Bombshell At Clear The Gulf Commission Hearing, the headline in the Naples Daily News read the next morning. A photo of Bree at the podium took up a quarter of the front page, with the slide of her and Daria underwater in the background. The article didn’t accuse anyone but mentioned that the fallout might include temporary restrictions for onshore building and might “sway even more voters from backing at-sea gambling.” If that was the ultimate fallout, Bree thought, and Dom Verdugo became a suspect in the turtle grass switch, he would be even more furious at her than before.
Bree’s report about someone replacing the sea grass meadow was also the lead story in the local morning newscasts she checked. Mark Denton phoned to tell her the story was being carried statewide and he and “the candidate” admired her courage. An e-mail from Senator Marla Sherborne, one of nearly a hundred sent to the shop’s Web site, said that “the ripples” were being felt even in Washington.
It was not, Bree thought, as she sat at the table with her head in her hands over her barely touched breakfast, the way any sane person who had been attacked in more ways than one should keep a low profile. But she’d decided to flush out whoever was hurting the gulf—and whoever had hurt Daria. Would that be the same person?
When Cole emerged from the shower after another night on her sofa, his hair was slicked to his head. He pecked a kiss on her cheek as if they were an old married couple and poured his own coffee. He’d already eaten.
“Any more phone calls?” he asked.
“I turned my cell off, and the TV. The e-mail count keeps going up. Everything’s exploding,” she said, turning the paper toward where he sat across from her. As he bent over the article, she pointed to the word bombshell.
It annoyed her that he looked so good, compared to the way she felt. She’d spent half the night awake again, afraid of bad dreams and going over and over candidates who might have substituted healthy sea grass for sick, and for possible fathers of Daria’s child. Of course, there were many unknowns, but something Manny’s daughter had asked about Daria kept sticking in Bree’s brain. Had Daria gotten over Josh? Or had they run into each other somewhere and boom! Old passions had exploded? Even if that were true, it seemed the man was seldom alone. Nikki was on the campaign trail with him, and he always had Mark Denton at his elbow.
Yet Bree kept recalling that Daria had told her once out of the blue—no, they had just seen one of Josh’s TV ads, where he and Nikki were walking the beach hand in hand—that Nikki had suffered two miscarriages and they were desperate to have children. How long ago had that been? Certainly, in the last seven weeks or so. At the time, Bree hadn’t even wondered where Daria had come up with that intimate information. Just gossip, that’s what she’d passed it off as. But was it firsthand knowledge? And would someone like Josh, who seemed to have almost everything he wanted, need to prove he could father a child?
“A million dollars for your thoughts,” Cole said, looking up from reading the article.
“I thought they were only worth a penny.”
“Not anymore,” he said, putting his coffee cup down. “Inflation plus your fifteen minutes of media fame’s upped the ante. I can’t wait to get working on the paneling for the Fun ’n’ Sun today to see how Verdugo is reacting. He looked pretty smug for a while at the meeting, but I saw him storm out.”
“Cole, remember how I said I’d like to get away?”
“You can’t run now. Besides, I’ve committed to get that casino yacht project going so I can keep an eye on Verdugo and his boys. I couldn’t go with you.”
“I think I mentioned that Josh and Nikki Austin invited me to spend some time at their place in cane country? Clewiston’s not far, and I wouldn’t stay long. Maybe just for the day, if they’ll fly me there like they said.”
“Bree, Josh may not be as high on our watch list for hiring your attackers as Sam Travers and his divers or Verdugo and his goons are, but he—”
“He bears watching, and that’s exactly what I’d like to do. Or, barring that, since he’s so busy, I’d settle for picking Nikki’s brain.”
“So you’re thinking whoever fathered Daria’s child might be a more important lead than someone desperate to stop your report on an endangered environment?”
“I don’t know what I think, except that those are the two most obvious motives and I’ve got to keep pushing at possibilities. Even if Josh were somehow involved, I can’t believe he’d ever harm Daria, especially if she was carrying his child.”
“Haven’t you ever heard the saying that absolute power corrupts absolutely? The man is a politician with big ambitions. Despite the Hollywood morals in this country today, an illegitimate child by his old flame could ruin his marriage, which is no doubt tied to big sugar money in his campaign coffers. It could sully his reputation, when he’s built up this ‘you can trust Josh Austin’ facade.”
“But I’ve known him for years and believe he can be trusted to...”
Bree covered her eyes and burst into tears. She heard Cole scrape his chair back. He came around the table and pulled her up into his arms. Then when she got up to head for her bedroom, he sat in her chair and tugged her into his lap.
