Matecumbe

by James A. Michener

  “We found out that the two guys on that boat were from Philadelphia, just like you,” he stated, nonchalantly, without further comment. Joe paused for another sip just then, as if he were waiting to assess the truthfulness of Melissa’s immediate reaction.

  “What? . . . Where in Philadelphia? . . . What neighborhood are they from?”

  “Both of them lived in the same building on Pine Street. I think the number was seventeen hundred and something. Is that anywhere near you?”

  “No, not really. I live in a section called Logan. Pine Street is in downtown Philadelphia, what the natives call Center City. What were the names of those two men?”

  “Baron Marshall and Jayson Harris,” Joe recited, “two guys with police records for dealing in drugs. Marshall was thirty-eight years old, and Harris was thirty-two.

  “I imagine,” Joe continued, “that I would be derelict in my duty if I didn’t ask you if you knew either of them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well,” Joe went on, seemingly embarrassed now, “the Monroe County detective that I talked to this morning speculated that you might have been waiting for them on the pier, that you were out there to signal them that it was safe to dock. And perhaps the three of you intended to load the bales of marijuana into your car.”

  “Are you serious? That rental car of mine is a hatchback. It doesn’t have a trunk. It wouldn’t even hold one bale of marijuana. And do I look like the type of woman,” Melissa responded, raising her voice slightly, her eyes narrowing, “who would be involved with drugs? Of course I don’t know those men. I never heard of either of them.”

  “Now just calm down, Miss Tomlinson. I certainly don’t have any personal belief that you knew the two men. My gut feeling is that you were not a part of their operation, and I gave that opinion to the detective. Also, from the way you reacted just now, my law enforcement experience tells me I’m right—you didn’t know the two men.”

  Shaken slightly, Melissa felt she was on the verge of being terribly upset. But she knew that she would have difficulty complaining as strongly as she may have desired. Joe’s apologetic, sincere little speech in her defense couldn’t be countered with too wild an outburst. She wondered, though, if she could ever achieve friendship with a man whose suspicious nature probably churned continually for twenty-four hours of every living day. Maybe her aversion to policemen was justified after all.

  Melissa still wanted to defend herself, however, and she soon began to spew forth words for the sake of talking. Emotional release was replacing all traces of calm.

  “First of all, don’t call me ‘Miss Tomlinson.’ I dislike that as much as being called ‘Hon’ or ‘Babe.’ Since I’m no longer married, you can’t really call me ‘Mrs. Tomlinson,’ so I’d appreciate a simple ‘Melissa.’ And I guess I should be thankful for your vote of confidence. I just wish I could prove to you somehow that I didn’t know those two men.”

  After Joe made several additional reassuring remarks, Melissa seemed to regain her composure. She even contemplated, ever so daringly, that perhaps she should utter a tiny lie and tell Joe that she really did know the two men—just to be ornery—to see if he could find it in his heart to punish her.

  “If naughty Melissa were ever to act like a bad girl,” she whispered to her conscience, “Joe would be one of the few men she’d let give her the spanking she deserved.”

  “I’m here in Islamorada to try to relax this week, Joe,” she told him. “But instead of being able to forget all about my divorce, I seem to be adding to my list of things to worry about. One part of me now is begging to get on a plane for Philadelphia as soon as possible.”

  “That’s not necessary at all, Melissa,” Joe responded, reaching to pay for both their checks with one of his credit cards. “Look, I’m satisfied that you’re as uninvolved with the two dead men as you say you are. I’m willing to put up a ‘Case Closed’ sign as far as you’re concerned. Just like with all the other tourists who come to Islamorada, my only concern now is that you enjoy yourself and tell your friends about what a great place this is to have a vacation. If you want, I’ll walk out of your life right now. But before you say ‘that’s a good idea,’ I do feel somewhat guilty about how upset you got when I asked you if you had known the two dead men.

  “So,” Joe concluded, and this time it was his turn to fight back a blush, “would you like to have dinner with me tonight? Aside from feeling I owe you something for getting your vacation off to a bad start, I’ve found I really do enjoy your company. And we won’t talk business at all—I promise. We’ll just be two unattached people having a fun evening together.”

