Florida Son

by W. J. Costello

  Julie’s mother sat watching TV.

  “Hey, Ruth,” I said. “Anything good on?”

  “Everything’s good on Investigation Discovery. I’m addicted to it. Their shows have great titles: Southern Fried Homicide. Wives with Knives. Happily Never After. Unusual Suspects. A Crime to Remember.”

  “Mom, we need to talk,” Julie said. “It’s important.”

  “After the show, sweetie. I’m watching Fear Thy Neighbor. You watch these shows and you never want to step outside your door again. It’s a scary world out there. Weirdoes and wackos everywhere. Bad things can happen. Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

  “Mom, I told you it’s important.”

  Ruth picked up the remote, switched off the TV.

  “What is it you want to talk about?”

  “This,” Julie said, and held up the photo.

  Ruth picked up the remote again and turned on the TV.

  “Mom?”

  No response.

  “Mom?”

  Ruth turned up the volume. Gunfire bursts blared from the TV.

  I felt awkward already.

  “Mom!”

  The TV went off.

  Ruth turned her wheelchair toward Julie.

  “Okay, Julie. You have my full attention now.”

  “Good. Now let’s talk about . . .”

  “You had to snoop through my jewelry box. Didn’t you? You couldn’t just leave my stuff alone. You couldn’t give your mother a little privacy.”

  “I was searching for an old photo of Heath and I found this photo by accident. I was just looking through the box you keep under your bed. I wasn’t snooping. You can ask Rip. He was there with me.”

  Ruth glanced at me.

  Another awkward moment. I slumped down in my chair.

  “Who is he, Mom? Who is the man in this photo?”

  “A old friend.”

  “An old boyfriend maybe?”

  “Boyfriend? Why would you say that?”

  “You’re kissing him. His hand is on your ass.”

  Ruth didn’t say anything.

  Julie didn’t say anything.

  I sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything.

  The silence lasted and lasted.

  “Where was this photo taken, Mom?”

  “Savannah, Georgia.”

  “Is that where you used to go all those times when you took off and disappeared for weeks on end? Was Savannah your refuge? Was it your haven away from us? Did you go there to escape from your children, your husband, your life?”

  “I loved your father.”

  “Did he know about this? Did Dad know about this man?”

  “There’s nothing to know.”

  “Did you have an affair with this man? Did Dad find out about it? Is that why he drove into that telephone pole and killed himself? Or maybe your secret lover killed him and made it look like an accident—so he could be with you. Is that what happened? Is it, Mom? Is it?”

  The slap was loud.

  Julie rubbed her cheek where the slap had landed.

  I felt as if I were watching one of the shows on Investigation Discovery. I wanted to change the channel to something happier.

  “Are you still seeing this man, Mom?”

  Ruth seized the wheels of her wheelchair and rolled herself away.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE MESSY FAMILY was having a cookout. The grill was covered with rows of corn on the cob wrapped in aluminum foil, sizzling hamburger patties, thick hot dogs. On the checkered tablecloth were bowls of baked beans, macaroni and cheese, potato salad.

  Mr. Messy stood at the steaming grill with long barbecue tongs in his hand, a white chef’s hat on his head, a Marlboro in his clamped lips. His unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt hung open.

  He went into a little dance routine as he listened to a familiar tune by Don Ho. He used the tongs as a microphone.

  The dance routine ended when he stubbed his toe on the grill. He wobbled. He flailed. His flip-flop snagged a lawn chair and he flopped to the ground like a jumbo hot dog. He rolled to his feet immediately and when he came up he farted in his khaki cargo shorts.

  I wanted to clap. I didn’t though. I exercised restraint.

  Until he farted again.

  Then I had to smile.

  While Mr. Messy worked the grill his son splashed around in a blow-up swimming pool with little ducks printed on it. Meanwhile Mrs. Messy poured glasses of iced tea.

  Before long the three of them sat down at the table and began to attack their food. They slurped. They chomped. They gnawed.

  They looked happy. Which is what camping is all about.

  Watching them made me hungry. I was about to head inside and grab something to eat when I saw Mr. Neat come out of his RV.

  He was armed—with a leaf blower. But there were no leaves on the ground. So what was he up to?

  He flipped a switch and the leaf blower roared to life. It was as loud as a Harley. Powerful blasts of air sent sand in all directions as Mr. Neat swung the machine from side to side. He moved toward the Messy family and pointed the nozzle in their direction.

  A shower of sand rained down on them. It landed in their drinks, in their food, in their hair. They all jumped up from the table, shook the sand from their hair.

  Mr. Neat switched off the leaf blower, set it down beside his white wicker chair. He sat down and picked up a newspaper and began to read with a faint smile of contempt on his lips.

  Mrs. Messy beelined for the green plastic garden hose. She bent and picked it up and aimed the nozzle at the white wicker chair. As soon as she squeezed the trigger a powerful jet of water began to pummel Mr. Neat in the side of his head.

