“What’s burning?” Allison asks.
Mom opens the oven and out rolls a black cloud, setting off the smoke alarm. The horrible, screaming noise drives Allison and me onto the porch. When it stops, we stick our heads in the kitchen. It stinks of burnt plastic.
“Don’t think those muffins will taste too good,” I say.
Mom is holding a black glob in a potholder mitten in one hand and the smoke alarm in the other. “What is this?”
“A smoke alarm?”
“Don’t be flip, Ernestine.” She waves the black glob at me, doesn’t bother with eyebrow signals this time.
“That’s my phone.” Bert stands in the living room door, wearing only shorts. I guess the alarm woke the dead. “I put it in the oven to dry last night.”
“You were supposed to set the timer,” I tell him.
“I did.”
“I turned on the oven,” Mom says, “for the muffins.”
An hour later, when Big Jim arrives, the kitchen is spotless. No sign of the muffins, which went down the garbage disposal. The kitchen smells of freshly brewed coffee mixed with something minty sprayed to cover the burnt plastic smell. A plate of pastries from Billy Sue’s Pizza sits in the middle of the kitchen table. Mom took another shower and changed clothes, again. She said she smelled like a burning tar pit.
#
Mom and Big Jim have gone sailing, Allison and Bert are at the beach. I’ll bet she won’t get much reading done.
I Google for sailboat charters in Bonita Springs and find only three. An email from Jeremy lists a dozen marinas, including private clubs. He also asks me to stop by next time I’m in Fort Myers and collect some work. Clever boy has collected all the missing persons reports that haven’t been entered into the computer. I can get paid to update the info and at the same time peruse the files to see if there’s any connection to Alex and George.
A call to the rental agency for George’s cottage is no help. Mrs. Stark has emailed me some names from Boston, friends that George was in contact with after he moved to Florida. One moved here with him, Bruce Mondrone. I search for him and find nothing. I pick other names on her list and find three phone numbers. I start dialing. The first person I call never heard of George Stark. Two in a row give me voicemail. I leave name and number and ask if they know George. With the rest of the list, I’ll have to dig deeper. No numbers, no addresses, no email. Wait. Here’s an email address for Mary Riley. I shoot off a message. Too common a name, probably not the right one.
I check Jeremy’s list of marinas and start calling. Standard questions. Do you charter sailboats? Do you charter to the Caribbean? Bareboat or crew? They all tell me to try Miami, except one that charters boats with a captain to Jamaica.
“How often do you sail?”
“Every other week. The trip lasts ten days. Would you like to reserve a time? We’re booked until November.”
“Oh, I really wanted to go in May. Is there any possibility?”
“Not unless someone cancels, ma’am. We could take your name and number and call you.”
“If I don’t find anything else, I’ll call.”
Lost cause. Somehow, none of them sounds right. Sue and Mrs. Stark said it was an island-hopping trip, longer than a couple of weeks. My gut says it’s some guy offering trips on the side with his own boat. How will I ever track that down? Guess I’ll have to snoop at all the marinas in Bonita Springs.
I need more information. Time to visit Jeremy. If I could snoop in the police files... Hope they give me access to more than missing persons for this data entry job. Maybe I’ll test my hacking skills. I dial Jeremy’s mobile number.
“Hey, Pratt.”
“Hey, Thorpe. Where are you this afternoon? Can I pick up the missing-person files?”
“I’m home. Day off.”
“I need to bring Allison to get her luggage from the hotel. Can we stop by?”
“Why not come alone, leave Allison behind?” My heart skips a beat. Alone with Jeremy. The thought heats up my whole body. I’ll start panting any minute.
The connection dies. Damn! I dial again, and my phone sputters. I plug it into the charger, just in case. Please, please, please work! I dial again. It’s not even showing a light. Probably killed it with passion. More likely, it gave in to yesterday’s abuse. I shake it, tap it on the desk. Nothing. AAAARGH!!!
