Dying to Retire (6 page)

“Thanks,” Helen said, turning her friend around so she could inspect her work. “It still looks good.”

“Never mind hair. Did you see who was inside?” Amelia asked, a frown on her face. “What
cojones,
if you’ll excuse me for saying so. I don’t know how he has the nerve to show his face.” She spoke in rapid-fire English with a distinct Spanish accent. “If Portia was alive, she’d drop dead all over again, seeing him here.”

“Who are you talking about?” I asked.

“DeWitt Wainscott,” Minnie said. “He’s a real estate developer.”

“He’s trying to build on the property between Foreverglades and the bay,” Helen said. “Portia was spearheading our opposition to the project when she died.”

“That’s him over there,” Amelia said, pointing to a man in a dark gray suit talking to a stout woman I’d seen somewhere before. He was of medium height with a paunch hanging over the waistline of his trousers. He wore a light green bow tie, and when he pushed back the side of his jacket to pull a handkerchief from his pocket, I spotted a set of chartreuse suspenders with little flowers embroidered on them. “I don’t know how my sister-in-law can stand working for the man,” she added.

“Is that your sister-in-law he’s talking to?” I asked.

She nodded. “
Sí,
that’s Marina,
mi cuñada
.”

Amelia’s sister-in-law was as tall as her boss, her red hair neatly pinned in a bun. She wore a gray suit, and held an open briefcase from which she handed him a sheet of paper.

“How long has she worked for him?” I asked.

“Too long. Look at her. She even dresses like him. He built Foreverglades. That’s how we came here. We lived in Miami before, but he promised my brother a job on the construction site, and then he hired my sister-in-law as his secretary. He tried to hire me, too, but I wouldn’t work for him.”

“What did he want you to do, style his hair?” Minnie laughed.

“He’s barely got any left to do a comb-over,” Amelia said, giggling.

“It sounds to me like he’s been good to your family,” I said.

“Good? This is a man who makes all kinds of promises and never keeps them. The only one who ever earns any money when he’s around is DeWitt Wainscott. My brother has been laid off so many times, his head is spinning. But now that Marina works for the pig, she don’t want to move anywhere else. My brother went back to Miami, and they’re getting a divorce.”

“When Wainscott built Foreverglades, he gave his word he’d never put up anything between our development and the water,” Minnie said. “Now he’s talking about building three high-rise buildings, which will completely block our views. People are already leaving Foreverglades.”

“So much for his word of honor,” Helen said. “Look at that.” She swept her arm toward the expanse of blue water. “It’ll be gone. I didn’t come down here to see big buildings all the time. I could have stayed in Chicago for that.”

“Fullero!”
Amelia spat. “Cheater! And then, if that’s not insult enough, he’s going to put a fence around it with a guard at the gate. We won’t be able to get to the beach from the village. We’ll have to go all the way down to a new road that’s not even built yet.”

“Plus, if you’re not careful, you could run into an alligator going that way,” Helen said. “Did you hear about the woman up in Perrine who lost her foot? Came out of her house in the afternoon to cut some key limes for a pie and there it was, crossing her lawn on the way to her pool. The thing was about five or six feet long, and—whomp!—bit her on the ankle, going clear through to the bone.”

“How dreadful,” Minnie said.

“We should sue him for breach of promise,” Amelia said.

“Who?”

“Wainscott.”

“I think you mean breach of contract,” I said, trying to keep up with the ricocheting conversation. “Did he have a contract with you stating his intentions not to build?”

“We thought so,” Amelia said. “
Naturalmente,
his lawyers say it doesn’t really promise anything. They say it’s all in the little print or something.”

“You mean the fine print?” I asked.

“Try standing in a shop all day without a foot,” Helen muttered.

“
Sí.
That’s it.” Amelia nodded at me. “ ‘Can’t stop progress,’ he says. The big crook.”

“Croc? No, they’re alligators. Girl, I tell you, I’m looking out for alligators every time I walk to the bay,” Helen said. “They really scare me.”

“Portia wasn’t scared. She was the bravest person I ever knew,” Amelia said, sniffling.

