Mangrove Madness: An Ernestine Ernie Pratt Mystery (Ernestine Ernie Pratt Adventures Book 1)

by J. C. Ferguson

  I slip my camera from my backpack and take pictures of a pelican, then a Jet Ski, finally Mr. Nondescript. Maybe I should have paid for a phone that could take photos. It’s less obvious. But “Non” doesn’t seem to notice. No one notices someone taking pictures on the beach. I’m simply another tourist to them.

  First one, then another Jet Ski comes in to trade riders. It’s Non’s turn. I don’t believe it. He has a girl with him. She’s one of the beautiful people.

  “No accounting for taste.” I mumble.

  “Oh, he works here,” the woman next to me says. “He takes people who are afraid to go alone.”

  Ah ha! Non is working. “I guess that explains it.” I smile at the woman for the valuable information.

  Non and the beautiful woman climb onto the Jet Ski and he hits the gas. The attendant on the beach yells at him. They’re supposed to go slow until they’re past the markers. I’m snapping away with my camera. Non tries to miss a diving pelican and goes sideways, dumping beautiful girl into the water. He swings around and pulls her up behind him, then hits the gas again, slapping the water. Now that’s gotta hurt—if you have a bad back.

  I don’t wait around for them to return. I’ll email a couple of pix to the insurance company. He’s dead meat. Normally, I’d feel bad about turning people in, but this one doesn’t bother me. Off to work, Nondescript. No more free ride at the beach.

  Returning to Estero Boulevard, I slip on my shoes and catch a trolley. Estero is the street that runs down the middle of the island. Short side streets exist, but Estero’s the only way through town. This time of year the traffic has two speeds—stop, and one mile per hour. I could walk faster. Instead, I relax and people-watch.

  The next address is a mile and a half down island, where the pack of kids lives. It’s a rambling house on stilts like Mom’s and mine, but badly in need of paint. A blue tarp flaps from the roof. I doubt it’s keeping out the rain.

  Kids hang over the deck railing in what looks like one never-ending party. Beer bottles line the rail. Paper plates, candy wrappers, and more beer bottles all litter the seagrass between house and beach. The two places on either side have been fixed up. Fancy new houses with immaculate landscaping. They must hate the trashy rental in between.

  I walk to the foot of the stairs like I belong here. The friendliest face on the deck is a yellow lab, who bounces down the stairs to meet me. He looks fat and healthy and he greets me by slobbering on my hand. Probably dines on french fries and pizza and expects everyone to bring him food.

  “Sorry, pup. If I’d a’ known I woulda’ brought you a steak.” I scratch his ears and he rolls his eyes at me in ecstasy.

  “Susan here?” I ask no one in particular.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Jane.” I’d like to call myself Jane Doe, but people might catch on. So I make it Jane Domain. I don’t want to be droppin’ my real name here.

  One of the guys sticks his head in the door and shouts. “Hey, Sue.”

  No answer.

  “Go on in. She’s probably sleeping.”

  I climb the long stairs to the deck and open the door. Oh yuck, ick, gag, aarrrgh! The place smells of mold and mildew, beer, pot, rotten food, and sweat. The windows are closed and there’s no air conditioning, the fan in the middle of the room is dead, blades drooping. The place is dreary and gray, very little sun sneaks in to lighten it up.

  “Susan?” I call and listen for an answer.

  I hear a groan coming from a bedroom. Stepping over piles of clothes and bottles, I head for the sound, glad to be wearing my sandals. Wish they were hip boots. I poke my head into a room so dark I can see nothing. It smells of sweat, vomit, and sex. I back out, choking, and call her name again. “Susan, are you alone?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Come on in, join the party,” a male voice answers.

  “No thanks.” I stand in the doorway, holding a hand to my nose and mouth. “Just wanted to ask a question,” I say between fingers.

  “So ask.” A girl emerges from the black pit, wearing only shorts, slipping into a tank top to cover bare breasts. She might be pretty without the dark circles under her eyes and the sunken cheeks. A boy pulls up his jeans as he leaves the room. He keeps going to the deck without even a glance my way.

  “Did George leave anything behind?”

