“Your average immigrant can’t afford a 25-foot boat,” Lou said. “No way. Someone is behind this operation. Think about it. As a rule of thumb, people pay $1,000 per foot for a boat. That doesn’t include a trailer, maintenance, insurance, gas, or the captain. In fact, a captain is often paid $1,000 per foot. Of course, that’s a captain with experience who plans on bringing the souls on board and the boat back in one piece.”
Fernandez nodded. “The Coast Guard stopped a 32-foot Chris-Craft speeding away from Peanut Island last week. They weren’t out for a midnight cruise. No, these boats are too big, too fast, and too well navigated. This smacks of organization.”
“Usually there’s no season to these landings,” Lou directed his remarks to Brandon. “The smugglers wait until they get enough people to make the crossing worthwhile and then go. They don’t worry about the weather, because frankly, they don’t care whether the cargo makes it or not. But we’ve had so many landings recently it sure looks like an organized effort. And the vessels they’re using are primo.”
“In Season, we have 668 residents,” Fernandez said. “Half of our residents live here part-time. They come down to go to the club, see their old friends, and play golf or tennis. Sure, they love the beach, but we aren’t really a tourist destination. Not like Daytona or Delray or even Fort Lauderdale. So our beaches are sparsely populated, compared to some.”
“Got it.” Brandon’s scowl deepened. “But Ms. Delgatto is a full-time resident, right? She has a business in Stuart.”
“That’s right.” George Fernandez nodded. “She’s young, attractive, and—here’s another problem—she’s single. At least from what I’ve heard. No one might notice she was missing for hours. That’s why I want her to stay off our beaches in the pre-dawn hours. At least until we figure out who’s behind this. It’s not safe for her to wander around.”
“Then you’re thinking it might be a local behind this?” Lou asked. “A person familiar with the area. Someone would have the money for the boat, who knows the island is barely occupied, and maybe someone who’s squatting on a dock on the Intracoastal side of the island.”
“That’s right. Our population skews toward the elderly. A few residents are infirm, living out their last years here where it’s warm with caregivers in charge. They might not even know that their dock is being used. In fact, they might not know if someone is using their property. Couple of years ago, we discovered a homeless man squatting in a guest house. The place had been unlocked, so he moved in. Might have been there two or three months.”
“Whether it’s a local who’s behind these landings or not, he or she isn’t going to take kindly to Cara’s interference,” Lou said. With a sigh, he added, “The tough part will be convincing Cara that she’s in danger. She’s a spitfire.”
“Yes, well, that’s why I need your help,” said Fernandez. “Lou, I want you to be the one to warn Ms. Delgatto. At least convince her to stick close to the areas frequented by the public and to contain her wanderings to daylight hours.”
Lou chuckled. “That’s going to go over about as well as wearing a fur coat down here in August.”
6
~ Cara~
“What is an ATV guy? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said MJ Austin, fluttering eyelashes thick with mascara. Her blond hair was caught up in a plastic clip that allowed tendrils to frame her face.
“Is it a kid who rides a three-wheeler on the sand?” asked Skye Blue, as she pushed a stray curl away from her eyes. Her hair isn’t as blond as MJ’s, but it has honey-colored sun-streaks.
Me, I’m the dark-haired one of the trio, harking back to my Italian heritage.
“An ATV guy? That’s the person who rides the beach on his ATV,” I said.
“What?” MJ stared at me. “Is that his hobby? Or is he a nut?”
I’d forgotten that the ATV rider/biologist on duty was yet another Jupiter Island anomaly. “The ATV guy? Jupiter Island employs people who ride an ATV up and down the beach each morning during nesting season to count and keep track of the number of turtle nests. There’s a man and a woman, both biologists, and they can actually tell from the tracks, shape, and location what species of turtle made each particular nest. I’ve run into the scientists on the beach before,” I said as I poured myself a cup of coffee. “But since this isn’t nesting season, Lucas was there to do a survey in preparation for beach re-nourishment. Adding more sand. They’ll keep him busy making sure the giant pipes don’t suck up turtles as they move the sand around.”
