Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  Blanche frowned. “How can they get these permits? I thought you had to rebuild within the foot print if it’s a teardown.”

  “They’re buying off inspectors and officials left and right. They say they aren’t, that it’s special permitting, but they are making up more permits than anyone knows what to do with.”

  “Which reminds me. Mel told me some guy came asking her about property on Tuna Street.” A floorboard from the second story creaked, broke off, and plunked onto the beach in front of them. She felt like she’d lost a limb. “Oh, wow. I need my house back.”

  Amos took Blanche by the arm and guided her away from the corner.

  “Have you heard of this guy, Amos. A Sal someone?”

  “No, haven’t heard of that one. One of many. There’s only so much beachfront, and it seems they’ll stop at nothing.”

  “They’ll get caught and the market will collapse right on top of their heads.”

  “Maybe. In the meantime, enjoy the cabin after we get this mess cleaned up and hope for the best. Walk the beach. Don’t think about the rest. What good will it do?”

  “I’ll try.” She studied the corner. “You’ll try, too?”

  Amos grinned. “You know me. Every wall and door knob I put in feels like mine. I’ll get to it, and soon. Before those goons come around. You don’t want to be out of code, especially when that talk starts up at the next town hall meeting. The hurricane put a damper on that business for a bit, but they’ll be back, and I don’t like the sounds they’re making.”

  “What about them, Amos? Really. They’ve dreamed up a fantasy land. What can we do?”

  “We have to stall them, and we have to do what we can to prevent the permitting. I don’t know if it’ll work, but the island will never be the same if we don’t. And it’s not so much the ugly, commercial, cookie-cutter look of their plans. It’s just not good for the environment. Too much, too crowded. It’s just plain unnatural.”

  She and Amos looked out over Tuna Street at the white sand and turquoise water. Even with the devastation of the cabin, with the porch open to the breeze, it was paradise. The yellow beach flowers, revived and soaking up the sun, the palms and grasses glistening.

  “What if I just left it open like this?” Blanche looked over the exposed porch, a few steps up from the crushed shell.

  “Ha! Sometimes I wonder if you’re a girl or a gull.”

  “Bird brain, maybe. I swear Langstrom and this murder are making me crazy.”

  Amos gathered up a couple of tools. “Blanche. It’ll work out. It has to. Hang in there.”

  He added fuel to the notion that they wanted Bob out of the way. They were out there, and they were doing their worst.

  “And Bob,” said Amos. “He groused about those plans. The word is they left no room for the park and no way to handle all that traffic and asphalt. The kicker is most of the islanders wouldn’t be able to afford the housing they propose, and the property taxes. They’ll have to leave the island. No wonder Tallahassee is on board with the permitting. More money for the man. It’s getting to be one big sewer up there.”

  “So you think these hairballs had something to do with the murder?”

  “Hairballs! Ha! Like something the cat upchucked on the carpet?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s sort of a leap. For a cat or anyone.” He laughed, then frowned. “Hate to put words to it, Blanche. But if it’s true, that they killed Bob, it’ll come out. Just you wait. Duncan may be slow, but he’s plenty het up about this. He won’t let it go.”

  She smiled. “And I won’t either.”

  Twenty-Three —

  The Girl with

  the Black Jewels

  Amos promised Blanche he’d be back soon with an estimate—and some tools to secure the windows and doors. She was an adept handy woman, and she could do a bit of fixing up herself, but she needed help with the heavy lifting.

  Fortunately, Gran had left Blanche in a position to pay for repairs. Even so, the flood insurance skyrocketed every year. If Gran hadn’t taken care of covering that cost, the bill to fix the cabin would have been out of control. It appeared that Amos would need nearly $20,000 in materials alone to put the porch and the second floor back in order. He’d save Blanche a considerable amount on the labor.

