6
Two days after the lawsuit was filed, Bruce met Steven and Diane for a late afternoon drink at the Pirate’s Saloon. He handed them both a copy of the lawsuit, which was a mere three pages long, and watched their amused faces as they read.
Steven was smiling when he finished. “And what was Gifford Knox doing looking at a new home in Old Dunes?”
“He was looking at a new home in Old Dunes. Same as other folks.”
“Did he buy one?”
“Still pondering, but doubtful. Really not his scene.”
Diane said, “I thought he lived on a sailboat.”
“He does. But there will be a nice marina out there and a place for him to dock. He’s very curious about these new developments.”
“I smell a rat,” Steven said, still smiling.
“You should.”
“And how is he recuperating?”
“He’s coming along. Maddy says there should be no additional brain damage.”
Steven tossed his copy on an empty chair and laughed. “You did this, didn’t you?”
“Did what?” Bruce protested with a grin. “It takes very little to get Gifford involved in a good fight. You said yourself that the only way to ‘pierce the corporate veil’ as they say, was to sue the company and get their documents. Well, here’s the lawsuit, and Gifford’s lawyer is hot on the trail.”
“Beautiful.”
“I thought you’d like it. If Tidal Breeze does indeed own Old Dunes, then what?”
“Then we have a chat with Judge Salazar and explain that she has a rather serious conflict of interest. Her son is in business with one of the litigants. We’ll press her to recuse herself. If she refuses, then we’ll consider going to the state bar association. That would be very embarrassing for her.”
“Do you think she knows who owns Old Dunes?” Diane asked.
Steven shook his head. “Highly unlikely, at least at this point. How many corporate names have you traced back to Tidal Breeze?”
“Dozens.”
“Right. These guys are slick, sly, and very secretive. They have plenty of lawyers and tax advisors and operate in many places here and offshore. No, she doesn’t have a clue. But, there might come a time when Tidal Breeze feels the need to apply some pressure.”
Bruce said, “It’s still so speculative.”
“It is. But we’re getting there, thanks to Gifford Knox and his clumsiness.”
“What? Didn’t you read the lawsuit? He’s not clumsy. The stairs were shoddy, defective, and part of an unsafe work environment.”
“Beautiful,” Steven said again.
7
“Why are we attracting lawsuits up there?” Wilson Larney asked as he stared out the window and gazed at the ocean. “This was supposed to be easier. Roll in, throw some cash around, buy off everyone, and start building. I can’t believe it’s almost April and we’re still bogged down in court.”
One lawyer, Pete Riddle, said, “It’s a simple slip-and-fall in one of our new homes. The guy had some injuries but nothing serious. I’ve told the insurance company to settle it, and quick. The plaintiff’s lawyers are poking around offshore.”
“And the injured guy’s some kind of big writer or something?”
Dud Nash, the other lawyer, said, “Oh yes, name’s Gifford Knox. Good crime writer. I’ve read him.”
“Never heard of him,” Wilson said.
That’s because you haven’t cracked a novel since high school, Dud thought.
Wilson was frustrated but never angry. His father, Rex, the founder, had been a hothead who cursed and threw things at subordinates. Wilson was far more professional, and far richer, and believed in keeping his cool. However, it was apparent that he was losing patience with the slow progress at Panther Cay. He wanted the largest casino in North Florida and was convinced it would mop up with Atlanta traffic.
“When’s the trial?” he asked.
Riddle replied, “Same. Still May eighteenth. Nothing should delay it.”
“And we offered the old lady half a mil, right?”
“Right,” replied Dud. “And she said no.”
“She’s never had a dime, lives on Social Security, and she turned down half a million in cash?”
“She did.”
“Okay. Offer her one million dollars to go away. Got it?”
Jeff smiled and said, “Yes, sir, boss. We’ll get it done.”
“The boys in Tallahassee have the funding for the bridge. A hundred and sixty million dollars. The banks have approved our first series of construction loans, two hundred million. What the hell are we waiting for?”
8
After six months on the island, Diane had met far more people than Steven had met in six years, not that he was trying to compete. She had a knack for remembering names, so people remembered her. She stopped by the bookstore almost every day, said hello to Bruce and to every other person who worked there, and took the time to chat for a few minutes. She knew the baristas in the coffee shops, the waitresses in the restaurants, the clerks in the dress shops. She visited Sid Larramore at The Register at least once a week and traded gossip. She also spent time in the vaults reading past issues. She jotted down every name that she might one day come across. She flirted with the beat cops, the deputies, and the charter boat captains at the harbor. She watched the court dockets and kept up with cases. She got fresh with some of the lawyers but never went too far.
And she had spent so much time with Lovely that they had become close friends. Diane coaxed her, and Miss Naomi, to a new café downtown, one that was not around back in the day. They had a long lunch and had so much fun they did it again. Lovely invited her to come sit on the front porch and have iced tea. Lovely had so many stories, and Diane would stop her and say, “That’s a new one. Mind if I tell Mercer?”
Mercer was always a topic of discussion. Diane told her everything, regardless of whether she had cleared it with Lovely. Occasionally, the topic of money was mixed into the conversation, and Lovely had little to say. Over time, though, Diane began to suspect that she wasn’t exactly dependent on a Social Security check. Her life was simple and there was little to spend money on. She had purchased the house fifteen years earlier and there was no mortgage. Her only extravagance was clothing, her colorful robes and turbans and scarves. Lovely, always reticent, finally admitted that she ordered her wardrobe from a store in Queens. She produced a catalog — Kazari’s African Boutique — and allowed Diane to flip through it. Pages and pages of colorful dresses and robes, and the clothing wasn’t cheap.
“You must have quite a wardrobe,” Diane said, practically begging for a look.
“It’s nice,” Lovely said. Her front door remained closed.
Once, on the porch, Diane was taking notes as they worked through Lovely’s employment history. She was quick with the dates, but, as Diane had already learned, the dates were proving to be flexible. After she left Dark Isle at the age of fifteen, she moved to Santa Rosa and went to school. She and her mother were practically starving and both worked wherever they could, primarily around the canneries. When Lovely was in her early twenties, she began working as a housekeeper in various hotels along the beach. This was not unusual; many black women worked in the resorts, hotels, apartments, and fine homes. When she was about fifty-five, she landed a nicer job working in a large home, one of the Victorians, in central Santa Rosa. The owner was Mrs. Rooney, the widow of an older man who had passed years earlier. Mrs. Rooney was from “up north” and had a different view of race relations. She and Lovely became close friends and relied on each other. Lovely was still required to wear her housekeeper’s uniform each day, and Mrs. Rooney would never think of having dinner with her in a restaurant, but things were slowly changing.