Twenty-Six —
The Pounding Wave

It was the second meeting at the town hall to discuss the development on the island, and this time Blanche was not going to let Langstrom get away with all the preening and dancing, and his posters and what not. She sprinted up the steps. The crowd was bigger this time. And their voices were loud.

Good.

Mayor Pat stood inside the door. “Blanche, I read your stories in the Times. You sure let ‘em have it.” She hobbled away before Blanche could say a word.

She supposed Pat was referring to the land development. Whose side was she on? She didn’t put up with nonsense and lies, but Langstrom might have gotten to her all the same. It was hard to tell.

Blanche had followed up on a new study that claimed further development on the barrier keys would decimate migrating birds and their nests, leave barren stretches of over-populated beach where sea turtles had hatched, lay waste to sea grape, mangroves, and acres of trees and scrub palm that held the islands together. In one of her stories, she quoted Sara Fox of the Turtle Brigade: “We might as well cross turtles off our map if we don’t get after it. They’re (tourists, surveyors, seekers of property) tramping over buried eggs, despite the police tape we put up around the nests. And the extra lighting in condos and houses is leading the babies to roads instead of home to the moonlit Gulf.”

Concrete and nature teetered in the fight over preservation, and islanders, overall, preferred nature. Clearly, the plans benefited a wealthy migration of two-legged snowbirds who had no stake in the island except as a temporary getaway from the bad weather up North. They were welcome, but destruction of the island was not.

Blanche held a copy of the newspaper, fanned herself, while she looked around the room, ever leery of Langstrom and company.

She had put Clint up to the idea for a series, and he’d approved it.

“Well, hi there, Miss Blanche.”

She was so startled, she dropped the newspaper. He picked it up. The headline read: “Developer Plans Devastation on North End.”

Langstrom’s mouth tightened over each word as he read the headline. “Now, do you really think that’s what we’re planning?”

Blanche grabbed the newspaper back. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For nothing.”

They stared at each other, and if looks could kill, they would have both been dead.

“Mr. Langstrom!” It was the mayor. She stood over a pile of folders at a long table, waving in his direction. “We need you!”

“Like the plague,” Blanche muttered. She stomped off, intent on finding Liza in the crowd.

It was déjà vu all over again. Except this meeting included a greater number of residents. The buzz rose a notch. Blanche had the emails, folded into a neat package of evidence in her bag. She smoothed her fingers over the crease in the paper. This will be easy. No, this is not going to be easy.

Liza was seated near the front row. She sparkled, as usual. Her top, a creamy lime green, said “Gin and Donuts for Breakfast” in sequins.

They hugged. “That’s an unusual getup. Got any gin right now?”

“You could probably use a shot. I saw you talking to Cute Boy.”

“He made some crack about the stories I wrote for the Times. Could it be my writing style?”

“For sure. He doesn’t want ‘devastation’ pinned on him. Blanche, you better be careful. Maybe let Wade in on the act. Have him do some of these stories.”

“Wade? He can’t pour piss out of a boot, but he sure likes Cute Boy.”

Liza’s expression tightened into a frown. Or was that fear? “I’m getting so I look over my shoulder.” She grabbed Blanche’s hand.

Blanche squeezed back. “Me, too. Thanks for getting all these emails together, Liza. They’re the bomb.”

“Hope they don’t explode in our faces.”

The more they had looked into them, the more they saw that money had changed hands in odd ways, and supposedly there were more payouts to come. It wouldn’t flow through Bob, or his office. But it was out there. Where?

Jack had been more evasive than ever. She couldn’t get jack out of him. He wouldn’t return her calls, except for the one: “I’m working on it, Bang. Stay out of it.”

Same old thing. She needed to know about that flow of money. She needed an explanation, and she didn’t care how busy he was. Somehow his new business and Bob’s murder and Langstrom were all tied up together. Blanche worried about Jack all the while she wanted to shake him. Some things never change.

The mayor banged her knuckles on the table. “It’s a pleasure to see you here tonight.” It didn’t look like it from the scowl on her face. She took in the room. Clearly, she had not expected the crowd. She looked like she was about to take an unsavory bite she did not want to chew.

