Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “I hope there’s no hard feelings.” He scanned the waterline that ran like a silver thread sewing the sky to the Gulf. “It really is a beautiful place, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is beautiful. Just the way it is.”

  He studied her. Forehead a spray of light freckles, black eyebrows sheltering deep green eyes. She didn’t turn away from the horizon. She made him see it for what it was: the real beauty of it. She wanted him to understand how strongly she meant what she said.

  “Your foot. It’s bleeding,” he said, already reaching into a pocket. He pulled out a folded square of linen.

  Blanche put the offending toe behind her leg. She was mortified. “It’s nothing. I stepped on a shell.”

  “But look.” The toe was indeed making a small, red pool in the white sand. Langstrom bent down to dab her foot with the cloth. Blanche stood there frozen, unable to move.

  “Thanks. That’s very kind. Doctor.”

  Langstrom looked up at her, smile brilliant white. “Ha, doctor! I did think about medical school at one time, but I decided on law.”

  “Yes, I know.” She yanked her foot from his grip. The handkerchief had worked fine. “It was a clumsy thing to do, step on a shell. I usually look where I’m going.”

  “Really? Well, I guess you should. I’m sure you didn’t do it on purpose.” That was an odd thing to say—on purpose. Harm sometimes arrived out of nowhere, for no apparent reason, and sometimes it arrived on purpose, like murder.

  She stepped back but he hovered over her. He was tall, and he still managed to be inches from her nose. “You better get some antibiotic cream and a clean bandage on that toe. You wouldn’t want to lose it. It’s a nice toe.”

  This is absurd, Blanche thought. Yesterday I wanted to kill him, and today we’re all cozy.

  “I’ve saved your toe and all, and we haven’t even met, formally, Blanche M-u-r-n-i-n-g-h-a-n. I’m Sergi Langstrom.” Once more the hand shot out and grazed Blanche’s arm. “Hello. Again.”

  He remembered how to spell her name when most of the world did not. “I know who you are,” she said. Blanche didn’t want to sound so cold, but that was how she felt and she had difficulty hiding it. It was something she needed to work on when the occasion called for it—like now. She looked him in the eye. “And, yes, I’m Blanche Murninghan of Tuna Street and the Santa Maria Preservation Association.”

  “Yes. Blanche.” She could see the town hall meeting reeling through his head and a switch of gears. “That’s curious. I’ve never met anyone named Blanche.”

  “My mother had a crush on Marlon Brando.”

  Why did I say that?

  Her mother, long dead of the accident that Blanche survived, liked the name because it sounded clean and classic in one short sound bite. That was what Gran had told her.

  Sergi was laughing, sort of a private, thoughtful laugh. “Well, I don’t know. You look more like a Stella. Stellar. Doesn’t that have to do with stars?”

  “I suppose so,” Blanche said, a little miffed he’d laughed at her name. “What kind of a name is Sergi.” Sergi wasn’t an all-American moniker but, indeed, sounded rather strange and, Blanche hesitated to say it, Communist.

  “I’m half Italian and half Swedish. Don’t ask me how that ever happened.” He had that laugh again that seemed to come up from his toes and right out the top of his head. He leaned close to her, and she could see the hair on his chest.

  I really have to get out of here. “I have to leave.”

  “Really? Don’t want to chat?”

  “I have to go.” Blanche turned to walk off the bridge and then stopped. She wanted to know more, to satisfy that urge that wouldn’t go away.

  “Where were you this morning?”

  “Why?”

  Blanche tried to decide what to make of him. Was he being coy? Why didn’t he answer the question? It really was none of her business for one thing, and besides, what could he possibly think she was driving at?

  She didn’t care. That irritation began again. Something didn’t add up about Langstrom, and all those plans for the land development, and then Bob’s murder. He was everywhere, and he didn’t seem to know there had been a death—on purpose—on the island.

  “Because they say Bob Blankenship was murdered. They found him at the marina in his car.”

  Sergi hesitated. He didn’t look very surprised, nor sad, at the news. He just resumed his study of the skyline with an expression that said this bit of information was not of particular interest. He could turn one expression off and another one on at will.

