“I’d rather wait until we’re in Tarpon Springs. Tally mentioned some good restaurants there. I hope you like Greek food.”
“I’ll eat anything.” He cast a suggestive glance in her direction, and she got the distinct feeling he was talking about something other than a meal. Her gaze fell to his chiseled mouth, and she remembered how his lips tasted pressed to hers. Her thoughts roamed to the other night at her townhouse. What would have happened if Brianna hadn’t interrupted with a phone call?
Stop it, Maria. You’re getting distracted.
His grin broadened as though he knew what she was thinking. Her cheeks warmed under his scrutiny. Think fast, say something else. “I should visit Elise again and sound her out regarding the Pearls. Do you think Kimberly knew about her connection to Florence?”
“Possibly.”
“I got the distinct impression Elise thought her husband Cliff was having an affair with Kim. Do you think Elise shared her suspicions with Florence? Maybe that’s why Florence said Kim was messing in things she didn’t understand.”
Dalton raised a bushy eyebrow. “Kim had been fooling around with someone,” he conceded. “Did Stan find out and kill her in a rage?”
Marla zeroed in on his mention of Stan. “Here we go, back to my dear ex again. Why don’t you consider other possibilities? Lacey, for example. Kim’s classmates said she’d fixed her sights on Gary. Lacey could have killed Kim in a jealous fit.”
“How would she have obtained Stan’s letter opener?”
“That’s for you to figure out.” Her stomach rumbled, and she pulled a bag of cheese crackers from her purse. They still had three more hours to go before reaching their destination, and she’d never last that long before lunch. “Want some?”
“Sure.” He held out his open palm.
“I brought an extra water bottle if you’re thirsty,” she offered. “Oh, I have something else for you to investigate. Miriam’s nurse, Agnes, keeps the old lady confined in her room. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I sense she has more than a professional interest in keeping Miriam dependent on her. On her days off, Agnes visits her sister in an assisted living facility. At least, that’s what she told Miriam. I’d like to know if it’s the real megillah. Can you find out?”
Dalton’s face creased into a smile as he cast a tender look her way. “You act like Miriam is related to you.”
“I hate how Agnes smothers her spirit. There’s no reason for her to be stuck in bed when she could be meeting friends and getting out more.”
“Maybe her family members have their own reasons why they want her secluded.” Dalton reached for the spare water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swallow.
She stared at him. “Such as hiding the company’s losses? Miriam hasn’t given up her hold over the family finances. She checks the accounts with Agnes’s help.”
“Morris can’t be happy about his mother’s supervision. She must think he’s incompetent.”
“Maybe Kimberly found out their company was losing money and threatened to tell her grandmother. Morris killed her before she could rat on him.”
He snorted in disbelief. “Did Kim care that much about the family business?”
“Not really,” Marla said, remembering her conversation with Stella.
“I thought you said Miriam mentioned declining profits.”
“That’s right. Morris explained that inventories were lower because of frost damage.” She paused. “I wonder if that’s a valid excuse. If supplies for a commodity are lower, wouldn’t prices skyrocket?”
“Are you implying Morris may be covering up for a financial loss?”
“Who knows? He might be afraid his mother will fire him if she still holds the legal strings.”
“Fire her own son? Doubtful.”
“Or maybe Barbara decided to get Kim out of the way. Would she kill for Morris to keep his job?”
“You said she doesn’t approve of his methods for coffee production.”
“She’d have to support him if she wants his income.” Her argument sounded weak even to her own ears. Barbara hadn’t struck her as being greedy. Florence, on the other hand, would be concerned with keeping her social position. Was that enough motive for murder?
“Look, there’s an outlet mall. Too bad we don’t have time to stop.”
“I’d rather take you shopping when there isn’t another case hanging over our heads,” Dalton stated in a morose tone.
“We don’t get much time alone, do we? I mean, when there are no murders to discuss and no kids around. Just the two of us.” She hoped he didn’t take her comment about children the wrong way. Marla didn’t mean to dismiss Brianna, but she’d like to have Dalton to herself for a change. Today they were together, but she’d used the crutch of suspects to put distance between them. What would happen when their relationship didn’t revolve around his work?
