Below the Surface (11 page)

Without going for his own slate, he wrote on hers, “Crime scene?”

He was grateful when she nodded. Then she broke his heart, going closer to the window of the wheelhouse and putting both her palms against it as if she gave some sort of blessing—or as if she could embrace her sister's body through the barriers of glass and death.

On board, after holding out hope and pushing herself for so long, Bree collapsed in tears. Cole led her into the small supply room aft on the barge and, leaving the door ajar for air and light, sat on a huge coil of ropes next to her. She didn't want to be held, but she kept a tight hold of his hand. She was shaking, in shock, he figured, but he knew she'd never agree to go ashore right now. Besides, until Sam or the authorities showed up, he had no way to get her there.

Sam's men radioed both the coast guard and the Naples Police dive team. The already busy waterway quickly became a hub of activity. Gawkers lined the edge of the river and boats huddled close; the press arrived by boats, trying to get video and interviews. Bree and Cole hid out, but they could hear Ric and Lance answering shouted questions. Finally, Sam arrived.

“Sorry for your loss,” he told Bree gruffly as he stood in the doorway of the small supply room, arms crossed over his chest. “Obviously, I know whereof I speak, losing someone nearest to you.”

Cole glared at the man. Although they had him to thank for the means to discover and recover the ship, it was hard to feel grateful to him.

Sam plunged on, “Don't know if foul play has a part in this, but there's always something foul about the death of a healthy, vital, young person, especially one dearly loved. In a ways, someone's always to blame. I've known that for years, even if you're just finally learning it.”

“Stow it,” Cole demanded. “Have a heart, man.”

“I had one once, but got it shattered,” he said. When Cole made a motion to rise, Sam left them alone again.

“I don't suppose he's right about foul play,” Bree said in a monotone, the first time she'd spoken for an hour. “He was probably only trying to make his point about my screwing up Ted's life again. The evidence will probably point to her not handling the storm somehow and the boat going down in it.”

“With that storm, it will be hard to convince people of anything else, but I'm sure they'll do an investigation.”

“If they don't, I will. She was good with the boat—with swimming, too, you know.”

“Of course she was, but you need to concentrate on a funeral and getting your life back together.”

“But…without her, it may just seem like half a life. I need to call Amelia and Ben. Could you get my cell in my stuff?”

“Sure. Be right back.”

When he returned, a Naples Police officer was talking to her. Though he stood back, Cole overheard what they were telling her, especially the word he'd been afraid to say—
autopsy.

“I understand,” she was saying in a terrible monotone that didn't sound like her. But he remembered mourning, the out-of-body feeling of it where you moved and talked but weren't really there. With a sick-in-the-gut feeling, he pictured again his mother's body, drowned, though she hadn't been in the water as long as Daria was. He and his dad had put their arms around each other and sobbed.

“How long,” she was asking the officer, “before I can have her—have her back and we'll know the cause of death?”

“I can't tell for sure, Ms. Devon. It will be up to the coroner, but of course, as soon as possible.”

When the man moved away, Cole returned to sit beside her and handed her her cell. The moment she turned it on, it played “Under The Sea,” the bouncy tune from a Disney animated movie. For a second, he couldn't recall the movie's name or why he'd seen it. Oh, yeah, he remembered—
The Little Mermaid
. He'd taken a client's kids to see it when the parents had the flu a couple of years ago.

“Lots of missed calls,” she told him, swiping at tears on her cheeks. “Can word have spread that fast already? Amelia will hear it from someone else. I should have called her right away, because she's all I have now…but I want to go back down to Daria. I want to be with her when they bring her up.”

“Sweetheart, you can't. They'll take good care of her, bring her up in a body bag so no one can see. It's out of your hands now—”

“I know. I know.”

Suddenly, she exploded into sucking, gasping sobs and threw herself across his lap and clung to him. With his foot, Cole closed the storeroom door and, tears running down his face, held her hard to him.

That night, Bree swam from dark dream to dark dream. She and Ted stood together on the deck of the
Titanic
as it went down into icy waters—no, that was Daria beside her, going down, down under the sea…voices somewhere…Ben, Amelia. Had they drugged her? Was she back in the hospital. No, this was her own bed.