  The place definitely was not habitable. She had to move out until the work was finished, and that was clear after a peek at the top floor. After Amos left, she ventured up the stairs to have a look. She stopped when the old cedar boards creaked a warning. The sky opened up through a hole in the roof. She mentally cranked in another $5,000 for roof repairs.

  She gazed longingly at the bookcase and bureau from where she perched at the top step. She dared not enter her own bedroom. It looked damp in there, books curling, the pages flipping in the breeze. Clothes were strewn around. Her bed was neatly made, and soaked. She wanted her things, but she would just have to do with what she scrounged downstairs.

  Her displacement wouldn’t be forever. But, in the back of her mind, was the nagging thought that maybe this was it. Wilma had done her worst, and Langstrom, or that Sal, would come in behind her and clean up.

  Blanche called Cappy. He didn’t answer, so she left a message. He would be happy to have her back at his place, and she’d be happy, too. She loved hanging out with him, listening to stories about island history. They drank tea at his kitchen table and sat at the bar eating the catch of the day. Cappy always had potatoes hot and ready—in soup, simmering, fried or baked—a bite of his Irish ancestry, he’d say.

  Blanche picked up the empty bowls before the ants got the last of the chocolate sauce. She turned toward the kitchen, and stopped. A spoon clattered to the porch floor. Someone, or something, was crying. She heard it coming from somewhere out in front of the cabin. Whatever it was, it started to wail. Higher and higher until it was almost singing. It wasn’t a bird, or any animal. The sound was human.

  She dropped the bowls on the table and walked off the porch toward the beach. The high-pitched cries were coming from a hollow in the dunes.

  The cry changed into a song and reached a crescendo, like a rainbow picking up colors after a rain. Someone was out there in the sea grass singing a tune with the birds and the waves.

  Bertie had been right. There was a presence on the beach. She’d heard it, too.

  Blanche crept over the sand, trying not to make a sound. She was barefoot but withstood the pine berries and broken shell. Sand had blown up during the storm, creating small hillocks of soft powder, and she stepped from one to the next.

  Now she could see through the low brush: A woman was sitting in a dip between two small dunes. Her hands were in the air as in an offering, the singsong mesmerizing. She had her back to Blanche, and all she could see was the woman’s black gleaming hair, plaited in a long braid. Her t-shirt was ripped and thin as tissue. The bones of her shoulder blades were small golden wings. She sat cross-legged, wearing short faded red pants, and her knees were polished brown knobs.

  The girl turned. Maybe it was a girl. She had an ageless glow, her skin smooth as stone. The eyes, like black jewels, had the quality of someone who had seen more than her years.

  “I hear you,” she said.

  “Well, I see you.”

  The girl put her hands on the ground and leapt up. Blanche stepped back. She was about the same height as Blanche. Her eyes were almond-shaped, lifted at the corners under perfectly arched brows. She had the aura of a blackbird, and she moved as quickly. She took hold of Blanche’s hand. “Strength,” she said.

  Blanche didn’t know what she was talking about. Was this advice or warning? Whatever it was, she didn’t feel any stronger than five minutes ago, or five days ago, for that matter, and lately she’d had a spell or two of feeling, quite frankly, pretty weak. Was the girl also going to tell her to be careful? That piece of advice was getting to be a drag. Blanche withdrew her hand from the girl’s grasp.

  “What are you doing here?” Blan
che’s voice was accusatory. She hadn’t meant that tone, but this odd appearance—added to the rest of the week—was pushing her to the edge. She was inclined to help the girl, if necessary, but she didn’t welcome the added confusion.

  “I live here,” the girl said.

  “No, you don’t. I live here.”

  The girl laughed. “No, no, I don’t mean the house. It looks like a fine house, and now you practically have the pines in it with the porch gone. The trees are home.”

  Blanche didn’t know whether to feel relieved, or tell her to leave. It was getting late, and she’d left a message with Cappy that she would be back soon, plus, she wanted to check in with Liza. Now this strange girl.

