Don Bruns: Too Much Stuff

“This is the spot.” I walked it off. “There could be another nine boxes that surround the cemetery. They wouldn’t have interfered with the bodies, being fifteen feet away from the picket fence, but chances are no one would mess with them.”

“This evening we’ll know for sure.”

Maria had phoned Em. Everything was a go and the plan would go into action in the next three hours. In less than two hours, Maria Sanko had received the blessing of the hotel to dig up a portion of their precious beach and explore its suitability for sand sculptures. And they had no knowledge of what the real purpose was. The woman was a miracle worker.

Pacing the circumference of the cemetery, I happened to look up at the main resort building, directly to the west. Drapes in one of the bottom floor windows were open and there were two faces staring out at us.

I froze, realizing someone was watching. Someone was aware that we had an interest beyond the history of the dead bodies.

I froze, recognizing those faces. Markim and Weezle.

“Dude, you’ve got to be wrong.”

“It was them, James. No question.”

“I checked at the desk. No such persons.”

“Look, they were there.”

“She looked it up. The desk clerk said absolutely no one has checked into that room yet.”

Closing my eyes, I pictured those two faces, staring intently at the three of us. As soon as I looked up, they disappeared. Either they ducked out of sight or vacated the room.

“James, it’s never that hard to get into a vacant room. The maid is in there and you walk in and ask if she can come back later, or you catch a door when someone walks out and you grab the handle before it closes all the way.”

“It’s that dark side of you, partner. That’s what intrigues me. That you think about things like that.”

I glanced at my cell phone and saw it was almost time for Maria to arrive. Glancing up, I saw her coming out of the lodge with a guy about our age.

“Skip, James, Emily, this is Diego. He’s in charge of special events here at the hotel.”

He shook our hands. “I am delighted that you two want to do a practice session here. I understand your benefactress will pay us one thousand dollars for this evening.”

We both just nodded our heads.

“You must be very good sculptors.”

“Up and comers,” Maria said. “They’ve won some contests in Europe, right boys?”

We nodded again.

She laid a hand on his arm. Surveying the beach, she looked up and down, then back at the cemetery.

“Diego, do you know anything about sand?”

“No.”

I saw a look of relief on her face. “Good. I mean, let me tell you a little bit about what we’re looking for and why the boys decided to use your beach to work on their project.”

She bent down and picked up a small pinch of sand.

“We’re looking for very small grain size. Maybe point one to point three millimeter grain size. And, we’re looking for sand with sediment still intact. You see, clay particles and other sediment help the sand pack hard. That’s what we’re looking for.”

“Is that what we have?”

She shook her head. “Hard to tell. We’re going to be bringing a dump truck load of similar sand and a small backhoe loader. We may mix our sand with your sand. It should give us a stronger bond, better packing.”

“A truck and backhoe? On our beach? You didn’t say anything about a truck and a backhoe.”

Maria smiled and shook her head. “Diego, please. Understand that that’s why we’re coming in later, so we can do this in relative privacy. No one will be on the beach at that hour and-”

“A dump truck? And a backhoe?”

“Diego,”-like a nurturing mother-like someone who was looking out for his best interest, like someone who wanted a one-hundred-thousand-dollar commission, “you get to keep the sand. And I know how it’s important to renourish your beach. It’s really a win-win proposition. It’s going to work out very well for you.”

The man frowned. “It is a worthwhile project, but-”

“We’ve brought yellow tape to cordon off this area. We’ll run it from the building to a post out by the water. For safety reasons, you understand. We can’t have people anywhere near us.”

“And you’re going to do this when?”

“Around eight or nine o’clock this evening. While we can still see, but most of your guests will not be outside.”

He was biting his lip. “A backhoe and a dump truck. It seems like an awfully big undertaking for a practice session.”

“Think about this, Diego. If the sand works, you’re going to have what may be an award-winning sculpture on your beach tomorrow. You’ll have it as long as you can preserve it. And, as the boys compete in national and international competitions, you’ll be able to say that Cheeca Lodge had the first. The original sculpture. A giant sand sculpture of a futuristic seahorse.”

“Okay, okay. We want to do this. We’ll make sure that we keep people away from your operation. Just put the rest of my beach back the way you found it.” He let out a deep breath. “Please?”

She smiled and touched his arm. “You’re not going to regret this, Diego. It could be a huge project.”

He was worried about the temporary truck and backhoe loader on his pristine beach, but dead people were right beneath the surface. I was just hoping that we didn’t unearth any of them.

We hung out by the pool, Em in her white shorts and blue halter top, James and I in cutoffs and sandals.

“I still don’t see how we’re going to load ten crates.”

“If those crates are really there,” I added.

“Dude, you found one.”

“Maybe.”

“Ten crates, about two hundred pounds each,” Em said.

James just smiled, taking a swallow of his beer. “Hey, this Sanko chick has got us this far. Ingenious, I say. Really.”

“High-end sand sculpting. I saw some of those down on South Beach one year.” Em sipped a rum and Coke. “Angels, naked women, Neptune, sea serpents, castles. The ideas were fabulous.”

I’d made several sandcastles as a kid. Small ones, using milk cartons as molds, but the role we were playing took things to an entirely different level.

“I want to know what happens tomorrow when Diego comes out here and there’s no sculpture. I mean, what happens when he calls Maria and says, ‘Hey, where’s my one-of-a-kind world-famous sculpture?’”

I didn’t want to be here to find out.

“Maybe the sand wouldn’t bond, or one of you got sick. You had a fight and broke up, you decided not to share your idea with the world at this time. Come on Skip, James. You’re both born storytellers,” Em said. “Surely you can think of a dozen reasons for why there’s no sculpture tomorrow morning.”

James was silent for a moment. He had picked up a cheap cigar from a shop up the street and lit it, puffing until the smoke streamed from his mouth. He quenched his thirst with the last swallow of beer and looked at me.

“Wonder if there’s serious money in sculpting sand, Skip.”

“James, we don’t know the first thing about sand sculpting.”

“Think about it, amigo. No bosses. You get to play in the sand and water all day,” he glanced at Em, “work on a beach surrounded by bikini-clad girls who are oohing and ahhing about your work.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe not. I say we at least look into it.” He lay back and closed his eyes. “I Googled it, Skip. Fifteen to thirty thousand in prize money in these contests. And you’re kind of like the rock stars of the beach, huh?”

“James, we’re about to embark on a project that could gross us two million dollars. And you want to play around on the sand for fifteen thousand dollars?”