Second Chance at Love

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Right,” she said, in a tone of disbelief.

  I caved in and told her about Cooper and our history. The words gushed out. I also told her what my grandfather had said about Cooper Rivers being a good man.

  “If that's the case, and I think it is, why was he trying to put my grandfather out of business? Did I mess up a good deal for Cooper because I listened to Hal Humberger? Was Humberger lying to me?”

  “What's your gut tell you?”

  I closed my eyes and tuned in to my instincts. “There's something going on behind the scenes with Cooper. Something I don't know about. More to the story.”

  “Cara, don't you think it's odd that he blurted out he was getting married? The way you describe it, it happened almost like he was reminding himself that he's engaged.”

  “Not every man is like Detweiler,” I pointed out. “That cop of yours is one in a million.”

  “Don't I know it. He and I have our problems, and we both have baggage, but we also have each other.”

  I sipped the last of my tea, wishing it was whiskey. Finally I said, “What do I do if everyone finds out about my past? I don't have any friends here. No one to stand up for me. What if word gets around about what I did?”

  “Cara,” Kiki said gently. “That was a long time ago. It doesn't matter now. Put it behind you. You made a mistake. It won't happen again.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Kiki's reassurances helped, but I still had trouble falling asleep. Probably because I'd had too much caffeine. When I closed my eyes, scenes flashed through my mind. Pictures of Hal Humberger's dead body. Images of inter-views with law enforcement. Headlines in a newspaper. A holding cell in a jail. I reviewed how Mr. Humberger and I had met and what he'd said when I signed the contract. I rolled to one side and then the other. I wished my dog Sven was with me to cuddle. I stared up at the ceiling.

  Had Poppy always been so irritable? I knew he and Mom fussed at each other, but I couldn't recall my father getting crosswise with him. Why was my grandfather in such a foul mood? After Mom died, I'd read tons of books about loss. I came away with the understanding that we all grieve differently. Was this Poppy's way of grieving?

  Why was his place so dirty and messy? Was that normal for him, or was that a sign of depression? I couldn't remember anyone ever accusing Poppy of being unorganized. I'd always thought that Mom and her father were alike that way. But when I was cleaning the gas station, I'd noticed his paperwork was all over the place. His tools were scattered here and there.

  What was going on?

  Since I couldn't sleep, I phoned Tommy. He actually answered.

  “Wassup, Mom?” he said.

  “Just wanted to see how you're doing.” I tried to keep it light.

  “Fine. But I've got to study now, can I call you later?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Hearing my son's voice always seemed to make me feel better. Even if it was only for a few seconds.

  Somehow I drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning I awakened when the sun peeped through the window. Full of determination, I quickly dressed and vacated the room. Once I was snuggly inside Black Beauty with the engine purring, I called Brad Houston's office for an update on my property.

  “Good news,” he said.

  The police had officially released the crime scene. Furthermore, Houston had called the bank and gotten in touch with the manager of Essie's trust. That person had agreed that I could legally take occupancy in exchange for a token rent in advance of closing on the building.

  “Hot dog!” I shouted to no one in particular after I hung up. I pulled away from the motel. I was now free to move into The Treasure Chest. I headed for my new “home.”

  A shiver swept through me, as I turned my key in the lock at The Treasure Chest. After all, a man had died here. What if I walked in on another corpse?

  I shook my head to clear it. Squaring my shoulders, I flipped the light switch, walked inside, and yelled, “I am here to claim my rightful property! Ghosts be gone!”

  The sickly green glare of the fluorescent bulbs highlighted a new mess, a layer of black fingerprint powder. The crime scene people had dusted everything and everywhere.

  With a sigh, I pulled Essie's rolling chair up to her desk and propped my head on my hands. Okay, so what if my new home was dirty and messy? I loved cleaning, didn't I? Especially when I was stressed. I could rub-a-dub-dub all my troubles away, couldn't I?

  Kiki had encouraged me to be creative. I could do that, too, couldn't I?

  Sort of.

  Being creative was her forte. What was mine?

