Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County (20 page)

Sure enough, something did happen. Someone vandalized the Welcome to Dreamsville billboards. On each one, a crude-looking tomahawk had been painted over the head of the smiling man in the illustration. This was so exciting that no one, even Judd's mean classmates, could talk of anything else.

Of course, speculation began immediately. There were all kinds of theories but the most popular notion was that Seminole Joe had done it himself. It was a warning from the ol' haint that we were playing with fire.

As for myself, I didn't know what to believe. In the light of day it was easy to dismiss the idea. Late at night, alone in my cottage, was another story.

Jackie's reaction was predictable. “Oh, here we go again,” she said. “News flash! It's
not
Seminole Joe. There
is
no Seminole Joe. It's someone who is taking advantage of the situation. Or
maybe it was just some kids being foolish—after all, it's getting close to Halloween.”

“Is it you?” Mrs. Bailey White asked.

“Of course not! Don't be ridiculous. Those billboards are set back at least fifteen feet from the edge of the road. Do you really think I would walk back there? And then what—climb up the billboard? With a can of paint and a brush?”

She had a point.

“Well, then, who did it?” Mrs. Bailey White persisted.

“It wasn't me,” I said, surprised at how defensive I sounded. “Do you think it could have been Judd?”

“What?!” Jackie snapped. “He would never do that. Besides, I asked him this morning, and he said he didn't.”

“I'm telling you, it's not nice to make fun of the people around here,” Plain Jane said to Jackie. “They have their ways. You have yours.”

Jackie sniffed.

“You don't understand it here and maybe you never will,” Mrs. Bailey White said, sounding more than a little cranky. “People have a right to be spooked around here. All kinds of nasty things happen.”

“Like what?” Jackie was nothing if not curious.

“Well, did you know that a corpse turns to bones in twelve hours?”

“Ew!”

“I mean, the whole cycle of life—and death—is sped up here. You got to understand that, Jackie. That's why it's so easy for folks to believe in Seminole Joe. Things are different than they seem. This is not a place where folks get second chances. You get lost in the swamp, you're dead. You get bit by a snake,
you're dead. You go out fishing in the Gulf, get caught in a storm, you're dead.”

“How cheery.”

“Sarcasm is hardly helpful, Jackie,” Plain Jane said.

“Dora, dear, are you going to pick on me, too?” Jackie said to me, but I could tell she didn't really expect an answer. She looked away and, with surprising force, ground her cigarette into an ashtray.

T
wo days later, Jackie was in a far better mood. The billboard vandalism had upset folks in a way that nothing else had. Jackie reported a flurry of letters to the editor coming into the newspaper's office. Not all of them were printed, but Jackie, on the sly, had been reading each one and was keeping a secret tally—for, against, and why. The billboard vandalism was a big boost in our favor.

Ultimately, she hoped to go to Tallahassee with a petition asking the state to intervene with Darryl's plans. With enough opposition from local citizens, she hoped Dreamsville Estates might be dropped altogether. Still, Jackie admitted that it was unclear if we could turn back the tide.

Meanwhile, Ted had returned from a business trip up north that included a day trip to check out Darryl's investors. “Ted did some exploring for us,” Jackie said. “Well, actually, of course, he was doing this on Mr. Toomb's behalf, but he rented a car and drove to Basking Ridge.”

My heart lurched.

“What did he find out?” Mrs. Bailey White asked impatiently.

“He actually got to meet the main investor,” Jackie replied. Then she turned to me. “Dora, I don't know how to tell you this except just say it straight out. The young woman Darryl is marrying—just as we suspected—is the daughter of the man who owns the investing firm. Her name is Celeste.”

“I bet she's ugly as sin,” Mrs. Bailey White said with conviction.

“Well, Ted didn't actually meet the daughter,” Jackie said quickly. “He met with her father and his colleagues for drinks at a country club. It was all very collegial. And Ted said it was a very quaint town, Basking Ridge, and just an hour from Manhattan. Wouldn't that be lovely? Anyway, that's all I know right now.”