We were sitting in the back room of The Treasure Chest. Although we’d been open for less than a year, my employees and I had already formed ironclad habits. Each morning before the store’s opening, MJ, Skye, and I gathered in the back. Over our preferred hot beverages, we shared trivialities and eventually our lives. Skye was the first person I had met when I moved to Stuart, Florida. She’s naturally outgoing with a fresh, open way about her. When she’s not working for me part-time, she’s a server across the street at Pumpernickel’s Deli. I wish I could afford to hire her full-time, but she’s so good at her job as a waitress that she makes more in tips than I can pay. Right now at least. Maybe someday.
In contrast to Skye, MJ can seem aloof, and she is, sort of. Her va-va-voom figure and sultry ways have made her an easy target for other women’s jealousies, so she’s learned to be guarded around other females. Slowly, she’s let down her metaphorical hair. The three of us are very different in our looks, our styles, and our backgrounds, but all three of us care about each other.
MJ used to work for Essie Feldman, the original owner of The Treasure Chest. She has scads of experience with retail sales and vintage décor items.
“As you might guess, Jupiter Island employs all sorts of experts for all sorts of reasons. Thank goodness, because on this particular morning, I was thrilled not to be out there alone.” I wouldn’t have said this to Poppy or Lou, but I could be honest with my pals.
“Human traffickers have no regard for human life. I saw a true crime show where they locked people into a railway car and left them there to die. There has to be a special punishment for people like that. They call them coyotes for a reason,” said MJ, as she sipped her black coffee. “They’re predators. Vicious flesh eaters.”
“Coyotes?” I stirred Stevia into my coffee. Skye has us all being very conscious of sugar in our diet. She’s into health food in a big way.
“Coyotes. That’s what they call human traffickers.” Skye sighed over her cup of peppermint tea.
From his crate, Jack whimpered in response to our mood. I got up and offered him a yummy. He, too, was suffering from the stressful events of our walkies. Usually he’s ready for a nap when we get to the store. Not this morning. His ears were pricked up and his eyes watchful, mournful even. From the sales floor, Kookie the Cockatoo sang a sailing ditty. Like the rest of our pets, she—or he, we don’t know which it is—is a rescue animal.
“Human trafficking? It’s all news to me. I know nothing about it,” I said. “That poor woman had washed up like a piece of trash. She must have been out in the sun for a long time. You should have seen how blistered her skin was. It came peeling off her in big white sheets.”
“I’ve read about human traffickers. They promise immigrants a better life and take their money in exchange for getting them into the U.S. People really believe the streets here are paved with gold.” Skye shrugged. “I guess they are compared to the lack of opportunities in other countries. These creeps who bring people here really exploit the weak and helpless.”
“And criminals,” MJ said. “We have no idea who’s coming over our borders. Sure, maybe some are good people, but others might be the worst of the worst. What a great racket. All you have to do is load them on the boat and head out for deep waters. If things get dicey, you toss them over the side. Who’s left to complain?”
“That woman you found probably paid the coyote a king’s ransom,” Skye said. “Everything her family could scr
ounge up. It was all riding on her and their hopes that she could make a new life for herself here in Paradise.”
“We need to stop illegal immigration,” MJ said. “We need to build a fence. A giant wall. Patrol our seas better. They’re taking our jobs. Putting pressure on our services. Here in Florida, our school systems can’t support the number of kids these immigrants are having. It’s a stress on our economy.”
“But you’re talking about kids.” Skye’s voice rose a notch. “Helpless children. What kind of lives will they have in Haiti or in Cuba? Even in Guatemala? What kind of opportunity? Your family came here from somewhere else, MJ. Mine did, too. So did Cara’s. Who are we to say, Stay home?”
It was an old argument. One that MJ and Skye had often. They could really get mad at each other. Lately I’d considered buying a black and white striped blouse so I could play the part of referee.
“Come on, guys.” I patted the air. “No fights this morning. Please? Give me a break.”
Fortunately, fate intervened.
