"It could be bad luck," Oscar said. "Like the Thirteenth Galleon."
"Thirteenth Galleon?" Mer asked.
His dark eyes never left the coin. "It is an old legend that tells of cursed gold," he clarified.
"And here I was starting to like you," Mer said.
Leroy clapped Oscar on the shoulder. "Don't worry. I'm liking you more and more." He grew serious. "What now?"
A drop of rain splatted the coin. "Try not to lose it again before giving it to the police."
"Ay! Dios mío!" A horrified expression twisted Oscar's face. "The police? This needs to go to a museum. Not into some officer's pocket."
The thought that an officer might keep the coin had never crossed her mind. The legal system in the United States wasn't perfect, but it wasn't rife with corruption like many other countries. She wasn't particularly fond of Deputy Cole, but she had no cause to believe that he would do anything other than book the coin into evidence. Detective Talbot? Despite finding herself the focus of one of his recent investigations, she still had no reason to doubt his integrity.
But Oscar had a point. Unless the coin was fake, it had value. Maybe even museum quality considering its pristine condition. How long would it languish in the bowels of an evidence locker? The coin had surfaced in a bale of drugs. She doubted anyone would walk into a police station to claim it.
"The police will know what to do with it." She closed her fingers around the coin. Her civic duty demanded she turn it in, but it certainly wouldn't hurt to research the coin's provenance a bit before she did.
"Ready for another lesson?" Without waiting for Oscar to answer, she wended her way to the V-berth and descended into the cramped musty quarters where her backpack nestled against a stack of bright orange life jackets. She unzipped the pocket holding her wallet and tucked the coin into an empty credit card slot so it wouldn't slide against the harder metals of modern coins.
The V-berth darkened and Oscar stood hunched in the hatch opening. "Will you really give it to the police?"
"It's the right thing to do." She zipped the pack. "Isn't it the same where you're from?"
"That is complicated."
She checked her watch. They still had a bit of time before the divers would surface. Sidestepping, she made room for him in the tight area. "What did you do back home?"
The glasses had slid down his face and he took his time pushing them back into place. "I was a historian. I worked in Habana—Havana," he corrected himself. "The Archivo Nacional de Cuba."
A fellow academic. That explained the instant affinity she'd felt for the soft-spoken man. "What brings you here?"
"America is the land of opportunity, is it not?" The wistful expression on his face brightened. "I am here for the adventure."
"Then we need to make sure you impress Bijoux."
6
Mer considered herself a reasonably intelligent woman, but smart wasn't the word used to describe a person who went to the grocery store the night before Thanksgiving.
The lack of parking was her first clue. Almost getting run over before she even hit the door was the second. Yet neither prepared her for the mass of people milling in the aisles when she entered Winn-Dixie.
Armed with her shopping list, she had one goal. Get what she needed and get out.
A lone grocery cart remained in the foyer. She grabbed it, steeled herself for a full-contact game of bumper carts, and joined the fray.
Thanksgiving dinner took a surprising amount of things she'd never used before and she started at the far side of the store.
Four steps into the third aisle, she realized she didn't need anything down it, but retreat was impossible. A man wearing a New York Mets ball cap and red Converse tennis shoes drafted too close behind her to maneuver around without creating a multi-cart pileup.
Two more aisles of shopping left her yearning for the sanctuary of her apartment. Holiday tunes, price checks, and young children mid-meltdowns created a constant din. Pallets blocked the center of already crowded aisles as clerks frantically tried to restock shelves.
She rounded the corner of the spice aisle and collided with an empty cart.
The man in the Mets cap scowled and threw a package of sugar into the top basket. "Watch where you're going."
In the spirit of the holidays, Mer swallowed an uncharitable retort. "Sorry."
He turned his back on her and knelt to examine something on the bottom shelf. Boxer shorts stuck out of the top of his black jeans.
A woman stood on the other side of the aisle holding a can of evaporated milk in one hand and condensed milk in the other. Not enough space existed to allow Mer to pass.
