I told myself it didn't matter.
After I dried off and dressed, I picked my way past piles of magazines to the living room where my grandfather watched CNN on his old TV console. We decided to eat at Shrimpers, a waterfront restaurant on the Manatee Marina. Taking separate cars seemed like a good idea, one that would give me a chance to make sure my Toyota was back to her old self.
"Where are we exactly?" I asked Poppy, after we both parked and as we walked up the gangplank to the covered porch. Even though I had been to Stuart many times, I didn't recognize this area.
"This here's called the Manatee Pocket. Part of the Intercoastal," he said. "Over the years, I've seen more manatees here than anywhere else in the area. Poor things. They're big and slow and get hit by boaters all the time."
The waitress seated us by the water. Boats cruised up and parked in front of us as we listened to the water lap at the moorings. Until the food came, we didn't say much to each other.
As I ate my Salerno salad and he dipped fried grouper into cocktail sauce, I asked him if he knew about the theft of the Highwaymen paintings.
"Yep, I heard about that."
"What do you think happened to them?"
"Beats me. Who cares?"
I tried another topic. "Who do you think murdered Hal Humberger?"
"Philomena."
"His wife?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
"He was a thorn in her side. Spent most of his time gambling down at the Kennel Club in West Palm. Chased after other women. Didn't catch 'em, but he sure made a fool of himself trying. Bought things he couldn't afford."
I set down my fork. "You seem to know a lot about him."
"Enough to know he was no good. If she done it, she oughta get a medal." Poppy didn't sound like he really believed that, more like he was making a case, and he wanted me to drop the subject.
I decided to change the subject. "Speaking of no good, you sure seemed friendly with Cooper."
"Yep."
"Why? I mean, he wanted to run you out of business, but you were making nice with him."
"Who told you that about running me out of business?" Poppy's expression turned sour.
"Don't you remember? I told you what Mr. Humberger said. He told me Cooper was hoping to knock down The Treasure Chest and replace it with a Fill Up and Go station. That would ruin your business."
Poppy set down his sandwich as he pushed his chair back from the table and glared at me. "Let me get this straight. You bump into a man you ain't never met, that fool Hal Humberger. He tells you an old friend is out to run your granddaddy outta business. You not only believe this stranger, you let him sell you a dump of a building that you ain't even seen in twenty-some years. That the way it went?"
"Pretty much."
"Cara Mia Delgatto," Poppy screamed, "you ain't got the brains God gave a goose!" With that, he tossed down his napkin and stormed out of the restaurant.
29
Scoreboard: Poppy, two; Cara, zip.
No way was I following Poppy back to his house after that little repeat performance.
I'd had it with him.
Once again, I was dog-tired and without a place to lay my weary head. While waiting for the waitress to return with my credit card, I put "hotels + Stuart" into my smart phone and pulled up a Courtyard by Marriott fourteen miles away. Wasting no time, I drove straight there. In short order, I checked in, stripped to my undies and slid under clean covers.
"This is not how I wanted to spend the rest of my life," I said, to no one in particular.
My muscles ached from all the scrubbing and cleaning I'd done to Poppy's floor, but my mind was restless and I couldn't sleep. The clock on the bedside table showed the time was still early. St. Louis was an hour behind Stuart.
I called Kiki Lowenstein. She answered the phone as she always did—breathlessly.
"Am I interrupting something?" I asked.
"Yes. No! Sort of. I was chasing one of the cats around the house. Martin is supposed to take this pill and keeps spitting it out. That little dickens. Argh! Call you right back."
I clicked off the phone and couldn't help but laugh. First Kiki had rescued Gracie, the Great Dane, despite having never owned a big dog. Then Martin, a yellow tom, came home with Kiki after he landed on her head while she was cleaning the house of an animal hoarder. Later, Kiki’s daughter Anya begged to be able to have her own cat, Seymour, a gray tabby. Added to the confusion in their household was the arrival of a five-year-old boy, Erik, who was the son of Detweiler's first wife. With Erik came his thoroughly Scottish nanny, Bronwyn. The place was a regular three-ring circus, minus the popcorn and elephants.