  Blanche had to leave, and all the while she was curious. She softened her tone. “Look, can I help you? Do you need to call someone? Where are you staying?”

  “That’s many questions, and none of them are important. You do not need to help me. I’d like to help you.” With that, the girl sat down on the sand. She pointed to a spot next to her. Blanche couldn’t see any harm in that, and now her curiosity had doubled. She sat down.

  “Stop thinking,” the girl said. “Listen to the pines, the waves, and the gulls. You are forgetting to listen. You will close your eyes.” The girl had closed her eyes and put her hands in her lap. She was sitting cross-legged again.

  Blanche knelt next to the girl. She should have been annoyed at the odd, staccato commands, but she wasn’t. The girl had made a fine suggestion. Blanche loved her trees and birds and beach. This girl was not telling her to do something she didn’t want to do. Blanche closed her eyes to view it all with her ears. She heard the sounds like she hadn’t heard them in a long time. The girl started singing in an even high tone. All Blanche could think of was wind in the dune grass, touching the waves, bending the beach flowers to the sand. The images went through her head like in a kaleidoscope.

  She kept her eyes closed. Ever since Gran died, she’d become more and more withdrawn, like a curtain was closing. Now it was opening, and she felt a burst of reasons why she loved being right here and nowhere else. Gran—and Cap—had always lived in the present, and it was something Blanche had great difficulty doing.

  She didn’t want the moment to end, but it would. It always did.

  Blanche opened her eyes, and the girl was gone. She had not heard anything, not a sound of movement or footsteps. She definitely needed practice listening. The girl had simply vanished. And in her absence, Blanche felt a strange calm, now tied to resolve she’d always had and lately lost. She closed her eyes again, and the waves broke, then receded, rolling toward the beach and then back, pulling and pushing. Strong and never stopping.

  Blanche could smell something like lemons and flowers that was sweet and tart at once. Had she been dreaming? No, she had not. There was an indentation in the sand where the girl had sat. Small pyramids of sand that the girl had scooped into piles were left where she’d been sitting.

  She crept around the scrub palm and snake grass looking for the girl. But there was no other sign of her. No camp or hideout, dug in or contrived from palm fronds. No clothing, no food. She had simply vanished.

  The girl was strange, indeed. Where had she come from, and what did she mean about listening?

  Blanche looked out at the clear line of turquoise that blended into a blue sky. It was her beach but not the same. Someone else had been there who seemed to know it as well as she did and in ways that Blanche rarely considered.

  Blanche didn’t even know the girl’s name, but she felt she knew her. “Girl,” she yelled. She stood on the sand under the pines and looked up and down the shoreline. “Girl!” But she was gone.

  She’d be back. Blanche was sure of it.

  Jack had been so right about those ghosts. How could she know they were real? Until now.

  Twenty-Four —

  Believe in Ghosts

  Cappy was sorting fishing tackle on his carport when Blanche drove up. She jumped out of the car and landed in a pile of rubber worms and feathered flies. Fishing line wrapped around one ankle. Blanche bent to extricate herself and made it worse.

  He clipped the line, and chuckled. “Catch of the day. On my carport.”

  “I’m sorry, Cappers. I’m not looking where I’m going.”

  “Don’t make a habit of it.”

  “Did you get my message? Amos came over, and he says I can’t stay in the cabin. Second floor’s hanging over the porch, and he probably can’t fix it for a few weeks. All right if I have my room back?”

  “Of course,” he said. He ratcheted up, back and legs creaking like an old machine, and stacked the last of his fishing equipment in the tackle boxes. He peered at the angry red mark the fishing line left on Blanche’s leg and shook his head. She rubbed it. He looked her in the eye. “What are you so fired up about? You’re hopping around like a toad on a hot pan.”

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “Really.” He held the screen door and waved her inside.

  Blanche perched on one of the counter stools. He made himself some tea and opened a Corona for Blanche.

