Mangrove Madness: An Ernestine Ernie Pratt Mystery (Ernestine Ernie Pratt Adventures Book 1)

by J. C. Ferguson

  Mangrove

  Madness

  A Novel

  by

  J. C. Ferguson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  MANGROVE MADNESS: Copyright © 2015 by Judith C. Loose

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrievable system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author.

  Cover Design by Judy Loose

  Edited by Martha Jeffers

  Acknowledgments

  I could never produce a book without the help and support of my backup team. Thanks to my super-editor, Martha Jeffers, The Grammar Granny. Thanks to the Hurricanes critique group—Barb Burnett, Becky Elam, Artis Henderson, Denise Holbrook, Tom Nelson, and Julie Ward—who listened, encouraged, and corrected my mistakes along the way. Thanks to Kathy Muronda who helped me come up with the title, Mangrove Madness. I also appreciate the help of my brother and sister-in-law, Jim and Barb Ferguson, who read and commented on drafts along the way and Alice Oldford who reviewed the last proof for errors.

  Thursday

  Chapter 1

  The beach stretches white in front of me under a full moon. The salty tang of the Gulf of Mexico fills my lungs as I jog to the rhythm of the waves. Mindy the cat scoots in and out of the bushes, making little squeaky noises, coming to rub my legs, trying to trip me, then running away again.

  A strange shape looms ahead in the dark. Is that a boat? You don’t usually see boats on the beach side of the island, especially not at night. Voices float in the night air. Creeping forward near the trees, in and out like my cat, I get close enough to hear they’re speaking Spanish. Actually, it’s more like yelling Spanish. Someone is not happy. A group of people surround a thirty to thirty-five foot fishing boat. Whoever brought it in knows these waters. It’s the only deep water on this side of the island.

  Six people push the boat from the beach. Looks like three people on board. The engine starts and the dark shape disappears into the night. The six sit or sprawl on the beach. There’s no way off this island except by water. This south end of the island has no houses. No one will notice the stranded people ’til morning, maybe not even then. Why are they here? Maybe they’re camping, but they have no equipment. Do they know where they are? That boat captain knew where he was. Maybe I should call the sheriff’s office. I reach for my cell phone. Whoops! Not in my pocket.

  Part of me wants to run to the house, and part of me wants to talk to them. That’s really dumb, Ernestine. They might be dangerous. But what if they need help? Why would they land on an island they can’t leave?

  I creep closer and a branch snaps under my foot. All six people bolt for the woods. Well, not exactly woods, mangroves, not a good place to be at night.

  “Wait! Espera! Amigo!” Wish I knew Spanish.

  You must be out of your mind, Pratt. What if they’re smugglers—with guns? I stop in my tracks and start backing away. The six have disappeared. No sounds. I back up more, turn, and take off running for the house.

  Pound up the steps…through the door…grab my cell… panting…can’t talk. I ran almost a mile on a full stomach, which gives a loud grumble, telling me about it. I catch my breath and open the phone—dead battery. Damn! I throw it on the kitchen counter.

  “Mom, where are you? I need to use your phone.”

  She comes running from her room, mobile in hand. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  I grab her mobile and dial 911.

  When they answer, I start babbling about smugglers on the beach.

  “Slow down. Who are you?”

  Yeah, Pratt, slow down. Breathe. “Ernie Pratt. On Fisherman’s Island.”

  “Now tell me what you saw.”

  “A boat dropped six people off on the south end of the island.”

  “You said smugglers?”

  “That was my imagination talking. Maybe they’re refugees. They were speaking Spanish.”

  “We’ll send someone out.”

  “They’re hiding in the mangroves.”

  “Okay. We’ll send someone out.” She’s trying to get rid of me, so I hang up.

  “Smugglers?” Mom’s brown eyes are bigger than usual. “Can we go watch?”

  “Mom! It might be dangerous.”

  “I know, but we can watch from a distance.”

  “The police might think you’re one of them and shoot you.”

