Beach Town

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Wait. Kregg? As in, the Kregg? He’s the male lead?”

  Greer didn’t listen to a lot of hip-hop, but even she was aware that the twenty-four-year-old artist formerly known as Craig White had two certified platinum albums and had been heavily courted by every studio in town, all anxious to provide him with a star vehicle and thus to cash in on his newfound fame.

  “Consider yourself sworn to secrecy,” the assistant said. “Bryce wants to start rehearsing him right away. We’ve only got Kregg for four weeks before he goes out on his summer concert tour. His people are going to need six bedrooms. Security is going to be an issue, so a gated property is a must. A pool, of course, and a basketball court. That’s how he likes to unwind.…”

  “Bennett? The thing is, I’m pretty sure a house like that doesn’t exist here.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m really not,” Greer assured him. “Tell Bryce I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.”

  * * *

  Ginny Buckalew looked up from her paperback as Greer entered the office. “Morning. Everything okay with the room?”

  “Now that you mention it…” Greer hesitated, not wanting to alienate the older woman. She was going to need an ally these next few weeks.

  “What?”

  “Well, the air conditioner doesn’t seem to be working properly. It leaks, and rattles, but it doesn’t really cool the room. My television only gets three channels, and they’re pretty fuzzy. And there was a huge roach in my room this morning. It landed right on my pillow! And since you asked, I have to say, your maintenance guy is a rude jerk.”

  Ginny nodded as Greer enumerated her complaints. She got up and left the room. Two minutes later she returned and plopped a twelve-inch-tall electric fan on the counter. Beside it she placed a plastic flyswatter and a can of Black Flag.

  “This is Florida,” Ginny said. “The Silver Sands was built by my dad in 1946. It’s hot. We got bugs. Deal with it.”

  Greer opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. With Bryce Levy and his entourage arriving in three days, she had other, more pressing concerns.

  “Listen, Ginny, what can you tell me about that old closed-up casino at the end of the pier?”

  “It’s closed,” Ginny said.

  “Yes, I realize that. But what’s the status on it? It would make an incredible location for the film I’m working on. Do you know who owns it?”

  “Talk to Eb,” Ginny said.

  “Who’s Eb?”

  “The mayor.”

  “Does he own it?”

  “You’ll have to talk to Eb about that.”

  “How do I reach him?”

  Ginny opened the office door and pointed down toward the end of the corridor. For the first time, Greer noticed that a small wooden shingle was mounted outside one of the motel units, but she couldn’t read the type from where she stood.

  “That’s his office,” Ginny said.

  * * *

  The end unit wasn’t like the other motel units. It had a plate glass door, but the interior of the office was obscured by a tightly drawn shade. The wooden shingle proclaimed this Thibadeaux Realty—Eben Thibadeaux, Realtor-Broker.

  A hand-lettered sign taped to the door read “Gone out. Back later.”

  A bulletin board mounted to the wall beside the door held thumbtacked flyers for various homes on the market.

  There were half a dozen advertisements for unpretentious-looking shacks labeled Cracker Cottages, none of them listed for more than $150,000. There were downtown commercial properties, a closed-up restaurant, a former art gallery, even the women’s boutique Greer had photographed the day before.

  She took special notice of three imposing-looking multiple-story waterfront houses located in a gated community called Bluewater Bay. No sale price was listed, but the flyers showed photos of swimming pools, huge state-of-the-art kitchens, and cathedral-ceilinged great rooms with spectacular waterfront views.

  She plucked the flyers from the bulletin board and headed back to the office.

  “Eb’s not there,” she reported.

  “You could try the store,” Ginny said, clearly not interested in Eben Thibadeaux’s whereabouts.

  “Which store?” She wondered if the Ginny got a thrill from being deliberately cryptic and unhelpful.

  “Hometown Market,” Ginny replied. “Three blocks up, turn right, you can’t miss it.”

  * * *

  “Haven’t seen him,” the cashier at the supermarket said. “Try city hall.”

