Bitter End (Seychelle Sullivan #3) (16 page)

I was going to point out that casinos were not exactly the old Indian way, but I decided that Josie was really talking about something else. I suspected she meant that Earl didn’t like white people. And who could blame him? He was her firstborn, and that would make him about seventy years old and the first in his line to be born on a reservation. Josie had been born in an Indian camp back when the last of the free Seminoles still considered the land theirs.

“We losin’ the old Indian way. Young people don’ wan learn. We lose the last canoe builder. Henry John Billie. He die last month. Nobody leff to make canoe.”

The young woman we had passed in the kitchen came out the back door and brought us a tray of iced glasses of limeade. I sipped mine slowly, as she’d been so heavy-handed with the sugar that I’d nearly gagged on my first big gulp.

“My children Ada Mae and Earl, they hold hate here.” She hit her chest with her fist. “Don’t let go.”

Gramma Josie swung her head around and faced me. Her head continued to swivel just slightly from side to side as her cloudy eyes tried to make out my shape. She hummed softly to herself. I imagined her massive ears were working a little like radar.

“I’m here,” I said.

“Yeah, you are here. Mean you and Molly talk again?”

I was shocked that this old Indian woman would know about my relationship with her granddaughter. This was her world out here in the Everglades. How could she possibly understand life back in Lauderdale? “We’re starting to,” I said.

“What?” She cupped her hand behind one of her ears.

“Yeah, we’re starting to talk again,” I said, louder this time.

“Good. You learn—let go.” She nodded and rolled her lips over her teeth a few times. “Seychelle, you a smart girl. When I was lil’ girl, I have white girlfriend like you. Good friend.”

“Fort Lauderdale must have been so different when you were a little girl,” I said.

She laughed and patted Zale’s hand again. He was watching her face intently, as though trying to memorize it. The boy knew death now. He knew that he and his loved ones were not immortal.

“Oh yeah. When my family go trade, I go Miz Stranahan’s house. My friend teach me English. We stay friend. So many years.”

“You stayed in contact with this white woman?” I said. I saw her lean her head in to me, so I repeated, “You stayed friends as adults, too?”

She nodded vigorously. “Yeah. When I go Lauderdale, I see my friend. We talk. Not like Molly and you.”

 
“Well, there were reasons for that, Gramma. Reasons you probably don’t know anything about.”

“No good reason to end friend.” She turned to Zale. “Molly smart girl send you here. You need sun, sky, canoe on lake. Go hunt pig. No tink about father, mother.”
 

“Thanks, Gramma. But you know, it’s hard to stop thinking about everything that’s happened.”

It was also hard for the boy to shout his feelings on that subject. His voice was fading.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, nodding, not needing to hear it all to know what Zale was feeling. “Seychelle know. I care for you like I care for your mudder.”

“That’s what I told him,” I said. “He’s really lucky to have a grandmother like you.”

“You have gramma,” she said.

“No, all my grandparents died before I was born,” I said, shaking my head.

“Seychelle, you talk when you need listen.”

“I don’t understand, Gramma Josie.”

She laughed again in that high-pitched cackle, and the laugh ended with a fit of coughing. I crossed over and sat next to her, patting her softly on the back. Zale and I exchanged worried looks as she seemed to struggle to breathe. I lifted the limeade glass next to her and she took a sip. After several long seconds of quiet, she said, “Seychelle. You go home now. Zale, he safe here.”

XIII

On the return trip to Lauderdale, I didn’t scan the canals for gators or admire the various herons and egrets nesting in the trees along the sides of the highway. I was driving on autopilot, staying in the slow lane and ignoring the impatient drivers who zoomed past me. I kept thinking about Earl Tigertail and the sense of menace I felt in the man. He didn’t like Zale or me, that was clear, but it was more than that. I sensed a deep well of suppressed rage in the man. Was it just us he hated, or was it all white people? And how far did that rage extend? Josie had mentioned that Zale could go hunting while he was out there. All the Seminole men hunted. Undoubtedly, old Earl was a pretty good shot.