I storm out of my office. No one is in the house. Down to the beach, no one in sight. Where the hell are Bert and Allison? Two chairs sit side by side in the sand with towels thrown across, and sandals in front of them. They’ve gone for a walk or a swim. Maybe they left a phone in the house. I stomp back to the house. Bert’s melted blob is in the kitchen wastebasket. Maybe Allison left hers behind. Tiptoeing into her room, I feel like a thief. No phone lying around. The bedroom is so neat; it looks like no one is staying there. Maybe no one is. I see her backpack on the chair.
No, Pratt. You don’t want to go there. My hands have a mind of their own, reaching for the pack, opening it. There’s nothing obvious, clothing and cosmetics. Oh! Oh! Oh! A notebook, journal. My heart pumps even harder than when talking to Jeremy. I want to read it so badly.
NO! I close the backpack and leave her room. I sit on the porch, stewing. What’s wrong with me? I know better than to read a private diary or journal. I would never read Mom’s. I know she keeps one and I’m not even tempted. The only writing I read of hers is work she gives me for editing or approval or after it’s published.
Is Allison hiding something? I like her. Don’t I trust her? It’s not because she and Bert have this thing going. Bert can take care of himself. Leave it alone, Pratt. If you want to know anything about Allison, ask her.
Cheerful voices break through my funk. The happy couple returns. I can feel my hackles rise. Pratt, you are pissed at her for flirting with Bert. Why? Because she’s married. And because she’s having far too good a time for someone supposedly depressed about losing her brother. Because you thought she was a nice girl, and she’s getting close to cheating on her husband. Maybe she already is, with Bert. Damn, Pratt! Bert can look out for himself.
Admit it. What really ticks you off is you think your judgment is off. You pride yourself on being able to read people. You thought she was this sweet thing who needed help, and she turns out to be a married woman on the prowl.
Bert and Allison come into sight. They wave at me on the porch, grab their towels and shoes, and head my way. First thing from my mouth is not, “Can I use your phone?” which is what I intend to say. Instead, my mouth says, “Tell me about your husband, Allison.”
Chapter 14
Allison stops on the porch steps, turned into a statue by the insensitivity of Ms. Ernestine Pratt. Me and my big mouth. Why should she tell me about her husband? What does that have to do with looking for her brother?
Bert comes up the stairs behind her and gives her a little shove, a gentle one, more like a love pat. He’s giving me the evil eye, the one Mom gives me when I do something stupid, left eyebrow raised.
“Sorry, it slipped out.”
“It’s all right.” Allison gains her composure. “I don’t talk about him.”
“Trouble in paradise?” Still asking stupid, nosy questions.
“You might say that. I have divorce papers to sign back at the hotel. I’ve been putting it off.”
“Whoa! Sorry, Allison. I didn’t realize.”
“I guess we never had a chance. I’ve spent all my energy looking for Alex and put nothing into the marriage. Tony’s fed up.” She sheds no tears with this pronouncement, unlike when she talks about her brother.
“Sorry.” Stop saying you’re sorry, Pratt. She heard you the first time.
“Satisfied, Ernestine?” Bert’s eyebrow lifts again. He doesn’t look surprised. Probably already knew.
“Don’t give her a hard time. She’s looking out for your interests.” Allison defends me.
“Not exactly. Bert can look out for himself. He goes through girlfri
ends like french fries. If they get a little cool, they’re no longer appetizing.” Damn Pratt, you’re being a nudge. Stop it already. “I was more concerned that you weren’t upfront with me. I need to trust my clients.”
“Sorry, Ernie.” Now she’s apologizing. Must be catching. “It’s not something I talk about.”
“Why haven’t you signed the papers?” Still sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, Pratt.
“I thought after I found Alex, I’d turn my attention back to the marriage and make it work.”
Too late, girl. He’s on to other things. He might have found another woman if he’s asking for a divorce. I bite my tongue and say nothing.
“Did you find any new information?” Allison changes the subject.
“No, but I have more questions.” I remember what I wanted from her. “Could I use your mobile? Mine’s dead again.”
“Oh, sure.” She reaches in the pocket of her cover-up. “It’s not here.”
