The House on Mermaid Point (5 page)

Avery pocketed her cell phone, climbed out of the Mini Cooper, and stood beside Deirdre in the parking lot of Bud N’ Mary’s Marina. The paved lot was dusty with a mixture of rock, shell, and sand. The breeze off the water was hot and heavy; the smell of fish mixed with salt air strong. The structures fronting and framing the docks were of various sizes, all of them utilitarian. There was high-and-dry boat storage on one end, open and covered boat slips, a store and a restaurant, and what looked like a marina/charter office. A grid of docks angled outward. Men sat around tables in the shade drinking beer, their attention split between the Lifetime camera crew, who stood on the nearest dock, and Deirdre and Avery, at whom their camera and boom microphone were aimed.

Tires crunched on shell and rock as Nicole Grant pulled into a parking spot beside them, the convertible top down on her bottle-green Jaguar. The Lifetime crew moved closer. The beer drinkers perked up.

Nicole emerged from the classic convertible like a movie star arriving on set. She wore what looked like a vintage halter sundress, most likely designer, and retro strappy sandals. She unwrapped a brightly patterned silk scarf from around her head and let it fall to her shoulders as she shook out her thick auburn hair.

She looked like an exotic bird plunked down in the middle of an asphalt jungle.

“The woman knows how to make an entrance.” Deirdre sighed and looked her daughter up and down. “I’m consoling myself with the fact that you wore underclothing this time.” This had not been the case when they’d arrived in South Beach last spring.

Network videographer Troy Matthews, whose broad shoulder held the video camera as if it were a toy, shook his shaggy blond hair and laughed. Avery speared Deirdre with a look. She hoped the microphone that Anthony, the teddy bear–shaped soundman, held over their heads wasn’t sensitive enough to pick up the comment.

“I came to renovate, not model resort wear,” Avery said, running a hand down her cutoff shorts. She used the other to mash at the wrinkles in her Life Is Good T-shirt.

“Humph.” Deirdre’s hair was decidedly windblown, but the wrinkles in her linen slacks and summer jacket just made them look more expensive.

“Anyone who can drive a convertible down the Overseas Highway on a day like today and not put the top down doesn’t deserve to be here,” Avery said. “And we’re not wrinkled from the fresh air and sunshine. We’re wrinkled from being crammed in by all your . . . stuff.”

After a brief scan of the docks, the camera crew, and the watching men, Nicole hugged Avery and Deirdre. Together, the three of them turned their backs on the camera and the men.

“Any idea why we’re in a marina?” Nicole asked quietly.

“Nope.” Avery shook her head. “Not a clue. Just the text that told us to turn in here.”

“Well, I hope we’re just stopping for a drink,” Nicole said, “and not an impromptu fishing trip.” Her nose wrinkled. “They can’t make us fish, can they?”

“Only if you forgot to add a ‘no fishing’ clause in your contract,” Avery said.

“Very funny,” Nicole said. They’d all been too desperate to negotiate much of anything. At least nothing favorable to them. “Fishing is a lot like watching paint dry. I don’t do it. Not even for Joe.”

“Well, then I guess we have to hope we’re just stopping for a potty break or the next set of directions because that sign over there says we’re in the Sportfishing Capital of the World,” Deirdre said.

There were shouts and the sound of boat engines and churning water. Some of the men left the shade and ambled out to the docks, where they waited as fishing boats began to disgorge sunburned tourists clutching coolers and fishing rods.

Pelicans and seagulls circled overhead with sharp-eyed anticipation while the guides, whose steps were far springier than their clients’, began to clean and fillet their customers’ catches. The remains, presumably inedible, were tossed into the water for whatever hovered below or swooped down from above. An occasional morsel was tossed to the pelicans that had commandeered the surrounding pilings.

As they watched, really big fish that had apparently not gotten away were hung from hooks under different charter captains’ signs. Photos of the slain and the slayer were snapped.

“It seems unfair to photograph them when they’re dead like that,” Nicole said.

“Yeah, well, I hear it’s a lot harder to get them to hang still when they’re alive,” Avery said drily. “I know I wouldn’t.”

The gulls cawed insistently as they swooped and dove. The line for beers grew.

A horn tapped behind them and they turned to see Madeline Singer’s minivan. Kyra was at the wheel while Maddie held down the passenger seat. Dustin sat in his car seat in the back. “What are we doing here?” Kyra called out the window.

“No idea, but there’s a parking spot over there.” Avery pointed toward the covered storage. “I guess now that we’re all here someone will tell us . . . something.”

