“But you think someone made it happen. You don’t think it was an accident?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Danielle. “The health department is still working on the source, and how it might have gotten there. But there is a remote possibility it wasn’t an accident. And your families didn’t seem to get along so great . . .”
“Forget the families. Every set of in-laws has issues. No father thinks a guy is good enough for his daughter. I get that. But it’s my job to prove Mr. O’Neil wrong. And he and Dad are both successful guys. They’re used to getting what they want. So there was a little head butting. Just guy stuff. Neither of them would do such a thing. Remember, Mr. O’Neil’s daughter, my soon-to-be-wife, and my mother are both still in the hospital. No, the families had nothing to do with this.”
It was a fair argument, well made. The kid was smart and had the benefit of a good education behind him. There were a lot of dumb rich kids around, but he wasn’t one of them. He was smarter than the average bear.
“You have an idea,” I said.
He looked at me, maybe sizing me up, maybe trying to figure if I could be trusted. Maybe he was working up the courage to ask where I got my palm tree print shirts.
He said, “I’m not feeling so good myself.”
“We’ll get out of your hair.” I stepped around the big sofa that looked out to the pool, and we walked to the atrium foyer. Then I stopped.
“You think someone did cause it. Don’t you?”
“I just want to put it behind us.”
It was a poor choice of words, but I let it slide.
“But can you? Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“There’s no proof.”
“There’s never any proof, until there is. Right now everything’s a theory. What’s yours?”
“My dad is successful.”
“I know. I’ve seen the billboards.”
“You don’t become big in real estate development without upsetting a few people.”
“Who did he upset?”
“Have you heard of the Bonita Mar Club?”
“Sure.”
“You know who owns it?”
“Sure. Nathaniel Donaldson.”
“Right. Well, he’s a rival of my dad’s. And he’s got a chip on his shoulder. About a lot of things, but mostly about some deal he tried to do years ago that my dad sealed before him. Some resort thing. He bought Bonita Mar to spite my dad. Dad was putting together a consortium to redevelop the old place, and Donaldson swept in and paid over the odds for it, just so Dad couldn’t get it.”
“Okay, so boys and their tantrums. It’s a big stretch to your wedding.”
“Not really. It’s always been tit for tat. They’re like college kids, playing million-dollar pranks. And spoiling my wedding, that would be a doozy.”
I took it in and thanked him for the info, and wished him well in his recovery. The butler was nowhere to be seen, so the kid opened the door. I stopped on the breach.
“What will you do about your wedding ceremony?”
He shrugged. “Eloping in Vegas sounds like a good idea right now.”
I nodded. It wasn’t very classy but it would get the job done with a minimum of fuss. I thanked him again for his time and stepped down to the car. Danielle was already sitting in the sunshine. I stood for a moment looking over the grounds. They were palatial, but I kind of preferred my little rancher with a water view. That was my story and I was sticking to it. I smiled at Danielle.
“What now?” I asked.
“All that talk about viruses and such has made me hungry. Let’s get some lunch.”
You’ve got to love law enforcement types. Nothing puts them off their chow. I slipped into the Porsche and pulled down the long driveway, heading for the best fish sandwich in town.
Chapter Eleven
I ate my grouper sandwich under the palapa at the outdoor bar at Longboard Kelly’s. The place was hopping, with Sunday sun streaming down onto the courtyard and the regulars enjoying a few jars of amber brew in the company of a Jimmy Buffett soundtrack. The stools at the bar were vacant when we arrived so I assumed word of my imminent arrival had preceded me and my favorite spot had been vacated accordingly. Danielle’s theory was that most folks wanted to enjoy the sun in the courtyard, not the shade under the palapa. I countered that they were mostly sitting under beer-labeled umbrellas, not in the sun. Danielle’s final comment on the subject was that they were regulars like me, and they had their own favorite seats. Then she gave me the look that said the matter was closed, so it was closed.
Either way Muriel stood behind the bar in her tank top, bursting at the seams around her chest. I often wondered if every garment Muriel owned was a size or two too small, but I never thought of a way to ask her where I didn’t end up getting a slap in the kisser. Muriel poured me a beer and Danielle a vodka tonic, and we both ordered a late lunch. Talk of gastrointestinal issues had not dampened Danielle’s desire for one of Mick’s famous fish sandwiches. They were excellent as ever, and worthy of the fame that in truth they didn’t have. Mick owned Longboard’s, and he liked it low-key. Unusually for a bar owner he actively dissuaded patrons from leaving reviews on those websites that everyone seemed to use to find a bite to eat or somewhere to drink, and inevitably turned great local spots into tourist traps full of pale Yankees taking selfies with their grouper.
I polished off my sandwich and my beer before I realized Ron was not in situ. I asked Muriel if she had seen him, and she said she hadn’t in three days, and was fearful for his well-being. I ordered a second beer and as Muriel poured it I called Ron.
“Where are you?” I asked when he answered.
“South Lakes.”
“Still?”
“Yeah, where are you?”
“Guess.”
“Longboard’s,” he said. “You’re making me sad.”
