Savannah Breeze

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Boats? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Jay Bradley went back to talk to Jimmy Yglesias, the owner of the Blue Moon, the yacht Roy ‘borrowed’ while he was living in Savannah,” James said. “And while he was sitting in the yacht’s wheelhouse, he happened to notice a little brass plaque on the yacht’s steering console. ‘Sea Urchin.’ So he asked about the meaning of that, and Yglesias told him that’s the name of the Blue Moon’s manufacturer. It’s kind of an unusual company name. Sea Urchin. The Sea Urchin Corporation of Charlevoix, Michigan. And that’s when Bradley remembered that woman down in Vero Beach. So he called the detective who’d worked that case to see if there’d been any new developments.”

  “Had there been?”

  “There weren’t any new developments. But Bradley asked the detective if the Vero Beach victim owned a boat. Why, yes, the detective said, as a matter of fact, the victim’s late husband owned a seventy-two-foot yacht called Polly’s Folly. Polly Findley is the woman’s name. And that’s how the woman came to meet Moseley. She and some friends were having lunch aboard the Folly one day at the marina when Moseley pulled alongside in another boat, and struck up a conversation with her. One thing led to another, and pretty soon they were ‘keeping company.’

  “Screwing, you mean,” I said bitterly.

  “If you say so,” James said. “Now here’s the interesting part, BeBe. Polly’s Folly was manufactured by the Sea Urchin Corporation of Charlevoix, Michigan.”

  “I guess it’s interesting if you say so,” I said. “So Roy likes yachts. And wealthy women. We already knew that much.”

  “We didn’t know how much he likes this one specific kind of yacht,” James said.

  “Janet’s been doing some research on Sea Urchin. It’s a very small, highly successful family-owned shipbuilder. Very high end. Everything is done by hand. These boats are considered the Bentleys of yachts. The company only builds maybe eight a year. And Roy Eugene Moseley has been involved with two Sea Urchins just in the past year.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess that’s a start. But how does that help us track down Moseley?”

  “We don’t know yet,” James said. “We just know Moseley likes Sea Urchin yachts. We know he was probably thinking about stealing the Blue Moon, until he got sidetracked with you. And there’s a possibility he had the same idea about Polly’s Folly too. He almost had Mrs. Findley talked into letting him take it down to Costa Rica in October. But her children got wind of the plan and put a stop to it. So he settled for fleecing her instead.”

  “Too bad he didn’t get to steal the damn boat,” I said gloomily. “Maybe he would have sailed off into the sunset before meeting me.”

  “Doubtful,” James said. “Look, BeBe, this really is good news. Bradley’s talking to the Sea Urchin folks. They have a national registry of owners of their yachts. If they’ll cooperate with the police, there may be a way to see if there are any other victims. Or if he’s working on somebody right now. Anyway, I thought you’d be delighted that the police think they have a way to track down Moseley.”

  “I’m sorry, James,” I said, regretting my sour-grapes attitude. “It’s just this Breeze Inn situation has got me down. I’m tired and I’m broke, and the place is a wreck, and I’ve been working all day, but it’s just a filthy, awful stinkhole. I don’t see how I can turn it around. I really don’t.” I felt myself close to tears, and when I went to wipe my eyes I noticed that my hand was streaked with paint, and now my face was surely just as streaked. I sniffed pitifully.

  “Are you crying?” James asked. “Oh, child, don’t start crying. You’ll make me feel like a priest again. Pretty soon I’ll be telling you to make a novena.”

  “But I’m not even Catholic,” I said, laughing despite the tears. “And you’re not a priest anymore.”

  “Thank the Lord,” James said fervently. “But I still have my faith. And you need to have faith too. We’re going to set this right. We’re going to find Roy Eugene Moseley, and get your money back. And we’ll get the Breeze Inn thing straightened out too. Arrendale and his Sandcastle buddies don’t have a legal leg to stand on with this option thing. It’s all a house of cards. You’ll see.”

  “Hope so,” I said.

