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

by J. C. Ferguson

  Allison has checked half the people on Mrs. Stark’s list, George Stark on the beach house bust, and four on the missing person’s list. Bruce Mondrone, Jack Farrell, and of course George and Alex.

  “Who is Jack Farrell?” Interesting. Another connected name.

  “He’s someone I met through Alex a couple of times.”

  All these missing people who knew each other can’t be a coincidence. I check my files, decorated with spots caused by my food spill at Jeremy’s. Jack Farrell is thirty-eight years old, not in his early twenties like the others. Reported missing in August, not July. That doesn’t mean he didn’t disappear in July. He lives in Bonita Springs, occupation sailboat captain, has an ex-wife and three kids in Naples. Maybe the ex reported him missing after he skipped child support payments. Could he be the mysterious boat captain who took Alex and George to the Caribbean?

  “Tell me about him.”

  “I don’t really know him. I met Alex for lunch one day and he was leaving as I arrived. Then he dropped off Alex at my apartment another time.”

  “Did Alex say who he was?”

  “That he was a friend, that’s all.”

  “Remember what he looked like?”

  “He was tan. This was in June and people aren’t usually tan in New England that early in the summer. And I’m pretty sure he was quite a bit older than Alex. Not one of his school buddies.”

  I look at the picture in the folder before handing it to Allison. Very tan, hair streaked blond by the sun. A rugged kind of attractive. “Is this the man?”

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  I hand her photos of the other missing persons. “Is there anyone else you recognize?” She might spot a face whose name she doesn’t know.

  She studies the photos carefully. Maybe too carefully. You can convince yourself you know someone. As the thought crosses my mind, she points. “I might know this girl.”

  I think I saw her on the news. The folder says she’s fifteen and lived in Fort Myers all her life. “Where from, Allison?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe on television.” It makes sense that Allison, looking for her brother, would tune in to any missing person news.

  She hands me another photo. “This is Bruce, George’s friend.”

  I look at the pictures of Bruce Mondrone, Alex Rodgers, George Stark—all young and handsome, smiling. Jack Farrell is older but attractive, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. Maybe someone abducted them for a male harem. I can picture some rich bitch on a private island, reeling in good-looking young men for her pleasure. The thought makes me smile.

  Not funny, Pratt. Human trafficking is never funny. If this had been a group of pretty young girls who went missing, it would be all over the media. And on the national talk shows, the sob shows. Is it possible? Could someone have kidnapped them? A shudder of horror runs through me.

  “What if Farrell took the three boys on his boat, say to the Caribbean? They could have run into weather and gone overboard, they could have been hijacked, or they could be having a good time on some island.” I’m thinking out loud, trying to imagine scenarios. I look at Allison. She has this horrified expression on her face. And I haven’t even mentioned kidnapping and human trafficking. Think before you talk, Pratt.

  “Let’s hope it’s the last idea,” Bert offers. “They’re having a blast somewhere and haven’t thought about people who might be missing them.”

  “Alex would never do that.”

  “The other options are much worse.” You aren’t helping, Pratt.

  She buries her face in her hands. Hope she’s not going to cry.

  “Hey, Bert, answer me a question. If you were vacationing in the Caribbean, lots of food and booze, attractive gals around, totally happy with the scene, would you bother to call home?”

  “I’d have to check with work. Can’t lose my job. I’d need cash for all those pleasures. Might not be able to use my credit cards.” That’s something to check. How much money did these guys have? Did they withdraw money from their accounts before leaving? The credit cards for Alex and George show no charges since they disappeared. They may not be able to use them.

  “Forget work. You’re out of a job, or maybe working your way through the islands. You don’t have to worry about work.”

  “I might touch base with Mom now and then. Might not. Depending on how distracted I was.” Bert grins.

  “See Allison. Girls call home, guys forget. If they have all the comforts, why bother?”

  “I don’t think Alex would do that.”

