Saturday
8:50 a.m.
Up before sunrise, Brenda had taken a walk to the gatehouse. Snowy egrets ignored her as they slow-marched along the edge of a pond. On the pond’s bank, a pair of Muscovy ducks still slumbered side by side, heads tucked.
Once back at the villa, she had made coffee and showered. Now, she was set up with her laptop on the patio table. She connected to Mrs. Krause’s internet account. It loaded, and she went to Google Search. She typed “All Hands on Deck” in the address bar and sat back. The menu appeared. A savings-and-loan, a porn site (“All Hands on Dick”), a mortgage firm, a marine supply company… There it was, “All Hands on Deck Services.” She clicked the link.
The home page displayed a white van parked lengthwise to show the name. On either end stood two smiling men. All four were dressed in white with arms folded, but James Rivera was not one of them.
Home / About Us / Our Services / Those Who Rely on Us / Contact
Brenda clicked About Us.
Two years ago, Ray Colon and his cousin James started All Hands on Deck, a multi-faceted niche company providing a broad range of services for senior citizens and their families.
In typical marketing jargon, the text told an upbeat story of hardworking men fulfilling a dream. She read about Ray and James’s early years in Boca Raton, followed by their move to Naples.
Through commitment, dedication to service and hard work, the two cousins set out to be All Hands on Deck for their clients. Like crew members on a ship, their mission is to come to the aid of senior citizens who need help with basic home repairs, personal hygiene, supervision, transportation, etc.
A good web designer had developed the site, but the message sounded just like Rivera. Niche—that had to be him. More interesting was the emphasis on Ray as the head of All Hands on Deck, not James Rivera.
She clicked on Those Who Rely on Us. “Here is a sample of comments from some of our clients.”
She scanned down the photos. Some showed an elderly person alone; others presented smiling family members gathered around an old man or woman. Each photo came with a quote: “They are a godsend, we highly recommend All Hands on Deck,” “Your search is over, All Hands on Deck will take good care of your mom and dad,” “With the help of All Hands, I can stay in my own home,” “I count myself blessed to have picked up the phone…”
Brenda ran a finger down the list. Dunlap, Frieslander, Gromby, Ivy—the webmaster hadn’t yet deleted him. Jollard, Lerner, Nesbitt… Brenda scrolled back and studied Chester Ivy. Frail and stoop-shouldered, the old man was wearing red swim trunks. He and a white-clad attendant stood facing out, waving for the camera. The photographer had taken the shot from the golf course.
She remembered the security guard at the Donegal entrance. Hey, Jim. Do you know yet about Chester Ivy? Then, a few hours later, the two couples eating dinner at the club. Maybe the husband’s comment was why it felt wrong to her—I say he dropped the ball. As Rivera drove her and Sweeney, an All Hands client had died. Rivera had found out while taking her to Donegal, the same club where the old man died. But Rivera had said nothing.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m gonna do it anyway.”
She looked up from her laptop.
“Over here.”
On her right, a woman was peering down from the privacy wall between the two villas. “I’m not in the NBA,” she said. “I’m on a chair.”
“Good morning,” Brenda said. “Please bother away.”
As the head disappeared, Brenda closed her laptop. Damn. She didn’t want company, but the woman was now passing outside, along the back of the screened cage.
“I know it’s pushy, but there it is, I’m pushy.” She laughed.
Brenda moved to the screened door and held it open. The woman stepped in, balancing a plate of fresh fruit. She put out her hand. “Rayette Peticore.”
“Brenda Contay.” They shook.
“Is Contay French? I’m told Peticore’s French for small body.” The woman laughed again. “Not all that far back it was true, then something happened.”
“My father was French Canadian. Please—”
She stepped aside, and the woman crossed with the platter. In her forties, she was medium height and deeply tanned, her bleached yellow hair drawn back in a ponytail. She wore flip flops, and tennis shorts that showed her legs to good advantage. Tied at the waist, a blue gauze shirt emphasized what appeared to be breasts with implants.
The woman set the plate next to the laptop. She turned and smiled. “This is mostly to give me a reason for horning in,” she said. “But it’s fresh.”
“There’s no entry fee here for horning in.” Resigned to being social, Brenda smiled. “It looks great,” she said. “Are you a coffee drinker?”
“Drink it, snort it, shoot it up.”
She followed Brenda inside. “Yeah—” She stopped in the living room and looked up. “I remember she got some new fans.” Curious now, Brenda stepped into the kitchen. “She has nice taste,” Rayette said. “My place isn’t exactly trailer-park tacky, but it’s definitely time for a fashion makeover.”
“That means we have something in common,” Brenda said.
“How so?”
She got a second mug from the cupboard, and two small plates. “You know Marion Ross?”
“Sure do. The lawyer daughter.”
Brenda handed the plates to Rayette before getting the coffee carafe. “I’m a journalist, and I wrote a piece about Marion,” Brenda said. “That’s how we became friends. Marion claims my decorating dates from the Stone Age. She’s pretty much right. Trailer-park tacky would stack up well in comparison.”
She led the way back out, and they sat at the table. Brenda poured coffee as Rayette peeled back plastic wrap on the fruit. “It’s just another day to you, but this weather is doing me serious good,” Brenda said.
It wasn’t true. She didn’t give a damn about