  “I promise,” James said. “Now go take a walk on the beach. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Anyway, I can’t take a walk right now. I’ve got a bathroom to scrub.”

  “Walk first, scrub later,” James said firmly. “That bathroom isn’t going anyplace.”

  I put down the phone and, despite my best intentions, found myself staring out the window at the beach. The tide had gone out, and the sand was a dull battleship gray. A flock of seabirds skimmed low over the water, and I thought I could see a sailboat, way out in the sound, but they were the only signs of life in sight.

  Maybe, I thought, James is right. My scuzzy bathroom could wait. The beach was right outside my back door. Even now, developers were circling around the Breeze Inn and Tybee Island like buzzards, trying to snap up even the smallest, most pathetic piece of beachfront property. Maybe I should go out, walk on the beach and get a sense of what was such a big deal to the rest of the world.

  21

  I found a plank walkway that led me out over the dunes, and without giving it a second thought, peeled off my socks and sneakers.

  The minute my toes hit the cold, damp sand, I started to regret my hasty decision to go barefoot.

  Too late now, I thought, rolling up the hem of my blue jeans, and at the same time noting the sorry state of my toes. The jaunty red polish my manicurist had applied weeks ago was chipped and faded now, and my cheap sneakers had rubbed blisters on my toes. But a $25 pedicure was definitely no longer a line item in my personal budget.

  I walked down to the water’s edge and dug my toes into the damp gray sand, cringing a little, yet expecting something magical to happen.

  Off in the distance, two sailboats glided across the horizon, and I could see the lights of a much larger boat, cruising in the direction of the Back River. Was it a yacht? Maybe a Sea Urchin, the kind my darling, diabolical lover preferred?

  I bit my lip. Somewhere down in Florida, the suave sophisticate I’d known as Reddy Millbanks was charming some other deluded dame out of her panties. Was he wining and dining her with my money, while I ate canned soup and slept in a motel even the fleas had checked out of? Was Reddy sending her pink roses like the ones he’d sent me? I chewed at the inside of my cheek. Soon, I thought, it’ll be payback time.

  In the meantime, I vowed, I would take the pig’s ear Reddy had left me and turn it into a cash cow. I’d done it with Guale, I’d done it with my investment properties, and I’d do it again, God willing. That last thought made me grin. Have faith, James had implored me. Might as well, since faith was currently the only capital I possessed.

  The cry of a seagull suddenly echoed overhead, and I instinctively covered my head with my arms. At the last minute, the flock of birds veered away, out across the water. Maybe not getting pooped on was the only magic I was going to see that day. I turned and looked up and down the beach. To the north, I saw a black dog running back and forth along the shoreline, playing tag with the waves. I started walking in that direction.

  As I walked, I marveled at how quiet the beach was this time of year. Just me, some seagulls, and one black dog. And, oh, yes, when the wind changed, the whine of a power saw and the rhythmic banging of hammers on nails. I shaded my eyes to see where the noise was coming from. There it was, a couple of hundred yards down the beach, rising just on the other side of the dunes, the plywood skeleton of a whole block of humongous houses. I counted rooftops and realized there were fourteen new houses going up on that one tiny strip of land. Four stories tall, they would blot out any bit of shoreline left on that part of the beach.

  I kept walking. When I got close to the construction site, I heard a long, low, wolf whistle. “Hey, chica!” a male voice called ou
t. “Whachu doin’ tonight?”

  “Painting!” I should have yelled back. “Wanna come over and help?” But I didn’t. I kept on walking, with my head held high, acting as if I hadn’t heard.

  As I got closer to the dog, I realized it was the same black Lab I’d seen that morning. He had the same red bandanna tied around his neck. Sitting on a blanket spread out, with the dunes to his back, was the same old man. Mercifully, he had on a shirt now, and a pair of blue nylon running shorts. A silver bicycle lay in the sand beside him.

  “Are you all right?” I called out, picking up the pace. Maybe he’d fallen off the bike. Maybe he was injured, or disoriented.

  “What’s that?” he asked, turning his head toward me. “What’d you say?”

