Damn! I should have asked him what happened last night on my island. He used to be Big Jim’s partner before Jim transferred to Special Ops on the water. I’m too embarrassed to go back.
There’s Bert with a cute little female version of himself, standing, waiting for luggage. He always has a new girl when he comes to visit. This girlfriend is wearing a black wool suit with long pants and spiky heels. She looks like she stepped out of a conference room in New York. Girl, this is Florida! It’s eighty-something degrees, even if it is January. That suit is going to look like a wet blanket after a boat ride. At least Bert is in shorts and a polo shirt. Probably top designer sportswear. I don’t pay much attention to fashion and designers, so I couldn’t tell you who.
Bert sees me and waves. Girlfriend stares at me with her mouth open. I plow my way over and hug Bert, then offer a hand to the girlfriend. “Hi, I’m Ernie, Bert’s sister.”
She manages to close her mouth, quit staring, and give me a limp handshake. “I’m Monica Styles. Pleased to meet you.” But her eyes say different. Shocked is more like it.
“Sorry I look a little tacky, but I fell off my boat chasing a cat and I didn’t think you’d want to wait for me to shower and change.”
“That’s all right, Sis. You don’t look much different than usual.” Bert laughs and I cuff his shoulder. “Where’s Mom?” he asks.
“Cooking for you, of course.”
“Oh no! I’m on a diet.” He pats his stomach. I can’t see the need. Maybe his face is a little rounder, but there’s no bulge at the waist.
“Don’t worry about the diet, honey. We’re on vacation.” Monica gives him a sicky sweet smile. Makes me want to puke. Where does he find these chicks?
She turns to me and asks, “Do you have a gym close by where you live? We could get some exercise to make up for the food.”
I burst out laughing, can’t help it. This is not a luxury resort area we live in. It’s an island that you reach by boat. The developers haven’t found us. Some of the houses are cottages. Until a few years ago, electricity came from generators. We’re lucky to have a grocery store. Well, sort of. We have Billy Sue’s, an all-in-one pizza-breakfast-sandwich-grocery store. At the town dock, there’s also a tourist trinket shop-slash-bookstore-slash-hardware-slash-bait shop, along with gas and parts for boats and cars. Maggie runs that one. That’s it for stores on the island. Nothing fancy, but about everything you need. Most of the tourists are there for fishing, plus a few who like to rough it camp in tents at the south end.
“It’s a quaint little island. Something out of the past. We can walk the beach and swim for exercise,” Bert explains to Monica while I try to get my good manners back.
Their bags finally arrive and I offer to bring the car around. Heading for the door, I hear a scream. The crowd at the luggage carousel is scattering in every direction. I have to see what’s happening. My curiosity will land me in big trouble one day.
The belt turns slowly, delivering its luggage. Then I see it. A body. Arms and legs skewed in wrong directions. My stomach turns, but I manage to keep from heaving. Good thing I didn’t eat lunch. Monica doesn’t have the same success. She loses it all over the floor, the belt, and the body, somehow managing to miss Bert, herself, and me. Good going, girl!
Chapter 3
When I pick them up at the curb, Monica has removed her suit coat, but the white blouse has long sleeves and she’s sweating, ruining her perfect image. Bert barely squeezes their luggage into the trunk. As we drive away from the terminal, Monica holds down her hair blowing in the breeze through open windows. I don’t run the A/C in my car until the summer brings the hot and muggies, but I take pity on sweet Monica, close the windows, and crank the air to cold.
“This is not what I expected, Bertram.” She talks low, almost a whisper. “It’s another city with lots of traffic.” She doesn’t mention the dead body mixed with the luggage. I understand. I’ve shut down that ugly sight, too. But I’ll ask Deputy Thorpe about it.
“Wait ’til you see the island.” Bert, trying to be cheerful.
Yeah, you wait, little pampered New York gal. You’ll love it. I bite my tongue to keep from laughing.
We pull up to the dock at Punta Rassa in South Fort Myers, and I let my passengers out next to the boat before parking my yellow bug in the shade. My friend Charlie lets me keep my car at his house and dock my boat when I come to town. In return, I keep an eye on his house when he’s gone. He’s eighty-something, lives in Boston in the summer, and travels a lot. He travels for work, believe it or not, all over the world.