“What’s happening?”
“Apparently the virus was tracked down to the chairs in the hospitality tent.”
“Knew that.”
“Well, the health department folks didn’t find anything else anywhere, but they wanted to quarantine the hospitality tent. Keith called the mayor and the mayor called Tallahassee, and someone from the governor’s office called the health department folks and asked if we took the chairs away and then decontaminated the tent could we all move on, and they seem to see the logic in listening to the governor’s office.”
“So it’s all settled?”
“Some guys are in the tent steam cleaning it or something. And some new chairs are coming first thing tomorrow. What did you find out?”
I told him about the disappearance or at least lack of appearance of Ernesto the facilities guy, and our chats with the fathers of the bride and groom.
“I think for now Keith will be keen to focus on the tournament and leave the whole sorry thing behind. You should drop an invoice by tomorrow for your time today.”
“As you wish. But I’m pretty sure the sheriff’s office is going to want to follow up on Ernesto.”
“The club’s not paying for that.”
“I’m happy to forget the invoice.”
“No, these guys can afford it.”
“Will we see you later? Muriel’s worried about you.”
“Tell her I’m being held hostage. With all that’s gone on, it’s going to be all hands on deck here this week.”
I left Ron to his mixed metaphor and took my beer and saluted Danielle. She smiled.
“You get all that?”
“I did.”
“You guys going to follow up on Ernesto?”
“Not unless someone files a missing persons. Remember this wasn’t on the clock. I don’t think the boss is going to approve anything tomorrow.”
“You’re not curious?” I asked.
“I’m a little curious. But I’m a little curious about a lot of things.”
She raised an eyebrow and that sent my mind off on a whole other track that wouldn�
��t get shown on television before 10 p.m. I was of a mind to finish my drink, go for a run on city beach, and then have a long, sweaty shower, preferably not alone. I didn’t get my wish. Danielle’s phone rang and she answered it and frowned. She mouthed the word Connie, and then she listened. Then she told Connie we were at Longboard Kelly’s, and gave her the address, and said we’d be here.
She ended the call and said, “She wants to talk.”
I said nothing. I saw my long shower running off the canvas of my mind like a washed-out watercolor. We waited twenty minutes and Connie Persil walked in from the rear parking lot into the courtyard. She wasn’t in hazmat gear, for which I was thankful. I suspect she knew the power of a health department official walking through an establishment in full uniform. She saw us at the bar and came over.
I offered her a drink and she looked into the bar suspiciously. I wondered what her kitchen must look like. She glanced at Muriel, who offered a broad smile, and said she’d have a diet cola. It wouldn’t surprise me if a virus couldn’t live in that stuff.
“So what’s your news?” asked Danielle as Connie took a sip through a straw.
“The lab completed their PCR assays.”
I frowned. “The what now?”
“Their tests. Real-time reverse transcriptase-polymerase chain reaction assay. In essence it detects the RNA of the virus, which is sort of like the virus’s DNA. It tells us what the sample is, the genogroup, et cetera.”
I got the et cetera. The rest went over me like a fly ball to the outfield. “What does all that mean?”
“It means three things. One, the only positive environmental samples came from the banquet chairs. Literally on the backs of the chairs. We took environmental samples from all over the club, including food and water samples, and we took stool samples from every victim.”
“I don’t need the play-by-play, just the result.”
“It means it didn’t come from the kitchen, or the food. And all the people who were at the rehearsal dinner became ill, ranging from slight abdominal upset to full-blown nausea and diarrhea.”
I recalled the vision of the bride stopping in the middle of the aisle at her wedding and exploding at the seams. I hated that Connie Persil made me recall that. I never wanted to see that image in my mind ever again.
“The only place we found the virus, other than the patients, was on the chairs.”
“How did it get there?”
“That’s point two. The assays give us an idea of viral load—that’s how much virus is in a sample. The chair backs were covered in it. The seats and legs had none. The tables had none. The food and beverage had none.”
She sipped her drink and looked at us over the straw. I figured she didn’t usually get such a captive audience for her stories, because she was milking it for all it was worth.
“So how did it get there?”
“Let me put it this way. It wasn’t an accident.”
I looked at Danielle and she at me.
Danielle said, “Are you saying it was put there deliberately?”
“I am.”
“How?”
“I don’t really know. The viral load is like the chairs were dipped in a contaminated solution. But that isn’t practical, given their location.”
“Just to be clear,” I said, “you’re saying that someone put a highly contagious virus on the chairs that were to be used for a pre-wedding dinner.”
“Yes.”
“How long could the virus have been there?”
“Hours, days, weeks maybe. But we could expect to see some other cases if that were so. Other people would surely have come in contact. And we have good reason to believe that didn’t happen.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s the third point. The genogroup of our samples are GII. That’s not unexpected. It’s the most common norovirus genogroup to affect humans. But it’s the genotype, like the subset of the genogroup, that’s interesting. It’s new. The Centers for Disease Control has no known cases in the United States.”