“I’d like to re-introduce Sergi Langstrom. He is representing the interests of partners of a Chicago land development firm as many of you are so well aware.” Her head popped around, searching for Langstrom, but she went on. “He has brought a draft of a plan to discuss in further detail, and he is willing to answer any questions you might have regarding the proposed development that…”

“Hey, we didn’t ask for any development. We didn’t ask for it, and we don’t want it. That bunch of mansions will cut right through the north end and ruin our piers and beaches, not to mention all the baby turtles that’ll not find their habby-tat.” Sandy Burk sat next to Jess, who seemed to have an opposition group growing up around him. They buzzed and nodded. Sandy’s sunburned face and faded shirt spoke volumes about where he spent his time and where his heart was planted.

Langstrom appeared, next to the mayor, and his smooth expression didn’t show a hint of sympathy nor agreement. Instead of the formerly tousled appearance, his hair was neatly combed, and tonight he wore a tie, which was a poor choice. It put him in the Chicago-developer camp and made him stand out as the outsider he was. That was good. He’d knocked himself down a notch in the eyes of the islanders. Was he that clueless? Didn’t he know he did not belong here?

“Sir?” Langstrom feigned interest.

“Sandy Burk, fisherman at large.” The crowd laughed. Sandy wasn’t much taller than Blanche although he was a large presence on the island, and he’d earned it. The guru of flounder fishing off the Reel ‘n Eat pier, he was a fixture as had been his father and uncles before him.

“Mr. Burk, we are going to do everything possible not to disturb the environment of the island. You have my word.”

At that, Sandy’s red-blond eyebrows did a dance. “Is that right? You’ve said that before, and it just don’t ring true. Sorry. Them surveyors been knockin’ around, and they’re very tight-lipped about what they be ‘surveyin’.”

“Well, let me assure you…”

“You can’t guarantee nothin’. Not when you’re knockin’ down trees and pouring cement. Stands to reason somethin’s gotta give here. You can’t have it two ways to Sunday.”

The humming in the crowd got louder. Reaction was solidly negative against Langstrom, positive for Sandy. Blanche was loving this. The last meeting had had no such love at all.

She felt for the emails. She and Liza had talked. Now was not the right time. A revelation would get lost in the melee. The islanders were having at Langstrom—pushing back hard, and she let it ride.

He paced around the table, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped in front of the easels loaded with drawings of The Plan. “You see here? With the restoration of these native plantings, the island will be more in tune with nature than it was before.”

“Tell it to Mother Nature. She has taken her course, sir, and you ain’t doin’ no good by changing her direction any more than you can change the wind.”

This time Mary Gannon stood up. Liza and Blanche shot each other a look, and smiled.

Mary was a small force of nature herself, a whirligig of arms when she spoke, her hair a humidified cloud. “Here, here for Mother Nature! And for Sandy Burk.” She twisted around to the neighbors. They nodded. She was not about to give the island to a bunch of Chicago developers. Her family had owned the Sand Dollar gift shop for more than fifty years, and she was a founding member of the preservation association. “We need to stand together! Many thanks to Blanche Murninghan for the stories in the Times. Put it out there, Blanche! Go get ‘em!”

They were clapping. Several hands patted Blanche on the back. She felt warm, and alone. But Liza grinned at her, and whispered. “Way to go.”

Blanche’s face reddened under the scrutiny of hundreds of eyes, and she stole a look at Langstrom. He’d turned to stone.

Then Butch Cally, a produce trucker with groves in east Bradenton, stood up. “I like trees. We all like trees, Mr. Langstrom, but those ain’t trees up there in that drawing. Those squares ‘present mansions. Who’s asking for those mansions? Is that Mother Nature calling? And do we have the roads and lines and whatnot to support all that construction?”

The mayor walked around the table toward Langstrom. They were a strange pair: The large, grey-haired woman, wide as she was tall, and Langstrom, who looked like he’d stepped out of GQ. He remained silent, his expression plastered with a look of innocence.