  The clerk at city hall smiled apologetically. “You just missed him.” She turned to a young man with muttonchop sideburns who was busily tapping away on a computer keyboard. “Did Eb say where he was headed when he left here?”

  “I think he was gonna show one of those condos over on the south end.”

  “Could you give me his cell number?” Greer asked politely. “I really need to speak to him.”

  The two clerks conferred quietly. “I guess that’d be okay,” the woman said. “He usually likes to be accessible to constituents.”

  * * *

  Greer found that if she stood on the top step outside city hall, her phone got exactly one bar.

  And she was not surprised when the mayor’s phone went directly to voice mail.

  “Hi, Eben,” she said brightly. “My name is Greer Hennessy. I’m a film location scout and I’d love to talk to you about using Cypress Key for the film we’re going to be shooting in this area very soon. It’s a terrific opportunity for your beautiful little community to really shine for the whole world to see. But it’s urgent that I meet with you today. I’m staying at the Silver Sands Motel, but you can reach me at this number, at any time. Looking forward to meeting you!”

  She popped her head back into city hall. The clerk gave her an expectant look.

  “I left the mayor a voice mail. Any other guesses as to where he might be?”

  “Well-l-l … it’s Friday, and it’s lunchtime, so if I had to guess, I’d say he’s either at the Deck or the Boathouse.”

  “Those are local restaurants?”

  “The Deck is. It’s on the bayside, right after you come across Kiss-Me-Quick.”

  Greer’s face showed her confusion.

  The girl smiled. “Kiss-Me-Quick is the last bridge after you come over the causeway from the mainland. The Deck is on the right side of the road. You’ll see all the trucks out front. Today’s Friday, all-you-can-eat shrimp boil.”

  Greer nodded her understanding. “What about the Boathouse? What’s the special there?”

  “No special. It’s just where Eb keeps his boat when it’s not running, which it usually isn’t. Keep going on the state route, after you’ve crossed Kiss-Me-Quick. The sign is so faded you can’t hardly read it anymore, but I think it says Maring Marina. That’s on the right side of the road, before you cross the humpback bridge.”

  * * *

  Greer found the Deck with little trouble, and just as the clerk had predicted, the sandy parking lot was crowded. The restaurant was a low, rambling affair, a faded driftwood building surrounded on two sides by decks that looked out on the bay.

  Inside she was greeted with the sharp scent of spicy seafood boil, fried fish, and beer. As she glanced around the crowded room, she realized she had no idea what Eben Thibadeaux looked like.

  A hostess looked up from behind the cash register near the door. She was young and pretty, with short, pale blond hair tucked behind one ear and a tiny gold ring piercing her left nostril. “How many in your party?”

  “Just one, but, uh, I’m actually looking for somebody. The mayor? Is he here?”

  “Eb?” She glanced looked over her shoulder, and then back at Greer. “Nah. He’s not here.”

  * * *

  She left another message on Eben Thibadeaux’s voice mail, then drove three miles up the state route, following the city clerk’s directions.

  The boathouse was right where it was supposed to be
. Greer took out her phone and began snapping photos. Even if Eben Thibadeaux was still MIA, this might make a great location for the film.

  The building was made of sun-bleached wood and salt-corroded galvanized tin. MARING MARINA—DRYDOCK, MACHINE SHOP, WELDING—the sign’s wording was so faded it was barely visible. There were three vehicles parked in the lot—two pickup trucks and a tired-looking blue sedan with four flattened tires.

  Seagulls plucked dispiritedly at what looked like a piece of hamburger bun near the office door, but didn’t budge as she walked past. The door creaked on its hinges. A high wooden counter faced the door, and behind it stood a desk—that was empty.

  “Hello?” Greer walked around the counter and peeked into an inner office furnished with an old metal tanker desk and a file cabinet of similar vintage. Papers and catalogs and cardboard boxes of engine parts spilled across the desktop, but there was no sign of its occupant.

