Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “Mel, he could offer two million coquinas. Or dollars, or whatever. It’s all the same. We’re not budging. I’m sure Bertie and the others wouldn’t go for it either.”

  “That’s what I told him. But you know the type.”

  “Yes, I know.” Was this a Langstrom lackey? Sal who? “Mel, if you see him again, be firm. Please.”

  Mel lifted her arms in the voluminous fabric and enveloped her in a hug.

  Blanche smiled, but her head was pounding. Make this stop.

  This Sal business added one more raw nerve to an already frayed bundle. And she didn’t know what to tell Liza, who was probably out of her mind. Or, hopefully, passed out with an empty whiskey bottle.

  She was numb, but she kept searching the faces, walking around aimlessly. The grieved expressions changed everything. No one was happy. Misery united them. Officer Buck was sitting in his police car with his motor humming, one foot on the ground. She thought of attacking him for news, especially for the whereabouts of the chief.

  But then she stopped.

  Is it true what they say? The perpetrator hangs around the scene of the crime? Or returns to it?

  Blanche’s gaze shifted over the crowd. She knew just about everyone in that parking lot. But she did not see the small woman hiding behind the kiosk. If she had, she would have been startled. The dark eyes shone in Blanche’s direction. Then the face, oval and smooth as a river stone, turned away from Blanche toward a stranger standing next to a white van. The woman’s mouth tightened; her fists clenched. She disappeared.

  Seven —

  Snake in the Van

  A cold wave swept over Blanche, even as she sweat in the glaring heat. It was a strange disassociation, like she was untethered and floating. The whiff of a ghost brushed past. When she looked around, she was alone.

  She searched the faces again. Ernie at the IGA, a couple of waiters, Buzz, the manager at the bait and tackle. All long-time residents. Dwayne from the 307 Pine Deli and Wendy from Hairs to You. Michelle from Soap-a-Pooch.

  At a murder scene? She knew these people well. All of them.

  Except for the fellow standing next to a white van on the edge of the lot.

  She didn’t recognize him or the van, and his whole getup sent needles down her spine. He was slick, a cagey look about him. He didn’t fit. He didn’t look delivery, and he didn’t look tourist. That was it. That’s what threw her off.

  He couldn’t be a snowbird. Too early for them. Island traffic was up, but the post-hurricane season rush hadn’t started yet—not until after November 30. This guy was not here for a frolic on the beach, all alone, lounging with a boot up against the passenger door. He shifted his head from side to side like he had ants running up and down his neck.

  Her arms and feet were toasting, and she would just have to take it. She clutched the pen and notebook and kept writing.

  She crept over to the shade of an awning at a marina kiosk that sold short walking tours to Gull Egg Key. She stood in the shadow and studied him. He didn’t glance her way, and he didn’t talk to anyone. He observed. He smoked. She wrote it down: long brown hair pulled back, hooded eyes darting over the crowd. He wore an immaculate white t-shirt and jeans. One very smooth dude.

  Not a single person in the crowd seemed to notice him.

  So maybe I’m nuts.

  A few people meandered off and began disappearing into their cars and back to business. But suspicion held her like an anchor, and she had no one to tell.

  She was alone with him.

  Would anyone think this odd? Much less, would anyone hear me out?

  Duncan was still MIA. Some of the officers were trying to keep the last of the onlookers at bay. Most weren’t sticking around. Doors slammed. Officer Buck put two feet on the ground but that was as far as he got. He never looked up, and then he tucked back into the patrol car and drove away.

  Her mind raced. She dropped back, and wrote furiously.

  He was young, probably in his late twenties. Short, five foot eight, maybe, not more than 150 pounds. Easily, he pushed off the van with a boot, swung his arms, sinewy with muscle. A tattoo? A vine of thorns, or letters? He was wiry but his movements were graceful. Careful.

  He opened the passenger door, reached in the glove box, and pulled out a pack of smokes. He tamped it against the palm of his hand, unwrapped it, and rolled the pack into a shirt sleeve after he withdrew a cigarette. He rubbed his forearm, shifted from one boot to the other, and still, he gazed at the crowd. Smoke curled from the cigarette in his fingers. He walked around the front of the van, each boot landing hard and sure.

