As always, the cramped space was filled with people from infant to ancient. I wasn’t a collector—well, I was when it came to certain things, but hearth-and-homey things didn’t do it for me. I did love the retro candies and made a point of buying Becky a box of Moon Pies. She’d be in heaven. She was a Moon Pie aficionado. I failed to see the culinary allure, but who was I to judge? I’m addicted to Lucky Charms. And I’m a purist—I think the original marshmallow shapes—pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers—taste better than the ever-expanding offerings. I’m still warming up to the blue diamonds, and now they have horseshoes, balloons, shooting stars, hourglasses, and leprechauns. And don’t even get me started on the magical key and door. What’s the purpose of adding a marshmallow that disappears when the milk is added? Not that I use milk. I’m a right-out-of-the-box consumer.
Now I was jonesing for Lucky Charms. Instead, I had to content myself with three strips of crispy bacon and a twenty-four-ounce coffee. Just as I merged back onto the highway, my mind finally placed the face of the blond woman at the traffic light. She was the blonde who’d been copying the license plate on Ellen’s Volvo.
I felt my brows pinch as a strange feeling came over me. The car she’d been driving wasn’t a standard-issue traffic enforcement car. I’ve gotten my fair share of tickets, so I know they use smart cars and/or clearly marked and painted four-door sedans with ramming grates mounted on the grilles. The blonde’s car looked more like a rental. Was I being followed?
“Am I being ridiculous?” I asked myself over the techno vocals of Lady Gaga singing “Poker Face.” I couldn’t fathom why anyone would be following me. The other times I’d been followed, there had been reasons for it. None of them positive, mind you.
My cell rang, and the caller ID showed it was Jane.
I hesitated for a minute, then pressed the Answer button with my thumb. I uttered a stiff, “Hello.”
“Please don’t be mad.”
After a brief pause I said, “I have no reason to be mad.”
“But you are, I can hear it in your voice.”
“Sorry.”
“C’mon, Finley! It wasn’t like I planned anything. I was dancing and drinking fruity drinks that creep up on you. Everyone makes that mistake. You’ve made that mistake.”
She was right. About everything. But she’d conveniently left out her ultimate too-much-to-drink Paolo disaster.
I, on the other hand, had unceremoniously renounced any claims on Liam, and on an occasion or two I’ve been known to overindulge. “I know. You didn’t do anything I should be upset about.”
“But you are and I’m ninety-nine percent sure nothing happened.”
“Liam stripping you naked is not nothing.”
“I wasn’t naked. I still had on my bra and panties.”
“I’ve seen your bras and panties. You might as well have been naked.”
“Fin, please!” she begged. “I swear I didn’t do this on purpose.”
“I know. Give me a little time, and I’ll get over myself.” I hope. “What was Liam doing at ladies’ night?”
“I have no idea. But he was at a table with Ashley.”
Great. “Why did they get divorced? He goes out with her all the time.”
“Maybe they’re divorced with benefits.”
“Thanks for the thought. Now I’ll have that image in my head all day.”
“I’ve got a client waiting,” Jane said. “I just want everything with us to be okay. I swear I’d never do anything to intentionally hurt you. You know that, right?”
“Sure.”
“Let me take you out for dinner,” she said on a rush of breath.
“I’ve got to study.”
“So I’ll bring you dinner, and I’ll help quiz you or something.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll see you around six thirty?”
“Six thirty works. ’Bye.”
“’Bye.”
Monotonous doesn’t begin to describe the drive out to Indiantown. Get a few miles away from the beach and the landscape changes drastically. Palm trees give way to pine trees, and the dense vegetation is replaced by groves, fields of crops, horse farms, and cow pastures.
Where there are cows and crops, there is the stench of manure. I switched my air-conditioning to “recycle,” which cut down on the smell but didn’t eradicate it completely. The odor clinging to my clothes would just top off a seriously lousy morning.
The homes I passed were paradoxical, running the gamut from large, two-story custom houses to shabby, dilapidated trailers. The only thing they had in common was land. These people traded quick access to the beach for acreage. I never understood the concept of owning land, especially in Florida. Controlled burns were a regular event since the climate encouraged fast and thick regrowth. Plus, there was the whole snake thing. I don’t care if they play an important part in the food chain, the only way I like snakes is in the form of a wallet, purse, or shoes.
The closer I got to my destination, the more developed the home sites. Don’t get me wrong, the place was still rural, but once 710 turns into Warfield Boulevard, the historic aspects of the northwestern part of Martin County are immediately recognizable. Especially the Seminole Inn. It was built in the 1920s and serves as both a B and B and a Sunday-brunch destination.
I ate there one time, and while it was fun looking at the photos of all the celebrities who’ve visited over the years, it has a buffet, and I’m not big on sneeze guards.
I groaned when I saw the inn. Not because of the sneeze-guard memory but because I’d missed the turn to the library. If I hadn’t dashed out of the office so quickly, I would have filled out and printed the form to have the USPS release the name of the box holder so I could search for the elusive tenants. But now I was stuck with the library.