Kiki's heart was as big and wide as the Mississippi. Watching her over the years, I'd seen her grow from an insecure, self-doubter, into a confident, assertive woman. They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but I wondered. Was I capable of change? If so, what might I do with my life? How could it be different, now that it was up to me?
Kiki had done it. She'd lived through tough times and come through it stronger.
All of us who knew her seemed to huddle under the umbrella of her loving concern. I've never seen her turn her back on anyone in need. Even though she's always strapped for money, if you needed something, she'd find a way to help you.
"Got him," she said, by way of salutation when she returned my call.
"You okay?"
"I stuffed the pill inside a Hebrew National hot dog.” Kiki chuckled. "Martin decided the pill was a small price to pay for the hot dog."
I laughed out loud.
As she talked, I got up and explored the armoire. Inside was a one-cup coffeemaker with a couple of bags of decaf Lipton tea teabags. Not my favorite, but it would do. In a few minutes, I held a cup of warm brew in my hands.
"How are you?" Kiki asked.
I filled her in on all that had happened since coming to Stuart. She listened carefully, only interrupting when she needed for me to clarify a point or elaborate. I even told her about Cooper, but not about our history. When I'd wound down, she said, "Interesting, but that doesn't answer my question. How are you? You've stumbled on a corpse. You've had disagreements with your grandfather. You own an abandoned building. Those are a lot of changes in a short time."
"I'm fine. I guess."
"Not too upset about the dead guy?"
She was right. I'd done a wizard job of denying how upsetting that had been. Probably because so much other stuff had been going on.
"Luckily for me, it wasn't a messy scene, and I barely knew him. I feel bad, sure, and a little shook up, but mainly I'm worried."
"About money? That building couldn't have been cheap."
"Nah. I think the place was seriously undervalued. If I need to, I can flip it."
She laughed. "Cara, you and your father have always had a golden touch when it comes to property."
"That's true. Fixing up the place will cost a little money. But after I do, it'll be worth a lot more than I plan to spend. Maybe I'll call the Chamber of Commerce and see if they have any matching funds. Sometimes cities put aside money for refurbishing old buildings. Remember when they did that to downtown St. Louis?"
"I sure do. They turned old factories and a school into residential areas."
"It would be great if the city can help me with The Treasure Chest. Although funding like that takes forever to come through. Maybe I won't sell the building. I could rent it. Maybe I'll even open my own business."
"Really? What sort of place do you have in mind?"
"Essie did pretty well selling antiques and collectables. The place is currently full of odds and ends. Stuff that came with the building. Maybe I can fix some of it up. You know how much I love watching HGTV."
"We both do." She giggled.
"That's what I'd really like to do," I said, warming to the idea. "I only got a quick look at the junk with the lights on. From what I saw, there were all sorts of cool things there. Old drawers from ch
ests. Kids' bikes. A set of wheels. The teak grids they use in boats. Baluster shafts. Stuff like that. It's a treasure chest, all right, if you think you can find treasures in a dump."
"Hmmm. Sounds like you have a plan for making those items salable," she said. "That's so hot right now. Repurposing and recycling."
I thought about my conversation on the same topic with Skye and found myself nodding eagerly even though Kiki couldn't see me.
The idea had merit, but the thought of tackling such a big project suddenly overwhelmed me and my confidence ebbed away.
"Something tells me there's more on your mind than this, Cara. What's worrying you? Is it seeing your old boyfriend again?"
I admitted that it was, but I also emphasized that our relationship was over. After all, he was engaged to be married.
"Right," she said, in a tone of disbelief.
I caved in and told her about Cooper and our history. The words gushed out. I also told her what my grandfather had said about Cooper Rivers being a good man.