She dived again, swimming hard to get to the wreck of her life. The sign with the boat's name was still there, broken, distorted:
MA D I

Only one mermaid left now, just Bree alone. And she was mad. “I am mad,” she changed the sign to say, scribbling on Cole's slate. I am furious and I am crazed with anger and pain. She beat her fists on the glass of the wheelhouse to get Daria's attention. Wake up, wake up! Swimming around inside, she was swimming when she should have been steering the boat. Had the storm killed her? The iceberg? Or something else?

Daria turned to her and waved, mouthing the words,
Come on in. The water's fine….

Bree tried to pull the wheelhouse door open. Tried and tried, but Cole wouldn't help her, and Daria shook her head and tried to hold it shut.

“No, I have to go to her!” she screamed at Cole. “I have to find her, find out what happened!” Someone shrieked those words so close that it woke Bree up.

It was her own voice. Thank God, just a dream! But waking reality was just as bad.

She sat up amid the sheets she'd churned to huge waves around her. The bedside digital clock read 3:00 a.m. and her bedroom door was ajar. Lights came on in the hall, and Amelia rushed in, wearing silk pajamas. She had huge half circles of black mascara under her eyes.

“I'm here, I'm here,” Amelia said, sitting on the bed and reaching out to hug Bree. For one moment, Bree just stared at her.

That's right, Amelia and Ben were here, though Bree had hated to see Cole leave.

“You—are you sleeping in her bed?” Bree stammered.

“No, of course not. On the sofa. Ben said not to touch anything of hers.”

Maybe he thought something was strange about Daria's death—or else he was just being himself, a trained criminal lawyer who was now a prosecuting attorney. Amelia kept saying over and over, “Bree, I'm so sorry—so, so sorry! So, so sorry…”

So Bree pulled Amelia into her arms and comforted her.

M
anny was furious that the police refused to start looking for Lucinda for at least forty-eight hours. They'd said she was just another teenage girl who'd left a note she was running away, and they saw that “all the time.” Not with my daughter, Manny had insisted, but he knew this was all Lucinda's fault.

Still, all afternoon, and again when the high school let out, he drove the streets of Immokalee, looking for her. He stared at clumps of kids as they walked home, boarded buses or hung around. Lots of
chicas
resembled his youngest daughter—but none were. Didn't Lucinda know that human trafficking was a growing problem in South Florida? Sure, most of the girls abducted and forced into prostitution were from Guatemala, but it could happen if she was found wandering the streets. She looked as Hispanic as those poor women who were either sold by impoverished families or just plain abducted. Didn't Lucinda know she could ruin her life, much worse than she was ruining his?

When he'd gotten home, he'd learned Juanita had called Lucinda's Latina friends. They weren't sure who her Anglo friends were. Like poor Bree, he was out looking for a lost girl, when the news he'd been expecting and fearing came over his car radio.

“Boat debris and the body of missing Turtle Bay resident, Daria Devon, has been discovered underwater in Big Marco Pass. Although the coast guard and civil air patrol have been searching for her since she disappeared during the storm on Tuesday, the discovery was made by her identical twin sister and business partner, Briana Devon. Authorities, including the county coroner, are now on the scene. Daria and Briana Devon owned and operated the Two Mermaids Search and Salvage Shop, and are sisters-in-law of Ben Westcott, Collier County prosecuting attorney. Daria Devon and her sister were currently overseeing the Save Our Sea Grass project for the Clear the Gulf Commission and…”

Manny pulled into the parking lot of Our Lady of Guadalupe Church and, gripping the steering wheel, pressed his forehead to his hands. They—
Bree
—had found the body. Now came worse suspicions and, maybe, accusations. He could only hope it would be ruled an accident to avoid all that.

Despite his trials, Manny hadn't cried for years—not
macho.
But now, tears ran down his wrists; some plopped onto the knees of his jeans. Too much…too many things out of his control. He owed it to Bree to be with her, to help comfort her, even though she'd gone starry-eyed over Cole DeRoca. And she had her other sister and her big-man husband to call if she needed them.
Caramba,
if there was any hint of someone hurting Daria…

“An autopsy will be performed,” the radio voice went on, “to discover the cause of death and rule out any possibility of foul play.”

Foul play—foul play! Play
was a
stupido
word for such a horrible thing.

