Changing Tides

by Veronica Mixon

  I couldn’t shake my unease and turned the deadbolt on the back door. I debated setting the alarm, but we were home. We were safe. I sniffed the air, and the last of my anxiety evaporated. The house smelled like an Italian trattoria. My mother would never be confused with a Martha Stewart wannabe, but her pasta fagioli was manna from heaven.

  I dodged the kitchen. My stomach grumbled in protest, but I wanted to soak under the jet sprays and find a few answers before relating our afternoon adventures to Mom. I stopped in the foyer and checked the front-door lock. Might be an overreaction, but the protective mama voice in my head whispered otherwise.

  ****

  Showered and curious to research the owners of the two rogue boats, I made my way to the library. I loved the massive room. The antique furniture covered in worn tapestry, my grandfather’s eclectic collection of sea creatures shoved indiscriminately among his favorite books. It felt like home.

  I poured a glass of wine, settled in front of the mahogany inlaid partners’ desk and located the DNR website on my laptop. I ran a search for the airboat’s registration and came up empty. I found the photo of the dive boat on my phone and typed in the decal numbers. The owner’s name and address popped onto the screen.

  Calvin Thompson—AKA my estranged cousin.

  “Great.” My head swirled, but I hadn’t consumed enough wine to blame it on the alcohol. I closed my eyes and tried visualizing my blood pressure receding to a calm, base level—a Lamaze mind-over-matter trick I’d never quite mastered.

  Proactive, Kate. Take control. First, call the sheriff and determine if a trespassing complaint against the airboat is warranted. Second, talk to Calvin and find out why two sketchy men were diving under Spartina’s dock. Third, stock up on chardonnay.

  Mom walked into the library carrying a loaded supper tray. “Owen’s eaten and watching a movie. Black Beauty—big surprise.” She gestured for me to move my computer over and set the tray on the side table. “He wanted to play a video game, but I won’t be sucked into a match I can’t possibly win.”

  “No one wins against Owen.” The soup smelled of onions and garlic and a whiff of oregano, but my appetite had evaporated.

  “Owen claims the red bumps on his hand are from a fiddler’s pinch,” she said.

  “Could have been, he handled enough of them.” I couldn’t take my eyes off my computer screen. What could Calvin be hunting under my dock?

  Mom fiddled with the silverware and unloaded the tray onto my desk. “The welts looked more like poison oak.”

  I glanced up. “Poison oak?”

  “I doused him with calamine lotion and gave him Benadryl. He’ll be fine. But what possessed you to traipse around Barry Island?”

  Some things didn’t change with time. “I want Owen to love the island as much as I do.”

  She placed a breadbasket on the table and leaned the empty tray against the wall. “I’ve never understood your fascination with that land. And you went alone. Why didn’t you wait and take someone with you?”

  I took a generous gulp of wine. The smooth buttery liquid against my tongue drowned the words poised on its tip. “I know every inch of the island. Why would I take anyone with us?”

  “Owen said an airboat followed you everywhere you went.” She rested her hand on the desk, leaned in, not remotely fooled by my nonchalance. “What’s he talking about?”

  “The answer to that might take a while.”

  She settled into a green leather wingback, and her forehead creased into one long wrinkle. “You seem worried.”

  “What?”

  “You’re rubbing your chest. You’re worried.”

  I dropped my hand and leaned my head against the back of my chair. “I need to talk to the sheriff in the morning.”

  “The sheriff?” Mom’s tone rivaled a high school coach’s bullhorn. “Why do you need the sheriff?”

  I hit the highlights of our afternoon. To her credit, she only interrupted once for clarification.

  “Why didn’t you call the sheriff as soon as you returned?”

  “Tomorrow’s soon enough.” I drained the last of my wine. The dull ache treading back and forth across my forehead was less noticeable. “Believe it or not, it gets crazier.” I told her about our welcome home party.

  “Could be some locals spearfishing,” she said.

  “Spearfishing’s illegal.”

  Mom waved a so-what hand. “Good reason they’d be tight-lipped.”

  “And people spearfish in clear water, not a muddy river. These clowns claimed they were hunting for shark teeth.” I printed out the registration sheet.

