Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  Cap had been pensively drying the same bowl for a full minute. He nodded in agreement.

  Blanche leaned over the counter. “And, we probably should be extra careful in those meetings. Not let Langstrom get hold of that plan for historical status. They know Bob had that check, and that’s all. He and that bunch don’t know all we’re up to, so let’s not stir it up. They could head off the whole park project. They have bags of money, and I’m afraid of what they can throw at all the work we’ve done on preservation.”

  “They don’t know Santa Maria, or what they’re getting into,” said Cap. ‘“Just keep a low profile on this. That business with the historical society might be enough to hold them off, and you’re making headway there. In the meantime, stay out of that murder business. More trouble is brewing. I just know it.”

  “My God, Caps.”

  “Like I said, Blanche, I know you’ve been asking questions, and you have to stop.” He stacked a few dishes and flapped the wet dish towel on the counter. “Promise me, Blanche.”

  “Who’s going to bother about me? I haven’t done anything. I’m just a reporter, walking the beach. Maybe a bit nosy…”

  “You’ve drawn attention. You ask questions. It’s just your nature, and let’s not forget, it’s your job.”

  “I hear you.”

  He smiled ruefully and patted her hand, the one that didn’t have fingers crossed behind her back.

  She was sorry she’d gone off like that. But now it was time. She couldn’t hold back anymore. Not from Cap. “I came by earlier today. I wanted to talk to you about something.” She took a deep breath. “I haven’t seen Duncan yet, or said anything to anyone about this. I wanted to tell you, I saw a guy and a white van, hanging around in the parking lot right after Bob was killed. I got the description. He looked pretty fishy is all I can say. I have to tell the chief.”

  Cap seemed to consider this bit of news. “It was probably Omar delivering chum for those crazy shark hunters. You know they take those bloody fish guts out into the Gulf and see what they can scare up.”

  Blanche was relieved at his response even though it had to do with sharks. “Don’t think so. Omar drives a black jeep, and I never saw this guy and his white van.”

  Cappy’s face was hard to read. She hesitated, bit her tongue. Her timing never felt right.

  She tried to appear nonchalant and avoid a contentious discussion about the stranger. She leaned forward on the stool and bent over the pie. “Caps, this is great. Did you make it yourself, graham cracker crust and all?”

  “Well,” said Cappy. He shook his head, his mind clearly not on pie. “You have to get to Duncan with this. Soon. Before things get too cold. As far as I know, the chief and the lot of them haven’t got any idea who’s involved in this mess. There’s a lot of ideas floating around out there and nothing of substance.”

  Blanche nodded, relieved he didn’t take off on the guy and the van.

  Maybe I’m way off.

  “We’ll talk more about this in the morning,” Cappy said. “Maybe you ought to stay here tonight.”

  Her resolve returned. She carried her plate to the sink, scrubbed it, and went back to the counter. “Caps, I’ll be fine.”

  “You know what I mean. Don’t think I like the idea of you by yourself, is all.”

  “The Belsons are coming back from Canada next door, and Bertie will be on the other side soon. She may be back already. It’s not like I’m alone over there.”

  “Just the same. I don’t think we can be too careful.”

  “That’s why I came over here. I wanted the hell scared out of me. I’m sorry I said anything about the guy and the van.” Then she was sorry she brought it up again. “And, Cap, please, keep this door locked—I have a key. It was open earlier today when I came by.”

  He looked weary. She was sad for him. For everybody.

  “Yes, I will,” he said. “And you make sure that phone is working. Follow up with Duncan as soon as possible with the description of that fella, and keep out of it. Nothing’s the same around here anymore. Something’s been broken.”

  Thirteen —

  Rest in Pieces

  It was only a couple days after the murder, and Santa Maria Island was about to kick off the first of several memorials to celebrate Bob’s life. He’d been an island savior and supporter, and most of the residents were just short of seeking canonization for their beloved Bobby.

  Blanche arrived early at St. Joseph Church, ready to pay tribute to Bob and to keep a look out for his killer. Well, she wasn’t sure she’d see the killer, but her antennae were up. She was anxious and uncomfortable, the navy blue, polka-dot dress a bit scratchy and the high heel sandals a sort of torture.

