Ten Thousand Islands (20 page)

“You and the Bauerstock family, you’ve remained close ever since?”

Della shook her head. “Finding her upset Teddy so bad that he left Marco right afterwards. Went off to some expensive boarding school. The place they sent him was more like a monastery, very strict—there was just a story about him in the
Herald
. It had him saying how it improved his life, going to such a strict school. Lord knows, he could have turned out bad instead of being such a good, successful man. His mama died when he was real young, and his daddy, he’s such a rich, busy man he didn’t have much time for kids or dirt-poor neighbors like me. I thought Teddy’d forgotten all about
us until he called just a couple days ago, asking if there was anything he could do to help. He read about Dorothy in the papers.”

I touched the wooden totem. “Did you ever tell Ted or anyone else about this? Where you’d put it.”

“I don’t think I ever saw Ted Bauerstock again until yesterday. I may have told some other people. I can’t remember. The months after Dorothy’s death are a blur. There’s a lot of it I don’t remember. I remember despising that damn gold medallion. It’s what killed my little girl. I believe it to this day. It’s got all those good, godly signs on it, but it’s not good. It’s like the fallen angel, that’s what I think.

“One night, when I was ’bout half crazy, I damn near threw the thing into the ocean. There was a big rainstorm going on; lots of lightning. I stood there on the beach at Marco, holding the medallion up at the sky, hoping God would strike me dead and put me out of my misery. Throwing it into the ocean, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. But I didn’t. What I did made even less sense than that. At least throwin’ it into the water would’ve been just between God and me.” Della’s thin laughter was very old, very tired, but it still had a spark of life and amusement. “Us country women, we never seem to miss a chance to show how dumb and trustin’ we can be.”

What Della did was give the medallion away.

A month after Dorothy’s funeral, a man had contacted Della at the chickee bar in Goodland where she worked. He’d just moved down with hopes of getting into the construction business, he said, but collecting Indian artifacts—pot hunting, he called it—was his hobby. He was
from New Jersey, had a wife and kid, and he seemed trustworthy.

He told Della that he’d met Dorothy and had actually helped steer her toward the water court on Swamp Angel Ways. He’d known it was a likely spot because of his more mature knowledge, but he was happy to let the young girl take the credit because publicity meant nothing to him.

“I should’a knowed right then he was lying. Dorothy didn’t need no help from Yankee trash like that. The guy made it sound like he’d been so much help to Dorothy, but always staying in the background, that he could make a claim on the medallion if he wanted.”

I’d guessed the man’s name before Della said it: Frank Rossi.

Fifteen years and forty pounds ago, though, he’d been a very convincing fellow. Della described him as a big talker, loud voice, very dominant.

That made sense. Obnoxious fathers tend to raise obnoxious sons.

Rossi finally worked the conversation around to psychic powers. He had none, but he knew a woman from Immokalee who did. He’d attended one of her seances and was very impressed. She was like a gypsy woman, only she wasn’t a gypsy, and had amazing powers. Why not contact the woman, ask her to hold a seance and see if they could speak to Dorothy from the grave?

A parent who has lost a child will do anything on just the chance of meeting with that child one more time.

Della said yes. Sat at a table in candlelight, her and Rossi and a dumpy old woman, who smelled like a drunk. She listened to the woman ask questions as if
speaking to Dorothy’s ghost. The table shook and rattled and Dorothy’s “ghost” rapped on the table in reply.

“I knew it was either her or Rossi knocking on that table. I had the sickest feeling in my stomach because I wanted so bad for it to be Dorothy. To kiss her sweet face one last time, to tell her I loved her. I pretended to believe for the same reason we all do—because I
wanted
to believe.

“When the woman asked Dorothy if I should keep the medallion or give it away because it was cursed, I knew what the answer was going to be. But know what?” Della swirled the beer in her bottle, looking at its amber sparkle. “That was the only time I felt Dorothy really was in the room. I could feel her there. She really didn’t want me to have it. I could almost hear her say, ‘Don’t keep it!’

“So I gave it away. Gave it to him, Frank Rossi. Made him real happy. We’d gone to my little place to get it, just the two of us alone, and he went out to his car to get a bottle of wine. He said why not have a couple glasses, help us relax after dealing with the spirit world. But I know he went to the car to hide the medallion so’s I couldn’t change my mind.”