She forced herself to stop crying. She got the hiccups but kept talking anyway. “I didn’t know that was coming,” she said, wiping her eyes with her napkin. “It’s all I do lately, swing from heroics to hysterics. It’s just that I was going to claim I know Josh well, when I obviously didn’t even know my own twin sister.”
“Just rest this morning, okay? Then walk over to the Fun ’n’ Sun to meet me for lunch, and we’ll go to the Grog Shop. Let Manny run things downstairs while you check the e-mail, in case there’s anything there that would give you another lead. Call me on my cell if something turns up. And I’ll try to psych out Verdugo.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she said, trying to sound in control again. She gave him a weak salute as another hiccup jolted her.
“Somehow, sweetheart,” he said with a sigh, “I don’t think you’re the kind of first mate—or any other kind of mate—who takes orders well.”
* * *
“Something here for you,” Manny told Bree as she went downstairs to check the e-mail on the Two Mermaids Web site after Cole left. “That red-haired diver, Lance, the one brought back your flippers, just dropped it off. A sealed letter from Sam Travis, something to do with business.”
As if it were a letter bomb, she took it gingerly from Manny. He sat at Daria’s desk. Bree saw he’d put a new nameplate and his family pictures where her sister’s things had been. His morning cup of yerba maté was in a mug Daria had always used for coffee. A screwdriver and wrench lay there, as if his realm of the back room had begun to migrate to the front office. Biting her lower lip, Bree went to her own desk and slit the envelope open. In Sam’s bold handwriting, the note read,
I know you’re still shook but think about this. It’s a good time for you to sell out to me, like I offered last year. Remember your brother-in-law was all for it. Have your lawyer contact mine. I’ll take Manny on, raise my earlier price, and buy out your property there, if you want to move and move on. S. Travers
She could not believe his gall. Red pulsating lights seemed to explode behind her eyes. With all she and Daria had worked for, did he think she’d turn tail and run? She had a good mind to rip this to shreds, but it might be evidence later of a motive for Daria’s death if Sam was involved in any way.
“What is it?” Manny asked, getting up from Daria’s—his—desk.
“Lock this place up. We’re going to see Sam Travers in person. I take it that they haven’t left for their big demolition job in Sarasota yet.”
“His guy said tomorrow. What is that?” he repeated.
“Sam’s second kind offer to buy us out and to hire you, too.”
“No way. Caramba, I work hard to get this far here, and I’m not taking orders from him neither.”
Bree bit her lip again. She didn’t like the way Manny had put that. She was tired of giving him the benefit of the doubt because he was under so much family pressure. Damn it, so was she! But there would be time later to discuss who was the senior partner here. Right now she was going to give Sam Travers a piece of her mind and hope he didn’t keep insisting on a pound of her flesh.
* * *
Manny locked up hastily and followed Bree out onto the street. “We not taking the truck?” he asked.
“It’s not that far. I’m walking. Maybe I’ll work off some of this anger.”
She was surprised that so many people called her name, thanked her for taking a stand on keeping the gulf clean, or wished her good luck as she strode past. Yes, she’d done the right thing to tell the truth and take the sea grass plot public. Now, if she could only get a credible lead on what had really happened to Daria.
As she approached Sam’s large, three-story building, which she used to know inside and out when she and Ted were dating all those years, the first person she saw was Ric, up a ladder. He was repainting the Travers and Son Search and Salvage sign. Sam had never changed the business’s name after Ted’s death. Even now, it looked as if Ric was just brightening the colors, not changing the wording. Ted had promised his father that when he came back from the service—if he didn’t decide to make the marines a career—he’d work with him here, and Sam had immediately put up the sign as if they’d already sealed the deal.
She noticed something interesting about Ric, besides the fact that he was obviously adept at scaling ladders to second stories.
“Manny, how many guys do you know who paint with gloves on?” she asked. She noted they were diving gloves, which made it even stranger, because they were expensive to get splotched with paint.
“Que sera sera,” Manny muttered, evidently not following what she meant.
A ladder and a pair of gloves! After the commission report yesterday, Ben had told her that the CSI tech had turned up no “foreign” fingerprints. The intruder might have worn gloves.
“Don’t walk under that ladder—bad luck,” Manny said, and grabbed her elbow.
“Great. If I walk around it, I’m sure my luck will make a big U-turn for the good,” she said, instantly regretting her sarcasm.