I love my boat. Her name is Mammy-Grammy. Bought her cheap, which makes me love her even more. She’s a twenty-one-foot 1987 Steiger Craft, a funky little vessel that reminds me of New England fishing boats. Guess that’s what it’s meant to be. There’s a pilothouse to protect the fishermen from the cold winds and sea spray. It protects me from the sun. Fair skin and Florida sun are a nasty combination.
Mom and Gram used to have a little Boston Whaler, but it washed away in a storm. You should have seen them skipping across the water, flat out, a sight to behold.
Anyhow, even though I’ve been neglecting the bottom, as Maggie pointed out, I keep my boat clean and well maintained.
When I hop out of the car, Charlie waves at me from his porch. He’s another little man, even smaller than Bert. It would take two or three of him to make one of me. Maybe he shrunk with age. He has wrinkles on wrinkles that crease even deeper when he smiles, which is most of the time.
“Can you call Mom and tell her we’re on the way?” I holler at Charlie.
He waves and nods.
“Can we just get out of here?” Monica asks Bert as he drags their bags onto the boat. She doesn’t ask me. I must be the hired help.
I grab a rag and wipe the seat in the pilothouse, bowing at the waist to Monica. She plops her black wool butt on the seat. Bert unties the boat while I start the engine, and we’re off.
Bert wanders to the stern where he can catch the sun and the breeze, leaving Monica in the cabin with me. Not a word is spoken between the two of us. Finally, she goes to sit next to Bert, who puts a protective arm around her and brushes hair from her face with his other hand. Such a cute little sappy couple. I hope they aren’t staying long. How does that saying go? “Fish and visitors stink after three days.” Try one day for Monica. I give the boat full throttle and watch Monica almost fall overboard. Bert steadies her. Too bad.
Mom’s waiting on the dock. She hugs Bert. She reaches to hug Monica, but Ms. New York steps away to avoid her. I can see the dark fire flash in Mom’s eyes. Monica offers a hand to shake, but Mom is already walking to the golf cart, her back straight and stubborn.
#
Dinner is un-friggin-believable, about twelve courses including three desserts. Empty wine bottles line the kitchen counter. We’re all a little buzzed and I can’t move from my chair due to the pounds of food weighing me down. Monica is picking daintily at a piece of chocolate cake. She’s still wearing her black wool pants and long-sleeved blouse. What a twit.
“How long are you staying?” Mom asks.
“We’re leaving Tuesday,” Bert says.
This is Friday. Don’t know if I’ll last ’til Tuesday. I can escape, but poor Mom.
“Are we getting this treatment every night?” Bert asks, waving his hand at the half-full dishes on the table.
“Are you kidding me? I slaved over a stove all day. This is a one-time thing. The rest of your vacation it’s leftovers, sandwiches, or eat out.”
Bert leans back in his chair with his hands on his stomach. “Thanks, Mom.” Does he mean thanks for cooking or thanks for not doing it again?
Monica’s picking at her chocolate cake. I don’t think she’s eaten a bite, just poked and pushed until it looks like dirt, or worse.
“Monica, have you always lived in New York?” I try to get a little conversation going. She’s been sulking since she arrived. Maybe she feels left out. Or
maybe it’s the body at the airport, which none of us has mentioned.
“No,” she answers.
Jeez, how about some information here? “Where are you from originally?”
“I was born in Chicago, actually the suburbs.”
Of course, the “burbs,” probably rich “burbs.”
“I attended Columbia University. Then I stayed in New York.” She almost smiles at me.
“What kind of work do you do?”
“Marketing.”
“Like advertising?”
“Oh, it’s more than advertising.”
Expand a little, tell me more. This is like pulling teeth.
Max yowls at the door and Bert lets him in. Thump! He jumps right into the middle of the table, nose in Monica’s cake.
Monica is so startled she almost falls over backward, but Bert grabs her. She jumps up and heads for the bathroom—probably going to puke again.
Mom brushes Max away. “No, kitty. Chocolate makes you sick.”