With a frown for the camera crew, Kyra zipped the minivan into the spot and lifted Dustin out of his car seat. Maddie took his hand while Kyra drew her video camera out of its case and slung it over her shoulder. Troy’s camera and Anthony’s microphone were already aimed down toward Dustin. The little boy smiled and gave Troy a high five with his free hand. Kyra gave the crew a curt nod. There was a small hugfest with Nicole, whom they hadn’t seen since Christmas at Bella Flora.

“Wow, look at all the boats,” Maddie said, scooping Dustin up into her arms. “And the birds. Oh, my gosh! Look at the size of those fish, Dustin. Some of them are as big as you.” She carried him onto the closest dock and pointed at the hanging trophies. The network camera and microphone followed.

“Ish!” Dustin cried, leaning and reaching out toward the water beneath the docks.

Maddie held tight but peered into the water. “He’s right. Oh, my gosh.” She peered closer. “What kind of fish are those?” she asked the man, whose hands never stopped moving as he cleaned and wrapped fish.

“Those are tarpon. If you look close you can see a whole school of them down there.

“You see that round head over there?” the man asked with a nod. His fingers and the knife they clutched were still flying. “Right next to that skiff.” He nodded toward a small open boat tied up nearby. “That’s a green turtle.”

They watched in silence for a while as the crowd began to disperse. Deckhands swabbed down boats; garbage was hauled off. Some of the men headed to the bar, where they stood around, presumably swapping fish stories.

Kyra shot the activity, the men, the birds, the fish. Troy shot Dustin and them, in that order.

“Good God, that’s enough,” Kyra said, taking Dustin from Maddie and angling him away from the network camera.

“Not nearly. Not according to my boss,” Troy replied. “In fact, I have a daily Dustin Deranian quota to maintain and at the moment I’ve only got about three hours before his bedtime.”

Kyra closed her eyes briefly, shook her head. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“We did. But Lisa Hogan didn’t sign on to it. Believe me, if I’m off this shoot for failing to deliver enough footage, they’ll send somebody else who’ll be all over Dustin and won’t care how any of you look.”

“Unlike you.”

His tone cooled, matching hers. “Unlike me.”

The women formed a loose ring around Kyra and Dustin as people brushed by and the parking lot emptied. An open boat with a console and steering wheel in the center glided into the marina and eased into a vacant boat slip. A wiry man with a deeply tanned face and a long-limbed stride jumped out and tied up the boat then headed toward them. He wore mirrored wraparound sunglasses held on by a cord, like 99.9 percent of the beer drinkers and fishermen to whom he waved. His nose was slathered with zinc oxide. When he removed his cap and nodded his head in greeting, Avery saw it was shaved and shiny and almost as tanned as his face.

“I’m Hudson Power,” he said with an easy smile. “I’m here to pick you up.”

“Pick us up?” Nicole asked.

“Yes,” he said. “If you get your things I’ll load them on the boat.”

If Avery’s mind had wandered briefly, it was back now. “We’re supposed to put all of our things on that boat?” She looked at the open skiff he’d tied up to the dock. It looked to be about twenty to twenty-two feet long.

“Mm-hm. Well, except for your cars.” A dimple creased his cheek. “You’ll have to leave them here.”

Troy and Anthony smirked, but she noticed they didn’t look surprised.

“But where are we going? And why can’t we just drive there?” Maddie asked.

Hudson pointed out over the docks, past the boats tied up to them, and across a slice of sparkling blue ocean.

“I’m taking you over there.” He waited patiently for their eyes to focus on the roundish piece of land. It was covered with mangroves and stands of tall, skinny palm trees and it sat in the Atlantic Ocean. Unattached to anything. “And you can’t drive there because it’s . . . well, it’s . . .”

“An island,” Kyra said quietly. “And, God, I hope it doesn’t belong to Tonja Kay.” She frowned at Troy, who was in the process of panning from the island to them.

For once the close-up wasn’t of Dustin. He panned the camera across all of their faces, lingering a bit on each of their stunned, slack-jawed expressions. “We’re going to an island?” Avery asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Although we refer to them as keys down here.”

There was silence as they all processed this.

“And we’re going there to . . . stay?” Deirdre asked. Avery had never heard her mother sound so tentative.

“So that’s where we’re doing the renovation? On that island?” Avery went up on her tiptoes but she still didn’t see anything but mangroves, palm trees, overgrowth, and sand. Only the barest hint of what might be a roof showed through the scrim.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hudson said again. Avery couldn’t tell if he always spoke so slowly or was simply worried about their comprehension level. “Do you need help with your things?”

Avery snorted. “I’m not even sure there’s enough room on that whole island for all of Deirdre’s stuff.”

“Well, we’ll take everything that fits,” he said. “And we’ll put the rest on the film crew’s boat. The water’s smooth as glass at the moment and we’re not going far.”

“How will we leave? I mean, how do we get off the island when we want to?” Nicole asked.

“Well, you can always swim. But it’s a little far for that.” Hudson rubbed his chin, considering. “Someone could come pick you up. Or you might be able to borrow a skiff or a dinghy.”

The beer drinkers had fallen silent. Now they edged closer. A good number of them appeared to be fighting smiles.

But then, they didn’t have to worry about getting materials and workmen on and off the island on a daily basis. Assuming Avery could even find people who wanted to work in the Sportfishing Capital of the World.

“The island used to be called Tea Table, because of the shape and all. It’s got a really interesting history to it. But Will . . . the owner renamed it Mermaid Point when he bought it back in the early eighties.”

All of them went still as they stared at Hudson.

“Who did you say the owner was?” Avery asked as casually as she could manage.

Hudson looked at Troy and Anthony. Troy gave a small shake of his head.

“Sorry,” Hudson said on a wince. “I forgot I’m not supposed to say.” He gave the beer-drinking eavesdroppers a warning look.

Avery turned to the beer drinkers. They were grown men. Many of them were tattooed with pictures of fish, or possibly their mothers. But they looked down into their beers as if there was something urgent to be seen there.

Kyra lowered her camera to glare at Troy.

“Seriously?” Nicole asked. “Not one of you is willing to tell us who lives on that island?”

There were shrugs. Large boat-shoe-covered feet shuffled.

“Good God,” Avery said. “I really can’t believe this.”

“They could have at least given us fair warning,” Nicole added.

“Sorry, ladies,” Troy said, his tone making it clear he wasn’t. “But we wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, now would we?”

Maddie felt a little bit like George Washington crossing the Delaware sitting in the bow of the boat. Except for all the luggage piled around them. And the motor. And the life-vest-jacketed grandchild in her lap.

She only hoped they weren’t headed to war.

Dustin’s dark curls blew in the breeze. The sky’s blue paled in comparison to the turquoise water. Pulled cotton clouds hovered high above them. He laughed happily. The network camera crew paced them in a small boat, which Anthony drove so that Troy could shoot. His camera moved occasionally but it always came back to Daniel Deranian’s golden child. Kyra had her video camera on her shoulder and was shooting the receding marina, the birds wheeling in the sky, the approaching mangrove-shrouded island, Captain Hudson Power at the wheel, along with everyone’s reactions. Maddie could see the wariness in all of their faces as they waited to see the house they’d be working on and the person or persons who owned it.

Avery looked decidedly pained as the marina faded behind them into the distance. “I can’t believe we’re going to be working on an island.”

“It definitely presents a few unexpected logistical challenges,” Deirdre said.

“No shit,” Avery said. “I thought the worst part was going to be finding workmen and materials. It never occurred to me I was going to have to worry about how to get them on and off the work site.”

“Well, people must be used to that here. You’re probably not even allowed to live here if you don’t own a boat,” Maddie pointed out. “I think it’s kind of cool. Maybe they just drive their boats over and park . . . I mean, dock.”

“Yeah, unless they’ve all hung out their Gone Fishin’ signs,” Avery said.

“I can’t wait to see whose island it is,” Nicole said. “You have to have money to own an entire island. I kind of wish I hadn’t turned down Joe’s offer of a list of possible candidates. Maybe the owner is lonely and single and just waiting for me to find him a spouse.”

“Maybe the owner is antisocial and hiding from the spouse he already has,” Deirdre said. “You don’t usually decide to live on an island if you don’t like to be alone.”

The network camera tilted up to what Maddie assumed was her face. Her newly layered hair whipped around, stinging her cheeks, a feeling she liked but which would undoubtedly leave her looking like Medusa. Nicole had her scarf, Avery’s hair was short, and Deirdre’s wouldn’t dare budge even out on the water. Kyra’s long dark hair was twisted in a knot at the back of her neck and she was doing everything she could to block Troy’s shots of Dustin. Maddie sighed. She wasn’t sure how big the island was. She only hoped it would be big enough for the both of them.

