Twenty-Two —
The Gulf Is a Hungry Ghost
Blanche picked up the phone, dusted it off, and put it gently back in the cradle. Guiltily. She couldn’t seem to slip the anger that burst out of her. But she knew the antidote of the moment was Amos.
She walked over to the corner of the porch. He was looking up and down at the ravaged cabin. “Don’t you wonder where it all goes?” He smiled at Blanche and looked out over the shining Gulf that belied the recent storm. The sun was brilliant on the water, and the sky was sapphire blue.
“Only God knows.”
“And Neptune.”
Amos began fitting the uprights under the porch ceiling. He never looked like he was about to build a house, always dressed in lightly starched shirts and dark jeans. But he was a busy, hands-on contractor who had built the best houses on the island. Lately, he’d turned to rehabbing because most of the island was built up and out to the edges of the water, and Amos would not cram another house, even when permitted to do so, into one more fifty-foot-wide lot. With setbacks on either side, that kind of construction required ridiculously narrow houses with living room in front, kitchen in the middle and bedrooms in the back, all of it on stilts fourteen feet off the ground. The railroad flats of the island where there were no railroads. He’d been “footed” to death, sideways and back to front, kicked in the rear by all the zoning restrictions and the ever-present demand to build on every inch of beachfront footage. Now he did what he wanted to do, and it was all quality—mostly restoration and the occasional grand home inland.
One good thing about the hurricane: She would get to see a lot of Amos. It was like he was part of the family; Gran had had a soft spot for him. He came over after every storm and often on Sundays for Gran’s cherry pie. He had a ton of gossip—and he was supremely adept at putting houses back together after a storm.
Blanche righted an overturned Adirondack chair. “Want a chocolate sundae?”
“Well, one thing at a time.” He was grinning. He tapped a board into place. “I have to go to the truck, but I’ll be right back. Put some peanuts on that sundae if you got ‘em.”
Blanche scooped ice cream into bowls and drowned it in chocolate sauce. Fortunately, she had red-skinned peanuts in the freezer—to complete the Tin Roof sundaes. She carried them out to the porch and set them down on the table. She retrieved the chair cushions for the Adirondacks, one of them dragged off the beach where Wilma had deposited it in a dune. It would take her weeks of sweeping, pounding, and cleaning, once Amos got the structure back in shape. She yanked at one of the flapping screen panels and secured it against a nail.
Amos dug into the sundae. “The best, as always, Blanche. Thanks! How you been?”
“Except for Wilma, and the murder, and those plans that Langstrom is talking about, I’ve been just peachy. How about you?”
“The murder. How could it happen?”
“To Bob? I just don’t know.”
“Well, I hear Dunc has his hands full on this one.”
Blanche wanted to share her theory, and Liza’s find, but decided to turn her filter on. For once. Land development was Amos’s bailiwick, and any light he could shine there would help in the long run.
“Langstrom. What do you think, Amos?”
He gulped the last spoonful. “Don’t want anything to do with him. Those people don’t know what they’re doing.”
“I wish you’d tell them that. They can’t do this to the island. They want the cottages, the park, the rest of the north end.”
“They got a fight on their hands. They also got money.” It was a bitter message to swallow with all that ice cream.
“Do you know anything about their plans? Aren’t you able to file objections to permits? You know all the ins and outs of coastal building. You have friends in Tallahassee. Can’t you stall that Chicago bunch?” She didn’t want to mention the business with Jack. She was worried that he was in trouble and talking about it to Amos would just give it life.
“Whoa, Blanche. I’m quite the little guy when it comes to these guys. Like the St. Bellamy Corp. They’ve all but destroyed the Panhandle, the east coast, and they’re working their way through the state. At this point, we really don’t know what these Chicago folks are up to.”
Amos looked at the corner of the porch. He pointed with his spoon. “Blanche, I have to tell you, you have other worries. More immediate. The town will condemn this place if it’s more than fifty percent destroyed. I’m just giving you a heads-up.”