My first stop back in town was at the Pontus Enterprises offices across the Seventeenth Street Bridge. The crowd of protesters was twice the size it had been two days before. I parked my Jeep at the far end of the parking lot as though I planned to visit one of the shops on the east side of the little shopping center. Strolling down the sidewalk, peering into windows, I made my way slowly toward the Pontus office. While I walked, I checked out the crowd. Most of them looked like well-turned-out housewives and their older children. Was it possible that someone in this crowd would have been angry enough about this development project to murder Nick? There were a couple of men in the crowd, but they looked like retirees in their pastel high-wader pants, and somehow couldn’t see either one of them perched on a bridge looking through a gun’s scope. Standing a little apart from the chanting masses was a middle-aged woman, her auburn hair cut in a neat pageboy. She was holding a clipboard and issuing commands like a general at the front. I stood on the perimeter of the group, looking for the strange older woman with the icy eyes I had seen before. I’d been scanning the crowd for no more than two minutes before Madame Generale was at my side.

“Hi,” she said. “Have you signed the petition?”

“Uh, no, see I’m really—”

“Are you a resident of the city of Fort Lauderdale?”
 

“Yes, but—”

“Well, as a resident, I’m sure you’ve seen the number of these awful towers that have been shooting up all aver town. Traffic is already unbearable, and we don’t have the infrastructure to support this growth. We’re all residents of the Harbor Isles circulating this petition to try to stop Pontus from building here. We want the city to seize the property under eminent domain.”

“You sound like an attorney,” I said.

“Ha!” she barked out, then said, “It’s even worse. I’m married to one.”

I didn’t really want to get involved with these protesters, but her quick smile and dimpled cheeks were irresistible. I stuck out my hand. “My name’s Seychelle Sullivan.”

“Kathleen Ginestra,” she said, sticking the pen in her mouth and her clipboard under her other arm. She then wiped her hand down the side of her jeans and finally took mine in a dry, firm grip.

“You know all these people?” I asked, indicating the crowd.

“Most of them.”

A woman carrying a sign that read build parks, not penthouses yelled, “Kathleen knows half of Fort Lauderdale!”

Kathleen turned her face aside, bunched up her features in a grimace, and then made a spitting sound. “I do not,” she said.

“Maybe you could help me if you know someone I saw here the other day. She was an older woman— elderly, really—wearing a white blouse, white hair all piled up on top of her head.” I motioned with my hands to show what I meant.

“You must mean Mrs. Wheeler. She comes around every once in a while to lend her support.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned in closer to me. Quietly, she said, “She’s quite the character, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, pausing to look around to see who was listening, “Mrs. Wheeler is pretty well known around the city and the port commission. She’s this really tenacious activist—been at it for about a hundred years. She fights all types of growth and development, and she’s been known to bring down some pretty powerful politicians in this town. Remember that business when the port commissioners bought themselves gold and diamond rings with public money? She blew the whistle on that.”

“Really? You seen her around here today?”

“As a matter of fact, she was here just before you walked up. I remember because she was saying something about next week’s commission meeting.” Kathleen was swiveling her head around as though counting her flock. “I don’t think she drives. Nope, I’m afraid she’s not here now, and I didn’t see which way she went.”
 

“Well, the name will help. You don’t know her first name?”

“Oh God, no. You know how it is. Some of these old broads would just die if you didn’t call them Mrs. Whatever. I’m sorry. I can’t help you with that.”

“The last name is more than I had. I don’t even really know why I want to talk to her. It was just something about the way she looked at me. She looked like she had something she wanted to tell me.” That wasn’t a very clear explanation, but it was the best I could give the woman. I wanted to thank her, so I stuck out my hand. “You want me to sign that?”

Kathleen’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Uh, sure!” She thrust the clipboard into my hands.

I’m not much of a political type, but I liked this woman, and if she could keep my town from becoming a concrete canyon, I was behind her 100 percent. After scrawling my name, I turned and headed for the doors to Pontus Enterprises. The look on Ms. Ginestra’s face as I entered the building was priceless.

