Saving Tuna Street

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “Peaches! Cranberry muffins. Energy. We need energy. And a miracle,” said Liza. “Oh, my God, I don’t believe this. I need a cigarette.”

  Peaches dropped the bag on Duncan’s desk. A whoosh of freshly baked muffins sweetened the air. “I don’t know what to make of this place anymore,” said Peaches. “What are you doing to get her back?”

  “Now, ladies, please. We’re doing all we can.”

  “What is that?” Liza and Peaches, at once.

  Duncan was still holding the squawking radio as he faced the two women.

  “We have an all points. Everyone available is out there looking for her.”

  “It’s been hours. She could be over the state line by now.” Liza shouted. Her high heels clicked from one end of the office to the other.

  Duncan adopted a calm tone. “Ladies, I think it best that you go home now. We will keep you informed.”

  Peaches hugged Liza and headed for the door. She gave Duncan a high five. Liza huffed at him. “I have to do something. I can’t just sit.” Liza, just sitting, was impossible; she was a human tornado.

  “Well, when the time comes, soon, you can come over here and discuss those emails. I understand you and Blanche went over them together.”

  “I gave them to you last week, and you just ho-hummed.”

  “That wasn’t my intent. Now, with this Blanche business, and Bob, and all, we need to dig deep into that correspondence. And whatever else you can tell me.”

  “You have a date.”

  “Harumf.”

  “We found a definite connection between Bob and Brecksall-Lam, those development people. And, now, come to find out Jack’s working with them.”

  “Jack?”

  “Yes, Jack. Our Jack. Blanche was worried that he might have gotten himself into trouble. She was waiting for word from him. He’s supposed to come back soon. Now, sooner than ever.”

  “I need to call him,” said Duncan, “and he better start talking.”

  Thirty-Four —

  Bird on the Fly

  Blanche opened one eye. She was half asleep but not in bed. She was on hard ground, scratchy beneath her, but she couldn’t move her head or keep her eyes open. Then terror grabbed her. She felt the scrub around her, and it was hot out there. Of course, it was hot. It was Florida, but it was too hot for October. It was October, wasn’t it? She was so thirsty, she could hardly bear it. Her arms and legs wouldn’t move. She lay there. She was floating, and there were small purple flowers in front of her eyes, but she just couldn’t keep them open. She couldn’t move at all.

  She tried to listen. Someone had told her to listen. She tried hard, but it was so quiet. No birds or whistling pine trees. This was not the beach. Far from it. No soothing sand, gentle waves. Not even a frog or a cricket. Her fingernails dug into the soil, feeling for sand. She sifted some of it, and it soothed her. She drifted. She had no idea where she was going.

  I

  Cappy had hardly moved from the chair in Duncan’s office all day.

  The chief reassured him that nearly every white van in Florida had been stopped.

  “Dunc, that would be about every other vehicle.”

  “We aim, but we don’t always hit the mark,” he said. “We’re working across state lines now. Going to be a lot of pissed off painters and caterers getting pulled over.” An enormous sigh escaped. “You best go home now and get some rest.”

  Cappy stood up and shook the chief’s hand, looked him in the eye. “I’ll be back. Probably with my sleeping bag.”

  I

  Jack sat in the police chief’s office. His head bent forward, tearing at his hair. “Tell me again what happened. I can’t believe this.”

  “They found her notes among the stuff she left at Cappy’s. That girl takes a lot of notes—the guy in the van, the day of the murder, her suspicions about those development people. Thank the good Lord she’s got a knack for writing.”

  “Well, that’s great. I told her to stay out of it.”

  “A lot of good that did.”

  Duncan got up and walked around the desk and sat atop it. He folded his hands and leaned toward Jack. “Now, just suppose you tell me all about this Brecksall-Lam bunch you’re tied up with. And I mean now. Tell me.”