  She could see the top of Bob’s sister’s head and the Ex’s hat from where she sat in the back of the church. It was hot in there, and Bob was destined for colder climes. His family planned to take him back to Potosi, Michigan, although he’d been part of Santa Maria for more than thirty years. Most everyone on the island didn’t agree with the removal of Bob from the area, especially Liza, who carried on at the ceremony and could not be consoled. Bob probably wouldn’t have liked the idea of leaving Florida either. But the Ex and his sister—joined at the hip in quilting and in lamenting Bob’s adventurous ways—were the sober deciders. The two, and the body, would be on the first flight northward after the autopsy and memorials.

  Bob’s sister was a timid woman but she stepped up and objected to an autopsy—“Bob is dead. R.I.P.,” she said. “What’s done is done.” The authorities had insisted. They had to “verify” the strangulation complete with broken neck—euphemism for murder—and that Bob had truly not suffered some other demise.

  What? Accidental strangulation in the front seat of one’s car? Sometimes police work baffled Blanche. Well, most of the time it did.

  The autopsy was necessary CYA (cover your ass). The women were all for propriety, and agreed. But they wanted to leave the island as soon as possible. They had never cared much for the “humidity,” or for Liza, whom they agreed was, indeed, a “presence.”

  Blanche scanned the crowd. She wanted to honor Bob, and vindicate her suspicions. She was dying for the lanky guy with the slick hair and tattoos to show. She couldn’t pin a thing on him, but the needles in her brain would not go away. Sometimes the perpetrator returns to the scene. What prurience, what evil. What if…

  It was a peculiar obsession, casing the church, searching faces, but that was just fine. She didn’t care how it looked. One could never be too watchful. The authorities should be searching the crowd for a suspect, just as she was doing. Duncan and the officers were there, but they didn’t appear to be attending in an official capacity. She’d overheard Duncan out front talking about a three-foot grouper he caught off Dave White’s charter. Now he seemed as out of place in that pew as a manatee in a bath tub. But he was here, and this time, she wouldn’t let him get too far.

  She finally decided the guy from the white van was nowhere in sight and probably was not going to show. That loose end was still flapping in the unknown.

  All the while she listened to the service, she hoped Bob could see—from wherever he hovered—the outfit Liza wore to his memorial service: He would have approved. He liked her “flare,” he called it, which at the ceremony included leopard high heels, a black lace sheath and veil to match, with feathers. The dangling glitter at her ears added to her sparkle, which could not be dimmed despite the pall of tragedy. Liza must have gone through a box of Kleenex.

  The Blankenships, fortunately, were at a safe distance in the pews at the other side of the church. The Ex sat ramrod straight in the first row, a tiny black pill box atop her head. She hadn’t moved an inch since the ceremony began, no doubt anxious to get out of there and into the skies. With Bob aboard.

  The word around town was that Sunny Sands would go on the market, and Liza would be left without a job. Bob and Liza had never gotten around to firming up the real estate partnership. M
urder happens. But it was common knowledge that they were working on a relationship, both business and personal. They had planned to wait until Liza got her broker’s license.

  Even so, Blanche wasn’t too worried about Liza. She surely would land on her own two high-heeled feet and shine in the real estate world on her own, with or without Sunny Sands.

  Blanche just didn’t want Liza to leave. Liza was a friend, and an island leader. Enough was lost already, or slipping away. Liza had to stay. Liza had a knack. She could carry on. She would step into Bob’s shoes though the thought of it was amusing to Blanche. Liza’s triple-A, size six, wearing Bob’s enormous wing-tips. But, yes, Liza had to stay. It made Blanche cold to think it, but Liza might lure the rat out of the cracks, the one who did this awful thing to Bobby. The thought of catching this person, or persons, made Blanche grind her teeth with anticipation. Whoever did this to Bob was sure to circle around again. They would get him. Or them.

  The investigation grew colder by the moment. She’d finally gotten Duncan on the phone, and he’d said he’d see her after the memorial service.

