It was early Monday morning, so the streets of Anna Maria were quiet. She loped up one sandy, narrow street after another, walking, fuming. Every once in a while, she felt a faint breeze coming through the tree line. The houses on these streets were cottages, many of them bearing real estate signs indicating they were vacation rentals.
This was a new neighborhood to Grace. She slowed to a stroll, appreciating the modest concrete block or frame structures, so unlike the rambling, overblown megamansions on Gulf Vista. She wished she had her camera to capture the early morning sun, the tropical gardens of palms, bromeliads, crotons, bougainvillea, and hibiscus.
Grass was sparse here. Instead, the small yards seemed to consist of dense plantings of vines and ferns and flowers. Lizards darted across the narrow sand-strewn road, and she saw hummingbirds hovering over the thick hedges of ixora with their star-shaped coral blossoms.
It seemed the whole world was still slumbering, until she came across a house that stood out like a sore thumb on this block of neatly maintained homes. The curb was heaped high with trash, the yard weedy and strewn with dead palm fronds and fallen limbs. Barely visible, behind an overgrown hedge of ficus, she could see a glimpse of faded white siding.
Also blocking her view was the mountain of refuse. Two big city-issued receptacles were spilling over with plastic bags of garbage. Alongside these were sodden cardboard boxes overflowing with old clothes and shoes and more. A stained king-sized mattress leaned against the receptacles and was propped up by two cheap fiberboard nightstands.
Grace heard a screen door slam, and, as she watched, an old man muscled a long rattan couch through the doorway and into the yard. He cursed softly as he pushed and shoved the sofa to the curb.
“Hey,” he said, barely noticing Grace. He dumped the sofa, wheeled, and went back into the house.
Something about that sofa caught her eye. She glanced at the house, to see if the man was watching, but he’d disappeared.
The rest of the discards at the curb were junk, cheap, soiled, ruined junk. But this sofa … Grace squatted to get a better look.
The rattan arms formed huge pretzel-like shapes. It was a three-seater, and it looked, she thought, like it could be by Paul McCobb. The rattan wrappings were in surprisingly good shape, and all the seat supports looked intact.
A moment later, the screen door slammed and the man reappeared, this time with a wheelbarrow heaped with thick cushions covered in a hideous orange and rust synthetic plaid fabric. He dumped the cushions without comment and wheeled back inside.
Grace was intrigued. She walked across the street, down the block, and then doubled back again. It was like a floor show whose second act she couldn’t bring herself to miss.
By now, an armchair had joined its matching sofa. And the man with the wheelbarrow was back, this time bringing a low-slung, boomerang-shaped rattan coffee table with a yellow pine top, which he unceremoniously dumped on end. The table’s top, Grace saw, was marred with cigarette burns and water rings, but the legs and the rattan wrappings were in fairly decent condition.
The man looked annoyed at having a spectator. He was tall and thin, with a high forehead and thinning gray hair and a lit cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. He wore a pair of loose-fitting khaki slacks and a shapeless gray T-shirt.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Grace blushed. “Did somebody die?” she blurted out.
“I wish,” he said. His voice was gravelly. He set the wheelbarrow down, took a wrinkled handkerchief from his back pocket, and mopped his face.
“My damned tenants moved out and left me with this mess,” he said, removing his eyeglasses and wiping them down.
“That’s awful,” Grace sympathized.
“You don’t even know,” he agreed. “Three months back rent owing, not to mention they trashed the house so bad, I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get it into shape to rent again.”
He was gazing at her, taking in her sweaty, disheveled appearance. “Don’t I know you?” He gestured at her ball cap, with the Sandbox logo. “Maybe from the bar?”
Now that he mentioned it, she did think he looked familiar. “Maybe. I’m Grace Davenport. Rochelle’s daughter.”
“Riiight,” he said, wiping his hands on his pants and shaking her hand. “And I’m Arthur Cater. I knew your daddy. Took him fishing a couple times. Butch was a great guy. How’s your mama gettin’ along?”
“She’s good,” Grace said. “We miss him, but if you know Rochelle, you know she’s a tough old bird.”
“She is that,” he said with a laugh.