  “Well, you don’t look too broken up about it,” she said. “Where were you anyway?”

  “I’m very sorry,” he said.

  “Well, where…”

  “What a sad thing to happen.” His face was in the shadow of a pine tree, his shoulder angled toward her. Blanche could feel the breeze lift the hair on the back of her neck.

  “We need to find out who did this. What could possibly be the motive? Who would murder Bob?” She could feel the desperation in her voice, almost pleading.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, somebody does.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” His tone clipped, he looked at his watch. No one wore a watch on Santa Maria. “I have to go. It’s really getting late.”

  He turned and hurried down the far side of the bridge toward a black Escalade, its silver rims glinting in the sun.

  “Do something about that toe,” he said over his shoulder, smiling back at her. “See you soon.”

  She almost said—I hope not. But that wouldn’t have been quite true. Blanche wanted to see him again. What was she thinking? She had questions. A lot of them.

  For one thing, who was this Sal character? And did Sergi know anything about him? Was Sergi sending emissaries door to door to entice property owners to give up their homes? She almost ran after him, but stopped. She wanted answers, and, at the same time, nothing more to do with Langstrom. That was impossible because she needed him. She didn’t trust her feelings. They got her into trouble. She had to be cool, and that was so un-Blanche.

  She steeled herself and dashed off the bridge. Langstrom knew more than he let on. And so did Jack. She had to get both of them to tell what they knew. She needed to tie up the loose ends whatever it took. They both had to come clean, and then Sergi had to go.

  Eleven —

  They Stop at Nothing

  It was almost seven o’clock when Blanche cruised into Cappy’s driveway—more like lurched as the Taurus had developed a reluctance to change gears. It was a good thing she mostly walked around the island, but every once in a while she had to get the wheels out to see if they still turned.

  The lights were on in Cap’s house hidden in the palms and dune grass. She followed the curving shell path to a parking spot off the deck of his kitchen. She hoped it wasn’t too late to get some dinner out of him, and she knew it wasn’t. She could count on finding him at the stove. He enjoyed the evening for puttering, just like Blanche did. The bonus was that his puttering included cooking. Hers mostly involved wrestling with a stuck window or a stack of short story ideas and cleaning up fronds and weeds around the cabin. Her treat was hanging out in Cap’s kitchen.

  The Taurus stuttered, and stopped. The back door popped open, and Cappy yelled: “YOOOOHOOOO.”

  “YOOOHOOOOO yourself,” she yelled back. “Whatcha got?” She leaped out of the car and into a hug. She put her hands on his shoulders, startled at how bony and thin he was getting. He seemed to be shrinking, his hair finer and whiter. His eyes cloudier. Even bluer? And sad. Yes, she was sad, too.

  They would talk about it. Bury that sadness for now. She wanted to protect him from murder and all the rest of it.

  “Stone crab today. Season just opened up.” He squeezed her fingers and guided her toward the door. “Heck of a day.” He shook his head. Bad news was all over this island. Blanche sighed and followed him into the house.

  Steam from th
e huge metal pot lifted into the yellow light from a small lamp. Pungent bay seasoning filled the warm, damp air. She shut her eyes tight to savor the moment. Stone crab season—October to May—was one of their favorites.

  He’d trap each crab, remove one claw, and return it to the Gulf to skitter off and grow it back. Her mouth watered, but somewhat guiltily, as the thought struck her that Cap could get more than twenty dollars a pound at the IGA for stone crab this size. This dinner was meant to cover a multitude of woes.

  Cap busied himself at the pot, heaping crab claws onto a platter. He poured melted butter into a white cup and arranged lemon wedges in a bowl.

  He turned to her, wagged a finger. “You need to eat. Bet you been running around all day.”

  “Well, I had that delicious grouper lunch…”

  “Oh, that little sliver.”

  She smiled at him, cocked her head. “Then, we talk?”

