“Some do,” Beth answered, “though not like up north. Most of our color blooms in the spring and summer.” She turned to look back. “That’s a golden rain. It’s not native. Lots of non-native plants have been brought here and gone wild, some with disastrous effects, pushing out native ones.” She scanned the street up and down. “I can’t remember if there are Jacaranda trees here.” She settled back. “You should come back. They flower in spring. Beautiful. A whole canopy of bright purple.” She sighed. “They’re from Africa.”
“The things you never knew.”
“This your first time in Florida?”
“Yes.”
“That’s funny. I thought all you college kids did spring break in Florida.”
“Cancun.”
“Oh, right. Senator’s daughter. Party out of the country. Not so likely to get back to mommy and daddy.”
“Or the press.”
Beth laughed. “Look who’s talking.”
Further down the hill, Sara pointed at some cottages on a side street. “What a quaint little town,” she marveled. “It’s like New England.” She looked at Beth. “Without the ice and snow.”
“It started as fishing camp,” Beth explained.
“Oh, I see the lake. What’s it called?”
“Pinnacle Lake. It was famous for its fish. Your President Coolidge came here.”
“Was famous?”
“The runoff from farms and orange groves killed off most of the fish. It would have killed the lake in time. People smartened up. The fish and the lake are making a comeback. You can tell by the number of alligators.”
Sara shot her a wide-eyed look.
“This all belonged to the Seminoles at one time,” Beth added. “Before we ran them into the Everglades.”
They stopped at a red light at the bottom of hill. Beth pointed left to dozens of tiny abutted stores from antiques to sweets to eats. “This is the main street.”
“Look at all the neat little shops.”
“They don’t allow any franchises downtown.”
Past the intersection, a half dozen open parking places. Beth motioned for Sara to pull into one. Howard followed her lead.
“We’re lucky it’s not the weekend,” Beth said as she shut the car door. “You wouldn’t find a parking place within blocks.”
The three walked to the next intersection. Sara started to cross against the light. Beth grabbed her elbow.
“We don’t want to stick out like tourists. Blend in,” she said. She pushed the “walk” button for the traffic light. An electronic “cuckoo” sound came from the intersection behind them.
“What’s that?” Sara asked.
“You don’t have audible signals for the visually impaired in Vermont?” Beth retorted.
The “walk” light turned white. Beth led the march across the street and down the hill.
The center of the street was blocked off on the lake side. A hundred yards apart, two sets of strategically placed yellow metal cylinders jutted up from the pavement, linked by looping yellow chains. Past the first barrier to the left was a tiny park with trees growing up through the brick and cement and benches placed at odd angles. Beth crossed to her right well ahead of the crosswalk and continued down the blocked-off street.
“What happened to blending in?” Sara asked.
“Only the tourists use the crosswalk at this intersection,” Beth stated. She had obviously spent some time in Pinnacle Point.
Opposite the park, they passed an outside café that looked charming, its tables, chairs, and wicker bench seats shaded by large oak trees. Beth turned at the far end of the next building. A large patio dotted with chairs and umbrella tables and a long, open-air bar at the far end spread out before them. Two men were seated on the far side of the bar. The tables were empty.
Howard brought up the rear, concentrating on the few three-story houses on the lakeshore. He tripped going up the few steps to the patio but caught himself.
Beth led them to a table that gave them a nearly unobstructed view of the lake.
“This setting looks too good to be true,” Sara observed. “How’s the food?”
“Excellent,” Sara replied.
A tall bartender came around the end of the bar. Howard watched her approach. A brunette with blonde streaks, ponytail; black hawk pendant on a short necklace; nicely filled, front zippered shorts; a company logo tee shirt; engaging smile. She handed them each a menu. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.
“Water, all around,” Howard answered. He smiled at her. His eyes followed her for a few steps as she walked away.
“See something you’d like?” Sara asked sharply.
“What?” he asked. “No.”
Beth looked first at Sara, then Howard. “Something going on between you two?”
“No,” the both answered together.
“How do we know which house?” Howard asked, keeping his voice low.
“I’m assuming it’s on the water,” Beth answered. “Otherwise, why come here?”
Howard looked up and down the shoreline as far as he could see. “That narrows it down but it still leaves a lot of houses.”
Beth pointed in the direction of the park. “There’s a boat tour we can take. After lunch. Give us a good view of all the lake houses.”
Howard frowned. He pointed at the docks on the lake just in front of them. “Do you mean down there?”
“No,” Beth said emphatically.
Howard waited, eyebrows raised, for more of an answer.
“I know one of the boat captains at the other place,” Beth said. “Captain Ron. He could be helpful.”
The momentary enchantment of the picturesque village drained from her face as Sara scanned the shoreline. “This is going to be harder than I thought. What’s that over there?” She point at what appeared to be some sort of green compound far on the opposite shore.
“Golf community,” Beth answered. “We can rule that out. Walter hates golf.”
The waitress returned with their water.
“I’ll have the chicken sandwich, with chips,” Beth told her.