After crossing Tampa Bay on the Sunshine Skyway, they headed north on Route 19 into Tarpon Springs.
“Our appointment isn’t until four o’clock,” Dalton said when they arrived at their destination, “so we have some free time. Let’s have lunch, and then I thought we’d ask folks about Dooley’s ministry.”
They drove past the historical district and followed signs to the Sponge Docks. Dodecanese Boulevard bustled with activity. Crowds milled along the sidewalks, while people gawked at gift shops, Greek restaurants, and fishing boats bobbing on the water. Marla’s legs ached to take a stroll. Dalton pulled into a five-dollar parking lot.
“Any recommendations for lunch?” he asked after they’d emerged into the strong afternoon sun.
“I’ve heard of that place.” She pointed to the Riverside Grille House that stood as a landmark at the end of the street. “But let’s go to Hellas. It looks livelier at this time of day.”
Inside the bright, spacious interior, the hostess led them to a ceramic tiled table with a lone bottle of olive oil for decoration. They sat on wood-frame and blue-vinyl chairs. A mural of the Parthenon graced one wall. Potted plants and faux Grecian statuettes added to the cheerful atmosphere. Aromas from an adjacent bakery made Marla’s mouth water.
They ordered Greek salads, which came with a slab of feta cheese and a loaf of crusty bread. Afraid the portions might be too large, they shared a combo platter that included generous servings of moussaka, pastitsio, gyro, dolmades-stuffed grape leaves, and tzatziki sauce. More than enough for both of them, the meal came with roasted potatoes, peas, and a watermelon wedge. The house white wine, served in a regular glass, was the color of apple juice. It tasted mild with little body and probably less alcohol. In the background, dishes rattled, people chattered, and Greek music played.
Marla fought an overwhelming urge to take a nap when they had finished. She felt more stuffed than a grape leaf and a couple of pounds heavier. Dalton insisted on paying the bill, and she didn’t argue. This was one time she was glad to be treated.
“Now what? We still have over an hour,” she said when they left the restaurant.
“Let’s ask some of the shop owners if they know Jeremiah Dooley. Most of the families who settled here were Greeks, so I wonder why he picked this location to establish his ministry. Was he from this area, or did he migrate here?”
They began at the end of the street where Jaws music blared from the Tarpon Springs Aquarium opposite a seafood gallery. The first block held a clothes boutique, ice cream parlor, high-end shoe store, flag shop, and jewelry emporium. After several inquiries, they had gained no further information about Jeremiah. They passed a Fudge Factory and came to the fishing pier. Picturesque vessels rocked on the current. Marla breathed in the salty scent of fresh sea air.
“What next?” She eyed a collection of natural sponges, olive oil soap, bird feeders made from coconuts, and jungle starfish displayed outside a souvenir shop.
Dalton shaded his face from the sun. “Let’s ask that guy.” He indicated a man selling tickets for the St. Nicholas Boat Line, a live sponge-fishing demonstration.
> After an exchange of pleasantries, Dalton got to the point. “I’m looking for a friend who lives in the area. His name is Jeremiah Dooley.”
The huckster squinted at them. “Dooley, eh? Name sounds familiar. A better person to ask would be Aleko, our diver. He’s been in town goin’ on twenty years.”
“Where can we find him?”
“You’ll have to buy tickets for the boat ride, folks. Eight dollars each.” He beamed a gap-toothed smile.
“Do we have time?” Marla asked, sniffing a strong briny odor. It came from a display of sponges harvested from the sea.
Dalton grimaced, glancing at his watch. “Maybe we should ask some of the shopkeepers instead.”
“Boat ride boards in five minutes,” said the salesman. “See, she’s comin’ in now. You’ll be back in less than an hour.”
“Oh heck, why not?” Dalton pulled out his wallet. “It’s a nice day for a cruise, right?”
“Do you give a discount for Triple-A members?” Marla asked the ticket vendor, ever mindful of bargains.
“Sure do. You get a dollar off each ticket. Here you go.”
