Beach Town (8 page)

Cindy nodded. “My lips are sealed. But I'm afraid you can't do a title search here. Property tax records are kept in the county courthouse, not here.”

“Oh. Where's the courthouse?”

“It's in Ducktown. That's our county seat.”

“And how far away is that?”

“Hmm. Depends on traffic.”

Greer crinkled her brow in surprise. “Really?”

“Nah. Just kidding,” Cindy said with a laugh. “The only time we have any traffic around here is when a log truck gets stuck on the railroad tracks. Ducktown's about fifteen minutes away from here. Straight down Ducktown Road.”

Greer laughed at herself now. “Okay. So I guess I'll head down there.”

“Exactly what property are you interested in? I've lived here all my life. Maybe I can help.”

Greer leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “It's the old casino building. Your mayor told me the city has a long-term lease on it, but I need to know who owns it.”

“Really? But that place is falling apart.”

“That's exactly why it works for the movie,” Greer confided. “That decrepit look fits right in with the plot.”

“That's an easy one. The Littrells own the building. So I guess you'd need to talk to Vanessa.”

“Does she live in Cypress Key?”

“Actually, she lives on Seahorse Key. That's a sort of island on the far south end of the island.”

“She lives on her own private island?”

“There's a little causeway that goes over there, but yeah, I guess you'd say it's hers, since there aren't any other houses out there. As far as I know, the Littrells have owned Seahorse for, like, ever. I guess they've lived around here at least as long as the Thibadeauxs.”

“What can you tell me about this Vanessa Littrell?” Greer asked in her best conspiratorial tone.

“She's rich as sin, for one,” Cindy said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “The Littrells own almost as much stuff around here as the paper company. Vanessa was the only child, and her daddy's only brother died in Vietnam, so her daddy was sort of an only child.”

“I take it you don't care for Vanessa.”

“Does it show?” Cindy giggled. “We went all through school together, till her mama shipped her off to boarding school in Jacksonville her senior year of high school. Vanessa was always kind of snooty. Back then, she was nothing to look at. Kinda skinny. She had bad acne, and a real honker of a nose. My mama used to say Vanessa looked just like her daddy, ‘bless her heart.' She never dated at all when she was in high school.”

“And then?” Greer raised an eyebrow.

“When she came home from boarding school at Christmas break, she had bandages clear across her face. She told everybody she'd been in a bad car wreck and nearly died. Big surprise, when the bandages came off, she had the cutest brand-new little nose you've ever seen.”

“And her popularity soared?” Greer asked.

“Oh yeah,” Cindy said dryly. “When she got home that summer before she went away to college, I think she dated every boy in town. Twice.”

“Did she by any chance date Eb Thibadeaux?” Greer asked casually.

“Sure did,” Cindy said. “All the girls in town were crazy for Eb.”

“Including you?” Greer asked.

“I might have had a little bitty crush on him,” Cindy admitted. “But I never would have had a chance with a big stud like Eb. So instead I went and fell for his dumb-ass cousin Butch. Big mistake. My mama talked till she was blue in the face, but I wouldn't listen. Married him instead of going to junior college.”

“And in the meantime? Did Eb and Vanessa stick?”

“Oh no,” Cindy said. “He had a full scholarship to engineering school up North somewhere. Maybe Purdue? And Vanessa went to Alabama, where she majored in sorority with a minor in beauty pageant.”

“She sounds like a real piece of work.”

“She is that,” Cindy said. “Born rich, and got richer. She's been married a couple times, but she's been back here in Cypress Key for a couple years now, living at the Littrell home place on Seahorse. The thing I can't figure out is why.”

“Why what?”

“Vanessa Littrell has enough money she could live anywhere, do anything she wants. So why is she hanging out here in Podunky Cypress Key, Florida?”

“Maybe I'll just drive on over to Seahorse Key and ask her,” Greer said. “But there is one more thing I need to see about here. The mayor says you're the one to talk to for a variance to build a guard shack and security gate for Bluewater Bay?”

Cindy nodded. “Do you mind if I ask why they need a security gate out there for Milo's empty houses?”

