“Glad to hear it. That poor baby is being neglected.” Maggie walks over to the O’Day in the next slip. “Have you checked the sails and gear lately?”
“Not since September when Gram stopped by. We’ll check them before she sails.”
“Cute name for a boat,” Allison says. “Popeye’s Olive Oyl.”
“Gram’s boyfriend gave it to her. Gram’s name is Olivia Pratt, and the boyfriend is Sam “Popeye” Papadapolis. He calls Gram, Olive Oyl.” You can sure pick ’em, Gram. Who am I to criticize? I’ve never had a boyfriend who gave me a boat or took me on a trip around the world. I’ve never had a boyfriend who gave me anything but dinner. Oh, one gave me a tiny little diamond, but I returned it when I backed out of the wedding.
Maggie steps on board the O’Day and looks around. Allison follows and they start discussing the boat.
Gram’s last name is Pratt. She’s not my dad’s mother, she’s Mom’s mother. Mom uses her maiden name. How did Bert and I get the Pratt name? Well, when Daddy went to jail and Mom divorced him, she changed all our names to Pratt. She never took another husband’s name after that. Why should she and her children be bogged down with a man’s bad name? My dad? That’s another story I might tell someday.
After Allison and Maggie finish inspecting the sailboat, we don our backpacks and hoof it toward home. We stop at the Billy Sue’s combination coffee shop, grocery store, and pizza joint to order pizzas for tonight. They’ll drop them off at the house around six, or whenever they get there. They make such good pizza that people on nearby islands have them delivered by boat.
The house is quiet. No one home. I show Allison around. “Here’s your bedroom. The bath next door you’ll have to share with brother Bert and his girlfriend Monica. It’s not fancy.”
“I like it.” Allison drops her bag on the bed.
Actually, the bath is sparkling clean and the bedroom doesn’t look bad. The ceiling fan is clean and the wicker furniture is white. The last time I looked, they were so dusty they looked tan. Mom must have gone on one of her marathon cleaning sprees.
“You want to see the rest?”
“Sure.”
I wave my hand around, playing realtor, as we walk through. “This living room was the whole house in the beginning. The bedrooms are add-ons, two on each end. The kitchen is another add-on.” We poke our noses into the huge eat-in kitchen. It’s like a dining room with appliances and cupboards at one end. I put my backpack on the table and put groceries away while we’re there.
We wander to the other end of the house. I rush her through my bedroom because my bed’s not made. “And here is my office, another add-on.” Another quick peek, because stacks of paper are everywhere. We skip Mom’s bedroom and office. Enough house tour, we head for the beach. Outside, our house looks like a bunch of different sized boxes attached to each other, all on stilts, with big covered porches all across the back. Kind of strange, but I like it.
Mom is in a chair by the water, forgotten book in her lap. Two empty chairs sit next to hers.
“Mom, this is Allison Martinelli from Boston.”
She stands, brushes the sand off her bathing suit, looking pretty sharp for a fifty-year-old. She offers her hand to Allison, doesn’t try the hugging bit this time, probably remembering Monica’s brush-off. I don’t think Allison would mind a hug.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Pratt. Thank you so much for having me.”
“It’s Ms. Pratt. Not married at the moment, thank goodness.” She smiles when she says it. “Call me Jessica.”
“Where’s the Bert?” I ask.
“Walking with Monica, I guess.” Mom settles back into her chair and Allison and I take the other two.
“What brings you to Florida?”
Oh, no! I should have told Mom about Allison’s brother. I don’t want Allison in tears again.
“My brother is missing. Fort Myers airport is the last place anyone heard from him.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry.”
“Ernie will find him,” Allison declares. Where did all that confidence in me come from?
Mom raises both eyebrows in surprise.
I hope I can at least find some trace of him. I imagine him going up in a poof of smoke and floating away on the wind.
Change the subject. “Oh, Mom, I almost forgot. The people on the beach last night were Cubans. They packed them off to Miami.”
“Yes, that’s what Deputy Mackel told me.” Mom gets a dreamy look in her eyes and a little smile curls the corners of her mouth. “I kind of liked that rude deputy. What did you call him, Big Jim?”
