his—desk.

  “Lock this place up. We’re going to see Sam Travers in person. I take it that they haven’t left for their big demolition job in Sarasota yet.”

  “His guy said tomorrow. What is that?” he repeated.

  “Sam’s second kind offer to buy us out and to hire you, too.”

  “No way. Caramba, I work hard to get this far here, and I’m not taking orders from him neither.”

  Bree bit her lip again. She didn’t like the way Manny had put that. She was tired of giving him the benefit of the doubt because he was under so much family pressure. Damn it, so was she! But there would be time later to discuss who was the senior partner here. Right now she was going to give Sam Travers a piece of her mind and hope he didn’t keep insisting on a pound of her flesh.

  Manny locked up hastily and followed Bree out onto the street. “We not taking the truck?” he asked.

  “It’s not that far. I’m walking. Maybe I’ll work o
ff some of this anger.”

  She was surprised that so many people called her name, thanked her for taking a stand on keeping the gulf clean, or wished her good luck as she strode past. Yes, she’d done the right thing to tell the truth and take the sea grass plot public. Now, if she could only get a credible lead on what had really happened to Daria.

  As she approached Sam’s large, three-story building, which she used to know inside and out when she and Ted were dating all those years, the first person she saw was Ric, up a ladder. He was repainting the Travers and Son Search and Salvage sign. Sam had never changed the business’s name after Ted’s death. Even now, it looked as if Ric was just brightening the colors, not changing the wording. Ted had promised his father that when he came back from the service—if he didn’t decide to make the marines a career—he’d work with him here, and Sam had immediately put up the sign as if they’d already sealed the deal.

  She noticed something interesting about Ric, besides the fact that he was obviously adept at scaling ladders to second stories.

  “Manny, how many guys do you know who paint with gloves on?” she asked. She noted they were diving gloves, which made it even stranger, because they were expensive to get splotched with paint.

  “Que sera sera,” Manny muttered, evidently not following what she meant.

  A ladder and a pair of gloves! After the commission report yesterday, Ben had told her that the CSI tech had turned up no “foreign” fingerprints. The intruder might have worn gloves.

  “Don’t walk under that ladder—bad luck,” Manny said, and grabbed her elbow.

  “Great. If I walk around it, I’m sure my luck will make a big U-turn for the good,” she said, instantly regretting her sarcasm.

  “Hey, Briana!” Ric called down. She was still so angry she was tempted to just keep walking, but maybe it would be a good idea to talk to this guy. Her dad used to say you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar.