Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  The sky was nearly black and the wind blew branches against the windows. Blanche cringed. They still had power.

  “The flurry began about June, I’d say. Maybe later. He’d get angry—I never saw him so angry.” Liza took another swig of the whiskey. Blanche carefully moved the bottle to the floor. “Here, look at this, Blanche.”

  The email read:

  “Mr. Blankenship, it will not benefit your business interests, nor those of the community of Santa Maria Island, to obstruct the plans that Brecksall-Lam is proposing for the northern quadrant of the island in question…”

  With that, Blanche felt her stomach lurch. “What? Liza, that’s the name of the headquarters for Jack’s new trucking business.” She made a special bubble for Brecksall-Lam. “Why didn’t he….well, elaborate?”

  “Now why would he do that? I don’t think he has any idea about the extent of this.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe not, but I do remember hearing about these people. Jack’s been working for them for months now.” Blanche stared at the screen. No answers popped out at her. “You know Jack. He wouldn’t report back. He’s still vague on details about the new business no matter how much I press.”

  “Blanche, you have to press. Jack is such a sweetheart, you just know he’d like to help.”

  “Humf. Sweetheart.”

  Liza looked quizzical. And Blanche wondered about this new business of his. What are we supposed to do with this piece of news? She considered the various bubbles of calls, names, and notes.

  “All I can tell you is that Jack had the small freight office set up in San Antonio, and another in Chicago, and he kept getting more calls for cross-country work. I think Lam wanted to sell his part of the trucking division, and Jack heard about it through his connections and jumped in.” Blanche sat back in her chair. “He was cagey, all right.”

  He had to have had some idea about the trouble on the island and a possible link to his business. He seemed to have eyes everywhere, and here was proof of it. Tenuous, but a connection nonetheless.

  Be careful, he’d said.

  Blanche felt betrayed, and she couldn’t help it. Was he lying to her? Or protecting her? Or both?

  “Call Jack and find out what’s going on. Really, Blanche. You know he’d want to help. This is his home, and I’m sure he’d clear up some of this. He’s right in the middle of it,” she said.

  “I’ve tried to get after him. But he’s not very receptive. And he certainly has not been cooperative. We talked about Langstrom. Jack said he knew him. Said to stay out of it. The usual.”

  “The usual doesn’t get it. This business with those developers was building. Bobby had some cranks, and he could get riled up on the phone. At first, I thought that’s all it was. I didn’t see trouble coming. This Brecksall-Lam outfit went right over my head.”

  Liza turned back to the screen and scrolled down through the emails. “Here’s another: Brecksall-Lam is prepared to draw up an offer to purchase certain parcels of land, which will be used to build the mall, tentatively named Silver Shells Emporium, between Hibiscus Drive and Gulf Avenue. We anticipate your cooperation, as arrangements have been settled in your favor. In the unlikely event essential cooperative efforts are not in place by October 1, representatives of Brecksall-Lam will find it necessary to seek appropriate action through their agents.”

  “Appropriate action! Yeah, right,” said Liza. “There’s nothing appropriate about any of this.”

  Now Blanche had bullet points to go with the bubbles, and her hands were shaking. She stood back and looked at the web of deceit. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive…Gran again.

  Liza stared at the computer. “What bullshit.” She took a sip of whiskey and reached absently for her cigarettes. They both hovered over the screen.

  “They moved fast,” said Blanche. “But this is weird. Why would they be making ‘arrangements’ with Bob? What is that supposed to mean? Bob was against the development.”

  “He was against it. I know he was. He shouted at that phone, something about not wanting any ‘arrangements.’ That they had come up with them at the last minute. He told them, most emphatically, that their plans, such as they were, would not be in the interests of the island. An original deal was supposed to include the kids’ park and the nature preserve, but Bob wasn’t buying their version. They never came through like they said they would. They had another agenda. A takeover.”

  “Money. Somehow they got to him with cash, but he didn’t want it. He didn’t like their terms.”