Now he gestured toward the mountain of trash. “Should have trusted my gut instinct. But they were a young couple, and my wife felt sorry for ’em. Famous last words.”
Grace gestured toward the mound of trash. “You’re throwing all of this out? Not even calling Goodwill to come pick it up?”
He snorted. “Goodwill wouldn’t take this mess. Would you? Mildewed, pee-stained. They had dogs, even though the lease specifically forbids pets, and they swore they didn’t have any. So everything is crawling with fleas.”
Grace shuddered and took a tiny step backward.
He flicked his handkerchief at the rattan sofa. “This was my grandmother’s. She left me the house, and this was always in it, as long as I could remember. We’ve been renting this house, furnished, with no problems for fifteen years, and then these bums move in, and now it’s not fit for the dump.”
He was mopping his neck. “You see anything here you want, be my guest.”
“The rattan furniture is actually very pretty,” Grace ventured. “Probably from the forties. You’re sure you don’t want to keep it? Maybe have the cushions redone?”
“Nah,” he said dismissively. “We got a house full of furniture. And my wife doesn’t like this old grandma stuff.” He studied her. “There’s an end table and another armchair inside, that goes with this set, if you think you might want it. Course, you’d have to haul it off yourself.”
“I just might want it,” Grace said, surprising herself. And then she had an idea.
“Would it be all right if I came inside, took a look at the furniture?”
“You got a clothespin for your nose? And if you get bit up by fleas, don’t blame me.”
The walkway to the front door was brick, but it was barely visible beneath the tendrils of vines and weeds that grew up in the sandy yard. The house was raised up from ground level on concrete block piers. It had a steep gabled roof with slatted wooden air vents near the V-shaped peak and a half-shed tin-roofed porch with large wooden brackets supporting the overhanging porch eaves. The siding was aluminum, and it was pulling away from the house in several spots.
Arthur Cater yanked open the screened door, and she followed him inside.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She was on a screened porch, or what was left of it. Most of the rusty screens were torn, and in some cases, they were missing entirely. Two cheap plastic armchairs were overturned, and the painted wooden floor was littered by overflowing trash bags.
Her new friend pushed open the front door. “After you,” he said with a flourish. She was greeted with a pungent smell—a mixture of urine, mildew, and stale cigarette smoke.
“Oh my,” she gasped, forcing herself to breathe through her mouth.
“Now you see what I’m dealing with,” he said.
The front of the cottage was basically one room. They were standing in the living room. Its windows were cloudy and smeared with dirt. Venetian blinds hung crazily from one hook on a long window that looked out on the porch. The rattan armchair was pushed up against the wall, heaped with an old sleeping bag and pillow, and a matching end table rested, upside down, atop it.
“That’s it, right there,” the man said. “And I warn you, it’s heavier than it looks.”
Grace upended the table, setting it on the filthy avocado-green shag carpeting. Its top had more water rings and cigarette burns, but she loved its rounded-off triangular shape. She gingerly removed the bedding from the armchair and concluded that it, too, was in sound shape, although the cushion was ruined.
“You really don’t want these?” she asked Arthur, who’d walked to the other end of the room. Which was a dining room, from the looks of it. The only furniture here was a flimsy card table and a pair of old-timey folding aluminum beach chairs with rotting plastic webbing. A cheap brass chandelier dangled over the table, but only one of its candle arms was lit.
“What?” He turned around. “Nah. But I would have liked the dining room furniture that used to be here.”
Grace went over to join him. “They stole your furniture?”
“Yup,” he said. “Mahogany table and chairs, and a buffet kind of thing. Those were my mama’s. I thought about taking ’em out of here, but we didn’t have room at the house, and I thought they’d get ruined if I left them in the garage.” He shrugged. “I’d love to know how they got that heavy stuff out of here. They didn’t have but one car, and that was a crappy little Kia.”
“Mm-hmm.” Grace wasn’t really listening. She was taking a good look at the house itself now.
It was a typical Florida cracker house, she thought. These walls were board and batten, probably old pine under the multiple layers of paint and dirt. The ceilings were quite tall, also board and batten, although they’d never been painted. Through a tall doorway, she could see into the tiny galley kitchen.