  She looked down at the scribbled mess in her notebook. You never know when a mess will come in handy.

  The guy was rubbing his arm again. The tattoo of … a snake? The boots with silver buckles. The dent in the side of the van, the skull and flag on the rear window.

  She needed his license number. The description alone wouldn’t get it. Who would believe her without that number? Who is going to believe me anyway?

  She bent to her pages. A loud splat—the thrust of an engine—drew her attention, and she looked up just as the van roared out of the parking lot. He’d been lounging around a minute before. Now he was gone. Just like that. She sprinted from her hiding place, but she couldn’t make out the license number. Tires skidded around the curve toward the bridge. Soon all she saw was a white speck against the blue water of the bay. She tripped in her sandals and again made a mental note about her deficient wardrobe. She needed those running shoes.

  She looked down at the tire marks he left. Wide bald tires and a wiggle in the sand. She wrote a few more words, thumbed through the two pages of detailed scribbling that she could barely read, and she started filling in her notes. She was disappointed that it was all she had, but baking in the sun had not been a complete bust. She had a very good description and a buzzing in her brain that said something wasn’t right about the guy and the van.

  She was still flipping through the pages when she saw it. The sun glinted off the crushed shell and sand at her feet. A piece of cellophane.

  She picked it up using the tips of her nails and hesitated, held it up to the light. Fresh and new. Of course, that’s all she could tell, but the thought struck: Oh, my. Fingerprints? She placed the cellophane carefully in a tissue and put it in a side pocket of her bag. She turned back to search the ground for cigarette butts. There wasn’t a single one. What? Field stripping his cigarettes and pocketing the butts? Like the military. They don’t leave a trace.

  But he had dropped that cellophane. It was something. Blanche pushed the damp curls off her forehead, and wondered. It didn’t hurt to wonder.

  She’d show Duncan the evidence. The thought of it made her wince. She’d have to face the gruff old police chief without the license number. If he scoffed, she’d have to go to plan B. What’s Plan A? With Duncan, it was hard to plan anything. All she had was a tiny piece of cellophane and a description. And not much else.

  Bob’s Mercedes was still parked in the lot between white lines. There it sat, and the loss hit her again. The car was a large, boxy model, polished and shiny, in top shape—old-school vintage with a touch of class. One more thing that reminded her of Bob. It just wasn’t fair, and she began to miss him all over again.

  Yellow police tape flapped in the breeze. Two officers chatted, their backs to her. She lifted the tape gingerly, bracing for a reprimand from at least one of them. She was, in fact, breaching a crime scene. But the cops ignored her. She peeked inside the car, and, sure enough, the coffee was in the holder. Undisturbed, with the lid on it. Bob’s tie, a blue silk with tiny fish, was on the passenger seat, bunched and wrinkled. Bob wouldn’t have been caught dead without his tie. He wouldn’t have removed it…willingly. He sometimes even wore one when he coached Little League. Why was the tie wadded up, thrown aside on the seat like that?

  There were indications that his neck had been broken. Someone strong had gotten to him. Or someone just awfull
y good at killing. And somehow that tie had been removed.

  Lost in thought, she didn’t hear the grunting at first—like an old motor being dragged over concrete. Jess Blythe’s work boots stuck out from under the rear bumper of the Mercedes. “Drat this tow!”

  “Hey, Jess!” She bent down to take a look. He slid out from under the car. “Blanche!” He dropped the wrench into his bag, sat back on his haunches. “Stinks, don’t it.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Who’d want to kill our Bobby?” There it was again. That’s how they all thought of him: “Our Bobby.” The island stuck together, thick as a patch of mangrove, reliable as the sunset.

  “Jess, I don’t have any idea. I just saw Liza. She’s torn up. It makes me sick.” Blanche peered into the car window again, stood back with her hands on her waist. “So, why do you suppose his tie is on the seat. Can’t imagine Bob would take it off.”

  “I haven’t got one idea.”

  “I’m stunned.”

  “That about says it.” He was still sitting back on his heels, squinting up at her. He took off his hat and slapped it over his knee.

