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

by J. C. Ferguson

  “Who painted your face?” Tina asks me.

  “No one.” What’s she talking about? I’m not wearing makeup.

  “What’s the blue circle?” She points at my forehead.

  “Oh, that. I banged my head really hard on the door.” I must look awful.

  “She went flying through the air and hit the door. And she tackled Manuel.” Allison adds these details, with a har, har, har. Who asked you, Allison?

  “Yes, and they showed it on the news on TV,” Bert adds.

  “How do you know that?” I ask Bert. “You weren’t watching.”

  “I saw you this morning.” He grins at me.

  “Can I see you on TV?” Tina asks.

  “Maybe later.” Big Jim sits Buddha-style, highly involved in castle building.

  “I doubt if I’ll be on television again. I wasn’t that interesting.”

  “Oh, we recorded it for posterity.” Bert snickers. I’m not in a mood to be laughed at this morning.

  “How old are you, Manuel?” I change the subject before Allison starts in on one of her exaggerated stories.

  “Soy seis años de viejo.” He makes a solemn statement and holds up six fingers.

  I understand. Seis is six. How can that be? He’s tiny. I hunker down beside him, my bones and muscles creaking. “Do you go to school, Manuel?”

  “Si.”

  “Do they teach English in your school?”

  He looks at Mom for translation, then answers. “Si, Señorita Ernie. Yes.” He grins at me. His yes sounds like yaz.

  “Manuel, were your mother and father on the boat with you?”

  Mom translates. His little face scrunches in a frown. No answer. Did they tell him not to talk about how he got here? Mom rattles on in Spanish for awhile, apparently trying to loosen his tongue.

  Finally, he says, “Madre, si. Padre, no.”

  Mom gives me a hand across throat sign to cut the questions. She’s very protective of the little guy. He goes back to building sand castles, sitting in a lotus position next to Big Jim, imitating his every move. Tina sits next to him. She and Manuel have no problems communicating, even if they don’t speak the same language. They chatter away in English and Spanish as if they completely understand each other. The adults are enjoying the sand as much as the kids. Bert has dug a hole almost over his head when he stands in the bottom. What makes men want to dig holes?

  What is that black thing Manuel is burying? It looks like one of those fancy new phones. “Is that your cell, Bert?”

  “No, mine’s in the house.”

  “Anyone else?”

  A chorus of no’s. Could it be mine? Gingerly I pick it up and brush off the sand.

  Manuel screams and grabs it.

  “No, Manuel. It’s mine. I need it.” I take it from him.

  Now he’s wailing. Everyone looks at me like I’ve ruined their peaceful morning. Maybe I have, but I need my connection to the world. Mom walks over to me, takes the phone, and gives it back to Manuel.

  “Mom, I need it.”

  “Don’t whine. Get another one.”

  “What is the matter with you? He has other things to play with.”

  “He likes it.” How can she be so unreasonable? What’s a kid going to do with a phone? Bury it in the sand? That’s exactly what he’s doing. Maybe if I jump up and down and scream I’ll get it back. Use a little strategy, Pratt. And be patient.

  Manuel finally props the cell on top of his sand castle with a stick, a flag flying at the top of a turret. When his attention wanders, I steal the phone and run for the house. No screams. I try turning it on, but the battery is dead. I clean it and plug it in. Hopefully it’s mine, and hopefully it will work. Time to find Manuel’s mother. I don’t need an adopted little brother.

  Shower time. I strip off my wet bathing suit and inspect my cuts and bruises in front of the mirror. My forehead displays a blue bulls-eye. No wonder Tina asked who painted it. My backside is a mass of bruises. The scratches on my legs are no longer red and puffy, but the slash from Mindy’s claw looks pretty awful. Guess I’ll live.

  After a long shower, the arm gets a dose of the antibiotic ointment that Doc Poser left me. The only way that stuff is going to stay on is if I put a huge bandage on it. I don’t want to walk around with an arm wrapped in gauze. It’s on my right arm, and I can’t wrap it with my left hand. I give up, put on some clothes, and take the bandages to the porch, yelling to the people at the beach, “Who’s good at first aid?”