  Blanche caught his eye and waved discreetly. He nodded. He’d taken his time answering Blanche’s calls, but he hadn’t missed Bob’s celebration—in fact, the church was bursting at the seams. They missed their “Bobby,” as the blue and white satin banner across a heart-shaped spray of red roses referred to him—compliments of the staff at Sunny Sands Realty (Liza).

  Fourteen —

  A Shot at the Chief

  Chief Duncan was sitting behind his large grey metal desk, sheaves of paper obliterating the surface. The place smelled like burnt coffee and grease, or ink—not unlike the newspaper office, which gave Blanche a pang of comfort. Duncan’s green polyester uniform shirt was too tight, and so were his pants. He gave the appearance of being crammed into a job that somehow didn’t fit his nature. But he still managed to separate the demands of policing from his easygoing personality, and finally leave the pressure of the work load at the office. He was a typical Florida guy, normally laid back, born and bred in the sunny ways of the South, but it seemed as if this murder had sent him over the edge.

  “I need retirement,” he said to Blanche, without preamble. He scooted away a pile of papers in front of him. “Real retirement.”

  “Not now,” she said. “We have to figure out why Bob was murdered, and who did it.”

  “We?” Chief Duncan had known Blanche since first grade, and he still looked at her like she had peanut butter and jelly on her face.

  “I wish your Gran could see you now.”

  “I wish I could see her, too. She’d have a thing or two to say about all this awful business. And she might have an idea or two about how to clean up the mess. Bob’s murder. Unforgivable. And what’s up with these Chicago types trying to take over the island. I could lose Tuna Street. We’re all on the losing end of this.” Blanche felt herself lapsing back into the police beat for the Island Times. It was like slipping on a pair of comfortable old shoes. She collapsed into a chair next to his desk, her eyes averted and studying the overflowing desk and waste basket.

  “Oh, goodness, girlie. One thing at a time.”

  “Well, I’m not here to waste your time though it is always nice to see you, and chat.” It was good to butter him on all sides, like a Parker House roll, before she bit into him.

  He looked up and smiled. He loved her lop-sided grin.

  She stood up and leaned on the desk. “I saw something. Someone. In that parking lot the day Bob was murdered.”

  Duncan had eyebrows like caterpillars and now they jumped. “And who would that be?”

  “A guy and a white van. Not far from Bob’s Mercedes, about one hour after the murder, I’d say, noon-ish.” The who, what, where, when. But no why, or how.

  “That right?” He tilted back in the metal armchair, thumbs in his waist band. With Blanche, it was always the questions. And no answers. “There are about a million guys and white vans in Florida, give or take. Can you be a little more specific? Why this guy?” He waved at Blanche and the world, in general. She sat, knees crossed. She had a hankering for her notebook. She looked Duncan in the eye.

  “Because I know. I’ve got this radar.” Duncan knew all about Blanche’s radar. It had worked many times, especially when she had a lead on a good story. But he had a soft spot for Blanche, and he’d loved Maeve. He’d taught Jack to throw a mean splitter—alongside Bob.

  “Blanche, this ain’t Star Trek. I need a little more than that.”

  “Wish’d I’d gotten that license number. But all the same I wrote down a very good description.” At that, she reached in her bag and pulled out her notebook and began to wilt at the thought, Yes, there are a million guys and white vans, but this one was different. Somehow. “Something just wasn’t right about him. That’s what I’m saying. He didn’t seem to know anyone, or connect. He didn’t talk to anyone. He just hung around after the murder. Scoping it out. Then I found a piece of cellophane on the ground that I’m positive he threw away.”

  “Really! Well, maybe we can pick him up for littering—as well as loitering.”

  At that she pulled out a small plastic bag.

  Duncan put on his reading glasses. “What’s that supposed to be? A plastic bag. Of air?”

  Blanche shook it gently. “I hope it’s something. It’s the cellophane from that guy’s cigarette wrapper. I don’t have a license number. But this might help.”

  Duncan’s face, as large as a pie plate, studied her, one eyebrow raised. Deflated, she wondered why he’d even consider the flimsy evidence.

  “We’ll tag it.” He reached for the bag.

  “He shot out of that parking lot like he had a rocket booster on his van. That sort of did it for me.”