"If that's the case, and I think it is, why was he trying to put my grandfather out of business? Did I mess up a good deal for Cooper because I listened to Hal Humberger? Was Humberger lying to me?"
"What's your gut tell you?"
I closed my eyes and tuned in to my instincts. "There's something going on behind the scenes with Cooper. Something I don't know about. More to the story."
"Cara, don't you think it's odd that he blurted out he was getting married? The way you describe it, it happened almost like he was reminding himself that he's engaged."
"Not every man is like Detweiler," I pointed out. "That cop of yours is one in a million."
"Don't I know it. He and I have our problems, and we both have baggage, but we also have each other."
I sipped the last of my tea, wishing it was whiskey. Finally I said, "What do I do if everyone finds out about my past? I don't have any friends here. No one to stand up for me. What if word gets around about what I did?"
"Cara," Kiki said gently. "That was a long time ago. It doesn't matter now. Put it behind you. You made a mistake. It won't happen again."
30
Kiki's reassurances helped, but I still had trouble falling asleep. Probably because I'd had too much caffeine. When I closed my eyes, scenes flashed through my mind. Pictures of Hal Humberger's dead body. Images of interviews with law enforcement. Headlines in a newspaper. A holding cell in a jail. I reviewed how Mr. Humberger and I had met and what he'd said when I signed the contract. I rolled to one side and then the other. I wished my dog Sven was with me to cuddle. I stared up at the ceiling.
Had Poppy always been so irritable? I knew he and Mom fussed at each other, but I couldn't recall my father getting crosswise with him. Why was my grandfather in such a foul mood? After Mom died, I'd read tons of books about loss. I came away with the understanding that we all grieve differently. Was this Poppy's way of grieving?
Why was his place so dirty and messy? Was that normal for him, or was that a sign of depression? I couldn't remember anyone ever accusing Poppy of being unorganized. I'd always thought that Mom and her father were alike that way. But when I was cleaning the gas station, I'd noticed his paperwork was all over the place. His tools were scattered here and there.
What was going on?
Since I couldn't sleep, I phoned Tommy. He actually answered.
"Wassup, Mom?" he said.
"Just wanted to see how you're doing." I tried to keep it light.
"Fine. But I've got to study now, can I call you later?"
"Sure," I said.
Hearing my son's voice always seemed to make me feel better. Even if it was only for a few seconds.
Somehow I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning I awakened when the sun peeped through the window. Full of determination, I quickly dressed and vacated the room. Once I was snuggly inside Black Beauty with the engine purring, I called Brad Houston's office for an update on my property.
"Good news," he said.
The police had officially released the crime scene. Furthermore, Houston had called the bank and gotten in touch with the manager of Essie's trust. That person had agreed that I could legally take occupancy in exchange for a token rent in advance of closing on the building.
"Hot dog!" I shouted to no one in particular after I hung up. I pulled away from the motel. I was now free to move into The Treasure Chest. I headed for my new "home."
A shiver swept through me, as I turned my key in the lock at The Treasure Chest. After all, a man had died here. What if I walked in on another corpse?
I shook my head to clear it. Squaring my shoulders, I flipped the light switch, walked inside, and yelled, "I am here to claim my rightful property! Ghosts be gone!"
The sickly green glare of the fluorescent bulbs highlighted a new mess, a layer of black fingerprint powder. The crime scene people had dusted everything and everywhere.
With a sigh, I pulled Essie's rolling chair up to her desk and propped my head on my hands. Okay, so what if my new home was dirty and messy? I loved cleaning, didn't I? Especially when I was stressed. I could rub-a-dub-dub all my troubles away, couldn't I?
Kiki had encouraged me to be creative. I could do that, too, couldn't I?
Sort of.
Being creative was her forte. What was mine?
I knew how to run a business. I'd learned those skills at my father's knee. Time to put my unique skills to work. No use procrastinating any further. I did a quick tour of the sales floor, and I discovered that it was a total unmitigated disaster.
