Something for everyone. Promises galore. The possibilities were endless. Tidal Breeze crowed about spending $600 million to bring Panther Cay to life. There was no mention of the projected profits from the development.
Missing from the slick art was the bridge to make it all possible, but a spokesman for Tidal Breeze said, “Our company stands ready to pay fifty percent of the total cost of the bridge, and we’ve been assured by the state of Florida that the legislature will appropriate the rest of the funds during its next session. When completed, Panther Cay will pay for the bridge with new taxes within five years.”
Bruce had heard otherwise. The real gossip making the rounds was that Tidal Breeze was already in bed with some state senators and would get the bridge built without putting up a dime. It was promising to repay $50 million, about half the cost, over a thirty-year period with money saved from tax exemptions. It was a murky, complicated deal still being hammered out in bars around Tallahassee.
A much smaller story on page two offered some rebuttal from environmental groups. Needless to say, they were horrified at the project and vowed a tough fight. One of the more radical lawyers blasted Tidal Breeze for its long history of broken promises, failed projects, and environmental abuses.
The battle lines were quickly being drawn.
Bruce had been on the island for twenty-five years. He had opened Bay Books on a whim when he was only twenty-four years old and too young to be frightened. He had just nicked some rare books from his father’s estate, sold most of them for around $200,000, and became enamored with the business. He bought the only bookstore on the island, renovated it, put in a café and coffee bar, changed its name, and opened the doors.
He loved Camino and wanted it to change slowly, if at all. Panther Cay was the most audacious attack yet on the laid-back, peaceful lifestyle enjoyed by those attracted to the island and the town of Santa Rosa. From its downtown harbor, Panther Cay would be a twenty-minute boat ride away. The bright, gaudy lights of the resort would ruin the views to the west.
Bruce was somewhat confident the county supervisors would block it. However, with that much money in play, nothing was certain. At least two of the five supervisors were constantly spouting pro-growth nonsense.
He chuckled at the new name. If there had been a panther sighting within a hundred miles of Dark Isle, he wasn’t aware of it. There were only two hundred or so left in Florida. The species was highly endangered and lived near the Everglades. There was a beach called Panther Key on an island south of Naples.
But “Panther Cay” had a catchy ring to it and worked well in the promotional materials. There was already a website but it offered little.
His cell phone buzzed and he smiled at it. “Mercer, my dear, I was just thinking of you.”
“I’m sure you were. Hello, Bruce. How’s the island?”
“Still here. Miss me on your honeymoon?”
“Not at all. We’re having a grand time. Right now we’re on a train, the Royal Scotsman, somewhere near Dundee, headed for the Highlands.”
“Sounds lovely. Nothing to report here, except that a rogue corporation from Miami just announced a six-hundred-million-dollar resort on Dark Isle, now known as Panther Cay, at least that’s what the corporation is calling it. Other than that, things are quiet. There was a bar fight last Saturday at the Pirate’s Saloon.”
“I finished the book flying over. What an amazing story. Would it be possible to meet Lovely Jackson?”
“I can probably arrange that. As I said, she comes in twice a year and we have coffee. She’s a real character, but kind of spooky.”
“And you think she might cooperate if I write this story?”
“I don’t know. That’s the question. The only way to know is to ask her.”
“Here’s another question. How can this corporation develop Dark Isle if it’s owned by Lovely? She still claims ownership, right?”
“Right. She says she’s the last-known living heir to the property, but the paperwork is rather scarce. There has never been a grant from the throne or a property deed.”
“Sounds like another chapter.”
“Yes, it does. You’d better get busy. Is Thomas still around?”
“Sort of. He’s got his nose stuck in the book now, completely ignoring me.”
“What an idiot.”
“I’ll call when we get home.”
2
Steven Mahon had failed twice at retirement. For most of his illustrious career he was a top litigator for the Sierra Club and led assaults against all manner of environmental pollution and destruction. The lawsuits were long and brutal and after thirty years he burned out and retired to a small family farm in Vermont. There he lasted one winter, snowbound and bored, until his wife sent him to Boston to find work. He got a job with a small nonprofit, sued a few chemical companies, and survived a heart attack at the age of sixty-three. His wife was from Oregon, couldn’t handle snow, and decided they needed sunshine. They moved to Santa Rosa and bought a beautiful Victorian three blocks off Main Street. She took over a garden club as he puttered around with the turtle-watchers guarding eggs on the beach. When boredom threatened their marriage, he founded the Barrier Island Legal Defense Fund, an aggressive-sounding outfit that consisted of himself and a part-time secretary crammed together in a tiny office above a dress shop, across the street from Bay Books.
Now seventy years old, he claimed he’d never been happier. Bruce liked him because their politics were similar, and also because he bought a lot of books at no discount. He was quoted on page three in the morning’s paper as saying, “The proposed development of Dark Isle will be an environmental disaster like we’ve never seen in this part of Florida. We look forward to hauling Tidal Breeze into court.”
Never one to mince words or run from a reporter, Steven was always quick with a colorful word or two and loved making threats. Trench warfare against rich, ruthless corporations had stripped him of any semblance of timidity or diplomacy.
He and Bruce met for lunch at least once a month, and seeing Steven’s name in print prompted the invitation by Bruce. They found their favorite table on a waterside terrace at the main harbor, just as a shrimp boat chugged by loaded with the daily catch. Bruce, as always, ordered a bottle of Chablis. Steven said he would have only one glass. He was lean and in great health, but his doctors, and his wife, watched his numbers closely. Cardiac problems were hereditary.
“How’s the book coming along?” Bruce asked.
The book was his memoir, his war stories, his greatest hits in taking on wolf poachers in Montana, nuclear waste leakers in New Mexico, coal strip miners in Kentucky, and Miami cruise operators who dumped tons of garbage in the ocean. The list was long and remarkable and Bruce had heard many of the tales over the years. Steven was a fine raconteur and a good writer as well, but the book required discipline. The author disliked desks and computer screens.