by Karen Harper
Claire hurried down the stairs and went to where the woman put the canoe perfectly in its place. But she saw that this was not the woman she was looking for, the one who had been obviously named for her ancestor in the old photo Claire had seen. Ada must be at least seventy. This woman looked strong and middle-aged, maybe in her forties, though Claire couldn’t see her face well in the shade of the wide hat brim.
“Excuse me, but I’m looking for Ada Cypress, and I wonder if you know where she is,” Claire called out to the woman who really did resemble the older Ada from the newspaper.
“I know where she is, all right. Right here, and I bid you che-hun-ta-mo, hello. You want to buy a moss shawl or blanket? Shouldn’t be called Spanish moss, you know, here long before that, like the land and water. Better called Seminole moss, eh?” she said with a closemouthed smile at her joke. Claire could hardly hear her. She had to strain to listen to the soft words, almost like listening to a breath of air.
“Oh, I see,” Claire said, though she really didn’t. She didn’t know any Seminoles, so maybe the sun preserved their facial skin instead of aging it. Sometimes First Nation Americans did seem ageless. “I’m a friend of your neighbors, the Hazeltons, and I wanted to meet you, to talk to you,” she explained, carefully modulating her voice too so she didn’t sound as if she was shouting.
“Not a reporter, come to hurt them?”
“No. Someone come to help them.”
The woman climbed out easily with barely a tip to the canoe. It looked handmade, carved out on the inside but with the patina of age outside. Placing the pole in the canoe, she came close to Claire. Strangely, she did not look Claire in the eyes, but stared slightly beyond her as if someone stood behind.
Wow, she really did look like the woman in the old photograph, but then Claire resembled both her paternal grandmother and great-grandmother too. She tried not to show surprise or disbelief.
“We can talk,” she said. “I am Ada Cypress. No newspaper writing though, no notes. Just talk.”
No notes suited Claire. For sure she had more questions than answers. But here was someone besides the Hazeltons who might resent Mark Stirling’s “newspaper writing,” so she’d have to be more than intrigued and amazed. She’d have to be careful.
14
Nick could see Claire sitting on the open deck of the nearby house with a woman, evidently Ada Cypress, so he walked the other way after spending time with Haze and Maggie, and headed for the marina where they’d moored the Sylph.
Compared to the dock at Crayton Cove where they’d first seen their yacht, the boats here looked smaller and vintage, to put it nicely, especially compared to the yacht that was tied up at the end of the long T-shaped dock. Here were a few old cabin cruisers; a well-used sailboat or two. A couple of the larger slips were empty, since they belonged to charter fishermen who must be out with guests. Most of the private Goodland fishing boats were tied up behind trailers or houses along the canals here, like Haze’s, though he was talking about buying a much bigger one with money flowing in “like the well water flowed.”
Haze had even quit his job managing The Home Depot store in Naples, saying he was needed here to oversee the fountain and be available when the Ames High rep visited for seed water. Nick hated to admit he had to be wary of his old friend. He cared for him, really did want to defend him if it came to that, but could he totally trust him? Not that he thought he was a murderer, but he was obviously another devotee of Clayton Ames. He had dollar signs in his eyes, and Nick figured it would be crazy to try to make him see Ames’s real self. But what if Haze had knocked Mark Stirling off on Ames’s orders? Lately nothing was what it seemed to be from the outside, including his and Claire’s marriage. If Jace Britten knew they weren’t sleeping together, maybe he wouldn’t be such a jerk.
Nick saw the charter fishing boat, Reel Good Time, was not in its slip. Above it was a sign with Fin Taylor’s name, phone number and brochures displayed in a plastic-covered holder attached to a mooring post. He took one and scanned it for information.
Phineas “Fin” Taylor was a third-generation charter fishing boat captain here in Goodland, but he could pick up fishermen on Marco Island or in Naples. Half day and full day excursions available. His forty-foot boat, pictured here, could take singles or parties up to six for offshore and inshore fishing—out sixty miles into the Gulf of Mexico or into the Ten Thousand Islands.