  Jack’s head was bent, almost touching his hands folded between his knees. He looked up and his eyes were red, his clothes disheveled. He’d gotten the first flight to Sarasota and come directly to the Santa Maria police station. It was almost ten hours since Blanche’s disappearance. Santa Maria was quaking with murder, destruction—and now kidnapping. The door to the station had been revolving as people came through offering food, coffee, time, and a lot of questions with no answers.

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Come clean, Jack. There’s more to this story. Blanche was right. She was on to something, and now she’s paying for it.”

  “Bang. She’s something else. Dunc, I’ll tell you. In confidence.” The two walked back to a small office off the kitchenette and closed the door. The chief crossed his arms. Jack sat down in one of the chairs, his face working, then he spat it out. “Brecksall and Lam are into drugs, big drugs, coming through Texas. I fell into it when I bought out their trucking division. I tried to back away from them, but it was too late.”

  “What the hell, Jack!”

  “I’d say so. I’ve been leading a double life. I can’t tell you what it’s been like. I’ve been trying to figure a way out.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the authorities?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “I’m an informant. DEA is just about to blow the whole thing up. RICO, tax evasion, money laundering. And now, I bet, kidnapping. And they want me on board,” he said. “My, God! Blanche!”

  “Let me guess. The money laundering. Would that have anything to do with this fine little cast of Disney characters on the island?”

  “Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, and, mostly, Goofy.” Both hands raked his spiky dark hair. “All of them. Pretty f-ed up.”

  “Great.”

  “If I’d told her what was happening, it might have been worse. But as it is, it couldn’t be worse. She just doesn’t let go.” Jack left the tiny room and paced all around the office. His shirt hung out of his pants, and he looked like he was near tears. “We have to find her.”

  “No kidding.” Duncan was back on the phone, and he had another one ringing. “Georgia State Police? Yeah, this is Duncan. What are they doing at the state line? Any developments?”

  Jack leaned on every word, and none of it sounded good. He sank into a chair. He was going to kill Brecksall if he ever got his hands on him. Not only Brecksall, but others as well. There was a bad bunch involved, and it should never have come to this. They should have handled their business better, faster, safer. How about legally? Now this. If anything happened to Blanche, there would be hell to pay. He just hoped he wasn’t too late.

  I

  He sat on the bed in the motel room, the phone glued to his ear. He rolled up a sleeve of his blue oxford pinpoint, drove a hand into the pocket of his pressed khakis. He was sweating, and the heat of the cellphone was making him crazy. All of these calls were driving him crazy. He had to keep switching phones, throwing out the old and picking up new ones. The bay was probably bubbling with the disease of these evil burners tossed into the depths. But he had to keep changing them out. It was important no one trace the calls.

  “What are you talking about? I told you not to kill her.” He sat, hunched over his knees, one hand covering his eyes. He got up and walked around the room.

  “All right, you dumbass. Call me back. Yes, this number is good for a few more hours.”

  It wasn’t a bad location, with the beach just off a private patio, but it was hardly five-star either. He picked up the remote absently and then dropped it on the brocade bedspread. Looked like Pauline Hemingway had been there. Yellow and red Spanish with fringe, and a faux crystal chandelier. W
hat they need in this place is central air!

  He didn’t want to watch television, and he was sick of listening to these people, constantly tuning in and taking orders from the greedy bastards. He was stuck at one of the better island motels with a pool and Jacuzzi. All the comforts of home. But he wanted out of there. He wanted the money, and he wanted to be gone.

  The phone rang again. “You dumped her where? Well, that’s just great. Out there with the cattle and snakes. What is that? Fifty miles from St. Pete? Isn’t that the old Wells ranch?”

  He was pacing again. “What about the van? They won’t find it then, and they won’t find her. I’m tellin’ you, I don’t want to be tied up in it anymore.”

  Pause. More pacing. He picked up the remote again and switched on the news with the sound off. “I don’t give a shit. I did my work down here, and now I want out. You’re going to have to follow through, and it’s probably best to let things settle in. Let them realize they shouldn’t be trying to block the plans. Let time take its course. You never know, maybe a hurricane will blow the whole place off the map, and then won’t you be happy.”