  Liza pushed off the desk. “Yeah. They did make some donations. He asked me to make the deposits to a special account: SMI Parks-Preserve, it’s called. Actually, I made a couple deposits of just under $10,000 each over a month or so. They had to be broken up into smaller amounts so there wouldn’t be suspicion about the origin of the money. In any event, Bob didn’t want any complications, or questions. He said the money was for charity, plain and simple, for the park and the kids. I know that for sure because I heard him talking to the commissioner and to the pastor at St. Joseph’s, telling them about the improvement fund and plans for the sports teams. That money is sitting in that fund.”

  Blanche stopped scribbling dollar signs and connecting Bob and the “arrangements.” She stepped back. “My God. The check Bob produced at the meeting! They donated all that money?”

  “No. That check was money Bob raised through the historical society and from residuals on sales from Sunny Sands. That money was one hundred percent Bob. But this other is not. Brecksall-Lam made donations, and they lied about what they wanted to do with the north end. They weren’t planning parks and playground equipment. I’ll bet Bob was backing out, trying to return their money.” Liza drained the last of her whiskey. “Something went wrong.”

  “A lot went wrong.”

  The two looked around the office, from the whiteboard to the pile of notebooks, and back to the computer screen.

  Liza sat still as stone, but her wheels were going around. Blanche hurried over to the kitchenette and put a filter in the basket of the coffee maker.

  “Liza, did you ever see a guy and a white van hanging around the marina? Parked in the lot? Someone who seemed new around here?”

  Her gaze broke, she turned to Blanche. “I see a lot of delivery trucks. Pete’s Restaurant is near there, but I haven’t noticed anything, or anyone, new.”

  “Strange.” Blanche measured out the French roast.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I really didn’t want to bring it up, not yet, anyway. But this guy. He was definitely not a tourist or a snowbird. He looked so out of place, and suspicious. Hanging around, watching everybody at the marina. You know, that day.”

  “Put him in a bubble, Blanche. Even if he doesn’t pan out, at least we have him up there where we can check on him.”

  Lulled by the whiskey, suspended in the storm, they studied the tangle of information spread over the whiteboard. It was not a pretty picture.

  “Bob, it seems, was a victim of corporate manipulation, to put it mildly. But what was behind the donations? And what went wrong?”

  “Pretty simple.” Liza banged her fists on the table top. “He just wasn’t buying it. He resisted their plans, and they killed him.”

  Blanche handed Liza a box of tissues and a cup of black coffee. “It’s awful, and it’s weird. But somehow, at this point, I feel kind of relieved, Liza. They are not going to get away with it.”

  Liza’s eyes were blazing. “It’s dangerous, B.” She leafed through pages and checked Blanche’s board. She stacked the notes and notebooks, copies of emails, in chronology.

  “Jack certainly has some explaining to do, whether he likes it or not,” Blanche muttered.

  “In the meantime, here we have it. Evidence.” Liza pressed the print button on the computer, and out came dozens more emails. She pushed the desks together and spread the print-outs of emails, calendars, and notes and shuffled t
hem in order. Blanche taped computer paper together, drew lines and notes, and kept filling in the board with details. They worked through the afternoon, oblivious to the dark outside while the office burned bright.

  They had proof that Bob was operating outside the lines, and someone was out to get him. A. Smith in accounting signed some of the emails. It didn’t add up to a hit on Bob, but the recalcitrant exchanges were linked to Brecksall-Lam—and, unfortunately, to Jack, too. The question presented another disturbing twist. Blanche couldn’t deny that Jack was involved in the mess. But how? And how deep?

  “It helps that Jack knows the territory,” said Liza.

  “Helps or hurts. Who knows at this point? Could be bad. I’m mad as hell he didn’t level with me. Instead, he just tells me to be nice and go away. Like the whole thing is just going to go away.” That was exactly the problem. Way too much was going away.

  Twenty-One —

  Jack Be Very Nimble

  “Dammit, Jack. Don’t tell me to be careful, and don’t tell me to stay out of it again. I saw the emails from Brecksall-Lam. And I want to know how, exactly, you’re connected to these people.” Blanche was standing on what was left of her porch and yelling into her land line that for some reason still worked.

  “You don’t have to yell. I can hear you perfectly. Unfortunately.”