“He looks so sad, doesn’t he?” Minnie said, handing Amelia a tissue.

“Quién?”
Amelia asked, blowing her nose.

“Clarence.”

Clarence, who stood by the door of Sam’s pink Cadillac, shook hands with the minister, and accepted the sympathies of several of his neighbors before climbing in the backseat.

“Where is he going?” I asked.

“Probably to the place where they do the cremation,” Minnie said. “The undertaker has a hearse for the coffin, but no limousines. So Sam fills in when a limo is needed. He’s supposed to charge for the car service, but he never has. ‘Not for funerals,’ he says, ‘and not for friends.’ ”

“That’s very kind of him,” I said.

“He’s such a mensch,” she said fondly. “That means ‘good guy’ in Yiddish. He started the service as a way to earn a few extra dollars—the nearest limousine company is over in Florida City—but he’s such an easy target for a sob story that I don’t think he’s earned a penny yet. Anybody gives him a good excuse, or even a terrible one, and he drives them for free. I wouldn’t care except that gas guzzler is going to break us if it doesn’t earn its keep. Parts for that old heap are not cheap.”

“Ooh, Minnie, you made a rhyme,” Amelia sang out, smiling.

“I did?”

“Who’s going over to the Shelbys’?” Helen asked.

“Everyone,” Minnie said, rummaging around in her handbag.

“Amelia and I have to get back to the shop,” Helen said. “We probably have ten people waiting by now.”

“Well, come by when you’re done,” Minnie said, pulling out her sunglasses.

“What time do you figure Clarence will be back?”

“Doesn’t matter. Carrie has the key, but she’ll need help setting up. I’m going over there now.”

“Okay, see you both later,” Helen said, and she and Amelia crossed the street and started up the hill toward her beauty parlor.

“Would you like my help, too?” I offered.

“Oh, no, no,” Minnie said. “You’re a guest. Bring your friends by in about an hour or so and we’ll feed you.” She walked off toward Foreverglades.

The crowd in front of the chapel had dispersed. My friends were nowhere in sight. But the vista of Biscayne Bay from this vantage point was captivating. The day was clear and the sun shot little sparks of light off the choppy water. I dug my new sunglasses out of my bag and put them on. Portia had loved this view. She had been fighting hard to keep it so everyone in Foreverglades could see the water, walk along the shore, and enjoy the beauty of nature. How sad that what is called “progress” by some was going to spoil it for others. Detective Shippee had characterized Portia as a “feisty lady.” Had her heart given out because of her determination to keep this beautiful view unblocked?

I originally intended to follow Minnie back to Foreverglades, but when I reached the intersection at the base of the hill, I gave in to the lure of the water, and set my steps toward the shore. Tall grasses lined one side of a concrete sidewalk that wound its way to the bay alongside an unpaved road, which ended in a small, pebble-strewn parking lot. An L-shaped dock jutting into the water was anchored to concrete slabs sunk into the mud. Two dozen boats were tied up to the dock. An aluminum dinghy, its lines looped around a piling, was available for owners of boats moored offshore to reach their vessels.

At the head of the dock, down a short flight of steps, a narrow boardwalk veered off to the left, back in the direction of Foreverglades. Sand had been dumped in a long crescent-shaped section to create a man-made beach, but the thick vegetation had not been kept in check, and tendrils of green crept under the low boardwalk as though trying to reclaim the land. Farther down, the sand ended, palm trees rose from the thick grass, and the boardwalk, with a waist-high railing, curved out over the water, ending in a circular gazebo. A large white sign had been braced in the damp earth about ten yards off the boardwalk. On it was the message: SITE OF THE FUTURE WAINSCOTT TOWERS, A NEW GATED COMMUNITY. TWENTY-ONE-STORY BUILDINGS, FEATURING RESIDENCES OF DISTINCTION. Someone had circled Wainscott’s name with red spray paint and scrawled
Liar
above it, the thick paint dripping down from the letters like blood.