  “Just looking for a little excitement in our lives.” She’s more curious than most—freelances for the local newspapers. I was thinking about going myself, but not if Mom tags along. I’m kind of protective of my little mother. Not that she needs protecting.

  A siren wails in the distance; the cops have arrived. They’ll scare off those people with all that noise.

  “Come on. Let’s go see.” Mom pulls at my arm. “We’ll take the golf cart.”

  “Okay, but take your phone. Mine’s not working.”

  We aren’t the only ones who are interested. Two cars and four golf carts sit in the lot at the south end of the road. A Coast Guard vessel floats off the beach. A guy wearing a Coast Guard uniform stands at the end of the parking lot telling people to return to their homes.

  Mom’s cell rings. “No, this is not Ernie. This is her mother, Jessica.” She sticks the phone in my face.

  “He’s rude,” she tells me.

  “Hey, Ernie. You called this in on this number?” It’s Big Jim Mackel from the sheriff’s office, where I work now and then. His high, almost squeaky voice doesn’t fit him. Jim is one big boy, maybe six-six and two seventy-five, and bald, like a pink bowling ball. I don’t know if he’s naturally bald or following the style of the sheriff’s department—emulating their boss.

  “Yes, I called.”

  “I’m at your house lookin’ for you. No one home,” Jim says.

  “I’m at the south end of the island where the action is.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” He clicks off.

  A boat heads our way, lights flashing. Big Jim rolls out. “Where did you see them? Can you show me?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll bet they’re long gone.”

  “Still on the island; no one has left here since you called.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Not a big island. I wasn’t too far from here.”

  “What if they break into somebody’s house?”

  “Then we’ll get a call.”

  “What if they’re smugglers with guns?”

  “Doubt it. They would have shot you.” Big Jim gives me a huge grin.

  We’ve reached the spot where I first saw the boat and I show Jim where they ran from the beach. Two Coast Guardsmen follow the mashed grass and bushes into the mangroves, hoping to catch smugglers or refugees or whoever they are. I turn around and Mom is standing behind me.

  “Hello there. Who are you?” Jim asks.

  “Oh, you’re the rude one. I’m Jessica Pratt.”

  “She’s my mother.”

  Jim looks from me to Mom to me again. She doesn’t even come to my shoulder. I can almost hear him thinking. How did this happen?

  “Adopted, are ya?”

  “See? I told you he was rude. No, she is not adopted.”

  Jim turns to my mom and holds out his h
and. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He ducks his head a little. “Sorry if I was rude.”

  He almost cracks me up, trying to impress her.

  She lets him take her tiny hand in his large paw. “Thank you. Pleased to meet you, too, now that you’ve found your manners.” She smiles up at him.

  “Well, you ladies should go home. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

  As we head for the golf cart, Mindy the cat pops from the brush and drops something at my feet. It looks like a dead animal, which is not an unusual gift from Mindy.

  “Good girl.” She likes to be praised.

  I bend over for a closer look. It’s not an animal; it’s a child’s shoe, water-soaked and cat-chewed. Must have been left by campers. There were no children with the group we’re looking for.

  Friday

  Chapter 2

  The smell of warm chocolate chip cookies lifts my nose from in front of the computer screen and I follow the aroma into the kitchen. I’ve been trying to find information about what happened on our island last night. Nothing. Nada.

  “Ernestine.” Mom swats at me with a floured hand as I steal a warm cookie.

  “Time to pick up Bert, Mom. You wanna come along?”

  “You go ahead. I’m cooking.” For my brother Bert, of course. She doesn’t cook for weeks at a time and we live off salads, sandwiches, canned stuff. Sometimes we eat breakfast or takeout at the local pizza joint, and sometimes we decide to throw a meal on the grill. But today she’s cooking all Bert’s favorites.

  “He’ll expect you to be there,” I prod.

  “He can wait. I’ll meet you at the dock when you get back.”