Della looked from me to Tomlinson to Nora, the sad, bemused expression still on her face. “Know what Frank Rossi said to me yesterday at the funeral? Same thing he said to me after strippin’ me out of my clothes that night and forcing me to bed years ago. After getting me fallin’- down drunk the night of the seance. He didn’t say nothin’. Not a goddamn word. Just turned his back and walked away.”

J
ust before sunset, Ted Bauerstock brought his 36-Hinckley cruiser through some invisible cut west of Ronrico Key, running at speed through water I would have guessed was way too shallow for a boat that size. He had to be doing at least thirty knots, throwing a wake as streamlined as the Hinckley itself, one of the most beautiful yachts in the world.

Tomlinson and I stood beneath a thatched chickee at the end of the boat basin, watching. Tomlinson, who followed yachting magazines, said, “That’s their new hull, they call it a Picnic Boat. It’s got a water-jet propulsion system, only draws eighteen inches. Base price is over three hundred grand.”

“A half-million-dollar picnic boat?”

“Yeah, when you add a few options. But think of all the money you save not going to restaurants.”

Nora came up beside us. We’d been in the bar listening to Bauerstock talk to Della on the VHF radio. He told her
he was only ten minutes out, could she have a pot of fresh coffee ready for him and his two-man crew? Maybe some sandwiches to go, too. They didn’t have a lot of time to spare. He had to scoot back across Florida Bay for a fund-raiser in Naples the next afternoon.

Now Nora stood, hands on hips, watching the yacht with obvious admiration. “Is that thing gorgeous, or what?”

It was, too, with its flared hull of midnight blue, its waterline trimmed with apple red and its white lobsterman cabin.

Her expression of admiration didn’t change much when Teddy Bauerstock appeared on the aft deck after backing the boat in smartly and tying off. He wore a white pressed guaybera shirt, a Latin touch, plus khaki slacks and white boat shoes. He had the wind-blown look of someone who’d gone to a good fraternity, owned more than one tuxedo but who could also tell a joke or two. He swung down on the dock wearing a big smile, combing fingers through his black hair, and singled out Della right away. He went to her, hugged her like he might have hugged his mother, then saw Nora. He hesitated, looking from Tomlinson to me, then swept up Nora, too, lifting her feet briefly off the ground. He said to her, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Sorry, but I couldn’t help myself. You’ve got the most beautiful eyes!”

Then he was done with her, moving down the dock shaking hands, his left arm thrown over Della’s shoulder, leaving his crew to tend the boat. There was a tiny man, thin-haired, dressed in white—the actual skipper of the boat, I guessed. B. J. Buster, with his pumpkin-sized head, was coiling a line on the stern, wearing a black T-shirt stretched over his shoulders and biceps, bunched up
at his skinny waist. In golden letters, the T-shirt read: “Bauerstock for Senate.”

On the stern of the boat, in much larger golden letters, was the yacht’s name:
Namesake

Key Marco

Tomlinson was kneeling, trying to see the boat’s underside. There had to be a state-of-the-art jet system down there. Some kind of tunnel hull with no propeller. To me, he said, “The man knows how to make an entrance, you have to give him that. I like his style.”

I watched Nora using her long legs, hurrying to stay close to Della and Bauerstock. “Everyone does, apparently.”

Buster had moved across the aft deck and was looking down on Tomlinson. “Hey … you there. Get yourself away from the back’a this here boat.”

Tomlinson glanced up. “I was trying to see the stern drive. The mechanics of it. How it works.”

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no stern drive. But you get your ass away. Hear?”

As Tomlinson and I walked toward the bar, I said, “I suppose you like his bodyguard, too.”

He shrugged, not upset. “No, but I understand the philosophy. It’s easier to be a genuinely humane person if you can afford to hire your own personal son-of-a-bitch.”

Theodore Bauerstock was sitting across the picnic table from Nora, Tomlinson and me. He was sandwiched between Della and Conch Jerry, one of the locals.

No telling why Conch Jerry was sitting in. He floated around from table to table, listening, hearing, but not saying much. The Mandalay was that kind of place.

On the table before him, Bauerstock had a nonalcoholic
beer and a laptop computer, the screen opened to our side of the table. Attached to the top of the screen was a dime-sized micro-camera with a cord that was linked to a satellite cell phone, its antenna blossomed round like a metallic daisy.