Beyond the sign, I could see the pink buildings of Foreverglades, and sympathized with their tenants’ plight. The construction would not only block their view and cut them off from the waterfront, but it was bound to destroy the peaceful existence they currently enjoyed. Residents of three high-rise buildings would probably double the local population. They would crowd the shops, create traffic congestion with their cars, and overwhelm the small beach and the boardwalk on which I stood. I thought of Portia, and how much she loved the place she had found for herself in Florida. Change is difficult for many of us, but for people who have spent years planning for their retirement and carefully selected the environment they wanted, it’s harder still to have threats made against their long-anticipated lifestyle.

Deep in contemplation, I meandered down the rough planks of the boardwalk—the footwear I’d worn for the funeral was not conducive to walking in the sand—and made my way toward the gazebo. As I approached the weathered wooden structure, I realized I wasn’t alone. A figure stepped away from the railing he’d been leaning over. At first I thought he was holding a fishing rod, but then I realized it was just a long stick he’d been playing with in the water.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

“Someone threw some litter in the water. I hate to see that,” Detective Shippee said, leaning his stick against an upright and sitting on a bench, his back to the bay. “It’s so beautiful out here, isn’t it?”

“Spectacular.”

“The best part is how quiet it is. You can sit here sometimes and the only sounds you’ll hear are those made by nature—the birds, the insects, the water lapping up against the pier.”

“I know,” I said. “There’s something about being on the water that soothes the soul.”

He smiled sadly. “It’s a pity it won’t last.”

“You’re talking about the development?”

He nodded.

“I can understand why my friend fought against it,” I said. “It’s going to change the whole character of the area.”

He frowned and crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, money talks, and Wainscott walks all over anyone who gets in his way.”

“What do you mean?”

“The local zoning commission caved in to everything he proposed.”

“Weren’t the Foreverglades residents there?”

“Oh, yeah. They held public hearings, and you better believe those were well attended. Your friend Mrs. Shelby was a very persuasive speaker.”

“But not persuasive enough?”

“She could rally the troops, but she didn’t have the wherewithal to finance the war. She came pretty close, though. Wainscott must’ve spent a fortune on lawyers after she got started, but he’s probably used to it.”

“Has he done this before?”

“Many times, I’m sure. He has more lawyers than the local municipalities can ever hope to mount a defense against.”

“But he still has to comply with the law.”

“The law can be very flexible, especially when it has an arsenal of lawyers aimed at it.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“He did the same thing in Key West. The city was opposed to a development that he proposed. He’d already bought the land and was damned if they were going to stop him. So he made them all kinds of promises. He was going to protect the environment, open shorelines to the public, stuff like that. Of course, once he broke ground, he broke all his promises, too.”

“Couldn’t the government sue him?”

“They could, but he had a secret weapon.”

“His lawyers.”

“Yup. By the time Wainscott’s lawyers got through, they would have been tied up in court for years. It would have cost the citizens of Key West a fortune in taxes to pay for it.”

“So the government gave in?”

“I’m sure Wainscott made a few concessions just to mollify them, but this is not a man you want to buck. There was an accident down there I’m still not sure about.” He stood up and leaned over the railing, looking down into the water. “But accidents happen. Anyway, it’s in the past. We can’t recapture that, can we?”

He seemed distraught, and I wondered if Portia’s death had truly saddened him. “My friends must be wondering where I am,” I said. “I should get back to Foreverglades. Portia’s husband is hosting a luncheon for her friends. Sounds to me like you fit that description. Why don’t you come with me?”

“Maybe another time,” he said.

We walked back toward the dock together. I scanned the landscape around us, thinking about Portia’s evening constitutionals.

“Looking to see where your friend died?” Detective Shippee asked.

“Actually, I was.”

“One of the boaters saw her lying in the sand and called the shore patrol. They found her over here.” He pointed to where the tall grass ended and the artificial beach began. “Luckily there were no alligators around at the time, or it would have been a mess.”

“Are there alligators here?” I asked.

“Yes. See those tracks?” He pointed to some markings on the sand.

“You mean they come right out on the beach?”

“We’re trespassing on their property, not the other way around,” he said. “There are alligators all over Florida. They’ve been here for thousands of years.”