“Yes, and he’s a nice guy when he wants to be.”
“Did you see him today?”
“No, he’s in a different territory than Jeremy. I was at two different sheriff’s offices, though. I went to see Jeremy and later my car was in a crash.”
Mom’s eyebrows go straight up this time and her eyes open wide. “What happened?” She inspects me, looking for cuts and bruises.
“It’s a long story.”
Now it’s the left eyebrow. Mom’s displeased. I’d better tell her. This time Allison and I elaborate even more than we did for Charlie. We’re all laughing so hard we don’t even notice when Bert and Monica arrive.
“I’m missing something,” Bert says. “What’s the joke?” Bert has two more chairs on his shoulder, which he places in front of us.
So Allison and I tell the story of Gorilla Bob and my poor car all over again. Each time the tale gets a little longer and a bit more exaggerated. Bert joins our merriment, but Monica sits with her chin in her hands, elbows on knees, pouting.
Finally, she says, “I don’t know what’s funny about someone destroying your car.”
The laughter dies as if she threw cold water on us. No one speaks. We all sit and stare at Monica.
“Hey, Pratt.” Jeremy wanders down from the house, looking deliciously tan in shorts and T-shirt. A little growl escapes my throat when I see him. Saved by the sheriff.
“What happened? Y’all look like you came from a funeral.” His eyes show concern.
“We did,” I answer. “My car’s funeral.” We all burst out laughing again, even though as Monica stated, it’s not funny. Everyone laughs except Monica. She pouts.
#
Food arrives as the sun slips into the Gulf of Mexico. We open the boxes on the kitchen table and wander onto the porch to eat, balancing pizza and beer on knees or little tables or porch railing. The group seems to get along well. Allison fits right in. Bert is in her face, talking up a storm. Has he noticed the ring on her finger? Couldn’t miss that rock. He’s ignoring Monica. Mom and Jeremy talk about police work, and the Cubans. I wonder if she’s asked him about Big Jim.
“Hey, Pratt.” Jeremy touches my shoulder. “Great family, but I have to leave. Big Jim is picking me up at the dock.”
Mom sits up straight, listening.
“Want to invite him over?” I ask. “There’s pizza left.”
“He’s on duty.” I watch Mom deflate at Jeremy’s answer.
I walk with Jeremy down Main Street in blackness. No street lights on the island and the moon has disappeared behind clouds. I stumble over a rock or a pothole and Jeremy grabs my hand. Ummmm, a nice warm feeling flows through me, settling like a hot spot in my belly. I can feel my heart speed up. Good thing it’s dark, I’m probably blushing. Grow up, Pratt.
He keeps holding my hand all the way to the dock. Big Jim’s not here. I try to think of something to say, but my normally flapping tongue won’t move. Jeremy pulls me to his chest, holds my chin with his hand, and tries a tentative kiss. My arms automatically wind around him and my tongue has a life of its own, seeking his.
The moon pops from behind the cloud and the sound of a boat motor floats off the water. We both step back at the same time.
A sheriff’s boat pulls up with a bright spotlight pointed right at us. “Come on Thorpe, gotta go check on a problem.” Big Jim’s high voice comes from behind the light.
/> “Seeya ’round, Pratt.” Jeremy steps into the boat.
“Seeya, Thorpe.” The motor revs and they’re gone. My heart’s still doing a thumpity-thump.
Sunday
Chapter 8
Everyone else went sailing. I’m alone in the house. I wanted to go, but four is the limit for that little boat, and besides I need to do some work. If I hang with Allison all the time, I’m never going to locate her brother. I really want to find him. This is the kind of thing that made me decide to get my license. If Bert ever disappeared, I’d hunt him to the ends of the earth.
Haven’t been near my computer since Friday when I went to pick up Bert at the airport. I turn it on and about fifty emails pour in. All but six end up in my junk folder. Two of the six are ads, one’s a dumb joke. Delete. Delete. Delete. One is from an insurance company wanting me to check on some guy hanging out at Fort Myers Beach. He’s on disability for a bad back and they think he’s faking it. Not my favorite kind of work, but I’ll take it.