Monica returns looking ghostly. Mom, Bert, and I start clearing the table, and Monica sits there like a lump. We laugh and talk, doing the dishes. She still sits.
Bert finally goes to see if she’s okay. She’s obviously not the love of his life; he’s ignored her this long.
#
“Where are Bert and Monica?” I ask Mom. We’re sitting on the porch watching the moon making a silver path across the Gulf of Mexico.
“Oh, they’ve gone to bed.” She rolls her eyes. It’s only ten o’clock. “I don’t think Monica is feeling too well.”
“What d’ya think of sweet Monica?”
“Don’t gossip, Ernie.”
“It’s a simple question. You have a right to an opinion on Bert’s girlfriends.”
“That’s just it. Girlfriends—plural. I don’t think this one’s any more serious than the others. I think of her as a visitor I’ll probably never see again. She’s a tourist passing through.”
“Maybe someday he’ll find the right one,” I say.
“Who are you to talk? I’ll never have any grandchildren at this rate.” Mom grins when she says it. She’s not a pusher of marriage. She tried it three times and didn’t like it. She dates off and on, but no one special.
“I should give sweet Monica a break, I guess.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Ernie.”
“I mean, it’s not every day you start your vacation with a dead body greeting you at the airport.”
“What are you talking about?”
Oh, right. We didn’t tell Mom. So I give her the whole saga, including Monica missing our shoes when she heaved, adding a few embellishments as I do with any story.
“Who do you suppose it was?” Mom asks.
“Don’t know, but I’ll find out tomorrow.” Thorpe will know.
“See if you can learn more about our visitors last night, too. I talked to Deputy Mackel today, and he said they were Cuban refugees. But he didn’t say where they took them.”
“Deputy Mackel? Oh, you mean Big Jim.” Did he call Mom, or did she call him?
Saturday
Chapter 4
Max jumps on the bed and attacks my foot. “Ow! Get off, damn cat.” I toss him to the floor, gently of course.
Ooooohhh! Do I have a headache this morning! The light hurts my eyes. How many glasses of wine did I have last night? Not that many. It’s probably a food hangover. I wonder if Mom and Bert are suffering, too. And Monica. Ha! That makes me feel better just thinking about it.
Wait. It isn’t even daylight. The lights are on in my room. Who turned on the lights? Lights off. Much better. I roll over, look toward the door at the light switch. Oh! Light! Pain! Eyes close quickly. I pull covers over my head. Did I see what I thought I saw? Was that Max turning on the light? I peek out. There’s that damn cat, jumping at the light switch. He turns it off again. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, testing the floor to see if it’s swaying. Max takes off in a flash.
I manage to shower, dress, and follow my nose to the kitchen where coffee is brewing. Mom, Bert, and Monica are all there. Bert is cooking, looking chipper. Not fair. I know he drank at least as much as I did. Mom has dark circles under her eyes. I’ll bet she’s hurting. Monica pouts. A permanent pout tattooed on her face. My God, she’s wearing shorts! Navy blue shorts, tailored white blouse, she still looks overdressed.
“Hey, Ernie, want some pancakes?”
“No thanks, Bert. Just black coffee. Don’t you have a hangover?”
“What? From a little wine?” He does this fancy flip of the pancakes with the pan.
“Here. Have some V8.” Mom hands me a glass. “It’s good for what ails you.”
A newspaper lies on the table. “Any news of our visitors to the island in here?”
“No, nothing. Too soon. I only turned in a report this morning,” my reporter Mom answers.
“How about the body at the airport?”
“Nothing,” Mom says. “Maybe I should write that up, too.”
Monica goes a little pale at the mention of the body. Memories of upchucking, probably.
“What are you two planning, today?” I ask Monica, trying to be polite, and maybe get her mind off dead bodies.
“I don’t know. Ask Bert.” Still talkative, I see.
“Bert, do you want a ride to town? You could rent a car. Or you could rent a boat here at the dock if you want to go fishing or island hopping. I’d take you in the boat, but I have to hop over to Fort Myers this morning. Work, you know.”
“Think we’ll hang around the island today,” Bert says. “Maybe you can take us somewhere tomorrow.”