“It’s not half gone. The plumbing and wiring all work. Most of it is standing. Want to look around?” She jumped up eagerly.
“It’s not what I have to say about it. The inspectors will tell you the second floor is uninhabitable, and it is. You can’t go up there. It isn’t safe. You better go to Cappy’s for now.”
“But you can fix it, can’t you? You always have before.”
“Of course, I’m going to try. But things are different now, and it has to do with money. A lot of it. You have a prime piece of beach here, and I know you want to hold on to it.” He looked out at the water and back at Blanche. “I have to say, I’ve never seen anything like it. If you can see a dot of water from a spot of land, they want to build on it, and they don’t give a hoot about restrictions and permits. They want weird staircases that spiral up to the roofs.” He shook his head. “They get too many margaritas in them, and then the little kids climbing… I don’t know where this is headed, but it’s not good.”
Blanche frowned. “How can they get these permits? I thought you had to rebuild within the foot print if it’s a teardown.”
“They’re buying off inspectors and officials left and right. They say they aren’t, that it’s special permitting, but they are making up more permits than anyone knows what to do with.”
“Which reminds me. Mel told me some guy came asking her about property on Tuna Street.” A floorboard from the second story creaked, broke off, and plunked onto the beach in front of them. She felt like she’d lost a limb. “Oh, wow. I need my house back.”
Amos took Blanche by the arm and guided her away from the corner.
“Have you heard of this guy, Amos. A Sal someone?”
“No, haven’t heard of that one. One of many. There’s only so much beachfront, and it seems they’ll stop at nothing.”
“They’ll get caught and the market will collapse right on top of their heads.”
“Maybe. In the meantime, enjoy the cabin after we get this mess cleaned up and hope for the best. Walk the beach. Don’t think about the rest. What good will it do?”
“I’ll try.” She studied the corner. “You’ll try, too?”
Amos grinned. “You know me. Every wall and door knob I put in feels like mine. I’ll get to it, and soon. Before those goons come around. You don’t want to be out of code, especially when that talk starts up at the next town hall meeting. The hurricane put a damper on that business for a bit, but they’ll be back, and I don’t like the sounds they’re making.”
“What about them, Amos? Really. They’ve dreamed up a fantasy land. What can we do?”
“We have to stall them, and we have to do what we can to prevent the permitting. I don’t know if it’ll work, but the island will never be the same if we don’t. And it’s not so much the ugly, commercial, cookie-cutter look of their plans. It’s just not good for the environment. Too much, too crowded. It’s just plain unnatural.”
She and Amos looked out over Tuna Street at the white sand and turquoise water. Even with the devastation of the cabin, with the porch open to the breeze, it was paradise. The yellow beach flowers, revived and soaking up the sun, the palms and grasses glistening.
“What if I just left it open like this?” Blanche looked over the exposed porch, a few steps up from the crushed shell.
“Ha! Sometimes I wonder if you’re a girl or a gull.”
“Bird brain, maybe. I swear Langstrom and this murder are making me crazy.”
Amos gathered up a couple of tools. “Blanche. It’ll work out. It has to. Hang in there.”
He added fuel to the notion that they wanted Bob out of the way. They were out there, and they were doing their worst.
“And Bob,” said Amos. “He groused about those plans. The word is they left no room for the park and no way to handle all that traffic and asphalt. The kicker is most of the islanders wouldn’t be able to afford the housing they propose, and the property taxes. They’ll have to leave the island. No wonder Tallahassee is on board with the permitting. More money for the man. It’s getting to be one big sewer up there.”
“So you think these hairballs had something to do with the murder?”
“Hairballs! Ha! Like something the cat upchucked on the carpet?”
“Yes.”
“That’s sort of a leap. For a cat or anyone.” He laughed, then frowned. “Hate to put words to it, Blanche. But if it’s true, that they killed Bob, it’ll come out. Just you wait. Duncan may be slow, but he’s plenty het up about this. He won’t let it go.”
She smiled. “And I won’t either.”