Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “That is not the intention at all. If that’s what you and everyone think, we sure aren’t doing our job.” He looked out the window. He had a striking profile. Half Bradley Cooper, and half David of Florence. Didn’t he say he was half Italian? Looks more northern….Dang! She forced herself to drop it.

  “Blanche, I want this to work, for a lot of reasons. I would really like to get to know you better.” Then the smile, the white teeth, the blue eyes, all converged on her, and she knew it was time to get the hell out of there.

  “But, why? We are so different…”

  “Well, vive la différence.”

  Mama mia.

  “I hope you will come to see that we have more in common than you think,” he said. “When Jack gets down here Wednesday, we should have dinner.”

  Wednesday! How does he know Jack is coming Wednesday?

  She didn’t trust herself to say another word. Her face was red hot, her temper on a low boil. Blanche picked up her bag and pushed her chair back. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Langstrom stood up, mouth open to speak, but she was gone.

  Twenty-Nine —

  Some Good Advice

  Blanche headed back toward the cabin with wings on her sandals. The running cleared Langstrom out of her head. For now. She needed to think.

  The beach it is.

  She was anxious to see the latest condition of the cabin. If Amos couldn’t fix it before the next wave of goons arrived for the inspection, she’d be sunk.

  The hurricane was hardly out of there, but Amos had already applied for permits to rebuild pronto, and that meant dealing with the local and state governments. He planned to use the footprint of the porch, but rebuilding in the beach zone required special permits. Special permits for a special place.

  They needed some magic, and if anyone could work it, Amos could. First, local building inspector, Asa Clarkson, had to put his stamp on the cabin project. Blanche wondered which side of the land development battle he was on. He’d been at the second meeting to discuss the Brecksall-Lam development, and he hadn’t said a word about the plans. There were people on the island who approved of the development plan—at the expense of Santa Maria. If he was a Brecksall-Lam supporter, he would give Amos hell about her permit. Another nudge at getting rid of the old, replacing it with the new and awful. This hurricane was especially ill-timed.

  Worry rambled through Blanche’s brain as she approached Tuna Street. She wondered about “the girl.” When would she show up again? Blanche had searched the beach but never saw any sign of her. She had spoken presciently. She haunted Blanche. Her knowledge of the island, and of Blanche. That was even more bizarre. Blanche wanted Cappy to meet the girl, if that were possible. But would she go, if and when Blanche found her?

  Blanche picked up a couple of boards lying near the foundation and stacked them where the stairs once were. The porch was still in a precarious condition with the second floor cantilevered over the southwest corner. But Amos had done a good job of propping it up with the two-by-fours. Blanche saw some evidence of chalk drawing on the concrete and a pile of empty soda cans in one corner. She’d call Amos tomorrow and find out about his progress.

  The afternoon glistened. The sun threw a silver path across the Gulf, and soon it would turn gold. The birds were quiet, the day cooling off. Blanche contemplated taking a walk a little earlier than usual. She kicked off her sandals.

  “Hello.”

  Blanche jumped. It was a soft sound, the source invisible. She scanned the beach. Of course, it had to be the girl, but she didn’t see her anywhere. Blanche walked quietly toward the dune where they first met.

  The girl stepped from behind a pine tree, blending into the sun and shadow. A dappled trick of the eye. Blanche might have missed her if she hadn’t spoken. The dark eyes were striking. Her hair was again swept back from her face, a tight braid resting on her shoulder. She wore a faded outfit, but this time the shorts were yellow, the shirt, a loose, creamy animal skin of some kind. No shoes.

  Her face glowed as if she held a secret she couldn’t wait to tell Blanche.

  “Hello yourself,” said Blanche. “You scared the bejeezus out of me.”

  “What is this? Bejeezus?”

  “I don’t know.” Blanche took a step closer. She was drawn to her as if they’d known each other forever, tied together in a love of the beach, the trees, and the birds. Two of a kind, and yet, different as the moon and the sun.