  She was too upset to let him try and calm her down. She felt betrayed by her only living relative, and her house was nearly destroyed as a result of Wilma blowing past the island. There had not been a direct hit, but in her ramble through the Gulf, the hurricane had blown out most of the southwest corner of the cabin. The second floor was cantilevered over the screened-in porch, which was mostly devoid of screen. Bertie had weathered Wilma, and she had gone on a road trip to visit her sister in Homosassa. In fact, most of the Santa Maria beach front had withstood the storm pretty well, except for Blanche’s old cabin.

  She looked around at the destruction. Everything was going to hell, but to Blanche hell was not a permanent residence. This could be fixed. Blanche was determined to pull herself out of this one, too.

  “Well, if you can hear me perfectly, why don’t you answer me? What is going on, Jack?”

  “Look, I’ll be back down there next week. We’ll talk about it when I see you, and by then I’ll know more. I don’t want you to talk to anyone about those emails, and tell Liza not to say anything either. Bob’s dead, and that’s awful, but let’s hope to God that’s the end of it. And, Bang, dammit all, I told you to stay out of it. Let me find out more about Langstrom’s dealings with Brecksall-Lam. I’m not sure how much the business is tied up in the mess, but I’ll see what I can do and let you know.”

  “Liza’s already gone to Duncan with some stuff—mostly emails she found in Bob’s computer. You’re going to have some explaining to do. Fair warning.”

  “Oh, swell.”

  Blanche could practically see him raking through that thick, dark hair.

  “Jack, are you OK? This doesn’t sound good. What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “I’m fine. But I really have to look into Brecksall and Lam’s history. I should have done more of that before I bought in, but there just wasn’t time. They’ve got it all, Blanche—trucking, legal, food, imports. I let the lawyers handle it because I was so busy. I finally signed the paperwork.”

  “You wanted to do that months ago. What happened?”

  “I tried. Had a lawyer on it and everything. Kept getting postponements. There was so much paperwork, and then along the way, plenty of screw-ups. I need this trucking line, Blanche, and I was pretty desperate, but transport across state lines involves a lot of bullshit.”

  Amos Wiley, construction genius and hurricane doctor, pulled up in his truck next to the cabin. He started whistling and dragging boards out of the back bed.

  “Gotta go, Jack. And you better be here next week like you promised. Or else.”

  “Or else what, Bang? You’re a trip.”

  “No, you’re the one with the trip. Here. Next week.”

  “I’ll try. Remember what I told you. Serious….”

  “Again. No. It’s too late.”

  Blanche threw down the phone and the broom, then kicked a pile of fronds she’d piled neatly and then decided to punish instead. The wind had gone, the water had receded, and she’d swept most of the sand out of the cabin. The condition inside on the first floor was another matter. The floor boards had buckled into small wet hills and seaweed decorated the furniture.

  Amos lugged two-by-fours across the sand. He waved and set about propping up the second story so it wouldn’t fall down into the porch. Oddly enough, as in most hurricanes, much of the infrastructure in the cabin was intact. The wiring worked. Sand was mounded around the plumbing in the ground floor bathroom, but the toilet flushed. She had to deal with the goofy-looking wavy boards until they dried out. It wasn’t the first time; she hoped it wouldn’t be the last. Many hurricanes had come and gone and tried to blow it all away. They’d failed so far.

  Twenty-Two —

  The Gulf Is a Hungry Ghost

  Blanche picked up the phone, dusted it off, and put it gently back in the cradle. Guiltily. She couldn’t seem to slip the anger that burst out of her. But she knew the antidote of the moment was Amos.

  She walked over to the corner of the porch. He was looking up and down at the ravaged cabin. “Don’t you wonder where it all goes?” He smiled at Blanche and looked out over the shining Gulf that belied the recent storm. The sun was brilliant on the water, and the sky was sapphire blue.

  “Only God knows.”

  “And Neptune.”