  The old man’s face was a mass of brown wrinkles. He had a neatly clipped white mustache, and up close, I could see the ropelike sinews of muscles beneath his tight white T-shirt. For an old dude, he was pretty buff.

  I blushed. “I saw your bike there, and I thought maybe you needed help.”

  He laughed. “Oh no, I’m fine, thanks just the same. Buddy saw a horseshoe crab in the waves there, and he stopped to investigate, so I decided to take a breather too.”

  “Okay, then,” I said, turning away. “Have a nice night.”

  “You too, young lady,” he said. “Haven’t seen you around here before, and I know most of the regulars on the island. Especially the pretty ones. You visitin’?”

  I thought about that. “Nope,” I said finally. “I live here. Just moved in.”

  “Whereabouts?” he said, and then “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “I live at the Breeze Inn.”

  His bright blue eyes widened. “Really. Thought the place was all closed up. Saw the signs about the new town houses. I figured that place was being torn down.”

  I grimaced. “It’s kind of complicated. The developers who put up that sign were sort of jumping the gun. I own the Breeze Inn, and I’m not planning on tearing it down. Not right away, that is.”

  He nodded. “Glad to hear it.” Then he scrambled nimbly to his feet and extended his hand. His grip was firm. “Mikey Shannon.” He pointed toward the water. “And that’s Buddy, the mighty horseshoe crab hunter.”

  “BeBe Loudermilk,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “So you bought the old place from the Reeses, is that right?” he asked. “I heard the kids wanted to unload the place, after their dad had that heart attack, but we didn’t know what was going to happen until that billboard went up.”

  “I own it now,” I said, deciding to skip over the fine points about how I’d come to be in possession of such a prize.

  “Then I reckon Harry Sorrentino’s working for you now?” Mikey asked.

  I blinked. It was amazing how quickly news traveled on this little island. Much faster than downtown. Tybee was obviously hardwired for fast-access gossip.

  “Well, yes,” I said finally. “Harry’s helping me with repairs and things.”

  “Single, are you?”

  I laughed. “Does it show?”

  He gestured toward my left hand. “No ring. I notice these kinds of things.”

  “I see that.”

  “Good fella, Harry. Best fisherman on the island. Shame about his boat though.”

  “What happened to his boat?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. Harry hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with a lot of details about how he made his livelihood.

  “He didn’t tell you?” Shannon asked. “All the fishermen out here had a terrible time of it last season. Three hurricanes in a row, the fish quit biting, and the charter business dried up too. And right when diesel prices went through the roof. The marina got a judgment against Harry for money he owed for fuel and ice and dock fees. Took the Jitterbug right out from under him. It’s sitting up on blocks over there at Marsden Marina with a FOR SALE sign tacked to the bow. Damn shame for Harry.”

  “Terrible,” I murmured.

  “But a lucky break you got him working for you at the Breeze,” Shannon said. “He’s right popular with all the local ladies,” he said slyly, his strong white teeth shining in his nut-brown face. “You could do worse for yourself than Harry Sorrentino.”

  I blushed. “I’ve got my hands pretty full taking on a new business, so I’m not really in the market for romance right now.”

  “Smart,” the old man said, nodding. “Don’t get your honey where you get your money, that’s what I always say. Anyway, I imagine you’ll have a lot to do getting the Breeze shaped up. I heard the kids kinda let the place go the past few years. Not that it was ever anything fancy.”

  “It’s a work in progress,” I agreed. Just then Buddy trotted up and dropped a large brown horseshoe crab right on my foot.

  “Oh!” I blurted out, hopping backward in a hurry. To show his appreciation for my appreciation, the dog picked that moment to shake himself dry, showering me with a mist of ice-cold saltwater.

  “Buddy!” Mikey said sharply. “Sit!”

  The dog sat and bowed his head in shame.

  “Sorry,” Mikey said. He picked up a beach towel from his blanket and started dabbing me dry with it.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I was about to head back up to the motel anyway. I’ll dry off when I get there.”

  “Bad dog,” Mikey said, shaking a finger in the dog’s face. “You scared off the first pretty girl I’ve hit on all day.”

