Below the Surface

by Karen Harper

The cemetery workers had not yet dug Daria’s grave. If they had, she might have thrown herself into it, so deep was her despair. She didn’t like it that Daria would be buried here on Monday. The twins should be buried somewhere else, together. Since Ben insisted he wanted to be cremated, Amelia wanted her eventual resting place to be here by her mother’s.

  “Mommy, I think Daria’s death is sort of retribution for yours,” she said in a trembling voice. She swallowed a sob. It helped to say things out loud where she was certain no one would hear. “I found that medical report about your death years ago Dad had hidden. The fatal cervical rupture was from the birth of the second child, not that Briana wasn’t partly to blame. After you died, Dad forgave them, even favored them. It’s not my fault they were his favorite. What happened—” here she emphasized each word “—wasn’t my fault!”

  She gripped her hands together, trying to find the right words to stop her pain. “I thought that when I had my two boys, everything would be better, but it isn’t. I try to want to do things with both of them, but they are so loud and get so dirty and they want to swim and snorkel, and you know where that leads. But I didn’t mean to shout at Daria and hit her that last day…”

  She almost choked on those words she hadn’t meant to say. Was she sorry? Her guilt was making her physically sick, so didn’t that mean she was sorry? At least now, she and Bree would be closer, wouldn’t they? That is, if Bree ever got over losing Daria.

  It began to pour. Her hair stuck to her head and rain ran down her neck and throat. Bree had said Daria’s hair had been streaming loose under all that water, holding her and the boat down, holding it down to drown…

  Amelia squeezed her eyes tightly shut, but the images of herself trapped underwater wouldn’t go away. It was like in the nightmares she’d had since Mommy died, worse when Dad and the twins went scuba diving. Trembling, she forced her eyes open. Tears, rain, deep water, even blood—it was all the same.

  “I’m sorry, Mommy. Really sorry…” she whispered.

  When she heard a low, distant rumble of thunder, she knew she’d better get going. Thunder might mean lightning, and she had no intention of ending up in the hospital like Bree, or worse.

  That fear was surely rational. That meant she was coping, that she wasn’t clinically depressed, didn’t it?

  “What happened could have been worse,” she whispered to herself as she got to her feet. “Bree could be dead, too.”

  She bent to stroke her mother’s wet, gray marble tombstone in farewell, but she couldn’t bear to touch her father’s.

  Bree drove south on the Tamiami Trail through fitful rain and gusts of wind until she reached the turnoff to Cypress Road, heading east into the Everglades. A small runway with a few prop planes huddled by a single hangar at the intersection. She had to wait before making the turn as a string of cars came at her from the other direction. Although most people drove Alligator Alley to cross the state toward Fort Lauderdale or Miami, traffic was still heavy on this older route linking Tampa and Miami. She glanced across the airport tarmac; even in the rain, one man was working on an airplane. If the Gator Watering Hole wasn’t too far down this road, it was possible that pilots stopped for a few drinks there. Now that was a scary thought.

  After her turn, the tires crunched wet gravel; she drove slowly on a road barely wide enough to be called double lane. She was immediately on the edge of the Everglades, where shallow water surrounded grass on both sides of the road and cypress trees and their knobby knees poked through the so-called river of grass. She passed some slightly elevated islands called hammocks, from which sprouted pine and palms. Vegetation grew so thick in the heat and humidity here that she felt she was almost driving through the seaweed world on the bottom of the gulf.

  She wondered how their—now her—precious turtle grass was doing at the Trade Wreck site. It needed to be monitored and photographed again, but who would be her dive buddy now? She’d have to give the Clear the Gulf Commission their “state of the sea grass” report alone next week. And it was going to be dire enough that all hell could break loose over that, too. She sniffed hard and grabbed a tissue from her purse to wipe her nose.

  Although Manny was great with motors, machines and technical problems, he’d never make it as her new diving buddy. If he couldn’t see all the way below the surface, he wasn’t going down. He couldn’t speak for their sea grass project. She might have to hire someone for dives—that is, she and Manny might—but she couldn’t bear to think of running Mermaids without Daria. Funny, how she’d hardly given a thought to the business since that fatal day.