The Pontus secretary, Roma, was at her station at the reception desk, and when she looked at me over the rims of her red glasses, I felt a little like a specimen pinned to a board.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to see Leon Quinn.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, not exactly. But—”

“I’m afraid Me. Quinn has appointments all day today.”
 

“And
I’m
afraid
you’re
going to have to figure out a way to get me in to see him.” I hated it when secretaries got pissy with me. Just because I was standing there wearing jeans, boat shoes, a baseball cap, and a T-shirt commemorating the 1999 Blues Fest at the Downtowner didn’t give her the right to treat me any differently than the women who walked in wearing polyester power suits and pumps.

She looked up at me and narrowed her eyes, trying to decide how to respond.

“Look,” I said, realizing that force was probably not the way to get past this bouncer. “I came in here the other day with Zale Pontus. My name is Seychelle Sullivan. You might remember me—I’m a friend of the family. I figure if you’ve worked for Nick for all these years, you must know Molly pretty well, and that’s what I want to see Mr. Quinn about.” Actually, I also wanted to find out about the status of my salvage claim, but I didn’t think that would get me in his door. “I assume you’ve heard she’s been arrested.”

She pressed her lips together in a thin line and sighed. I saw it in her face when she made the decision. Her eyes flicked to the clock on her desk and back to me. “Mr. Quinn has an appointment in twelve minutes.” She reached for the phone. “Let me see if he will see you.” She punched three numbers and swung away from me on her swivel chair so she could speak out of my earshot into the phone. I walked across the office and pretended to examine the model of the TropiTowers. A toy-sized version of the
TropiCruz IV
rested at the dock.

“Miss Sullivan,” Roma called. “Please follow me.” By the time I’d turned around, she had her back to me and was disappearing down the hallway. I hustled to catch up. As she opened her boss’s door, she said in a husky whisper “Ten minutes.”

Leon Quinn did not bother to get up from behind his desk, but he did point with a flourish to one of the chairs opposite him. He had a cloth napkin tucked into his collar, and a large Styrofoam container rested on his desk blotter. He mopped at his moustache before he spoke. “Miss Sullivan,” he said, the tightness evident in his voice. “How nice to see you again.”

I ducked my chin and said, “Mr. Quinn.”

“So, you’re here about Molly? It’s unbelievable.” He pulled the napkin free and wiped his fingers one by one. “What kind of idiot cops think she shot Nick? Huh?”

“I don’t know.”

“First, they can’t even enforce this restraining order and Nicky gets killed. Then they arrest Molly? Blakas!”
 

“I’m just worried that with Molly in jail, the cops will think it’s over. They won’t look for any other possibilities. I thought I’d nose around a little. See if I couldn’t find something to give to the cops to make them consider another suspect.”

“But it’s so obvious,” he said. He waved his arms as he talked. I knew the stereotype that Italians talk with their hands, but I was learning that Greeks did, too. “This was about the casino gambling boats. About money. And pride.
Perifania
, we say in Greek. Saving face. The last time Nick and Kagan met they called each other names, got into a shoving match. Nick filed a restraining order against Kagan.” Quinn made his hand into the shape of a gun and pulled the thumb trigger. “Pow. The Russians had him killed.”

“Why are you so sure it was them?”

He spread his hands wide. “Come on. A head shot like that? That was done by a pro. And the Russians? They’re the only guys I know with connections like that.”

“So you’re saying that Ari Kagan is connected to the Russian mafia.”

“Honey, after what just happened to Nicky? I’m not going on the record saying nothing.”

“But the cops will say that wives have been known to hire killers to knock off their husbands—and ex-husbands.”

“Yeah, but not Molly.”

“No,” I said, “you’re right, not Molly.” I leaned forward and put my elbows on the desk. “So what can we do to convince the police of that? Is there anything you can think of that would steer the investigation that way?”

“I already told that fat detective everything I know about Nicky.” He swiveled around in his big leather chair and looked at the framed photos on the shelf behind him. “We had such good times, me and Nicky.” He sighed. “I told that fat man all about Nick’s relationship with Kagan, how they fought, how they tried to steal from us. I told him that son of a bitch Kagan did it. He killed him. They just write in their little notebooks and let them get away with it.”