Greer just smiled. “Movie stuff.”

“Ooh. Those are the nicest houses on the island. That must be where you're going to stash the stars, right?”

Greer winked. “Can't say.”

“Fair enough,” Cindy said. “You can't file for the request for the variance. It has to be the landowner. But you can tell Milo to call when he's ready for the permit. Shouldn't be any problem getting it done.”

 

9

Greer had no trouble finding the causeway to Seahorse Key. Along the way, she took a call from Milo, the owner of the Bluewater Bay houses, who agreed to rent both furnished houses for the length of the movie shoot, and to start work immediately on getting the security gate erected.

“Just one thing, Miss Hennessy,” he said, after they'd agreed to the deal. “These folks, they won't be having any of those wild Hollywood parties you hear about, right? I mean, I'll be glad to finally make a little bit of money off of 'em, but after your folks are gone, I need to be able to sell those houses. Which I can't do if they've been trashed. You understand what I mean?”

“Yes sir, I do,” Greer said. “The director of the film only has about six weeks to get this movie shot on location before his star has to be available for another commitment. I seriously doubt he'll have time for any wild parties. Beyond that, we'll take out renters insurance on your houses, so if there were any damage, which there won't be, the insurance would take care of that.”

“Fair enough,” Milo said. “I'll have a cleaning service run out there this weekend and get both places spiffed up and ready before your folks come in.”

*   *   *

She had a phone number for Vanessa Littrell, thanks to the city clerk, but Greer had already decided to pay a personal visit to Cypress Key's richest citizen. It was always her policy to do business face-to-face, and anyway, she found herself intensely curious about the woman.

Her Kia's air conditioner was no match for the heat of a swampy Gulf Coast late spring afternoon. Greer guessed the temperature was probably hovering in the nineties. She tilted the air vents toward her face and prayed she wouldn't look like a melted snow cone by the time she reached her destination.

This meeting could be the key to getting
Beach Town
made here. And if that happened, maybe her career could be resurrected. Her last job—the Paso Robles fire, all of that—would be forgotten, and forgiven. In Hollywood, you were only as good as your last job. This job—and
Beach Town
—would make people forget.

The causeway to Seahorse Key was actually nothing more than a narrow sandy road with a wooden trestle bridge crossing a tidal creek. Marshland lined both sides of the road, and once she'd crossed the bridge, a weathered sign announced she was on Seahorse Key.

She chose to ignore the
PRIVATE PROPERTY
–
NO HUNTING
signs, but it was hard to ignore the pair of large golden retrievers that ran alongside the Kia barking a nonstop alarm as she drove up to a sprawling house set in the shade of a grove of towering oak trees.

The main house was two stories high, constructed of silvery cedar planks and raised up on a foundation of white-painted brick. One-story wings sprouted at right angles to the main residence. The house reminded Greer of photos she'd seen of plantations in the Low Country of Georgia and South Carolina. The vibe was casual, moneyed elegance.

The woman walking toward her now, with a small white terrier tucked under one arm, gave off a similar vibe.

She was petite, with glossy dark hair in a chin-length bob, and the tank top, spandex shorts, and running shoes she wore obviously weren't just for show.

“Can I help you?” the woman called, a questioning expression on her face.

“Hi there,” Greer said, staying by the Kia and gesturing toward the dogs, who though sitting, seemed to be on full alert, their ears quivering with intensity. “Are these guys friendly?”

“Depends on what you want,” the woman said.

Gnats swarmed around Greer's face, and her face and neck were already slick with sweat. One of the dogs, the slightly larger of the two, emitted a low growl. The smaller one seemed intent on sniffing Greer's crotch.

“My name is Greer Hennessy, and I'm a film location scout. We're going to be filming a movie here in the next couple months, and if you're Vanessa Littrell, I'm interested in talking to you about the old casino.”

“Here? On Seahorse Key?”

“Here, as in Cypress Key,” Greer corrected herself.

“Luke! Owen!” Vanessa Littrell called sharply. “Here!”

The dogs happily trotted over to their mistress, who rewarded them each with head pats. “Come on inside then,” she said, turning and walking toward the front door. The dogs and Greer trotted along behind her.

