Ophie tut-tutted. “Honey chile, if y’all are going to pursue a conniver, you have to learn to think like one.”
Bridgy got it right away. “Squee! He wants to be far enough from his target so that anyone interested in the sunken treasure ships offshore of the Ten Thousand Islands won’t know what he’s planning.”
I was a step or two behind her, but it made perfect sense. If Bucket Hat had a specific ship in mind, he wouldn’t want the entire wrecker community to know about it until he had his team and equipment lined up and his permits in order.
“It’s at least—what?—fifty, a hundred miles from here to Cape Romano, and that’s only the northern tip of the Ten Thousand Islands. If he stayed in a place that was closer, someone might notice. Here, no one would have paid him any attention if he hadn’t been mean to me.”
I exhaled a “that will teach him” humph.
Ophie picked up the phone book. “He has to be resting his head on a pillow somewhere. Do you want to start with the hotels or the B and Bs?”
She flipped pages back and forth, ripping out any that might help us find a temporary resident.
“If we don’t find him as a guest at any of these places”—Ophie held up the thin papers covered with excruciatingly tiny print—“we can call the Realtors during our downtime at the café tomorrow and see if anyone with that name arranged a rental.”
I had to admit, Ophie seemed to have a knack for finding someone, whether he wanted to be found or not. I wondered if she had some wild stories about people she’d hunted down in the past.
We each took a page from the phone book and sat in different rooms so that our background noise wouldn’t sound like a busy call center.
After hearing “I’m sorry, we have no guest by that name” from about ten apologetic desk clerks, I was starting to think our efforts were futile. I plugged my phone in the charger and wondered if Bridgy and Ophie were doing any better.
Bridgy was on the patio crossing a name off her list with a felt-tipped pen.
“Darn, I’ve been using the point and not pressing down, but I blotted out half the numbers for the Mid-Island Motel. Now I’ll have to look it up.”
I slid a ball-point pen across the table to her. “Keep this with your list for tomorrow. I think we’ve had it for tonight. Where’s Ophie?”
“Kitchen. She’s putting together a cheese and fruit platter. Says we need to keep up our strength ’til the job is done.”
Ophie came in carrying a plate of grapes, pineapple chunks and Swiss cheese cubes stabbed with colorful toothpicks, the ones with cellophane curly tops. I wanted to make a joke about Swiss cheese apparently being fine to serve with fruit but not with burgers, but since Ophie turned out to be a crackerjack member of our investigative team, I decided prudence should win the day.
Chatting about nothing in particular, we munched away. After a few minutes, Ophie stood and stretched, saying she needed to get back on the phone. When I told her that it was late, we’d call again tomorrow, she arched an eyebrow.
“Honey chile, it’s never too late to call hotels and such. They’re open all night. Why once, at a hotel in Atlanta, I had such a stitch in my side I thought it was appendicitis for sure. Doubled over in pain at two in the morning, I called the desk and don’t you know that darlin’ young lady sent me an Alka-Seltzer and I was right as rain the next morning. That’s why they answer the phone at night. For emergencies.”
She was so resolute that Bridgy and I couldn’t help but giggle, which moved Ophie straight to vexed.
“I’m just explaining to y’all.”