  “Want to go down to the water? I was just about to take a walk,” Blanche said.

  “Yes, I like that.” The girl extended one hand.

  She had an odd way of speaking. There was that lilt of an accent but her phrasing was old-fashioned and direct. And most of what she said was in the present tense.

  Blanche liked that. She often got right to the point herself. “Where did you come from?”

  “I say it before. I live here.”

  “But surely you don’t live on the beach, do you?”

  “Sometimes. When it is necessary.”

  “What do you mean by that? Necessary?”

  The girl laughed. “Again, you ask many, many questions. Right now, I am here, and I have a nice, quiet place. I will show you some time.”

  The girl rolled the shirt of skins into a neat bundle at the water’s edge. She walked straight into the Gulf and started swimming into the sun. Blanche watched her as if she were sighting a strange sea creature.

  Well, she is strange. But that’s good.

  Blanche waded into the surf up to her knees. She shuffled her feet flat against the sand, careful to alert sting rays to swim out of the way. She watched the girl, her golden arms rising with precision in graceful sweeps as she swam farther from shore. Blanche didn’t have any desire to swim to Mexico. She stood and splashed, her fingers skimming the surface of the warm water. The girl’s sleek black hair bobbed out of the Gulf as she came up for air. She turned then and waved at Blanche. Her teeth were startling white. She disappeared into the surf and popped up not two feet from Blanche.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Haasi.”

  “Blanche.”

  “I know.”

  “You seem to know a lot.”

  “Only those who don’t know anything act as if they know a lot,” the girl said, splashing toward Blanche. “I know very little.”

  “OK.” Blanche mulled that one over. She wasn’t in the mood for a philosophical discussion, but if that’s where they were going, then she’d be patient. And fascinated.

  Haasi sat next to Blanche at the edge of the water. “Haasi,” Blanche said. “That’s unusual. What does it mean?”

  “‘Sun’ in Miccosukee. My people also call me Hakla, which means ‘hear’. ”

  “You have the perfect name.”

  Haasi smiled. “I listen for the bird and the fox, the alligators, and snakes.”

  A gull flew off, its call echoing down the beach.

  They watched the rolling waves under a setting sun. It was calm today and the rhythm against the shore was easy and musical.

  “You talked about listening the first time I met you.”

  Haasi turned to her then, her eyes a brilliant darkness. “It is what we must do.”

  “We?”

  “We.”

  Blanche nodded. Listen. “To the sounds.”

  “Yes.” The wind and sea grass crackled. Creatures skittered all around them. “Snakes make particular sounds when they hide in the grass. Especially before they attack. Human snakes, too.”

  “I think I know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, I think you do. There are snakes. Everywhere.”

  Blanche considered this. “Now I’ve got snakes. Great. Developers, murderers, building inspectors with permits. And snakes.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Listen, always listen, and it will give you clues. I will help you.”

  “To hear what?”

  “Two-legged snakes.”

  “But
where? Out here on the beach? Did you overhear a conversation, or see something in the paper? Haasi, did you go to one of those meetings?”

  “All of it.” Haasi smiled.

  “Where are you getting this?”

  “People don’t notice me. I am small. And dark. That is an advantage. I have heard things that are not good. Some people want the money and the building and changes on the island. They are snakes; they do not care for the people who live here. Bob did not look where he stepped. He was not reckless, but he was a victim.”

  She turned to Haasi. “A victim! How do you know that?”

  “I hear some things, but it is too early to tell. We will see. Soon.”

  “All right, OK. We need to figure out a few things. A murder and this development plan, for starters… I’m really sick of all this.”

  “Things will not be fine if you don’t listen.” Haasi sat ramrod straight, her legs in a bow. “And I don’t mean with ears only. With eyes, with all the senses. Be aware.” There was no lack of seriousness and determination about her. She was lean, every muscle taut and agile. She sprang up, and Blanche knew she would disappear. The girl had the movements of a swift bird, busy and focused one minute and gone the next.

