Dead in the Water

Camel Press

PO Box 70515

Seattle, WA 98127

For more information go to: www.camelpress.com

www.lesleyadiehl.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design by Sabrina Sun

Author Photo: Creations in Fotografia by Rafael Pacheco

Dead in the Water

Copyright © 2014 by Lesley A. Diehl

ISBN: 978-1-60381-937-4 (Trade Paper)

ISBN: 978-1-60381-938-1 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014937928

Produced in the United States of America

E
ve owes her taste and courage to two women in my life, my paternal grandmother, Minnie Appel Diehl, who inspired me to be frugal, and my aunt, Fern Diehl Stouffer, who invented retail therapy.

* * *

I
t was so hot in my closet I could feel my makeup running down my face, and so dark I couldn't see where I was going. I wasn't crazy about the smell, either. Mostly leather and dirty socks. I reached out, searching with my fingers for …. I touched something furry.
Yikes
. There was some animal in here with me.

“
Find them?”

I jumped at the sound of my friend's voice and hit my head on the shelving in the back of the closet.

“
You scared the hell out of me.”

“
I don't know who's worse, you or your uncle. He's tied up on his cellphone, and you're exploring your closet. Let's get going.” Madeleine sounded irritated, and I couldn't blame her. I'd been crawling around on the floor for close to a quarter of an hour and still hadn't located my boots.

“
I can't think where I might have put them. They've got to be in here someplace.”

“
Then wear a pair of sneakers. We're going to be late.”

Sneakers?
I didn't own a pair of sneakers unless you counted those high heel wedgie ones. I guessed I could wear them, but I had no idea where they were either. My closet floor was a mess. The hunt was made more difficult because I'd failed to replace the burned out light bulb in the closet.

I hated to give up my quest. Madeleine was right. It was cold and windy today and wearing boots on the airboat ride was the smart thing to do. I pulled back my hand, holding the furry object between my thumb and index finger. What was this? I held it up to the faint light coming through the open closet door. Oh, right. It was one of a pair of slippers made to look like two moose heads, complete with antlers and large noses. They'd been a Christmas gift from Madeleine.

I tossed the slipper over my shoulder and continued to explore the floor. My hand landed on one of my boots. I could tell by the feel of the leather, ostrich skin. Pricey, but I'd found them at a consignment shop on the coast. One had a small scratch on the toe, not noticeable unless I bent over and touched my nose to the damaged area, something I had no intention of doing and every intention of discouraging anyone else from doing.
Ah
. The matching boot was right beside its mate.

“
Got 'em.” I exited the closet, pulled them on, tucked my jeans into the tops and examined myself in the mirror. Nice. Airboat and swamp chic.

Madeleine did not share my opinion.

“
You're wearing stiletto-heeled boots? How practical is that?”

“
I couldn't find my hip waders. Look, I'm only trying to keep my feet warm. I don't intend to take a walk through the swamp, you know.”

“
Hip waders, huh? They'd probably have heels too.” Madeleine had my number as no one else did. I loved her like a sister, so she was the only person I never sassed. Well. Almost never. I followed her out of the bedroom and into the living room.

“
That's my gal, my little Eve.” My Uncle Winston flipped his cell closed, got up from the couch, came over and threw his arm around my shoulder. “You look fantastic, honey.” He gave me a squeeze and looked at the woman seated beside him on the couch. Darlene Banks, introduced by Winston as his “domestic partner”, wore sneakers, jeans and a sweater that screamed, “I'm a Gucci or Pucci or some other designer brand, and this woman stupidly paid full price for me.”

Darlene wrinkled up her nose at my attire. “I agree with Maddy. How can you walk in those things?”

I caught Madeleine's look of disapproval and knew she wouldn't say anything, but I would.

“
Her name is ‘Madeleine.' She hates being called ‘Maddy.' ”

“
Well, I'm real sorry, but she looks too small to have such a large name.” Darlene was as outspoken as I was, a trait I found quite acceptable in myself and just plain irritating in others. Especially Darlene.

Uncle Winston, my favorite uncle from childhood, had given me a surprise call last week asking if it was convenient to come visit. I was surprised to learn he'd bought a condo in West Palm, less than two hours from Sabal Bay, Big Lake country where cows and cowboys rule. “We'd like to see rural Florida. I hear they have cowboys there. And lots of gators.”

I'd insisted on putting them up rather than allowing them to stay in a nearby motel. The accommodations in the Sabal Bay area have more character than luxury unless you think a gator skull on the bedside table is de rigueur. Tourists usually choose to stay in a motel on the coast and cruise by here without stopping on their way to the other coast. As they speed by, they complain they can't see the lake. Of course not. If they looked at a map they'd know a canal and a dike surrounded much of the water. You have to drive over the berm or levee and park on the other side to see the lake. I'll admit there's not much to see, mostly brown water. You don't go there for the view. It's for fishing. And for alligators to play water games in.