  She returned to the outer office and pushed through a swinging door that led her out into a dank building that smelled like decaying fish and motor oil. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.

  When they did, she saw that she was in a cavernous warehouse, with rows and rows of boats suspended from harnesses, three high, all the way up to the ceiling. A piece of heavy equipment that resembled a forklift was parked in the middle of a walkway that bisected the room.

  “Hello?” Her voice echoed in the darkness. At the far end of the warehouse, a half-open roll-up door emitted a bright shaft of light.

  She followed the light, walked out the door, and finally saw her first sign of life. A man stood just outside the door, bent over a pair of sawhorses that held a large, black outboard motor. His back was to her, but he wore a white T-shirt, blue jeans, and a baseball cap.

  “Hey there,” Greer called. “I’m looking for Eben Thibadeaux?”

  “Hang on a minute,” the man muttered. He tinkered with the motor a little bit, dropped something on the pavement, and swore softly.

  “Yes?” His face was sweaty and streaked with grease. He pushed the tortoise-shell glasses back from the bridge of his sunburned nose, and when he saw his visitor, frowned.

  It was the surly maintenance man she’d encountered back at the Silver Sands Motel. “Christ. What now?”

  “You!” Greer squinted into the sunlight.

  “Yes, me.” He took a blue bandana from the back pocket of his jeans and wiped his hands before shoving it back into his pocket.

  “You’re Eben Thibadeaux? The maintenance man at the motel? You sell real estate? And you’re the mayor?”

  “You left out grocery store owner,” Eb Thibadeaux said. He pointed at the outboard motor. “And failed boat mechanic. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  6

  “I’ve been trying to track you down all morning. I’ve driven all over town, been to city hall twice, and I’ve left three different messages on your voice mail,” Greer said.

  He frowned, patted his back pocket, and came up empty. “Sorry. Guess I left my phone in my truck. What’s so important?”

  “You’re really the mayor?” She couldn’t help herself. Eben Thibadeaux was the least mayoral looking person she’d ever encountered.

  “So they tell me. The people’s choice and all, although, I should tell you, I ran unopposed.”

  She sighed and was conscious of the sweat trickling down her own face, and the fact that her shirt was sticking to her back. It was easily ninety degrees on this black asphalt lot.

  “Could we maybe go inside where it’s cooler? I’ve got a business proposition to discuss with you.”

  “City business or personal business?”

  “Both, actually.”

  * * *

  She followed him through the dry-dock area and into the inner office, where he seated himself behind the desk and pointed her toward the only other seat in the room, a high-backed metal chair.

  “I’m listening,” Eb said.

  She took a deep breath. “About this morning. Look, I’m sorry. I had a long drive down here, and I was tired, and hot, and, well … I guess I sort of made an ass of myself over that roach.”

  “Yep.”

  “The point is, I’d like to apologize.”

  “Okay.”

  “But you weren’t exactly helpful, you know,” she said. “Or polite. What does Ginny think of the way you interact with her guests?”

  He chuckled. “She’s used to it. What kind of business proposition are we talking about?”

  “I should probably introduce myself. My name is Greer Hennessy.”

  “From Los Angeles. You’re driving a rented Kia, and you’ve rented out the entire motel for, what, six weeks?”

  “Who told you that?” Greer asked, stunned.

  “My aunt. Ginny Buckalew.”

  “Wait. Ginny is your aunt? The same Ginny that owns the motel?”

  “Co-owns it,” he said. “With me.”

  “I should have known,” Greer said. “Did Ginny also tell you why I’m here?”

  “Something about a movie you supposedly want to film here in Cypress Key?”

  “Not supposedly. We definitely want to film here. Your town has everything we need. It’s quaint and picturesque, it has that Old Florida, pre-Disney look that’s impossible to find anymore. I know, because I just spent two days driving the Panhandle.”

  “There’s lots of other places in Florida,” Thibadeaux pointed out. “It’s a big state. We got nothing but beaches and coastline. Have you seen Sarasota? Or Naples? How about Vero Beach, over on the east coast?”