  Amos began fitting the uprights under the porch ceiling. He never looked like he was about to build a house, always dressed in lightly starched shirts and dark jeans. But he was a busy, hands-on contractor who had built the best houses on the island. Lately, he’d turned to rehabbing because most of the island was built up and out to the edges of the water, and Amos would not cram another house, even when permitted to do so, into one more fifty-foot-wide lot. With setbacks on either side, that kind of construction required ridiculously narrow houses with living room in front, kitchen in the middle and bedrooms in the back, all of it on stilts fourteen feet off the ground. The railroad flats of the island where there were no railroads. He’d been “footed” to death, sideways and back to front, kicked in the rear by all the zoning restrictions and the ever-present demand to build on every inch of beachfront footage. Now he did what he wanted to do, and it was all quality—mostly restoration and the occasional grand home inland.

  One good thing about the hurricane: She would get to see a lot of Amos. It was like he was part of the family; Gran had had a soft spot for him. He came over after every storm and often on Sundays for Gran’s cherry pie. He had a ton of gossip—and he was supremely adept at putting houses back together after a storm.

  Blanche righted an overturned Adirondack chair. “Want a chocolate sundae?”

  “Well, one thing at a time.” He was grinning. He tapped a board into place. “I have to go to the truck, but I’ll be right back. Put some peanuts on that sundae if you got ‘em.”

  Blanche scooped ice cream into bowls and drowned it in chocolate sauce. Fortunately, she had red-skinned peanuts in the freezer—to complete the Tin Roof sundaes. She carried them out to the porch and set them down on the table. She retrieved the chair cushions for the Adirondacks, one of them dragged off the beach where Wilma had deposited it in a dune. It would take her weeks of sweeping, pounding, and cleaning, once Amos got the structure back in shape. She yanked at one of the flapping screen panels and secured it against a nail.

  Amos dug into the sundae. “The best, as always, Blanche. Thanks! How you been?”

  “Except for Wilma, and the murder, and those plans that Langstrom is talking about, I’ve been just peachy. How about you?”

  “The murder. How could it happen?”

  “To Bob? I just don’t know.”

 
; “Well, I hear Dunc has his hands full on this one.”

  Blanche wanted to share her theory, and Liza’s find, but decided to turn her filter on. For once. Land development was Amos’s bailiwick, and any light he could shine there would help in the long run.

  “Langstrom. What do you think, Amos?”

  He gulped the last spoonful. “Don’t want anything to do with him. Those people don’t know what they’re doing.”

  “I wish you’d tell them that. They can’t do this to the island. They want the cottages, the park, the rest of the north end.”

  “They got a fight on their hands. They also got money.” It was a bitter message to swallow with all that ice cream.

  “Do you know anything about their plans? Aren’t you able to file objections to permits? You know all the ins and outs of coastal building. You have friends in Tallahassee. Can’t you stall that Chicago bunch?” She didn’t want to mention the business with Jack. She was worried that he was in trouble and talking about it to Amos would just give it life.

  “Whoa, Blanche. I’m quite the little guy when it comes to these guys. Like the St. Bellamy Corp. They’ve all but destroyed the Panhandle, the east coast, and they’re working their way through the state. At this point, we really don’t know what these Chicago folks are up to.”

  Amos looked at the corner of the porch. He pointed with his spoon. “Blanche, I have to tell you, you have other worries. More immediate. The town will condemn this place if it’s more than fifty percent destroyed. I’m just giving you a heads-up.”

  “It’s not half gone. The plumbing and wiring all work. Most of it is standing. Want to look around?” She jumped up eagerly.

  “It’s not what I have to say about it. The inspectors will tell you the second floor is uninhabitable, and it is. You can’t go up there. It isn’t safe. You better go to Cappy’s for now.”

  “But you can fix it, can’t you? You always have before.”

  “Of course, I’m going to try. But things are different now, and it has to do with money. A lot of it. You have a prime piece of beach here, and I know you want to hold on to it.” He looked out at the water and back at Blanche. “I have to say, I’ve never seen anything like it. If you can see a dot of water from a spot of land, they want to build on it, and they don’t give a hoot about restrictions and permits. They want weird staircases that spiral up to the roofs.” He shook his head. “They get too many margaritas in them, and then the little kids climbing… I don’t know where this is headed, but it’s not good.”