The woman nudged her teenage daughter. "Which is it you use for Key lime pie?" She had a heavy New York accent.
The daughter shrugged and continued to study her phone.
If there was one thing people who lived in the Keys knew, it was how to make a Key lime pie. Even in her short time on the island, Mer had been bombarded with recipes—none of which she'd actually tried, but she still knew the answer. "Condensed."
The woman eyed Mer as if trying to decide her credibility and then put both cans in her cart and poked it forward a centimeter.
Not nearly enough.
Mer tried not to let her exasperation leech into her voice. "Mind if I squeeze by?"
The woman ignored her.
Mer glanced at her watch. Seven o'clock. The store closed at ten, and the way things were going, she wasn't sure she'd finish. She lifted the back of her cart to get a better angle and calculated the velocity required to smash through. Just before Mer attained ramming speed, the Met's fan stood. His shoulder caught the underside of her backpack and lifted it off her shoulder. The bag slid the length of her arm, but he caught it before it hit her wrist.
"Sorry," he said. "Let me help." He twisted the backpack, trapping her elbow.
"I've got it." Mer tugged, but it was still caught up between them. A second yank tore it from his grasp and she resettled the bag on her shoulder. She backed away, wary.
"Happy Thanksgiving." His lips moved, but the smile didn't register with his eyes. He knelt again and studied the items on the shelf. Packaged stuffing.
The crowd was getting to her. He was just another hapless soul trying to prepare for tomorrow. "Happy Thanksgiving," she echoed.
The produce section looked as empty as the water aisle before a hurricane. A stock-boy busied himself opening new boxes of carrots and celery. Mer waited for the three women ahead of her and then claimed her own bags.
Finally the only thing left was the turkey. She rolled through the frozen section and paused in front of the pot pies. They looked a whole lot more appealing than the mound of food in her cart. She'd only thrown a handful of dinner parties—and they'd been impromptu affairs involving fellow grad students—nothing steeped in tradition and expectation.
The pot pies beckoned, singing their siren song of convenience from behind a fogged freezer door. Unable to resist, Mer deposited six boxes in her cart—just in case.
Three steps later, she changed her mind. Backtracking, she replaced the pot pies on their cold shelf. She could do this. Breaking bread was a long-held tradition for establishing a community bond. She'd decided to stay in the Keys. That meant she needed to make it a home—and tomorrow, that required turkey. Not pot pies. Turkey.
A sign hanging above an open chest freezer at the end of the aisle advertised holiday birds. Mer leaned over the cavernous void. Two turkeys remained—one the size of a quail, the other a twenty-six pound monster. She did the math. Half a pound apiece, six people. Even with a margin for error, she'd be eating turkey until Easter.
Served her right for putting off shopping until the last minute. She hoisted Birdzilla into her cart and embarked on a quest for a register.
An abandoned cart with a bag of sugar in it blocked her path. No sign of the Mets fan. Who could blame him? Even the express line moved at a glacial pace.
At last she unload
ed her items onto the conveyor belt. She estimated the cost in her head and gulped. No one worked on a dive boat to get rich. But this meal meant so much to her. It had to be perfect—and perfect cost an appalling amount of money.
Each item pinged as the cashier mechanically swiped things over the sensor. Dark circles shadowed her eyes and she couldn't even pretend to smile. "Do you have your Winn-Dixie card?"
"Oh, yes. Just a second." Mer swung her backpack off to retrieve her wallet.
The front pocket was partially unzipped. And empty.
Her heart lurched.
She ripped open the main compartment and rummaged through the contents in case she'd dropped the wallet in there by mistake.
The cashier scanned more items and slid them toward the bagger.
Mer propped the backpack against the cart and yanked out her towel to get a better look. Dive slates, sunscreen, EpiPen, first aid kit, lip balm, glasses. Before leaving the boat, she'd rewrapped the coin in her sunglass micro-cloth to protect it, and she felt the reassuring weight of it in the bottom of her backpack. But no wallet.