Marla felt amazingly carefree as she watched the orange, gray, and white boat slide into the dock, where it spit out a crowd of tourists.
When they were allowed on board, Marla found a seat on a white slatted bench lining one side. The diver, wearing a bulky diving suit and blue knit cap, marched to the aft deck accompanied by a tour guide. As the engine kicked in and the boat cruised along the bay waters, the tour director related a brief history of the sponge-diving industry in Tarpon Springs. Sponges were retrieved by hooking until a Greek fisherman introduced the technique of diving in 1905. Many Greeks had immigrated to the area to work in the thriving industry.
“Several types of sponges have commercial value,” the man said. “The first grade is the wool sponge, which lasts from four to five years. It’s good for bathing because it holds a lot of water. Second grade is a yellow sponge. Third grade is a wire sponge, which is abrasive. Fourth grade is a grass or vase sponge that is often used as a shoe-polish applicator or to start off flower seeds in. The fifth grade is the finger sponge, which has decorative value.”
He held up samples of each one and passed them around the group. Then he pointed to the diver with his bulky suit and equipment. “The helmets are made by hand and can last up to forty years with daily use.”
Marla studied the diver, a handsome fellow with a mustache and ruddy face. As they glided past Marker Forty-Seven, he tied a nylon cord around his suit and donned his helmet. Standing at the boat’s edge, he jumped into the murky green water. He held a hook in one hand to detach sponges and a netted basket in the other. Waving, he sank beneath the surface. Bubbles rose to indicate his location.
He remained in the water about fifteen minutes, his tethered hose steadily moving outward from the boat. They weren’t very far from shore, because Marla could easily see the sandy beach and mangroves a short distance away. Seagulls circled lazily overhead. Sunlight warmed her skin, and she savored the fresh, salty breeze. February in Florida... how delightful compared to the freezing temperatures up north.
When the diver returned, they passed around the sponge he had snagged. Dark slime covered its surface. Marla cringed as she touched the remains of animal matter. It felt like wet fungus.
“Normally the sponges are laid out on deck for two or three days to process,” the tour guide said. “They’re covered with burlap and kept wet until the animal dies. The remains are scraped off and the sponges rinsed. Anyone want to get your photo taken with the diver? Come on up.”
Now was their chance to question the man. Dalton nodded at her, and she waited while a man took a picture of his sons flanking the diver. When they moved off, she approached him. After offering a few compliments about his technique, she got to the point.
“I’m trying to locate a friend, Jeremiah Dooley. You’ve lived here a long time. Do you know him?”
The man’s mustache quivered as his face lit up. “That’s Colleen’s son. Sure I know him.”
“Colleen?”
“The Irish gal who married Piotr Sebastian. Their son runs a fish farm on the outskirts of town. He didn’t want to do no diving like his daddy. If you ask me, it wasn’t in his genes.”
“What do you mean?”
The diver leaned closer, and she smelled onions on his breath. His dark eyes gleamed with wicked delight. “You go speak to Lorraine Parker at the Historical Society. She knows every soul in town. If anyone can give you the scoop on the Sebastians, she’ll be the one.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Historical Society office was located on Tarpon Avenue in a converted train depot. Inside the entrance, Marla gazed in fascination at a roll-top wooden desk with pigeonholes, bentwood desk chair, cast-iron potbellied stove, dental chair and microscope from 1900, and an exhibit of arrowheads from Safford Mound, an Indian burial site near the Anclote River.
“Nice stuff,” Dalton commented, a flicker of pain behind his slate gray eyes.
This place with its relics must bring back memories for him, Marla surmised with a surge of sympathy. She’d been to his house a couple of times, and it looked as though he hadn’t rearranged anything since his wife died. Unlike Pam, who had collected antiques, Marla preferred contemporary furnishings.
Her musing broke off as an attractive brunette strode into the room from a back office. “Hi, I’m Lorraine Parker, the curator,” she said with a friendly smile. “How may I help you?”
“We need information about Jeremiah Dooley.” Dalton showed his badge.
“Oh, my. Has he done something wrong?”
“No, ma’am. We’re just checking into his ministry.”