  “People hunt for shark teeth,” Mom said. “It’s not that unusual.”

  I slid the DNR record across the desk. “This is the registration for the dive boat’s owner. You think Cal has a new interest in shark teeth?”

  Mom studied the paper, then placed both hands on the arms of the wingback and pulled in a long, slow breath as if she were readying herself for a yoga lesson. “Well, if my nephew’s up to mischief again, we’d better find out what it is and quick.”

  I wanted to argue Cal’s side, but if my cousin held title to the first-class rig, what were the odds he’d loan it to those two guys to hunt for shark teeth? What were the odds he wasn’t involved in another shady hare-brained scheme? And what were the odds he’d give me a straight answer if I asked?

  My estimate was somewhere around a million to one.

  “I’ll have a talk with Calvin.” I kneaded a golf-ball-sized knot in my stomach. “I wonder if moving back is such a great idea.”

  “You need a new environment. So does Owen.” Mom pushed the bowl across the desk. “Your soup’s getting cold.”

  “Owen’s nightmares have escalated, and he’s sullen most of the time.” I picked up a roll, broke it in half, and added butter. “If I ask him a question, I’m lucky to get a grunt in reply.”

  “Owen’s eight, Katelyn. Eight-year-old children sulk. It’s their only power in a world of adults. Kids are resilient. He’ll be fine.”

  I had no choice but to cling to the adage “mother knows best.” I massaged my temples. “I don’t have time for whatever scheme Cal’s involved in.”

  “Talk to him. Find out what he’s up to.”

  “He’s still clutching his trust-fund grudge that Grandfather made me executor.ˮ I wondered if there was a Lamaze trick for guilt management.

  “He didn’t exclude Calvin from the will.” Momʼs tone mirrored my frustration.

  “Spartina Bluff and the island are yours.” Mom pushed the soup bowl another inch and motioned for me to eat. “This house and the surrounding land are not part of the trust. No reason for Calvin to hang around here.”

  “Calvin wasn’t on the dive boat.”

  My mother responded with her trademark “tsk.” They covered a variety of situations—disbelief, irritation, shame. When I heard it, I was never sure which lecture to expect.

  “Family property means nothing to him,” she said.

  Ah, irritation.

  “Dad knew if he left Spartina and Barry Island to Calvin, that boy would sell both before the ground over your grandfather’s grave turned cold.” Her eyes flashed with indignation. “You inherited this estate and the island because you appreciate your heritage. Calvin never has.”

  The dull ache in my head ramped into a steady pound. I poked around in the drawer for a bottle of aspirin.

  “Calvin gouged you on the price of Barry House.” She lingered over the words as if each were a sentence in its own right.

  I washed down three aspirin with a gulp of wine, not a good combination. “I paid Cal’s price to keep the property in the family. In a few months, he’ll cool down and want it back.” I hoped so because Spartina and the surrounding sixty acres was all I could handle.

  Roslyn spit out another “tsk.” “When you see Calvin, tell him to keep his ruffian friends away from Spartina. I don’t want Owen exposed to those kinds of people.”

/>   “Ruffian? Is that like a hooligan?”

  “They could be pals from jail.” She waved her hand around to make her point.

  “Jesus, Mom.” It took every ounce of self-restraint not to give her one of my teenage eye rolls. “Cal was sixteen and got caught with a dime bag of coke. It was county lockup. Let it go.”

  I decided between the aspirin and the wine I should eat. I took a bite of my roll, an herbed Tuscan. She’d baked my favorite, and I suffered a jolt of shame for giving her a hard time. “Okay. I’ll call the sheriff about the airboat first thing in the morning. And I’ll stop by Cal’s on the way to the office and see what’s going on with his boat.”

  Mom walked to the bar and looked through the herbal teas, reached overhead for a cup, and flipped on the Keurig. “Willie Schroeder’s the new sheriff.”

  “Willie’s the sheriff?” That was a name I hadn’t heard in years. “What happened to Homer?”

  “He retired. He and Susie moved to Sarasota.”

  She added a couple of raw sugar cubes to her mug. “Why don’t you call Willie? It’s not that late for a friend.”

