During the day, Poppy returned to his first love, fixing engines, his favorite activity. Cooper had kept a promise to me and to Poppy by setting up a car lift, lighting, and all the equipment my grandfather needed to do his tinkering. In the few down hours Poppy had, he helped me by getting furniture ready for us to paint. When we found pieces that needed gluing or stripping or in need of replacement parts, Poppy put them right.
None of these chores would make Poppy rich, but all of them made him feel like a king. For decades, he’d been providing people with reliable transportation served up with a dollop of conversation and unwarranted advice. At eighteen, Sid badly needed a male parental figure, and Poppy doted on the boy. As for me, my store benefited from the nearly endless supply of armoires, bookshelves, tables, dressers, nightstands, chairs, and the like.
As a bonus, Poppy had repainted a few items that I’d since added to my home. An unfinished pine armoire turned regal once we applied a coat of navy blue paint. A twisted standing lamp shed its dowdy cream finish and became much more interesting when we pounced it with a deeper taupe color. Next up, we planned to work our magic on a pair of white pressed fiberboard bedside tables. Not only was my house becoming a home, but Poppy and I enjoyed the time we spent working side by side.
Over the months we’d tackled my projects, my grandfather and I grew closer, bound in part by our mutual love of nature. A keen fisherman, Poppy taught me which baits to use, how to pull in a fish, and how to prep them for cooking. Because the snowbirds, our winter visitors from the north, left Florida after Easter, my shop went from busy to quiet. The sales kept coming, but the rush of the crowds diminished. That gave me the chance to take days off and go fishing with my grandfather.
Even though he loved working in his new garage, I knew he also cherished the time we spent together. Watching him talk up his business brought a smile to my face. Both of us believed in second chances. I liked to recycle, upcycle, and repurpose goods. He enjoyed fixing motors, engines, anything that ran. Both of us reveled in the second chance we had at playing our roles of grandfather and granddaughter.
I hoped that Poppy would never need live-in help, that he would always have his independence, and that he’d be active until the day he died. As Barbara talked to Honora, I realized how fortunate my grandfather was to have his health. Poppy’s diabetes was well-controlled, especially since I’d moved to Florida. Between Sid and me, we kept an eye on my grandfather. But Barbara’s conversation with Honora suggested that her blood sugar was highly variable. I’d heard that diabetes could change as you got older. From Barbara’s comments, I realized how difficult a time she was having getting stabilized. Clearly, Tenchita was important to the woman’s health and well-being.
Poppy had finished making his rounds. Pulling up a chair next to Barbara’s, my grandfather nursed a cold beer. He doesn’t drink often, but he does enjoy a Budweiser once in a while.
Barbara barely noticed that Poppy had joined us. She was busy telling Honora her troubles.
“I helped Tenchita bring Miguel here,” Barbara said. “I worked with the immigration attorney to get him a visa because I could see how much she loves the man. But they’ve been living separate lives for decades, so their habits are set in stone. One of the reasons they quarrel is that she wants to keep tabs on him, but he’s hard to pin down. There are nights when he doesn’t come home until the wee hours. Other times, he gets up early, goes out, and shows up for breakfast. Then there are the days he dresses nicely, has breakfast with us, and disappears until dinner. He refuses to carry a cell phone. Tenchita hasn’t said as much, but she’s worried he’s cheating on her.”
“What does he say he’s doing?” Poppy raised an eyebrow as thick as a caterpillar.
“I don’t know, and I don’t ask. As long as Miguel doesn’t disrupt our harmony, I can put up with him. It’s this constant fighting with Tenchita that has me so upset.”
“I’m sure it will be all right.” Honora patted her friend’s hand. “Tenchita has a good head on her shoulders.”
“It’s not her head that worries me.” Barbara twisted the sea glass pendant that hung from a gold chain around her neck. “It’s her heart.”