“Hey, Briana!” Ric called down. She was still so angry she was tempted to just keep walking, but maybe it would be a good idea to talk to this guy. Her dad used to say you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
“I thought you’d be setting off underwater detonator caps in Sarasota by now,” she called up to him, shading her eyes in the morning sun.
For a guy who seemed so muscular, he came lithely down the ladder. Yes, she thought, as he stood on the pavement between her and Manny, he was just the height of her attacker at the Gator Watering Hole. Now to get some info, without giving her suspicions away.
“All of us are going first thing tomorrow,” Ric said, his eyes assessing her. “We’ll be gone a couple of weeks, blowing old bridge buttresses, then sinking or salvaging the debris.”
He smiled at her, more a tight quirk of the sides of his mouth. He wore no sunglasses and she saw he had dark eyes—also the color of her attacker’s. As he talked, he pulled off his gloves. He had manicured hands, no less, and a handsome ring on his right pinkie finger. Maybe that explained the gloves. Why hadn’t she tried to memorize something about the masked man’s hands? If Ric had been her attacker, why would he risk getting up close and personal with her right now? Maybe he planned to earn her trust, then get her off alone and finish the job he’d botched at the Gator Watering Hole.
“Sam’s skilled at demo work from his years in ’Nam,” Ric went on. “He’s taught us a lot, Lance and me. Used to be part of a unit they called frogmen, the ones now called the SEALs. I think they should have named them sharks or barracudas.”
“Pretty dangerous work, isn’t it?” she asked as Manny frowned at them. “But then, I suppose that’s part of the thrill.”
“True, the adrenaline really gets pumping,” he admitted, his eyes flickering over her again. “Pays better than regular diving, too, time and a half. Sam calls it combat pay. Listen, Briana,” he said, turning his back on Manny, who grunted but shuffled a couple of steps away. “I’m really sorry about your sister, and I’m glad I could be there to help when she was found.”
He twisted his gloves between his fists as he spoke, almost as if he were wringing someone’s neck. He lowered his voice and leaned slightly closer. “After I come back, you want to go diving somewhere different, just for relaxation—for fun? Down to the Keys, maybe? I know it’s been terrible for you, but you’ve got to start living again—for yourself and her, too, now.”
Bree suddenly felt at a loss for words. The last thought, that she could enjoy life in memory of Daria, moved her deeply. She wanted to be angry, not to get conned into liking this guy. He ought to go moonlight for those super sales reps, Fred and Viv Holliman.
“That is,” he went on, “if you’re not tied in real tight with DeRoca. I don’t mean to be pushy or poach on someone else’s territory.”
“Thanks for the offer,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal. She wanted to get away or she was going to lose it again. She looked up at the sign he’d repainted. “It’s strange to see a diver up a ladder,” she said.
“Jack-of-all-trades, master of none,” he said, with a shrug and a smile that made him seem self-deprecating and almost charming. Except, she reminded herself, his trades might include B and E and attacking women with a wrench, if not worse.
“Thanks again for your kind words,” she said, “but I need to have a few unkind words with Sam right now. Good luck on your demo dives in Sarasota.”
As she started away, Manny whispered, “Oh, you thinking he might be the one broke in—and almost broke your bones at the Gator Watering Hole.”
She didn’t have time to answer as he opened Sam’s front door for her and they stepped inside.
* * *
“I can’t believe you’re home right now, the busy man of power lunches,” Amelia told Ben. She’d heard the garage door go up, and had been surprised to see his car turning into the driveway. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Actually, I came home to be sure you were.”
“I’m holding my own. Can I fix you something for lunch?”
“Sure. How about just plain old PB and J, like we used to live on while I was finishing law school?”
“It used to be necessity food, now I guess it’s comfort food.” She started getting things out on the counter.
“Actually, I need to tell you a couple of things,” he said, getting two diet sodas from the refrigerator. “First of all, the fingerprint tech said only Bree and Daria’s prints are in the bedroom.”
She stopped unscrewing the top to the peanut butter jar and stared straight ahead at the cupboard, as if she could read something in the wood grain there. “Strange, isn’t it,” she whispered, “that Daria can be gone and her prints remain? There are so many places she touched... Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like some sappy greeting card. What else did you come all the way home to tell me?”
“There’s more that turned up on the autopsy,” he said, popping the tab on a soda, a sound like an exclamation point. “There was some mystery man in Daria’s life. She was pregnant.”
Amelia sucked in a sob. For one moment she had thought he was going to tell her that the report stated that someone pushed Daria shortly before she died or that they could tell who had pushed her into the steering wheel on her boat, but that was ridiculous. That was her guilt talking again. Pregnant! In a way, that meant there were two deaths, one of a niece or nephew she would never know. She fought to steady herself because she thought she might throw up right here in the sink.
