I drove the few blocks inland to Gulf Pines Campground and turned onto the crushed shell road that wound through two acres of tall slash pines. I waved to a couple of my temporary neighbors whose Weber was flaming like a bonfire. I rounded a curve and parked in front of the double-wide mobile home that Jerry and Donna Meadows had gutted and remodeled to serve as campground office and convenience store. Grabbing the package off the seat, I climbed the concrete steps and crossed the deck.

I’d told Jerry and Donna about finding the body the evening it happened. We’d become fast friends almost as soon as I’d paid the first week’s rental on my campsite, and I thought they deserved to know before the news got out and rumors started flying. Also, I knew they could be trusted to pass the truth around, sparing me a lot grief from curious neighboring campers.

There were just a few customers milling about the aisles despite the campground being nearly full for the weekend. Donna was sitting behind the counter watching a talk show on the wall-mounted TV while working knitting needles with the ease that comes from years of experience. We exchanged greetings as I walked past stacks of bundled firewood to get a six-pack of Bud from the cooler. On the way back I grabbed a box of saltine crackers from a shelf.

“Where’s that old man of yours?”

Donna’s fingers kept working as she glanced up. “Hey, Mac. Jerry’s gone to Parkersville. We needed a few things from Sam’s Club.”

“Got a little something for you,” I said, placing the beer, crackers, and the neatly wrapped package of fish on the countertop. “Speckled trout fillets.”

Donna’s eyes lit up as she peered over her glasses. She set the knitting aside and walked over. “Lord, must be five, six pounds here.”

“Four and a half,” I said. “I thought they’d dress out more. Guess they shrunk some, or the fish house shorted me.”

She chuckled. “Thank you kindly, Mac. Jerry does love his fried trout. I’ll fix us a mess tonight. Why don’t you come eat with us?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got a hot date. Appreciate the invite, though.”

“Well, a rain check then. And put that money away,” Donna said as I pulled out my wallet.

I’d just stepped inside my Grey Wolf and turned on the roof A/C to chase out some of the heat when my phone rang. It was Kate.

“We’ve got a problem, Mac.”

I felt my ego deflate. “Let me guess. You’re working late.”

“I wish it was that simple. The police are here. You need to come to the marina right away.”

A hundred things flashed through my mind, then I remembered my flat. “Is this about my tire?”

“Tire?”

“Yeah. When I got back to my truck this afternoon I had a flat. Looks like somebody took a knife to it.”

I heard Kate exhale. “No, it’s not about any dang tire. Chief Merritt’s here. He wants to see you. Now.”

I pulled out of the campground wondering what the hell was going on. If this was a police matter, why hadn’t they called me personally or stopped by my campsite? They had my number, and it was no secret where I was staying. Was this about the body? If so, why did the local police want to see me instead of the sheriff’s department? What the hell had I done to warrant Ben Merritt’s immediate attention?

This day was turning out to be one for the books. First the strange call, then the slashed tire, and now the local cops wanted to see me. What was that saying about the third time being a charm? I felt anything but charmed. Not to mention my date with Kate was probably shot.

When I pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later Chief Merritt was waiting out front leaning against the door of his blue and white cruiser near the store’s entrance. I parked a few spaces away and got out. I glanced toward the store and saw Kate staring out the door. I tried to read the look on her face—worry, disappointment, disgust?—I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t like it.

“We got ourselves a little situation here, McClellan,” the chief said, by way of greeting.

What had happened to “call me Mac, and call me Ben?” This couldn’t be a good sign. I pointed to my truck. “There’s a little situation in the back of my truck. Somebody slashed my tire while I was out fishing today.”

“That so? Well, we’ll see about that later,” he said, with the same hint of a grin I’d noticed in his office yesterday. “Right now we got us some bigger shrimp to boil. Come with me.”

The chief stepped onto the sidewalk and lumbered around the side of the store to the wooden walkway leading down to the docks. I followed, by habit keeping a pace behind and to his left, the proper courtesy enlisted personnel showed officers. Damn, it was going to take forever to shake the military out of my system.

When the chief took a right at the bottom of the steps it finally dawned on me that this had something to do with my boat. What, I had no idea. There weren’t any fire hydrants or yellow curbs near my slip that I was aware of. And I sure as hell hadn’t double-parked.

As we approached slip 14 a young patrolman holding a camera straightened up from the piling he’d been leaning against. “I got the photos, Chief,” the tall beanpole said, holding up the camera. He glanced at me. “Is this the perpetrator?”

Merritt glared at the young man. “Take a hike, Owens.”

Without a word, Owens took off at a fast clip.

“Damn trainee.”

“Perpetrator?” I mumbled, wondering just what the hell I’d perpetrated.

The chief pointed to my boat. “You care to explain that?”

I looked at the boat. Trusting sort that I am, my remaining rods were in their holders. My tackle box and radio were stored under the bow. The outboard and fuel tanks were in place. I’d done a decent of job policing up the trash, no beer cans lying around. Everything seemed in order. “Explain what?”

“This,” Merritt said, grunting as he squatted and pointed at my ice chest.

“What? Oh.” A plastic baggie was wedged between the cooler and the gunnels, about a third of it sticking out the side. I must’ve overlooked it while cleaning up. “You’re busting me for littering my boat?”

“That’s very funny, Mac. Take a closer look.”

Mac. Back to the friendly cop. I looked. The baggie was half-filled with what appeared to be rust-colored parsley or some other herb. I reached down to pick it up for closer inspection.

“Don’t touch it!” the chief said.

My arm jerked back. “What?”

Merritt shot me a hard look. “It’s marijuana. Some anonymous caller tipped us off.”

“Marijuana? You sure?” The stuff wasn’t even green. I’d never used the wacky weed personally, but from what I knew it was supposed to be greenish, not rusty brown.