  “Some of the islands don’t have very good communications. Say there’s no wireless coverage, only a few phones on an island. It’s a pain to call. And it would cost money.”

  “He could call collect.”

  “Why, if he’s not in trouble?”

  Allison frowns but doesn’t answer. At least she’s not crying.

  “What did he tell you about his plans when he came to Florida?”

  “He said he was going to get out of my way so I could concentrate on my husband.”

  Whoa! This doesn’t sound like someone who intended to stay in contact.

  Bert raises his eyebrows at me from behind Allison.

  New subject. “Did you talk to all of Alex’s friends?”

  “If I had emails or phone numbers.”

  “Can you make me a list of any others that you didn’t contact? On second thought, add the ones you did talk to. How long has it been since you talked with his friends?”

  “I checked with everyone I could think of last summer. I’ve called off and on since. No one has heard from him.”

  “Were there any current girlfriends?”

  “No. One of the reasons he left was because a gal dumped him.”

  Minor details she didn’t tell me. I should call his ex.

  “Was there a new one?”

  “Not that I know of. George broke up with someone before he moved, too.”

  “How about Mondrone?”

  “I don’t know.” Her head droops.

  “Well, put the girlfriend’s names on the list.” I stand and stretch. Gotta escape this crowded, over-emotional office. I squeeze Allison’s shoulder as I walk by. “Don’t be discouraged. Maybe this Jack Farrell is the connection we need. I’m going to Bonita today and check on him.”

  “Can we tag along?” Bert asks.

  I roll my eyes. “Only if you don’t interfere.”

  Chapter 18

  We take my boat into the open waters of the Gulf. South past Captiva, Sanibel, Fort Myers Beach, slipping in through Big Carlos Pass to the Estero Bay estuary that hides behind the barrier islands. I love this area—a series of bays, channels and rivers, full of mangroves and seagrass, loaded with birds and wildlife. It’s a place that could turn me into a birdwatcher or a treehugger. Allison and Bert lean over the boat rails, watching a manatee.

  Before checking the marinas, I head for Jack Farrell’s house off the Imperial River. Hidden by mangroves, the mouth of the river isn’t easy to find. I have a street map and my trusty charts. I even have a satellite pic of the area, which shows waterways lined with rooftops. The coastline is a lacework of canals. Everyone wants to live on the water in Florida and everyone wants a boat, so builders dig channels behind any street that’s within reach of the Gulf, and some that are not.

  I maneuver up the river and into a canal, counting houses as we pass. That one should be Farrell’s, and it’s the only dock with no boat.

  “Stay here,” I tell Bert and Monica.

  “What are you going to do?” Bert asks.

  “Gonna see if anyone’s home.”

  “Hey, no breaking and entering.”

  “Not today.” It did cross my mind. Might be interesting to see what’s inside—maybe some clues to where they went.

  I walk into a nice green back yard, crowded with blooming trees and flowers. Their perfume is too much for my sensitive nose, making me sneeze. Good thing I’m not trying to sneak up on this on
e. On the third violent “achoo,” a barrel of a man comes rolling out of the house, waving a gun, and screaming, “Get off my dock!”

  I throw hands in the air and stop dead in my tracks. My mouth moves but no words escape. I’m shaking so hard my knees knock. I hate guns, especially when they’re pointed at me.

  “We’re looking for Jack Farrell. Do we have the wrong address?” Allison’s sweet voice comes floating from the boat behind me. Brave girl.

  “Who the hell is Jack Farrell?” The hand holding the gun drops to “Mr. Barrel’s” side.

  Whew! I can breathe again. Thank you, Allison! My eyes stay locked on the gun.

  “I think he lives on this street.” My voice sounds tinny and scratchy.

  “What’s his friggin’ address?” Mr. Barrel has been walking toward me. He’s almost in my face, leaning his head back to talk to me. He’s about six inches shorter but outweighs me by a hundred pounds. Doesn’t matter, the gun carries more weight than either of us. Did I say I hate guns?