  “I will see you soon. I am around. And do not worry.”

  That was odd.

  They really hadn’t settled anything, except for one thing—an agreement that Blanche would “listen.” She thought she was a good listener. But maybe not. She had to listen well as a journalist. When interviewing for a story, she noted what was necessary for the writing, and she needed to remember it. If she stopped to write it all down in the middle of an interview, she usually disrupted the flow of information from a source. She’d nearly perfected the tactic of repeating a key bit of information in her head over and over so that it would stick, even while she thought of a new question. A sort of multi-word tasking.

  Blanche was good at it, and she was driven to get it right. She used memory tricks, she carried a notebook and a pen, and she’d developed a passable system of shorthand. And she listened. If she didn’t, she didn’t get the story. Lately, the journalism had come in handy.

  The girl should know this. But Blanche knew she was talking about something else, something deeper. Whatever the girl was talking about was something that wasn’t within Blanche’s reach. Not yet anyway.

  Blanche closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the waves, the shrieking of the gulls, the crackle of grass and palms as the wind played through them, and the hour got closer to sunset. She could hear the rain even before she felt it as it pattered toward her on the broad leaves of the sea grape. These were the lulling sounds, the music of the island. She sat still in the wet sand, and she listened.

  Thirty —

  The Hard Heart of Listening

  Listen. It was the first word Blanche thought of when she woke up with a start.

  Where am I?

  Then she remembered. She was at Cappy’s.

  She checked the numbers on the digital clock and rolled over. It wasn’t even five o’clock in the morning. She was groggy, snuggling back down into the huge feather bed. She had plenty of time before she had to get up, do errands, check the permits for the cabin—check with Liza and Duncan over some notes she’d taken after reading through those emails for the tenth time and fretting over Langstrom and his bunch of hairballs.

  It wasn’t too early for Cappy. It was his time to get up and get going. That was probably what she heard, the faint sounds of opening and closing and metal on metal at the back door. She punched the pillow and curled up under the covers. He was leaving to go fishing. She didn’t know why he insisted on rising so early, but he said it was “God’s hour and his, too.” Not a soul was around at the slip where he moored his boat. He glided out into the Gulf early before the sun came up and then watched it slowly bring on another day. He preferred sunrise to sunset, which he viewed as the end of things; Cappy liked the beginnings.

  She heard it again, a faint scraping sound. This was not Cappy. A chill ran through her. She wrestled with her thoughts at the edge of slumber, too anxious to move. She thought, it must be fronds against a back window, or an overzealous animal—feral cats roved the island and loved to nest in Cappy’s clump of palm trees.

  The scratching was not from a cat or a palm. Blanche stiffened. She sat up in bed and froze there in the dark. This can’t be.

  She crept out of bed and peered down the empty hall, the pictures on the wall reflecting shadows. It was quiet now, but she could hear her teeth grinding and she was shaking. She scooted behind the open bedroom door.

  Tree branches and animals didn’t make the same sound as metal on metal; tools did, knives did. She peeked around the door. Still nothing. She closed it softly and stood very still.

  Listen.

  Haasi’s direction seemed clear now, and essential, given the fear that crept over her. She listened with both ears and her whole body. If listening was key, then listen she would do.

  And talk.

  She thought of her cellphone. Where the hell was it? She crawled quietly across the bedroom floor, feeling for her bag at the foot of the bed. Papers, books, pens, more notebooks, but no phone. She pawed through the mess, dumping it all into the deep pile of the rug. No luck. Oh, great! With a sinking feeling, she felt around on the floor. Her fingers roved the nightstand, knocked a glass of water over. She pulled her shorts off the chair, put them on, searching the pockets, but the phone was not there.

  It was still quiet but for the beating in her chest. She breathed deeply, tried to calm down. Maybe it was just the hypersensitivity of the days. All of it building up and crashing down on her creating a flood of emotions. She was hearing things.