The cashier announced the total.
Mer's mouth went dry. "I don't have my wallet."
The woman behind her exhaled loudly.
Mer flushed. "I'm sorry. It was right here." She addressed the cashier. "Can you hold my groceries aside? I'll come right back."
"There's perishables, we need to restock them before they spoil."
The thought of going through the entire store again was almost worse than not having her wallet. "Please, I just have to run home. I'll be right back."
The circles under the cashier's eyes seemed to darken as Mer waited for an answer.
"Hurry."
* * *
Mer ran to her car. A quick search confirmed that her wallet hadn't fallen from her backpack and wedged under the seat. She jammed the key into the ignition. Nothing in Key Largo was very far from anything else, but with only one thoroughfare, getting there could be a challenge.
Her fingers tapped the steering wheel. Four cars waited to get out of the parking lot ahead of her. The clock on her dash ticked off another minute. Where had she put her wallet?
A truck pulled in behind her. Higher than her Subaru, its lights struck her mirror and blinded her. Great.
The line crept forward.
She considered herself a cautious driver. Never had a ticket. No accidents. All that went out the window the moment it was her turn. Six miles separated her from her home and an envelope of emergency cash. Never had it seemed so far. She darted onto the highway, quick as a dragonfly. The truck sucked up to her bumper and entered, too.
The speed limit on the Overseas Highway capped out at forty-five miles an hour, but the holiday traffic hobbled it to a much slower pace. The truck continued to tailgate her Subaru and she merged into the left lane to escape the headlights. It followed. A dull throb started behind Mer's eyes.
"Fine, the lane's all yours." She shifted back into the right lane. It wasn't enough she'd lost her wallet. Now she had an idiot who wanted to ride in her backseat.
The driver ahead of her signaled and slowed for a driveway. Next to her, the driver of the truck mirrored her speed, backing up the already congested traffic. Someone honked.
Unease swept through Mer's body. As soon as her path cleared, she stomped on the gas and her car jumped forward. The other driver revved the diesel engine and caught up to her, the light from the headlights striking her side mirror.
She gritted her teeth. It had to be intentional.
The traffic light at Tarpon Springs neared. She checked the dashboard clock. Another two minutes gone. She didn't have time to spare, but she wanted to get away from the maniac in the truck. The left turn lane loomed and Mer swerved in front of the truck and caught the light into the shopping center. The truck turned, too. Her heart rate surged. With a whispered apology to her car's suspension, she floored it over the speed bumps, and then made a U-turn to take her back onto the highway.
The truck turned down one of the crowded lanes and the driver parked the black Ford under a light.
Relief washed over her. What a ninny she was. Her last name was neither Bourne nor Bond. She didn't warrant this type of attention and it was asinine to think she did. She clicked on her turn signal.
The traffic light turned green and Mer eased back onto the highway.
A long honk behind her drew her attention back to the mirror. The pickup fishtailed through the intersection.
Mer jerked her backpack across the passenger seat and dug into the pocket that held her cellphone. At least she still had that.
The phone rang twice and she held her breath, hoping that it wouldn't go to voicemail. It rang a third time.
"Please, oh please, oh please," Mer whispered. "Please be home from your trip."
"Hey there!" Selkie sounded slightly winded.
"I'm being followed. I need you to meet me at the gate."
"What's your ETA?"
That's what she loved about this man. No unnecessary questions. Just action. "Driving time from the post office."
"Got it."
The truck followed from a distance, as if the driver was afraid to spook her. A little late for that.
"If I shout directions, just do it, okay?" His voice exuded confidence.
Mer took a deep breath. "Okay. I'm ready." She could do this. Whatever this was.
"I won't let anyone hurt you."
"See you in a minute." Her voice shook.
The digits on the dash clock changed again, but now, time seemed to slow.
The Ford remained in the right lane. She neared her street on the left, but didn't signal. At the last possible moment, she veered into the turn lane. And stopped.