I watch Monica for her reaction. The forehead creases, eyes narrow. More than the usual pout. She’s not happy.
You don’t have to leave, Pratt. But Thorpe said stop by. He did say it could wait ’til Monday, but the sheriff’s department works twenty-four seven. I need to catch up on the news for my mom—maybe for my own curiosity, too. Plus, he may have some interesting work for me. Mostly, it’s a good excuse to leave. Of course, spending the morning with Deputy Thorpe has nothing to do with it.
“You need anything in town, Mom?”
“I’ll call if I think of something.”
“Oh no! I don’t have a working phone. I need to pick up a new one. Maybe they’ll trade, since it quit working.” I don’t need to tell them it was in the water. It must be dry by now. They all need to be waterproof here on the Gulf.
Mom raises her left eyebrow. That means she knows what I’m thinking and doesn’t like it. The right eyebrow is more like a question. Both eyebrows mean she’s surprised or shocked.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll tell them it fell in the water. Not exactly, though. I fell in the water. It happened to be in my pocket. It should be able to survive that, shouldn’t it?”
She shakes her head, but the smile she’s trying to hide from me shows.
The coffee starts bringing me back to life. By the time I have a couple of cups I’m able to function. I take a third to the dock, sipping it as I point the boat at the mainland. Opening the window in front of the wheel lets the breeze blow in my face. Feels good. Another beautiful day in paradise.
#
The parking lot at the Lee County Sheriff’s office on Six Mile Cypress is almost full. Today’s not as hot as yesterday, but my car heats up in the sun. Someone pulls out of a perfect shade spot under a tree. I cut off a Lexus to grab it.
Ignoring the man standing yelling and giving me the finger outside my window, I pull the visor down to check myself in the mirror. Not wanting to make the same bad impression as yesterday when I bumped into Thorpe, I run a comb through my hair, add a touch of lipstick. Not bad. My mousy blond hair has a few sun highlights and a little curl. It was always straight and dull up north. Even my skin has a little color. Florida is good for me. Clean, crisp white shorts and a coral blouse today—not the usual cutoffs and grubby tee. Nice new sandals protect my clean feet. I’m dressed to kill. Next time maybe I’
ll break down and wear a dress.
The man with the Lexus leaves, so I can go inside. In the lobby, I browse through Police Magazine, Law Enforcement Monthly, and I’m starting on Peace Officer when Thorpe appears.
Men in uniform are so sexy, 'specially when they’re built. He must work out every day. I can see the muscles ripple beneath his shirt. Maybe that’s my imagination, but whatever, it turns a girl on.
“Hey, Pratt.”
“Hey, Thorpe.”
“You’re looking a little better today.” His grin shows perfect white teeth.
Heat rises in my face. Damn, I hope I’m not blushing.
“I hear you called 911 the other night.”
“Oh yeah, I did. What happened? Big Jim chased us away, so I don’t know what they did with those people.”
“Tried to call you and tell you last night, but your phone was off.”
“I need a new one. Mine drowned.”
His blue eyes light up. Looks like he’s trying not to laugh at me. “Are you going to explain that?”
“Maybe another time. What happened Thursday night?”
“They found six Cubans hiding in the mangroves. Sent them to detention in Miami. They made it to U.S. soil, so they get to stay.”
“Why on our little island? Don’t they usually land in the Keys or on the East Coast?”
“Some fisherman picked them up from a sailboat and dumped them on the nearest island. We don’t even know who it was. He probably figured they couldn’t go anywhere and someone would find them.”
“No smugglers?”
“No drugs or guns or anything, only people smuggling.”
“Oh well, it was exciting while it lasted.” I’ll have to bring Mom up to date when I get back, but she probably already knows from Big Jim. “What about the body at the airport yesterday. I didn’t see anything in the paper.”
“That was a fishing boat captain. We think he was a smuggler—drugs—a dealer.”
“Who killed him, the cops?”
“Nope.”
“Did you catch the guy who did it?”
Mangrove Madness: An Ernestine Ernie Pratt Mystery (Ernestine Ernie Pratt Adventures Book 1) Page 2
