What Lies Beneath: A Florida Action Adventure Novel (Scott Jarvis Private Investigator Book 10)

by Scott Cook

  We sat near the middle of the lower deck overlooking John’s Pass at the Spindrift Bar and Grill. The sun was hanging low enough over the Gulf that its golden rays shone beneath the John’s Pass Bridge and turned the water into shimmering fire. A light five or six knot breeze was blowing in from the north and the temperature hovered right around seventy. A perfect early February Florida evening in Saint Petersburg.

  “You know,” Keisha suddenly stated, waving a fork full of gator tail at me. “I don’t think I’m clear on the whole deal with burying that jar at the construction site. What ever came of that and why did that archeologist try to get it copied?”

  I chuckled and shook my head, “You know… I don’t think I’ve got a good answer for that. I think the idea was to use it as proof that the Calusa had been to the site and to stop Virginia Chandler from developing it. Maybe Thorne, maybe Davies… maybe just her competitor.”

  “Yeah, but what’s that got to do with finding the treasure?” Wayne asked.

  I chewed thoughtfully on a delicious bite of wild boar, “Well, either there was more to it and maybe that’s a thread that’ll crop up again… or the politicians were going to use it as further leverage for further study… another reason they should gain control over former Calusa land…? maybe George was Graham Homes’ secret partner… the way things turned out, that part of the plan never came to fruition. We may never know.”

  “Doesn’t that bug the shit outta you?” Sharon asked wryly.

  I shrugged, “A little… but when you take it all in, one small thing doesn’t amount to much I guess.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Lisa told me the other night,” Sharon quipped.

  “So how’s the leg, Juan?” I asked, taking the high road and acknowledging Sharon’s barb with the briefest of disobliging gestures.

  He shrugged, “No big thing, mang. I was hobbling around on it the next day. They said it could’ve been worse if you hadn’t acted so rapido. Thanks, hermano.”

  I grinned, “Least I could do, buddy. You’re in the club, now.”

  “Is that the been shot club or the bad shit happens to people who hang around Jarvis club,” Sharon teased.

  Keisha almost sprayed a bit of venison. Lisa just shook her head and Wayne grinned at me.

  “Really?” I asked. “So we’re done being friends, is that it?”

  “Hey, you got my man shot,” Sharon pointed out. “Nuther couple of inches and it would’ve dramatically altered our relationship.”

  “Saving your sorry ass,” I grumbled and flipped her off.

  Sharon smiled and then got up, came around to my side of the table and sat in my lap, throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me tightly, “I know… and thanks. I love you.”

  She said this last lower than the rest. Had she only meant it for me? I patted her back as her body quivered slightly with the effort of holding back tears.

  “It’s okay, babe. Anytime,” I reassured her. “I love you too. And you’ve saved my butt more than once. Are you… okay?”

  She stood and smiled at me before going back to her seat, “It’s been a whole week now. Water under the bridge.”

  “That’s our Sharon,” Lisa said. “Tough as nails.”

  “It’s been a hell of a few weeks,” she admitted, reaching for her beer. “But it’s okay. I’ve just got to focus on what I’ve got. Be grateful that I’ve got everybody at this table to count on and who cares. I’m very grateful for that.”

  “Yeah… we’re awesome,” Wayne chimed in.

  “So, now that the mushy bullshit is out of the way, Mr. Jarvis…” Sharon began. “I’m curious about something.”

  “No, Sharon, it’s not really the stork that brings them,” I deadpanned.

  “Ha-ha,” She intoned. “No, what I’m curious about is how in the world the note on Juan’s car has suddenly been paid off… and how Clay called and said that I don’t owe him a dime for the work he did on my house.”

  “Some people are nice,” I suggested. “As for Juan…probably a clerical error at the dealership or something.”

  I turned around just as a couple of guys were mounting the outdoor stage and beginning to set up their instruments and mics. One of the men, the lead guitarist and singer grinned at me and I gave him a thumbs up.

  “Yeah, and what’s also weird is that my mom’s car and mine are both suddenly paid off,” Wayne added with a cocked eyebrow.

  “Psssh! Stupid banks,” I offered dismissively.

  “You gonna tell us any more than that bullshit?” Keisha asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  I shrugged, “Don’t look a gift horse of a different color in the mouth… a penny saved gathers no wool. Now, you guys are focusing on very unimportant matters. Feast your eyes on this…”

  I pulled a piece of paper from one of the pockets of my red guayabera shirt and began to unfold it.

  “Who’s that setting up?” Sharon asked.

  “Howard Livingston and the Mile Marker 24 Band,” I said absently. “Came up special from the Keys for this weekend… okay, so what do you think?”

  I held up a color printer photo of a boat. Lisa had seen it already and was smiling at me. The other four simply stared with wide eyes. Juan whistled.

