Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

  “Landlubber!” George shouted after his retreating back.

  Shortly afterward, the costumed ones were loaded onto busses to drive down to Channelside, where we’d get on the float and prepare to join the parade.

  George and I stayed around to be sure his staff had everything on hand for the next phase of the celebrating while we were gone. The parade would wind through historic Ybor City. Afterwards, the buses would return us to George’s for late night snacks and coffee. Our float was about number ninety-one in the procession, so we could avoid the cold a while longer.

  Dad wasn’t the only one staying in tonight. About thirty would-be revelers had settled into the Sunset Bar with the television on to watch the parade in the comfort of seats, food, drink and most of all, warmth. Suzanne sat close to Dad, all cozy in a booth. I bid them goodbye and boarded the last bus.

  Channelside was a fine example of Tampa development. When we moved here, the land around the cruise ship dock was nothing short of an eyesore. Filled with abandoned warehouses and flat lots holding old beer cans and trash, it wasn’t a credit to the chamber of commerce.

  Today, the area houses The Florida Aquarium, Garrison Seaport, Channelside Shops, a movie theater, and is just a short walk from Tampa’s fabulous hockey arena. The only thing Tampans could find to complain about the area now is the increased traffic. On the evening of the Knight Parade, that complaint was more than justified.

  When we arrived at our float, we found it already fully loaded with members of Minaret Krewe dressed in costume and weighted down with beads, coins and candy to throw to the crowds. The body heat generated by those milling around on the float made the cold more bearable. I was getting a little warm, myself, but not enough to make me want to take off my long underwear.

  As I made my way to my assigned station, I noticed Margaret Wheaton and Armstrong Otter standing on the back of the float. I waved to Margaret, but she didn’t see me. She was too involved in her conversation with Armstrong, as he held her arm and no doubt regaled her with tales of his celebrity customers.

  I felt an almost involuntary scowl crease my features. Neither Margaret nor Armstrong were Krewe members. Why were they here? And together? There was no one for me to ask.

  The float, a replica of Minaret, the Krewe’s namesake, had been funded and built years before, when we first established the Krewe. The float required some sprucing up every year, but was mostly unchanged.

  It was a flat barge with a Minaret in the middle, a banner with the Krewe’s name on the front, and the shape of a pirate ship made it fit into the overall theme of the parade.

  George and I took our places at the front of the float next to Gil and Sandra Kelley, this year’s King and Queen.

  “We seem to have some non-members on the float tonight,” I leaned over and said to Sandra Kelley, who was standing on George’s right.

  “We probably had some people cancel out because of the cold and got some volunteers. The more the merrier, right?” And, to be sure I got her point, she rebuked me. “You don’t own the Krewe, Willa. George just sponsors it.”

  Her tone raised my anger and I tamped it down for the moment.

  The loud music someone had added to the float last year emanated from the miniature Minaret. The small tractor that would pull all of us along started up. I couldn’t talk to Sandra over the noise, keep my balance, and prepare to throw away the beads and candy given to me all at the same time.

  The conversation would have to wait, but I definitely intended to have it. I didn’t like Sandra Kelley’s short temper and angry threats against Dad.

  Unstable or not, I didn’t think she was dangerous. She just needed to understand that her behavior wouldn’t be tolerated. Not by me, on my own behalf or for Dad.

  The illuminated Sant’ Yago Knight Parade has been following the Parade of Pirates for more than forty years. The group that sponsors it, the Knights of Sant’ Yago, has about 275 members and claims to have roots in the ninth-century Spanish Brotherhood of the Royal Order of St. James.

  Like most of the clubs, or krewes that participate in the various Gasparilla events, the Knights use the revenue from the parade for good works. In this case, to fund renovation of historic club buildings in Ybor City, community projects and scholarships. Mostly, their aim is to promote the Latin heritage in Tampa.