Manny jumped when his cell phone rang. He swiped away tears with his sleeve and reached for it on the passenger seat. It would be his wife on the line, probably to tell the bad news about Daria—or, God forbid, something about Lucinda.

“Que pasa?”

“It's Lucinda,” Juanita said in her quick Spanish. “She came home because she heard Daria is dead. Did you hear?”

“
Sí. Muy malo!
At least something good can come of that if the news brings Lucinda home. Give her the phone.”

“She says she's sorry. She went right into your mama and told her she is very sorry. She's been with friends—her Anglo girlfriends, no boys, she says.”

“I'm coming right home, then I have to go see Bree, help if I can, after…”

“After what?”

“I'll be right there. And that
chica
better be waiting,” he muttered and punched off.

On the short drive home, he berated himself. He'd caused Daria's death, and Bree knew it. If he'd just been there, she'd said. But in a way, it was his defiant daughter and his beloved mother who had caused it. Too much pressure on him. He needed control of his family and he needed money.
Es necesario!
And half of the salvage business was now his. He'd done what he had to do.

Fists clenched, blood pounding, he banged into the house, furious with himself, his daughter and the world. Juanita met him at the door, holding up both hands to halt his steps.

“Get her out here,” he ordered, walking past Juanita, then turning back to face her in the small, cluttered kitchen. He lowered his voice. “My sick mother does not need to hear this. Lucinda's not hiding behind her or you. I said, get her out here.”

“I said she's very sorry. She learned her lesson,” Juanita pleaded. “Don't let your temper get the best of you, because it can be the worst of you.”

By the next afternoon, Bree had sobbed herself sick, then gone stoic. When their pastor dropped by, she had asked him if they could use the little Turtle Bay Community Church for the funeral. The twins loved the church, with its seaside ambience. When they stood up to sing a hymn, they could see the bay and God's great sea beyond, and the congregation was so Deep South friendly. But Pastor Wallace had been right to suggest that, weather willing, they hold the funeral in the back of the church on the lawn, overlooking the bay. “The family of the bereaved,” as he put it, had many friends, and with the publicity, a lot of strangers might also come to pay their condolences.

Would someone who wished her or Daria ill because of their report about the toxic gulf water be among those strangers? Bree had wondered silently. Surely, not among those who knew her.

Bree had put in a few frantic hours. She had met with her and Daria's lawyer about Daria's will. Because of the sometimes dangerous work they did, they both had wills with each other as the beneficiary. If they were both deceased, there were bequests left for Amelia's sons. They'd used the only lawyer in Turtle Bay because they feared Ben would try to control everything. At Daria's suggestion, they had recently added a codicil that, should one of them die or leave the business, Manny would become a full partner.

After her visit to the lawyer, Bree, Amelia and Ben picked out a coffin and arranged for a funeral home and the burial of Daria next to their parents, though Amelia kept protesting that she should have her own grave site, even if it was in the same cemetery. The grave site their father had bought when Mother died had a third plot next to her grave, although they weren't sure why. “Maybe the deal was for three plots, so your dad just bought the extra,” Ben had said.

All this, and they still didn't have the body released for burial—nor did they have answers, Bree thought. She promised to drive to Ben and Amelia's to have dinner with them and see the boys later, but as soon as they were gone, Cole came over.

“No word on when we'll hear,” she blurted when she saw him at the door. They hugged in greeting, and he kissed her cheek. He looked exhausted.

“I probably taste as salty as the gulf from crying,” she told him.

“Blood, sweat and tears.”

“Something like that.”

“How are you holding up?”

Arm in arm, like old friends or contented lovers, they walked toward the sofa. “Cole, I'm just praying the coroner and police come up with a foolproof ruling of accidental death. I—I can't believe it could be anything else.” She sat next to him, turning toward him with one leg bent, and hugged a throw pillow to her chest to keep from crawling into his lap as she had on Sam's barge.

“Surely not,” he said, covering one hand with his. “Have you been through her things?”

“Ben said not to, in case it does become a criminal investigation. He—it's just that he's trained to think that way. He's seen too many bad situations. I can't be wrong in thinking that this is just a horrible, freak tragedy. I know I was wrong in thinking she was alive all this time when she obviously wasn't, but it's just that I couldn't bear to accept she could be lost—dead.”

“I suppose when you've been so close to someone, it's hard to admit that as adults, your connection might not be quite as strong.”

