So, despite the memories, when the opportunity arose, she decided to sell.
Key Largo was the first and longest of the Florida keys, made famous by an old Humphrey Bogart movie that Alex had seen only once as a teenager. She hadn’t particularly liked the film, mainly because it had been shot in black and white, and the Key Largo she knew seemed to exist in a perpetual state of living color. Everything was brighter down here, with its pastel greens and blues at full saturation. Even the cement dividers along the highway were painted turquoise, as if to announce to travelers that the town they were about to enter was something special.
Baltimore, where Alex made her home, was a big and unwieldy and often dangerous waterfront city, while Key Largo was about as laid back as you could get without dozing off in your lounge chair. It moved at a lazy pace and smelled of the sea, and those who visited were often reluctant to leave.
With the town of Homestead in her rearview mirror, Alex drove along what the locals called the Stretch, the last bit of highway before you hit Largo proper, and felt the tension inside her begin to seep away, as if someone had released a pressure valve. She thought of her childhood again and wondered if she was making a terrible mistake.
Had she decided to sell the house too quickly?
Should she call the agent who had contacted her and tell him she’d changed her mind?
Just as she was thinking this, her phone rang and she groaned, assuming it was McElroy still trying to ruin her day. But when she glanced at the screen, she was surprised to see the name THOMAS GÉRARD, the agent she was scheduled to meet at the Shimmy Shack.
Talk about timing.
Gérard was the one who had convinced her to sell. A few days before she left for Turkey, he had e-mailed her with his pitch, assuring her that his client was willing to pay above market price for a chance to own property there. The neighbors in the area had told him they hadn’t seen anyone around her place for quite some time, and if she had no real use for it, why not bid it adieu and collect a hefty payoff?
She thought he was being a bit presumptuous at first, but after letting the idea percolate, she decided he was right. Sometimes it was better to move on.
Looking out at the bay again, she saw the boats bobbing in Gilbert’s Marina. The phone kept screaming at her to pick it up, so she pulled it from its cradle and put it to her ear.
“Hey, Thomas. Sorry I’m late. I stopped at a fruit stand along the way.”
The fruit stand was a place called Robert Is Here, and sold the best strawberry key lime milkshake Alex had ever had. It had always been a scheduled stop when she was traveling with the family, so she’d made sure to include it this time, too.
“Not to worry,” Gérard said in a voice that held the tiniest hint of a French accent. “I’m calling to apologize myself. I have to speak to one of my clients before I leave the hotel. I hope this isn’t a problem?”
“No problem at all. It’ll give me a chance to open up the house and air it out a little.”
She had no idea what that might entail. The management company had always prepared the place for hurricane season and had probably left it that way when the business folded. Two-plus years of summer heat and humidity were bound to have done a job on the house.
“Excellent,” Gérard said. “I’ll see you soon.”
Ten minutes later, Alex pulled onto the drive that led to the Shimmy Shack, and heard the familiar crunch of crushed shells beneath her tires. Like everywhere else in the Keys, there was no real landscaping at the house, more of a controlled, natural growth, featuring a jungle of palms and multicolored bougainvillea trees.
The house itself was a yellow box that stood on cement stilts several feet from the shore. And as Alex had suspected, large sheets of now graying and dilapidated plywood covered the windows and front door, to protect the place from seasonal hurricanes.
The house had been built by her grandfather in the late sixties, and no one had ever bothered to install proper storm shutters. Grandpa Eddie had always said a solid sheet of plywood was good enough for him, and apparently the management company had agreed.
Alex pulled into the carport and cut her engine. She’d have to pry the wood from the door to get inside, but she hadn’t thought to bring any tools — a boneheaded move if there ever was one. Hopefully, the kit her father had always kept on the premises was still here.
She climbed out of the rental and made her way to the storage shed built into the right wall of the carport, then found the key on her key ring and unlatched the padlock.
The enclosure was nearly as deep as the house was wide, and was full of over forty-five years’ worth of junk. Moldering cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly, flaps hanging open, still bearing the signs of Alex’s and Danny’s childhood rummaging.
Even the old turntable was there.
No sign of “Shimmy, Shimmy, Ko-Ko-Bop,” however.
Alex stepped over to a workbench on the left, cleared away a couple boxes, and was relieved to find her father’s battered gray toolbox sitting atop it. She carried it around to the front of the house, took the steps up to the front door, and went to work.
Five minutes and several rusty nails later, she set the slab of plywood aside, unlocked the door and…
Something stopped her as she was about to push it open.
A gut feeling. A sense that something was out of place.
Having learned long ago to pay attention to her senses, Alex took a step back and looked at the windows to the left and right. The graying plywood covering them was peeling in spots and otherwise looked the same as the board that had covered the door. But the one to her right didn’t seem as tight to the frame as the other one, so she walked over for a closer inspection. Several nails were missing, and those that remained appeared a bit loose in their sockets. This could have been from normal wear and tear, but her gut told her it wasn’t.
She grabbed the edge of the board, intending to give it a good yank to test its strength, but she’d barely started when the whole board fell off the wall and revealed a shattered windowpane.
Shit.
Someone had been inside.
Might still be, for all she knew.
She reached into the toolbox, wrapped her fingers around the handle of the hammer, and returned to the door. She twisted the knob, pushed it open a crack, and listened, knowing her caution was probably pointless after all the racket she’d been making. If someone had been inside when she arrived, they’d be long gone by now.
Then again, if that someone was hostile, he might be waiting for her.
Hearing nothing suspicious, Alex widened the gap and slid sideways into the living room, keeping the hammer raised as she swiveled her head, alert for any sign of movement. The tarp that covered the sofa had an obvious dent in it where someone’s ass had taken residence, and an empty bottle of Swamp Head ale sat on the wooden-plank coffee table her grandfather had made.
She supposed it could have been left by the laborer who had put up the plywood, but she didn’t think so. Not with that broken window.
Peering into the kitchen, she saw a spent candle on the countertop — to compensate for the lack of electricity — and another empty bottle of ale, along with a crumpled pack of cigarettes.
Tightening her grip on the hammer, she started down the narrow hallway that led to the two bedrooms and the deck that overlooked the ocean. Both bedroom doors were hanging open, the mattresses stripped of sheets. She almost continued on, but something on the floor of the room she and Danny used to share caught her eye. She stepped inside and her jaw tensed.
A sleeping bag.
Surely whoever had slept here had plans to come back. Or maybe he was outside, hiding in the thick tangle of bougainvillea trees, hoping she would soon leave.