  Big Jim comes to the rescue. He strips off my mutilated attempt at bandaging. “That one looks nasty.”

  He gently patches my arm, using butterfly Band-Aids. “They’ll hold it together so it won’t leave an ugly scar.” Then he wraps my arm in gauze, exactly what I didn’t want. I feel like a clown: painted face, multicolored body, and a big white arm.

  I head for my office. Work to do. Wonder if this thing I stole from Manuel will work. Wow! It lights up! And it’s my phone. Thank you, Manuel.

  Eight missed calls and four messages. I don’t recognize most of the numbers but the last one is Jeremy.

  First message is the VW dealer. The car is totaled. Second message is the insurance adjuster. The car is totaled. Third message sounds like Susan from Fort Myers Beach. “Call me.” She doesn’t leave a name or number. Last message, Jeremy. Another “Call me.”

  None of the numbers match the one I have for Susan. How am I supposed to know which is hers? I call the number I have on file for her and leave a message.

  Next, Jeremy.

  “Hey, Pratt. Did you get a new phone?”

  “No, it’s the old one. Manuel found it somewhere.”

  “Speaking of Manuel, that’s why I called. His mother and the others we rescued on your beach have disappeared into the Cuban community in Miami. No one seems to know where and no one seems to be anxious to look for them.”

  “Then Mom can keep him?”

  “The kid might want to find his mother. Don’t you?”

  “I suppose.” Why am I arguing to keep this kid around? He stole my phone and screamed at me, and I haven’t even asked Mom if she wants to keep him.

  Jeremy says, “I talked my captain into letting me look for the mother in Miami. He said it’ll be good publicity if I get mother and son back together.”

  “Good for the kid, too, I guess.”

  “Want to come with me? You can use your detective skills.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “How long?”

  “Depends.”

  “I don’t speak Spanish? Do you?”

  “Sure, Pratt. It’s almost a necessity.”

  “Too bad we can’t take Mom. She speaks fluent Spanish, and she’s not as scary as a big deputy.”

  “Who me? Scary?”

  “Nah, you’re a teddy bear.”

  “I don’t know which is worse, Pratt, scary cop or teddy bear. I won’t wear my uniform. Will that help?”

  “What will you wear?” I picture his bare skin.

  “Depends on when and where.” His voice low and growling. I know he’s thinking the same.

  “If Mom goes, we’ll have to take Manuel.” Taking them would preclude the bare skin games.

  “Let’s leave them here until we find his mother.”

  That’s fine with me. “By the way, did you find anything about the boat guy, Jack Farrell?”

  “Not yet, Pratt. I’ll do some checking before you get here.”

  “Where’s here? Are you home or at work?”

  “Home. Waiting for my black and blue babe to arrive.” The call clicking off interrupts his laughter.

  Chapter 23

  Down by the water, Tiny Tina throws herself on Manuel’s castle. Manuel pounds on Tina and she pours a bucket of sand over his head. I guess the peaceful, international coexistence has ended.

  “Who wants to go for a boat ride?” I ask the castle builders.

  “Where’re you headed?” Jim asks a
s he lifts and separates the two fighting children. A wiggling, kicking, screaming body hangs from each of his arms. “I could take you. Gotta be leaving soon.”

  “I’m going to Jeremy’s place. And then to Miami. Don’t know when I’ll return, so I don’t want to take my boat.”

  “Good. Tina lives not far from Jeremy.” Big Jim has settled the two kids into his arms and they both look content.

  “You don’t know when you’ll be back?” Mom raises both eyebrows at me.

  “We’re going to look for the Cubans, to see if our little friend has family.” I don’t want to mention Manuel’s mother. He understands some English even if he doesn’t speak it.

  “I wanna go,” says Tina. Manuel joins in, mimicking her. Together they start a chorus of “I wanna go, wanna go, wanna go.” Big Jim shushes them by dumping them in the water. I wanna go is replaced by giggles and splashing.

  “Are you taking Manuel?” Mom asks.

  “No, he can stay with you until we find them.”