  “Okay, see you later.”

  She stuffs a cake pan in the oven, then straightens, offering her cheek for a kiss. I bend over and kiss the top of her forehead, instead. She’s a perky little dark-haired woman, full of mirth. Bert takes after Mom and I must take after the postman, because they tell me my dad was dark, too, and not very tall. Mom tells stories of the hours she spent in labor with me, so I must not be adopted.

  Let me explain about myself. My name is Ernie Pratt, really Ernestine, but please don’t call me that. If I hear “one ringy-dingy” one more time, I might have to hurt somebody. Bert is my brother, a year younger than me. I know—“Bert and Ernie” caused us a bit of trouble growing up. His name is Bertram, for real, and he loves the name almost as much as I hate Ernestine. He thinks Bertram is much more sophisticated than Bert.

  Bert is my exact opposite, a charmer. He’s short for a guy, five foot six, and I’m almost six feet. He’s dark—I’m light. He’s a perfect suave human being who makes a living by convincing people to believe in what he’s selling. Brother Bert’s a broker in New York City. Big deal. Who wants to live in New York? Who wants to be rolling in dough, living in luxury, looking through your windows at Central Park from a penthouse apartment?

  I’m a computer nerd, awkward, sometimes even clumsy, who likes people but hates selling. I’m a newly licensed PI. Kind of proud of that. Can you tell? I applied for my license because I’m curious about everything. Love searching for things on my computer, but I also want to get out and see what’s going on. Want to know the Who, What, When, Where, Why, and How of everything. Want to find lost information, things, and people. Want some adventure in my life. But so far, most of the PI stuff is doing searches on the Internet.

  I’m a skinny blonde, usually found wearing an old T-shirt and cutoffs, sandals or no shoes—that’s because I’m in Florida. You might pass me on the street and not notice, except that I stick up above the crowd.

  I’m twenty-nine. In May, I’ll be THIRTY! Yuk! Old! Old maid! Not that I haven’t had my chances. Almost got hitched once, no twice, but got cold feet both times. I can find guys if I try, but not the right guys. I don’t look too terrible if I clean up, put on some make-up, and wear a dress. Hard to meet anyone when you’re stowed away in your house pounding the keyboard.

  Leaving the house, I trip over Max on the steps. He screams and takes off. Max and Mindy are cats that Mom and I adopted at the shelter a couple of years back. We feed them and their beach-bum friends, and sometimes they grace us with their presence in the house. Mindy follows me down the beach and across the island to the harbor, darting in and out of the tall grass and trees.

  Maggie McCoy, the dock master, is standing on the town pier when I get there, looking at a boat headed for the mainland. Her two-hundred-pound mastiff comes to greet me, licking my face, almost knocking me over.

  “Hey, Tiny.” I scratch behind his ears. “Hey, Mag.”

  “Hey, Pratt. I hear that sexy brother of yours is coming to visit.”

  “He’s bringing a girlfriend.”

  “He goes though girls like water. I still have a chance.” Maggie grins. She’s going on fifty and is one big woman. She’s not fat, but broad, all muscle, almost as tall as me, with wild, curly, bleach-blonde hair—sun bleached not bottle. If she hugged Bert, she would crush him.

  “Did you hear anything about the people who landed on the island last night?” I ask.

  “Not a word. I do know they found them and took them away.”

  “I kinda gathered that, since they aren’t still looking. My boat gassed up?”

  “Yeah, but you need to pull her and clean her.”

  “Someday soon.”

  Can’t go anywhere without a boat here. We live at the beach on Fisherman’s Island in Florida in a rambling hodgepodge house on stilts that Gram moved into after Gramps died. Gram hated the snow and cold in New Hampshire. Mom decided to come, too, since Bert and I were away at college at the time.

  Gram left three years ago. No, she didn’t die. She ran off with a very rich man ten years younger, but she’s younger in spirit. She’s dragging him all over the world. Right now they’re someplace in Africa taking pictures of lions from a jeep.