  Unhesitatingly, Melissa agreed.

  For the remainder of the day, while she sunned herself by the freshwater pool, swam a few laps in the saltwater pool, and fed bait-sized shrimp to the friendly egret, she thought of nothing but her upcoming date with “Joe The Cop,” as she referred to him inwardly. Her overall impressions of Joe were positive. She knew, though, that it often took time, much time, before she could be sure that a prospective love interest didn’t have a Jekyll and Hyde personality.

  As she continued to contemplate her date, Melissa searched her memory but couldn’t recall, even in high school, ever having gone out with a guy who had so many muscles.

  “I think I’ve succeeded in getting what I was fantasizing about this morning,” she told herself. “I just wish I could forget completely about that dreadful boat accident. But I can’t help thinking that he just wants to keep an eye on me, to see if I’ll slip and say something that’ll lead him to think I knew the two dead drug dealers.

  “However,” Melissa concluded, as she ended her day in the sun and began to shower and prepare for the date, “I’ll give big, handsome Joe the benefit of the doubt. Who knows? We may eventually live happily ever after—but it would have to be in a place somewhere other than Islamorada,” she daydreamed, once again. “Though this is a great place to visit, it’s much too far south of my professional ambitions.”

  While slipping into her lacy camisole, Melissa reasoned that if Joe weren’t so attractive, or if he were a woman detective, she’d probably check out of her room at the Seascaper right away and drive straight to the airport in Miami.

  Instead she looked admiringly at her reflection in the mirror. Her slight new sunburn glowed on her shoulders and neck, contrasting with the white sheerness of her camisole.

  “Now I know what all of those other women mean,” she reflected, “when they say they made the biggest mistakes of their lives by letting their brains follow their sex organs.

  “Melissa the snob,” she said, while looking in the bathroom mirror and giving herself a talking-to, “meet Melissa the common, average, everyday, boring woman.”

  Chapter 3

  Shortly after the brunch came the first big dinner date. And since her romantic experiences had been limited to only a handful of suitors, Mary Ann feared that she wouldn’t remember how to act while being courted by an eligible man. These feelings of insecurity were further compounded by her embarrassment that Paul’s had been the wallet she had found in the church. Would he possibly be interested in her if he knew that she had almost stooped to stealing? She had, almost. But in the end she did the right thing and returned the wallet. There was nothing to be ashamed of.

  She congratulated herself for having the foresight to have one of her teeth pulled a week earlier. The dentist wanted to save the tooth, but that procedure would have cost Mary Ann more than a week’s salary. Her mouth felt fine now, and since the painful tooth had been far back in her mouth, no gap would be visible when she smiled.

  Looking pert and radiant in her navy blue suit and yellow blouse, Mary Ann noticed that throughout their dinner, Paul Reynolds seemed to be staring at her in an approving manner.

  Mary Ann believed that she was still thin enough to attract men. Though admittedly not as tall as she’d like to be, Mary Ann knew that her long, dark, curly hair seemed to add a few inch
es to her five-foot-two-inch frame.

  Almost all the men she had ever dated had complimented her on her cute face. The high cheekbones prompted her ex-husband to nickname her “Cherokee.”

  Mary Ann was hoping that Paul would be unlike the last two men in her life, who showed only a short-lived interest in her. Both of these “prospects” had, no doubt, been chased away by the relationship restrictions of raising four young girls.

  Paul, at five-foot-eleven-inches, was the tallest man she’d ever dated. He managed a local bank branch, was a widower ten years older than Mary Ann, and had no children.

  Mary Ann had never before dined at a fancy French restaurant, and she had never tasted champagne. She decided afterwards that she liked both.

  She couldn’t help, though, equating the high prices on the restaurant’s menu with the hard goods from her household budget. The cost of their dinner entrées would have gone a long way toward the purchase of two more beds for the girls. Mary Ann, too, was tired of sleeping every night on the cloth strips of a folding beach chair.