  “So.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the counter. That was the thing about Cappy. He always had some time, and he listened. He did give out his share of free advice, but not without the listening first.

  “It’s crazy. I met a mermaid or an Indian princess, or a phantom. Or somebody! Right there on the beach in front of the cabin.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “She was real, Caps. This girl. She was chanting and sitting in the sea grass in the dunes. We talked for a while, listened to the birds and waves, but then she up and disappeared. Just like that. It was eerie.”

  Cappy’s mug of tea stopped midway to his lips. “That reminds me of a story I heard from Maeve years ago. I think she was sitting on that very stool. Maeve, not the Indian princess.”

  “An Indian princess?”

  “Yes, a story about one,” he said. “What did the girl look like?”

  “Eyes like black jewels. She was very small and raggedy dressed.”

  “Brown skinned?”

  “Gold, and her hair, black and shiny.”

  “Well, she’s no mermaid.” He mused, smiled and glanced at the sun streaking through the window. “I wonder.” Cappy took out a bunch of lettuce and commenced chopping. He seemed to think more clearly when he was fishing or cooking, and he always produced good results under both circumstances.

  “What are you wondering?” Blanche leaned on the edge of the counter, a thrill went through her. “Caps, this girl wanted to tell me something. More than just to listen to birds.”

  “Could be. If that’s true, she’ll be back. Keep an eye out. I haven’t seen any Native Americans around here for years, but they’re here. In all parts. She may be Miccosukee.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He pushed the cutting board aside. “The chanting, for one thing. And the listening. You said she talked about listening to the trees and wind. And those eyes. Just from your description, it makes me think of the Miccosukee chief who used to come through here when Maeve’s mother ran the rest stop. I’ll bet anything your mystery girl is somehow related to that chief and his people. Why else would she be here? And why is she taking an interest in you? I hope she comes back.”

  A wave of history washed over her, and she had no idea why. The connection was visceral.

  “Gran mentioned a chief but never told me the whole story.” She whispered, and Cap leaned forward. “She’d get misty so I didn’t push.”

  “Yeah, well, she didn’t tell you everything. How could she? Besides, your great grandmother and the chief spent time together, and that’s something Maeve probably wasn’t too happy about.”

  “Why?”

  Cap didn’t answer for a bit. “It’s a long time ago now.” He rested an arm on the counter top. “Maeve was left alone a lot when she was growing up. She took on responsibility at the store at a young age, a
nd then she took in you and Jack. She had a lot going on. And she had a big heart.”

  Blanche tried to imagine Gran as a child, talking to the leader of local Native Americans. “Gran,” said Blanche. The name alone brought comfort. Cappy’s expression was far away, and she pulled him back. “Come on, Cappers.”

  “There’s an old island story that comes from the Miccosukee who used to live near Tampa. Some came here to the island, but it’s been decades since we’ve seen the tribe, and a very long time since we saw the chief around here. The Native Americans have married and assimilated, but the customs and traditions, and the stories, still hang on.

  “I’ve got a story for you. A good one. Not sure how it relates to your girl with the black jewel eyes, but it just might.” He teased, all the while he peeled and sliced and dropped half a dozen potatoes into sizzling olive oil, grated a pile of cheese, and prepared a large bowl of arugula, avocado, and jicama. “You really want to hear that old stuff?”

  Blanche propped her elbows on the bar, ready to practice listening.

  Twenty-Five —

  Well, Once Upon a Time…

  “There was a small band of roving Miccosukee who settled in the sand dunes on Gull Egg Key, which as you know is now uninhabitable except for short walking tours. The water had overtaken most of the island but at one time it was like a stepping stone from Tampa to Santa Maria Island, and stopover for the Miccosukee. It was the perfect place to rest between the large mainland where they gathered mangoes, bananas, and coconuts and Santa Maria where they camped when the hurricanes came and washed over Gull Egg. It was an ideal life,” Cappy began.