  The parade route has been changed several times, but this year it wound down Channelside Drive, over to Ybor City, down Seventh Avenue, and terminated on the east end of town at 22nd Street.

  Wall-to-wall people lined the sides of the narrow streets from curb to storefronts. Most of them raised their arms and their voices as every float went by, seeking to catch whatever booty was thrown out to the spectators.

  The bars were open, selling beer and soft drinks out of barrels, both inside and out on the sidewalks. Beer, wine, soft drinks, hard liquor, and who knows what else flowed literally and figuratively all along the parade route. Already, the streets were a gooey mess.

  By the time we reached the end of the parade route, I was hoarse from yelling to George and the others over the noise of the music and the crowd. My arms were tired from throwing beads and coins to the spectators. The long underwear I’d so happily put on at the beginning of the night had turned into a cocoon of hot silk that had me sweating like I’d just completed a marathon at the head of the pack.

  George had to return to the restaurant so we were one of the first ones off the float, onto the bus, and back at home.

  As quickly as possible, I excused myself and headed upstairs. I peeled the wench’s garb off, followed by the now soaking wet silk underwear. I threw the clammy duds into a heap on the bathroom floor, hoping never to see them again.

  Beneath the steaming shower I began to feel a little revitalized. Once out, I managed my quick change: hair (three minutes), makeup (two minutes), clothes (three minutes). Usually I can do the clothes faster, but it took me a while to decide on the medium-weight, long-sleeved pink cotton dress and jacket from Fresh Produce. I had been very warm in my costume, but it was still only about forty degrees outside.

  When I had dawdled as long as possible, I returned to the restaurant. Most of the revelers had returned as well and were making their way through the buffet line. Everyone looked a bit worse for wear.

  I approached George and suggested he go upstairs and change, offering to play hostess while he was gone. Making my way around the tables of seated pirates and wenches, I deliberate took my time, and avoided the tables where the CJ and his wife sat, as well as where Sandra and Gil Kelley held court. George could deal with them when he returned.

  Dad and Suzanne were seated in the small blue room that was originally a parlor, and where dining was more intimate. They saw me and waved me over to join them, which I found myself curiously happy to do. Maybe that was because they had a free chair.

  Dad smiled while Suzanne squeezed my hand when I sat down. They shared the details of their television viewing experience with me, telling me all about the Knight Parade as if I hadn’t been one of the participants. It was actually fun to hear Suzanne’s take on the whole event, so childlike was she in her enthusiasm.

  When Dad excused himself to wash the barbecue sauce off his fingers, Suzanne took the opportunity to bend my ear about her latest shopping experience for “Elmo,” the name she and Dad had humorously given to my soon-to-be sibling until its sex was determined.

  She described the layette, toys, wallpaper, paint and accessories until my eyes glazed over. Being Suzanne, she never noticed how little I contributed to the conversation.

  I almost missed it when she uttered a startled, “Oh!” and allowed a momentary lull into her stream of chatter.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tampa, Florida

  Saturday 10:15 p.m.

  February 17, 2001

  “THERE’S THAT POLICE CHIEF, Willa. I don’t want to talk to him again. Sit up straight so he won’t see me,” she said, as she crouched down across the table fro
m me.

  “Why don’t you want to see Ben Hathaway?”

  “I just don’t want to tell him the same story over and over again, that’s all. He keeps asking me if I saw anybody with Ron Wheaton out on the veranda, and I didn’t. I wish I had. But I didn’t even know Ron was there. Until I found him alone and not breathing.” She shuddered again, remembering the experience that had upset her so much last Saturday.

  Hoping to avoid further waterworks—I’d had plenty of that—I said, “I’ve been thinking about the same thing, Suzanne. I tried to remember seeing Ron with anyone else during the party, but there were so many people here, I just don’t recall.”