  “George?” Sue stares at me with huge black pupils, surrounded by red eyelids.

  “Yeah, George Stark, he left last summer.”

  “Oh, George. He didn’t live here; he only dropped by.” Sue’s clearly on something, more than booze or pot. This is getting me nowhere.

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “He mighta said somethin’, gotta think about it.”

  I pull a twenty from my pocket and wave it in front of her. “Would this help you think?”

  “Not much.” She turns away.

  I exchange the twenty for a fifty. She stops. “He maybe said somethin’ ’bout a boat trip.”

  “Where?” I hold onto the money.

  “Someplace in the Caribbean.”

  I say nothing, waving the fifty.

  “Okay. Some dude was coming from Boston. Longtime friend. Then some other dude was gonna take them on a trip. I don’t know where. Don’t think he knew where. Just a long sail into the sunset.” She grabs the fifty, turns, and stumbles into the bathroom, slamming the door.

  I let myself out the front, take a deep breath of fresh air, and head for the main drag. A red-haired matron confronts me. When I say matron, I mean like a prison matron. Big, brassy, and mean.

  “Are you living in THAT HOUSE?” The way she says it I know THAT HOUSE is in caps.

  “No, ma’am.” I feel intimidated; that doesn’t happen often.

  “Well, you tell them to clean up THAT HOUSE. It’s a disgrace.”

  “I don’t even know them, ma’am.” I back toward the street to get away. Why do people like this have some sort of magnetic hold on you that doesn’t let you turn and walk away?

  I see the trolley coming—so slow! The prison matron is still yapping. Come on, trolley. It finally stops and I jump on. The woman continues to bark at me from the sidewalk as we creep away. I’m caught in a slow motion time warp while the red-haired woman speeds up. She speaks faster and faster, yappity-yap, yappity-yap until she sounds like a cartoon chipmunk. At last, traffic breaks, the trolley moves ahead, and everything returns to normal.

  The next stop, George Stark’s address, is another cottage, smaller than the one where all the kids hang. Again, it’s book-ended by newly renovated, very expensive homes. It’s sad that the beach cottages are disappearing. I walk through the yard to the side facing the gulf. No one on the deck this time. Looks like a family; mom, dad, and two little kids sit in chairs by the water.

  “Hi, I’m Jane Domain. Are you staying at the cottage?” I point, putting on my best smile.

  The man narrows his eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m looking for a young man who stayed here last summer.”

  “We rented for the week,” the woman says. She’s much more pleasant, even has a smile.

  “Do you know who the owner is?”

  “We rented it through an agency.” She digs a card from her bag.

  The man scowls at her.

  “Do you need this card?” I ask.

  “Yes, I’d like to have it back.” Now she’s frowning.

  I copy the name and number and return the card. “Sorry to have bothered you.” I know the agency, but they won’t be open on Sunday. Imaginary daggers stab my back as I walk away.

  Chapter 10

  “Hey,Pratt. Where are you?” It’s Jeremy calling.

  “Just leaving Fort Myers Beach.”

  “Good. Can you pick up your family?”

  “What are you talking about?” Wrestling the boat away from the dock with mobile between ear and shoulder is no small task.

  “The Olive Oyl’s stuck on a sandbar in Pine Island Sound
with four souls on board.”

  “Why can’t they wait ’til the tide comes in?”

  “That’s between you and your family, darlin’.”

  “Someone’s trying to call me. Maybe it’s Mom.”

  “Call me back.”

  I try to feel the right button to switch calls. Not out of the channel, yet. Can’t look while I’m at the wheel. This one is different than my last one. Damn phones!

  “Hi, Sis.” It’s Bert.

  “Hey, Bert. Hear you’re stuck on a sandbar.”

  “Yeah, well, we have four captains here.”

  “If you wait an hour or so, the tide’s coming in.”

  “I would wait, but we have one hysterical woman on our hands.”

  “I’ll bet I know which one.”

  “Yup, bet you do.”

  I turn to avoid someone coming into the channel and brush against a dock. Boy, talk about driving while on the phone. This is even worse.

  “I’m headed that way. I’ll see you in a few.”