  There was a long pause. He stood still and listened to the sounds around him. “Wait a minute. I want to check outside.” He went to the window, but he didn’t see anyone there. The palm trees rustled and crackled, a bird sang out. He went back to his call.

  “I gave you the numbers. Yeah, the Swiss account we opened. Get it right. Or else.”

  The two-legged snake had spoken, and that was all the bird listening at the window needed to hear. She flew away.

  I

  There was no word on Blanche’s whereabouts. The white van they were looking for had not been spotted although thousands of white vans had been stopped, ransacked, the drivers questioned, traffic held up. Worry and frustration on the island mounted if the phone calls to Duncan could be any barometer. He had been at it all day with every patrol car and station in the state that he could recruit. Not a clue had turned up so far.

  He needed sleep. But he couldn’t go home and go to bed for the night. He had every county checking in. Sleep wasn’t going to happen. But he was no good if he didn’t at least try to get a nap.

  He’d driven Jack back to Cappy’s, and he hoped they were getting some rest. Cappy did not look well. Dunc was glad Jack was there, but his entanglement did nothing to soothe nerves. Everyone was frazzled, and still no word on Blanche.

  Duncan took a hot shower and fell into bed. He couldn’t eat anything except Tums. Emma was already snoring, and no question she’d been plenty tired, trekking back and forth to the station with sandwiches and coffee for him and all the islanders who hung around wanting to help. They were full of theories and, really, Duncan lamented, they were not any help at all. They were in the way. Duncan finally told them to go home. He had pulled out all the stops. He had more law enforcement on this than there was for the Lindbergh baby.

  Clint Wilkinson at the Island Times had insisted on staying and listening to the police scanner and reading the blotter. He perused every lead that came in and drove the police chief to the edge: “This is not the time nor the place, Clint. You are going to have to go. We’ll stay on it. I’ve got Sergeant Otom on it all night. He is going to wake me up and the entire island when he gets some word. Right now we have to get some rest.”

  Clint left in a huff but not before he reminded the police chief again to call him if he got word of Blanche’s whereabouts. “And I’m not talking editorial here. I don’t give a rat’s ass about the story. I want her back,” Clint said. “Blanche means the world to me. She’s like a daughter…” His voice trailed off for fear of being a blubbering fool. He couldn’t say another word. But at this point it didn’t seem to matter. He was beside himself with worry, and he wasn’t alone. Clint’s comment hit home with Duncan: “Same here,” he said, and turned away. They were supposed to be tough.

  But deep down, Dunc was plenty worried. Blanche had been missing for at least a day, and the trail was stone cold.

  The chief punched his pillow and tried to still the demons hurtling through his brain. He was almost asleep, despite the worry and gallon of coffee he’d consumed during the day, when the tapping started. A light sound at first, and then it got louder. He lifted his head and looked toward the window. A round shape was barely visible in the dark. A street light near his house cast some light, but he couldn’t tell if it was a face. He thought he was hallucinating, which was highly possible, given his state of mind. He wasn’t used to this. He was nearly sixty, and he wasn’t a young stud football player full of it any more. The whole business was close to giving him cause for heart failure. Emma harping at him to plan retirement didn’t help either.

  He squinted in the darkness. The shape was still there, and this time the tapping was louder. He got out of bed and walked over to the window. It was a girl—a girl with black hair and eyes like a bird.

  He glanced over at Emma, but she was still snoring. He opened the window. “My God, don’t you ever sleep?”

  “There will be time for that. Right now is not the time.”

  “What do you want now? And where have you been all day? We have more questions.”

  “Yes, there are always many questions and never any answers.”

  “Just a minute.” The chief went for his pants and dragged them wearily over his knees. He went around to the backyard and started to call to the girl, but she was already there, standing in front of him with that straight back of hers and those piercing black eyes.

  “I know where Blanche is and we must go. Now. I hope there is time.”

  “What are you talking about? How do you know?”

  “I’ll explain later. Do you know this Wells ranch, cattle and snakes, about fifty miles from St. Pete’s? I think it is St. Petersburg.”