  If—just if—someone was behind Daria’s death, did they assume that, deserted at sea in rough waves and an approaching storm, Daria’s twin would die that day, too?

  About a mile off the highway, Bree saw a hand-painted sign for the Gator Watering Hole. The actual hole was a water-filled ditch surrounding the building and small parking lot on three sides like a moat. That could indeed hide an alligator or two. In these parts alligators made their way into golf course lakes, ornamental ponds, canals and ditches. People had to keep an eye on pets and children, not to mention themselves.

  The tavern or bar—whatever it would dare call itself—looked like a dive out of the backwoods boonies, which it was. Its roof was part sturdy old Florida tin over the main section and part ragged palm thatch over the full-length porch, like the Seminole Indian–style chickee huts which had been made fashionable on cabanas and pool bars at ritzy hotels. But there was nothing ritzy about this ram-shackle place.

  Bree was pretty certain this was a wild-goose chase. Even if it was a short drive from Daria’s accounting class, she couldn’t fathom her sister meeting someone here. And it would be pitch-dark out here at night. Bree decided she’d have to go back to the next accounting class and ask if the students had gone here as a group. Or else Daria had just found the coaster, it had intrigued her and she’d kept it. But those Luv ya, babe notes bothered Bree. Who had written that back to her sister? She needed answers now, before they buried Daria, so that she could go on with her own life. Since she was here, a quick question or two in broad daylight—or cloaking rain—could help to settle her soul.

  Three vehicles were parked in front and one in back, all pickup trucks, two in various stages of rusting out. One of them displayed a Confederate flag and a gun rack in its back window, not uncommon in these parts. One had balloon tires like locals used for what they called swamp buggy races through mud-filled obstacle courses. Bree parked off to the side so she could stay away from the other vehicles.

  It boosted her courage to see a woman step out onto the porch and light up a cigarette. She had too much hair, too much makeup and too-tight shorts and halter top, but at least it wasn’t all good old boys inside. After just a couple of puffs, she tossed the cigarette in a puddle and darted back inside. Maybe she was the cook or waitress.

  Bree backed in against the palm tree trunk barrier at the top of the east-side ditch so she was parked heading out. As her wheels bumped against the barrier, something she’d forgotten hit her.

  Up until the time they were in their teens, Dad sometimes used to teasingly pronounce Daria’s name like Dare-i-a, because of the risks she sometimes took. He’d dubbed her his daredevil, “The Evel Knievel of the Deep,” known for too fast a descent or too deep a dive. Only when his little daredevil almost choked to death from swallowing chewing gum underwater did she slow down. That’s right, Bree thought, Dare-i-a had once been so sure that nothing could harm her that she reveled in taking risks.

  Bree had always been more circumspect. She wasn’t going to take any chances in this place, either. Just a quick question or two and she was out of here.

  As she headed toward the building, a quickening breeze shoved clotted clouds overhead, and the rain increased. The wind was coming from the same direction as the storm that had killed Daria.

  The rain beat incredibly loudly on the tin roof. Other than that, the place was quiet, the lighti
ng lousy. No TV blaring, no canned music. Stepping into the building was like stepping back in the past. An old jukebox half blocked the entryway but it sat silent. Plain, mismatched wooden tables and chairs were clustered around the edges of the small room; a row of rattan stools lined a long bar. There was a worn-looking pool table in the corner.

  The clientele was negligible, as she had hoped. Two guys who looked like denizens of the deep Glades played foosball, and one man hunched over a table, apparently asleep. The woman was not in sight. From behind the bar, through a small opening with a serving counter from what must be the kitchen, drifted the smell of frying burgers. The walls had no neon-lighted beer signs, just some Florida State Seminoles and Miami University Canes football pennants and blow-ups of the stadiums.

  Actually, the dominant decor could be called early alligator. At least ten gator skulls, with open jaws flaunting razor-sharp teeth, were nailed high on each of the four walls. They seemed to grin at her.