  She scooted up to the orange Formica counter that ran the length of the kitchen, one eye on Cap. He set out a plastic bib, utensils, and paper napkins and slid the crab claws, fried potatoes, and coleslaw close to her. The claws were plump, the shells a beautiful cream and rose color with black tips. Blanche cracked one open and dug out the white meat.

  He clacked the spoon on the edge of a large pot of simmering soup. Lentils, she guessed, and like a band leader, he used another hand to stir the fried potatoes in the back. Blanche stopped shoveling and dipping and chomping. “Cappy, come on. Have some of these. They’re the best! You’re the best!”

  But appreciation for stone crab only went so far.

  He clattered over the stove a bit more—Cappy’s way of dispensing with the malingering darkness. Blanche’s stomach tightened. Everybody knew about the murder. Everybody was deeply affected, except Langstrom, it seemed. Standing on that bridge, he had disturbed her with his indifference, an attitude that irritated her, grated on her, urged her to find out what was going on behind that smile.

  She moved the broken shells around on her plate. “You thinking about the horrible morning? I am, too.” The spoon clicked emphatically into its porcelain rest on the stove top. “Caps?”

  “Oh, Blanche.” He smiled, shaking his head.

  She thought of the guy and the white van, and now she wasn’t so sure if that was a good idea to bring it up. Surely not from the look on Cap’s face.

  His rounded shoulders slumped in the worn flannel shirt. It had been eighty-four degrees today, but he needed to warm his old bones.

  “Cappers, come on over here. Let’s talk about it.”

  “You’ve been asking questions, haven’t you?” He blurted it out. “About Bob? There’s not a thing you can do about that. And this plan for the development at the north end?” He spoke softly. “They say it’s going to happen. There’s nothing anyone can do. Things happen. Sometimes, bad things, but we have to move on.”

  “Cappy, please. You know what they’re trying to do. I have to ask questions.”

  “And what good will that do? They can do whatever they want. They’ve got deep pockets. You mustn’t get involved. Please, stay out of it.”

  “Well, they are not going to get away with murder. Literally.” She leaped off the stool and pounded the counter. “I’ll be damned if they’ll get away with killing Bob, if that’s what they did. I have to follow through on this, Cap.”

  “Now settle down, Blanche.”

  “I can’t. I feel like someone is slowly squeezing me to death.”

  “I know, girl.” He touched her hand. “It’s too close to home.”

  “Speaking of which. Some guy has been nosing around Tuna Street, looking for property. Mel told me.”

  “Tuna? There’s nothing for sale over there.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Unless…” He stood perfectly still, and studied her. “Blanche, maybe you should consider it. Now, don’t get het up.” The look on her face sent him back to the stove to clatter away. He was silent while her cheeks grew redder, eyes blazing.

  “Cap, we’re not going there, and if that guy shows up again, I’ll….” She pounded her fist again. He jumped.

  “Great,” he muttered. He stirred, and she attacked the last bit of crab meat in a black tip. Finally, he turned and smiled, his eyes lit with concern. “I’m thinking. About lemonade. When all you have is a huge pile of lemons. I know you don’t want to hear it, but you should at least think about it. Maybe someday. You could get a nice settlement for the cabin, and you could travel, or take time to write that book. Or do whatever you want to do. Just get away from all this for a while.”

  “You want to get rid of me.” She gave him a sly look.

  “Now, Blanche…You can stay here whenever you like. You know that.”

  He was still smiling, and she didn’t want to argue with him. That would be stupid. He only had her best interests, and had his. She knew this even while her heart was on fire.

  The dinner had been delicious, but she was worn down. She looked at Cappy and wondered where the strength came from.

  Twelve —

  See How They Run

  She piled the jagged mess of crab shells on the platter and wiped the butter off her chin. She felt sluggish and fought it. She shook herself, then went after Cap and gave him a hug.

  “I’m sorry, Cap. It’s just that….You know what I want to do? I want to stay right where I am.” She couldn’t be upset with him. There was no future in it. She’d learned the hard way to let Cappy have his say—even though he wouldn’t have his way.

  He shook his head and went back to stirring the lentils. He had more on his mind. She could see it like she was watching wheels turn in a clock. And she wished he’d get on with it. He turned sharply and stared at her.