  “A friend from fifteen years ago. I’m not sure Willie will be happy to have his Sunday evening interrupted.” But my Monday schedule was packed. I could hit the highlights on the phone. It was worth a try. I found his number and dialed. My call went to voicemail and I left a message.

  “Call Calvin.” Mom sipped her tea. “He’ll talk if you threaten to hold up his money.”

  “I don’t control the money.” A clarification I’d made several times since my grandfather’s death. Mom assumed as trustee and head honcho I could work out that trivial detail. “I follow the trust’s parameters.” I didn’t add that without the upcoming loan restructure, all trust payments—hers, Cal’s, and the head honcho’s—would be in jeopardy.

  She sat back in her chair and plucked a roll from the basket. “Before Willie calls back, it’d be wise to know what’s up with the dive boat. Might be something you need to contain.”

  Good point. I dialed my cousin’s number. He didn’t pick up—big surprise.

  Mom began a recitation of Calvin’s teenage shenanigans.

  My cell phone buzzed, and it was the first time I could remember being relieved a sheriff was calling.

  “Thanks for getting back to me so late,” I said. “I had an altercation with an airboat today on Barry Island. Can I file a trespassing complaint on the phone?”

  “I can write it up tonight.” Willie said. “But I rather do it in person. Say forty minutes?”

  I checked the time. It’d be better than rescheduling my morning. “Okay, your house or mine?”

  “I’ll come to Spartina. And Kate, just so you know, I’ll be bringing along a federal marshal. There might be more to your trespassing complaint than you realize.”

  Chapter Four

  Department of Justice usually stuck to mid-range hotels. Nathan crushed a cockroach scurrying across the orange shag carpet and stuffed three case files into his briefcase. But in Montgomery County, a twenty-mile stretch of four fishing communities an hour south of Savannah, lodging options were slim.

  Sheriff Willie Schroeder’s courtesy call could net his agents a much-needed housing solution. He crossed the hall and pounded on Erica Sanchez’s door, then remembered his captain’s parting order—Lead from behind. It was her team first. Probably should have included her in the decision to question Katelyn Landers.

  Erica opened the door. Based on her crossed arms and tight-lipped nod, her opinion of him hadn’t changed in the past three hours. Her standard dress was supposed to be a white shirt, blue jeans and a navy windbreaker with DEA plastered in three-inch letters across the back. More often than not, Erica wore fatigues and army boots, as if affirming she was the resident badass. She leaned against the doorframe.

  “Katelyn Landers visited Barry Island this afternoon and had a confrontation with an airboat.” Nathanʼs tone came across sterner than he had anticipated and resulted in a lingering brow from his second-in-command. “We have to bring Ms. Landers up to speed before somebody gets hurt.”

  Erica glanced at her watch. “You’re going to meet with her tonight? It’s almost nine.”

  “She’s the one who called the sheriff.”

  She shifted and looked away. “Figures the princess would call Willie.”

  “Claimed she and her son were stalked by an idiot in an airboat.”

  Erica stepped back and half-closed the door. “He was just trying to keep them safe.”

  Nathan grabbed the handle and held the door in place. “How would you know?”

  She finger-combed her cropped red hair, a color Nathan figured was from a bottle or maybe a packet of Kool-Aid. “Because it was one of my guys.”

  “The airboat?”

  “Yes.”

  He waited for an explanation. Surely she planned to offer one. He rotated two fingers in the air. “And?”

  A kaleidoscope of emotions ran over Erica’s face—embarrassment, annoyance, exasperation, cagey. He rotated again.

  She rubbed the back of her neck. “Took Johnston almost an hour to get Kate back in her boat and into the sound.”

  “Any reason you didn’t notify me that Johnston had an encounter with Katelyn Landers?” Nathan didn’t need a PhD in behavioral science to know Erica considered him a micromanager. She made a point to mention the differences in their leadership styles several times a day. “And when did we get an airboat?”

  “I commandeered the craft before you joined the team. Boat arrived today.” She stepped back. “It’s all in the report I’m five minutes from emailing. And you weren’t notified because I handled it.”