I realized they were looking at me. “Can we change the subject?” I asked, a bit abruptly.

“I'm sorry, Dora, but I had to tell you,” Jackie said.

“Well, now what do we do?” Plain Jane asked. “That doesn't sound very promising in terms of using it against Darryl. I mean since his investors seem on the up-and-up.”

“Well, it would be great if it turns out they're corrupt in some way,” Jackie said cheerfully, “but it almost doesn't matter.”

“How can it not matter?” Plain Jane asked uneasily.

“Because I'm going to use it against them anyway.” She refused to say anything further but her column the next week provided an answer.

YANKEE CASH TO PAY FOR DREAMSVILLE DEVELOPMENT?

Neapolitans, sources suggest that Mr. Darryl Norwood's real-estate development is being quietly funded by a wealthy investor who resides far north of the Mason-Dixon line—in New Jersey, in fact. While the investor and his colleagues appear to be aboveboard, should it not raise the question about the future of our beloved Naples?

This angle was both shameless—since, after all, Jackie was a Yankee herself, through and through—and brilliant. If there was one thing you could count on, it was folks' distrust of rich Northerners.

“Now I see how they won the war,” Mrs. Bailey White said, with grudging admiration, to Plain Jane and me. “Yankees will throw their own kind off a cliff to get what they want.”

The column raised alarm bells and sparked the ire of the Collier County Sons of the Confederacy, one more important group now squarely in our back pocket. Jackie's new estimate of letters to the editor was 50 percent in favor of the development compared to close to 90 percent just two months before.

While I was pleased with Jackie's progress, it was anyone's guess if her plans would actually work or how long they would take. The fact was I needed to get back to Mississippi or I'd have no job at the library and no rented room at Mrs. Conroy's. It
was late October 1964. It was time to fish or cut bait, or, in other words, stop postponing.

Jackie and the others knew I had to leave. But someone—and, unfortunately, that person was me—needed to inform Dolores Simpson. I could have gone away without saying good-bye to her, I suppose, but I knew I'd never be able to live with myself. She deserved to hear that even if I hadn't been successful, I had tried. Sometimes, that had to be enough. And, surely, it counted for something.

But I sure wasn't looking forward to saying that to Dolores. I'd stood up to her and survived but I wasn't sure my luck would hold a second time. To be honest, I was still scared to death of her.

I decided I should bring a present—an apology of sorts—so I spent hours making Mama's homemade biscuits. I took a basket that I'd used for picking flowers and filled it with the biscuits and a small ham I bought at the Winn-Dixie. Even though I was sure that her son, Robbie-Lee, must be sending her money when he could, she was not likely to spend it on luxuries like meat.

When I arrived and she saw the basket, she knew it was either a celebration or a farewell gift. A glance at the guilty look on my face, and she knew which one it was.

“So, you weren't able to stop him,” she said gruffly. I watched her hands as she worked with a tool the size of a nail file on a flat piece of pine. It took me a moment to realize that she was making a sign.

“I didn't know you were such an expert woodworker,” I said.

“Oh, girl, there's a whole lot of things you don't know about me,” she said, without looking up.

“What's your new sign say?” I asked.

She turned it around and held it up for me to see. It read Trespassers Will Be Shot, except one letter was out of place so it actually said “Trepsassers.”

“Well, now,” I said, “that's what I call a mighty friendly sign.” I said nothing about the error.

“Just want to warn folks off, fair and square, if they come snoopin' around here. Like your Darryl, for example. I'm half expectin' him to show up at any time—”

“Like I told you and everyone else, he's not
my
Darryl!” I said. “Not anymore.”

“Well if he comes 'round here he's likely to get his head blowed off,” she said with a sniff.

“Look, Dolores, I'm here to say I'm sorry,” I said wearily. “I'm going back to Mississippi. But I wanted you to know that I tried. I really did.” I set my present of ham and biscuits down beside her.

“Thank you,” she said. “For that there present. And—thank you for trying.”

“Well, I'm a-gonna go now,” I said. “Next time I'm back, I hope to get to see Robbie-Lee. I hope he comes home to Collier County by then.”