The swell of traffic carried the truck past her.
But only for a moment. Cutting off a car, the driver bounced a U-turn across the grass median, and headed back her direction.
Mer's heart clogged her throat.
"Come on." She pounded her fist against the steering wheel.
Finally a break.
She gunned the car and shot through a tiny opening in the oncoming traffic. Horns blared. She didn't care. She had to get away.
Less than a mile of empty roadway and she'd be at the security gate.
Her breath escaped in a whoosh. If she arrived before Selkie, she'd be screwed.
He'd be there. He had to be. She accelerated.
Behind her, headlights turned onto the street.
The chain-link fence of the marina and boatyard flew by on her right. Closed up and dark, it offered no protection.
The road narrowed as she neared the gate. Lush landscaping rose on her left. Shadowed and foreboding.
The window took forever to lower. Warm air blasted her face and carried the scent of hot asphalt and salt. No sign of Selkie.
Mer leaned out of the car and tapped the code onto the security keypad.
Headlights flashed behind her. Closer.
The gate lurched, traveling on its narrow track at a woefully slow pace.
Where was Selkie?
No time to dwell upon that now. She was on her own.
She leaned over and opened the glove compartment, searching for a weapon among the owner's manual, tissues, and spare tank O-rings.
Headlights flooded the Subaru. Exposed her.
Her hand slid into the pocket behind the passenger seat and closed around an old flashlight. Not great. Better than tissues.
The gate rumbled. Still not enough space for her to shoot the gap.
A door slammed behind her.
She gripped the flashlight. Glanced in the side mirror. A figure advanced. A man.
The canal was on her right. She might not be able to outrun someone, but the boats would hide her. If he had a gun...
She threw open the door and clicked on the flashlight. Five hundred lumens of light blasted her pursuer in the face. He raised his hand against the glare just as Selkie burst from his hiding place
and tackled the driver.
By the time she recovered her wits, Selkie had his knee in the small of the man's back, winding zip cuffs around his wrists.
Mer knelt next to Selkie. "Oscar?"
Selkie tightened the restraint. "You know this guy?" The angled planes of his face looked sharper in the half-light.
"I met him at the shop."
For the first time she noticed his car. A white Corolla. She swallowed. "This isn't the guy."
"Why's he following you?" He yanked Oscar into a seated position. "You got business here?"
Oscar's glasses framed his face at an awkward angle. "I found her wallet. I just want to give it to her."
"He wasn't following me." Mer placed her hand on Selkie's broad shoulder. "It was someone in a black truck."
Selkie unclipped the knife in his shorts pocket and unfolded it in a practiced move.
Oscar jerked back, eyes wide.
"Relax," Selkie said. He cut the plastic.
Freed, Oscar swung his arms to the front.
Mer held out her hand to help him up. "I'm sorry. Someone followed me home from the grocery store. I thought it was you. Are you okay?"
He backed away from Selkie and rubbed his wrists. "I only want to return your wallet."
"Where did you find it?" Mer asked.
"In the Aquarius parking lot. Miss Bijoux, everyone, was gone. I think it best to keep. Give it to you tomorrow. But then I see your car." He indicated the highway. "So you are correct, I followed you. But I had a good reason."
"I feel terrible."
"I would worry, too, if I were followed." He stepped toward his car, then stopped and glanced at Selkie. "May I?"
Selkie stood slightly bladed to Oscar, his military posture relaxed, but alert. A black T-shirt stretched over his muscular frame and he towered over the shorter man.
Mer stepped forward. "I'm sorry, Oscar, this is..." She indicated Selkie. How was she supposed to introduce him? Her neighbor? Lover? Boyfriend?
Selkie thrust out his hand and saved her the trouble. "Selkie. Sorry about the misunderstanding."
Oscar reluctantly shook hands but broke contact quickly and scurried to his car.
Beached_A Mer Cavallo Mystery Page 4