by Body Wave
"Any recommendations for lunch?" he asked after they'd emerged into the strong afternoon sun.
"I've heard of Pappas." She pointed down the road to an impressive structure. The Louis Pappas Riverside Restaurant stood as a landmark at the end of the street. "But let's go to Hellas. It's right here and looks lively."
White lights studded a bright, spacious interior. They were led to a ceramic tiled table that sported a bottle of olive oil as a decoration. They sat on wood-frame and blue-vinyl chairs. A mural of what looked like the Parthenon highlighted one wall. Potted plants and faux Grecian statuettes added to the cheerful atmosphere. Aromas from an adjacent bakery made Marla's mouth water.
They ordered Greek salads, which came with a slab of feta cheese and a loaf of crusty bread. Afraid the portions might be too large, they shared a combo platter that included generous servings of moussaka, pastitsio, gyro, dolmades-stuffed grape leaves, and tzatziki sauce. More than enough for both of them, the meal came with roasted potatoes, peas, and a watermelon wedge. The Greek house white wine, served in a regular glass, was the color of apple juice. It tasted mild with little body and probably less alcohol. In the background, dishes rattled, people chattered, and Greek music played.
Marla fought an overwhelming urge to take a nap when they had finished. She felt more stuffed than a grape leaf and a couple of pounds heavier. Vail insisted on paying the bill, and she didn't argue. This was one time she was glad to be treated.
"Now what? We still have an hour," she said when they left the restaurant.
"Let's ask some of the shop owners if they know Jeremiah Dooley. Many of the families who settled here were Greeks; I wonder how he picked this location to establish his ministry. Was he from this area, or did he migrate here? What was his connection to Kimberly Kaufman?"
They began at the end of the street where _Jaws_ music blared from the Coral Sea Aquarium opposite Captain Duran's Seafood Gallery. The first block held a clothes boutique, ice cream parlor, Birkenstock store, flag shop, and museum store. After several inquiries, they had gained no further information about Jeremiah. They passed the Fudge Factory and came to a fishing pier. Picturesque vessels rocked on the current. Marla breathed in the salty scent of fresh sea air.
"Where next?" she said, eyeing a collection of natural sponges, olive oil soap, bird feeders made of coconuts, and jungle starfish outside a souvenir shop.
Vail shaded his face from the sun. "We'll ask that guy." He indicated a man selling tickets for the Saint Nicholas Boat Line, a live sponge-fishing demonstration.
After an exchange of pleasantries, Vail got to the point. "I'm looking for a friend who lives in the area. His name is Jeremiah Dooley."
The huckster glanced at Marla. "Dooley, eh? Name sounds familiar. A better person to ask would be Aleko, our diver. He's been in town goin' on twenty years."
"Where can we find him?"
"Why, you'll have to buy tickets for the boat ride, folks. Five dollars each." He beamed a gap-toothed smile.
"Do we have time?" Marla asked, sniffing. Her glance fell on a display of sponges. They emitted a strong briny odor.
Vail grimaced, glancing at his watch. "Maybe we should ask some of the shop proprietors."
"Boat ride boards in five minutes," said the salesman. "See, she's comin' in now. You'll be back in less than an hour."
"Oh heck, why not?" Vail said, pulling out his wallet. "It's a nice day for a cruise, right?" Grinning at her, he winked.
"Do you give a triple-A discount?" Marla asked, ever mindful of bargains.
"Sure do. You get a dollar off each ticket. Here you go."
Marla felt amazingly carefree as they watched the orange, gray, and white boat slide into the dock, where it spit out a crowd of tourists.
When they were allowed on board, Marla found a seat on a white slatted bench lining one side. The diver, wearing a bulky diving suit and blue knit cap, marched to the aft deck accompanied by a tour guide. As the engine kicked in and the boat cruised along the bay waters, the tour director related a brief history of the sponge-diving industry in Tarpon Springs. Sponges were retrieved by hooking until a Greek fisherman introduced the technique of diving in 1905. Many Greeks had immigrated to the area to work in the thriving industry.