Looking back on my offer to serve as their bed and breakfast, I conceded it was a mistake. As I ushered them and their luggage into the guest bedroom, Darlene wrinkled up her nose in distaste.

“
We prefer a king-sized bed,” she said.

“
Really. So do I,” I said.

That was just the first of her many complaints. The restaurants didn't offer enough fish items. She was shocked that anyone ate catfish. Or turtle. Or frogs' legs. I could forgive her the dislike of our dining establishments. It's a bit of a culture shock to drive from the sandy beaches of the coast and find yourself in a world populated by gators, cowboys, and cattle and then see fried catfish bones on the menu. And I'd tolerate her because it was clear that she adored my uncle. She hung on his every word and hustled to get him whatever he wanted.

“
What's the deal with the boots and the cowboy hats?” she asked. Again she wrinkled up her nose. If she continued to do that, her nose and forehead would join together in a blanket of wrinkles.

“
This is a ranching community.” I know I sounded defensive.

“
So?” She did not understand the concept of working the range.

“
Honey.” Winston encircled her waist with his arm. “This place has got real character.”

She looked at Winston as if he'd lost his mind and should be locked up. “I want to go back to West Palm.”

Oh, good idea
.

I responded to most of her criticism with a breezy, “We consider this a quaint place, traditional, old Florida.”

To which she replied, “It's just not civilized here.”

Well, no it wasn't, and that's why I liked it around the Big Lake. Slower paced than either of the coasts, this area of Florida was like walking back in time. I was a sucker for nostalgia. I even preferred to call my Capris pedal-pushers, and some of them were. I frequented vintage stores to find many of my clothing items. Madeleine and I even carried a line of vintage wear in our consignment shop.
Très
great.

I adored Winston, had ever since I was a kid. I would put up with Darlene if it meant I could be with my uncle again. I hadn't heard from him since I was in my early teens and lived in Connecticut. I remembered him as the fun uncle, the guy who was up for any adventure, including riding the tilt-o-whirl at the county fairs, entering a jalapeño eating contest and sharing downhill ski lessons with me after he was well over forty. He also coaxed me back on a sailboat for the first time after my parents' boat had been caught in a storm, and they'd been lost in Long Island Sound. I guess he was actually a great-uncle, the youngest son of one my grandfather's brothers. The other uncles in the family just seemed the same as most adults to a nine-year-old, boring to me, spouting lots of rules and regulations and admonitions about what a girl should and should not do. For Winston there were no boundaries on fun regardless of your age or sex.

We hadn't been in touch for years, but he was as I remembered him: tall and lanky with a boyish mop of hair, now turning white, that flopped over his forehead. He certainly seemed to have kept his zest for adventure. I took them to the rodeo the first day of the visit and had to hold him down when it was announced that anyone could enter the bull-riding contest. I'd seen the size and surly temperament of those huge creatures at the past several rodeos I'd attended and discouraged Winston from trying his luck. The guy had to be on the far side of sixty. To my surprise, Darlene egged him on. What was she, the beneficiary in his will? She seemed disappointed when I persuaded him it was too dangerous, unless you were a bona fide cowboy. She seemed to like living dangerously, or at least she liked
him
to live dangerously. Maybe she liked her danger secondhand.

At one time she might have been judged to be beautiful, and she still was a looker in the over sixty set. She had a full figure which she showed off to good advantage, choosing to wear tops that revealed enough cleavage to make Winston's eyes twinkle when she leaned into him. Her breasts seemed a bit too bouncy to be anything other than enhanced. Her red hair was teased into a style reminiscent of the late sixties. Of course, the red was a shade never found in nature and achieved with the help of Lady Clairol or one of her color-in-a-bottle cousins.

Darlene took an instant dislike to Madeleine, whose red hair was home grown. Where I was tall and flat-chested, Madeleine was short, tiny, and although I usually hate ‘perky' as a description, she was definitely perky. If we had been guys, we would be called Mutt and Jeff. I guessed it was jealousy that made Darlene call her “Maddy.”

Madeleine smiled at my intervention on the name issue. “It's fine if Darrel or Darren wants to call me whatever.”

“
It's Darlene, missy.”

Madeleine opened her blue eyes wide in a look of absolute innocence. “Like I said, ‘whatever.' ”

Winston rubbed his hands together. “Let's get going, girls. I'm anxious to see what the swamp has to offer. Think we'll see any gators, Eve?”