7
“Just your size,” said Danielle Cronin. “I wanted to bring this dress over before your store got busy.”
A wire coat hanger was hooked over one hand. With the other, Danielle lifted the garment, so I could see the fabric more clearly through the plastic drycleaner’s bag. Paramount Cleaners on Jupiter Island. I passed it on my way home each day.
“The moment my client pulled it out of her closet, I knew you had to have it, Cara. Got your name all over it. Figuratively speaking, of course. Actually, it has Lilly’s name all over it. It’s a vintage Lilly Pulitzer. In fact, it was one of the first fabric patterns she commissioned. You certainly won’t see yourself coming and going in this. But people will recognize the style of print. Especially since Target did that big Lilly promotion. People who’d never heard of her now are lusting for Lilly Pulitzer items like never before. See, Lilly used to be like a code word among the wealthy who spent season in Palm Beach. When they wore Lilly, it was a way of saying, ‘I’m rich enough to have a second home in Florida.’”
“You just got this?” I stroked the fabric under the plastic sleeve. I was trying to temper my enthusiasm. The key is buying anything at a good price is not to act like you care, one way or another. Once the seller knows you covet the item, the price goes up.
With an exaggerated glance at her vintage Cartier tank watch, Danielle said, “It has been in my possession for less than an hour. I brought it directly to you. Didn’t even bother to take off the drycleaner’s bag.”
Danielle was a fabulous salesperson. Furthermore, she knew exactly what I wanted, and her taste was exquisite. Since coming to Florida, I’d abandoned my St. Louis wardrobe. The LBDs (Little Black Dresses) that I’d worn while working at my family’s Italian restaurant were far too somber and dull for this climate. Although I tried wearing them when I first opened The Treasure Chest, I’d shuddered when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in one of our big display windows. Among the bright tropical colors of my merchandise, I stuck out like a blotch. A moving ink blot. A crow in a bouquet of flowers.
Then I discovered Lilly and her bright tropical colors.
Wearing Lilly Pulitzer matched the vibe I hoped to project. She’d been a staple of east coast Floridian society.
“That’s going to look terrific on you,” said Skye. “With your dark hair, Cara, those colors will really pop.”
MJ stood up to check out the dress. “Too bad it isn’t cut lower in the front. I suppose you could have it altered to show a bit of cleavage.”
“No way,” I said.
“You are such a Puritan,” MJ said.
“Let’s look for Lilly’s name,” suggested Danielle, as she draped the plastic bag over the back of an empty chair.
On cue our heads bent to examine the images of big pink nautilus shells. Sure enough, I spotted the cursive writing next to one of the shells. The true test of a Lilly was her hidden signature. Her “John Hancock” was a playful nod of individualism that never failed to bring a smile to my face.
Through the plastic wrapper, I fingered the white rickrack along the top border of one of the pockets. Pockets were a useful commodity to me. Every time I turned around, I was tucking away an index card with a note to myself or a receipt or change. A pocket made life much easier.
“How much?”
“One hundred.”
“That’s a steal,” said MJ.
Skye only smiled. She’s on a really tight budget, paying off old debts. To her, a hundred bucks was probably a fortune.
As if she knew what I was thinking, Skye chimed in. “Cara, it’ll look wonderful on you.”
“For anyone else it would be one-twenty, but for you there’s a discount. After all, we are neighbors.” Danielle adjusted her designer eyeglasses.
Her shop, Vintage Threads, occupied the space immediately next to mine. Although I suspected she wasn’t a good businesswoman—and I based that opinion on comments she’d made about her inability to read a profit and loss statement—she certainly was an expert when it came to women’s fashion. As I understood it, Danielle had dropped out of University of Miami to sell women’s clothes. With her height (5’10”), her slender frame (MJ thought she was a coke-head), and her long red hair (Skye was sure she wore extensions), Danielle showed off what she sold to best advantage. But she was also chronically short of cash. MJ thought it was because Danielle snorted her profits. Skye figured she was spending too much on upkeep. I knew it was partially because Danielle was a real party animal. She often bragged about bar-hopping in Miami.