"Several types of sponges have commercial value," the man said. "The first grade is the wool sponge, which lasts from four to five years. It's good for bathing because it holds a lot of water. Second grade is a yellow sponge. Third grade is a wire sponge, which is abrasive. Fourth grade is a grass or vase sponge that is often used as a shoe-polish applicator or to start off flower seeds in. The fifth grade is the finger sponge, which has decorative value."
He held up samples of each one and passed them around the group. Then he pointed to the diver, whose suit and equipment weighed numerous pounds. "The helmets are made by hand and can last up to forty years with daily use," the guide explained.
Marla studied the diver, a handsome fellow with a mustache and ruddy face. As they glided past Marker Forty-Seven, he tied a nylon cord around his suit and donned his helmet. Standing at the boat's edge, he jumped into the murky green water. He held a hook in one hand to detach sponges and a netted basket in his other hand. Waving, he sank beneath the surface. Bubbles rose to indicate his location.
He remained in the water about fifteen minutes, his tethered hose steadily moving outward from the boat. They weren't very far from shore, because Marla could easily see the sandy beach and mangroves several hundred feet away. Seagulls circled lazily overhead. Sunlight warmed her skin, and she savored the fresh, salty breeze. February in Florida ... how delightful compared to the weather reports from up north!
When the diver returned, they passed around the sponge he had snagged. Dark slime covered its surface. Marla cringed as she touched the remains of animal matter. It felt like wet fungus.
"Normally the sponges are laid out on deck for two or three days to process," the tour guide said. "They're covered with burlap and kept wet until the animal dies. The remains are scraped off and the sponges rinsed. Anyone want to get your photo taken with the diver? Come on up."
Now was their chance, although neither she nor Vail had a camera. Vail nodded at her, and she waited while a man took a picture of his sons flanking the diver. When they moved off, she approached him. After offering a few compliments about his technique, she got to the point.
"I'm trying to locate a friend, Jeremiah Dooley. You've lived here a long time. Do you know him?"
The man's mustache quivered as his face lit up. "That's Colleen's son! Sure I know him."
"Colleen?"
"The Irish gal who married Piotr Sebastian. Their son runs a fish farm on the outskirts of town. He didn't want to do no diving like his daddy. If you ask me, it wasn't in his genes."
"How so?"
The diver leaned closer, and she smelled onions on his breath. His dark eyes gleamed with wicked delight. "I heard tell that the boy wasn't his, if you know what I mean. You go speak to Lorraine Parker at the Historical Society. She knows every soul in town. If anyone can give you the scoop on the Sebastians, she'll be the one."
* * *
*Chapter Thirteen*
The Historical Society office was located on Tarpon Avenue in a converted train depot. Inside the entrance, Marla gazed in fascination at a rolltop wooden desk with pigeonholes, bentwood desk chair, cast-iron potbellied stove pipe, dental chair and microscope from 1900, and an exhibit of arrowheads from Safford Mound, an Indian burial site near the Anclote River.
"Nice stuff," Vail commented, a flicker of pain behind his slate gray eyes.
This place brought back memories for him, Marla surmised with a surge of sympathy. She'd been to his house a couple of times, and it looked as though he hadn't rearranged anything since his wife died. Unlike Pam, who had collected antiques, Marla preferred contemporary furnishings.
Her musing broke off as an attractive brunette strode into the room from a back office. "Hi, I'm Lorraine Parke
r, the curator," she said with a friendly smile. "How may I help you?"
"We need information about Jeremiah Dooley," Vail spoke up, showing his badge.
Lorraine smoothed down her shirtwaist dress. "I've never met him personally, although I've watched his television show a few times. He follows his own church, if you get my drift. Jeremiah should be in his fifties now if I'm figuring right."