  Maybe I should give up and get a smartphone with speaker and Bluetooth and all the fancy apps. Nah! Too much like carrying a computer around in your pocket.

  I click off and dial Jeremy. Having trouble with the buttons again.

  “Hey, Pratt.”

  “Hey, Thorpe. How did you know about the Olive Oyl?”

  “They called the Coast Guard. We monitor their calls. I told them to forget it; we’d take care of it. But Big Jim is off taking care of some other tourist.” Jeremy gives me the exact location of the sailboat.

  “Mom will be disappointed.”

  “Why’s that, Pratt?”

  “Never mind. I’ll tell you another time.” Don’t want to delve into Mom’s attraction to Big Jim. Word would spread.

  “Should have heard that New York gal trying to tell the Coast Guard the location. Allison got on the line and gave them coordinates and said it wasn’t an emergency.”

  “I wondered why they didn’t call me. Radio in the hands of Ms. New York spells disaster. I’ll stop by and save them.”

  “Thanks, Pratt. Be careful. The sands have shifted in that area, and if you don’t have the latest charts, you’ll end up like the rest of your family.”

  “I’ll be careful. Thanks, Jeremy.”

  #

  I spot the Olive Oyl as I head for home. Jeremy’s right, the bottom has changed in this area. Hurricane Charley came through a few years back and made the charts useless. The bottom continues to shift. I pull as close as I can without going aground myself, toss an anchor, and jump in the water to wade over. Mom, Bert, and Allison are sitting in the stern. Happy voices float across the water.

  “Where’s Monica?” I ask.

  “In the cabin.” Bert points. I notice he’s sitting close to Allison. I raise my eyebrows and he grins. He knows what I’m thinking.

  “She called the Coast Guard?”

  “Panicked, I guess. Not used to boats.”

  “Well, if she wants a ride home, I’ll take her. Or we could try pushing this thing off the sandbar.”

  Bert jumps into the water with me and we give the boat a shove. No movement.

  “Maybe it needs a little more time. Or I might be able to haul her.”

  “We can wait. It’s a couple hours before dark.”

  I check my phone for the time. I don’t wear a watch. “Oh shit!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  I hold the dripping cell. Stupid me! I didn’t bother to take it out of my pocket. “Anyone know the time?”

  Bert reaches in his pocket and retrieves his phone. It’s wet. Both of us burst out laughing. I toss mine to Allison and Bert follows suit, still laughing, falling in the water. I push him under and we start a water fight. I’m bigger than he is, so I’m winning until Allison jumps in and joins him. When we’ve worn each other ragged, we climb into the sailboat. Mom’s leaning back in the sun, a pillow between her head and the rail, eyes closed, a smile on her face. The rocking when we climb aboard doesn’t disturb her.

  Did I say the boat rocked? “Hey, the boat rocked. I’ll bet we could move her.”

  Bert, Allison, and I all jump back in the water and go round to the bow and push. The boat gives a little groan and slips backward off the sandbar. We’re all giving each other high fives when Monica’s head appears. Her eyes are puffy like she’s been sleeping or crying, maybe both, but her makeup is perfect. Glad I don’t have to take her home in my boat.

  “Hey, Monica, throw us a rope. You’re drifting off,” Bert yells.

  Monica stands there looking dumb. Mom stirs and throws a rope to Bert in time to keep Popeye’s Olive Oyl from running into Mammy-Grammy.

  “You didn’t even put down an anchor?” I berate brother Bert.

  “Why bother? We were stuck.” He shrugs.

  I roll my eyes and throw my hands in the air. “Can you make it home without running aground or capsizing?”

  Bert answers by scooping a handful of water my way. I dunk him one more time for good measure.

  “What are you doing? Drowning him?” Monica stands with hands on hips. The girl has no clue.

  Allison and Bert climb aboard. I retrieve my phone, holding it high as I wade back to my boat. A little late for that. I watch as they start the engine and motor toward home. Guess they’ve had enough sailing. It’ll be awhile before they get there, putt-putting along. I rev my engine and speed past them. Not that my boat is speedy or makes much of a wake. They all wave and smile, except Monica.

