Below the Surface (21 page)

“That is,” he went on, “if you're not tied in real tight with DeRoca. I don't mean to be pushy or poach on someone else's territory.”

“Thanks for the offer,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal. She wanted to get away or she was going to lose it again. She looked up at the sign he'd repainted. “It's strange to see a diver up a ladder,” she said.

“Jack-of-all-trades, master of none,” he said, with a shrug and a smile that made him seem self-deprecating and almost charming. Except, she reminded herself, his trades might include B and E and attacking women with a wrench, if not worse.

“Thanks again for your kind words,” she said, “but I need to have a few unkind words with Sam right now. Good luck on your demo dives in Sarasota.”

As she started away, Manny whispered, “Oh, you thinking he might be the one broke in—and almost broke your bones at the Gator Watering Hole.”

She didn't have time to answer as he opened Sam's front door for her and they stepped inside.

“I can't believe you're home right now, the busy man of power lunches,” Amelia told Ben. She'd heard the garage door go up, and had been surprised to see his car turning into the driveway. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Actually, I came home to be sure you were.”

“I'm holding my own. Can I fix you something for lunch?”

“Sure. How about just plain old
PB
and
J,
like we used to live on while I was finishing law school?”

“It used to be necessity food, now I guess it's comfort food.” She started getting things out on the counter.

“Actually, I need to tell you a couple of things,” he said, getting two diet sodas from the refrigerator. “First of all, the fingerprint tech said only Bree and Daria's prints are in the bedroom.”

She stopped unscrewing the top to the peanut butter jar and stared straight ahead at the cupboard, as if she could read something in the wood grain there. “Strange, isn't it,” she whispered, “that Daria can be gone and her prints remain? There are so many places she touched…Sorry, I didn't mean to sound like some sappy greeting card. What else did you come all the way home to tell me?”

“There's more that turned up on the autopsy,” he said, popping the tab on a soda, a sound like an exclamation point. “There was some mystery man in Daria's life. She was pregnant.”

Amelia sucked in a sob. For one moment she had thought he was going to tell her that the report stated that someone pushed Daria shortly before she died or that they could tell who had pushed her into the steering wheel on her boat, but that was ridiculous. That was her guilt talking again. Pregnant! In a way, that meant there were two deaths, one of a niece or nephew she would never know. She fought to steady herself because she thought she might throw up right here in the sink.

“So Bree has no idea—who?” she asked.

“No, and I believe her. But she's on a crusade because she thinks whoever fathered the child might have harmed Daria.”

Amelia gripped the counter. From behind, Ben put his hands on her waist. As if the kids were home and he didn't want them to hear, he whispered, “I got you an appointment late this afternoon with a good doctor, a kind of a family counselor.”

“A psychiatrist, a shrink,” she countered, not moving, feeling frozen where she stood. “How nice a doctor can see me at the snap of your fingers.”

“Honey, I asked him as a special favor to work you in. The appointment's kind of late in the day, but I can take you there the first time. He'll be someone to talk to confidentially, like talking to a lawyer.”

She nodded stiffly and tried to process all he had told her. Bree might have been right that someone wanted to silence Daria, someone besides her own, older sister, who'd wanted to shut her up for the cruel things she had said. A man now had a motive for wanting to get rid of Daria. But after all, Daria's death was by drowning.

“You're taking this much better than I expected,” Ben said, sounding wary. “Much better than Bree did.”

Amelia nodded. It was best if Ben thought she was doing better, and best if the psychiatrist thought so, too. She had no intention of telling anyone she'd gotten Ben's pistol out of his desk drawer in the den this morning and just stared long and hard at it, until she'd realized it was almost noon and heard the garage door. Or that she'd been desperate enough to rent a boat she hardly knew how to steer and go out to continue her argument with Daria, who had said she would not be diving with Bree that day the storm came up.

For Bree, being inside Sam's shop was always like stepping into a time warp. He'd kept the front office the way it was when she and Ted had been dating. They'd both worked here as kids, and, after his mother's desertion and his parents' divorce, Ted had lived here with Sam for a while, over the store. As far as Bree could tell, their private rooms—Sam lived somewhere else now—were still accessed by the same outside stairs she and Ted had sneaked up more than once.

But there were a few different things now. A new guy worked here, manning the phone and computer, one of Sam's concessions to modern technology, like his echo sounder and GPS systems on his boats. And a large poster—actually, just of a saying of some sort—hung behind the front counter. It read,

“Can I help you, Ms. Devon?” the guy behind the desk asked. She didn't recognize him, but everyone knew her face—or Daria's—lately. Before Bree could answer, Sam came in from the back room. Without another word, the man cleared the way for him.