  I knew how to run a business. I'd learned those skills at my father's knee. Time to put my unique skills to work. No use procrastinating any further. I did a quick tour of the sales floor, and I discovered that it was a total unmitigated disaster.

  Pieces of furniture, odds and ends, and junk were stacked in unsteady piles. If a Midwestern tornado had touched down, the aftermath couldn't have looked much worse. Cleaning would be impossible until much of this had been sorted. These leaning towers of stuff would have to be tackled one piece at a time.

  A silt-like fingerprint powder covered every surface. Beneath that was a secondary layer of dust as thick as a felt blanket. Goodness knew what I'd find when I dug through the strata. So I'd not only have to sort and separate, I'd also have to clean and deep clean. Only then could I begin to repair the damage done to the walls. I'd also need to replace the missing fixtures. Right now, my source of light came from a dirty window and a handful of naked bulbs.

  My feeling of excitement vanished, only to be replaced with the sensation of drowning. I was completely and utterly overwhelmed.

  Think! I commanded myself. Compartmentalize! How would Dad handle this? He'd take it one step at a time.

  I needed to carve out a place where order reigned. One clean surface where I could start a “to do” list. I also would need to find a place to spend the night. Best to see about that right now, before I was exhausted by the long day of work that was staring me in the face.

  With a sigh, I hurried back to my car and grabbed Tommy's sleeping bag and my travel bag. Those in tow, I ran up the stairs. When I reached the landing, I could see where the single large apartment of my youth had been turned into two units. Presented with two choices, I did an “eeny, meeny, miney, moe” and randomly selected the unit on the left.

  Once inside, I found a long rectangular room. To the left was a kitchenette area furnished with a battered card table and folding chair. Luckily for me, the appliances must have been replaced recently, because a stainless steel stove, refrigerator, microwave and dishwasher seemed oddly modern when surrounded by plain-fronted cabinetry in a watery yellow.

  To the right was a living room area, totally empty and barren. Vinyl covered the floor, and it was offset by an ugly maple paneling on two walls of the three living room walls, including the one shared with my apartment's twin.

  A cheap door led from the living room into a bedroom with two closets and a small but serviceable bathroom, already occupied by six dead palmetto bugs. (That's a polite southern euphemism for cockroaches the size of a Greyhound bus.)

  An old metal bedframe had been shoved against one wall. It supported an aging box spring and tired, sagging mattress. I needed to replace the box spring and mattress sooner rather than later, but for one or two nights, I could manage by covering the bed with plastic bags and using Tommy’s sleeping bag. The bedroom windows had been boarded up, a precaution common in the hurricane season. Shutting my eyes, I tried to remember what the view had been like, but I couldn't.

  The second unit was a flipped, mirror-image of the first, with the same ugly maple siding in the living room. Instead of a card table in the kitchenette, I found a folding TV tray and a plastic garden chair. The bedroom for that unit also had a stained mattress and box spring. Totally gross.

  Neither unit qualified as five-star accommodations, but for now, both units were livable. Wit
h a lot of work, the apartments might even prove charming, but redecorating would have to wait.

  I made my way down the stairs, stopping at the half-way point to stare out at the mess. Before I could flip this place or open a business here, I'd have to clean up this mess.

  So much for that tan I'd hoped to be wearing to Parents' Weekend at University of Miami!

  Going to the back room and rummaging around in Essie's desk, I found a yellow legal pad and a pen. With those writing implements in hand, I started taking notes. I hadn't gotten far when a pounding at the back door interrupted my progress.

  CHAPTER 31

  Skye waved to me through the dirty glass window. I let her in, only to discover she was carrying two buckets of cleaning supplies, one in each hand. Under one arm was a mop. “Be right back.” She put down the buckets and made a dash for her car. She returned with two cups of coffee and a bag from McDonald's.

  “You are definitely my new best friend,” I said, as my nose twitched the wonderful smell of sausage, cheese, and coffee.

  Laughingly, she pushed past me and into the narrow back room. “I hadn't seen you for a couple of days. I figured that you'd come back here. You can't possibly clean up this place alone.”