As seen from the marina, the northern side of the island was bordered by an almost impenetrable wall of mangroves and what Maddie thought were sea grape trees—at least, they had the same broad round leaves that she remembered from Bella Flora. Rounding the island, a line of tall, skinny palms arrowed toward a half-moon of white sand beach bisected by a sphere-shaped tidal pool where seagulls and other small birds chased after food on matchstick legs.

Slightly inland and surrounded by a jungle-worthy profusion of tropical foliage, a large two-story house had been built square on to the Atlantic. Its silvered wood walls supported a metal pyramid-shaped roof. A large covered deck ran the width of the first floor and supported a narrower, shorter deck on the second. The entire back of the house appeared to be composed of sliding glass doors that reflected the late afternoon sun.

Between the house and a long rectangular swimming pool sat a large square pavilion with wooden piers that supported a smaller pyramid-shaped metal roof. The interior of the pavilion was cast in shadow and open to the trade winds. There was no movement except that stirred by the breeze.

“Oh, my gosh, I feel like we’re about to be guests on Fantasy Island!” Maddie said.

“Right. All we need is Tattoo to ring the bell to announce our arrival.”

“I watched that show in reruns for years,” Avery said. “But this island looks uninhabited. Maybe Mr. Roarke is indisposed.”

“I’m pretty sure Mr. Roarke is dead,” Deirdre replied.

“And buried in a casket lined with fine Corinthian leather.” Nicole went for a Ricardo Montalbán accent.

Hudson pretended not to listen, but his lips twitched slightly. In the boat beside them Troy’s fingers moved on the camera lens and he panned from them to the island. They continued to joke about who or what might live on this island, but Maddie prickled with unease as they searched the small landmass for signs of life.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Avery said. “What if there is no homeowner? What if it’s just a ruse to strand us on a deserted island for some kind of
Survivor
thing? I wouldn’t put it past Lisa Hogan to force us to swim through shark-infested waters to escape.”

“Shark infested?” Maddie looked to Hudson.

“Well, it
is
the Atlantic Ocean,” he said almost apologetically. “But most species don’t mess with you if you don’t mess with them.”

“That’s
so
reassuring,” Nicole snapped.

“The barracuda now, well, that’s a different story,” he said with a straight face.

“You can vote me off first,” Nicole offered. “I’ll wait for the rest of you at the Cheeca Lodge. Or the Moorings Village. I think those are the closest five-star accommodations.”

They passed two Adirondack chairs planted on the sand and a hammock stretched between two palm trees on the southeastern edge of the island. There was a stretch of retaining wall, then the beach disappeared again, swallowed by massive mangroves that blotted out whatever lay behind them.

“Some pruning wouldn’t hurt,” Deirdre observed as they passed.

“Unlikely,” Hudson said.

“So no one ever trims a mangrove?” Nicole asked.

“Not when anybody’s looking,” he replied. “And definitely not in broad daylight. They’re protected.”

The retention wall continued along the southern side of the island and a long dock ran parallel to it. It broke for a simple wooden boathouse that jutted out from the island. Its back half stood firmly on land; its front supports were pilings driven into the ocean floor.

Two boats were cradled well above the waterline. A second floor spanned across the boathouse, its front porch suspended over the water.

The retaining wall and narrow dock stretched westward. “This is a man-made channel,” Hudson explained, pointing to the long strip of dark blue water. “It runs all the way to the bridge, cuts south, and then meets up with the main channel. You can’t cut straight north or south because it’s so shallow.”

Two ungainly houseboats tied farther down the dock bobbed in their wake as Hudson nosed the boat in and cut the engine. It had barely glided to a stop before he jumped out holding a line. Quickly and efficiently he secured the boat.

Troy and Anthony tied up nearby then planted themselves on the retaining wall so that they could shoot the rest of them disembarking and unloading.

The house they’d spied from the ride in couldn’t be seen from here. Their greeting committee consisted of a small group of chickens and one supervisory rooster, which took one look at them and continued pecking away at the ground.

“How did chickens get on this island?” Nicole asked as Hudson handed her out of the boat.

“They’re all over the Keys,” Maddie said, not even needing to pull out a guidebook for this one. “It started back with the Cubans and their cockfighting. It was illegal, so when the feds came to investigate, they let their birds loose and pretended they were pets. More than a few of them managed to reproduce.”

They gathered in the shade of a stand of palm trees, trying to maintain as much distance as possible from the band of chickens.

“Is anyone home? I mean, are you sure the owner’s here?” Avery asked.

“Yes,” Hudson said. “At least he was when I left. Why don’t we go ahead and stack everything here in the shade. I’m sure someone will be down soon.”

