Eight —
Lost and Sort of Found

The office of Sunny Sands Realty was dark when Blanche peeked through the blinds on the French doors. She hoped Liza had gone home to sleep. She’d left a note taped to the glass: “Be back later.” Better later than sooner. She’d need a lot of rest to get through this mess.

Blanche dropped by the police station. She was eager to test her suspicions on the chief, and at once reluctant. He always greeted her with eyes like BBs. She wanted to get into “context” about the sighting of the guy and the van, and she hoped he’d calmed down some. She only half expected him to be there. He was not.

Pennington sat at the information desk. “Gone, Blanche,” he said. “Official business at county.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning business, and not yours.”

“Really.”

He hardly looked up from his Sudoku. “Sorry, Blanche. Orders. Got to keep it all on the down low.”

It was deadly calm in the large, open police station—as if the world did not know Santa Maria had been turned upside down. Pennington bent his head over the crumpled newspaper. Down low, Blanche noticed. Her eyes blazed onto the puzzle in front of him, hoping to ignite the damn newspaper under his nose.

“Don’t know when he’s coming back, Blanche.”

“Well, thanks a bunch.” She turned on her heel and walked out.

She didn’t really care about Pennington’s rudeness. She was used to it. A bit of friction between the press and the police lingered over every conversation. Blanche was nosy, and persistent, and Duncan put up with it. The police had other fish to fry, sometimes, literally. Once Blanche tracked the boys to the Starfish landing dock where they were smoking mullet and grilling whitefish. It was a Monday, and the business of policing was on hold, as usual.

They could not afford that now. She worried that Duncan might not pursue back-up in the investigation. He was deliberate, but the murder was bigger than Santa Maria. She reasoned that he couldn’t keep it to himself. He needed a wider net. Blanche prayed county was leaning on him. In any event, she’d be leaning on him soon enough.

I

Cappy’s back door was open when Blanche walked in and yelled:

“YOOOOOHOOOO.”

There was no answer.

Where is everybody today? The emptiness swept over her again. She shook it off. She was starving.

She stuck her head in the kitchen. If he’d been there, he’d have greeted her in his apron, wringing a dish towel, a big smile on his face as wrinkly as the bark of an oak. He was usually at the stove, if he wasn’t on the water. But the familiar aromas did not welcome her. No olive oil and garlic simmering in the iron skillet, bread baking, potatoes frying in onion. The kitchen was dim in the shadow of a thick stand of palm trees.

He should have been there. He went fishing around five o’clock almost every morning, and they had a lunch of whatever he caught—lately grouper or red snapper. He didn’t like to eat alone, and Blanche was only too happy to diminish Cappy’s loneliness by eating his food. He was a great cook, and she was not.

She’d been starving, but she also needed to talk. Blanche stood in the doorway. If she couldn’t have the Cappers, at least she could have this refuge. For now. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light after her run through the blazing island sun. It filtered through the open windows and washed the cupboards, walls, and hardwood floor in mellow gold. Outside, the palms crackled, doves scurried and cooed on the broken shell. She dropped into an old maple armchair with blue canvas cushions and hugged an embroidered pillow. She started to drift off, and almost let herself go. She was tempted.

Back here at Cap’s, she was close to Gran….Gran, who had brought Blanche home at age five after the car accident that killed her mother, Rose. She never knew her father; her mother hardly knew her father although Gran said they’d been madly in love. He was shipped out. They’d never gotten around to getting married before he was killed on a rice paddy in Southeast Asia.

On her deathbed, Gran had made Cappy swear that he would keep an eye on Blanche, which at one time had annoyed her to no end. That phase of antsy adolescence was long past. Cappy had become a grandfather, mother, father, grandmother, and best friend. He was set in his ways, and she was, too, but she couldn’t think of a time when they didn’t have each other. She bounced her ideas and plans, her loves and disappointments, off the Cappers—Donald Nicholas Reid but nicknamed the Caps for his collection of hats and caps accumulated during his travels from the Gulf to the Galapagos. He’d met Gran fifty years ago after traveling the world and finally settling on Santa Maria where he opened up a small charter line and fished off the island. They’d been devoted to each other and at once fiercely independent, and Blanche and her cousin, Jack, had thrived growing up in their care.

How Blanche missed Gran! At least she had Cappy. Somewhere. Where?

No telling where he’d gotten himself off to, but she had a sudden longing to see him, and Jack. She needed her family. So much had happened in a day, she’d hardly thought of the love and support she had in her life.

Blanche shook off the daydreams and wandered through the organized chaos of the kitchen. Tangled herbs cluttered a shelf, the pungent bay and thyme mixed with sweet gardenia at the window. Copper cooking pots of every size hung from the rack over the counter. Jars of tomatoes, peaches, and pickles he’d put up himself, towers of limes, lemons, and oranges, all were within easy reach. She pushed the rattan stools back in order.

He’d left a grapefruit with eyes and a mouth made of whole cloves. The smiling Buddha sat on a nest of waxy leaves. The note said, “Hi, Blanche.”

She burst out laughing. He still surprised her, and it never got old.

She wrote him a note and tore the page out of her notebook: See you tonight, and thanks for the cheery greeting. She couldn’t bring herself to mention the terrible morning.

She stuck the message under a refrigerator magnet. It occurred to her that the islanders rarely locked their doors. Now maybe they should. Cappy’s door had been unlocked. Reminder: Get extra keys. Tell Cappy to lock his doors. She had a queasy feeling that the world of Santa Maria was changing, and not for the better.

If she didn’t eat something soon, she was sure to faint dead away. She reached for the fridge. Cap was always a step ahead of her. He’d left a plate with Blanche’s name on it—grouper, sautéed, and topped with grapes, mango, and raspberries. She felt better just looking at it.

She sat down at the counter and ate the whole thing, cold, probably not out of the Gulf a day. She added to the note: PS, Delicioso! We have to talk. XXX B.

Revived over lunch, Blanche rinsed the dish and headed out the back door, the screen door flapping after her. She hurried down the drive to the cabin.

The beach was calling. But first, she had to call Jack.

She couldn’t wait to get hold of him. If she could. Getting his attention was a bit like stepping on a rolling wave. After all, how much help could he be in making the week stop spinning out of control?

She picked up the pace. The sun descended behind the tops of the pine trees. Her sandals crunched the shell path, and the gulls cawed. It was the only sound at the quiet north end as she took the steps two at a time and dashed for the phone.

Jack. He had to know the awful news. He had to get back soon.