Pieces of furniture, odds and ends, and junk were stacked in unsteady piles. If a Midwestern tornado had touched down, the aftermath couldn't have looked much worse. Cleaning would be impossible until much of this had been sorted. These leaning towers of stuff would have to be tackled one piece at a time.
A silt-like fingerprint powder covered every surface. Beneath that was a secondary layer of dust as thick as a felt blanket. Goodness knew what I'd find when I dug through the strata. So I'd not only have to sort and separate, I'd also have to clean and deep clean. Only then could I begin to repair the damage done to the walls. I'd also need to replace the missing fixtures. Right now, my source of light came from a dirty window and a handful of naked bulbs.
My feeling of excitement vanished, only to be replaced with the sensation of drowning. I was completely and utterly overwhelmed.
Think! I commanded myself. Compartmentalize! How would Dad handle this? He'd take it one step at a time.
I needed to carve out a place where order reigned. One clean surface where I could start a "to do" list. I also would need to find a place to spend the night. Best to see about that right now, before I was exhausted by the long day of work that was staring me in the face.
With a sigh, I hurried back to my car and grabbed Tommy's sleeping bag and my travel bag. Those in tow, I ran up the stairs. When I reached the landing, I could see where the single large apartment of my youth had been turned into two units. Presented with two choices, I did an "eeny, meeny, miney, moe" and randomly selected the unit on the left.
Once inside, I found a long rectangular room. To the left was a kitchenette area furnished with a battered card table and folding chair. Luckily for me, the appliances must have been replaced recently, because a stainless steel stove, refrigerator, microwave and dishwasher seemed oddly modern when surrounded by plain-fronted cabinetry in a watery yellow.
To the right was a living room area, totally empty and barren. Vinyl covered the floor, and it was offset by an ugly maple paneling on two walls of the three living room walls, including the one shared with my apartment's twin.
A cheap door led from the living room into a bedroom with two closets and a small but serviceable bathroom, already occupied by six dead palmetto bugs. (That's a polite southern euphemism for cockroaches the size of a Greyhound bus.)
An old metal bedframe had been shoved against one wall. It supported an aging box spring
and tired, sagging mattress. I needed to replace the box spring and mattress sooner rather than later, but for one or two nights, I could manage by covering the bed with plastic bags and using Tommy’s sleeping bag. The bedroom windows had been boarded up, a precaution common in the hurricane season. Shutting my eyes, I tried to remember what the view had been like, but I couldn't.
The second unit was a flipped, mirror-image of the first, with the same ugly maple siding in the living room. Instead of a card table in the kitchenette, I found a folding TV tray and a plastic garden chair. The bedroom for that unit also had a stained mattress and box spring. Totally gross.
Neither unit qualified as five-star accommodations, but for now, both units were livable. With a lot of work, the apartments might even prove charming, but redecorating would have to wait.
I made my way down the stairs, stopping at the half-way point to stare out at the mess. Before I could flip this place or open a business here, I'd have to clean up this mess.
So much for that tan I'd hoped to be wearing to Parents' Weekend at University of Miami!
Going to the back room and rummaging around in Essie's desk, I found a yellow legal pad and a pen. With those writing implements in hand, I started taking notes. I hadn't gotten far when a pounding at the back door interrupted my progress.
31
Skye waved to me through the dirty glass window. I let her in, only to discover she was carrying two buckets of cleaning supplies, one in each hand. Under one arm was a mop. "Be right back.” She put down the buckets and made a dash for her car. She returned with two cups of coffee and a bag from McDonald's.
"You are definitely my new best friend," I said, as my nose twitched the wonderful smell of sausage, cheese, and coffee.
Laughingly, she pushed past me and into the narrow back room. "I hadn't seen you for a couple of days. I figured that you'd come back here. You can't possibly clean up this place alone."
“Good guess.”
Although I pulled up the office chair on rollers for her, she demurred and chose a folding chair. We dug into the chow.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 75