  Suddenly everyone looked at her; the men stopped talking and playing foosball. The only sound was the rattle of rain on the metal roof and the swish of palm fronds against it.

  Here we go again, she thought. They think they’re seeing a ghost. Her heart careened to her feet. That meant Daria must have been here.

  “You’re here way off schedule, honey,” said the bartender, a tall, gaunt man. “You want the usual?”

  Hadn’t they heard Daria was dead? She guessed it was possible. Glades guys were not like boaters and divers, totally attuned to what went on in or near the water. In that case, she wouldn’t be dead woman walking, but live one talking.

  “Sure,” she said, deciding to be Daria to see if that got her more info than the way she’d intended to proceed. “Change of plans about my schedule,” she told him, and dug in her purse for some money. The foosball game picked up again, along with the other conversations. “When were you expecting me?”

  “Next Tuesday, like always,” he muttered, slapping down a tall, old-fashioned Coca-Cola glass on the bar.

  Bree’s eyes widened when he poured it half-full with lemonade and half with foaming beer. Daria loved what the Brits called shandies; she’d learned to drink them when she’d dated a snowbird from Toronto.

  “Okay, then, this one’s for here, and these beers are for the road,” he told her with a smile that was missing two prominent teeth. “Or for the guy you’re meetin’ out back, like always.”

  Bree’s pulse pounded as he produced two bottles of Mountain Brewed beer. “Tell me what he looks like,” she said, trying to sound coy as she put money on the bar. “I just might have the wrong guy in mind.”

  “Never really seen him, and you know it, but Bess—” he gave a toss of his head to indicate the kitchen “—or a little bird musta told me, well-built, dark hair. Out here it’s see no evil, speak none neither. Say, you two goin’ parkin’ in the Glades in this wet mess, since it’s nearly dark as night outside?” he asked with a laugh.

  Bree realized her mistake now. She might insult him if she explained who she really was and started to grill him. Having pretended she was her sister, she could hardly ask more about the guy she was meeting. Well-built and dark haired? Someone who called Daria “babe” and liked Mountain Brewed Beer? And someone who didn’t come in here for his own drinks?

  She drank half of her shandy down, just because she was suddenly so thirsty, then spilled most of the rest of it on her wrist when a clap of thunder sounded. It seemed to echo off the metal roof and inside her skull. Lightning! She had to get in the truck and get out of here.

  “Thanks,” she said, stuffing the two beers in her big purse and heading for the door.

  “Don’t he want them opened this time?” the bartender called after her.

  “No. I’m—we’re fine,” she said, realizing it was probably a good thing they thought she was meeting a man outside.

  Even with her sensitivity to light, Bree was surprised to see how much darker it had become outside in mid-afternoon. She prayed it would not turn into another one of those afternoon deluges like the one that had trapped her and Daria. She had to get home and think through all she’d learned. She wanted to come back here with Manny or Cole, maybe even Ben, though she didn’t want him to know she was investigating on her own.

  Daria obviously did have someone she was meeting secretly. A married man? Had she rekindled a flame with Josh Austin? No way, not with a stunning wife like his and his high profile, not to mention how busy he was.

  Holding her big purse over her head for a break in the rain so she could see, Bree ran for her truck.

  “You run away like a dog, you spend Saturdays with me on a short leash,” Manny told Lucinda as they entered the Two Mermaids. He handed her a broom and pointed toward the back room.

  “That’s a big place with lots of junk in it!” she dared to protest.

  “I don’t care. Just do it and not complain—same with that quinceañera party. Now that Daria’s half of this business come to me, we have more money for a nice one.”

  “Yeah,” she said, taking the broom from him with a frown, “but without Daria to dive with Bree, your profits will be down, won’t they?”

  “Maybe we hire a part-time diver. When the mourning for Daria is over, we advertise more. But this been a lot of publicity already.”

  She just shook her head, glared at him and stomped into the back room. The swish, swish of the broom convinced him he’d at least had a small victory with her.