“Like that sentiment?” Sam asked, jerking a thumb at the poster. “It means one little thing can ruin eternity for someone.”

“I get the point.”

Bree remembered Manny telling her that Sam's other diver, Lance, had said Sam had a shrine to Ted's memory in the attic here. Obviously, this poster, like everything in Sam's life, was tied to the loss of his son. Though she hadn't intended to start with him this way, she asked, “How easy was it for you to tell Daria and me apart, Sam?”

“What's that have to do with anything? Her smile was a little more lopsided, and she was jumpier than you, least till lately. As for looks, hard to tell. But I know she wouldn't have dumped my son the way you did.”

She ignored the jab. Then it was possible Sam could have come after her on the water that day and hurt Daria by mistake. Or he'd sent Ric, who couldn't tell them apart. Would the slow engine on a barge register underwater?

“Then let's just pretend,” Bree plunged on, “I'm here to speak for myself and for Daria. We turned down your offer of a buyout before, and I'm turning it down for both of us again. Manny's my new partner and he agrees.”

Sam didn't even glance Manny's way as his gaze burned into Bree's. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, though the frown that sliced between his narrowed eyes showed he was hardly shrugging this off. Her eyes widened when she saw Sam had a wrench in his pocket, protruding as if it were a silent threat. Thank God, she'd brought Manny with her, because when Ric came in the front door with his paint can, she felt surrounded.

“That's all I came to say,” she told Sam.

“Far's I'm concerned, that's all there is to say,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “I made that offer in good faith to help you out and get you outta the area where I don't have to hear, see, or think about you. Get on outta my shop then, 'cause you're trespassing and always were.”

Bree spun and strode out, vowing silently that she'd be back when Sam, Ric and Lance were gone. Maybe there would be something she could use against him in that upstairs shrine, where he worshipped the memory of Saint Ted.

B
ree stormed back to her office with Manny in her wake, only to find Nikki Austin getting out of a large, dark car in front of the shop. She was alone.

“Bree, I just wanted to see how you're doing,” she said, and surprised her with a sincere hug that wasn't just a touch and a jump back this time. “Josh and Mark are at a Rotary Club breakfast in town, so I took the car to pop over. The news coverage on your report is amazing!”

Especially amazing, Bree thought, with Josh giving interviews about it right and left. She said only, “I ought to be running for office. Everyone seems to know my face and name. Can you come in?”

“Actually, I was wondering—Josh, too—if you'd like to leave the media questions to the professionals and take us up on our offer to get away for a while.”

As Manny unlocked the front door and went in, Bree hesitated. Nikki's arrival was like a sign she should pursue a visit with them, wasn't it?

“That's so kind, but I know you're both busy.”

“Josh has a full docket today and won't join us until this evening, but Mark's going to fly me across the state in about—” she dug her cell phone out of her purse and glanced at the time on it “—an hour and a half. A change of scene might do you so much good.”

Bree knew this would upset Cole, but the opportunity was too ideal to pass up. She had to take risks, just as Cole was doing by hanging tight to Verdugo.

“I'd love to, especially if it's just for the day and night.”

“We'll be back here early afternoon tomorrow—for a rally at your and Josh's old high school, no less. Rah, rah, Austin for senator! Listen, Briana, you'll love sugarcane country, with its miles and miles of fields to get lost in. Believe me, there's something about the place that makes sorrows easier to bear.”

“Looking good,” Dom Verdugo's voice came from behind Cole. “That custom rosewood's gonna add a lot of class.”

Ever since Bree had called and they'd argued about her going across the state, Cole had been furiously working on installing the paneling. He was so preoccupied that he hadn't even heard footsteps. He'd been almost listening at keyholes earlier, so the fact he hadn't noticed Verdugo's approach upset him even more.

“Glad it suits you, and we're still on for this deal,” Cole replied without looking at him. “You seemed pretty teed off after the commission meeting yesterday. I didn't think you'd still be so optimistic that having a casino boat in Turtle Bay is going to go your way.”

“I have a talent for working things out.”

Cole finished nailing the baseboard, then stood and faced Verdugo. “So did whoever installed that all-new turtle grass meadow.”

Verdugo's expression didn't change. “Meaning?”

“You realize some will point the finger at you.”

“Let them. Nothing will stick, not when there's a list long as my arm could have done it.”

Was that an admission of guilt? Cole wondered.