  Anyhow, I figured I should come down here and keep an eye on Mom after Gram took off. Figured she needed company. Couldn’t be that I wanted to live on an island in Florida, could it?

  I jump into the boat, and a ball of fur comes flying from nowhere and lands in front of me. “Max, get out of here.” I try to grab him as he disappears somewhere in the cabin. If I let him come with me, he’ll jump ship on the other side and we may never see him again. Tiny stands by my boat and barks. Big help he is. I bang around the seat, the cupboards, and the boat paint that’s been there for ages. Finally, Max appears. I try to catch him but he leaps to the top of the pilothouse. I stand on the rail to reach him and he jumps onto my head. I lose my balance, grasp at the top of the cabin, miss, and find myself flailing, falling, hitting the water.

  When I come to the surface, Maggie's doubled over with amusement. Max is standing between her and Tiny, not a drop of water on him.

  I blow the water from my mouth and sputter. “Give me a hand, for chrissake.” Maggie pulls me to the dock and offers a towel. I manage to dry off somewhat, strip off my shorts and tank top, and wring them out. No one around but Maggie, laughing her ass off. Putting wet clothes on is a challenge. I should go home and change, but t’hell with it. I hand Maggie her towel and point the boat at Fort Myers.

  At the other side of the bay, I’m dry enough not to worry about soaking the seats in my brand-new yellow VW bug. I take a peek in the rearview mirror. My hair stands on end like Bart Simpson’s—stylish these days. I run a brush through it, but it’s crusty with salt. Nothing will help. On the way to the airport, the traffic is terrible; snowbirds are here for the winter. Fort Myers is growing way too crowded for my taste. I turn on the oldies station to drown out the traffic, and Creedence Clearwater Revival is playing. I turn it up and sing along at the top of my lungs with the window open. Some gray-haired guy, waiting in traffic next to me in a white Continental, gives me a startled look. I give him a toothy smile and bat my eyes. When the light changes, he steps on it and leaves me behind.

  The airport is mobbed. They built this brand new terminal a few years ag
o to take care of all the people coming and going, but I don’t think they expanded it enough. The parking is always full. I stop in the cell phone lot. Maybe I can call Bert. I pull my mobile from my pocket and flip it open. Water runs out. No lights; won’t turn on, even if I plug it into the charger. Guess it croaked. I drive through the pickup area. Bert’s not at the curb, even though I’m late. The traffic cop won’t let me wait, so I catch a space in short-term parking after circling the lot about six times until someone leaves.

  Inside the terminal, people stare. Don’t know why, you see all kinds of creatures dressed lots worse. I reach up to my hair and realize it’s standing on end again. My clothes have dried crusty and itchy against my skin.

  By the baggage return, the crowds are flowing from the terminals, but I don’t see Bert. He’s not easy to spot, being short. I turn around, looking in all directions and bump into someone behind me.

  Turning to say I’m sorry, I see Lee County Sheriff’s Deputy Thorpe in all his splendor. This is one beautiful hunk of man. Taller than me, which is a plus, rock hard body, dark brown hair, blue eyes, and right now a grin that won’t quit. I’ve worked with him before at the sheriff’s office. Sometimes I do contract jobs there, routine stuff, searching records when they have more than they can handle. Anyhow, working with him makes my skin crawl in a good way. I’ve had my eye on him, but I think he has a girlfriend. Hey, maybe I have a chance, since he obviously stood where I would bump into him.

  “What are you grinning at, Thorpe?”

  He looks me up and down, eyes smiling. “Look what the cat dragged in.” If he only knew.

  “I fell off my boat, long story.” Damn, I look awful. I don’t want him to see me like this. I duck my head and back away, but it’s too late to hide.

  He shakes his head, still smiling, laughing inside at me, I’m sure. “I might have a job for you. Come see me tomorrow or Monday,” he says as I try to melt into the crowd. Impossible when I stick up above most everybody.