She shrugged. “Don't know if we'll ever see that day.”

“I'm going to write to him to let him know what's going on,” I said. “He would be here helping you if you told him the truth.”

I expected her to say, “Don't you dare.” But instead she muttered, “Suit yourself.”

I turned to look at the night heron and for some reason tears filled my eyes. “I wish there was more I could do,” I said sadly. “About Darryl, I mean. I wish I'd never married him.” She didn't say anything so I added, “Well, good-bye, Dolores,” and I turned and walked away.

I'd gone ten or fifteen yards away when she called out to me. “He don't own the land.”

I stopped in my tracks.

“He don't own the land,” Dolores repeated. “He didn't buy it fair and square.”

I turned around warily. Was this a ploy to keep me from giving up? Did she want me to postpone my trip back to Mississippi, stay here, and continue the fight against Darryl?

“What do you mean?” I called back. “Darryl told the newspaper that he bought it from some folks in Kentucky who have been hanging onto it for years.”

Dolores drew in a sharp breath. “That's a lie,” she shouted. “He didn't buy it. He must have made that up, because I'm the one from Kentucky. I mean my people were from Kentucky. I own it. The land. The river. The whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel.”

I couldn't have been more surprised if the night heron had started singing “How Great Thou Art.” I thought,
Surely I didn't hear that right
. But if it was true, or partly true, it could change everything. And something about the expression on Dolores's face made me realize it wasn't a lie. She looked frightened. Vulnerable.

“Well,” I said slowly. “What in the name of our sweet Savior would you be talking about?”

“Come inside and I'll show you.”

“Show me what?”

“Like I said, you'll have to come inside.”

“Why are you telling me about this
now
? I've been home two months.
Why did you wait?
”

She hesitated. “I was hoping it could be handled some other way,” she said.

We had a standoff for about three or four minutes, which in the swamp heat of far South Florida feels more like three or four hours. Finally, I gave in, but I tried to look tough as I did so, although I didn't feel it.

She directed me to the small table I remembered from my previous visit. “Now, sit down and close your eyes,” she said.

This seemed like a stupid thing to do but I did it anyway. For all I knew I was about to get a hatchet over the top of my head. But again, there was something new in the tone of her voice. There was no edge to it, no bitterness, as if she'd set down a burden too heavy to carry anymore. Her voice actually sounded younger, like the woman she might have been years before. She walked away from me in the dim, indoor light. “Are they closed?” she called.

“Oh, all right,” I said impatiently. “Yes, they're closed. But they won't be for long.”

I heard a board creaking, followed by what seemed to be her shuffling around. Then I heard what sounded like the top of a large jar or container being unscrewed. More shuffling around. Then the top being screwed back on again. I heard a scraping noise, followed by a latch clicking into place.

“Dolores, I am not going to sit here forever with my eyes closed,” I said, trying to sound angry and impatient when in fact I was terrified. There's a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and I think I'd crossed it.

I heard her footsteps as she moved closer to me. I held my breath. “Okay,” she said, “you can open your eyes now.”

She stood less than three feet from me, on the opposite side of the table, holding several pieces of paper in her hands.

“What in the world?” I asked.

She didn't reply. She set them on the table in front of me. I
picked them up carefully, but there wasn't enough light in the fishing shack to read them. I squinted but still couldn't decipher the words. We'd left the door ajar, creating a shaft of light, and without thinking I stood up and walked toward it.

“You ain't leaving here with them papers!” Dolores shouted.

“I'm not leaving!” I said quickly. “I just need some light so I can read them, that's all.” I stayed stock-still until she was reassured. A long minute passed, and I slowly handed the papers back toward her. “Here,” I said, “take them back. I don't want you to be upset.”

I thought she might grab them and—woe is me!—I would never get to read them. Maybe, the papers were nothing important at all. Or maybe they could change my life and hers, and a whole lot of other people who loved the river. Instead of taking them from me, though, she moved closer to me and took my arm, a gesture which took ten years off my life. Yet all she did was gently steer me closer to the ray of light by the door.