  “Were you here when they took him away?”

  “Yeah, but they whisked him out of here pretty fast. Looked like there’d been a struggle ‘cause that shirt was mighty rumpled. That sure ain’t Bob. I didn’t see much more than that.”

  “I hope he gave whoever did this a good one.” Maybe he’d left a mark. She was thinking skin under the finger nails, a hair left behind. Something left behind.

  “You betcha.” As if he read her mind, he added, “They went over this here car worsin’ you do on a dog with ticks, and that investigator is comin’ around again to bag some things. Hope they find somethin’.”

  Blanche went off to peek again. Jess said, “They gets pinchy when you stands too close now. They says to me, be quick. Not to touch nothin’, ‘cept under.”

  “Got it.”

  She backed away. A couple more notes on the pad. The coffee cup, the tie, nothing much else. No stains, tools, ropes. Nothing. The back seat was clean. It must have happened from the back seat. The guy hiding, reaching up and forward. Or just getting into the Mercedes casually, greeting Bob. Bob, so friendly, wondering, what property the guy was interested in seeing. And then, whammo!

  She held the notebook over her eyes, crouched down out of the officers’ sight. Jess finished the clanging and wrenching, and it jangled a string of thoughts that popped and scattered. First, this business with Langstrom, then the murder. Now the stranger and the white van. Her fingers sifted through the broken shell, her knees weak and wobbly.

  She longed to put it all back together and make it right again. She needed solid facts. Maybe she had at least one or two, the guy, the cellophane—maybe not. She had this, and an awful feeling, this uncanny sense of connection and absolutely not one iota of proof. Facts and feelings.

  Jess was standing now, wiping the grease off his hands. Blanche brushed her shorts off. She stood, scanning the parking lot one more time. “Jess, you notice any strangers around here?”

  “Nope.” He jammed his cap down squarely, picked up his bag. “Not really. It’s all pretty strange though.”

  “Hmmm. You didn’t notice a guy and a white van? Didn’t seem to fit?”

  “Why, Blanche, there’s so much comin’ and goin’, who’d know? An awful lot of white vans out there.” He mumbled, shuffling up to the rear door of his truck. He shook his head. “Why you ask?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I saw this guy…”

  “Oh, Blanche, now, you let Duncan and the boys take care of all that. That business of lookin’ here and yonder.”

  Blanche smiled. “I hear you, Jess, but you know, I’m just asking. You know me.”

  “I sure do. We can’t know where all this is headed, but I can say this, Blanche, and you hear me good. You take care now. I mean it.”

  “I will, Jess. You, too.”

  She watched him hoist his tools into the cab, mumbling to himself, and slam the door.

  Blanche’s stomach growled. She was disgusted—and starving. The whiskey had been a bad idea. She was sweating like crazy and in need of food and shelter. Naturally, she thought of Cap, grilling fish and frying potatoes, but, best of all, they would talk. If anyone could bring some calm and perspective to the day, it would be Cap. Surely, he’d know about Bob because he stopped by the police station almost every day to gossip and see Aloysius Duncan and bring him soup, or something more nutritious than his usual diet of pizza and Chinese.

  She didn’t have one worthwhile thing to report to Liza. What could she tell her? I just saw the murderer driving away in a white van! Blanche was loath to offer some half-baked theory and risk further upsetting her. Wouldn’t do any good to go blabbing about a guy and a white van because he had now dissolved into a sea of white vans cruising around Florida. He and his license number were long gone, and the more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed anything would come of trying to find him. Unless he showed up again. Oh, what if he shows up!

  Her sandals dragged across the lot. An investigator arrived, snapping on the gloves, frowning in Blanche’s direction. Jess sat in his cab, the motor running. She waved, listlessly. She couldn’t believe it. She’d started the day angry over the planned destruction of the island, and now she was sadder than hell.

  How are we going to fix this?

  We can’t get Bob back. That’s really the worst of it.

  She was afraid to think of how it would end—and what needed to happen to end it.

  Eight —

  Lost and Sort of Found

  The office of Sunny Sands Realty was dark when Blanche peeked through the blinds on the French doors. She hoped Liza had gone home to sleep. She’d left a note taped to the glass: “Be back later.” Better later than sooner. She’d need a lot of rest to get through this mess.