"I noticed a lot of Greek religious ornaments in the souvenir shop windows at the Sponge Docks," Marla said. "It appears he didn't follow his parent's Greek Orthodox religion."
"His mother was Irish Catholic." Lorraine stood in front of a framed photo collage depicting a winter water carnival in 1923. "Colleen wanted him to keep her last name. That's part of what led to the gossip, but it was also his early birth and full-term weight. Jeremiah didn't have Piotr's dark coloring, either."
"You mean the child wasn't his?"
"Not that he let on. Piotr hinted that the rumors were jealous ramblings started by Harriet Stanton, daughter of a town magnate. She's the one you should interview. Harriet set her sights on handsome Piotr, and everyone in town thought they'd tie the knot. Then Piotr vacationed in Fort Lauderdale and came back with a bride. No one could have been more shocked than his family! Piotr's parents never forgave him for their disappointment."
"How did the townspeople treat Jeremiah?" Marla asked. If people disliked his mother, they might have taken it out on the poor child.
"Colleen worked hard to earn the respect of Piotr's friends. They welcomed Jeremiah even though she raised him as a strict Catholic. Evidently, he decided religion was his calling, although he seems to have created his own sect."
Her snide tone pricked Marla's ears. "You think he should have followed in his father's footsteps and become a sponge diver?"
"He lives by the sea but grows fish in landlocked ponds. I'm not familiar with his missionary aims, but he supports some operations in Latin countries. You'd think he would focus his efforts here, where people need his help."
"Is he an ordained minister?"
"I'm not sure."
"Is he married?" Vail interrupted. He'd been studying a photo display of street scenes from the 1890s.
"Divorced, no children. Both parents are deceased."
"So the familial line ends with him, if he even carries it from his father. Where can we find Harriet?"
"She lives in Spring Bayou. Piotr would have been wealthy if he'd married her. Her family descended from the original settlers. Are you familiar with our early history?"
"Not much," Marla admitted, hoping the woman wouldn't keep them long. They could visit Harriet before their appointment at Ministry of Hope. She didn't look forward to the five-hour drive home. Groaning inwardly, she mentally reviewed her work schedule for the next day. Between sleuthing, styling, and managing the salon, she had no free time. This had to stop. After Stan got off the hook, she'd think about cutting back her hours.
"We didn't start out as the sponge capital of the world," the curator said, her eyes radiating enthusiasm for her topic. "One of the first settlers was A. W. Ormond who, along with his daughter Mary, built a cabin near Spring Bayou in 1876. Mary married a fellow named Joshua Boyer. Impressed by the tarpon that swam in the bayou, she proposed a name for the place.
"Next came Hamilton Disston, a wealthy manufacturer from the north who purchased four million acres of Florida land for twenty-five cents an acre. Along with his business associate, Anson Safford, he set up a land company to develop Tarpon Springs. Visitors arrived by steamer until the railroad came in 1887. That's the year Tarpon Springs became incorporated. It turned into a popular winter resort, with millionaires building Victorian mansions around Spring Bayou. We call that area of town the Golden Crescent."
"When did the Greeks arrive?" Marla asked.
Lorraine pointed to a pamphlet display on a small table. "Our sponge industry was started by John Cheyney, who worked for the leading landholding company in Tarpon Springs. Cheyney realized seasonal tourism didn't provide a stable annual income. Inspired by the industry in Key West, he established a sponge company here and hired a Greek, John Cocoris, as a sponge buyer.
"Cocoris proposed that the Greek method of diving was much more productive than the hook boats currently in use. He sent for his brothers, and then others from the Dodecanese Islands followed. In 1905, hundreds of Greek sponge fishermen came with their rubberized diving suits and copper helmets. A booming industry resulted as boat builders and suppliers arrived. With their families, a close-knit Greek community developed. Over the generations, the Greeks have been integrated into American culture."
"So Harriet is a descendant of one of those millionaires from the north?"