Not that I need work with ten grand burning a hole in my backpack. Can you believe it? I’ll probably have to return ninety percent. Wonder if it’s real. I open my pack to see if it’s still tucked away where I hid it. Yes!
Back to your email, Pratt. Friend Cheryl, from New Hampshire, writes about winter weather and her kids. Yuk, to both subjects! Maybe the reason I never married is I’m not longing for the patter of little feet. I answer her anyway.
The last one is Jeremy’s.
Hey, Pratt!
Here’s some background on George Stark (attached).
Thanks for inviting me last night.
Next time, I’ll take you to dinner.
Jeremy
When my heart stops racing, I check the attachment. He was hauled in once for possession. No arrest. But there’s a Fort Myers Beach address, different than the one I called yesterday where the kids hang out. There’s a phone listed and a social security number. With that, I can find almost anything about him. Maybe I can even find George.
I am so good at this. In minutes, I‘ve found full credit records on George Stark and Alexander Rodgers, plus activity on all their credit cards. Zero activity since July. Looks like George and Alex disappeared together. Is anyone looking for George?
George has a glitch on his credit since his phone bill hasn’t been paid for six months. I dial his number. Surprise, it hasn’t been turned off. After six rings it goes to voicemail. I leave a message.
On a whim, searching for a phone number I type in George’s Boston address listed on his credit report. Bingo! There’s a number listed for Bruce and Martha Stark. Parents? Probably. I dial the number before stopping to think what I’m going to say. A woman answers.
“Mrs. Stark? This is Ernestine Pratt from Florida.” I don’t bother to use a fake name, this time. “I’m looking for your son George.”
I hear a quick intake of breath. “George isn’t living here.”
“I know, Mrs. Stark. I’m trying to find him. Actually, I’m searching for Alex Rodgers and that led me to George. Now I’m searching for both of them.”
There’s a long pause before she answers. “I know Alex. He’s a good friend of George’s. They spent time together in high school and college. He was here at the house a lot. Why are you searching for Alex? Is he missing, too?” Ah, there’s the answer. Someone is searching for George—his mother.
“I believe they went missing together, Mrs. Stark. Right after Alex came to visit George here in Florida.”
“I didn’t know that. Why wouldn’t the police tell me?” She sounds pissed. This lady has been given the runaround.
“Maybe they didn’t know.”
“We’ve been looking for my son since August. He didn’t call. We couldn’t reach him. We flew to Florida and couldn’t find him. We turned in a missing person’s report and the police practically ignored us.”
“Who did you file the report with?”
“The Fort Myers Beach police.” I wonder what happened to the missing person report. Fort Myers Beach “police” department is the Lee County Sheriff’s Department. The Beach doesn’t have its own force.
“I’m sorry if they gave you a hard time, Mrs. Stark, but he’s an adult living on his own and it’s not unusual for young people to lose touch with their parents. I’m not making excuses for them, but it’s difficult.”
“Who are you? And why are you looking?” She doesn’t sound happy with my excuses for the sheriff’s department.
“I’m a private investigator working for Allison, Alex’s sister. She’s the one who told me Alex disappeared when he came to see George. She’s had the same problems with law enforcement that you’ve had. They don’t really consider her brother a priority.”
If a young woman or a teenager were missing, it might be different. But no one’s going to consider a man in his twenties, who ran off to live at the beach, as missing. It isn’t fair, but it’s the way life is.
“I know Allison. I haven’t seen her in a long time. I didn’t know she was looking for Alex. Maybe if we had known both boys were missing, it would have made a difference.” Martha Stark sounds as if she’s given up. She’s talking past tense.
“Are you still looking? Have you hired an investigator?”
“We did, but he came up with nothing.” Same as Allison. They must not have looked very hard.
“Mrs. Stark, there’s a bill for your son’s cell phone that hasn’t been paid in six months. But it’s still working. You might want to pay it and get copies of past statements. There may be some calls on it after he disappeared.”
“I call it all the time. I find it strange that it’s taking messages. Wouldn’t the mailbox fill up?”
