Matecumbe (5 page)

Melissa’s attire began with a mostly white, black-patterned blouse having three-quarter-length sleeves. She wore a white, knee-length pleated skirt, black belt, and black heels. On her arm, she carried a white, knitted cardigan for later in the evening, when cooler air always wafted through and over the Florida Keys.

Melissa knew that a near constant smile was usually the best accessory for a well-dressed woman. And her anticipation that “Joe The Cop” might turn into a living, breathing, leading-man type was making it so much easier for her to manifest that smile. Helpful, too, was the fastgrowing distance in hours since last night’s tragic, disturbing accident.

When Melissa greeted Joe at the door of her room, she noticed right away that he was impressively dressed.

He wore a tan linen sport coat with a tiny monogram on the breast pocket. His summery brown slacks, cordovan loafers, and open-necked yellow sport shirt all seemed to complement his sparkling white teeth and curly hair. His deep, typically Florida tan acted as a counterpoint to her freshly sunburned cheeks.

Within minutes of his arrival, they were on their way to the Dolphin Harbor Inn—on the eastern end of Islamorada. En route, with him driving, Joe provided Melissa with additional good news, broadening her already bubbling smile.

“A truck belonging to one of the dead guys was found a few miles from here, in the parking lot of Ben and Dave’s Marina,” Joe informed. “We assume they were going to load this truck with the marijuana they had on board the boat.

“So, as of right now, there isn’t even the slightest of lingering doubts about any illegal involvement on your part.

“The Monroe County detective told me that he hopes you enjoy the rest of your vacation here in Islamorada.”

Melissa reveled in the news. And when Joe had finished his explanation, she brazenly stretched her body across the front seat of the car and kissed him, lightly, on the cheek.

“Calculated spontaneity,” she told herself. “I can get away with this one. Even though he knows the reason behind it, he still might think that the kiss was at least partially motivated by how attractive I found him.”

Melissa was truly relieved that all previous suspicions of her involvement had vanished as quickly as yesterday’s weather forecasts. The situation was setting up as one with unfettered potential. A promising romantic involvement was now in view on her horizon.

She was hoping, perhaps optimistically, that her damsel-in-distress story, and Joe’s rescue of her from the flaming pier, would be remembered solely for its novelty as a “how this couple met” story.

“And how did you two meet?” Melissa fantasized being asked—by someone, someday.

“Oh, nothing much out of the ordinary,” Melissa would answer, tongue-in-cheek. “Joe just drove up in his police boat and plucked me from the throes of an inferno.”

When they arrived for dinner, Melissa noticed that the Dolphin Harbor Inn had been built like a lean-to, jutting outward from an ancientlooking, restored lighthouse that had the distinction of being one of the first structures ever built in Islamorada. It dated back to 1909, when automobiles were novelties and wagons loaded with the catch of the day rattled along the dirt roads of what was then a sparsely populated fishing village.

Ocean-traveling ships would use the lighthouse’s lone revolving beacon as a warning against the treacherous offshore reef.

Since Melissa and Joe arrived a few minutes ahead of their reservation, they took some time to stroll along the boat dock area that adjoined the lighthouse and restaurant.

“There are fifty boat slips at this dock,” Joe told her. “Most of the boats are for sport fishing. They’re all about thirty feet long and are for hire on a daily rate basis. The captains will take the fishermen out toward the offshore reef and try to catch marlin, sailfish, and even sharks.”

“There are two large chairs with seat belts in that boat, over there,” Melissa pointed. “What are they for?”

“Big fish require big chairs. If a fisherman hooks a monster of the deep, he doesn’t want the fish to pull him into the water. Therefore, the seat belts.”

Before Melissa could ask the next logical question—How big did the fish get?—she almost tripped over one of the largest sea creatures she had ever seen.

Sprawled out on the dock was a freshly caught marlin that looked to be about nine feet long. No doubt it could provide about five years’ worth of canned food for her white cat, Coke, who was temporarily housed in a Philadelphia boarding kennel.

Also nearby, hanging on hooks, were several other large specimens— sailfish—that had been brought in earlier that day on the charter boats.