“Okay if I look around, Arthur?” she asked.
“Just watch your step,” he advised, heading back toward the porch with another load of trash.
A single grungy window over the kitchen sink let in feeble light. Grace found a light switch, and as the ceiling fixture flickered on, half a dozen cockroaches skittered for the shadows. She shuddered, but was not surprised. Roaches were as much a part of living in Florida as palm trees and sunshine. Her least favorite part.
The kitchen was something of a time warp. The countertops were speckled gray formica. The cabinets were wooden, with gummy-looking chipped white enamel paint. There were two wooden upper cabinets, one on either side of the sink, and two lower ones, each topped by a drawer. The cabinet doors were all ajar, and she could see a sad assortment of mismatched pots and pans, some cloudy glasses, chipped plates. An old avocado-green stove sat at the far end of the counter, its surface spattered with grease and food particles. A small saucepan with an unspeakable layer of burnt … something … sat on the front burner. The oven door was open, and when Grace closed it she saw another scattering of roaches.
Turning around, she saw the refrigerator. It was a somewhat newer model than the stove, but its white surface was freckled with rust. To the left of the fridge was another counter, with a pair of wall-mounted upper cabinets. Beneath the counter there was nothing but an open space, where an evil-smelling plastic trash can was tipped on its side.
Through a second doorway was a short hall. An open door showed the bathroom. The black-and-white penny-tile floor was now a grimy gray. The sink, commode, and bathtub were pale pink, which meant, Grace knew, that they probably dated from the early fifties.
There were two more doors, both closed. Grace was about to open one when she heard a faint scratching sound coming from inside the room.
She took a step back. Rats? She took another step back.
Arthur poked his head inside the hall. “I wouldn’t open that door unless you wanna get attacked,” he warned.
Grace decided she’d seen enough of the house.
“Bad enough those lowlifes trashed the house like this,” he said. “They went off and left their damned dog behind. I ask you, who moves out and leaves a dog behind?”
“No,” Grace said, appalled. “There’s a dog in that bedroom? Can I see it?”
“Look all you want,” Arthur said. “I penned her up in there because with me coming and going outside, I was afraid she’d run out and get hit by a car. I’m no dog lover, but even I couldn’t stand that.”
20
As she and Arthur talked, the scratching grew more intense, and now it was accompanied by a series of high-pitched yips.
She put her hand on the doorknob. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Arthur said.
Grace pushed the door open and stepped inside the bedroom, where a small brown bundle of fur began leaping at her knees in a frenzy of barking and yipping.
“Heyyyy,” Grace said softly, bending down to get a closer look. The dog leapt into her arms and began lavishing her chin with a soft pink tongue.
“Oh my God,” Grace said, holding the reeking animal at arm’s length. “You poor thing.”
Her best guess was that she was some kind of poodle mix. But it was hard to tell because the dog’s fur was filthy and matted. Its liquid brown eyes were cloudy and tinged with some milky substance, and there were speckles of dried blood on its muzzle.
She set the dog down gingerly and wiped her hands on the seat of her shorts. The dog sat back on its haunches and looked at her expectantly.
“Pathetic, ain’t it?” Arthur asked, standing behind her in the hallway. “She’d been locked up in this room, I don’t know how long, when I got over here this morning.” He jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom. “You can see the mess she’s made. Not that you could blame her.”
The room was, as Arthur said, a disaster. Even mouth-breathing could not contain the stench.
Grace picked the dog up again and stepped into the hallway, closing the door to the horrors within.
“What will you do with her?” Grace asked, still holding her at arm’s length.
Arthur reached into the bathroom and found a threadbare bath towel. “Here. Wrap her in this. She’s got fleas pretty bad.”
As Grace wrapped the towel around the dog, she felt it shivering violently.
“I think she’s sick, too,” she said, looking up at Arthur.
“Gotta be,” he agreed. “I give her a bowl of water when I found her this morning, and what was left of the sausage biscuit I had out in my truck, but there’s no telling how long it had been since she’d been fed.”
“Those people should be tracked down and put in jail for something like this,” Grace said fiercely. She swallowed hard, feeling nauseous.