He might hear from Deputy Mantoni and Lieutenant Anthony but, I could safely promise, not from me.
He stood up, chugged the rest of his drink and reached for his phone. I touched his arm and looked up as soulfully as I could.
“Please?”
“Oh all right. What’s your question?”
“What makes you so sure Delia Batson owned property in the Ten Thousand Islands?”
He snorted, clearly surprised by my question. “That’s it?”
He pulled a business card out of his pocket and tossed it on the bar.
“You see that logo? World of Luxury Spa Resorts is the biggest company of its type on the planet. If our research department says that she owns property that we want, then . . . she owns it.” He slammed his hand on the bar with finality.
I sat there, my eyes getting rounder, my eyebrows reaching for the sky, until he realized that such a vague answer wouldn’t make me go away.
“Okay, look, there’s not much more I can tell you, but for what it’s worth . . . The company has folks who follow recreation and vacation trends among the financial top 10 percent. Right now environmental trips are growing by 200 to 300 percent a year. But most folks don’t want to sleep in a tent or make their own breakfast. Kind of an oxymoron.”
He looked to see if I got it, which I did.
“Anyway, the Everglades National Park is a stellar attraction, but there’s no five-star hotel catering to the tastes of those, ah, higher-income folks. So the researchers started going over the land records, plot by plot. They followed the history of every inch and found that a number of pieces of parkland are still, at least technically, in private hands.” He seemed to think he was finished explaining.
“And Miss Delia’s land?”
“Well, the researchers sent engineering teams down to look at the privately owned plots. Right off, they liked the Gulf access of the Ten Thousand Islands. I was surprised how many bits and pieces there were. Ultimately, they determined that the land that suited our purposes was owned by Miss Delia Batson, resident of Fort Myers Beach. The lawyers looked at it for a while and thought they could make a case for privatization. All I had to do was get Miss Batson to sell. She was a stubborn old bird. At least the nephews are turning out to be more practical.” He looked at his watch and turned toward the door. “Remember, I never want to see you again.”
Yeah, like he was going to be on my Christmas card list any decade soon. Still, there is an island. And now it belongs to Skully.
I hurried to get back to the café, and while I changed out of my glam outfit I told Bridgy and Ophie what Kostos explained to me about the way his company investigates the ownership of properties. It did tie in rather neatly with Augusta’s history of the Ten Thousand Islands.
I was sweeping the dining room floor when the door opened and Holly came dancing in, swinging a bulky plastic bag in her hand. She stopped in front of me, did a graceful pirouette and stuck out a foot shod in a black leather pump.
“Look at me. Kitten heels. I’ve been begging for months, but mom says”—and here she mimicked Maggie’s voice—“heels can damage your spinal alignment and your feet.” Back as herself she continued, “There’s going to be a teen dance at the church, and I can’t wear flip-flops or sneakers, so I said, ‘Mom, chillax, time for grown-up shoes for this girl.’ Mom tried for some wedge kind of heel, but when I saw these . . . hard-core, right?”
I fussed over the height and the graceful curve of the heel. At an inch and a half or so, Holly could probably dance all night without doing much damage to her feet.
Bridgy came out of the kitchen and, when she saw the new pumps, so perfect for a teenager, decreed Holly should have a chocolate float to celebrate. She went behind the counter, whipped one right up and set it in front of Holly, who was sitting at Emily Dickinson switching her elegant shoes for the old pair of Dockers slides that she was carrying in the bag.