  Eating on real china and using heavy silverware was also a treat. The plastic-like plates at home had only one virtue—they were unbreakable.

  Mary Ann’s attraction to Paul was increasing, and she enjoyed being alone with him during dinner. He seemed genuinely interested in her daily routine and life with the girls. Speaking about them so much made something inside of her miss their company.

  Mary Ann remembered her last family dinner—at a restaurant outside Philadelphia. She had taken the girls to a Japanese steak house almost a year ago, courtesy of a radio station contest she had won. The girls all laughed when the Japanese cook, in the midst of his knife-flipping performance, took an egg out of his pocket and rolled it on the table.

  “Japanese egg roll,” the cook smiled.

  At the end of Mary Ann’s first evening with Paul, as she kissed him good night on the steps of her apartment, she became certain of at least one aspect of this advancing relationship.

  Thinking about Paul’s easy smile, wavy hair and sparkling blue eyes, Mary Ann admitted to herself that she was falling hard for this new man in her life. His kiss sparked a part of her she thought she had long since buried.

  “I may not be in love yet,” she analyzed, “but I’m definitely in lust.”

  The light, pinkish sunburn covering her cheeks created a strong measure of radiance on Melissa’s face. Even the most expensive of makeup preparations could never produce an equivalent glow.

  Fluffy bangs, dangling earrings, and a touch of lipstick all added to her breezy, somewhat racy look.

  She was also hoping to exude an air of confidence spiced with a pinch of youthful bearing—neither of which could be derived from cosmetics.

  Melissa’s attire began with a mostly white, black-patterned blouse having three-quarter-length sleeves. She wore a white, knee-length pleated skirt, black belt, and black heels. On her arm, she carried a white, knitted cardigan for later in the evening, when cooler air always wafted through and over the Florida Keys.

  Melissa knew that a near constant smile was usually the best accessory for a well-dressed woman. And her anticipation that “Joe The Cop” might turn into a living, breathing, leading-man type was making it so much easier for her to manifest that smile. Helpful, too, was the fastgrowing distance in hours since last night’s tragic, disturbing accident.

  When Melissa greeted Joe at the door of her room, she noticed right away that he was impressively dressed.

  He wore a tan linen sport coat with a tiny monogram on the breast pocket. His summery brown slacks, cordovan loafers, and open-necked yellow sport shirt all seemed to complement his sparkling white teeth and curly hair. His deep, typically Florida tan acted as a counterpoint to her freshly sunburned cheeks.

  Within minutes of his arrival, they were on their way to the Dolphin Harbor Inn—on the eastern end of Islamorada. En route, with him driving, Joe provided Melissa with additional good news, broadening her already bubbling smile.

  “A truck belonging to one of the dead guys was found a few miles from here, in the parking lot of Ben and Dave’s Marina,” Joe informed. “We assume they were going to load this truck with the marijuana they had on board the boat.

  “So, as of right now, there isn’t even the slightest of lingering doubts about any illegal involvement on your part.

  “The Monroe County detective told me that he hopes you enjoy the rest of your vacation here in Islamorada.”

  Melissa reveled in the news. And when Joe had finished his explanation, she brazenly stretched her body across the front seat of the car and kissed him, lightly, on the cheek.

  “Calculated spontaneity,” she told herself. “I can get away with this one. Even though he knows the reason behind it, he still might think that the kiss was at least partially motivated by how attractive I found him.”

  Melissa was truly relieved that all previous suspicions of her involvement had vanished as quickly as yesterday’s weather forecasts. The situation was setting up as one with unfettered potential. A promising romantic involvement was now in view on her horizon.

  She was hoping, perhaps optimistically, that her damsel-in-distress story, and Joe’s rescue of her from the flaming pier, would be remembered solely for its novelty as a “how this couple met” story.

  “And how did you two meet?” Melissa fantasized being asked—by someone, someday.

  “Oh, nothing much out of the ordinary,” Melissa would answer, tongue-in-cheek. “Joe just drove up in his police boat and plucked me from the throes of an inferno.”