“Oh no. Phoneless in Florida.” No one laughs.
I lead the way to where they were sitting at the beach. On hands and knees, I sift through the sand around the chairs. Bert walks in circles around me, searching with bare feet. Allison wanders the beach staring at the ground.
She starts jumping up and down, yelling. “I found it, I found it.” She comes running, phone in hand, tears running down her cheeks. A little overreaction I’d say.
“The question of the day. Does it work?” Bert grins at her. It starts ringing, question answered.
She looks at the display. “It’s Tony.”
Bert and I head to the house, giving her privacy.
“Sister of mine, do you always talk first and think after?”
“Yup, but it gets me answers.”
“And loses friends.”
“Nope.” Not often, anyway. “How about you? I didn’t think you dated married women.”
“Usually don’t.”
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“We talked about Tony.”
“Okay, I’ll drop it.” I can’t resist one more question. “You sleeping with her?”
Bert whacks me on the shoulder. “Butt out, Ernestine.”
Allison joins us and hands me her phone. “He wants to know when I’ll be back in Boston with the papers. Didn’t even ask about Alex.”
“Better to know now than later.” Keep your mouth shut, Pratt. “Before I call Jeremy, are you going into town with me? I may need to do some running around. I can collect your luggage, you can stay here if you like.” I want her to stay here. Time alone with Jeremy. Yes!
She looks at Bert. He shrugs.
“I should pay the bill at the hotel, and I’d kind of like to go shopping.”
“Mind if I tag along?” Bert asks. “I should get a new cell.”
My fantasy of the day is shot. “Okay, get dressed you two. I’ll call Jeremy and tell him we’re descending on him.”
In the kitchen, Bert retrieves his black, burned lump from the trash.
“I hope you’re not planning to turn that in.”
“You got away with turning in a drowned one.” He flashes a grin. “I’m going to try to retrieve the SIM.”
He looks around ’til he finds Mom’s tool drawer and a hammer. Bert, phone, and hammer head outside. Allison and I trail behind. He finds a good sized rock and lays the cell on it. Whack! Nothing. Whack! Whack! The black blob breaks open. The inside looks clean. Amazing!
He retrieves the little chip, drops it into his pocket, and slides the broken hulk into the other pocket.
“I hope you have the information stored somewhere else.” Little hope for that SIM. Good advice from someone who’s never been able to retrieve any information.
#
At his Punta Rassa dock, Charlie greets us, offering ice tea and conversation. It’s approaching two-thirty and there’s a lot to do. Hotel, phone store, bank, Jeremy’s, and the two tagalongs who want to shop.
“Sorry, Charlie. Another time?”
“You’re always welcome. Stop by on your way home.”
“We might do that.”
We pile into Allison’s rental. Because I know the way, I ride shotgun. Bert sprawls in the back. First stop, the Marriott. While Bert and Allison retrieve luggage, I sit in the car, radio tuned to classic rock. I sing along with The Beatles, windows open, gathering stares from guests.
Bert and Allison exit the hotel with two huge suitcases. One fits in the trunk, the other shares the back seat with Bert.
Next stop, The Phone Booth. I don’t look forward to this one. Frank is behind the counter and doesn’t look happy when he sees me come through the door.
“Hi, Frank.” I’m not going to let him pawn me off on someone else.
“Ms. Pratt.”
“How’s Bob?” Can’t resist.
“He’s out on bail, but he no longer works here.”
Whoa! Out on bail? How did that happen? Why didn’t Jeremy tell me? It makes sense, though. He didn’t kill or injure anyone. Only my sweet car. Hope he’s satisfied with his revenge. Probably not, since I had him arrested, thrown in jail over the weekend, and got him fired. At least he won’t be able to spot me in the Accord. It’s less noticeable than the yellow Bug.
“My phone quit working this morning.” I tell Frank.
“So, what’s new?” Exasperation clouds his face.
“I’m going to buy a new one.”
Frank smiles at this good news.
I’m feeling rich with Allison’s check in my pocket. But not that rich. I always have to bargain. “One of those smart ones you’re giving away with new accounts. Should be cheap if you’re giving them away, right?”