*   *   *

The interior of Vanessa Littrell's home was distinctly masculine. The dark wood floors were covered with worn Oriental rugs in reds and blues, and the sofa in the living room where she seated Greer was leather. The walls were paneled with knotty pine and dotted with sporting art, featuring paintings of dogs and horses and dead game. A portrait over the fireplace showed a handsome silver-haired man, holding a breached shotgun over his shoulder, with a hand poised on the head of a golden retriever that might have been a twin to the ones that now lolled at Vanessa Littrell's feet.

Greer wasted no time laying out her proposition.

“Your casino is a key location for this film. It's the right age and look. It's on a pier. It's as though the screenwriter wrote the film to go with your building.”

“I see,” Vanessa said, absentmindedly stroking the white dog she held in her lap. “And I'd like to help you, but at the moment the City of Cypress Key has a long-term lease on the building.”

“Yes, the mayor told me that already,” Greer said. “To be honest, I spoke to him first about leasing the casino, but when I told him the script calls for the building to be destroyed in an explosion, he made it very clear that he doesn't think it's in the city's best interest. Because it's a historic building.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “That sounds like Eb, all right.”

“I came out here to talk to you because I thought maybe, if you were interested, there could be a way to make this work, despite the mayor.”

“If it were up to me, I'd say you can do whatever you want with the place,” Vanessa said, frowning. “It's in deplorable condition, hasn't been used in three or four years, and honestly, it would probably take at least a million dollars in improvements—a million dollars the city doesn't have, by the way—to make it habitable again.”

“But?” Greer asked.

“Eb Thibadeaux and a few busybodies in town have some pie-in-the-sky idea about making the casino into a community center. They've supposedly applied for some state and federal grants, but who in their right minds is going to hand this town a million bucks for improvements to a building the city doesn't even own?”

“You wouldn't consider selling it to the city?” Greer asked.

“The short answer is no. They don't have the money, anyway. Look, that's waterfront property. If it weren't for that damned crumbling white elephant of a casino, it would be prime for a mixed-use development. As it is—right now? It's worth zero.”

“Except to the producers of this movie,” Greer added. “You know, we'd actually pay
you
to let us blow it up.”

“Suddenly, this is all very fascinating.” Vanessa stood abruptly, setting the terrier on the floor. “Would you want to join me for a drink? It's five o'clock somewhere.”

“Why not?”

“Stay!” Vanessa said sternly. Greer looked up, surprised.

“Not you,” Vanessa said. She pointed at the terrier. “Stay, Izzy.” The labs wagged their tails in united agreement.

*   *   *

Vanessa came back from the kitchen with a tarnished silver tray holding two heavy cut-glass tumblers, a bucket of crushed ice, a bottle of bourbon, and a pitcher of water. A plate held some sliced cheese and crackers.

“I'm out of white wine, and I don't care for beer,” she told Greer, setting the tray on the coffee table. “Unless you like bourbon, I'm afraid you're out of luck.” She poured a couple fingers of the amber liquid over ice in her own glass, and offered the bottle to Greer, who poured herself the same drink.

“Cheers.” Vanessa took a sip and nodded at Greer. “I'm curious. Who told you I own the casino? Not Eb, I bet.”

“Eb actually refused to tell me who owned it,” Greer agreed. “It was Cindy, the town clerk, who suggested I come talk to you about the pier and the casino.”

“Oh yes. Cindy Thibadeaux. We went to high school together. Not my biggest fan. I bet she told you about my nose job, right?”

Greer blushed.

“Ancient history,” Vanessa assured her, knocking her drink back in three gulps. “I get it. I was always the rich bitch in Cypress Key.”

She poured herself another two fingers of bourbon and jiggled the ice in her glass. “When I was in school here, the cute, popular girls—Cindy and her crowd—they wouldn't give me the time of day because I had that hideous schnoz. And the guys wouldn't look twice because, well, I was friggin' ugly. Then, once I went away to boarding school and had dermabrasion and a nose job, the girls felt threatened and the guys were fascinated. I probably didn't do myself any favors, either, dating every guy who asked.”