“How could I?” she answered. “You took my keys and cut up my driver’s license.”
The part about cutting up her license was fantasy, but I was thinking, Uh-oh. “Someone used that truck,” I said, “and it wouldn’t be the first time you snuck out on your own.”
My mother glared. “Now you’re accusing me of being a dog killer and a liar!” She got to her feet and shuffled toward the counter, where I let her slip past, then watched as she poured her own tea and dumped in half the sugar bowl.
“A neighbor borrowed it, if you have to know,” she replied after a sip. “Check the yard for owl pellets. Also pieces of curly red hair and a blue ribbon. Bound to be spread all over the property. Probably a collar, too, but I doubt owls eat rhinestones.”
Incredible, I thought, she means it, and had to fight back a smile. The ugly fact was, I wanted to believe her story. The Pekingese had been as mean-natured and snappish as the new neighbors themselves. Twice the little dog had cornered me on our dock, yapping his shrill head off, then nipped at my ankles as I went by, once breaking the skin. Had I filed a lawsuit, as some suggested, my worries about paying my mother’s medical bills might be over because the neighbors were rumored to be wealthy. I didn’t sue, of course. Didn’t even bother to do a background check on the people to confirm if the rumors were true. My late uncle’s business is a licensed, bonded private investigation agency, so I know how to access such information, but snooping into people’s private lives is not a privilege I abuse.
One last time I tried to steer the subject back to the missing reel but gave up after listening, instead, to how Loretta’s vegetables would prosper now that the Pekingese was gone. She had never been a particularly affectionate mother, we’d never been close, but I couldn’t deny she was a first-rate gardener and loved tending her plants. First thing she did each morning was carry her coffee out to visit her collards and squash, then confirm the tomatoes were properly staked. The garden was her last call every evening, too, even on Wednesday nights when she had church.
I didn’t want to hear about the garden right now, though, and I was about to manufacture an excuse to go outside and check my boat when an excuse was provided for me. A knock came at the screen door: a little man in a suit, holding a folder under his arm. Behind him was a deputy sheriff-a woman deputy, red hair, petite, one nervous hand tapping at her holster, a name tag that read L. Tupplemeyer on her uniform.
Now what? I wondered.
“MRS. SMITH?” the man asked.
“That’s right,” I replied, not hesitating to lie. It was a way of shielding my mother from involvement. Loretta gets jumpy when policemen come around-a guilty conscience, I’ve always suspected-which has only gotten worse since her stroke. “Let’s walk outside to talk,” I suggested, and let the two follow me away from the porch.
When we were near the carport, the man put a paper into my hand and said, “You’ve been notified.” Then handed me several more sheets stapled to a yellow tag. “If you have questions, I can explain the basics or you can have your attorney contact our office. We don’t have a lot of time today, sorry-lots more stops to make.”
Deputy Tupplemeyer had parked her squad car around the bend, I noticed, midway between the house and a row of bayside cabins-Munchkinville, as I had told Mr. Chatham. The cabins had been built during the same period as the fish shacks and some weren’t in great shape-unpainted boats on blocks, cast nets hanging among stacks of wooden stone-crab traps. Apparently, Loretta wasn’t the only resident the man had plans to visit.
“Why in the world would I need an attorney?” I asked, reading what appeared to be a cover letter.
“That’s something you should ask an attorney,” he replied, which irritated me.
The letterhead read Florida Division of Historical Resources, Bureau of Archaeological Research. The first paragraph, which struck me as threatening, began You are hereby ordered to repair/replace/remove the structures and/or vegetation as listed on the pages attached. This must be done within 5 business days…
I flipped a page to skip ahead and looked up, my eyes moving from the little man wearing the suit to the county deputy. “This isn’t from the local zoning department,” I said. “Who are you?”
As the man told me his name, I flipped another page and soon felt my face coloring because of what came next: You are in violation of ordinances that: 1. Prohibit planting exotic vegetation. 2. Disturbing/altering property designated as archaeologically or historically important…
That was enough for me, no need to continue.
“I think you have the wrong address,” I said. “My family has owned this property for longer than you’ve been alive and we don’t plant anything more exotic than jasmine or bougainvillea-which are flowers, in case you don’t know, not illegal plants. Unless this is about the vegetable garden, which would be silly.”
The smug look on the man’s face told me It is about the garden.
“You can’t be serious?” I said.
The man confirmed that he was with a nod. “Unless you planted native species, a vegetable garden doesn’t belong here. In your packet, there’s a phone number for the extension agency. This island has been redesignated and the agents know it, so they’re expecting a lot of calls.”
Which made me mad enough to forget I was impersonating Loretta. “Redesignated historical-I know that. It happened more than a year ago.”
“Then you should be in compliance by now, shouldn’t you?” The man smiled.
I’m not a violent person, but I wanted to slap the smug look off his face. “This is ridiculous. My mother could have another stroke if she sees this letter. You should have better things to do than pick on invalid ladies who enjoy gardening.”
The man proved he didn’t by studying my late uncle’s truck, which was parked in the shade, then spoke to the deputy. “That tree? It’s an avocado. That wasn’t mentioned in the report, but it has to go. Avocados, mangoes-it’s the same as citrus. They’re all exotics. We should check the backyard before my next stop.”
“That tree’s a hundred years old!” I argued, which might have been true but probably wasn’t. Then asked, “Is that why she’s here? You’ve got to bring an armed deputy to protect you?”
The petite woman gave me a tough cop look that she’d probably seen in movies and spoke for the first time, her accent unmistakably Boston. “The state of Florida doesn’t want any trouble with locals. That’s why I’ve been assigned-ma’am.”
I shot her a hard look of my own and replied, “Then the state of Florida should relocate to a place that doesn’t attract hurricanes-or tourists from Massachusetts.”
It took Deputy Tupplemeyer a second to remember where she had been born. “Hey! Are you looking for trouble?”
“No,” I told her, “I’m looking for a reason not to order you off my property and I can’t think of a single one.” I indicated the neighbor’s new house, a mountain of concrete that dwarfed the poinciana and coconut palms separating our properties. “Those are the people you should be serving papers. They trucked off most of an Indian mound to build that house, then terraced the landscaping. Where was your agency then? They dumped a thousand years of pottery and artifacts somewhere-they won’t even tell the archaeologists. But no one from the government said a word! Now you’re bothering me about avocados and some pole beans? If I had either one of your jobs, I’d quit and do something I could be proud of.”