  “That sounds like the Roland Wellston ranch, owns half of Florida, and has a big spread out in the midlands in cattle country.”

  “Go. Now.”

  He didn’t waste any time while he still prodded her with a few questions. She raised slim fingers. “Go.” Within five minutes, he put his shoes and shirt on and got the car running with the girl in the back seat. There wasn’t one single minute to lose, she insisted. Duncan remembered: Roland was long gone, and his ranch had become dead man’s dump, if there ever was one.

  Thirty-Five —

  Rose to the Rescue

  She couldn’t open her eyes, nor her mouth. Everything seemed glued shut, and she was shutting off. Like a light switch. Blanche wanted to laugh at that, but she couldn’t laugh. It wasn’t that funny anyway. It was strange is what it was. She was going away, but she hadn’t packed anything. She didn’t have shoes, or money. She couldn’t feel her clothes. She could hardly feel the ground. It seemed like she was just plain numb, which was fine.

  She blinked then. She couldn’t feel, but she could see, even with her eyes shut. Someone stood not ten feet from her. Rose. Blanche tried to talk, but then she didn’t need to.

  What are you doing here, Mom?

  She didn’t speak, she just stood there and smiled at Blanche, and Blanche tried to smile back but, of course, she couldn’t. She tried to open her eyes again, but she couldn’t see very well, nor could she move her lips.

  Rose was wearing a plaid dress, the one Blanche loved. They’d made a chocolate cake together in that old kitchen. The blue one with the red-striped wallpaper. Blanche’s head barely came up to the counter, so her mother lifted her on to a small stool. Rose beat together the sugar and the eggs under the cabinet light, and she was laughing at Blanche with flour on her nose. Rose lifted the orange bowl and swept batter into pans. Rose hugged Blanche, getting flour on her brown canvas smock. She had been finger painting. Blanche wanted to hug her back, but she couldn’t move her arms. She just lay there, watching and waiting for Rose to lift her again, and maybe she would.

  It had been so hot in this place, boiling hot, in fact. She was boiling up. That was earlier, but now it was cool, and peac
eful. She wanted Rose to talk to her, but she didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t go away either. She stood there looking at Blanche, and as long as she was there, Blanche felt like she couldn’t go away either. She couldn’t just leave her mother standing there, looking at her. She hadn’t seen her in so long. How long was it? She was so glad to see her, and Blanche tried to tell her that, but there didn’t seem to be any need. Rose knew Blanche was happy, and she wasn’t in pain, just cool and peaceful there, lying on the sandy soil, among the purple flowers, waiting.

  Blanche wanted to go with Rose. That was it. But Rose didn’t want her to leave the spot. She wanted something else, and Blanche tried to figure out what it was but she couldn’t break through. She couldn’t think what it could be. What could be better than going with Rose? Blanche didn’t know. She couldn’t think anymore either.

  She had to be still. And listen.

  She couldn’t help hearing it. At first, the sound was far away, and frightening. She couldn’t get away from it. She couldn’t see where it was. She just listened and didn’t move. It wasn’t a hurricane but it was as loud as one. Like a train but rhythmical. In cycles, or circles. Far away, clap, clap, clap. It came nearer. Maybe it would take her and Rose out of this place. It wasn’t pleasant here anyway. She was more than ready to get out of there.

  An enormous bird with wings covered the field where she was lying. Its wingspan darkened the area until it was the blackest dream she’d ever had, so dark and deep she just wanted to fall and keep on falling into it. Maybe the bird would scoop her up and save her or fly her around in the dream. But it was loud, the loudest bird. Not the sweet cawing or tweeting, like outside her porch. The bird no longer called sharply. It made a dense, dull sound. Whomp-whomp. A huge mouth that would eat her. Pick her up and carry her off.

  Gusts of wind blew over her, and lights flashed on and off behind her eyelids. The dark was gone. The sound of the giant wings was terrifying, and closer. She heard shouting. Rose wouldn’t shout like that.