No doubt Fin Taylor knew the area where Mark Stirling had probably been shot before his body fell into or was wedged in among the mangroves. But, even though the bullet had been from a pistol pressed tight to his forehead, like many a suicide, where was the boat that had brought him there? According to the reports Heck had given him, the Marco Island Marine Unit had scoured the area looking for a watercraft that had drifted away.
Sure, Mark’s kayak was missing from his place, but where was it? Had someone seen it drifting and just taken it? But even with a plea for information in the Naples paper and on local TV, nothing had turned up and no one had come forward with the kayak. Neither had the police been able to trace who had called in about finding Mark’s body—a quick call on a cell phone from a woman was all the detective Nick had talked to would say.
He half hoped Claire could turn up a theory on suicide because Mark shooting himself would mean Haze didn’t have to stand trial in criminal court. Then there would be no stage for the dog and pony show Ames was demanding to legitimatize and advertise his Youth products. Yet, Nick knew he was trapped. All that had to happen or Ames would turn on him—on them—again.
Nick read on in the brochure. The last line, under a photo of a man posing in front of a huge sailfish hanging from a wooden cross post boasted: I Can Help You Land A Monster Fish! Nick snorted. He’d like help landing a monster, and his name was Clayton Ames.
He looked up as a neat-looking white boat with fishing chairs on both the top deck and stern rounded the end of the dock and headed in. Good luck! The craft matched the brochure photo of Reel Good Time. Should Nick pretend to be a possible fisherman at first or just level with Taylor from the get-go? He wished Claire was here, because she was so good at this. He’d try playing it by ear.
“Yo!” Captain Fin, who also matched a photo in the brochure, called out to him with a wave. He had two guys with him, both with looming sunburns, so they had to be his fishermen for the day—or half the day since it was just after noon. “Interested in an afternoon catching snapper and tarpon for dinner and bragging rights with some photos?”
“Not this afternoon, but I’m interested in talking to you!” Nick shouted back over the engine noise as the boat backed into its slip. Captain Fin killed the motor, climbed out of the wheelhouse and opened the big ice tank at the back of the boat.
“Got us a mess of good eating here, eh, boys?” he asked his charters. “I’ll get out the knives and have these babies filleted in a flash.”
While the two fishermen gathered up some items—they’d obviously used Taylor’s fishing gear, which protruded like slender saplings along the sides of the boat—Taylor took out two mean-looking knives, pulled the catch up onto a board and went to work. Gulls soon swooped in to sit on the water and noisily demand the innards. Taylor kept up a steady stream of talk to his charters and Nick as he worked. “Yeah, red snapper and tarpon out there in droves...dolphins followed the boat...saw a bald eagle I whistle for and he comes... I leave other charters in my wake,” he boasted.
Nick studied the big-shouldered man. Obviously a guy this glib and local would be a good person to question about the murder/suicide. Captain Fin wore Banana Republic khaki shorts and a T-shirt that advertised Reel Good Time. His ball cap was one Nick recognized from pro golfer Greg “Shark” Norman’s line of clothes, beige with the outline of a multicolored shark embroidered above the brim. Fin was blond, very tanned with a leaping tarpon tattooed on one forearm with the words, I’m t
he catch of the day.
The guy worked fast. Nick leaned against the post with the brochure still in his hands and his backpack—in lieu of a briefcase around here—over one shoulder, watching and listening. His two customers went off with their catch wrapped in butcher paper, happy as—well, clams.
“Mind if I hose down the boat first?” Fin asked. “Like to do things thorough and proper.”
“No, fine. I like watching you work.”
“You a doctor or a lawyer? I’m good at nailing where folks come from and what they do,” he said as he squirted the slimy work surface and immaculate-looking deck with a hose he took from dockside.
“You are good,” Nick said, realizing he’d have to level with him. “I’m a friend of Haze Hazelton from way back and plan to defend him if it comes to that.”