With a finger jabbing the air, Verdugo went on. “An entire coalition of store owners and builders are dying to develop this area, and this boat will bring in the tourists and dollars they need. No one can stop progress, not in South Florida. Besides, you think I'm the kind of guy who'd do something that blatant? Whose side you on, DeRoca?”

“I'm on Briana Devon's side, and she's distraught about her and her sister's work, not to mention the loss of her sister.”

“I can understand that, sympathize. But tragedies happen, ones no one can explain, and don't forget it.”

That sounded like a threat. Cole stared back at Verdugo, not letting his gaze waver.

“But, hey,” the older man said, producing some of his ever-present caramel popcorn as if from up his sleeve, “I came to tell you I sent out invitations to the local powers-that-be, including the Clear the Gulf Commission members and some political people, to take a cruise on this baby Friday evening. It'll be a shakedown cruise, so to speak—no gambling, of course, but eats, drinks, live music. I want to explain the
Fun 'n' Sun
's clean-water system, how all refuse is handled on board and unloaded later ashore.”

“So you'd like the paneling done by then.”

“Only if it doesn't push you. Actually, I'd like to invite you—bring Briana, too, if she's up to it. It'll be great PR for you, as well as me.”

“Which do you prefer doing, Mark?” Bree asked. “PR, piloting, or escorting the candidate and his wife?”

Mark Denton was flying Bree and Nikki across the state in a white, four-seat Cessna pontoon plane. Nikki said she had a speech to write and had put Bree in the copilot's seat to enjoy the view for the one-hour flight. After they left the Naples suburbs with its tentacles of new housing projects reaching outward, the Everglades swept under them, the water reflecting the sky. Shortly after they'd crossed Alligator Alley, they had flown over the Seminole Indian Reservation, then fields of vegetables and citrus, and were now heading northeast toward Lake Okeechobee and cane country.

“I took up flying fairly late,” Mark answered her question. “Media and public relations were my first love.”

As before, Bree thought that for a man in his position, he didn't seem glib or especially friendly. But his real talent might be in writing speeches and press releases.

“Family?” she asked.

“Married to my work for now.”

Though she made a point of staring out the windows ahead and beside her, Bree tried to study the man. His well-shaped head was covered with dark stubble; with his buzz cut, he reminded her of a marine. Slashes of brown eyebrows arched over brown eyes, now hidden by his aviator sunglasses, which reflected Bree whenever he looked her way. His nose was a bit crooked where it must have once been broken. Usually, he spoke without seeming to move his thin-lipped mouth. She had the feeling he didn't like her, but maybe he just thought the Austins should be sticking to business and not entertaining some bereaved friend.

Despite the drone of the engine, Bree knew that Nikki, sitting directly behind her, could hear what they said, for she occasionally chimed in. Now she leaned forward between their seats to say, “Mark's going to pilot the Austin machine clear to the White House someday.”

“Graduate to flying Air Force One?” Bree asked, trying to go along with the joke. But she remembered Josh had told her Nikki was ambitious, her hopes set on going to Washington with him and climbing the power ladder.

“I thought maybe press secretary,” Mark said, sounding entirely serious. “One who doesn't just parrot the party line but helps to make policy. What do you think, future First Lady?” he asked Nikki, and she playfully punched his shoulder. “Hey, that's Clewiston, America's Sweetest Town beyond, but this is the start of the Grann sugarcane fields,” he said, pointing as he began to take the plane lower. Descending through the blue, blue sky and skimming over the waving green plants reminded Bree of diving the depths of some lovely underwater spot—not, unfortunately, off the coast of Naples.

She had seen sugarcane before but had paid little attention to it. The plants were tall and green with woolly beige plumes, but that was all she recalled. Now, she was in awe. Field after field of cane, swaying in the breeze, stretched for miles through rich, black soil. Train tracks glittered in the sun, ones she knew must lead loaded rail cars to the sugar refineries.

“Are those big machines harvesters?” she asked about the metal monsters parked near a tin-roofed shed.

“That and cane choppers, and you want to stay way clear of those,” Mark said. “Most of the harvest starts in about two weeks, but some of it's ready now. Got to satisfy America's sweet tooth. Grand Sugar, which Nikki's father owns, is the third biggest sugar supplier in the nation after U.S. Sugar and Crystal. And beyond, on the horizon, Lake O,” he said, sounding conversational now, as if he was loosening up a bit. “It's so close to the Grann property that we just land on the water, taxi to their dock and take a Humvee waiting there.”