  “Are you trying to sell me on someplace else?” Greer asked, puzzled. “Look, I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot this morning, but personalities aside, this film is the real deal. It’s a big-budget, major motion picture with a director whose last movie was nominated for an Oscar.”

  He wasn’t jumping up and down. Yet.

  “We’re talking about a six-week shoot,” she continued, “most of it done right here in Cypress Key. It’s a huge win for your town. In terms of local motels, restaurants, bars, and jobs, it’s at least a million dollars in revenue.”

  “Interesting,” he said, picking up a catalog and leafing through it. He looked anything but interested in her proposal.

  But she had to keep trying.

  “My director is flying in Monday, and he’s bringing the male lead in the movie,” Greer said. “And that’s another reason I need to see you. The crew and most of the cast will stay at the Silver Sands and the other motels in town, if we need them, but we’ll need to lease a couple private residences for the director and the principal actors.”

  He looked up. “What sort of residences?”

  “High-end, luxury homes,” Greer said. “The director needs at least four bedrooms, and as many baths, and a swimming pool.”

  “I think I could find something like that,” Thibadeaux said. “We’ve got three properties for sale, out in Bluewater Bay. Spec houses. I’d have to see if the developer would be interested in a short-term lease.”

  “For the male lead, we’ll need six bedrooms, and a pool. And a private basketball court.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not. It’s apparently in his contract.”

  “Who is this guy? George Clooney?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. But security is going to be an issue for him. His fans are totally rabid. I’m assuming this Bluewater Bay place is gated—with guards?”

  Thibadeaux laughed. “Yeah, there’s a gate, of sorts. And the developer built a guardhouse but, as far as I know, the gates have never been operational, and there sure as hell has never been anything like a security guard over there. You gotta understand something, Miss Hennessy. This isn’t Miami. People here don’t even lock their doors, let alone live behind a fence.”

  “How nice for them,” Greer snapped. She was starting to lose her patience. The guy was doing everything he could to talk
her out of using his town for the movie shoot.

  “Look, Mr. Thibadeaux—”

  “It’s Eb.”

  “Okay. Eb. I’ve driven all over Cypress Key. I’ve looked at your business district, and the houses here, and I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but it seems to me that this is sort of an economically disadvantaged community. You’ve got a charming Main Street, but more than half the old buildings are vacant. And the rest of the town isn’t much better. There’s a beautiful white sand beach on the Gulf, but the Silver Sands is the only motel where people can stay there, and even you would have to admit it’s not exactly the Ritz. But once the movie is out and people see how charming your town is, tourism is going to pick up. Businesses will follow. I’ve seen it time and again. This movie will be a boon to your community.”

  “A boon.” Thibadeaux set aside the catalog.

  “Exactly.”

  His gray eyes stared her down. “And who guarantees that?”

  “Guarantees? We’ll have legally executed documents for all the locations we use for the shoot, if that’s what you mean. Our production company will lease the motel and whatever private residences we need for the cast and crew. For a production this size, we’ll be hiring locals—short term, it’s true, but we’ll need drivers, caterers, electricians, laborers to help build sets, security guards. And extras, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said mockingly.

  That did it for Greer. “What the hell is with you?” she demanded. “Most towns, if they were offered a big-budget production like this, they’d jump at the chance. But you act like I’m trying to put up a toxic waste dump or something. You’ve done everything but tell me to take my movie and get the hell out of Dodge.”

  He leaned across the desk. “Miss Hennessy?”

  “Greer.”

  “Right. Greer, do you know anything about the history of Cypress Key? Have any idea why we are, as you say, an economically disadvantaged community?”

  “Not really.”

  The chair squeaked loudly as he sat back. Eb Thibadeaux seemed to fill the chair—and the room, come to think of it. He was a shade north of six feet tall, not matinee idol handsome but undeniably intriguing, with the scholarly look of a professor—a professor who spent a lot of time outside.