  Of course, the entire discussion made her nervous and Suzanne started her incessant chattering again. “Well, I didn’t know him at all, so I wouldn’t have thought anything about it, except that he was in that wheelchair and I felt bad for him. I had talked to him a little bit. He was with that nice Armstrong Otter. And since I didn’t know very many people here, I went over and talked to both of them for a while. They were discussing Mr. Wheaton’s wife, and I don’t know her, either. Both of them were talking about how nice she was, how kind and loving. I remember because I thought that it would be wonderful if Jimmy felt that way about me after thirty years. But that was the only time I saw Mr. Wheaton before he died.”

  How could she go that long without breathing?

  I tuned her out. I’d seen Ron and Margaret talking with Armstrong Otter last Saturday, too. But that was earlier in the day. Surely, Hathaway had been able to determine whom Ron was with just before he died. I determined to find Hathaway and ask him.

  When Dad returned, I left them to continue visiting with our other guests.

  By the time I’d circled through the crowds, all the way around the dining room, the restaurant had started to thin out. Buses were again available for those not ready, willing or able to drive home.

  When I looked at my watch, it was after midnight. Feeling I’d done more than my duty today and that it had been a very long time since I’d awakened at four o’clock this morning, I waved goodbye to George, went upstairs and fell into oblivion.

  When I finally returned to the land of the living, it was late Sunday morning and the flat was empty. George was gone to parts unknown, leaving me with two sleepy dogs, an empty coffee pot and papers strewn all over the kitchen table.

  Cherishing the unexpected gift of peace and quiet, I made my café con leche and settled in the den with it and the four papers we get every Sunday morning. They were a jumbled mess, so I tried to sort them out before I started reading them, not wanting to get my current events from four cities mixed up.

  Then, I started with the Tribune, although I expected all the coverage to be about the Knight Parade yesterday and the festivities before and after.

  I spent the rest of the morning this way and then decided I needed some exercise, so I’d go to hit a bucket of golf balls. I’d been off the course for two weeks now and I was getting restless.

  When I’d dressed in light-weight slacks and a sweater, I snuck down the back stairs, leaving a note for George on the kitchen table, the place we’d decided all notes would be left after a fiasco a few weeks ago when he’d left me a note I hadn’t seen.

  The short drive to Great Oaks, the country club where I play golf, invigorated me as it always does. As I approached the large, plantation style club house, I realized anew how amazing it is that such a beautiful 36-hole golf course is nestled right in the center of South Tampa.

  Actually, Great Oaks was the only place to play golf that didn’t require a twenty-minute drive, so most golfers in South Tampa were members here.

  Fortunately for me, Great Oaks has a very liberal admissions policy: anyone who applies gets in. As a federal judge, I can’t belong to any discriminatory societies, and I wouldn’t want to, anyway.

  It was about two o’clock in the afternoon by this time and all the serious golfers would be off the course and back home. I went into the pro shop for a bucket of balls and asked to have my clubs brought around. In no time, I was out on the driving range, the bright Florida sunshine warming the still cool temperatures, and not a soul around.

  This was my idea of heaven on earth.

  After a few stretches to warm up, I began hitting the balls, five strokes with each club, rotating through all the clubs in my bag. Soon, the repetition of the swing allowed me to trance into a deep meditative state that gave me a chance to examine my issues.

  Avoiding the obviously more important issue of Ron Wheaton’s death in my home, I focused on attempting to come to terms with the new family I would soon be getting.

  George was right that I had nothing to say about all of this and I could either choose to be closer to my new family or more estranged from it. Living half the country away didn’t seem to be as much estranged from my Dad as I would be if I didn’t accept Suzanne.

  I believed in my heart that Suzanne wouldn’t stay with Dad long. She’d get bored with his empty conversation, tired of his low-key life style, angry with his failure to emotionally connect, and leave him heartbroken one of these days.

  Until that happened, if I wanted to have any kind of relationship with my father, I had to accept Suzanne. Of course, after she left, there would be the problem of half-siblings to cope with, too.