The smile is gone. “Those are expensive. You can’t get them free if you aren’t opening a new account.”
“I said I’d buy one. I like the black model. It has speaker, right?”
“Yes.”
“And a camera?”
“Yes, and video.”
“How much, Frank?”
“It’s $329.”
“What?”
“Plus the Bluetooth headset, which is another seventy dollars. But we’ll give you that free.”
“I found this online and it was one-fifty. What’s the story?”
“That’s the cut-rate price for new customers.” He emphasizes the “new customer.”
“I thought the cut-rate was free, Frank.”
“That’s the special, this month only. It’s a rebate.”
“I also noticed online that I’m paying more for my nine hundred minutes than you’re charging for unlimited. Time to change carriers, Frank? It doesn’t sit well when you treat your new customers better than the old ones.”
Frank lets out a huge sigh.
I hear a chuckle behind me. Bert. “Maybe you can get a deal on the new iPhone.”
“Don't want to sign a contract and I want it to be a phone, not a computer.” I'm surprised Bert doesn't have the latest and greatest.
“I’m willing to pay something here, Frank. What do I get?”
“I’ll give you all the rebates, $180. That brings the price to $220, and with the free headset, $150.”
“I thought you said $329 to start. That doesn’t compute.”
“With the Bluetooth it starts at $400.”
I ignore this new information. “I’ll give you $80 for the black one. Last offer. I don’t want to send in all those pieces of paper. Instant rebates or nothing.”
He’s going to cry. Poor Frank.
I offer my credit card. He stares. I wiggle it. He grabs the card and starts entering the transaction. He hands me a slip to sign for $84.80. That includes tax. I sign before he changes his mind.
I hand him my old phone. “The SIM might still be working.”
He goes to the other side of the counter to do his magic between SIMs. Doesn’t want to see my face anymore. He returns and hands me the new one. I do the activation routine. It works! My contacts are there. At least the
ones I’ve plugged in since Friday.
“Thank you, Frank. A pleasure doing business with you, as always.”
Bert steps to the counter. “I want the same deal.” He hands Frank the hunk of plastic that used to be his phone.
Frank screams and runs. We can still hear screams and sobs from somewhere in the bowels of the store when we leave, after another salesman has finished Bert’s bargain transaction. Believe it or not, Bert’s SIM is working.
“I should find another store to take care of my phone problems.”
“But it wouldn’t be half as much fun,” Bert says. All three of us are laughing as we climb into the car, but in my heart, I feel Frank’s pain.
Chapter 15
At the bank, Bert hits the ATM while I stand in line to deposit my ten thousand dollars. This is the biggest check I’ve ever had in my hot little hand. I keep staring at it. I’d like to frame this and hang it on my wall. I’m for real! A private investigator! But I need to solve the case. Otherwise, I’ll have to give most of the money back.
The names Anthony and Allison Martinelli are both on the check. Hope hubby hasn’t frozen the account. Does Allison have money of her own, or is it all Tony’s? Better not spend it ’til it clears.
When I make it to the window, a bleached blonde teller wearing a pink low-cut top, black fingernails, and too much makeup arranges everything to her liking. They don’t make bank tellers the way they used to. She finishes, and sighs as if I’m the one making her wait. Not bothering to look up, she grabs my check the second I slip it through the window. I stare at her, trying to capture her attention. Something about her seems familiar. Maybe the dye job is new.
As she hands me my receipt, she looks at me. I see recognition flash in her eyes. Her nameplate is on the counter behind the window, and I twist my head trying to read it. She puts it in the window. Susan Bain. Wow! The girl at the beach house. No wonder I didn’t recognize her. She’s clean.
She glances at my check. “Pratt Investigations? What does that mean?”
People behind me are beginning to mumble and shuffle. “I’m a private investigator.”
She flips the check over, looking at my signature. “I thought your name was Jane.”
Mangrove Madness: An Ernestine Ernie Pratt Mystery (Ernestine Ernie Pratt Adventures Book 1) Page 8
