Then again, I thought,are amateur sleuths?
# # #
“Wasn’t this where you fell off the bike and skinned your knee so bad that I was convinced you were going to lose a leg?” I asked as we drove into the Osprey Landing subdivision.
“I’d forgotten about that,” Vera said. “I really thought I’d be an amputee.”
I turned down Bruce’s street. “In retrospect, you were a dramatic child.”
Vera’s laughter was swiftly hushed by my gesture. I pointed to my right as I drove.
“Just up ahead, on the right. Can’t miss it. Salmon-colored house,” I whispered, intending to maintain a discreet vibe.
“What’s the plan when we get there?” Vera inquired.
“We don’t have one.”
As I crawled along the road, I couldn’t help but regret bringing my red F-150 and its throaty muffler instead of Vera’s silver sedan. My truck was hardly inconspicuous.
“There’s some activity at the back of the house.” Vera strained her neck toward the window, urging me to circle back for a better view.
I drove down the street, took a right, and then promptly got lost. As we rolled through the suburban landscape of Osprey Landing, the streets unfolded like neatly woven ribbons, lined with white picket fences and manicured lawns. Picture-perfect houses in pastel hues and lone palm trees dotted the landscape. It all looked the same.
Letting out a string of swear words while navigating the perplexing suburban labyrinth, I muttered, “How does anyone find their way here without getting lost on the regular?”
Eventually, we stumbled upon Bruce’s street again and passed by a second time. I failed to spot anything suspicious, but Vera insisted she glimpsed a box truck lurking in the rear.
“It’s hard to say for sure, but what if he’s moving something out?” she pondered.
“Not exactly a crime,” I countered. “Wish we could get a clearer look.”
“We can,” Vera chirped. “Remember the path near the canal? Where we used to race bikes with Donnie Stillman? I’ll bet it’s still there, and it goes past all these homes.”
“Oh, right! I haven’t thought about that in years.” I made a clicking noise with my tongue. “Where should we park? And whatever happened to Donnie?”
Vera twisted in her seat. “A couple of years ago, Donnie lost three fingers to fireworks on the Fourth. Last I heard, he was on disability. Oh, it’s on the main road, there’s a turnoff to the canal.”
“If we can find our way out of here.”
We managed to leave Osprey Landing, and just as Vera said, there was a small unpaved road off the main street. I drove in slowly, the jungle-like scrub almost swallowing the truck. It was so thick that the strong Florida sunshine couldn’t penetrate the foliage.
“Keep going,” Vera urged, pointing straight ahead.
After a couple of minutes of driving, we came to a clearing in the brush. I parked, and we sat staring at the murky greenish-brown water of the canal. In Florida, a canal could mean many things—in Fort Lauderdale, for instance, it meant waterfront property complete with docks and million-dollar yachts.
Here, canals were for drainage and flood protection for the Snake River. There were no docks or yachts, but folks often found good fishing on the banks. This particular canal split two subdivisions—Osprey Landing and Osprey Landing II.
Strips of heavy scrub foliage buffered the water from the homes.
“If we follow the canal a few hundred feet that way, we should be able to walk into the woods and see the back of Bruce’s home.” She motioned with her hand. “It’s a short walk, no biggie.”
I glanced at my sister. She was wearing tan capris, a lemon-yellow button-down blouse, and a matching headband. And dainty tan ballet flats. Also, it looked like she’d taken time to straighten her hair today. She was going to be a mess if she went into those woods.
“You can stay here. I don’t want you to ruin your shoes.” In contrast, I was in jeans, a long-sleeved gray cotton top, and sneakers that had seen better days.
“These old things? Nah. I’ll go.” She climbed out of the car, and I followed.
“Let’s put on some bug spray first. I’ve got some in the back.”