The Indiantown library was a relatively new addition and very state of the art. After I parked next to one of only three cars in the parking lot, I grabbed my bag and the Egghardt file and headed toward the spotlessly clean walkway. The smell of freshly cut grass swirled around me as I was rendered deaf due to the roar of mowers circling the building.
Inside, I immediately felt two sets of eyes on me. I went to the service desk, introduced myself, and asked about the availability of a computer and printer.
“Follow me,” the elderly woman said as she came out from behind the desk.
We weaved through the maze of stacks, ending up in a narrow room with a total of ten computer stations and a fancy, megasize laser printer. The walls were littered with signs warning against using the machines for chat groups, the mandatory time limits, and the schedule for the computer lab and what to do in case of a computer or printer glitch.
“Do you need any assistance?” she asked as she leaned over one of the keyboards and typed in some sort of pass code.
“No, thank you.”
“Then fill out this form and please return it to the desk when you’re finished.” She left a trail of heavy perfume I didn’t recognize. That was weird. I could normally name a fragrance in one note. Probably some drugstore knockoff.
I glanced at the sheet of paper, and it required my name, address, driver’s license number—if applicable—and what Web sites—if any—I’d visited. It took me less than a minute to download the USPS form and maybe three to fill it out and print it. While I waited for the printer to spool, I completed the library form and placed it on top of my file.
With that accomplished, I grabbed up my things and was about to leave when I spotted a shelf along the back wall with a series of city telephone directories. Too bad I didn’t know the name of the PO box holder yet.
As I left, I thanked the librarian and turned in my computer usage form. The short drive to the post office took me maybe two minutes. Again I parked in a nearly deserted lot. Unlike the library, the post office could use a little updating.
File in one hand and purse dangling from my wrist, I walked into the post office and went dir
ectly to the first of two windows. After about thirty seconds, I cleared my throat.
No one came out.
I waited another thirty seconds and called out, “Hello?”
A large, masculine woman waddled out from the back. She was dressed in a uniform that I guessed, based on the strain on the buttons, was about two sizes too small. Her rubber-soled shoes squeaked as she walked, and her scowl pinched her face and two of her three bonus chins.
“Help you?” she asked with a partially masticated bit of food in her pudgy cheeks.
I sure as hell wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I introduced myself, pulled out my ID, then handed her the form and said, “I need to know the name and address of the box holder.”
Her washed-out green eyes narrowed. “Got a subpoena?”
“No, ma’am.” I placed my file on the counter and flipped to the notarized Letters of Administration authorizing me to obtain any information regarding the estate of Walter Egghardt. “I’m trying to find the person who sent this.” I paused and pulled out the envelope and money order. “There’s a possibility this individual is an heir.”
She looked at the document while she finished chewing, then swallowed. “I’ll have to get clearance from Frankie on this.”
I reached over and tapped the court-assigned case number. “This is a legal document. I’ve routinely gotten post office information in the past.”
“Not from me, you haven’t.”
“How long will it take for Frankie to review this?” I asked, careful to hide my annoyance. I knew from experience that small towns aren’t the place for sarcasm.
“To review it?” she repeated. “I imagine he’ll take care of it quickly.”
“Great.”
“He won’t be in until noon, though.”
I took a deep breath and gritted my teeth after checking my watch. “What time would you like me to come back?”
She shrugged her broad shoulders. “One, one thirty.”
I had at least an hour and a half to kill. So I reclaimed my file—minus the form—and, after she’d made a copy of my Letter of Administration, I went out to my car. There wasn’t a lot to do in Indiantown, so I decided to head up to the Vero Beach outlets.
Never go to the grocery store hungry—or, in my case, to an outlet when you’re in a crummy mood. I found some super-cute watches at the Liz Claiborne store as well as purses at both Coach and Dooney & Bourke. But my find of the day was a stunning black silk taffeta dress with front and back V necklines and a darling grosgrain belt with chiffon accents. It retailed for two fifteen but I got the dress at the bargain price of one hundred because of a lipstick smudge along the neckline. Not a problem for my killer dry cleaner. Now I could stop stressing over the rehearsal dinner.
It was close to three thirty by the time I returned to the post office. The parking lot was empty, which was great since I wanted the information in a hurry.
Again I took my file and walked up to the door, pulled on the handle, only to find it locked. Creating a tunnel with my cupped hands, I looked through the glass door for signs of life. It was dark. Then I looked around and found the sign: HOURS OF OPERATION 8–3.
My entire vocabulary of curse words swirled in my head. The last thing I wanted to do was come back tomorrow. The only way I could avoid a second trip was almost worse than actually making the trip.
I walked back to my car with the enthusiasm of walking to the guillotine. As a PI, Liam had access to the Post Office Box Break. All he would have to do is hit the database and almost instantly, he’d have a reverse post office box listing. Too bad I didn’t know any other PIs.
Disconnecting my phone, I tapped Favorites, which so was not true at this juncture, then touched Liam’s name.
On the third ring, he answered, “Hi, Finley. How are things in Indiantown?”
“How did you know—never mind. I need you to give me a reverse post box listing.”
“Someone got up on the wrong side of her coffee cup. I’m guessing this has something to do with Jane?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I can’t think of a reason why I’d care two shakes about your going home with one of my best friends.”