  Mr. Messy and Junior pumped their fists into the air. They did a little victory dance. They clapped.

  Mrs. Messy grinned, dropped the hose, took a bow.

  Two points for the Messy family.

  Mr. Neat balled up his soggy newspaper and stood up soaking wet. Water streamed down his face. His eyes moved to the Messy family. He pointed his index finger at them and then dropped his thumb like the hammer on a gun.

  The Messy family watched him turn and stalk away.

  “He’s crazy,” Mr. Messy told his wife.

  “He’s trying to torture us,” she said. “He’s playing with us the way a cat plays with a mouse. It lets the mouse run, then pounces on it, claws it back again. It prolongs the misery. It’s a game of mental torture. That’s what he’s doing to us.”

  “The police are powerless to stop him. He’s smart. He knows what he’s doing. He knows how to push our buttons and still stay within the law.”

  “And nobody can help us.”

  “Nope. We’re on our own.”

  CHAPTER 34

  “RIP, HOW QUICKLY can you get phone records?”

  “Without a court order?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty quickly.”

  I know a private eye who has contacts at all the phone companies. He pays them off and they give him the phone records he wants. Then I pay him for the phone records I want. It isn’t cheap.

  Julie sat down on the sofa beside me.

  “Can you get phone records from six years ago?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Good.”

  “Why six years ago?”

  “Because that’s when the photo was taken of Mom and that man in Savannah. I want to find out who he is. If he was Mom’s secret lover, he might have phoned her. If he did, it would show up in her phone records.”

  “Her mobile phone?”

  “No, a landline. Six years ago Mom didn’t have a mobile phone. The phone records I want are for the house where my parents used to live.”

  “What’s the address?”

  She told me.

  “I’ll get right on it,” I said, and reached for my phone.

  Three hours later we had the phone records.

  We sat at my dinette table and began to go through them.


  “What are we looking for, Julie?”

  “A phone number with a Savannah area code. I already looked up the code. It’s nine-one-two. If we find that man’s phone number, maybe we can find out who he is.”

  “You assume he lives in Savannah.”

  “It seems like a good place to begin.”

  “So we’re looking for a nine-one-two area code. That number’s only one digit away from nine-one-one. People probably dial the emergency number by mistake all the time. I’d hate to be an emergency operator in Savannah.”

  We sat searching through the phone records for a long time. It was tedious work. But I was used to it. Law enforcement requires a great deal of tedious work.

  “Oh my God.”

  “You found a Savannah number, Julie?”

  “No. I found a number I recognize.”

  “Bound to happen. Most of these calls would be from people who knew your parents. You should expect to recognize some of their phone numbers.”

  “You don’t understand. The number I recognize doesn’t belong to any of my parents’ friends or relatives. It belongs to somebody who never even met my parents. Somebody who had no business calling them.”

  “Whose number is it?”

  “Hmm. This call was placed six years ago. Why would she have phoned my parents six years ago? Did she want something from them? I wonder who answered the phone. Mom never mentioned anything about the call. Neither did Dad. But one of them must have spoken to her. Why wouldn’t they have told me she called?”

  “Who?”

  “Six years ago . . . Now that I think about it I realize six years ago was when all our family troubles began. First my druggie brother went to jail for stealing from our parents. Then six months later my father drove into a telephone pole and died on the spot. Then six months after that Max was abducted and Heath disappeared. Then three months after that Mom and I got into that hit-and-run accident and had to be hospitalized. Then two days later they found Max dead. And it all began six years ago. That’s when all the trouble began.”

  “Because of a phone call? You think that’s why it began?”

  “It’s a theory. Are you saying you disagree with me?”

  “How could I agree or disagree? I don’t even know what we’re talking about. You never told me who made the call.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “I haven’t seen her in over a decade. But I just happened to run into her last week. Out of the blue. After all these years. She gave me her phone number and now I recognize it on my parents’ old phone records.”

  “You talking about your old college roommate?”

  “Yes, I’m talking about Tina.”

  CHAPTER 35

  CHOPPY WAVES SLAPPED my shins. Water sucked around my feet as the sand underfoot pulled out with the tide. I waded on, sloshing toward Julie, my thighs churning against wave after foaming wave.

  “Water feels good,” I said, and scooped a handful of it at my face. “Especially since it’s such a hot day. Did you miss me, Julie?”

  “I was wondering if you were going to come out and join me.”

  “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “But presence brings better results.”

  “Touché.”

  “I spoke to Mom.”

  “And?”

  “She was surprised to hear that my old college roommate phoned her house six years ago.”

  “So she’s not the person Tina spoke to that night.”

  “Unless she’s lying about it.”

  “You think she is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s say it’s the truth,” I said. “Maybe your father answered the phone that night. Maybe that’s who spoke to Tina.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well somebody spoke to Tina that night. Phone records show the call lasted for twenty minutes.”