The mayor had the floor. “As a matter of fact, we do have the infrastructure.”

Blanche could feel the words squash Mother Nature.

“Butch, those aren’t mansions,” Pat said. “Those are homes for islanders just like you.”

“That so,” Butch said. “All cheesy turquoise and pink like. Well, I’ll just call up Victoria Secret, or whatever that gal’s name is, and get me some jammies to go with. Mayor Pat, what kind of Kool-Aid you been drinkin’?”

That drew a hearty laugh from the crowd.

The mayor was undeterred. She puffed up like a large-breasted bird and ignored the interruption. “As for infrastructure, the town has done a number of studies and found that added tax revenue from the building, and the present plans in place for improvement of roads and sewers, will adequately support the project.”

“Aw, baloney,” said Sandy. “If you pardon me saying. For one thing, them roads and water system up there can’t support all that building. You know it and I know it.”

The mayor and Langstrom exchanged glances. They didn’t move for an uncomfortable lapse. The mayor sat down, hard, and folded her hands. She fixed a stare across the room somewhere above the door.

Langstrom was quite ready to leap on his prey. Crafty and sleek, he walked toward the diagram, considered it, fist on chin, and moved around in front of the table so there was no barrier between him and the crowd. He smiled, and it was working.

“I can see how you’d say that,” he said. The salesman. Calm as a sunny day. “In fact, I’ve been in the same boat, so to speak. I lived in northern Wisconsin. A beautiful little town called Wenthaven, named by the Dutch settlers who wrote back to the old country that they had ‘gone home’.” He stopped and shook his head and chuckled. Blanche was seething. Where is he going with this down-home stuff?

“You couldn’t see the sky for those pines, the lake so blue, the snow reflecting the sun,” he said. He looked at the ceiling of the meeting room. Some in the crowd looked up, too, possibly expecting an apparition of clouds and pines.

Langstrom strolled among them: “It was—and is—a story book kind of place. Yes, it is still as beautiful as it ever was (pause) even with the development St. Mark Company brought to Wenthaven. Now we have Swiss chalets and ski runs, five-star restaurants and B&B’s, and all of these are small businesses, no chains of any sort, and the locals have thrived. No yellow arches, blaring franchises, no, these are local people. Like you!” He pointed into the crowd, here and here, and there. “Most of my neighbors got financing through the development company. And let me tell you, Wenthaven is more beautiful than ever, with a new school and funds for paving the roads and fixing the sewers and the water lines. St. Mark—like straight out of the Bible—was the best thing that ever happened to Wenthaven. And I can say this because I was there. It’s home.”

Oh, my God. What is he going to do next? Part the Gulf? Throw down a tablet? She wanted to scream: Go home.

To Blanche’s horror, Langstrom had dropped the “m” word again. Avoiding “murder” altogether and hinting at the availability of “money” for financing businesses and schools and roads. And then, the audacity of it all, he’d managed to include St. Mark, who would surely roll over in his grave at being smacked with The Plan. Blanche wasn’t buying it, but she realized he knew how to move the crowd in the direction he wanted.

“What’s this got to do with us? Swiss chalets and such?” Sandy Burk was on his feet again.

“Well, I know you don’t want Swiss chalets.” The group tittered. “Now, you tell me, Mr. Burk. What will development bring to Santa Maria? Just think about it a minute.”

It was a friendly tone. They were humming, and the sound was far from music to Blanche’s ears. She held the emails and then jammed them further into her bag. The timing was not right for the reveal. She and Liza exchanged a frown. An explanation would be lengthy, and they couldn’t risk being shot down.

Liza nudged Blanche and shook her head. “We’ll talk. Maybe come at them from a different angle?”

“Uh-huh. Funny he didn’t mention the part of the plan that says they tear down the houses and the businesses.”

Langstrom lingered at the door. A few islanders chatted him up. More than a little fawning going on over there. Blanche’s stomach turned over.

All she could think about was the tearing down, the gouging, and the replacement that would create a fake, new Santa Maria. She had to keep fighting.