“I've never seen Okeechobee from the air,” Bree said, marveling at the stretch of blue water that ran through the Glades to the gulf. She wondered if people ever scuba dived in Okeechobee. “What does that name mean?” she asked.

“Seminole for big water.”

“Makes sense to me.”

It was also starting to make sense to her that the wealth of King Sugar, as she'd heard it called, had a very long reach in the state. Not only to satisfy America's sweet tooth, as Mark had mentioned, but, as Cole had said, to fill political coffers. And maybe even reach deep into the gulf to erase evidence that would help prove pollution from these cane fields played a part in poisoning gulf water.

Bree stared in awe when Nikki and Josh's home came into view at the end of a lane, lined with live oaks, about a mile from her father's plantation home, which they'd already passed.

“It's beautiful,” she told Nikki, who sat beside her in the backseat of the Humvee Mark drove. “Tara from
Gone With The Wind!
”

“Just don't be looking for Rhett Butler inside,” Nikki said with a laugh. “You know, I always hated that movie for its unhappy ending. That stupid woman loved the wrong man.”

“That's what I always thought about it,” Mark put in, “but then, despite the fact that it takes place right in the middle of the Civil War, it's really a woman's movie.”

Rolling her eyes at that, Nikki said, “Actually, I patterned this house, a wedding present from my father, after one Josh and I saw on our honeymoon in New Orleans. But to make it look right, I had to import live oaks and Spanish moss and get rid of a lot of palms and all those air plants that usually cling to trees around here.”

A sort of phony Tara, Bree thought. If she'd gone to all that trouble with tiny details, Nikki Austin, like Amelia, was a control freak of the first, and worst, order.

As they pulled up, Bree saw that the big-pillared porch was a sort of false facade, too, for the house wasn't as large as it looked. With a promise to show her around after she rested, Nikki escorted Bree up the sweeping central staircase to the guest suite and left her alone.

Bree put her small overnight bag on the padded bench at the foot of the big four-poster bed and stared out the window. The view, probably the same on all four sides, overlooked miles of densely planted, twelve-foot-tall sugarcane, which began just across the small lawn and narrow garden. In a way, it made her feel claustrophobic. The sugarcane had waves like the sea, but even from this height, she felt enclosed rather than enraptured.

On the oak table by the bay window awaited a silver tray with a pitcher of iced tea, surrounded by small cut-glass bowls with packets of Grand Sugar, lime and lemon slices and extra ice. On a flat crystal plate, with a yellow hibiscus bloom in the center, was an array of exotically hued hard candies. Ah, the lifestyles of the rich and famous, she thought, and wondered if the allure of any of this could have turned Daria's head while Josh flip-flopped her heart. But the money behind everything here was from Nikki's family, not Josh's. Even if he'd tried to leave his wife for Daria…no, she was being ridiculous.

But that secret teeth-whitening appointment. Nikki Austin had teeth that almost glistened. Did Daria feel the need to compete with her rival's beauty? What about those extra cosmetics in her drawer? Did Daria discover the only way she could win out over the stunning, wealthy, married Nikki was by having Josh's baby? And, if so, how was Bree ever going to get the truth of a secret liaison out of Josh?

To Bree's surprise, Nikki's father drove over in a golf cart to join them for a late lunch. He spoke again of her loss, asking if there was anything they could do to help ease her pain and grief.

“Nikki's been very kind and helpful—Josh, too,” she assured him.

Despite the fact it was delightfully cool with the air-conditioning inside the house, the three of them sat out on the warm, screened-in back veranda and were served cold raspberry soup and crab salad by a middle-aged, Haitian-born housekeeper-cook named Lindy who spoke with a French accent. The table was set with linen and silver; the centerpiece was a charming combination of blue plumbago blossoms floating in a dish that had hard candies in the bottom, which Bree thought at first were marbles.

As Cory Grann played host in Josh's absence, Bree could certainly understand how Marla Sherborne had become involved with him, even though he must have started out as enemy number one to her beliefs and political platform. The wealthy widower was not only conversational and handsome, he focused his complete attention on anyone he spoke to, whether it was the housekeeper, Bree or his daughter. But it didn't take Bree long to wonder if she'd been brought here for a purpose, just as she'd come for one.

“Big sugar's been blamed for years for everything that goes wrong in the Glades, and now we're also the major whipping boy for gulf pollution,” Cory Grann said, somehow working that into their conversation and looking intently at her.

“Which is ridiculous,” Nikki put in, “since the cane farmers no longer use heavy fertilizers and toxic pesticides. There's big cattle farming north of Lake O, and they seldom go after them.”