  “Surely not the first,” I said, looking at my watch. “I saw you running on the beach early this morning. You’ve had all day to practice your smooth moves.”

  He grinned again. “It’s slow this time of year. Say, what are you doing for dinner? Why don’t you let me buy you a burger at Fannie’s?”

  “Another time,” I said.

  “You a vegan or something?” he persisted. “Because you can get a salad there too. Or crab cakes. Or pasta.”

  “I’m a red-blooded meat eater,” I assured him. “But I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight. I’m trying to get some of the units ready to rent for St. Patrick’s Day. And, as you guessed, they really are a big mess. Give me a rain check?”

  “Absolutely,” Shannon said. “I’ll drop by the Breeze and see how it’s going.”

  “Better watch out,” I said. “I might just put you to work.”

  “Deal,” Mikey Shannon said. He looked out at the water. “You’d better get going, if you’re headed back to the Breeze. Take the Seventeenth Street boardwalk and go back along Butler. It gets dark out here in a hurry.”

  I nodded in agreement and headed in the direction he’d pointed. The temperature was dropping, and my feet were freezing in the cold sand. When I got to the boardwalk, I sat down and put on my socks and shoes, grateful to have them dry, if sandy, again.

  The Seventeenth Street boardwalk ended at Tybrisa, a narrow road lined on both sides with a Super 8 motel, an ice-cream shop, and bars and restaurants and souvenir shops, including the ancient T. S. Chu’s department store.

  At five o’clock, only a few cars were parked along Tybrisa, but one of them was a ratty old wood-sided Vista Cruiser station wagon. There couldn’t have been two of them on Tybee.

  I walked nonchalantly past the wagon, glancing inside to confirm my suspicions. A big sack of dog food lay in the back, along with a plastic five-gallon paint bucket.

  So this was where Harry spent his afternoons and evenings. I glanced furtively up and down the row of businesses, wondering which one the wagon’s owner was parked inside. I looked over at Doc’s Bar, whose window proclaimed “Since 1948.” A little terrier jumped up and down, barking and scratching at the plate-glass door.

  Busted.

  A moment later, the door opened and Jeeves ran out onto the sidewalk, barking an excited greeting.

  “I think he likes you,” Harry said, standing in the open doorway.

  “He’ll get over it,” I said, bending down to scratch the dog’s ears.

  “How
’s the painting coming?” Harry asked.

  “Okay,” I said, suddenly tongue-tied and shy. “I was just taking a little break. Guess I’ll get back to it. I want to put at least one coat of paint on the floor tonight.”

  He nodded. “See ya.”

  Damnit. Why did that dog have to blow my cover?

  “Hey,” Harry called. “You wanna come in for a beer or something?”

  “No thanks,” I called back over my shoulder, picking up my pace. “Getting dark. And I didn’t bring a flashlight.”

  “Whatever.” He whistled for Jeeves, and the two of them went back inside.

  While I went home to paint and fume.

  22

  Weezie

  By whining, begging, cajoling, and making dire predictions about our future love life, I managed to get Daniel over to my house for dinner that night. I did mention that Mama was making dinner. I omitted the fact that her notorious tuna-noodle casserole was on the menu.

  “Come at six,” I instructed when he called.

  “Six? That’s barbaric. Nobody eats dinner at six o’clock.”

  “Mama and Daddy believe in the early bird,” I said. “It gives Daddy’s digestive tract more time to process things before he turns in at nine. And don’t forget, bring wine, lots of wine,” I whispered from the living room, while my mother bustled around the kitchen. “And dessert. Chocolate would be highly appreciated.”

  “What’s she fixing?” Daniel asked. “Should I bring white or red?”

  “Bring something that partners well with awful, bordering on inedible,” I said. He sighed the sigh of St. Daniel the Martyred. “How much longer is she going to be staying there? You just barely got home before she moved in. I miss you.”

  “You’re horny,” I said, cutting to the chase. “Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger. I have needs too, you know.”

  “Maybe you could just talk dirty to me on the phone,” he suggested.