  Chapter 11

  At home on the porch, geckos scurry out of the way when I lay my mobile on the rail. I open the back and remove the battery. Maybe I can get this thing to work. The idea of going back to The Phone Booth for another one...well, it could be embarrassing. The sun is low in the sky, slanting its light across the porch into the windows of the house. Beautiful, but not much drying power. I gather phone and battery and take them into the kitchen looking around for a place to let them dry. Nuking would be fun. Zap, Pop, Boom, Fire! But Mom might get upset about the microwave. The oven will work. Heat—four hundred. Bake time—twenty minutes. Don’t want it to fry.

  Ha! Bert’s is dead, too. That makes me smile. Bert and I are so different, yet alike in some ways. I love my baby brother. Wish he had better taste in women.

  In the office, I turn on my computer to look for a sailboat trip last summer to the Caribbean. I need to email Jeremy to let him know the boat is floating and my family is on their way home. Oh, wow! I just remembered. I can send a message to his cell from my computer, or I could Skype. Don’t know if he uses Skype. I don’t like it, sending my picture live to the world. You’d think being a computer geek, I’d use these techy things. It’s something about me and telephones that doesn’t click, or any communications device for that matter. I type a quick message, “All’s well with the family. My mobile is dead again. Pratt.”

  I should get a second device so that when I kill one I have another. Why hasn’t someone come up with one that’s waterproof? Maybe they have. I Google “waterproof phone.” Hmmmm... Waterproof telephones for your house. Why would you need that, talk in the bathtub? I don’t see any waterproof cells. Maybe I’ll start a business. Who could design it for me? Wait! Here’s one. Korean. Geez! The site is in Korean. It comes out garble-de-gook on my computer. Here’s more info in English. It’ll last up to thirty minutes in water. Only sold in Korea. Damn! Guess I’ll buy one of these covers, bright yellow. You can even use the keypad inside the case.

  Oh man, mine must be cooked by now. Did I put the bake timer on? I can smell burnt plastic when I reach the kitchen, but the oven is off. Open the door and grab it. Ouch! Damn! Cold water on fingers. Ice on fingers. That’s better. This time use a potholder. My impulse is to run cold water over it, but I resist and move case and battery across the room away from any water.

  Mindy and Max yowl at the door for food. That is, Max yowls; patient Mindy sits and smiles. I let them in and give them food and water. Max j
umps onto the counter and sniffs at my cell, but he’s smart enough not to touch hot stuff. That makes him smarter than me. Mindy rubs my legs and goes back to the food. She finishes her own and starts working on what Max left.

  Feeling sticky and salty, I head for the shower before the crowd arrives. Letting the water pour over me, humming, washing away the day, I remember I still haven’t searched for the mysterious sailboat trip.

  As I step out of the shower, I hear loud voices in another part of the house. They are not happy voices. Pulling on shorts and T-shirt, I head for the ruckus. Bert and Monica are in the kitchen, yelling at each other. Actually, she’s yelling and Bert is talking, trying not to grin. Monica shuts up when she notices me. She grabs something from the counter, throws it at Bert, and misses.

  Damn! That’s my phone. I retrieve it and shake. Something rattles, but at least there’s no water. No hope for this baby. On the off chance it’s not dead, I slip in the battery and plug it into the charger.

  “Where’s Mom? Where’s Allison?” I ask Bert.

  “Outside.” He nods toward the porch.

  I head in that direction, leaving Bert and Monica to their fight.

  “Wait,” Bert calls. “Can we use your boat?”

  “It’s getting dark, and you don’t know your way around. Where are you headed?”

  “The airport.”

  “I don’t have a car. Are you leaving?”

  “Monica is.”

  “I’ll take you over. Then you can call a taxi.” Mom says as she strolls into the kitchen, Allison behind her.

  “You can use...” I know Allison’s going to offer her car, and I shake my head at her.

  “You sure, Mom?” I ask.

  “I’ll be happy to take her.”

  Her tone says she’ll be happy to get rid of her. Must have been some day. I make faces at Bert, asking questions with my eyes. He shrugs.