  Duncan hesitated. She could see his brain cells clacking together, like dice. Would he roll them? “It needs follow-up, Blanche. It does. Lemme have that description again.” He held up the bag. “And we’ll print this for sure.”

  He flipped open one of the notebooks scattered about his desk and squinted at his writing as Blanche dictated the particulars she’d written down. She had the sudden urge to push him along, a frustration overwhelming her that was almost palpable. He seemed tired. Now was not the time to be tired.

  Blanche itched for more activity, and the police station did not have the flavor of an active murder investigation. A clerk shuffled around the office, slapping papers into folders and taking his time to answer the phone. Business as usual at the Santa Maria police station was pretty dull, but Bob’s murder had foisted a new cast on the policing of the island. Business should be picking up around here. The bulletin board over Duncan’s desk had several menus and a baseball schedule pinned to it, but the white board did have a fresh list of officers from all over the county. The wheels were turning, geared to island time, chugging and grinding, like they needed a good shot of WD-40.

  “I’ll be back soon,” said Blanche, “with more details. You’ll let me know what you find out, won’t you?”

  His bland expression said neither yes, nor no.

  “Say, chief, I hear you talked with Liza. About a connection between the developers and Bob?”

  “You heard that, did ya? Lots of talk going around. I’ll say that. But we have nothing firm. Just talk, for now.”

  Ah, Dunc, lots of talk and no action? But she smiled. He was one big old sweetheart, basically.

  His eyes were clear, and concerned. “I do thank you for stopping by. You be careful while you’re out and about. And let me know if you see that fella again.” He grunted and his head went back to the paperwork, fingers like bratwurst wrapped around his coffee cup. He sighed.

  Blanche hesitated in the doorway. She turned back to him.

  “Chief!”

  Duncan jumped. “For lord’s sake, Blanche, what is it now?”

  “I just thought of something.” Duncan was visibly wary. Blanche’s thinking was an energy field into which one stepped carefully.<
br />
  She couldn’t figure why it struck her so hard, but it did. The guy and the white van again. “He was rubbing his arm.”

  “So? I’m just not getting it, Blanche. This about the guy at the scene? The cigarette wrapper, the white van, the rubbing of the arm. These things do not exactly add up to murder suspect.”

  “Maybe not. But why was he rubbing his arm? And he kept at it. Do you think something, or someone, scratched him?”

  “Blanche, there are bugs, you know.”

  “Not so many. Not now.” It was true. Santa Maria was a bird sanctuary and birds loved bugs.

  She could see, in her mind’s eye, the smoke curling from the cigarette in that guy’s fingers, the hand passing over his forearm. More than once. “And check out Bob’s tie. It was on the front seat. Bobby would not remove his tie like that and just wad it up on the seat. Before he was murdered?” Blanche still hadn’t moved a hair out of the doorway. “Maybe something’s on that tie? And maybe something’s on that cigarette wrapper.”

  Duncan lips moved, but nothing came out except, “hurump.” He moved a stack of papers, the pen hovered over it. “Goodbye, Blanche.” He sighed, and the pen began jabbing the paperwork.

  Blanche started across the parking lot where Bob had died, and Santa Maria had changed forever. She hoped to heaven the chief was all over it, and that he wasn’t just humoring her. She wanted to help. Flashes of the town hall meeting, then the murder, hounded her. Urged her to keep digging. These events had left her on edge and with nowhere to go but deeper.

  Fifteen —

  Pandora in the House

  Murder on the island was more unsettling than a hurricane—the prospect of which added to the jitters. Hurricane Wilma had been brewing off the coast of Africa in the Atlantic, and would soon be flying across the ocean and threatening the Gulf coast. The projections were notoriously inaccurate, despite the use of computers and the lucky guesses of storm-team meteorologists, but, still, the islanders listened with their ears to the sand while they kept their eyes on the tube. Hurricanes could be devastating, even when they didn’t directly hit the island. They churned through the Gulf of Mexico leaving a wake of damage, pushing the rising water ashore and slamming property. Beach furniture and trees flew around in high winds, once landing a baby carriage in a palm tree on Tuna Street.