Randy White - Haunted

“Not at this place, girl. It burn the hell out of some people. Burnt the hell out of me once.”

Belton was lost. “What’s he talking about?”

I said, “I owe Carmelo an apology. When he warned me about getting burned, I took it as a threat.”

“Of course you did. He shouldn’t have spoken in that tone. I told him so when we were looking for bottles, didn’t I, Carmelo?”

Carmelo shrugged and glowered, which seemed to explain the tension between the men. Or did it? I attempted to clear the air anyway. “He was doing me a favor, Belton.” I pointed behind us. “There’re only a couple, but see those trees with the low-sprawling limbs? I think they’re manchineels. I should have realized.”

“What kind?”

“It’s a Spanish name that means little apple -or something similar. But they’re not really apples. Manchineel trees are common in the tropics. Since you’re from Richmond, I wouldn’t expect you to know.” As I spoke, it crossed my mind that Charles Cadence had also moved south from Virginia.

“Burn the damn hell out of you,” Carmelo said, pleased he’d finally gotten his point across.

Belton wondered, “Is that true?”

“The fruit’s poisonous and so is the bark. If you stand under one in the rain, it’ll blister the skin off you. I’ve been told that anyway. And… Well, here’s an example: Indians dipped their arrows in the sap and that’s supposedly what killed Ponce de León.”

“The Spanish explorer?”

“That’s what I’ve read. He died in Cuba, but he was wounded somewhere near Sanibel. It takes the poison a while to work, I guess.” After considering a moment, I added, “It’s the beginning of the dry season, but the sap might float on the surface after a lot of rain. Maybe that’s why I was okay.”

Carmelo said, “Don’t touch them apples either,” and plopped down behind the wheel, a bag of seedpods at his elbow.

About the waxy-leafed trees, I said, “I guess we ignore the things we don’t expect. Usually, they grow closer to a beach. And I’ve never seen manchineels that big-they’ve got to be a hundred years old. But those apples should have warned me.” Now I was thinking of the Brazilian who had planted exotic trees before the Civil War and the schoolteacher who had written about blistered skin. The mimosa trees were different here: tall, lean, with lichen-splotched trunks, their seedpods longer and thinner than the mimosas in my mother’s yard.

I spoke to Carmelo. “Can I see one of those?” He had lost interest and was focused on the sonar again. When I reached for his sack of seeds, though, he came to life and blocked my hand.

“Mine,” he said. He spoke like a simpleton, but his eyes were sharp and sure and seemed to taunt.

The look on Belton’s face told me Let him have his way . So I did, no problem. There was a seedpod on the deck I could cover with my foot, then pocket later. Belton acknowledged that option with a nod.

During the return trip, we discussed harmless things-an unspoken agreement to wait until we were alone to talk. It proved to me that Belton’s distrust of Carmelo ran deeper than a misunderstanding.

WALKING FROM the flimsy docks and fish-cleaning table toward the RV park, I nodded hello at the tiny blondes who didn’t look like twins but did look stoned. Belton waited until they were past to ask what I’d found underwater.

I said, “Maybe it was silly keeping it from Carmelo,” then, without including how frightened I’d been, told him about the canoe.

He was disappointed. “Was there a motor on it?” That sounded important for some reason.

“I only saw one end and didn’t get a very good look. You were hoping it was a bass boat, weren’t you?”

His mind was focused on what he’d just heard. “An aluminum canoe with obvious dents. Like someone used an axe to punch holes?”

“I’m not sure, but whoever did it went to a lot of trouble. If they’d used just one anchor, the bow or stern would stick out of the water.”

“Then it was stolen. They’d probably knock holes. You just didn’t see them.”

“I don’t know what canoes have for flotation, but it’s generally riveted into the forward and aft bulkheads. In fact, whoever did it had to get in the water and force it under before they tied off. Weird-why would thieves care enough to bother? They’d either keep it or sell it or cut the thing loose when they were done.”

Belton said, “It certainly wasn’t to collect insurance.”

I shook my head while thinking I should have mustered the nerve to do another dive.

“A damn canoe,” he muttered. “But on the fish finder the thing looked a lot bigger to me. Rectangular, sort of, you know?”

I said, “The water is murky once you get down. There could be something else on the bottom. Maybe the canoe is next to another boat.”

Thinking aloud, Belton said, “A rental boat-a canoe with a motor. They rent canoes everywhere.” He glanced back to where a kayak and a square-stern canoe lay upside down on the bank. Nearby were two small aluminum boats with kicker motors. Also rentals.

I said, “The odd-looking one is called a Gheenoe. If you hoped to find a boat from the Civil War, why is a motor so important?”

The old man’s focus had shifted to the miniature blondes. They were on a dock, walking single file, while Carmelo, on the next dock, hosed his boat. He appeared to be in a hurry.

Belton said, “That man’s not as stupid as he pretends.”

“No, he’s not. I sensed you two had a falling-out. I hope it wasn’t because of me. I didn’t mean to hit him in the face with that snorkel. And it was just dumb of me not to notice those manchineel trees.”

He replied, “We should call the police,” which startled me until I realized he was referring to the sunken canoe.

“I was going to tell Birdy about it first. But I’ll do whatever you want.”

“It would be nice to know more before we bother the police. Do you think there could have been a… well, something inside the canoe?”

I said, “Like a registration, you mean? I didn’t check for hatches.”

“No, you said it was floating upside down. Something could be jammed under there. Stuck, if it was buoyant.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. The image of a dead body came into my mind, floating in darkness, while I battled to find my way out.

Belton put it more delicately. “A cooler with identification, possibly, or a bag. If credit cards are missing, that would mean something. Unless you searched from one end to the other-you were certainly down there long enough-I hate to scramble the police for something that has a benign explanation.”

I said, “I should have done a couple more dives. Or thrown an anchor, we could have snagged the thing and pulled it up to get registration numbers.” I hesitated before adding, “I’ll go back, if you want-but what about him?” Carmelo had pushed his boat away, ignoring the two tiny women who watched him start the engine.

Belton understood my meaning. “Your intuition is uncanny, my dear. What to do indeed.”

“I knew there was a problem between you two.”

“Oh, there is. But he doesn’t know yet. This morning, I saw him talking to Theo. This was before Theo’s big scene with Dr. Babbs-but after I told him to stay away from the guy.”

I said, “Told Carmelo to stay away from Theo.”

“That’s right-him and anyone else who might take advantage of what I found in that cistern. I suspected those two have some kind of private deal going. Now I know. I was taking my morning walk and there they were, sitting like kings, on his bass boat. That guilty look people get sometimes? I pretended like I didn’t see, just kept walking. Don’t forget, I exchanged several e-mails with Theo before coming here.”