  “What is it, Cap?” She braced herself.

  “For one thing, Bob.”

  “Yes. Someone killed him, and it is terrible.”

  “I’m afraid it goes further than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not going to stop. Think about it. He didn’t want the destruction of the island any more than you do, and he got murdered because of it. At least that’s the theory.” He measured the words. “I didn’t want to mention it, but I should. I got back early to the dock and saw Duncan. He’d been talking to Liza.”

  Liza! What did Liza know? Blanche needed to get over to Sunny Sands.

  “What’d they say?”

  “Bob talked with those developers, and he didn’t like what they were up to. Liza’s got something on that. But it just doesn’t make sense. He set up that preservation group for improvements at the park near the point. Didn’t that come up at that meeting? I hear he even produced a check for playground equipment, and he had the backing of the state historical people. He was against that turquoise and pink mall. Would’ve wiped out most of the park land. Don’t you see?”

  “Now he’s dead.”

  She really wished she could get hold of Liza. And Duncan. The sooner the better. And that would have to be after the memorial service, probably the first of several.

  He reached across the counter and took her hand. His fingers were smooth as a new leaf. “Why do I have to walk you through this?” His eyes were pleading.

  “Please, Cap. Don’t be worried. I see you are, but don’t be,” she said. She could understand it, but she was pulled in another direction.

  She ransacked her brain for a new topic.

  The guy and the van. Not now.

  “It’ll take some time to resolve this mess. We’ve got a lot of digging to do.”

  “We? No. They, Blanche! Leave it to the authorities. I’m saying, Bob was against it, and he ended up dead.”

  Cappy picked up her plate, opened the lid on the trash can, and dumped the empty crab claws. He looked up at Blanche. She could see it coming. “You know what I’m going to say, Blanche. I worry more than ever with you over there on the beach by yourself.”

  “Oh, Cap. Here we go again.”

  �
�Wish you’d find a nice fella. Ain’t too many around here, but I know there’s some lucky guy out there for you. Just waiting. Now, if you sell that cabin…”

  “Cap, that is not going to happen.” They all wanted her out of her beloved cabin. For very different reasons, to be sure. But it irked Blanche—She did not want to leave her home. Not to the goons with two million dollars, or anyone.

  She jumped off the stool and went around the counter. “And, besides, I have a nice fella.” She gently reached up to his shoulders, her hands settling on the knobby bones under the flannel. “You know what Gran used to say, ‘Shut up about that fella stuff already. That‘ll come.’ I can just hear her.”

  “Maeve did not like complications. Or meddling.” He bent his head and chuckled. “She’d say, ‘Leave it alone, Cap.’ But I can’t leave you alone, my Blanche.” The blue eyes misted over.

  “I don’t want you to.”

  He headed to the fridge. “Now, how about key lime pie? That should fix everything.” He swirled whipped cream on top of the green mousse and set it in front of Blanche. A proper deflection from Santa Maria, murder capital, and Blanche’s non-existent love life. She pushed away troublesome thoughts—including those of persistent snowbirds pecking at her property on Tuna Street—and replaced them with pie.

  She enjoyed every bite, but it couldn’t make her forget that change was in the air. One thing was for certain: the end of things. Cappy reminded her of that. He was concerned about her and the cabin and her future, but he reassured her that she would always have a place in his heart and in his home. Blanche looked at his sturdy back as he moved across the counter from stove to sink. He was aging, to be sure, but he appeared to be indestructible. Blanche tried to convince herself of that while she knew the truth. One day he’d be gone, too. Yet, he looked out for her with an urgency that made Blanche think Gran had appeared to him that morning to tell him to watch over her granddaughter. Gran was always there even when she wasn’t.

  She wanted to stay in the moment. Their moment. “You know,” Blanche said, holding up a fork full of pie, “all is not lost. Not yet anyway. Bob helped the association file for preservation status. Those hairballs can’t tear down a single stick if we get the state historical designation. I’m thinking, it would be nice to get a petition going and name that park on the north point after him. What do you think? Blankenship Beach?”