But for all that, she was a kindred spirit because she was an entrepreneur.
“I get three types of clothes in here,” she had explained to me as she walked me around her store. Pointing to one rack and then the other, she said, “First there’s a garden variety, mass-produced designers. Next, there are those high-end designers that are few and far between.”
She paused and walked me to an alcove in the back with spotlights and a set of display hooks set up high. “And finally, here I keep my unicorns.”
“Unicorns?” I couldn’t imagine what that might mean.
“That’s what I call my ultra-unique goods. One of a kind, thrilling, museum quality finds. Like a 1980s dress by Yves Saint Laurent that was shown on the runway at one of his shows. It’s a black pouf silhouette. Very chic. Never made it into regular production. However, it’s stunning, isn’t it?”
Danielle seemed to be reading my mind as I fingered the hem of the dress she’d brought me. She said, “In case you’re wondering, Cara, this is a unicorn from when Lilly began her career. This dress came from a woman on Jupiter Island who knew Lilly very, very well. In fact, I’m sort of shocked that she gave this one up. I picked it up today with a lot of other stuff that’s plug ugly.”
After adjusting her glasses, Danielle continued, “If you don’t buy it, I can sell it just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “It reminds me of the dress that sent Lilly’s business into orbit. Jackie Kennedy wore it on the cover of Life Magazine in 1961.”
“Grab it,” suggested MJ. “You’ll find a place to wear it. In fact, why don’t you wear it tonight? You’re going out to eat with Jason, aren’t you?”
“He’s taking you to Ian’s, isn’t he? That dress will be perfect,” said Skye.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll take it on one condition. Can I pay you next week?”
Danielle tilted her head to the left and tapped a midnight blue fingernail against her cheek as if thinking hard. “No, really I can’t.”
“It’ll have to be Saturday or I can’t do it,” I said, stepping away from the dress. “That’s the soonest I can get you the money. It’s just not in my budget. Not for this week. Much as I love it.”
“All right. It’s yours.” Handing the coat hanger to me, Danielle said, “I’m leaving for Orlando in an hour, but I’ll be back late Friday night. I want to work on my books Saturday afternoon and settle my accounts. Could yo
u bring the money by my house on Saturday? Say around eleven?”
“Sure. Why not?”
After scribbling on a business card, she handed it to me. “That’s my home address in Port Saint Lucie. I would like the money sooner, but if that’s the best you can do…”
“It is. I can drop off the money Saturday after I make my bank deposit and cash my paycheck.” I didn’t want to pull money out of savings. Not for a dress, at least. Moving into the house on Jupiter Island was turning out to be a costly endeavor. The interior needed painting. The exterior needed work. Each of my paychecks had funds earmarked for home improvements that simply could not wait. The dress hadn’t been figured in. To make ends meet, next week I’d be eating a lot of tuna fish, but I didn’t care.
“Fine, as long as you promise to bring me the cash on Saturday. I’d like the money before I reconcile my books.” With a toodle-loo of her fingers, Danielle swished out the front door.
8
I carried the dress upstairs to my empty apartment, a mirror image of the place that Skye rents from me. My old apartment has been vacant since I’d moved to Jupiter Island. I intend to fix it up and rent it out, but that might take a while.
My footsteps echoed in the empty rooms in a sad sort of way, repeating the nostalgia that tapped me on the shoulder each time I visited the second floor. The upstairs area over The Treasure Chest held fond memories for me. My parents and I had stayed here each summer when we drove down to visit Poppy. Back then it had been one big apartment. That was before Essie Feldman had the space upstairs split in two so she could double her rental income.
Somehow, this old/new apartment has never felt “right” to me. While Skye decorated her place beautifully, I had been content to sit on folding chairs pulled up to a battered card table. Apart from a new mattress and a sofa bed that I bought so that Tommy, my eighteen-year-old son, would have a place to sleep when he was on break from University of Miami, I hadn’t added a thing to these rooms.
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 127