Lorraine smoothed down her floral-pattered skirt. “I’ve never met the man personally, although I’ve watched his television show a few times. He follows his own church, if you get my drift. Jeremiah should be in his fifties now, if I’m figuring right.”
“I noticed a lot of Greek religious ornaments in the souvenir shops by the Sponge Docks,” Marla said. “It appears he didn’t follow his parents’ Greek Orthodox religion.”
“His mother was Irish Catholic.” Lorraine stood in front of a framed photo collage depicting a winter water carnival in 1923. “Colleen wanted him to keep her last name. That’s part of what led to the gossip, but it was also his early birth and full-term weight. Jeremiah didn’t have Piotr’s dark coloring, either.”
Marla gaped at her. “Are you saying the child wasn’t his?”
“Not that he let on. Piotr hinted the rumors were jealous ramblings started by Harriet Stanton, daughter of the town magnate. Harriet had set her sights on handsome Piotr, and everyone in town thought they’d tie the knot. Then Piotr vacationed in Fort Lauderdale and came home with a bride. No one could have been more shocked than his family. Piotr’s parents never forgave him for their disappointment.”
“How did the townsfolk treat Jeremiah?” Marla asked. If people disliked his mother, they might have taken it out on the child. She gave Dalton a glimpse. He seemed content to let her conduct the interview for now.
“Colleen worked hard to earn the respect of Piotr’s friends. They welcomed Jeremiah even though she raised him as a strict Catholic. Evidently, he decided religion was his calling, although he seems to have created his own sect. He certainly didn’t follow our traditional ways.”
Her snide tone pricked Marla’s ears. “Do the locals feel upset he didn’t become a sponge diver like his father?”
“He lives by the sea but grows fish in landlocked ponds. I’m not familiar with his missionary goals, but he supports operations in Latin countries. You’d think he would focus his efforts here, where people need his help.”
“Is he an ordained minister?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Has he ever married?” Dalton interrupted. He’d been studying a photo display of street scenes from the 1890s.
“Divorced, no children. Both
parents are deceased.”
“So the familial line ends with him, if he even carries it from his father.” Dalton regarded the curator with a thoughtful expression. “Is Harriet Stanton still around?”
“Yes, she lives in Spring Bayou. Piotr would have been wealthy if he’d married her. Her family descended from the original settlers. Are you familiar with our early history?”
“Not much,” Marla admitted, hoping the woman wouldn’t keep them long. She glanced at her wristwatch. They could make a quick visit to Harriet before their appointment at Ministry of Hope.
“We didn’t start out as the sponge capital of the world,” Lorraine said, her eyes radiating enthusiasm for the topic. “One of the first settlers was A. W. Ormond. Along with his daughter Mary, he built a cabin near Spring Bayou in 1876. Mary married a fellow named Joshua Boyer. Impressed by the tarpon fish that swam in the bayou, she proposed the name for the town.
“Next came Hamilton Disston, a wealthy manufacturer from the north who purchased four million acres of Florida land for twenty-five cents an acre. Along with his business associate, Anson Safford, he set up a land company to develop Tarpon Springs. Visitors arrived by steamer until the railroad came in 1887. That’s the year Tarpon Springs became incorporated. It turned into a popular winter resort, with millionaires building Victorian mansions around Spring Bayou. We call that area of town the Golden Crescent.”
“When did the Greeks arrive?” Marla asked.
Lorraine pointed to a pamphlet display on a small table. “John Cheyney started our sponge industry. He worked for the leading landholding company in Tarpon Springs. Cheyney realized seasonal tourism didn’t provide a stable annual income. Inspired by the industry in Key West, he established a sponge company here and hired a Greek, John Cocoris, as a sponge buyer.
“Cocoris proposed that the Greek method of diving was much more productive than the hook boats currently in use. He sent for his brothers, and then others followed from the Dodecanese Islands. In 1905, hundreds of Greek sponge fishermen came with their rubberized diving suits and copper helmets. A booming industry resulted as boat builders and suppliers arrived. With their families, a close-knit Greek community developed. Over the generations, the Greeks have integrated into American culture.”
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