Merritt glanced up from his crouch. “Where did you get it, Mac?”

“I didn’t ‘get it,’ Ben. I never laid eyes on it before.” If he came back with “You can call me Chief Merritt,” I swore to myself I’d punch his running lights out.

He grunted again as he struggled to stand. “I want to believe you, Mac, I really do. The truth is, a bale of this stuff was found on the island a few weeks ago right near where you found the corpse. And this isn’t your everyday pot we’re talking about here. This is Panama Red.”

“Panama Red? Never heard of it.”

Chief Merritt hitched up his pants and straightened his belt buckle. “Strong stuff. Rare nowadays. Back in the sixties and seventies it was considered the cream of the pot crop. It disappeared about the same time the hippies did, but it’s been making a comeback lately.”

I’d already heard more than I ever wanted to about Panama Red or any other strain of marijuana. “Thanks for the history lesson, but I’m telling you I don’t know anything about this crap. Somebody must’ve planted it here.”

Merritt didn’t offer a comment but reached into a back pocket and pulled out a folded gallon-size plastic storage bag. Grabbing a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, the chief bent to a knee and carefully picked up the baggie by a corner. He slipped it into the larger bag and stood up, knees cracking.

“I’ll get this fingerprinted,” he said, “and we’ll have to give this boat a thorough going over, so don’t plan on using it for a few days.”

The chief could’ve saved his breath. Between hooking a bloated body and finding a bag of marijuana stashed aboard my boat, I’d lost interest in maritime sports for the time being. I glanced at the evidence he held in his hand. Something caught my attention.

I motioned to the baggie inside the larger bag. “Could I get a closer look at that?”

“Sure.” He held it at eye level for me.

“Ben.”

“What?”

“That sandwich bag . . . it’s the same brand I’ve been using for my lunch all week.”

The next morning I wasn’t the least bit surprised when Chief Merritt called to inform me that my fingerprints alone showed up all over the baggie. I was glad I’d persuaded the chief to search through the garbage can where I’d tossed my trash. Patrolman Owens had proudly produced a handful of similar bags I’d accumulated over the past several days. At least I’d managed to plant the idea that someone could’ve retrieved one of the sandwich baggies and conveniently placed it in my boat along with its new contents. Most likely the anonymous caller.

Speaking of the boat, Ben Merritt was a man of his word. Fish and Wildlife officially impounded it and gave it more than a thorough going over. The good folks at Gillman’s Marina were none too pleased with the stripped-down version that was returned to them a few days later. Somebody’s insurance, probably mine, would eventually cover the cost of refurbishing, but it was one less rental from their fleet until the work was completed. At least my gear had been returned in full.

As for the matter of my slashed tire, Chief Merritt practically laughed in my face. There were no witnesses, so how the hell did I intend to prove the tire was slashed? “Hope you bought road hazard coverage, Mac,” was how he chalked up it up.

With the heartfelt concern the chief showed for my ruined tire, I wasn’t about to have him look into the “Jaws” phone call I’d received while fishing The Stumps. Instead, I decided to call the number again; after several rings a woman answered.

“Hello, I’m trying to reach Decker’s Auto and Tires,” I said, remembering the name of the business in Parkersville where I’d earlier bought a tire pressure gauge and a can of car wax.

“Sorry, hon, you got the wrong number. This is Jim and Jan’s Laundromat in St. George.”

I apologized and hung up. A couple of hours later I drove to Jim and Jan’s. It was located next to the hardware store where I’d bought a tube of silicone caulk to seal a leaking vent on my trailer the week before. I walked in and glanced around. Coin-operated washers and dryers lined the chalky yellow concrete block walls. A few women sat on benches reading magazines or talking on cell phones while waiting for their clothes to finish washing or drying. An older couple stood at one of several long tables, folding clothes and stacking them in a laundry basket. There was no sign of an attendant, and the only telephone I saw was a pay phone tucked away in a corner of the building near the restrooms.

Back inside my truck, I had a decent view of the pay phone through the laundry’s dusty plate glass window. I flipped open my cell phone and checked the number again, then dialed it. It rang a couple of times before a portly woman put down a magazine and ambled toward the phone. I waited until she picked up and offered a listless “Hello,” then clicked off. Mystery solved, at least as to where the call had come from.

For a while after the marijuana incident I wasn’t the most popular person around Gillman’s Marina. I’d brought the business some unwelcome publicity, thanks in large part to an overeager stringer writing for the local newspaper to help pay his way through Parkersville Community College. His embellished article stopped just short of portraying the marina as a front for drug trafficking, and me as a major dealer. I wondered if the kid who wrote it was studying pre-law. The Gillmans were furious, and I heard some loose talk of a libel suit. Sweet Sara wasn’t her usual chipper self when I was around either, and even Kate seemed to be turning a cold shoulder my way.

To his credit, Ben Merritt seemed to have bought my version of things or at least given me the benefit of the doubt. I hadn’t been charged with any crime, but I was informed in no uncertain terms not to leave the area until things were cleared up to his satisfaction. In the course of a few days I’d gone from vacationing fisherman to criminal suspect, with warnings from both the county and city cops not to leave Dodge.

When the fishing bug bit again, Gary Gillman was hesitant to rent another boat to me. But after a week, when he saw I wasn’t fleeing the area and was willing to pay two weeks’ cash up front, he agreed. I even got my old slip back, since it was no longer a notorious crime scene.

Meanwhile, a sample of the Panama Red had been sent to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement crime lab in Tallahassee to be tested for genetic compatibility with the bale that had washed ashore on Five-Mile Island. I had no doubt it would match. With everything that had happened, I was convinced somebody was running drugs into the St. George Bay area. The body I’d found was probably involved in some way.

And someone was trying real hard to point a finger at me.