Twenty-Four —
Believe in Ghosts

Cappy was sorting fishing tackle on his carport when Blanche drove up. She jumped out of the car and landed in a pile of rubber worms and feathered flies. Fishing line wrapped around one ankle. Blanche bent to extricate herself and made it worse.

He clipped the line, and chuckled. “Catch of the day. On my carport.”

“I’m sorry, Cappers. I’m not looking where I’m going.”

“Don’t make a habit of it.”

“Did you get my message? Amos came over, and he says I can’t stay in the cabin. Second floor’s hanging over the porch, and he probably can’t fix it for a few weeks. All right if I have my room back?”

“Of course,” he said. He ratcheted up, back and legs creaking like an old machine, and stacked the last of his fishing equipment in the tackle boxes. He peered at the angry red mark the fishing line left on Blanche’s leg and shook his head. She rubbed it. He looked her in the eye. “What are you so fired up about? You’re hopping around like a toad on a hot pan.”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Really.” He held the screen door and waved her inside.

Blanche perched on one of the counter stools. He made himself some tea and opened a Corona for Blanche.

“So.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the counter. That was the thing about Cappy. He always had some time, and he listened. He did give out his share of free advice, but not without the listening first.

“It’s crazy. I met a mermaid or an Indian princess, or a phantom. Or somebody! Right there on the beach in front of the cabin.”

“You don’t say.”

“She was real, Caps. This girl. She was chanting and sitting in the sea grass in the dunes. We talked for a while, listened to the birds and waves, but then she up and disappeared. Just like that. It was eerie.”

Cappy’s mug of tea stopped midway to his lips. “That reminds me of a story I heard from Maeve years ago. I think she was sitting on that very stool. Maeve, not the Indian princess.”

“An Indian princess?”

“Yes, a story about one,” he said. “What did the girl look like?”

“Eyes like black jewels. She was very small and raggedy dressed.”

“Brown skinned?”

“Gold, and her hair, black and shiny.”

“Well, she’s no mermaid.” He mused, smiled and glanced at the sun streaking through the window. “I wonder.” Cappy took out a bunch of lettuce and commenced chopping. He seemed to think more clearly when he was fishing or cooking, and he always produced good results under both circumstances.

“What are you wondering?” Blanche leaned on the edge of the counter, a thrill went through her. “Caps, this girl wanted to tell me something. More than just to listen to birds.”

“Could be. If that’s true, she’ll be back. Keep an eye out. I haven’t seen any Native Americans around here for years, but they’re here. In all parts. She may be Miccosukee.”

“What makes you say that?”

He pushed the cutting board aside. “The chanting, for one thing. And the listening. You said she talked about listening to the trees and wind. And those eyes. Just from your description, it makes me think of the Miccosukee chief who used to come through here when Maeve’s mother ran the rest stop. I’ll bet anything your mystery girl is somehow related to that chief and his people. Why else would she be here? And why is she taking an interest in you? I hope she comes back.”

A wave of history washed over her, and she had no idea why. The connection was visceral.

“Gran mentioned a chief but never told me the whole story.” She whispered, and Cap leaned forward. “She’d get misty so I didn’t push.”

“Yeah, well, she didn’t tell you everything. How could she? Besides, your great grandmother and the chief spent time together, and that’s something Maeve probably wasn’t too happy about.”

“Why?”

Cap didn’t answer for a bit. “It’s a long time ago now.” He rested an arm on the counter top. “Maeve was left alone a lot when she was growing up. She took on responsibility at the store at a young age, and then she took in you and Jack. She had a lot going on. And she had a big heart.”

Blanche tried to imagine Gran as a child, talking to the leader of local Native Americans. “Gran,” said Blanche. The name alone brought comfort. Cappy’s expression was far away, and she pulled him back. “Come on, Cappers.”

“There’s an old island story that comes from the Miccosukee who used to live near Tampa. Some came here to the island, but it’s been decades since we’ve seen the tribe, and a very long time since we saw the chief around here. The Native Americans have married and assimilated, but the customs and traditions, and the stories, still hang on.

“I’ve got a story for you. A good one. Not sure how it relates to your girl with the black jewel eyes, but it just might.” He teased, all the while he peeled and sliced and dropped half a dozen potatoes into sizzling olive oil, grated a pile of cheese, and prepared a large bowl of arugula, avocado, and jicama. “You really want to hear that old stuff?”

Blanche propped her elbows on the bar, ready to practice listening.