  The front doorbell rang, and Manny saw it was one of Sam Travers’s workers, the red-haired one named Lance. He carried a pair of green fins. It looked strange to see him alone. He was usually with his diving partner, Ric, a real stud who evidently worked out a lot.

  “Your boss left these on Sam’s barge,” he said without a greeting.

  Manny was tempted to tell this man he was partners with Bree now, but it hadn’t been announced and he hadn’t even reminded Bree of it yet. He didn’t want to seem too pushy when she was grieving.

  “Thanks,” Manny said, taking them and putting them on Bree’s desk.

  “I can understand why she forgot them,” Lance said, folding his arms over his chest. “Hell of a thing—bad enough her sister was dead, but to find her like that? The whole scene was surreal.”

  Manny wasn’t sure what surreal meant, but he could guess. “We are grateful for Sam’s help,” he told Lance.

  “Considering that you’re our business rivals?” Lance asked, as he headed for the door. He stopped and turned back. “Or that he blames Briana for his son’s death?”

  “You know that, too?” Manny asked. Lucinda’s broom had stopped. He had to check on her.

  “Sam hardly makes a secret of it. Man, I’d like to get a glimpse of that attic shrine he’s made to his son. Talk about whacked-out…The way he really feels about Briana, I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t up there sticking pins in a voodoo doll of her. Know what I mean?”

  Manny wasn’t clear on what a voodoo doll was, either, but he got the message. And he was going to make sure Bree got that message when she returned.

  Bree ran toward her car so fast that she slipped in the mud and sprawled to both knees and both hands in the mire. Her keys got coated with muck. Cursing but moving carefully, she got to her feet and wiped the keys off on one of the few clean spots on her jeans, then looked around.

  For a moment, through the slant of gray rain, she felt disoriented. Was her truck where she had left it?

  Of course it was, straight across the tiny parking lot. She’d gotten turned around and was looking the wrong way. Was she losing it?

  With a nervous glance, she walked toward it, telling herself to watch her footing. Any thought she’d had of walking around back to talk to Bess in the kitchen or to try to find out why Daria met a man “out back,” as the bartender had said, flew right out of her head. She was getting away from here.

  In the driving rain, she tried to get her key in the door lock, but she was shaking so hard
it didn’t go right in. At least the rain cleaned the last of the mud from her keys.

  And then—she wasn’t sure where he’d come from—she saw a man striding straight for her, as if he’d emerged from the ditch or the swamp. He wore all black, jeans and old running shoes, windbreaker and a billed hat. The neck of a second black T-shirt was pulled up around his face for a mask. And he held a huge, raised wrench in one hand.

  13

  Bree ducked the man’s first swing with his wrench and didn’t wait around for a second. Where had he come from? Was he one of the guys inside?

  She screamed but a clap of thunder drowned her out. With the rattle of rain on that roof, people inside might not hear. Save your breath to run. Someone will come out or along the road to help. Hoping she could beat him to the other door of her truck, Bree dashed around the back with her key out. She and Daria had taken a self-protection class; Ben had insisted on it when they’d moved to the apartment above the marina shop. Hold your car keys between your fingers as a weapon. But nothing she had could take on that wrench.

  He was too fast for her. He came around the front end and lunged at her again. Who? Why?

  Sidestepping him, she tore for the door of the bar, but he caught up and yanked her back. He didn’t swing the wrench this time, but turned her away from him—so strong—and clamped a hard, dirty hand over her mouth. His arm was so tight around her waist she couldn’t breathe. She tried to bite his fingers, but he smacked her mouth. Her teeth cut the inside of her lower lip and she tasted blood. When he tried to drag her toward the ditch, she elbowed him in the ribs, then just picked up her feet.

  They toppled over, side by side. She screamed, but the rain on the tin roof drowned her out, drowned her…Horrid images leaped at her: Daria trapped in that flooded wheelhouse underwater…her hair wet and waving…her hands upraised, as if for help. Another wayward thought hit her. What if someone—this man?—had tried to hurt Daria? What if her skull had been struck by a wrench and not the boat’s steering wheel?