  When they arrived for dinner, Melissa noticed that the Dolphin Harbor Inn had been built like a lean-to, jutting outward from an ancientlooking, restored lighthouse that had the distinction of being one of the first structures ever built in Islamorada. It dated back to 1909, when automobiles were novelties and wagons loaded with the catch of the day rattled along the dirt roads of what was then a sparsely populated fishing village.

  Ocean-traveling ships would use the lighthouse’s lone revolving beacon as a warning against the treacherous offshore reef.

  Since Melissa and Joe arrived a few minutes ahead of their reservation, they took some time to stroll along the boat dock area that adjoined the lighthouse and restaurant.

  “There are fifty boat slips at this dock,” Joe told her. “Most of the boats are for sport fishing. They’re all about thirty feet long and are for hire on a daily rate basis. The captains will take the fishermen out toward the offshore reef and try to catch marlin, sailfish, and even sharks.”

  “There are two large chairs with seat belts in that boat, over there,” Melissa pointed. “What are they for?”

  “Big fish require big chairs. If a fisherman hooks a monster of the deep, he doesn’t want the fish to pull him into the water. Therefore, the seat belts.”

  Before Melissa could ask the next logical question—How big did the fish get?—she almost tripped over one of the largest sea creatures she had ever seen.

  Sprawled out on the dock was a freshly caught marlin that looked to be about nine feet long. No doubt it could provide about five years’ worth of canned food for her white cat, Coke, who was temporarily housed in a Philadelphia boarding kennel.

  Also nearby, hanging on hooks, were several other large specimens— sailfish—that had been brought in earlier that day on the charter boats.

  “What will the fishermen do with what they’ve caught?” Melissa inquired.

  “The biggest of the fish will be stuffed and mounted by taxidermists. They’ll end up as trophies in dens and living rooms from coast to coast, and even in some foreign countries. Islamorada attracts sport fishermen from all over the world.”

  “I saw a sign that listed the charter rates. Do fishermen really pay over four hundred dollars a day to go out on these boats?”

  “During the height of the season, the price goes up. And the tourists can be seen every morning near dawn, holding their fishing gear while waiting
in line for the privilege.”

  “I don’t think I’d enjoy taking a ride on one of these boats. My stepfather let me tag along when I was a little girl. We went deep-sea fishing in Atlantic City and Ocean City. I remember a big, heavy boat, crowded with men, and the smell of bait. I also remember getting seasick on the way back—while I was watching the gulls circling overhead.”

  Once Melissa and Joe were seated at their table inside the restaurant, they were treated to a spectacular view of the now-radiant sunset and of the historical old lighthouse.

  “There was a hurricane that wiped out this island back in 1935,” Joe began. “The only locals who survived, except for a few who had gone to Miami to see the ball game, were six young highway workers who ran inside the lighthouse and climbed up to the top to wait out the storm. That painted line over there on the side of the lighthouse—at the eight-foot level—that’s how high the water got during the worst part of the hurricane.

  “It struck on the Sunday before Labor Day that year. Some of the waves were estimated at twenty feet high. A rescue train was sent in from Miami by the federal government. But the hurricane washed the train right off the tracks as soon as it got here. The locomotive, which weighed over a hundred tons, was the only thing left standing.

  “The highway workers who were staying in town were building our current road, Route 1. The Miami to Key West section, right through the Keys, was constructed by itinerant laborers from the Works Progress Administration, the so-called W.P.A. There was no other highway. Aside from boats, the only way to get from one island to another back then was by railroad. But the train tracks, along with most of the towns along the way, were wiped out by the hurricane. The railroad was never rebuilt.”

  “That hurricane seemed terribly potent,” Melissa commented. “Do they usually cause so much damage?” Melissa saw a faraway, almost pained look cross Joe’s face for a brief moment before he continued on.

  “The experts say the disastrous flooding was a result of the way Henry Flagler built that railroad of his. The high embankment next to the tracks prevented the water from washing its way through the island. Instead, the embankment acted like a dam, keeping the water level extremely high.