  After a couple of swallows, I’m able to talk in an almost normal voice. I rattle off Farrell’s address.

  “You have the wrong damn canal, lady.” He points across the water with his gun. “Next one that way. Pay attention.” Then he turns and walks toward the house, mumbling. “Stupid tourists shouldn’t be allowed on boats.”

  I turn toward the boat. There stands Allison, holding a rifle to her shoulder. I nearly burst my bladder from fear and laughter. Mom made me put that rifle on the boat for protection. I’ve never even touched it. I hate guns!

  #

  Same house, different canal. This time the yard has no trees or flowers and the grass is long and dry. Grass doesn’t grow much in the winter with no rain, this lawn hasn’t seen a mower in months. A fence on one side and a tall hedge on the other separate this yard from its neighbors. A patio and screen room sprawl across the back of the house. A gas barbecue rusts in the sun. When I peek through the screen, I see an empty swimming pool. Apparently, the owner planned to be away for some time.

  I should return to the boat and get out of here, but curiosity is an irresistible thing. I walk to the front of the house. Scraps of paper dot the weed patches, which may have once been flowerbeds. Old newspapers lie in the driveway, the ones they throw around when you don’t even ask for them. There’s no way to turn off a service you didn’t subscribe to. I open the mailbox, which has the correct address for Jack Farrell painted on the side. Empty. A couple of palm trees in the front have dropped fronds on the dried grass. I’m surprised it’s not worse. Maybe some neighbor couldn’t stand it and cleaned up from time to time.

  I peek in the garage window. An old white Caddy convertible sits inside. At the front door, I ring the bell, more for the neighbors’ sake in case they’re watching than in expectation of anyone answering. This place is deserted.

  Time to leave. I’m itching to look around inside, but the thought of someone lurking there with a gun deters me, guns being foremost in my mind this morning. As I climb into the boat, a man calls from the dock next door, which happens to hold an expensive speedboat. This guy, who is almost as round as Mr. Barrel, wears no shirt, no shoes, no gun. Only a pair of shorts and a smile. I wave.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  “Yes, Jack Farrell.”

  “He’s been gone for months. Went sailing in the Caribbean. Should have hired someone to take care of his place.” He gestures at Farrell’s yard and shakes his head.

  I nod in agreement. “Did he say where in the Caribbean?”

  “No, just Caribbean.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Shoulda been home before now. Thought he was only going for a month or two.”

  “When was that?”

  “July. He went in July. Told him not to go in hurricane season. Doesn’t listen to anyone.”

  “If you see him, tell him I stopped by.” Should I give him a card, my real name? No. “Tell him Jane Domain was here to say hi.” If someone breaks into the house, I wouldn’t want my name to pop up in conversation.

  “Will do. Have a nice day.” He stands on the dock, smiling and waving, as I reverse the boat and head toward the river.

  #

  There’s a good-sized marina at a complex on the other side of the river. It’s part of one of those expensive gated communities that occupy huge areas of Bonita Springs and Estero, built in the middle of the mangroves and the estuary, next to a preserve where no one is allowed to build. The mangroves are supposed to be protected, but apparently there are ways around that if you have enough money.

  Somehow, I doubt that our Mr. Farrell frequents this fancy marina, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. I pull in to buy gas, hoping it will make people more hospitable than if I just start asking questions. The young man filling my tank is dressed in white shorts, blue shirt with a logo. His nametag reads “Kevin.”

  I chitchat with him about the weather and the tourists. He talks to Allison around me. He looks to her for approval about every third sentence.

  “Does a man named Jack Farrell, with a sailboat, ever stop by here?” I ask.

  “Oh, he used to take charters to the Keys. Haven’t seen him in a while. Maybe he had a run-in with management, or the law, or is lost at sea.” He giggles at his own joke, watching Allison. Interesting sidebar on Farrell.

  “Did he do much business here?”