“Yeah? A lawyer,” he said, squinting up at Nick in the sun. “Saw you in the paper, I think, right? That insurance case, that guy that faked his drowning but his family was getting big money.”
“Right. The Sorrento case.”
“And then there was a shooting outside the court. I do get off the water and the boat once in a while, see, not an ignoramus.”
“Good memory.”
“Don’t mind if I say so. So, you’re really fishing for some info. You just here about Haze or you really want to relax a little? Like that brochure there says, out in the Gulf or inshore fishing.”
“I’m considering it. Maybe we can take Haze. He could use some distraction.”
“No kidding, with the law breathing down his neck. Who the hell needs that? You believe in that health water stuff?”
“More importantly, do you? Do others around here?”
Fin stepped from his boat onto the dock. “You know,” he said, shoving his cap back on his head, “at least now we can make up our own mind about that and everything else. I mean, since Mark Stirling’s gone, though I hear he’s got an heir apparent. The guy, name of Wes Ringold, couldn’t wait to jump right into running the Owl paper to stir the waters. Get it? Stir-ling? Anyhow, yeah, folks round here do believe in the ancient waters, you just ask Ada Cypress if you can get her to talk. You know, the silent Seminoles and all that.”
If Ada was the silent type, Nick thought, Claire had seemed to be doing okay with her. And this talker had just said a couple of things that were valuable too. Fin Taylor didn’t seem to especially like Mark Stirling either, and the new journalist guy, Wes Ringold, who had evidently inherited The Burrowing Owl, like Claire had said, could have a motive for murder too.
* * *
Claire and Nick ate together on the prow of the yacht, legs stretched out, backs against a slanted window, while Juanita—Nita—and Lexi ate at the table out back by the stern. Bronco was fishing off the dock close by. Claire had a salad and Nick a roast beef sandwich prepared by the chef, no less, who Nick’s friend and owner had rehired along with the captain, first mate and a maid. Claire had never felt so rich, but it wasn’t what mattered to her: Lexi was safe and having fun. And they were here with Nick. Just being around him, helping him, being his partner in this case, had to be enough for now. And she was happy not to be in the lounge below for once, because the idea of a woman’s unsolved murder there still creeped her out.
“So, even though Fin Taylor suggested Ada was closemouthed, you got along great,” Nick prompted. They were both barefoot, and he occasionally stroked her toes with his. She had to admit she’d gotten some good information from Ada, as much as the woman puzzled her. Oh, darn, every time Nick’s foot touched her he was messing up her thoughts when she had some important things to say.
“I learned the most when I mentioned—when I was leaving—that I was going to look for you at the marina where we were docked, because you wanted to talk to Captain Taylor. I did not say we were on a huge yacht. She’s very basic, very shy and yet she speaks with knowledge and conviction. But, Nick, she’s really strange—almost scary.”
His head snapped around and he stared at her. “Which means what?”
“She looks just like her grandmother and knows a lot from way back.”
“So? What are you saying?”
“I don’t know. This fountain of youth stuff is giving me the heebie-jeebies.”
He annoyed her when he laughed. “Meaning Ada Cypress knows about it, maybe believes in it?”
“Maggie said Ada washes in it when there’s rain runoff. Who knows she doesn’t drink it? Maybe has for years?”
“Sweetheart, you think that stuff works? Works to preserve people for years? I can have Heck check out her birth certificate. You know some people, maybe especially Native Americans, carry their age well. I mean, I have no doubt the water could be healthy, good for people, the cosmetics too, because they looked great on you, but—”
“Just never mind. Of course I don’t believe Ames’s lies, however slick the advertising and presentation. It’s mostly marketing, not medicine. But here’s what Ada said I think we can use.”
“I like that ‘we.’ Go ahead. I’m listening and I need your help. I trust you and I didn’t mean to kid or upset you.”
“Okay, here it is. As you can imagine, Ada’s heritage as a Seminole is to value and preserve the land and water. She married a white man years ago but doesn’t use his last name. Neither will she go back to the tribe, which she claims turned against her for marrying white.”