Sara frowned at the waitress, then shook her head and handed her the menu.
“The same,” Howard said.
“You better eat something,” Beth cautioned Sara. “It could be a long day.”
“I’m not hungry,” Sara asserted. She shifted her frown from the waitress to Howard.
“Cuban spring rolls,” Beth said to the waitress.
She smiled, turned, and went to place their orders.
“You’ll like them,” Beth said to Sara. “Trust me.”
“We are,” Howard reminded her.
Chapter Nineteen
It was a short walk to the boat ramp. A warning sign greeted them: “Feeding or enticement of alligators is unlawful.” It sent a chill down Sara’s spine.
The covered pontoon boat tour started promptly at two. It sailed across the lake to a point, then slowed. Captain Ron described the lake and bits of its history. He pointed out a huge empty eagle’s nest high up in a large oak tree. The boat slowed almost to an idle. At the entrance to a canal, he pointed to the head of a water moccasin swimming erratically.
Overhead, gray strings of entwined Spanish moss hung like shrouds from oaks and other large leafy trees. Intrigued, Sara reached out trying to grasp some.
“I wouldn’t do that, miss,” Captain Ron warned her. “You’ll get the Henry Ford treatment.” He smiled.
She frowned.
He explained. “Henry Ford thought he had found a cheap way of stuffing seat cushions. He insisted that certain items be shipped to him at his factory be packed in Spanish moss. He then used this free packing material in the seat cushions. What he didn’t know was that the moss is full of insects. Customers complained. Would-be customers said they would wait to buy a Ford until he got the bugs out of it. And that’s the origin of that saying,” Captain Ron concluded, proud to bestow knowledge on the entire si
ghtseeing group.
In the canal, he pointed to large cypress trees, at least one of which predated Christ. He explained how they remained standing even when the insides had died and deteriorated. Beth, Sara, and Howard paid little attention. They were only interested in discovering Walter’s possible retreat. None of the houses near the canal fit the bill.
At the far end of the canal was another lake. The pontoon boat made a wide circle in it and headed back into the canal.
The return lake trip stayed closer to shore for the first part. Captain Ron continued to offer bits of local lore. The three amateur detectives’ ears perked up when he pointed at a relatively new house of Spanish design and said, “We’re not quite sure who lives there. It’s vacant most of the year. Town records show it’s owned by some corporation.”
The boat continued to move but Howard, Sara, and Beth were fixed on the house, studying as much detail as was possible. It appeared that a wall surrounded the house all the way to the lake on one side. All they could see on the other side were reeds and woods. There was no sign of life.
Captain Ron’s spiel dragged on. “The town quit issuing building permits on the lake so that upped the value of everything already built. See those old boathouses?” He pointed to several. “Lots of them have already been converted to living quarters. You can make improvements but you have to keep the original intent for boating.”
Howard, Sara, and Beth looked without much interest. None of the remodeled boathouses looked like something Walter would live in.
“Over there,” Captain Ron said, pointing closer to the town, “is the house of a famous gangster.”
Renewed interest from the three.
“Well, it used to be,” Captain Ron went on. “Rumor had it that he hid a lot of his ill-gotten gains in the walls. After the feds sent him to prison, the house went through a number of hands. Someone would buy it, spend six months looking for the money, and then sell it to the next prospector, so to speak. No one ever found the money, if it was there in the first place.”
“Who owns it now?” Sara asked.
“Not sure,” Captain Ron replied. “Haven’t seen anyone in it in quite awhile.”
“I think we just narrowed the search,” Sara whispered to the others.
“Is it possible to drive past them, get a better look?” Howard asked.
“Absolutely,” Beth stated.
“We should go together,” Sara suggested.
“Is it all right to leave my car there?” Howard asked.
Beth gave him a look that silently said, “What do you think, dummy?”
The sun hung just above the horizon making viewing of the lake houses difficult. Beth drove. Howard and Sara peered out the windows.
“Is that the gangster house?” Sara asked.
Beth took a quick look. It was white, plain, old, nothing distinguishing. It was exactly the type of place you would want to hide out in plain sight. “I think so,” she answered.
“It appears vacant,” Howard observed.
Further down the road, Beth turned sharply left, up and over some railroad tracks. The road turned narrower, following the twists around the lake.
A cell phone range inside Sara’s purse. She pulled it out. Howard’s. She showed it to him.
“Answer it,” he said.
“Hello?” She put it on loudspeaker.
“Sara? That you?” Ed’s voice was unmistakable.
“What’s up? Did daddy call?”
“Nought. Guess you ain’t found him neither. Well, just so’s you know.”
Sara rolled her eyes. Ed was going to drag it out. “Know what?” She asked impatiently.
Howard and Beth leaned in Sara’s direction, listening intently.
“That fella, Thomas, runnin’ a new ad. He’s got a picture of Sam shakin’ hands with someone they claim runs one of them big PACs. Claims Sam’s takin’ outside money unda the table. Put in a clip of the radio interviewa sayin’ so.”
“Is it running now?” Howard asked.