  “He’d get a group every now and then. He did most of his business out of the marinas off Bonita Beach Road.” He rolls his eyes. Obviously, in Kevin’s mind, those marinas are a step down from his hoity-toity place of business.

  Those “lower class” marinas are my next stop.

  “Did you ever hear him talk about a trip to the Caribbean?”

  “Yes. He did one charter to Jamaica, for a month I think. I don’t believe anyone from our community went with him.”

  Our community. God, what a snob. I’ll bet he couldn’t afford a room here, let alone a house.

  “He talked about doing it again. But he talked about a lot of things.” Kevin smiles and shakes his head.

  “Like what?”

  “He used to brag about bringing people in from Cuba and Haiti. I don’t think it was real, though. He said he made a bunch of cash that way. If he did, he spent it all or threw it away.”

  Uh oh. Trouble. “You don’t think he smuggled people?”

  “Maybe he rescued some people in a floundering boat and dumped them on shore, once. His original story coincided with a news story about refugees on the beach. Then he expanded on the story. You couldn’t always believe what he told you.”

  “I know people like that.” Myself included. I smile at the thought of an inadvertent people pick-up turning into a booming transport business, with the telling of the tale.

  We leave Kevin and head for Bonita Beach Road, where a few charter businesses thrive along the causeway.

  “Sounds like you’re getting good information,” Allison says.

  “With Kevin, it helped that you were in the boat.”

  “Oh, that. All I did was smile. Didn’t have to pull a gun on him.” We all laugh at that, but mine is a nervous chuckle.

  “Do you know how to use a rifle?” Bert asks. He’s been rather quiet. Maybe he sees another side of sweet Allison.

  She nods, giving no explanation. I like Allison, but she’s a bit of a chameleon. The sobbing sister who lost her twin brother—not to mention her parents who died on 9/11. A girl with a sense of humor—full of laughter, determined, flirtatious, sometimes solemn. The teller-of-tall-tales as marina Kevin would say. The quiet shy girl, the brave cool one—pointing a rifle at Mr. Barrel. Does she morph to what she thinks you want to see in order to please? Is she a good actor? I suspect she’s well-practiced in the art of manipulation.

  Chapter 19

  At the Bonita Beach marinas, everyone knows Jack Farrell and his sailboat. Apparently, he prowls their docks socializing and looking for customers. He appears to be a local
character that people like. There’s some speculation he may have done a little drug or people smuggling. But the consensus is it was minor, or just talk.

  We leave the boat docked at a marina and grab a bite to eat at a fish place. Nothing fancy, but the food is melt-in-your-mouth delicious. Bert and Allison eat outside on the deck. I sit inside at the counter and talk to a lively fortyish redheaded waitress named Ginnie, who wears shorts so short her butt cheeks show without even leaning over.

  After discussing the weather and all that chitchat, I ask the inevitable question, “Do you know Jack Farrell?”

  Her eyes light up. “Sure I know Jack. Quite the ladies’ man.”

  “I’ve been trying to find him, but his house looks deserted.”

  “Did you date him, too?”

  Does that “too” mean she dated him? I raise my eyebrows, not answering.

  She looks me up and down and nods like she accepts me. “You from up north? Here for the season?”

  “No, I live in Cape Coral.” If I lived in Bonita, she’d know me, and I’m too young to be a snowbird.

  She gives me a grin. “Didn’t know Jack was prowling as far north as the Cape.”

  “He was there early last summer. Said he was trying to find passengers for a trip.”

  “Yeah, the big trip. He was lookin’ for kids with money. He was always short on cash. Had this dream about wandering around the islands, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, the Virgins, maybe staying and running his business from there.” The redhead leans on the counter, ignoring other customers. “He must have found his suckers, because he hasn’t been around since summer.”

  “He told me about Jamaica. Said he’d like to go again.”

  “Did he tell you he wanted to sneak into Cuba? I can’t imagine why.” Ginnie wipes the counter and rearranges things to look busy.

  “Something about bringing people into Florida.” I pretend to know what she’s talking about.