  “You didn’t handle it very well. She’s filing a complaint.” Leading from behind didn’t equate to coddling, but Nathan reminded himself that in her place he’d resent having a federal marshal take over his team.

  “I’m going to send the family to Savannah. Ask to use Spartina Bluff as a base until we close the case.”

  Erica slouched against the door, a broad grin spread across her face. “I wouldn’t count on using that fancy estate as our base.”

  “It’s the perfect location to monitor the traffic on the island.”

  “Oh, I get your reasoning, but Katie’s no pushover.”

  “Sheriff and I are headed over.” Nathan checked the time on his watch. “I want you to come along and soften the blow.”

  Erica blinked, then laughed a deep belly chuckle. “As much as I’d like to bear witness to you and the princess squaring off, trust me, I’d be no help. There’s not enough water under that bridge.”

  “We brief the Chatham County sheriff in the morning at six forty-five. You can hitch a ride with me, and I’ll fill you in on my meeting tonight with Kate Landers on the way to Savannah.”

  “Can’t wait to hear all about it.” Still grinning, she closed the door.

  Nathan checked his watch. Damn, now he was running late. He hustled to his unmarked green Chevy, climbed inside, and reconciled that maybe it was best that Erica stayed behind. No matter what his boss believed, Erica Sanchez being a local might be a hindrance, not an advantage to their case.

  He made the twenty-minute drive to the Landers’ estate in less than fifteen, turned off the highway and drove through a stately bricked column entrance with an inconspicuous Spartina Bluff marker. He contemplated the types of people who named houses. Old-moneyed families living in historic homes, new-money snobs trying to give the impression they were old money, silver-spooned yuppie types like Katelyn Landers.

  He parked behind a brown SUV and took a flight of six steps that led to a pair of the largest doors he’d ever seen at a private residence. Spartina Bluff wasn’t a home. It was an institution.

  Sheriff Willie Schroeder stepped from the shadows and nodded a greeting. The sheriff was about Nathan’s height, an inch or so over six-foot. Nathan, described as tall and slender, would be considered plump compared to Willie. Willie yanked his je
ans to his armpits and pushed the bell.

  Nathan anticipated door chimes or maybe a ringing rendition of church bells playing a few chords of a Beethoven symphony, but not Elvis’s Blue Suede Shoes. Someone in the family had a quirky sense of humor. He doubted it was the woman opening the door.

  Willie took the lead. “Sorry to bother you this late, Mrs. Barry. Kate’s expecting us.”

  She ushered them into a foyer that could sub as a small ballroom. Regal came to mind—the house and the woman. Nathan recognized Roslyn Barry from the pictures in her dossier. Noah Barry’s dutiful daughter-in-law. A former Miss Georgia who was possibly more beautiful today than in her teen pageant photos.

  Rugs covered gray marble floors and appeared weathered, antique, and Persian. A crystal chandelier, a piece that would look at home in any European castle, hung from a mirrored dome and glistened against the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked to be leaded glass. He’d seen his share of millionaire homes, but nothing like this.

  Katelyn Landers hurried down a winding staircase. Nathan had a slew of photographs in his file. He estimated she was every bit of her five-eleven registered height, but her weight looked closer to one-twenty-five than the one-forty listed on her driver’s license. She paused on the last step and swept the foyer with stunning emerald eyes. She wore an easy, friendly smile.

  Nathan stepped forward, his hand extended. “Marshal Nathan Parsi.”

  She gave his hand a quick shake, sidestepped, and drew the sheriff into a full embrace. “Thanks for coming, Willie.”

  Willie’s cheeks blushed scarlet. “It’s good to see you, Kate. Real good.”

  She led the group down a wide expansive corridor and into a crowded, cozy room that looked more in line with an upscale antiquity bookstore than a home library. He eyed mementos from every corner of the world crammed between books that appeared to have enough age to be first editions.

  Roslyn paused at the threshold. “Kate, I’m going to check on Owen.” She turned to the sheriff. “It was good to see you again, Willie.” She met Nathan’s gaze, then pulled the door closed.

  Katelyn walked across the room and removed a diet cola from a bar refrigerator. “Can I offer you a soft drink, water?”