The car crossed the centerline headed for the lake.
“Jesus, Beth!” Howard exclaimed.
Beth pulled the car as far to the right as possible and stopped.
“What was that?” Ed asked.
“Nothing,” Howard answered. “What about the ad?”
“Runnin’ all ova the state. ‘Bout once an hour,” Ed explained.
“Prime time,” Beth said.
“We have been set up,” Howard declared.
“No, daddy’s been set up,” Sara corrected him.
They kept driving around the lake. On their left, boathouses and docks in various states of repair. On their right, some large houses well back from the shore fronted by sprawling lawns.
“This may be harder than we thought,” Sara observed. “Look at these. Any one of them could be Walter’s.”
A large, sprawling white house to their right set well back behind a concrete driveway that split and circled in front of it.
“Look for people,” Howard directed.
“And cars,” Beth added. “Walter always drives Mercedes.”
“There’s one!” Sara exclaimed.
Two two-story haciendas, white with red tile roofs lay before them, guarded by black steel gates and matching fences atop low concrete walls. In the second circular drive was a dark green Mercedes Cl-65. The car was worth at least a quarter of the price of the house.
Beth slowly drove past the two houses. There was no place to pull over without stopping on someone’s grass. She drove to the next side road. A yellow sign warned, “No Outlet.” She parked as much on the narrow shoulder as possible but still took up most of the right lane. The three looked backed at the Mercedes.
“What do you think?” Sara asked.
“Possible,” Beth replied.
“What do we do now?” Sara asked Howard.
“Wait,” he said. “See if someone comes out.”
A late model white sedan pulled next to them from behind and stopped. The driver shot them an angry look before turning in the direction of town.
Sara returned the look with a hidden one-finger salute.
Beth rolled down the driver’s window to get a better look. She shut off the engine in case there was something to hear. They took turns keeping an eye on the house and the Mercedes with Beth’s binoculars. Twenty minutes passed without activity. The white sedan returned. The driver did not look at them as he passed down the narrow road but they could feel the indignation.
Ten more minutes and a Pinnacle Point police SUV pulled next to them. A large man in brown sports jacket and slacks, could have been a football player in his younger years, stepped from the SUV. He walked to the open window and stuck his head in.
“Something I can help you folks with?” he asked.
A half-hour later, the three amateur detectives sat across the desk from Police Chief Anderson. He hung up the phone, pulled a pack of cigarettes from an inside pocket of his sports coat, and stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
“Can’t smoke inside,” he explained, “but that don’t keep me from wanting to.” He made them wait anxiously for another few seconds. “Your story checks out.”
A collective sigh of relief from the trio.
“But that house you were watching, I know the owner personally. She’s not who you’re looking for.”
“The one next door?” Beth asked.
“Nice old couple. Moved here from Orlando about ten, maybe eleven years ago,” Chief Anderson stated.
“What about the one we saw from the boat?” Howard asked. “The tour guide said it is owned by some corporation?”
“I know the one,” Chief Anderson replied. “Some Wyoming corporation. Strange state. They don’t have to list their corporate officers. Kind of a blind corporation, you might say.”
“Sounds like our man,” Howard speculated.
“Maybe,” Chief Anderson concurred. “But the other house, hacienda as you called it, also
owned by a private company.”
“Do you know who?” Sara asked.
Chief Anderson smiled condescendingly at her. “Well, sweetheart, not exactly but it’s some kind of investment company out of Houston.”
“Two for two,” Beth blurted out.
“There’s another,” Sara insisted. “Just beyond the railroad tracks. Salmon color with avocado trim.”
“I know the one,” Chief Anderson said. “Two gay guys.”
“That narrows the field,” Howard asserted.
“You’re free to go,” Chief Anderson told them, “but be polite out there. This is a nice, quaint little town. I’d prefer not to get another call from an irritate citizen.”
“Can’t you do something?” Sara asked indignantly.
“Like what?” Chief Anderson replied. Before she could respond, he added, “There’s been no crime committed that I know of. And if there has been, there’s no connection to these houses, or for that matter, my town.”
Sara started to respond but Howard put his hand on her arm.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Howard said.
“Chief,” Anderson corrected him.
“Thank you, Chief.”
The trio stood.
“Listen, you or the FBI come up with something concrete, I’ll be happy to investigate. Always happy to oblige the FBI. I’ll even get a warrant, do it all legally,” Chief Anderson assured them. “But until then, please watch your step.”
Just past the double doors of the police station, under her breath Sara said, “Prick.”
Howard took her by the elbow, shooting her a warning glance. A young man in a two-piece suit stared, passing them going in. Beth smiled and held the door for him.
Back at the rental car, Howard suggested, “We should split up so we can watch both houses.”
“Beth knows the area,” Sara said. “I’m coming with you.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you have dumb luck,” Sara replied. “You might just stumble across daddy.”
“Dumb luck?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said smiling for the first time since before lunch, “like not plunging off a bridge three hundred feet to your death in an icy river. Like meeting me.”
Mid-Life Friends and Illusions Page 19