As Bauerstock pieced together the components, he told us that his boat had a fully integrated electronic computer system, everything—Global Positioning System, weather satellites, telephone and single sideband radio, satellite Internet and World Wide Web, plus a special mobile Doppler radar system mounted forward on the cabin roof right next to the aircraft-rated spotlights.

“I’ve been watching the satellite shots and the Doppler. The storm’s … well, here, I’ll show you.” His fingers made a plastic sound on the laptop, and, a moment later, we could see the swirling red shape of the tropical storm, just like on the TV back at Sharkey’s Bar. “Okay … what do we have here? The storm’s moved north and west a few tenths of a degree, wind speed at a steady sixty.” He looked up. “That’s good for us. It’s moving offshore, away from land. Got lots and lots of rain in there. Big bastard, though, isn’t it? It’s got to be a hundred miles wide, maybe more. The eye’s already clearly defined. Let’s see how deep the eye is.” He touched more keys, and we could see a cross section of the storm; the picture transmitted carrying an explanatory line at the bottom: “
Graphic based upon NOAA 41-C Aerial Photo
.” He gave a low whistle. “She’s already thirty thousand feet deep. Do you folks know how a Doppler radar system works?”

Before he could continue, Tomlinson said, “It’s named after an Austrian physicist, the Doppler effect. It’s like when we hear a train or a plane, the pitch of the sound is
higher as the object comes toward us. Then the pitch drops as it passes and moves away. The radar calculates wind speed and precipitation by measuring the distance between sound waves. At least, that’s what I’ve read.”

Bauerstock was smiling at him. “I defer to the more informed man. What I know is far more basic, but here I am trying to explain it. You like computers? Modern gadgets?”

“Nope. I keep spilling stuff on them. But I find symmetry interesting. Think about it: we use our eyes and ears to measure speed and distance. Built-in Doppler. We’ve all got it, but few of us make an effort to get in touch with our own gifts.”

Now Bauerstock was laughing; he really seemed to be enjoying Tomlinson. He was enjoying Nora, too, judging from all the eye contact, the private winks. To Della, he said, “This is a very intelligent man. You have good taste in friends.”

“Tommy-San? Oh, he’s been a blessing to me. Been here just over a week, and he already draws a lot of water at the Mandalay.”

He returned his attention to Tomlinson, gesturing to the computer. “You want to give her a test drive? It’s the fastest portable system around. My family’s in the business, so I get first crack at all the new toys.”

“Normally, sure, I’d love to. Fast computers and fast women, huh? But, hey, I need to be honest: I’m a little too drunk to be trusted with anything breakable. Been overserving myself all day.”

More laughter. “Then let me show you. If you like computers, modern technology, you’re going to love this.” He punched the keyboard again. There was a dial tone, the sound of electronic digits, then a warble. Now, instead of the tropical storm on the computer screen, we
could see the face and upper body of an older man, thick silver hair combed back.

It was Ivan Bauerstock.

He was wearing a dark sports coat, sitting in a red leather chair, books, plaques and mounted cattle horns on the wall behind him, looking at us; looking into his own computer screen, I realized, apparently seeing a wide-angle shot of the Mandalay, because first thing he did was smile a formal smile and say, “Good evening! You’ve got quite a crowd there with you, Theodore!”

“Before noon tomorrow,” Ivan Bauerstock said, “I will issue a formal, written apology to the Everglades Museum of Natural History, its employees and board of directors. The fact that employees of mine are robbing Indian burials on company property is absolutely intolerable, and rest assured that I have put a stop to that for now and all time. Teddy? Can you think of anything in our family’s history that’s been as embarrassing as this?”

Bauerstock was standing while the rest of us sat, everyone staring at the laptop’s small screen. “Dad, I truly can’t. When Ms. Copeland contacted me and told me what her friends had found on Cayo de Marco, I was shocked. What upset me the most was that the young man—Tony Rossi?—that Tony Rossi implied he was working under direct orders from you to plunder that site. I knew right away that couldn’t be true.”

I spoke for the first time. “Rossi didn’t imply that he was under your direct orders, Mr. Bauerstock. He said it very plainly. That you and his father, Frank Rossi, were enthusiastic artifact collectors.”