For exercising my rights as a driver, Stuckey thought now, hands on the wheel. He looked again in the rearview and wondered now about the watch.
She needed distraction, and now was not the time to work. She had brought a GPS, and she decided to locate Wynn’s Market on 41.
Twenty minutes later Brenda parked the Buick and walked toward the entrance. It was now four-thirty but still in the low eighties. She needed more coffee, yogurt, some English muffins. Sweeney had said you couldn’t come to Florida without eating key lime pie. She had no interest in sweets but would get a pie for Rayette Peticore.
As she passed between rows of luxury cars, a grim-looking Hispanic man glanced her way. A metal clothes hanger dangled from the window of his van. He turned back and resumed shoving the hanger through the window’s rubber seal. She felt sorry for him but kept walking. Locking keys in her car always made her feel both stupid and victimized.
The doors scissored open, and she stepped into frigid air. By comparison to chains, Wynn’s Market was small. She got a cart and followed a woman with perfect white hair. The woman marched purposefully behind her cart, shoulders back, elegantly turned out in a gray silk tunic and white slacks. If you wanted a quick read on class, shoes told the story. The woman was wearing what looked like Manolo Blahnik or Jimmy Choo. As Brenda shopped, she saw that most of Wynn’s customers fit the woman’s demographic. Well-shod, well-dressed.
Everything on the shelves and icy displays of fruit and vegetables looked suited to such shoppers—buffed, perfected. Employees in the aisles were assembling orders for customers too old or rich to shop for themselves. Brenda found the last of her items. She got in line, paid, and carried her groceries outside.
The sun was at her back now, casting shadows. Beyond the lot lay U.S. 41, the Tamiami Trail. Tropical flowers filled the median. Distracted by heat and color, looking for Mrs. Krause’s white Buick, Brenda again saw the man with the coat hanger. He wore white pants and a white polo shirt. From this angle, Brenda now saw oversized lettering on his van’s windshield sunscreen. ALL HANDS ON DECK.
“Can I do anything?” she called. “Do you want me to phone the police?”
He looked at her. “Why you want to call the police? This is my van.”
“So they can send a locksmith.” He shook his head and turned back to the coat hanger. “Are you with All Hands on Deck?” she asked.
“Yes.” Sullen and angry, he was not interested in talking.
“Do you know James Rivera?”
“I know him.”
“He did me a favor,” Brenda said. “I’d like to help.”
The man lowered his arms. Short and dark, perspiring, he again looked at her. “Mrs. Krause,” she said. “She asked James to pick me up at the airport. He asked a friend to show me around Naples today. It was very helpful. Do you live in Immokalee?” He nodded, regarding her.
“I’m Brenda Contay.” She came to him. When she shifted her groceries and held out her hand, he rubbed his own on his pants and they shook. Next to the van lay white PVC pipe.
“Ray Colon,” he said. “I’m his cousin.”
“That’s even better.” Now she recognized him from the company website.
“How you mean better?” Colon didn’t smile.
“You two are family,” she said. “Relatives.”
He reached up and batted the wire. “Like you see here, Quinto—James—he the one with the brains.” She laughed. “I drive this truck every day, this never happen to me.”
“And your phone’s inside.”
“The phone, all my tools.” He looked at the PVC pipe. “I stop to go in the hardware—” He pointed to the Ace Hardware next to Wynn’s. “I never come here before is maybe why it happen.”
“I was planning on seeing Immokalee,” she said. “This is as good a time as any.”
He looked back at her, suspicious again, but curious. “You need to see my cousin?”
“No, but that would be fine, too.”
“He out on a boat, fishing. He don’t come back until late.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You want to drive me to Immokalee? Now?”
“Why not?”
“I got another key there.”
“Exactly,” she said.
He shrugged. “That would be very good for me.”
“Come on, then.”
She pointed the way. Ray Colon gathered up his plumbing supplies and followed. Brenda used the remote to pop the trunk. As he loaded the PVC pipe, she put her groceries on the floor of the back seat. They got in and slammed their doors, fastened seatbelts.
“You know where is Immokalee?” he asked. “How to get there?”
“You’re going to tell me.”
She started the engine and the air conditioning blasted to life. Brenda guided the car back onto southbound 41. Without speaking, Ray Colon motioned for her to make a U-turn at Central Avenue. Hands between his knees, he sat back, waiting to learn more before saying anything else.
“This isn’t my car,” Brenda said. “It belongs to Mrs. Krause at Donegal. All Hands on Deck did some work for her.”
“Last fall,” he said. “I put up some fans.”
“That’s it,” she said. “The pipe you just bought. Someone needs plumbing done?”
“Pelican Bay. A water line for a fountain.”
“People who can fix things,” she said. “Or make things. I’m always impressed. You say your cousin has all the brains, but I don’t think so.” Finally Ray Colon smiled. “Your company seems to have something people really need.”
“We got it divided,” Colon said. “James real good talking to people. I can do a lot of things like plumbing. Some electric like the fans. I do tile. People always need more shelves in the garage