“So Bree has no idea—who?” she asked.
“No, and I believe her. But she’s on a crusade because she thinks whoever fathered the child might have harmed Daria.”
Amelia gripped the counter. From behind, Ben put his hands on her waist. As if the kids were home and he didn’t want them to hear, he whispered, “I got you an appointment late this afternoon with a good doctor, a kind of a family counselor.”
“A psychiatrist, a shrink,” she countered, not moving, feeling frozen where she stood. “How nice a doctor can see me at the snap of your fingers.”
“Honey, I asked him as a special favor to work you in. The appointment’s kind of late in the day, but I can take you there the first time. He’ll be someone to talk to confidentially, like talking to a lawyer.”
She nodded stiffly and tried to process all he had told her. Bree might have been right that someone wanted to silence Daria, someone besides her own, older sister, who’d wanted to shut her up for the cruel things she had said. A man now had a motive for wanting to get rid of Daria. But after all, Daria’s death was by drowning.
“You’re taking this much better than I expected,” Ben said, sounding wary. “Much better than Bree did.”
Amelia nodded. It was best if Ben thought she was doing better, and best if the psychiatrist thought so, too. She had no intention of telling anyone she’d gotten Ben’s pistol out of his desk drawer in the den this morning and just stared long and hard at it, until she’d realized it was almost noon and heard the garage door. Or that she’d been desperate enough to rent a boat she hardly knew how to steer and go out to continue her argument with Daria, who had said she would not be diving with Bree that day the storm came up.
* * *
For Bree, being inside Sam’s shop was always like stepping into a time warp. He’d kept the front office the way it was when she and Ted had been dating. They’d both worked here as kids, and, after his mother’s desertion and his parents’ divorce, Ted had lived here with Sam for a while, over the store. As far as Bree could tell, their private rooms—Sam lived somewhere else now—were still accessed by the same outside stairs she and Ted had sneaked up more than once.
But there were a few different things now. A new guy worked here, manning the phone and computer, one of Sam’s concessions to modern technology, like his echo sounder and GPS systems on his boats. And a large poster—actually, just of a saying of some sort—hung behind the front counter. It read,
For want of a nail, a shoe was lost,
For want of a shoe, a horse was lost,
For want of a horse, a battle was lost,
For want of a battle, a war was lost,
For want of a war, a kingdom was lost.
“Can I help you, Ms. Devon?” the guy behind the desk asked. She didn’t recognize him, but everyone knew her face—or Daria’s—lately. Before Bree could answer, Sam came in from the back room. Without another word, the man cleared the way for him.
“Like that sentiment?” Sam asked, jerking a thumb at the poster. “It means one little thing can ruin eternity for someone.”
“I get the point.”
Bree remembered Manny telling her that Sam’s other diver, Lance, had said Sam had a shrine to Ted’s memory in the attic here. Obviously, this poster, like everything in Sam’s life, was tied to the loss of his son. Though she hadn’t intended to start with him this way, she asked, “How easy was it for you to tell Daria and me apart, Sam?”
“What’s that have to do with anything? Her smile was a little more lopsided, and she was jumpier than you, least till lately. As for looks, hard to tell. But I know she wouldn’t have dumped my son the way you did.”
She ignored the jab. Then it was possible Sam could have come after her on the water that day and hurt Daria by mistake. Or he’d sent Ric, who couldn’t tell them apart. Would the slow engine on a barge register underwater?
“Then let’s just pretend,” Bree plunged on, “I’m here to speak for myself and for Daria. We turned down your offer of a buyout before, and I’m turning it down for both of us again. Manny’s my new partner and he agrees.”
Sam didn’t even glance Manny’s way as his gaze burned into Bree’s. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, though the frown that sliced between his narrowed eyes showed he was hardly shrugging this off. Her eyes widened when she saw Sam had a wrench in his pocket, protruding as if it were a silent threat. Thank God, she’d brought Manny with her, because when Ric came in the front door with his paint can, she felt surrounded.
“That’s all I came to say,” she told Sam.
“Far’s I’m concerned, that’s all there is to say,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “I made that offer in good faith to help you out and get you outta the area where I don’t have to hear, see, or think about you. Get on outta my shop then, ’cause you’re trespassing and always were.”
Bree spun and strode out, vowing silently that she’d be back when Sam, Ric and Lance were gone. Maybe there would be something she could use against him in that upstairs shrine, where he worshipped the memory of Saint Ted.