  Well, whatever the sound, she wanted to find that cellphone and get out of that bedroom. If only to stand out on the back deck and breathe the early morning island air. She could just walk out the door, or not. There is nothing wrong here.

  The scraping started up again. Now she knew. She had to get out of there, but there was no exit. The small windows were high, with screens. The hall to the front door ran past the back door, and whoever was there, would see her, even though it was dark. So dark, and maybe that would help. But how to get out? The house stood in a stand of trees, secluded, silent. The neighbors were back in Michigan. Blanche was alone, and for once in her life, she didn’t like it.

  She didn’t dare move down the hall. Now she recognized the sound. The back door was aluminum, and it fit into an aluminum frame. Someone was prying open the door, and whoever it was worked quietly but not quietly enough. Still, the sound carried, and it made her sweat. All she could think about was that someone was trying to get in the back door, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  She had to find that phone. There was a land line, but the receiver was missing. Maybe she’d carried it into the kitchen… or the bathroom? She couldn’t remember. And then there it was on the floor next to the closet. She’d knocked it off at some point, and now she almost tripped over it. How had she missed it?

  She grabbed the phone. It was dead. She stuck it on the cradle and prayed. She couldn’t see a thing, but she tried anyway, punched in 911 from memory. Nothing. She had to hide. She quickly ran back in the corner behind the bedroom door. No lock! And absolutely no luck! That’s when she saw the beam of light under the door, heard the boot hit the floor.

  “Don’t move.” A strange, chilling male voice. Low and rusty. He banged the door open. She couldn’t see him clearly, but he saw her behind the door, and he was quick. He shined the flashlight in her face. She still held the phone in her hand and thought fleetingly of hitting him over the head with it, but it was out of her hand and flung across the room before she knew it.

  The latex gloves chafed her arm; he yanked her out of the corner in one swift move. “Nothing will happen if you shut up. If you don’t, I’ll break every tooth in your head.”

  Blanche had no trouble shutting up, paralyzed as she wa
s with fear.

  Nothing will happen? Plenty is happening.

  And then, almost immediately, she was angry. “What the hell do you want?”

  “You.”

  “Why?”

  He was dragging her down the hall, through the kitchen and out the back door. Her feet danced an inch or so off the ground. This was not difficult for him since Blanche weighed all of 110 pounds, and he had a wiry strength that was formidable.

  A white van was parked at the edge of the driveway in the pines and scrub, hidden from view. The side door was open. A dent there, she noticed. And then Blanche was thrust onto the floor of the van. He tied her feet and hands swiftly with thick rope and then closed the side door with a heart-wrenching slam. The last thing she saw before she was pitched into darkness was a flag and skull near the back window.

  She was afraid to raise her head. She needed her bearings. She could feel the loopy carpet against her cheek. She smelled oil, like the van had been standing in a machine shop. Old, crusty carpeting scratched her skin. Her senses were raw, her mind racing with fear.

  Listen.

  She couldn’t hear a thing, except the rumble of the engine under her. He’d left the van running. Where was he taking her?

  He went around to the driver’s side and climbed in. He put the van in gear, lurched backward, looking over his shoulder. Blanche managed to turn, prop herself upright. She leaned back in the shadows against a bucket and tools and rope.

  They drove under a street light on Gulf Drive, and she got a look at his face. It was the same man she’d seen in the marina parking lot after Bob was murdered: young, smoking, lounging around, feigning no particular interest in his whereabouts. She was sure it was him.

  Now, what the hell am I going to do with this bit of information?

  Her fear grew and she used it. She was not about to let go. Maybe a good poke in the eyeball, or a well-placed kick. She’d have to find the right moment.

  Truth was, she was helpless and just plain out-of-her-mind afraid.

  “Where are you taking me? What do you want?” She surprised herself with the anger in her voice, surprised she could even find her voice.