Until the mid-sixties, Marco was a fishing and clamming village. Enter three brothers, the Mackles, who decided to work a classic Florida finesse, but on a grand scale: presell lots to snow-weary northerners and use the cash to finance the infrastructure of an entire city; a city that had yet to be built.
For months, the Mackles ran ads in major newspapers touting a new golf and retirement resort in the Ten Thousand Islands. It was billed as a world-class facility even though no facilities existed. What did exist were artists' renderings and little diorama cities that real estate agents flogged at high-pressure sales "parties" that promised free trips to Florida.
The gambit worked. It's easy to push sunshine in The Great Gray North. They sold millions in raw property and used the profit to build precisely what they had promised, including a mazework of canals to create more "waterfront" lots.
The result? Marco was an environmentalist's nightmare, but a triumph of business ingenuity.
In recent years, development has stabilized and the community has found its own character and direction, though that was not easily seen as I summited the Marco bridge in my old pickup. From the peak of the bridge, the island spread away below: residential areas in computer-chip patterns, then a jagged fringe of high-rise condos on the beach.
I'd followed Jo Ann down from Sanibel-not easy to do, because she was a fast, confident driver in her black Lexus. I had to keep my truck floored much of the time just to keep up. Prior to leaving, she'd told me she wasn't looking forward to the trip, and not just because of the funeral. "I come back like maybe every couple of years, and it's always the same," she said. "More houses, more building, more traffic."
I'd pointed out that the same could be said of Sanibel. The same, in fact, could be said of all Florida.
"I know, but it's different when it's the place where you grew up. That used to be a heck of a nice little island. Real friendly and simple. Piney wood houses along with the new stuccos, and still lots of barefoot kids. The monsters they got there now, they're like stamped from a mold. They say it's still Marco Island, but it's not. Not the way I remember it. What they did was, they built something over Marco but they kept the name."
I've listened to enough bitter fellow Floridians to know there is no sensible response to their lament nor to their rosy remembrances of the past. There are a couple of reasons. In a state so young that nearly everyone is only three or four generations removed from somewhere else, the birthright of "natives" is easily argued. Also, Floridians have chopped up, dredged and reconstituted their homeland as eagerly as the most thoughtless of outsiders. Or happily sold it to developers who did worse.
So I said nothing as I listened to her.
I'd driven because I was going to continue on down to Key Largo after the service. JoAnn was not. Also, my truck has a trailer hitch. If I was going to be on the Keys for a few days, I would need my boat. I told her it was because I wanted to hunt some big October bonefish.
Only partially true.
For me, being near water without a boat creates a sense of confinement that approaches neurosis. Claustrophobia is a word that comes close to describing what I feel.
I followed her as she made a turn, and another. Then she pulled into a 7-Eleven. Got out of her car shaking her head and said, "Damn it all, Ford! There's so much new building been done, I'm not sure I can find the cemetery. I know it's off Bald Eagle, but it's such a little bitty thing. Let me run in and ask."
I sat in my truck, watching JoAnn through the convenience store window. Her face was framed by a Lotto decal and an ATM sign. She was standing at the counter, speaking to the cashier. I watched her nod and nod again. I watched her expression change as she looked outside toward me. Then she was crossing the parking lot, a wry smile on her face.
"Know what the clerk told me? She said she didn't think Marco had a cemetery 'cause everyone was boxed up and shipped back home. No one really stayed here. Isn't that hilarious?"
"You're kidding." I started the truck. "So next we stop at a gas station and ask directions. Or buy a map."
"We don't have to. When I looked out the window, guess what I saw? I knew we had to be close."
I looked where she was pointing and saw an American flag high in the breeze above a hedge of concrete buildings, a beige Church of God, a Citgo Station and more buildings beyond.
The cemetery was hidden back in there. Marco had squeezed up around it.
Tomlinson was weaving a little. He couldn't stand straight; had to brace himself against a tree for support as he told me, "We've got to look in the casket, man. I hate it. Hate it. For you, no prob-leem-oh. A man of science. No religious affiliations, zero politics, not much sensitivity that anyone's ever noticed. So it's no big deal for you. But me, it's a whole different gig. Know why?"
Tomlinson was drunk. Or high. Probably both. Easy enough to tell when I got close. The odor. "Tell me, old buddy."
"Reason is, you've never been trapped in the spirit world with a bunch of screaming ghost raiders. I have. So it's not like I'm eager to bend over a coffin, stand there with my nose open and risk those bastards climbing back into my brain. Seriously, man, the little devils consider LSD their own personal fucking ski trail. Keep in mind, this girl had a very ancient soul. There was lots and lots of karmic traffic."
We were standing side by side beneath two pine trees not far from Dorothy Copeland's open grave. They'd used a portable hydraulic sling to raise the casket, then screened it from view with a green tarp that was chin-high. The tiny cemetery wasn't much bigger than a baseball infield, so the canvas wall dominated the area. There were a few old headstones, bone-white, showing the decades, and a war memorial with a bench near a fountain and a flag.
I said, "Is that the funeral director over there?"
Tomlinson moaned softly, touched his forehead as if checking for a fever. "His name's Barry Caldwell, the one who looks like Lumpy on Leave it to Beaver. That's him. Did you hear what I said?"
"I heard. Demons up the nose. You don't have to bend over the coffin, no need for you to get near it. You've already told me what we're looking for. If it's there, it won't be hard to find."
"I'm not saying I won't look. I'm just saying that I've got to play this very safe. Wear a face mask, keep a little distance. I've made enough wallets for one lifetime."
"Um-huh. You spoke to Caldwell, the director?"
"He's a funeral rep, actually. Yeah, a pretty nice guy. He was going to hire a minister for what they call the 'committal service,' but once he found out I was an ordained Buddhist priest, he turned the whole thing over to me. With Delia's permission, of course."
"Wise choice. Should be an interesting funeral."
"You betcha."
"Watch you don't stagger and fall into the hole."
"I can always count on you for encouragement, Doc. That's the kind of advice that actually helps."
Tomlinson looked the part. He was wearing billowing white pants and a shirt made out of some kind of linenlike material. It gave him an East Indian countenance except for his goatee and long hair, which was still in beaded dreadlocks.
"What about the cop? Did you speak with the cop?"
Through the trees, sitting on a marble bench beneath the flag, I could see Delia Copeland hunched over a package of Kleenex, dabbing at her eyes as a man in a gray suit made notes. Standing nearby was her friend and coworker, Betty Lynn, a massively buxom blonde. Delia was dressed in a black skirt and blouse. She looked smaller, more time-damaged than JoAnn had described her. When we'd shaken hands earlier, her eyes had the stricken, glazed look of a bomb victim. I doubted if she even heard my name.