Page 36 of Camino Ghosts

“There’s always a way to settle. Offer half a million.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want.”

“And we’re still on solid ground with the case, the title dispute?”

“Nothing has changed, nothing can change. The plaintiff herself, Miss Jackson, wrote in her own book that she left the island in 1955 and she was the last person there. Everyone else was dead. We’ve searched high and low and found no official record that anyone has lived there since 1955.”

“And her book is admissible in court?”

“That’s up to the judge, but there’s no way to exclude it. And, Miss Jackson has to testify because there’s no one else to support her claim of ownership.”

“When’s the trial?”

“Who knows? My best guess is early spring.”

“And there’s no jury right, just a bench trial?”

“That’s correct.”

“Any clout with the judge?”

“Maybe.” Pete looked at Donnie Armano, who took the handoff and said, “We’re still digging around and might have found something. Judge Salazar has a son in Jacksonville, married with two kids, her only grandkids at the moment. Got a daughter in Pensacola. The son owns a little company that builds cheap government houses and apartments. He does okay but he ain’t getting rich by any means. We can approach him one of two ways, straight-up or behind the back. Straight-up we go through a shell company and get the kid some nicer houses in better parts of town, make sure he’s busy and getting paid. We’ll eventually dangle the carrot, let him know that he might strike gold in the boom on Panther Cay. Or, we can get him a big contract for subsidized apartments, riches galore, but first he has to bribe a federal inspector.”

Wilson wasn’t bothered by either plan. “Let’s start off by giving the boy some business and see how it goes, nothing out of line, nothing to arouse suspicions. God knows we have enough companies to hide behind.”

“Sixty at last count,” Pete said with a grin.

“And I can think of three in the Jacksonville area. Get him sucked in for now and let’s see how it goes. As usual, I’d like to keep the Feds out of it.”

“Please do,” Pete said.

“What about the rest of her family? The judge?”

“Single, divorced a long time ago. Sort of estranged from the daughter in Pensacola, all wrapped up in the two grandkids.”

“How about previous rulings in title cases?”

“We’ve found only one, a few years back. Nothing helpful. She’s been on the bench for six years so there’s not much of a record.”

“Okay,” Wilson said, sticking his pen in a pocket, his way of saying enough of this. “We’ll review it again next week.”

2.

October was Mercer’s favorite month on the island. The suffocating summer heat was gone, as were the tourists, though they seldom got in the way. The beach, ten miles long and rarely crowded, was even more deserted. She loved the long slow walks in the cool mornings. She missed Thomas, but not that much.

About half the beachfront houses were lived in year-round, and she often saw familiar faces as she walked. She even recognized some of the dogs, a friendly bunch as a rule. Stopping for a quick hello and a chat about the weather was not unusual, but Mercer did not want long conversations in the sand. She was there for a purpose, a walk to clear her head and, occasionally, give her inspiration. A story, a name, a place, perhaps even a subplot. As a writer she was always on the prowl for material, which had been sparse lately. Nor did she want to get close to her neighbors, most of whom were retired and usually eager to drop whatever they were doing for some gossip or maybe even a glass of wine. She wasn’t looking for new friends. Her cottage, one that she owned with her sister, was a second home, a getaway and a refuge where she craved quietness and solitude.

But the damned thing was also becoming expensive. Upkeep on a house at the beach was never-ending. Thomas wasn’t much with a hammer or a paintbrush, nor was Connie’s sorry husband. So the two owners split the costs of all repairs and renovations, and the bills were getting bigger. They had never discussed the idea of selling it, though Connie had dropped a few hints. Her husband rarely came to the beach and her family was using the cottage less and less. It had been built by Tessa fifty years earlier and meant far more to Mercer than to Connie.

Fifty years of salt air and storms were eating away at the wood, tiles, and paint.

Mercer was on the back porch, ignoring the blank screen of her laptop, sipping green tea, and instead of writing she was staring at the ocean and listening to the waves, her favorite sound. In October she left the windows open at night and fell asleep to the sounds of the sea. The happiest moments of her childhood had been at the cottage with Tessa, who regardless of the heat didn’t like air-conditioning. When the humidity was down, Tessa opened all the windows and they listened to the waves in the dark as they talked in bed.

Once again, a memory of Tessa came and went. She smiled, tried to shake it off, and looked at the blank screen. She had written the first chapter twice and tossed both drafts. She needed more time with Lovely, whom she would meet with tomorrow, at Bay Books, of course.

The paint was peeling. Everywhere she looked around the porch, the deck, the doors and windows, even the pine flooring, there was old paint either peeling or fading. Larry, her part-time landscaper and handyman, got an estimate from a lower-end painting contractor. The thief wanted $20,000 to repaint and seal the exterior, but Larry said that was about right. Mercer had to giggle at the thought of asking Thomas for his entire check from The Atlantic to spruce up the beach cottage. She thought of her sister and the smile went away. Not too many years ago Connie and her husband were flying high with his company and buying whatever they wanted. Then something happened. Mercer had no idea what, and she would never know because Connie would never tell, but the business wasn’t booming anymore and they were tightening their belts. The sisters had never been close and it was too late to make the effort now.

She forgot about her laptop, and her unwritten manuscript, and walked around the cottage. A fresh coat of paint was desperately needed, so she made a decision. A firm one. An unpopular one. She and Thomas would spend their Christmas break on Camino painting the cottage. If he couldn’t figure out a paintbrush and a roller, then she would be more than happy to give lessons.

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