“I’m sure Jane told you that’s all I did.”
“Of course, right after she told me how you’d undressed her.”
“For someone who isn’t interested in me, you sure sound pissed.”
Arrogant snot. I sighed loudly. “Can I please have the information I need?”
“What’s in it for me?”
God, I hated that his voice was so sexy. “A payment from Dane-Lieberman.”
“Not good enough.”
“Could you stop being a jerk and just do it?”
“Can I wear a black suit, or do I need to wear a tux to the wedding?”
“You’re not going to the wedding.”
“You invited me.”
“So now I’m uninviting you.”
“That’s very poor etiquette.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll consult Emily Post later. Right now I need a name and address.”
“Be happy to. But not until you answer my question. Suit or tux?”
“It doesn’t matter since you won’t be at the wedding. Tony is my escort.”
“Your mother arranged that, so it doesn’t count. You, on the other hand, personally invited me.”
Frustrated, I pounded my phone on the cushioned driver’s seat. “And we both know that was purely designed to frost my mother’s cookies. Which also means I can uninvite you. Can we get back to the reason I called?”
“In a minute. I have no problem with Tony going as a guest. We’re friends. But he’s already got someone to escort.”
“Who?”
“His daughter.”
“You’re an ass.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t be childish.”
“Me? You’re the one being annoying.”
“I’m also the one who knows you’re looking for information on Donald and Wanda Jean Bollan.”
“How can you know that when I haven’t even given you the post office box?”
“I’m very perceptive.”
“No, you’re a freak of nature.”
“I’m a freak who knows they live at 101 Collier Lane.”
“Thanks,” I snapped, then instantly pressed End.
I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to convince my GPS that Collier Lane was a road in or around Indiantown. After the irritating conversation with Liam, I was not in the mood for the GPS to cop an attitude. I decided to go to the closest gas station to ask for directions.
I got a lot of looks when I got out of the car in my five-inch heels, walked around a tractor with its hood raised, past the pumps where three men with tricked out pickups openly ogled me, before I finally reached the entryway to the garage bay. “Excuse me!”
A lanky teenager with more acne than skin and a middle-aged man with a protruding belly came out from the back. The pencil-necked kid stared at my boobs while the older man wiped grease onto his sweaty, possibly-was-once-white T-shirt.
“Ma’am,” he greeted.
“I’m trying to find Collier Lane.”
The two men looked at each other. “You know where it is, boy?”
“Back down 710, I think. Yeah, yeah. It’s just after the trailer park. The Bollan place is out there.”
“Right, right. Sleepy’s place,” he said nodding.
Sleepy? What was he? One of the freaking seven dwarfs? The older of the two gave me vague directions. “Thank you.”
Doing the best I could to follow instructions like “look for the live oak with the two stumps next to it on the left,” I kept driving deeper into the groves and sugarcane fields. After passing the rodeo and the trailer park, I slowed until I saw a crudely fashioned street sign.
Collier Lane was nothing more than a dirt road marked by a slanted mailbox with plastic spinners and red reflec
tor dots on the leaning post. At the base of the post was a faded ceramic planter with a man in a sombrero pulling a cart filled with plastic flowers. Not exactly PC. I made the right and slowly crept up the road, driving in slalom fashion to avoid the deep potholes. It took about three minutes before a structure came into view.
Calling it a home was a stretch. It was a trailer with a curled and dented aluminum skirt. Twelve dogs came rushing toward my car, some barking, some growling, all scary. There were two cars on the side of the house. Both had weeds jutting up through them. On the opposite side was an older-model truck with as much rust as paint under a crudely constructed carport. Well, it wasn’t a carport so much as it was four metal poles with a worn and torn tarp across the top. There was a kiddy pool in the front yard, flanked by two Barcaloungers, both with springs popping through the fabric. The same was true of the sofa on the porch. As I slowed my car to a stop, Cujo and company continued to bark and growl. When the screen door opened, I was hoping it was the owner. It was, but he wasn’t alone. His companion was a really large shotgun.
Work is a four-letter word; working hard is just stupid.
six
Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling wrapped in the warmth of his welcome. Like the man at the gas station, the armed bozo wore a stained wife-beater and had that pregnant-man physique going on. What little hair he had was swept over to one side. It was gray and as dull as his washed-out brown eyes.
The dogs continued their attack on my car while the man on the porch cradled the gun like an infant. I could hear more dogs in the distance and wondered if they were the understudies for the Hounds of the Baskervilles. Great. Dogs with a side order of more dogs.
Just behind armed guy I could make out a shape in the shadows of the tattered screen door. I wanted to slam my car into reverse and head back the way I’d come when he placed his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled loud enough to be heard over the hum of my car engine.
The pack of matted, mangy dogs instantly raced toward him. The unseen pack in the distance still barked and snarled, but even after a scan of my surroundings—such as they were—I couldn’t seem to locate them. With the visible dogs heeled, I felt comfortable enough to depress the button, opening my window little more than a crack. “Mr. Bollan?” I asked politely.
4 Slightly Irregular Page 7