  “Good guess.”

  Although I pulled up the office chair on rollers for her, she demurred and chose a folding chair. We dug into the chow.

  “How are you doing?” she asked a few bites later. “Any nightmares?”

  “If so, I don't remember them.” I shrugged. “It might be my imagination, but it seems like there's a cold spot where Mr. Humberger's body had been. That's probably silly of me.”

  “Not really. I brought you a couple of smudge sticks.”

  From her woven fabric purse, she withdrew two packs of twigs tied together and wrapped in wax paper. I'd never seen anything like them. One sniff told me they were a variety of sage.

  “The Indians used these to chase away evil spirits. If you want, I'll do it with you. You sort of spread the smoke around and say prayers.”

  “That would be great. Even if it is just my imagination, I think I'd feel better.”

  “I know it's none of my concern, but what are you planning to do with this place?”

  “I've been thinking seriously about opening my own business here.”

  Skye poured picante sauce over her sausage egg burrito and scanned our surroundings. “You know, there is a lot of cool stuff here. It just needs a little bit of tender loving care. A make-over.”

  “A trash to treasure business?” I asked. Skye had hit upon the same idea I'd shared with Kiki.

  “Right.” Skye nodded eagerly. “That would be perfect. This is the Treasure Coast, after all. Even today, a gold coin or two has been known to turn up in the surf.”

  “The Treasure Chest on the Treasure Coast where trash is turned into treasure,” I said thoughtfully. “It might work. If there were any treasures here. When I look around, all I see is trash, trash, and more trash.”

  “That's why you need my help. You can't see the forest for the scrub pines. Who knows what treasures might be waiting to be discovered here? We just need to dig in and get started. I get you started by cleaning the john.”

  “I can't ask you to do that!”

  “You didn't. I volunteered. I've noticed that a clean bathroom and a clean sink do wonders for my mental clarity.”

  For the next two hours, we worked on our separate tasks. She dragged everything out of the bathroom and gave it a thorough scrubbing, top to bottom. I used the bucket, an entire bottle of Mr. Clean, and a mop to clean the floors in my apartment. To my vast relief, we didn't talk much. I hate having to fill the silence with idle chatter. Skye must have felt the same, because mostly we spoke to discuss the matters at hand.

  My phone rang right as we stopped for a water break. I expected it to be Tommy, since I'd text-messaged him and asked him to give me a jingle.

  Instead, I heard an unfamiliar voice. “Ms. Delgatto? I'm at Martin Memorial Hospital. Your grandfather has just been admitted.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Once again, Skye proved herself to be calm in an emergency. “I'll drive you because I know where to park,” she said. In short order, we whizzed down the back streets of Stuart and into a parking garage.

  “Admitting is this way.” Skye took me by an elbow.

  “Mr. Potter is being examined,” explained the prune-faced volunteer with a name tag announcing her name was “Thelma.”

  “Is my grandfather okay?”

  “Young lady,” said Thelma, “if he was perfectly all right, the policeman wouldn't have brought him here. If your grandfather was in dire straits, he'd be in the Emergency Room. Go take a seat. I’ll round up someone to escort you back to a treatment room.”

  What is with it with people around here and bad attitudes? I wanted to wring Thelma’s turkey wattle neck. Instead, I allowed Skye to drag me by the elbow to a chair in the waiting area.

  It shouldn’t have surprised me that Detective Murray had hung around and made himself comfortable in the waiting area. Of course, comfortable is a relative term because he dwarfed the chair he was sitting in. In one hand he held a tattered issue of Sport Fishing Magazine. He sat in profile to us, and his posture shifted when he recognized Skye.

  “Lou!” Skye's face brightened as she reached for him.

  Lou dropped the magazine he’d been holding and grabbed her fingers in a grip that proved they were more than just friends. Much, much more. I thought about telling them to get a room. I didn’t because I owed both of them a debt of gratitude.

  Lou tore his eyes from her and looked over at me. “Ms. Delgatto. Glad you're here.”

  “What happened?” I asked the detective.