"Correct." Lorraine wrote down the woman's address. "Take Tarpon Avenue to the end, and park in the lot at Craig Park. You can walk to her house from there. Harriet will be able to tell you more about Piotr's family. Sadly, after being rejected, she never married."
As directed, Vail drove down Tarpon Avenue, which ended at Spring Boulevard. Turning left, they passed Banana Street before entering a parking lot next to a bayou that looked like a huge lake.
"Let's use that path." Vail indicated a concrete walkway winding around the water's edge.
Dead leaves crunched underfoot as Marla kept pace with his long stride. A chilly breeze blew off the murky brown water, bringing with it a briny odor. Wishing she'd worn a jacket, she hugged her arms as she watched a stingray swim by in the water, chasing a school of fish. In the distance, a couple of boys fished off a jetty. A crescent of mansions faced the bayou, some fully restored, others needing work. Squirrels scampered across grassy lawns toward oak trees hanging with Spanish moss.
On North Spring Boulevard, they climbed to the road and crossed the street. Continuing on the sidewalk, they passed a house built in 1885. Restored in 1976, it had a gated driveway with a NO TRESPASSING sign. Farther along, Marla paused in front of a delightful pink house with white gingerbread trim, a hexagon turret, and a wraparound porch. It reminded her of a candy cane. A gazebo stood on the front lawn.
"Is this Harriet's place?" she asked.
Vail referred to the paper Lorraine had given them. "Nope. Move on, we don't have time to linger."
Nor was it the three-story house with the myriad angles and gabled windows that made Marla eager to explore. Harriet's address was at an austere brown and white manor with an abundance of chimneys and fan windows, highlighted by a columned porch and a center turret. Despite the sunshine casting a soft afternoon glow on its facade, Marla shivered. The house reminded her of the Haunted Mansion at Walt Disney World. An unkempt lawn did little to assuage the overall effect.
"Can I help you?" asked the woman who opened the door at their summons. Her strong, assertive voice went along with a pair of piercing blue eyes.
Vail flashed his badge. "We'd like some information about Jeremiah Dooley, if you don't mind. This is my fiancee, Marla Shore."
Harriet glanced speculatively from Vail to Marla. "I only have a few minutes. I'm on my way to a meeting for the Garden Committee."
"We won't take much of your time," Vail reassured her.
As they followed the older woman inside, Marla tried to reconcile her expectations with Harriet Stanton's surprisingly young appearance. If she was within Piotr's age range, she should be in her eighties. But the lady who led them didn't look a day over sixty. Nor did she look like a spurned spinster. Her dyed blond hair, too light for her coloring, was teased into a bouffant style as though she'd just come from the salon. She walked with an erect, proud posture. Her flowered silk blouse hung a bit loose on her thin frame, but it tucked snugly into the waistband of a knee-length skirt.
"You have a beautiful house," Marla said, halting in a foyer with a wood parquet floor. A long hallway stretched ahead with archways leading to different rooms. From the unassuming exterior, she'd never have guessed the inside could be so impressive. Too bad they didn't have time for a tour.
Harrie
t gestured for them to take seats in the living room. "You're probably wondering why I live alone in a house with twelve rooms and five fireplaces. My father made his money in timber, and he used cypress and hard pine to build this place. It needs a lot of renovation, but that won't get done until my cousin inherits." She chuckled. "Poor Mortimer will have to wait awhile. His kids are more likely to inherit."
Vail balanced himself on the edge of an armchair. "Lorraine Parker said you were nearly engaged to Piotr Sebastian."
"That's right." Harriet's glance fell to the Oriental rug covering the floor. "Did she tell you I never married after the shock I received?"
"You must have been terribly hurt," Marla said kindly.
The woman's narrowed gaze swung to meet hers. "Piotr had promised we'd announce our engagement after he returned from a business trip to Fort Lauderdale. You can't imagine how I felt when he came back with a bride."