Killer Summer
Chapter 13
Logan Hamilton was on the phone. “I need your help,” I said.
“Doing what?”
“We’ve got to rescue the police chief. Did you ever date Suzy Jones?”
“Once. She’s not much at conversation. Her grandmother like me though.”
“Good. Her grandmother has the chief. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. hat’s her name?”
“Everybody calls her Granny Jones. She’s the one who shows up at all the meetings carping about changes on the key.”
“I guess she’s been here a long time.”
“Yeah, about three years, I think.”
We agreed to meet at the high rise condo where Granny Jones lived. When I arrived Logan was sitting in Ditto’s car, parked across the street from the driveway leading to Granny’s building
The Garden Club ladies, wearing tee shirts that said “STONE CRABS FOREVER” were dancing a flamenco to the music of a Mariachi band. The seven piece combo was standing on a makeshift stage that had been pulled out of a U-Haul truck backed into the driveway. Several hundred Longboaters were milling about, trampling the flowers and shrubs.
The mayor’s limousine pulled up, flanked by motorcycle outriders. Moll Fandango stepped out, wearing a very tight tee shirt emblazoned with her new motto, “I’M IN CHARGE.” A cheer arose from the crowd, and the band segued into a lively rendition of “Hail to the Chief.”
“What the heck is going on here?” I asked Logan.
“Dottie Johanson.”
“Oh.” Dottie was a human telegraph. One of the great mysteries on the island was how Dottie always knew what was happening. The greatest mystery of all was how she knew so quickly, particularly since she now lived in Ohio. She had apparently found out about the chief’s kidnaping, and either she put the facts together or we had a leak at town hall. It was amazing to me that she could arrange a party on such short notice.
I shrugged. “Let’s go talk to Granny. Tell her you’re here to help her get out of this mess.” I related my earlier telephone conversation with Granny to him.
“Maybe I can lure her out with a little turtle soup,” Logan said.
We made our way through the crowd and took the elevator to the top floor of the building. I knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” asked an elderly sounding voice from inside.
Logan stood mute. I elbowed him in the side, and he got the message.
He grunted and said, “It’s Logan Hamilton, Granny. I was wondering if you might want some turtle soup?”
“Of course,” she said. “Leave it at the door and go away.”
“Granny,” I said, “It’s Jake Bass with Logan. We need to make sure the chief is okay.”
“Are you a friend of Logan’s?”
“I am.”
“Logan’s a good boy.” She hesitated. “Well, then, come on in.”
The door wasn’t locked. We walked into a large condo with sliding glass doors overlooking the Gulf. Granny was holding a twelve gauge shotgun, pointed at the floor. The chief was sitting in a recliner wearing a Katherine Harris mask with the nose cut out. He didn’t seem to be restrained in any way.
“You okay, Joe?” I asked
He nodded. “I can breathe better with that nose gone.”
“Granny,” I asked, “why are you doing this?”
“Like I told you on the phone, I don’t want them to close Less’s.”
“Yes, but why kill all our leaders?”
She smiled. “Some people just need killing.”
“You’re right, Granny, but that decision isn’t yours to make. Why kidnap the chief?”
“Nobody seems to miss the people I took out, so I thought maybe they’d listen if I took the chief. He’s the only person in government who most people like.”
“But, since you killed all the commissioners and zoning board members, there’s no one left to make the changes you want.”
She made a face, a tiny girl’s moue of disappointment. “I didn’t think about that. Maybe the new mayor can do something.”
“Why don’t you put down the gun, and let’s go talk to her,” I said.
“Do you think they’ve got some turtle soup down at that party?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Okay.” She put the gun on the sofa. “Come on, Chief, let’s go get some of that soup.”
It was as easy as that. Granny was finished. She’d probably spend the rest of her days in a mental hospital, and nothing much would change on Longboat Key.
The chief left his mask on the chair and the four of us took the elevator down to the ground. As we exited a mighty cheer arose from the crowd. I wasn’t sure if it was for me or the chief, so both of us raised our hands in a triumphant gesture. Boos came from the crowd, and we lowered our arms. Granny raised both her arms, her index fingers waving in the universal “We’re number one” gesture. The roar came again. Applause, whistles, car horns, and the Mariachi band playing Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever.”A ragged chant became a mighty wave of “Granny, Granny, Granny.” A little league player emptied a can of Gatoraide on Granny’s head.
The crowd rushed us, grabbed Granny and hoisted her onto their shoulders. They marched around the condo complex, heading for the beach. The band had come down from their stage and marched at the head of the line, now playing “The Washington Post March.”
I stood transfixed. I’d never seen anything like this. Longboaters were actually having fun. Maybe this was their way of grieving over the loss of our leaders. Or maybe not.
“What’re you going to do?” Logan asked.
“Nothing,”said the chief. “They’ll bring her back.”
But, they didn’t. As they neared the beach, Granny got off the shoulders of her admirers and waded into the water. There was a blue and white jet ski moored there, one of the big ones with a new four stroke engine. She crawled up the stern with an alacrity that belied her years, and before anyone could move, she was headed directly out to sea at high speed.
We never saw Granny Jones again. Every now and then, we hear rumblings from islands in the Florida Keys about an elderly woman stirring up trouble, but we have never been able to pin the person down. They say she eats copious amounts of turtle soup and on occasion is seen riding a jet ski wearing a Jeb Bush mask. Maybe Granny Jones is still out there, still making life miserable for those who make our lives miserable.
As the chief , Logan and I stood on the beach that day, I realized that Granny was gone, but I mistakenly thought the marine police or the Coast Guard would find her. The party was breaking up, the band putting instruments in their cases and loading up the U-Haul. The Garden Club dancers were headed back to Ken Thompson Parkway, and the sun was beginning it’s evening dip into the Gulf.
“What’re you going to do now?” I asked Logan.
“I’m going to Disney World.”
And that’s what he did.