She frowned at him. “We may have liked some different things and had some different friends, but we knew all that about each other. It has to be an accident, for heaven's sake! People don't just stroll up and surprise you miles out in the gulf. I still can't recall hearing a boat motor. I didn't even hear her start our boat's motor, and I'm very familiar with its sound, even underwater.”

The street doorbell rang, and Bree jumped up as if it had been a fire alarm. “Maybe one of our friends,” she said, starting for the stairs. “They've dropped off enough food to feed an army, but Amelia still insists on cooking tonight. If it's another reporter, I'm not opening the door.”

She heard Cole come down the steps behind her. It was strange—she'd only known him for three days, but she trusted him completely, just as she did Manny, Amelia and Ben. She crossed the office, running her hand along Daria's desk, and glanced out through the locked door. A good-looking middle-aged couple stood there with serious, almost pained looks on their faces.

“You know them?” Cole asked behind her.

“No.”

“I can tell them you're not seeing anyone.”

“Since I'm seeing them and vice versa right now, I'll just ask them what they want.” She unlocked and opened the door. “May I help you?”

The woman spoke. “We're Vivian and Frank Holliman, friends of Daria's from her accounting class.”

“Oh.”

“Of course, the entire class and instructor send their deepest sympathies, and we are so very sorry for your terrible loss. But we're here to speak with you about something that can't wait. Perhaps Daria didn't mention our names to you, but of course, she told you about her plans to be a spokesperson for Shells Eternal.”

“No. What is Shells Eternal?”

“Oh, dear,” Vivian Holliman said with a roll of her blue eyes. “You see, she made plans for her own burial at sea.”

Cole couldn't believe Bree asked the couple upstairs or was listening to them with rapt attention as the Hollimans sat on the sofa and Cole and Bree took the wicker rockers. Bree had hers tipped forward, almost upright. When they'd announced the reason for their visit, Bree had looked completely stunned. She must have thought at first that they meant Daria had planned her funeral ahead, then committed suicide. Now she looked as if she was seething but keeping the lid on her temper. The whole damn thing smelled like a con game to him.

The Hollimans had explained that they represented a business that sank large, sculpted, concrete seashells onto the sandy floor of the gulf. In carefully constructed niches, the shells sheltered the cremated ashes of people. Accompanying plaques served as headstones.

Cole studied them as they did the fast talking. Viv, as she asked to be called, had pure white hair but a young face and a great body for her age; Frank was bald and was the better dresser of the two, including his expensive wristwatch and diamond-and-onyx ring. Bree had started out by demanding how well they knew Daria before they segued smoothly into a well-honed sales pitch.

“We really are an ecology-conscious business, and that appealed to Daria,” Frank went on. “As her business partner and a fellow diver, I'm sure it does you, too. And the fact that Daria loved the sea, made promotion for Shells Eternal a perfect match for her. She agreed to be our spokesperson in exchange for a fee and a gratis eternal shells resting place when she passed on.”

“Of course,” Viv went on as if they were a tag team, “we—and she—didn't expect that she would actually have the need for that for decades. But the point is, she was extremely taken by a photo we showed her of one of our beautiful shells—”

“Offshore at Tampa,” Frank put in, “though the next one will be near Naples.”

“Our goal is for the shells to be covered with algae, barnacles, soft coral and small sponges, except for the bronze plaques with names and dates of the deceased. Of course, being a diver yourself, you could easily visit the site. A person who loved the water, the gulf, that much should surely have her cremains rest there, even though she can't be our spokesperson now. Actually, we were hoping
you
might consider our offer now—in honor of Daria's wishes.”

“Her cremains?” Cole said when Bree just stared at them.

“Cremated remains,” Viv explained. “Our ads urge our ecologically minded customers to think outside the box, and Daria did that. I'm so sorry she didn't mention to you that she was interested in a partnership with us.”

Cole could almost read Bree's expression. She'd been struggling to smother her emotions since her hysteria in his arms on Travers's barge, but her eyes widened and she looked as if she'd throttle these two. Somehow she managed to unclench her fists and grip her hands together as if in prayer.

“Daria didn't mention it,” she told the Hollimans, “but I assure you, your offer is so…unusual that she surely would have told me about it. We lived together, we shared our business and—”