Is George deleting the messages? Better not suggest that to his mother. “I’m not sure; some services give you unlimited messages. You might be able to check, as his parents, to see how far back the messages go. Do you by any chance know how to get into his mailbox? Maybe a password written down somewhere?”
“I doubt it, but I’ll look. Thank you for the idea. Do you want to know if I find anything?”
“Yes, I’d appreciate it. And let me know if you have no luck with the phone company. I can try to put pressure on the police to go after those records.” I give her my name again, plus my number and email address. As an afterthought, I give her Mom’s number. Who knows, I may destroy another phone any minute.
“Before you go, Ms. Pratt,” she says, “would you like to work for us, too? You could look for George while you’re looking for Alex.”
“I can’t promise anything. I’ve barely started, but from what I’ve seen so far, there aren’t many leads.”
“But you managed to put the two boys together. No one did that for us before, or thought of getting his cell phone records. If you’re tracing both boys you might find out more.”
“I’ll be looking for George. It seems necessary in order to find Alex. I feel a little guilty taking money from two parties for the same work. Maybe you and Allison can share the expenses.” Geez, Pratt. Why not take the money? Don’t be such a wuss.
I pop off an email to the address she gives me, stating rates and details. I’ll need to discuss this with Allison before we make it final. There may be a little conflict of interest here.
I decide to call Jeremy.
“Hey, Pratt.”
“Hey, Thorpe. How come there’s no missing person report on George Stark? The parents filed at Fort Myers Beach.”
“Nothing in the files. Maybe someone misplaced it.”
More likely, someone tossed it.
“I take it no one looked for him.”
“No one’s looking for Alexander Rodgers either, Pratt. Officially, they’re boys on a fling, not calling home. That’s why I gave it to you.”
“I think I’ll take a ride over to the beach this afternoon.” Damn! I don’t have a car.
He reads my mind. “I could give you a ride.” It’s tempting, but I don’t think I want him
around when I’m trying to be discreet. I can see it all now, lights flashing, siren blaring, kids scattering. No way!
“I’ll take my boat over and walk or hop on the trolley. Don’t you have work to do, Deputy Thorpe?”
“Just cruisin’ right now.”
“The beach is a little out of your territory, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. But for you I’d make an exception.”
“If I need you, I’ll call.”
“Seeya, Pratt.”
Wow! I talked to Jeremy without my heart going into overdrive.
Chapter 9
Willie’s Marina is at Fort Myers Beach, off Time’s Square, on the bay side. They know me and don’t mind if I leave my boat for an hour or two. I send them customers for their fishing trips and sometimes I buy gas here. I dock next to a fishing boat ready to go, with people lined up on the deck, hanging onto the rail, fishing poles in hand. I blink and take a second look. They’re all women. Old women. Every one of them wearing a red hat. They wave at me, and smile. I wave back.
It’s a short walk to one of the little cottages crowded between hotels on the beach side of the island. The disability guy lives here. I might as well check on him as long as I’m in the neighborhood. How can he afford to live on the beach? We working stiffs can’t afford it. Maybe in the summer. But not in season when it costs ten times as much.
The house looks empty, so I head for the water through a hotel parking lot. I pull a picture of him from my pocket. He’s non-descript. A non-descript, non-lively, non-entity. Don’t know if I’d recognize the man if I was talking to him. Oh well, I’ll stroll along the beach and see if I can spot the guy.
I slip off my sandals and stuff them into my backpack. Sand between my toes, one of the reasons I came to Florida. A Chamber of Commerce day. The beach is loaded with tourists. All sizes and shapes. Fat ones, skinny ones, young ones, ancient ones—walking, swimming, mostly sitting in the sun, frying. Fry on the first day and pay.
I pass one of the many places where they rent Jet Skis and give parasail rides. All the Jet Skis are in use. Several people are waiting for a turn. One of the group looks like my guy, “Non.” He stands out because he’s so dull and uninteresting. The others in the crowd are either beautiful brown beach people, white-skinned northerners slathered in sunblock, or red-skinned sun worshipers. I park my butt in the sand like I’m waiting for a ride.
Mangrove Madness: An Ernestine Ernie Pratt Mystery (Ernestine Ernie Pratt Adventures Book 1) Page 5