We sat for a while without much further discussion and then Danielle asked if she could call Connie with any questions. Connie said sure. She thanked us for the drink and left.
I didn’t finish my drink. I had a bad feeling. Not norovirus. Miami virus. It’s when I have a beer in front of me and don’t have the stomach to drink it. I wouldn’t tell Ron. It would make him cry. I still felt the need for a shower, but this was more of the high-pressure hose variety than my earlier version. I felt unclean, in a lot of ways.
“You think the sheriff will get involved now?”
Danielle looked at the lime in the bottom of her glass. “He won’t be happy about it. But I think I’ve got a plan.”
Chapter Twelve
That night I dreamed I was lying naked in the desert, covered in ants. I had no idea what that meant, but the upshot was I didn’t sleep well. I woke grumpy so I kept my mouth shut. Danielle made eggs on English muffins and I ate in silence. Then she got on the phone while I had my second shower in twelve hours. Neither of them were as fun as I hoped they’d be, but my mood was a touch better when I came out to find Danielle dressed in her green sheriff’s uniform.
“Off to the office?” I asked, somewhat rhetorically.
“Nope.” She smiled. Even with my grump on, getting a smile from a beautiful woman in uniform is like rainbows and unicorns to me.
“What did you do?”
“I told you I had a plan. The sponsors of the tournament have to pay for extra law enforcement at the event. So it doesn’t hit the sheriff’s budget. I told him what Connie had said, and I suggested that if I were on general patrol at the event this week I could take a look around as well. Kill both birds with one stone.”
“You are clever, you know that.”
“Of course I am. I got you didn’t I?”
“Not your clearest thinking, but good for me.”
She looked at my shorts. “Go put some big boy pants on. This is the PGA, you know.”
* * *
When we arrived at the course the world had turned on its head. Miami Jones was wearing trousers and a polo, and looked like a PGA pro, or at least a caddy on his day off, and the club had transformed into a billboard. It was like one big branding exercise, and lime green and tangerine were the colors of choice. The name of the tournament sponsor, Aqueta, was everywhere, and wherever it wasn’t, their logo was there in its stead. The logo looked something like the planet Saturn, if it had been run over by a dump truck. I had no clue what business they were in. It could have been financial services, or consulting, or health insurance. It sounded wet, that’s all I knew.
We were in a Porsche, so we got directed to the lot where the nice cars get parked. From Thursday on the junkers wouldn’t even get in the gate. There was a temporary lot at a college a mile away with free shuttle services for the vehicles that wouldn’t show well on the television cut-aways. Danielle attracted a few looks, which I credited to the uniform. Denial is a river in Egypt, and I swim in it regularly.
The dining room was buzzing. Natalie Morris was directing traffic. I asked her if she knew where Keith was, and she didn’t, but she used a little walkie-talkie on her hip to find out. She said to try the corporate area, which resulted in a frown from me and directions to the executive course from her.
The executive course had been co-opted for the duration and turned into a small village of hospitality tents and beer gardens. A fake putting green had been erected over one of the fairways by one of the hospitality providers. There was more branding for the sponsor, and signage for other companies that had obviously not ponied up quite as much dough.
We found Keith glad-handing some guys dressed just like him, golf trousers and polos. They were what my late friend and mentor Lenny Cox would have called Midwest types. They had sensible haircuts and sensible shoes and wore sunscreen. They drove nice yet sensible cars and worked in blue-chip companies that had been around since Tom Sawyer was a b
oy, all solid and true, and they earned excellent money and had the good sense to live in the Midwest, where six bedrooms and four thousand square feet cost you the equivalent of a one-bed junior suite in Los Angeles or New York.
Keith gave us the palm, telling us to wait back where we were, lest the uniform scare the visitors. He laughed at something that clearly didn’t warrant it, and shook hands all around again, and then came over to us.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?”
It looked like a high-end refugee camp, but I thought better of telling him so.
“Keith, we need to talk.”
He smiled. “Walk with me.”
Danielle and I dropped in on either side of him and I told him that someone had deliberately put the norovirus on the chairs at the rehearsal dinner. Our walk and talk stopped pretty quickly.
“Are you serious?”
“Very.”
“What is the health department going to do?”
“Nothing. The outbreak has been contained.”
“That’s good.”
“So now it’s just potentially a criminal matter.”
He jerked his head around to look at Danielle so fast I thought he was going to faint. “Not now. Not this week.”
“Don’t have a turkey, Keith. The sheriff isn’t going to come in all guns blazing. Danielle knows how to handle this sensitively.”
She nodded. “Just some quiet questions. Your sponsors won’t even know.”
“They won’t know?”
“They weren’t here. They’re not of interest.”
Keith pondered this for a moment and then nodded. “All right,” he said, as if Danielle required his permission and he was now giving it. Then he turned to me. “Can I have a private word?”
I shrugged and we stepped away toward a tent sponsored by a beer company, which was already looking pretty good to me. Keith put his hand on my shoulder and whispered like I was Paul Revere.
“You and Deputy Castle, you’re, um, a thing. Is that right?”
Deep Rough Page 8