It was after six
P.M.
and a relatively mild eighty degrees, but the humidity turned the air hot and sticky. By the time they’d unloaded, even Deirdre, who normally looked cool and collected in every situation, was sweating. “This island could use a bellman.”

“Things are pretty laid-back down here,” Hudson said. “You really don’t need much more than shorts, T-shirts, a bathing suit, and a pair of flip-flops.”

“Which would be why people don’t normally bring that much stuff with them,” Avery said, eyeing Deirdre’s pile of matching designer luggage, now stacked halfway up the base of a palm tree.

The buzz of insects, the rustle of palm fronds in the salty breeze, and an occasional cluck of a chicken were the only sounds that disturbed the quiet. Maddie couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced this kind of silence—or even if she ever had.

They were milling about in the shade when they heard the soft thud of footsteps approaching. A young man with exceptionally dark hair and a strong face appeared in the clearing. He wore khaki cargo shorts and a crisp white polo. Somewhere in his early thirties, he was taller, younger, and way better looking than Hervé Villechaize, who’d played Tattoo and opened each
Fantasy Island
episode. The first words out of his mouth were not “De plane! De plane!”

“Hello,” he said with a nod and a smile. “I’m Thomas. Thanks for coming.”

•   •   •

Avery stepped forward, shook the proffered hand, and made the introductions.

“We’re thrilled to have the opportunity to work on your island.”

He flashed another smile. “I’m really glad the network sent you, but I’m afraid the island’s not mine. It belongs to my father.”

They watched him expectantly. There was something familiar about his chiseled face and broad-shouldered build, but Avery couldn’t quite figure out why or call up a name.

“Is your father here?”

“Absolutely.” His smile dimmed. “If you come with me I’ll introduce you.” He turned to Hudson. “Would you put their luggage on . . . I mean, in their . . . rooms?” He and Hudson exchanged a furtive glance that didn’t do anything for Avery’s comfort level.

The path was too narrow to walk abreast, so they followed in single file through the jungle-like overgrowth.

“Next job I’m definitely bringing a machete,” Nicole muttered. She swatted at her bare arm. “And a case of bug spray.”

They came into a clearing, which was dominated by the large two-story structure they’d spotted from the water. The front of the house faced inland. Broad stone steps led up to an expansive raised porch that encircled the first floor. Ceiling fans spun lazily above several rickety rocking chairs. A small wing protruded to the left. A stone chimney rose from the right. The house was topped by a metal roof.

Close up, the house was far larger than they’d been able to discern from the water and in far worse shape. The board-and-batten siding was not just devoid of paint but had been badly pummeled by the elements. Like a boxer who’d gone one too many rounds, the house almost seemed to be standing upright from sheer force of will. Or possibly from habit.

“Good God.” Deirdre emitted a small groan of dismay at the weather-beaten wood and the gaps from missing planks that dotted the sagging porch. Stones were missing from the foundation wall and the front steps. Much of the window trim was either gnawed on or rotten. The single-hung windows were salt caked and grimy, practically begging to be put out of their misery.

But Avery loved the home’s clean, simple lines on sight, and the way it had been designed to fit into its surroundings. Whoever this high-profile individual was, he had not been worried about impressing others.

Avery headed for the front steps eager to see the interior, but Thomas called out, “The pool’s around this way.” He led them around the house and out to the concrete pool deck that jutted toward the ocean.

The pool and its deck were empty. But they commanded an uninterrupted view over the beach and the small tidal pool to the ocean, which shimmered now in shades of turquoise, green, and blue. In the distance she spied the tip of some sort of structure.

“That’s Alligator Reef Lighthouse,” Thomas said. “The Gulf Stream flows by just beyond it.”

Before Avery could form a reply a man stepped out of the shadowed pavilion. He was even taller and broader than Thomas, with powerful shoulders, a lean but muscled body, and a deeply tanned face that was as still and craggy as a mountain range.

His shoulder-length hair was dark and straight with streaks of gray, his eyebrows thick and black as his hair must once have been. His face appeared cleaved in two by the hatchet nose that was bracketed by mile-high cheekbones.

The faded T-shirt he wore hugged his abs and strained across his chest. A thin white stick dangled from one corner of his mouth. Even standing completely still he seemed to swagger.

When he began to move toward them it was with an unexpected if predatory grace; a mountain lion come to see who’d ventured too close to his cave.

Avery resisted the urge to fall back a step. Beside her Deirdre snapped to attention, a level of awareness normally reserved for members of the press and those who might further her ambitions. Something akin to a whimper left Maddie’s lips.