  “I was questioning your grandfather about his quarrel with Mr. Humberger when he started talking pure nonsense and took a swing at me.”

  The big cop twisted in his seat so I could get a look at his black eye. He sported a swelling, plum-colored shiner.

  I was shocked.

  “Poppy hit you? He did that?” I couldn't believe the damage that Poppy had done.

  “For an old geezer, he's got one whale of a right hook. I did a face-plant. Good thing you'd cleaned the floor in the Gas E Bait.”

  For the first time since seeing my grandfather, I took a mental step back from the situation. Detective Murray had only been doing his job, and Poppy had overreacted. My grandfather had attacked a cop. This was not good. Not good at all.

  “Why did Poppy take a swing at you?”

  “Something I said, I guess. I have a hunch your grandfather isn't well. In fact, if I were a betting man, I'd bet he has diabetes.”

  “What?”

  “Diabetes,” he repeated calmly. “My father had it. That explains a lot of Dick's behavior. He gets surly when he hasn't eaten. He's lost his sense of smell. On occasion, he becomes confused and starts rambling. He's irritable and combative. He's lost a lot of weight.”

  I sank onto a chair. Everything Detective Murray said made perfect sense. Skye bit her lip and said nothing. She'd obviously come to the same conclusion. That was why she had handed Poppy orange juice and crackers when we were at Pumpernickel's.

  I had judged my grandfather to be exceptionally cantankerous when the truth was that he was ill. Very, very ill. How long had he been sick? Had my parents known? What would have happened if Detective Murray hadn’t noticed the warning signs? What if Poppy had been alone and gone into a coma? I buried my face in my hands and took a shuddering breath. Nothing here in Stuart was turning out as I’d expected. I’d always given myself credit for having good people sense, but I’d obviously misjudged both Cooper Rivers and my own grandfather. The earth tip-tilted under me as my entire universe underwent a dramatic shift.

  Skye rested a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  I shook it off.

  This wasn’t the time to feel sorry for myself. I needed to square my shoulders and move on. For better or worse, I was now the head of
my family.

  CHAPTER 33

  It felt like he’d been sitting in the waiting area forever. His ice pack had all melted, and he’d promised a nurse to hang around while she got him a fresh one. Now he was glad he had because otherwise he would have missed seeing Skye.

  Even with one eye swollen shut, Lou could see how good she looked in her torn jeans and tee shirt. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she walked behind a volunteer who led her and Cara Mia Delgatto to the room where Dick Potter was being examined. He was leaning over the arm of the chair, trying not to let them out of his sight when an aging volunteer had brought him a fresh ice pack.

  “You're barmy over that gal,” said Showalter.

  “Barmy? What kind of word is that?” Lou was conscious of the dreamy smile on his face. “So what if it's nice to see her?”

  “Nice?” Showalter snorted.

  “Knock it off. Where do I go from here?” Lou wondered.

  “You never really thought that Dick did it,” his old partner said.

  “I still had to interview him. Everyone at the Riverwalk that evening watched him and Hal Humberger arguing. We also have witnesses who saw them quarreling at Pumpernickel's just a short time earlier.”

  “Yup,” said Showalter. “Dick has always had a temper. Everybody knows that. That eye of yours is going to be swollen shut by tomorrow.”

  “Killing a man is different from taking a pop at him,” Lou said.

  “Right,” said Showalter, “but Dick Potter is definitely capable of murder. He was in the service. Decorated for valor. He didn't get those medals sitting behind a desk filling out requisition forms. No, he was in the thick of it. Got blood on his hands.”

  Lou snorted in disagreement. “Killing in combat is different. We’re talking about taking out a hopeless idiot like Hal Humberger. Why would Dick do that? Hal was more of a problem to himself and his wife than anyone else. If Dick was going to kill Humberger, he would have gone after him right then and there in the municipal parking lot over by the Riverwalk. Dick wouldn’t have waited around with fingers crossed, hoping Humberger would enter an empty building. That doesn’t make sense. No way. If Dick killed Hal Humberger, he'd have done it in a fit of rage, not after he cooled off.”