“What will the fishermen do with what they’ve caught?” Melissa inquired.

“The biggest of the fish will be stuffed and mounted by taxidermists. They’ll end up as trophies in dens and living rooms from coast to coast, and even in some foreign countries. Islamorada attracts sport fishermen from all over the world.”

“I saw a sign that listed the charter rates. Do fishermen really pay over four hundred dollars a day to go out on these boats?”

“During the height of the season, the price goes up. And the tourists can be seen every morning near dawn, holding their fishing gear while waiting in line for the privilege.”

“I don’t think I’d enjoy taking a ride on one of these boats. My stepfather let me tag along when I was a little girl. We went deep-sea fishing in Atlantic City and Ocean City. I remember a big, heavy boat, crowded with men, and the smell of bait. I also remember getting seasick on the way back—while I was watching the gulls circling overhead.”

Once Melissa and Joe were seated at their table inside the restaurant, they were treated to a spectacular view of the now-radiant sunset and of the historical old lighthouse.

“There was a hurricane that wiped out this island back in 1935,” Joe began. “The only locals who survived, except for a few who had gone to Miami to see the ball game, were six young highway workers who ran inside the lighthouse and climbed up to the top to wait out the storm. That painted line over there on the side of the lighthouse—at the eight-foot level—that’s how high the water got during the worst part of the hurricane.

“It struck on the Sunday before Labor Day that year. Some of the waves were estimated at twenty feet high. A rescue train was sent in from Miami by the federal government. But the hurricane washed the train right off the tracks as soon as it got here. The locomotive, which weighed over a hundred tons, was the only thing left standing.

“The highway workers who were staying in town were building our current road, Route 1. The Miami to Key West section, right through the Keys, was constructed by itinerant laborers from the Works Progress Administration, the so-called W.P.A. There was no other highway. Aside from boats, the only way to get from one island to another back then was by railroad. But the train tracks, along with most of the towns along the way, were wiped out by the hurricane. The railroad was never rebuilt.”

“That hurricane seemed terribly potent,” Melissa commented. “Do they usually cause so much damage?” Melissa saw a faraway, almost pained look cross Joe’s face for a brief moment before he continued on.

“The experts say the disastrous flooding was a result of the way Henry Flagler built that railroad of his. The high embankment next to the tracks prevented the water from washing its way through the island. Instead, the embankment acted like a dam, keeping the water level extremely high.

“One old timer, who lived in nearby Marathon, the next town between here and Key West, told me that the barometer went under twenty-seven during the hurricane. That’s supposed to be some kind of meteorological record. Almost all of the Keys were devastated. The postmaster up in Key Largo had a total of forty-nine relatives living on the Keys before the storm, and only ten were still alive the day after the hurricane.

“Every once in a while, a skeleton turns up on one of the mangrove islands. And every couple of years, another old car is found half-buried somewhere—bearing 1935 license plates.

“After the storm, when Islamorada was rebuilt, the town council erected a monument to the dead highway workers. That monument is in the middle of a small park on the other side of the Seascaper, at Milepost 80.”

“These highway workers, the W.P.A. people,” Melissa inquired, “where did they come from? Were they from other parts of Florida, were they prisoners, or what?”

“Most of the laborers got the jobs because they were veterans of World War I. They were unemployed—victims of the Depression. And they moved from one tent city to another, following the highway. The famous author, Ernest Hemingway, who lived for a few years in Key West, wrote a magazine article soon after the storm. In it, he blamed the W.P.A. for not providing the workers with adequate shelter. He also criticized the lack of a prompt rescue.

“The only good thing that came out of the storm was the fact that the railroad bridges, which connected the long string of islands, were still standing. Even though the rail beds on land had been ripped apart, all of the railroad bridges from Miami straight through to Key West were in perfect shape.

“And since the W.P.A. had commissioned only the land portion of the overseas highway and had not yet gotten money to build the highway bridges, when they learned that the railroad would never be rebuilt, they turned the old railroad structures into highway bridges. This saved a lot of money as well as time. So, because of the hurricane and the destruction of the railroad, the overseas highway to Key West was finished several years ahead of schedule.”