  Wind whipped the sea to a white froth. Foaming waves swirled around us as we floated on the rise and fall of the swells. Farther out a boat skimmed across the choppy surface.

  “Here’s an idea,” I said. “Maybe somebody other than your parents answered their phone that night. Maybe they had guests over. Maybe it was . . .”

  “Hey—wait a minute.”

  A pause.

  “Rip, you just reminded me of something.”

  “Something or somebody?”

  “Both. Six years ago my brother was living with my parents. Moe moved into their house when he got off drugs. He needed a safe place to stay while he tried to turn his life around. Anyway he might have answered the phone that night. Maybe Moe was the one who spoke to Tina for twenty minutes.”

  “They good friends?”

  “They met once when Moe came to visit me at college.”

  “You think maybe she called your parents’ house that night to speak specifically to him?”

  “It doesn’t seem very likely. I mean Tina and Moe barely knew each other. If they spoke on the phone that night, it was only because Moe was there to answer the call. I doubt she would have called to speak specifically to him.”

  “Maybe they knew each other better than you think.”

  She thought about that.

  “Julie?”

  “I guess it’s possible. Maybe they stayed in touch after they met that one time. And maybe they didn’t want me to know about it for some reason.”

  “According to the phone records Tina called your parents’ house only once. Maybe she had a reason for calling on that particular night. Maybe she had to tell your brother something and she couldn’t reach him any other way. Was Moe in some kind of trouble at that time? Can you remember?”

  Julie pursed her lips.

  “I bet he was,” she said. “Because the following night was when I caught him stealing from our parents.”

  “Bingo.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “A LITTLE LOWER.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Perfect.”

  Mr. Messy stepped down from the ladder and walked over to join his wife. Together they stood inspecting their new security cameras. Two cameras pointed toward their RV. A third camera pointed toward the Neat family’s RV. Mr. Messy stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back. His wife had her arm around his shoulder.

  “I know a thing or two about security cameras,” I told them. “And those are top of the line.”

  They turned and looked at me.

  “We got them at Walmart,” Mrs. Messy said. “They were on sale.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “I should probably get some myself. You can never be too careful these days.”

  “See those potted plants over there by our grill?”

  I looked at the plants. They looked droopy.

  “Looks like they could use some water,” I said.

  “They don’t need water. They were poisoned. It happened last night while we were sleeping. We know who did it.”

  “You do?”

  “You bet.”

  Mrs. Messy pointed to the Neat family’s RV.

  “They did it,” she said.

  “While you were both sleeping.”

  “That’s right. We didn’t see them do it but we know they did it.”

  “So now you have security cameras in case it happens again.”

  “Or something worse,” her husband said. “With the cameras we’ll have proof. Without proof you can’t get the police to do anything. You live in that Outlaw RV over there, don’t you? My wife and I have seen you sitting at the picnic table a few times. Usually it’s during our arguments with the neighbors. I bet you heard plenty.”

  “I did.”

  “Then you know the kind of people we’re dealing with. We’re dealing with troublemakers. Especially the husband. You know what he did yesterday? He followed us to the grocery store in his pickup truck. He was obvious about it too. He kept honking his horn and revving his engine and squealing his tires. Real aggressive behavior. He was stalking
us. That’s what he was doing.”

  “Tell him the rest of it,” Mrs. Messy said. “Tell him what happened when we got back from the grocery store. Tell him about that.”

  “When we got back from the store our son went for a bike ride. Half an hour later he came back and told us the pickup truck had followed him all the way to the bait shop and back. Can you believe that?”

  I could. No amount of human aggression can surprise me anymore. I saw too much of it during my quarter of a century in law enforcement.

  “Want some help?” I said. “I have some experience dealing with troublemakers. A lot of experience actually. You want me to, I can talk to this guy. See if I can get him off your back.”

  They exchanged a glance.

  “Nice of you to offer,” Mr. Messy said. “We appreciate it. But we would rather you didn’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “We want to handle it ourselves. We will stand our ground. We will not back down. We will not be intimidated.”

  The battle lines were drawn.

  Neighbor disputes are among the most unpleasant calls cops respond to. Here is how it usually goes: A cop shows up and talks to both neighbors. He acts as a mediator. He quells the disturbance. He leaves. The following day another conflict erupts between the same two neighbors. The cop returns, quells the new disturbance, then leaves. The following day the same thing happens. After several return trips it becomes clear the problem is never going to end and the cop begins to look forward to retirement.

  Mrs. Messy stepped closer and lowered her voice.

  “We’re going to file a restraining order against him. He’s going to try to hurt us. I know he will. The police should put him in jail.”

  “They can’t lock him up for what he might try to do,” Mr. Messy told his wife. “Our legal system doesn’t work that way.”

  “Our legal system doesn’t work,” she said. “Period.”

  CHAPTER 37

  “JOE REYNOLDS CALLED me back this afternoon,” I told Julie.

  “Your friend at the New York City Police Department?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s his job again?”