“Some of it, yes. Plus, she’s eighty and slipping. It’s only natural. The problem, and it’s rather significant, is that the lawyers on the other side will find, if they haven’t already done so, the same inconsistencies. And, Lovely can’t produce the notes she relied on when she wrote the damned book. Her memoir could really hurt her case.”
Mercer asked, “You don’t doubt her history on Dark Isle, do you?”
“No. That part of the story is believable, if the judge wants to believe it. The problem is that she admits she left, or abandoned, the island in 1955. And so far we have been unable to find anyone to verify her story that she returned periodically to tend to the graves.”
Thomas said, “To me, as the non-lawyer, the biggest problem is that she did nothing for almost seventy years until the developers showed up and wanted the island. Suddenly she ran to court claiming ownership. Why didn’t she do that decades ago if she was so concerned with the property?”
“Maybe she wasn’t threatened,” Mercer said.
“Maybe, but why does she care now? I’m not being cruel, but her days on this earth are numbered. She has a nice, quiet life in The Docks. Why should she care what happens to the island?”
Diane said, “Well, her people are buried there.”
“Are you sure? If they were, they’re probably gone now. What Leo didn’t level it washed out to sea.”
Mercer’s eyebrows were raised and aimed at her husband. “Don’t you care what happens to the island?”
“Of course I do. I don’t want it developed. I’d like to see it preserved as it is, with maybe a memorial to the slaves.”
Diane said, “Right. Fat chance of that these days here in Florida.”
All three took a sip and a deep breath. Another group of revelers rolled in from the street and a gush of cold air filled the wine bar. Thomas, from Ohio, wearing sandals with no socks, was amused at the excitement over the “cold weather” and chance of snow.
When things were somewhat quieter, Diane said to Mercer, “We’ve both spent hours with Lovely, yet I haven’t picked up a single clue as to her notes. Not long ago she said she used them to write her memoir. Now, though, she can’t find them. Has she mentioned them to you?”
“No. I’ve asked twice and got nothing. How important are they?”
“Don’t know until we see them. She got spooked when she realized that they might be turned over to the other side. I even said something to Miss Naomi once and she claims to know nothing about the notes.”
“Are you sure you want to see them?” Thomas asked.
“I don’t know. Steven and I go back and forth. If we see them, then we have to produce them for Tidal Breeze. What if they’re filled with inconsistencies? What if they conflict with her memoir, or her deposition? There’s a good chance the notes could really muddy the water.”
When the bottle was empty they agreed they should leave before drinking more. They gathered again at Mercer’s cottage where the pot of gumbo was waiting on the stove. Mercer turned on the burner and sliced and buttered a baguette as Diane tossed the salad and Thomas selected another wine.
Midnight was the goal but they didn’t make it. At eleven, Thomas walked onto the patio to check the snowfall and saw none. He and Mercer retired to the bedroom while Diane disappeared under a quilt on the couch.
By midmorning the skies were clear, the sun was out, Santa had come and gone, and things were back to normal in North Florida.
Judge Lydia Salazar lived alone in a gated community seven miles west of Camino Island, on the mainland by a small lake that not too many years earlier had been somewhat rural. Now, though, the roads were congested. Her neighbors were complaining, but seriously, weren’t they all part of the problem?
She was fifty-seven and had been elected in a close race seven years earlier. Reelection was around the corner and she was dreading another campaign. Like most sitting judges, she now believed that electing judges was a bad idea. She preferred to be appointed, one four-year term after another. Elections, though, were not going away and she spent little time fretting over the next one. Her docket was busy. She enjoyed her work and was well regarded by the lawyers who came before her.
Her first husband was long gone and she didn’t miss him at all. Her son, Lenny, was only thirty minutes away and she saw him and his family often, especially now that he and his wife, Alissa, had produced two children. Judge Salazar was still amazed at how swiftly she had been consumed by the two little people who now dominated her thoughts. When they arrived for Christmas lunch, their grandmother Sally, as she was affectionately nicknamed, was waiting with another round of gifts and toys. Within minutes her den was destroyed, with paper, wrappings, and boxes everywhere. Sally was on the floor in the middle of it all, having a ball and reliving the days when her own kids were lost in Christmas magic. When she could corral them, she read stories by the tree, fed them gingerbread cookies, and found more gifts to open.
