Page 20 of Camino Ghosts

Finally, Thomas said, “May I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Steven said.

“Do you expect Tidal Breeze to file a lawsuit to clear the title?”

“Yes, certainly. In fact, I’m surprised the company has not already done so. I know it has filed some preliminary notices with the Department of Natural Resources and, immediately, there was a question about ownership. The company has been snooping around the island for at least a year or so.”

Bruce asked, “Is there an advantage in being the first to file a lawsuit?”

“Perhaps a slight advantage, but all interested parties will have plenty of time to jump in.”

“And it has to be decided by a court in this county?”

“Yes, same as all title disputes. The company can’t run to federal court or anywhere else.”

“And you know the local judges?”

“Sure, but it won’t matter. Tidal Breeze will hire a bunch of local lawyers to get in the way. We have good judges here and they’ll do what’s right.”

Lovely folded her hands in her lap and looked at Miss Naomi, who said, “Well, we certainly have a lot to think about, don’t we? I’m sure the girls have picked out ten books each.”

“I sure hope so,” Bruce quipped.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE CONTRACT

1.

Gifford’s idea of a book tour was to sail his yacht from its home port near Charleston down to St. Augustine in Florida, then up to the Outer Banks of North Carolina for a stop in the coastal town of Manteo. He liked the bookstore there because it drew crowds when he was in town, and also because its owner was an old girlfriend he was still fond of. He finished a book every three years and usually got a new wife once he turned in a fresh manuscript. He’d had so many, books and wives. They, the exes, came and went because they inevitably got bored living on a boat in Charleston’s harbor.

On each tour he visited the same thirteen bookstores and was never in a hurry. His signings went on for hours as his fans waited patiently for a word and an autograph. The exploits of his protagonist, Bake Boudreau, had been entertaining readers for over twenty years and Gifford couldn’t write fast enough. Not for his fans, anyway. However, his pace suited him perfectly since he could hammer one out in six months, then travel and play golf the rest of the year. Truth was, he was quite lazy and needed plenty of down time between tours.

He was a son of the Low Country. He spoke the language and knew the culture and cared deeply about its preservation. A lot of his money was spent fighting those who wanted to disrupt his land. He held a passionate hatred of developers. He gave speeches, wrote op-ed pieces and nice checks, and in doing so managed to attract a lot of attention for himself. He even funded a documentary film about the fight to protect a swamp in Georgia. In it, he made his acting debut and loved being on camera. Like most documentaries, it was an hour too long and failed to find an audience.

When his boat, a sixty-foot beauty, slipped into the Santa Rosa harbor, Bruce was waiting. Gifford yelled an obscene greeting when he saw him, then bounded off the boat before his deckhand had time to moor it. They hugged on the pier like long-lost frat brothers and made their way to the dockside café, both talking at once. Lunch would last at least two hours.

The current wife was rarely invited on a book tour. Gifford didn’t want the restraints, so he sent them to Europe or California. At that moment, Bruce couldn’t think of the current one’s name. They ordered wine and seafood and caught up with the publishing gossip. Gifford took pride in the fact that he had not been to New York in ten years. He loathed his publisher and was convinced he was being cheated out of royalties.

“Bought any more stolen manuscripts lately?” he asked. A bit too loud.

“Of course not. I’ve gone straight.”

Among a handful of friends it was believed that Bruce had made a killing years earlier when he brokered a deal to return the stolen manuscripts of F. Scott Fitzgerald, a rumor that he strenuously denied. The FBI had snooped around and he assumed their file was still open. The Princeton library had the manuscripts back in its vault. Everyone was happy. Let it go.

Bruce said, “You’ve heard the latest about Dark Isle?”

Gifford chewed a mouthful, offered a blank look, and shook his head.

Bruce pointed across the water and said, “It’s about two miles over there, you can barely see it.”

“The old slave island.”

“That’s it. Deserted years ago. Now it’s been discovered by some real estate swingers from South Florida. Ever hear of Tidal Breeze?”

“Maybe.”

“Big private company with plenty of projects under its belt. Resorts, casinos, golf, the works. Now they’ve renamed it Panther Cay and printed up all the usual brochures. Got a fancy website. Lots for sale in due course.”

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