Melissa was fascinated by Joe’s tale of Islamorada’s history, and she told him so.

“You remind me of a very sexy history teacher I once had in college. Listening to him talk was a soothing experience—like when my stepfather used to tell me bedtime stories back when I still believed in the Easter Bunny.

“With all your attention to detail, you’d probably make a good librarian, too,” Melissa added. “Did you ever consider going back to school to get a degree?”

“I have, but the ‘Joe College’ idea hasn’t ever gotten past the thinking stage. It would be very difficult for me, what with my swing shift. One week I work days, the next week nights, and the third week my hours are midnight until eight o’clock in the morning.”

After they had made several trips to the buffet table, which featured shrimp, king crab legs, scallops, and even barbecued ribs, Melissa decided that it was her turn to take hold of the imaginary microphone.

“I majored in history at Neuva Villa, a small women’s college near Pittsburgh. I have pleasant memories of my years in the dorm with all the friends I made. I loved the all-night study sessions, the weekend parties on campus, and the long train rides home for the holidays. Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time and be a college sophomore again.

“After finishing college, I went straight into graduate work, taking library science. When I got my master’s, I was lucky to find a job right away in a reference department.

“I can’t stand library cataloguing, which is highly computerized now. And I didn’t want to be a children’s librarian. I just wouldn’t have the patience to work with kids. Reference was the only thing I ever wanted to do.

“When I see professional librarians entertaining kiddies by reading to them aloud during so-called story hours, I feel sick to my stomach. I’m kind of funny when it comes to children’s literature, or ‘kiddy lit.’ Aside from a handful of classics, most of it is junk. I’m positive that any bright college student with a flair for storytelling could out-write most of the people who pass themselves off as children’s authors.

“So, I guess I’ve been extremely happy as a reference librarian. I have no career complaints. It’s challenging work with both the general public and with the university types—answering their questions and directing them to the most useful research sources. I was a great help to my ex-husband, who taught poetry and advanced composition. I hope he learned something from my help, so that he can do his scholarly papers by himself now.

“My job has its humorous moments, too, like when I get phone calls from people who want answers to trivia questions. I got a real challenge last summer when the same woman called me two weeks in a row—both times on Monday mornings. Her first question was ‘How many dimples are there on a golf ball?’ and her next question was ‘How many seeds are there in a watermelon?’ It took me a while, but I found both of the answers for her. One can only wonder, though, what she intended to do with the information.”

“Did you pick up a golf ball,” Joe asked, “and count the dimples yourself ?”

“No, that’s not kosher,” Melissa explained. “A reference librarian’s job is to find a written source that gives the correct information.”

“Golf balls and watermelons! There are books, you say, that can tell us how many seeds are in a watermelon! How ridiculous!” Joe exclaimed. “I just can’t help but think how your job is such a petty pursuit compared to police work. We’re saving lives and arresting crooks, while you’re answering trivia questions.”

“I guess reference work is just about as stupid,” Melissa cracked, with a smile, “as cops who write out jaywalking tickets or put grandmothers in jail for playing bingo.”

“Touché, touché.”

The key lime pie that Melissa and Joe ate for dessert was delicious. Melissa even went back to the trifle tray for a second helping. And at just about the time she had finished consuming the last scrumptious bite, Joe started telling her about his workaday life as one of Islamorada’s finest.

“There are just four of us in the department, full-time. We have a grand total of three patrol cars and two boats. The job is comfortable for me in that it’s not boring, probably much the same as what you’d see on a realistic television show. Since this is a tourist town, I get to meet unusual people once in awhile. And, occasionally, as with the boat accident, there’s a bit of an intellectual challenge.

“I don’t think I could be a policeman in a big city, though. There would seem to be too many dangerous midnight calls when my life would be on the line. And although the people down here in Islamorada are not all saintly, at least they’re sane. If I had to deal with the crazies you find in a metropolitan area like Miami, well, they couldn’t pay me enough money.