  “She’s a beauty,” Keisha said. “What is she?”

  “Eighty-foot schooner,” I said. “Built in the late nineties along the same basic lines as the old Baltimore Clippers. Composite hull and framing, two masts and specially designed for shallower waters. She draws six feet but has an extendable keel that gives her another three at sea. Gaffed main and fore along with inner and outer jibs as the standard setup. The owner brags that she can do three hundred and sixty miles per day, but cruises at ten knots. Twenty-foot beam and can sleep fourteen. Lot more detail, but that’s the basic poop.”

  “God damn!” Wayne exclaimed. “That’s a damned ship, brother!”

  “How much?” Sharon asked me suspiciously.

  “It’s… pricey, as you might expect,” I stated evasively.

  “Scott…” Sharon pressed.

  I grinned, “Seven hundred grand. Pretty good deal, when you think about it.”

  Keisha did a spit take, barely managing to get a napkin to her nose and mouth in time to stop from spraying her cabernet all over Wayne, “What!? You win the lottery or what, boy?”

  “I’ve been saving…” I said, a little sheepishly. “Got this place, my books, Navy pay and the regular biz… insurance payoff from Slip’N’Out… I can swing it.”

  “So where is this thing?” Juan asked with a gleam in his eye.

  “Grand Cayman,” I stated. “I’ve already arranged a slip over at the Harborage Marina downtown. They’ve got a T-head big enough for her.”

  “Including that spar?” Keisha asked, holding the photo and examining it. “It’s got to be thirty feet long!”

  “Twenty-five,” I said. “She’s fifty-five feet on deck. So… who wants to do the delivery with me?”

  Everyone’s hand went up and big smiles appeared on all of their faces to match my own. As Howard and the band began playing Key West Time, I turned and hoisted my margarita to them.

  They say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover… which is true, except possibly when taken literally. Who can tell what truly lies beneath any given situation? This case started out as two seemingly random events. Virginia Chandler’s survey and documents being stolen and a couple of graves being robbed.

  By the time we got to the bottom of the matter, we’d discovered dirty politicians, rogue assassins, resurrected fathers, a mother’s true identity, the truth about a long-buried treasure stash… and more than a few people died and some were deeply wounded, both physically and emotionally. If there were ever a case of Pandora’s Box, this one would certainly be in the running.

  Clint Proust, Deac and Troy, Big Daddy Walker, Stank, Carver, a couple of guys I don’t know, Jim and one of his buddies… am I leaving anyone out? Oh yeah…Michael Harney, Sharon’s uncle. T
hen there was Juan who received what could’ve been a fatal gunshot wound… and then there was Sharon.

  She suffered most of all. Yet her inner strength, the love of her friends and the resolution to a lot of loose ends will allow her to heal. That and she doesn’t know it yet… but she’s got a hell of an inheritance coming someday!

  As for your favorite action hero novelist chef private eye? Well, I was about to possibly acquire a very beautiful sailing vessel the likes of which I never thought I’d own. Interestingly, and possibly even ironically… it wasn’t too dissimilar to the Sword of Vengeance, Pierre Meraux’s first privateer and one of the vessels Catherine captured. Funny how the circle goes round and round, isn’t it?

  Author’s Notes

  Phew! Was this a beefy story or what? I hope that having to read an extra-long adventure didn’t tire or bore you too much. I sincerely hope that you received as much enjoyment from this read as I have in bringing it to you.

  Quite a lot going on in this one, huh? Lot of Sharon’s history revealed… we got to visit with mysterious Uncle Rick once again… and poor Slip’N’Out paid the ultimate price. Sort of weird, because as you may know, that particular vessel also exists in the “real world” as belonging to your humble scribbler. Hope I haven’t offended her with the fictitious tale of her fiery demise. On the other hand, the Jarvinator is about to acquire a truly awesome yacht and I’m all atwitter with what excitements will soon abound as a result.

  And what of this mysterious Miko lady? Might she not reappear someday? How about some of our other favorite characters? What’s up with Morgan and Rocky? What’s Clay D up to? How about Bob and his sailboat… will I blow up the Barefoot Wanderer too? I might, if Burnett gives me too much lip!

  Well, fair reader, it’s that time again. Time to temporarily say goodbye and time to shamelessly plug my bullcrap…

  If you’d like to join the Jarvis crew, please visit my website and add yourself to the free mailing list. Not only will you be privy to interesting insider tidbits… I recently revealed mine and Jarvis’ secret chili powder recipe… you’ll also receive a novella entitled All That Glitters… interestingly also about a treasure. It’s free, it’s fun and only the most attractive folks are permitted!

  www.scottwcook.com

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  I can’t wait until we meet again,

  Scott W. Cook