Chapter 6
Kathy sent me a lovely thank-you note for the spa basket. The days following the event at Apollo School showed an increase in foot traffic that could only be traced back to our exposure as an auction item. Poppy showed up one morning with a sour look on his face. After pouring him a cup of coffee, I asked what the matter was.
“Gip Donovan done brought in his boat motor late yesterday. We were talking, and he told me how he’d seen a turtle nest all tore up. Broken shells. The works.”
“Wow. Did he report it?” I cradled my mug of hazelnut coffee and sat down.
“Yup.” Poppy slurped his brew. “For all the good it done, he called the Jupiter cops about it.”
“I wonder how many more nests were vandalized. Ones nobody’s turned in.”
“Yup.” Poppy shook his head. “I’d like to find that varmint and smash his head in. Or hers. Them little turtles cain’t defend themselves. Do you know that only about one in a thousand makes it to adulthood? Commercial fishing is one of the largest causes of sea turtle death worldwide. Then there’s junk in the water, pollution, development along our coastlines, poaching, getting hit by vehicles, getting killed by other invasive species and climate change. Bad enough that we’ve messed with their chances of survival once’t they make it into the water. But now some dimwit is digging ‘em up before they get a half a chance!”
For Poppy that was a long, long speech.
“What can we do about it?”
“Durned if I know. Short of patrolling the beaches on foot, there ain’t nothing I can think of. I figgered I’d give old Lucas a call and see if he’s got any smart ideas.”
“I’d be willing to take a turn. Maybe if we got enough volunteers—”
But I didn’t get the chance to finish. Poppy cut me off with a terse, “No way, missy. That’s too dangerous. What if this person or persons takes exception to you interfering, huh?”
He was right about that. The shores of Jupiter Island are nine miles long. The cell phone coverage could best be described as “iffy.” Confronting a bad guy might seem like a good idea here in the security of my store’s back room, but in the real world, not so much.
“There has to be something we can do!”
“I’m thinking about it. I’ll talk to Lucas.” Poppy rose to leave.
“Wait a minute,” I said, motioning toward his chair. “Let’s brainstorm about this. Why is this happening? What’s behind this?”
Poppy nodded and retook his seat. “Vandalism. Could be that.”
I agreed. “My friend Kiki Lowenstein once had someone try to poison her pet turtle, Danforth. He lives in a bowl in the bathroom of her store.”
“She figure out whodunit?”
“Yes. Turns out a little girl who was coming to the shop regularly was scared of the turtle. She decided to dump the contents of whatever was at hand into the bowl, hoping to kill him. Once Kiki realized what was happening, she gently explained that Danforth was no threat.”
“I’d be more’n happy to gently explain these turtles ain’t no threat.” Poppy gave a snort of derision.
“Okay, let’s get back to our list.” I hopped up and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. I wrote down VANDALISM.
“Food.” Poppy pursed his lips. “There’s folks and critters who eat turtle eggs. Maybe someone’s got a snake or some such that fancies the eggs.”
“Could we have been wrong? Is it possible they’re being eaten by a critter?”
Lifting his baseball cap, Poppy ran his hand through his hair. “Possible. Not likely. If so, this is Mother Nature’s own plan. We cain’t interfere with it.”
“Aphrodisiac,” I said.
“What?” Poppy lifted an eyebrow at me. “You’re kidding, right?”
I explained what I’d learned from K
athy.
“Jiminy Cricket. Why not just take that little blue pill they’re always talking about on TV? Speaking of which, how come those two people are always sitting there in bathtubs facing the ocean? What the heck is that all about?”
“Beats me.”
“Cockeyed naturalist at work?” I scribbled that down on my notepaper. “Maybe the person or persons collecting the eggs intends to do a good deed. I remember reading about how people used to move the nests, trying to take them to safer places.”
“Did it work?”
I gave a wiggle-waggle of my hand. “Sort of. Seems that the temperature of the sand determines the sex of the hatchlings. Sure, they were safe enough to climb out of the new nests, but the balance of males and females was all messed up.”