  “Let us know what’s happening.” Disappointment fills her eyes. Is she getting tired of playing mother? Or is that disappointment because she thinks she’ll be losing him? One of these days, when there aren’t a thousand people around, I should talk to her. We haven’t had any privacy for days, seems like years. I wish they’d all vamoose. Duh! You invited most of them, Pratt.

  “Are you still looking for Alex?” Allison asks.

  “Yes, I may even have a lead in Miami. No charge to you for the trip, though.” I flash her a winning smile. I hope she believes I have a lead. My only clue might be Jeremy’s research on Captain Farrell. Hope he has something to tell me about it on the way to Miami.

  “Oh, that’s okay. I’d gladly pay if it helps in any way.”

  I’m happy she hasn’t forgotten about finding her brother. She’s been so absorbed in Bert.

  #

  Jeremy and I speed along Alligator Alley in his green and white cruiser. This is business, so he’s allowed to drive his sheriff’s department car. Alligator Alley is Interstate 75, east-west through the Everglades across the bottom of Florida from Naples to Fort Lauderdale. The highway cuts through flat swampland followed by unending miles of sawgrass marsh with canals on either side and bridges to let the water flow under the road every few miles. The whole area is mostly unpopulated, unless you count the wildlife, which you can’t see from the highway except for road kill. I love nature here in Florida. I’d rather be driving on one of those little roads that wander into the swamp where I could actually see some animals.

  Jeremy keeps turning the radio to country music until I get tired of it and switch to classic rock. It’s the only sound besides the hum of tires on the highway. We’ve hardly spoken since we left his house. He’s concentrating on driving too fast and I’m staring out the window, watching the occasional flock of birds takes off in a white cloud and letting my mind wander, which I haven’t had a chance to do in days.

  Something’s bothering me, itching in my brain cells. It's not the work I’ve left behind. There’s no rush, really. And it’s not leaving Mom, Bert, and Allison—and don’t forget Manuel. I’m sort of glad to get away.

  It could be the fact that I have no clue how to find Allison’s brother. I’m supposed to be an investigator and I don't know where to look next. He most likely took off on a sailboat six months ago with Jack Farrell and others, and they haven’t been heard from since. How am I supposed to magically find them? Either they don’t want to be found or they are dead. That thought sends a shiver through my bones.

  Part of what’s nagging at me is Manuel. How could he survive alone on the beach for four days? Why wasn’t he starved, or dehydrated? He was dirty and tired but he didn’t look like he’d been there that long. He should have been dead. No one has even mentioned that.

  “You all right, Pratt?” Jeremy’s voice startles me.

  “Fine.”

  “Not very talkative.”

  “Nor are you.” I’m irritated with him. Why? Is that another part of what’s scratching around in my head, making me uncomfortable?

  “I found your sailboat captain, Jack Farrell. The name of his boat is Distraction.”

  “Good. Is he legit?”

  “Yes, but he’s been in some trouble. Picked up for running bales a couple of times, but they never made it stick.”

  “Did he ever get in trouble for bringing people from Cuba or Haiti?”

  “Nothing like that on his record.”

  “He bragged about bringing in people, or about wanting to. Most people I talked to seemed to think it was only talk.”

  “No record of a float plan in July.” Jeremy says.

  “Rumor has it he sailed for the Caribbean. Maybe the Caymans, maybe Jamaica, maybe further south. It looks like he took at least three guys with him. They all knew each other and all went missing in July. One of them was Allison’s brother, Alex. I don’t have a clue how to find them...if they’re alive.”

  “We could take a vacation.” He grins at me. “See if we could follow their trail.”

  That’s exactly what I was daydreaming about a day or two ago. “That might be fun, but not very practical since we don’t know where they went.” Jeez, Pratt. You’re a grump today. Maybe it’s PMS or maybe the new birth control pills from old Doc Poser.

  “Why don’t you check with the Coast Guard? See if they can track him,” Jeremy suggests. “He’d have to check in if he landed anywhere. Start with Jamaica.”

  “Will they give me any information? I’ve never tried to track someone internationally.”