“Really? In this day and age?”
“Aren’t you listening? She’s very traditional. Nick,” she said, putting her plate down and turning toward him, pulling her legs up under herself and putting her hands on his arms, “Motives for murdering mouthy Mark are growing on trees around here. Ada said there are rumors—which The Burrowing Owl was pursuing—that Captain Phineas Taylor secretly takes wealthy charters out to catch endangered sharks, which is, of course, against the law.”
“What?”
“Maggie may champion those owls, but Ada mentioned protecting sharks. There used to be five species vulnerable to extinction, she said, but now there are twenty-some. Of course, most Floridians—everyone—see sharks as the enemy, but they are still in danger of being endangered, mostly through overfishing. I’m going to research it more, but if Mark Stirling was investigating that and was ready to accuse your new captain friend you want to go out fishing with someday—well, just like Maggie, Captain Taylor could have a motive for murder.”
“Wealthy men—he takes wealthy men fishing,” Nick muttered. “Even if ‘Uncle Clay’ hasn’t been around here for years, maybe some of his lackeys have. If they were found out fishing for endangered trophies—just like rich guys blast the heck out of African lions and elephants—that could blow their cover, make them look bad, sully their name or their boss’s. Okay, we’ll both look into that. Maybe I’ll go fishing and chat up Fin more. And he obviously knows the inland waterways where Mark died. Anything we can find to fight back against Ames and his crew is crucial.”
“And Ada. I need to find more about Ada.”
He seemed to ignore that which annoyed her again. “Meanwhile,” he said, “I’m going to call the Marco Island Marine Unit again and see if I can get permission for us to go out into the mangrove islands to look over the scene where Mark’s body was found.”
“You know what we forensic types always say about a murder scene?”
“Tell me,” he said, helping her up and putting an arm around her waist to steady them both on the slightly slanted prow of the yacht.
“The scene is the silent witness. Nick, I’ll bet that’s true, even if it’s way out in the islands with nothing but mangroves, water and sky around.”
“And maybe sharks—the real or human kind.”
15
“Who says there aren’t huge perks working for me—and being married to me?” Nick asked Claire as they walked from the yacht to a canalside
restaurant on Goodland late the next morning. “Just look at this fancy place I’m taking you for lunch.”
“Pretty impressive,” she said, smiling as they approached the Goodland restaurant called Stan’s Idle Hour. They had an hour planned for here, but it was hardly going to be idle. This was the place where people had overheard the argument between Haze and Mark Stirling that made Haze the number one suspect for the murder that had happened later that day.
This morning Nick had driven into his office for a few hours while Claire had researched the Seminoles and read articles Heck had found about the Goodland fountain of youth. She’d Googled Fin Taylor and learned his wife, Colleen, ran a small shop and mail order business called Irish Gifts and Goodies out of their Goodland home. She hoped to stop there soon to shop and get an intimate look at the man’s house and wife.
“Of course,” Nick went on, “you haven’t yet taken advantage of one of the best perks, sharing my bed so the maid doesn’t have to make up two every day.”
Claire just laughed and put her elbow in his ribs. He threw his arm around her waist and hugged her sideways as they walked onto the grounds of the famous—perhaps infamous—seafood restaurant. Its ambiance, if you could call it that, shouted Goodland! It was known for Southern seafood but sometimes questionable people.
Claire had never been here, though she’d sure heard about the place. Stan’s was comprised of a two-story building and random sprawl of palmetto-thatched chickee huts. It was famous for its in-season Mullet Festival with its Buzzard Lope Queen Contest. The seafood, booze and crazy goings-on drew around five thousand curious or rowdy folk from Naples, Fort Myers, Miami and who knew where else. Jace had been here more than once. Nick had said he and Haze used to love the place but he hadn’t been here for quite a while. Yet today, still pretty much off-season for tourists and snowbirds, the place seemed almost sedate.