“It’s amazing, ain’t it? We don’t credit them with intelligence, but they sure are smart.”
“Yes,” I said as I nodded my head. “But not smart enough to outwit someone determined to rob their nests.”
Chapter 7
Honora passed Poppy on his way out the door. Usually, she’s bright and cheery, but this particular morning, she wore a scowl on her face.
“Are you all right?” I put a hand on her shoulder. The woman is seventy-six, but we tend to forget that because Honora is generally a ball of energy. However, I noticed that her shoulders drooped wearily, and she moved with lethargy.
“Not really.”
“What’s up? Can I help?”
“Perhaps.” She sank down into one of the straight back chairs. Without asking, I started water for a pot of tea. She’s not a coffee drinker.
“A problem with one of your miniatures?” I hired Honora for two reasons: 1.) She knows practically everybody in the area and 2.) She’s a talented artist who works in a one-twelfth scale to create stunning scenes and products. A third benefit is EveLynn, her daughter, who is our seamstress. EveLynn’s wonderful soft goods practically fly out our front door.
“No. I’ve been working on a few summer scenes, transforming paper umbrellas into fabric covered ones. That’s coming along quite nicely. I think we’ll be able to sell them for a good profit. That’s definitely not a concern.”
“Is EveLynn all right?” I couldn’t imagine the pressure of raising a child with Asperger’s. Sure, EveLynn was high-functioning. Most people chalked up her curt ways to rudeness. I assumed that when Honora died, EveLynn would be able to make it on her own, but I’d never discussed the matter with Honora.
“No.”
The whistle of the tea kettle forced me to turn my attention to the soothing ritual of making tea. Seemed like a good morning for Earl Grey, with its spicy hints of bergamot. First I warmed the pot. Next I put in a spoonful of loose tea for each cup and one for the pot. Finally, I poured the hot water carefully over the leaves. After I’d snuggled a tea cozy over the pot, I sat back down and gave Honora my full attention.
“Then what’s up? And can I help?”
“Oh, dear.” Honora sighed deeply. “It’s Barbara. She called me late last night. I guess that Tenchita and Miguel had a horrible row yesterday morning. Shouting. Screaming. A plate or two was pitched out the back door.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“No. Fortunately, and the plates were easily replaceable. However, my friend is understandably blue this morning. She’s very, very worried about Tenchita. She doesn’t care whether Miguel stays or leaves, but she’d be lost without Tenchita.”
I poured a cup of tea for Honora. After passing her the bottle of honey, I refreshed my cup of coffee. From the refrigerator, I withdrew two orange ginger scones and a bowl of my Piña Colada Fluff, a yummy fruit dessert that’s perfect for summer enjoyment. Once the scones were on a plate, I heated them in the microwave. As Kiki Lowenstein always says, “There are few problems in life that can’t be overcome by generous helpings of sugar and butter. Preferably both at the same time.”
Honora broke off the warm tip of her scone and chewed it thoughtfully.
“You and I were going to visit a few consignment shops this morning to look for new containers you can use. Those scenes you put in baskets always sell so well. How about if we take Barbara a couple of scones? Or would that be too much for her blood sugar?”
Honora sighed again. “Cara, darling, I think her blood sugar might be the least of her worries.”
“As soon as MJ and Sid are here, we can leave. Skye has a doctor’s appointment, and then she’ll be in later, too.” I patted my friend on the shoulder. “I’m sure a visit will cheer Barbara up.”
Chapter 8
MJ Austin is a no-nonsense woman with a curvy figure and the brain of an antiques expert. I hired her for her knowledge of all things old and valuable. Along the way, we’ve become friends, although once in a while, her prickly way of speaking her mind hurts my feelings. She has a good heart, so I try to keep my emotions in check. MJ works full-time for me at The Treasure Chest.