  “Check with the Coast Guard first. Maybe they can help you, or maybe Jamaican customs would tell me as a cop.”

  “Sure is handy having a friend in the sheriff’s department.” Why can’t I do this on my own? I guess every investigator needs connections.

  “Merely a friend, Pratt?” He lays a hand on my knee, which is covered by a pair of white denims to hide my beat-up legs.

  “We haven’t even gone to dinner yet.”

  “No fault of mine. You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “Yeah, well, you know, a girl doesn’t want to rush into these things.”

  He chuckles. I know what he’s thinking. I’m not rushing into going out on the town, but I had no problem falling into bed with him. “You think I’m easy.” I give him a fake pout.

  “Yeah, easy. I’ve only been trying for a couple of years.”

  Now I know I’m frowning. It hurts the bruise on my forehead. Have I missed something? He never asked me on a date until last Friday. Of course, I was involved with some short guy when I first met him. Even engaged for about a minute. But that’s been over for awhile.

  “I can almost hear the gears grinding in your head. Do you think I was flirting with you for nothing?”

  “Well, you never asked. I thought you had a girlfriend.”

  “A few. None of them serious. You were the one wearing a rock on your finger.”

  “That ring went away a long time ago.” Tiny ring to go with a tiny guy.

  “And then you were off men for a long time.”

  “Hey! How do you know?”

  “You’re an open book, Pratt. The first time I ever saw a reaction from you was the other day in the airport. You sure do blush pretty.”

  “You asked me out because I blushed? Did it ever occur to you that I might be blushing because I was embarrassed?”

  “Yes, but why were you embarrassed? Obviously, you weren’t embarrassed about running around the airport looking like a wet dog. You only blushed when you ran into me.” Is that a smug smile on his face?

  “Am I another of those girls that don’t matter? Oops! I’m not supposed to ask those things. Sorry.” I don’t know if I’m just another babe on his list. Don’t know if he’s just another guy on mine, either. Why am I complaining? Do I want a guy who’s attracted to a damsel in distress? I don’t want a protector. I want to take care of myself. But how can you take care of yourself, Prat
t, when every time he touches you, you go loopy?

  He laughs. “No, you’re not supposed to ask. I could ask you the same.” That’s not an answer.

  Before I get a chance to think of an answer of my own, he hits the brakes. A line of red taillights spreads in front of us on the highway as far as you can see.

  “Damn!” Jeremy hits the flashing lights on his cruiser and swings into the breakdown lane, giving a little whoop with the siren to scare off the civilians. He turns the music off and tunes in the police radio, punching buttons until he finds what he wants.

  “Accident. Maybe ten miles from here. It’ll take forever to get around it.” How can he understand a word on that radio? All I hear is static covering what might be a voice.

  “What? With your cruiser?”

  “If you look, the breakdown lane is already blocked ahead of us. You think I can drive on water?” He is now driving halfway on the grass, the bank of the canal precariously close.

  “Walk on water, maybe.” I answer.

  He flashes that sexy grin.

  The cruiser pushes and shoves and bleeps at the other cars and we progress about one mile in fifteen minutes. He takes a right onto a dirt maintenance road that crosses the canal and runs along the other side, paralleling the highway. We bump along, stirring up dust clouds.

  Something is lying across the road ahead. A log? No, a gator. “Stop, Jeremy!”

  He slams on the brakes so hard that if I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt I’d fly through the windshield.

  “I want to see.” I’ve never seen an alligator so huge. I open the door and run to the front of the car. Wish I had a camera. Oh, I do. My cell phone. I click a couple of pictures, moving cautiously forward, trying to get the cruiser in the picture for comparison. I jump when Jeremy puts his hand on my shoulder and pulls me toward the car.

  “Those things are fast, Pratt.” As he speaks, the gator lunges toward us.

  Heart pounding, I jump in the car and slam the door, leaving poor Jeremy outside with the gator. Jeremy stares at the gator for a minute, then calmly walks around the back of the car, climbs in, and drives away, depriving the gator of his dinner.

  “You were very calm.” My legs are shaking.