  Unlike some adult children in my situation, I wasn’t worried about my inheritance because I never expected to get one. I’d long ago told Dad I wanted him to spend all his money, prepay the funeral and put the last five dollars toward the party he’d be at when he died a happy old man at the age of 102.

  I was only kidding about the “prepay the funeral” part.

  George and I had done fairly well in the stock market, riding the long-term bull for the past ten years. George’s restaurant was profitable and I had a very decent salary from my job as a U.S. District Court judge for the rest of my lifetime, or as long as I wanted it.

  I knew Dad had made a provision for me in his will and that Suzanne could get him to change it, but that was a long way down the road and I truly didn’t care.

  Everything about the situation would have been easier if I hadn’t realized that Suzanne was such a nice kid. While her nervousness had made her early conversations and behavior seem vacuous and tedious, once she began to feel more comfortable around us, I noticed the character Dad loved.

  Suzanne was truly likeable and everything about her now made me want to take care of her. I’d enjoyed talking with her this past week about a variety of subjects—where I could get a word in.

  In some ways, living in New York City had made her sophisticated beyond her years. She looked smart, well-educated and savvy because she was. I couldn’t honestly say Suzanne would be bad for Jim Harper. Indeed, he was lucky to have attracted her.

  What I was worried about, truly, was me. That I’d refused to face this until now was typical of my Pollyanna attitude toward most of life.

  But now, the truth stared me full in the face. I was worried about being displaced in Dad’s affections by Suzanne and, worse, by his new children. His own natural children. Which I wasn’t.

  This wasn’t particularly noble, or even novel. It certainly wasn’t a mature attitude. Maybe deep emotions never are.

  People call me strong and intrepid. I think they mean it as a compliment. And most of the time, I am.

  But the Achilles’ heel I have is a deep, abiding, fear of abandonment. It’s not rational. I’ve considered going into analysis about it, although I never have. Usually, it doesn’t affect my daily life, so I can ignore it. But when it rears up and slaps me, I’m forced to pay attention.

  This was one of those times. I rarely talked to Dad, saw him more rarely, and thought of him almost never.

  Yet, he is my dad, with the emphasis being on the word “my.” Now, he’d be her husband and their dad, too, for I had no doubt there would be at least one more after this child. That thought caused me to hit the last ball over one-hundred yards—with
a pitching wedge.

  It took two buckets of balls to get through all the clubs in my bag and the stuff in my psyche but, afterward, I felt stretched, limber and relaxed for the first time since Dad had shown up with Suzanne.

  And I’d come to terms with my fears so that I could face my emotions and stare them down.

  At least, I could do that at the driving range where my resolve wasn’t being tested. That challenge was waiting for me back at Minaret when I returned to get dressed for an evening at the performing arts center to see a revival of Oklahoma with George, Dad and Suzanne.

  “Sandra Kelley called the house looking for you,” I told Dad, as we shared a glass of cheap—but not inexpensive—white wine at intermission.

  “I know. She told me when she bitched me out at the Knight Parade. She said she was pretty rude to you.”

  “You could say that,” I told him, wryly. “But, if she was rude to me, she was positively offensive about you. What’s going on?”

  Instead of answering my question, he asked his own. “Why don’t you tell me the local view of Gil Kelley?”

  “You already know that Gil inherited Tampa Bay Bank from his father, who acquired it by marriage to Gil’s mother. The bank was owned by the family until about 1990, when they sold off some shares.” The bells chimed to signal intermission was ending. I sipped more quickly. “George would know more about that than I do. Gil tried to sell some of the shares to George at the time, but George didn’t think it was a sound investment. I don’t know who bought into it.”

  “I do. And I want to ask you about those other shareholders. But for now, I just want to hear about Gil Kelley.”

  I sipped my wine, thinking about what to tell. Most of what I knew about Gil and Sandra Kelley was second-hand information. Things I heard at George’s parties, fundraisers, and on the golf course.