Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Forty

Faster than I have ever moved without the assistance of an engine, Margaret pulls me through the Palma D'Oro parking garage, down Harbor Blvd, to a suspension bridge that is closed so a sailboat can pass into the channel. She drags me up the bridge and says, "Well, at least jumping over it won't kill us."

We cross over to Davis Island, and I finally have the opportunity to speak. "What's going on with Lanie?"

Margaret continues forward at full speed, pulling me behind. "Remember how I told you that I wanted to follow up on something I'd seen in the Tibauld safety deposit box?"

I thought it was weird that she wouldn't just say what she saw, but it's also typical Margaret. She's got to play up the drama every opportunity she gets. I eke out a yes as we vault over a ten-foot-tall wooden fence.

The view beyond the fence is amazing. Oaks, palms and cypress trees dot the landscaping, along with a flower garden that rivals the courtyard by Plant Hall. Someone has spent a fortune on this place. It is fit for a Bertwinkle.

"Is this your dad's place?"

She gives a look of incredulity. "I'm from the Bayshore Boulevard Bertwinkles, pretty sure Bayshore Boulevard is not on Davis Island."

As if her dad doesn't have multiple properties here in Tampa. Jeesh. "It's just that this place must have cost a fortune. Other than oil tycoons, casino moguls, and Bill Gates, your dad is the only one I can think of who could possibly afford this property."

She rolls her eyes. "Then you don't know enough rich."

Clearly.

We approach the mansion, its stucco exterior influenced by Florida's Spanish history. The house is mostly dark, only a few lights on in what appears to be the centralized living quarters.

Margaret leads me through the door and into the foyer. The floor is white marble and the furniture is antique. A Christmas tree, taller than any I've seen inside a house, blocks a bay window on the opposite side. The scent of beef cooking in red wine wafts through the air. We move forward and I linger outside the kitchen, trying to savor the smell.

Margaret turns around. "Are you coming?"

"Who lives here?"

Margaret sighs. She's losing patience with me. "That's what I tried to tell you. There's this guy I met a few times at Channelside." She leaps through the Christmas tree.

I opt for the wall.

The view from this side of the mansion is even more breathtaking than the entrance. The pool area is tiled with ceramic. It has a hot tub, barbecue pit, an outdoor kitchen, and a gazebo with patio furniture. Adirondack chairs line the tiered pool.

"Stop gawking," Margaret orders. She heads to the pool house. "Anyway, this guy seemed really nice, almost too good to be true. I thought he was helping me. But I'm certain he's behind all this, and he has Lanie."

I try to make sense of what she's saying, but I have no idea who she is talking about, who could be so rich to afford a place like this, who could lure Lanie here under possibly false pretenses.

We pass through an eat-in kitchen that is larger than my apartment and ascend a narrow staircase. The door at the end of the hallway thuds like weight is being thrown against it, and its handle jostles frantically.

We cross through it. Lanie is on the other side, screaming, "Let me out, Weston!"

Weston? I must have said it aloud because Margaret nods and says, "Weston Tibauld."