My other pal, Skye Blue, used to be part-time and is now full-time. Together these women are a formidable team. While MJ is sultry, Skye Blue has that whole Stevie Nicks vibe going. She’s definitely a free spirit. Whereas MJ wears her hair in sleek upswept styles, Skye Blue is always fiddling with her riot of long curls. MJ likes dresses that show off her ample assets, while Skye loves gauze and cowboy boots. When the two of them stand side-by-side, it’s an interesting optic, to say the least.
MJ is a genius at finding old pieces for discerning purchasers. Skye Blue is a genius at transforming cast off junk into objects of desire. Of course, Honora is our resident expert in all things small and wonderful. Her daughter EveLynn keeps us stocked with table runners, placemats, tote bags, and the like. Sid, our computer guru, is a wizard at expanding our customer base by adding names to our email list and putting items up on our website. There are days when I see myself as an orchestra conductor, waving a baton and keeping all my crew in time with each other. There are other days when I should be wearing a black and white striped referee’s shirt and blowing a whistle to keep the peace. But even when the natives are restless, we all pull together to keep the shelves stocked and our customers happy.
This morning Skye had a doctor’s appointment. MJ arrived ten minutes early. I asked, “Can you handle the store? Honora and I have errands to run. Sid should be here any minute.”
Poppy had fixed up an old red Cutlass convertible with a white leather top for the young man. You could hear the roar of the engine half-way down the block. Sid loved that car. Everything about it was perfect for him. Including the price—free.
“No problem.” MJ poured herself a mug of coffee. “Anything I need to know?”
“Nope. Except that we’ll be back shortly.” With that, I waved Honora toward the back door. She settled her straw boater on her slicked back gray hair and gave MJ a toodle-loo with her fingers.
The drive to Barbara’s house took twenty-five minutes. We were going in the opposite way of rush hour, although here on the Treasure Coast, that’s sort of a joke. Except at certain times of day. Then the normally deserted Federal Highway gets clogged with cars, trucks, and semis. Adding to the hassle are the many snowbirds who shouldn’t be driving anywhere, anyway, anytime, but who are puttering around behind the wheel here in Florida. At the risk of sounding harsh, I wish our local cops would pull more of these folks over and strip them of their driving privileges. The other day, I watched as an elderly man came to a complete stop next to a divider on a busy street. Evidently, he thought he’d found a really great parking space! I called the local police because I worried that someone might smack into the old man’s car. The dispatcher chuckled and promised to send a patrol vehicle to move the gent along.
Honora typically chats up a storm when we’re out on errands like this. I was lost in my own thoughts, so I didn’t realize how silent she’d been until we turned east toward Hobe Sound.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“Worried about Barbara?”
“Ye
s. I called her back to say we were coming. She was practically in tears. Tenchita and Miguel have been fighting non-stop since the Apollo School event. Finally Barbara decided they should go to separate corners. She asked Tenchita to do ironing and told Miguel to dig up old hibiscus in her garden. I’m worried about Barbara’s health. The stress can’t be good for her.”
“What’s behind all this drama?” I guided my Camry along on Bridge Road and turned south on Lares.
“Miguel is keeping secrets from Tenchita. Barbara says he bought into that whole ‘the streets of America are paved with gold’ nonsense. Tenchita thinks he’s been playing the greyhounds. That’s fine as long as he’s winning, but what if he loses? Barbara is beginning to worry that he’s in over his head.”
“Is she in fear of being hurt by Miguel? Or by the folks he’s gambling with?” I slowed down as I came to Zeus Park, the hub of the small development.
“No. Not really. She is more distressed about the quarreling than fearful. Barbara keeps a loaded gun in her bedside table. Has done for years.”
I pulled up to the curb and turned off my engine. Honora’s lavender cologne filled the car with a fragrance of gentility. “Look, Honora, I’m happy to bring you here for a visit. But at some point, shouldn’t the cops be involved? Shouldn’t we tell them what’s happening? That way they can keep an eye on the house in case Miguel gets too rowdy.”
“I think you’re right. After we finish here, let’s call the Martin County Police Department and tell them what’s up, shall we?”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 60