  Blanche dropped by the police station. She was eager to test her suspicions on the chief, and at once reluctant. He always greeted her with eyes like BBs. She wanted to get into “context” about the sighting of the guy and the van, and she hoped he’d calmed down some. She only half expected him to be there. He was not.

  Pennington sat at the information desk. “Gone, Blanche,” he said. “Official business at county.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “Meaning business, and not yours.”

  “Really.”

  He hardly looked up from his Sudoku. “Sorry, Blanche. Orders. Got to keep it all on the down low.”

  It was deadly calm in the large, open police station—as if the world did not know Santa Maria had been turned upside down. Pennington bent his head over the crumpled newspaper. Down low, Blanche noticed. Her eyes blazed onto the puzzle in front of him, hoping to ignite the damn newspaper under his nose.

  “Don’t know when he’s coming back, Blanche.”

  “Well, thanks a bunch.” She turned on her heel and walked out.

  She didn’t really care about Pennington’s rudeness. She was used to it. A bit of friction between the press and the police lingered over every conversation. Blanche was nosy, and persistent, and Duncan put up with it. The police had other fish to fry, sometimes, literally. Once Blanche tracked the boys to the Starfish landing dock where they were smoking mullet and grilling whitefish. It was a Monday, and the business of policing was on hold, as usual.

  They could not afford that now. She worried that Duncan might not pursue back-up in the investigation. He was deliberate, but the murder was bigger than Santa Maria. She reasoned that he couldn’t keep it to himself. He needed a wider net. Blanche prayed county was leaning on him. In any event, she’d be leaning on him soon enough.

  I

  Cappy’s back door was open when Blanche walked in and yelled:

  “YOOOOOHOOOO.”

  There was no answer.

  Where is everybody today? The emptiness swept over her again. She shook it off. She was starving.

  She stuck her hea
d in the kitchen. If he’d been there, he’d have greeted her in his apron, wringing a dish towel, a big smile on his face as wrinkly as the bark of an oak. He was usually at the stove, if he wasn’t on the water. But the familiar aromas did not welcome her. No olive oil and garlic simmering in the iron skillet, bread baking, potatoes frying in onion. The kitchen was dim in the shadow of a thick stand of palm trees.

  He should have been there. He went fishing around five o’clock almost every morning, and they had a lunch of whatever he caught—lately grouper or red snapper. He didn’t like to eat alone, and Blanche was only too happy to diminish Cappy’s loneliness by eating his food. He was a great cook, and she was not.

  She’d been starving, but she also needed to talk. Blanche stood in the doorway. If she couldn’t have the Cappers, at least she could have this refuge. For now. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light after her run through the blazing island sun. It filtered through the open windows and washed the cupboards, walls, and hardwood floor in mellow gold. Outside, the palms crackled, doves scurried and cooed on the broken shell. She dropped into an old maple armchair with blue canvas cushions and hugged an embroidered pillow. She started to drift off, and almost let herself go. She was tempted.

  Back here at Cap’s, she was close to Gran….Gran, who had brought Blanche home at age five after the car accident that killed her mother, Rose. She never knew her father; her mother hardly knew her father although Gran said they’d been madly in love. He was shipped out. They’d never gotten around to getting married before he was killed on a rice paddy in Southeast Asia.

  On her deathbed, Gran had made Cappy swear that he would keep an eye on Blanche, which at one time had annoyed her to no end. That phase of antsy adolescence was long past. Cappy had become a grandfather, mother, father, grandmother, and best friend. He was set in his ways, and she was, too, but she couldn’t think of a time when they didn’t have each other. She bounced her ideas and plans, her loves and disappointments, off the Cappers—Donald Nicholas Reid but nicknamed the Caps for his collection of hats and caps accumulated during his travels from the Gulf to the Galapagos. He’d met Gran fifty years ago after traveling the world and finally settling on Santa Maria where he opened up a small charter line and fished off the island. They’d been devoted to each other and at once fiercely independent, and Blanche and her cousin, Jack, had thrived growing up in their care.