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“Is the patho with the Miami-Dade ME?” The Miami-Dade County Medical Examiner Department is one of the largest in the country. I queried a name, figuring the person coming to TCI might be someone I knew.
“Sort of.”
“Meaning?”
“His name is Harvey Lindstrom. He’s a freelancer, but cutsYs for Dade County when they need extra hands.”
“Is he good?” I’d never heard of Harvey Lindstrom.
“He’s a bit of a tosser but seems to know his stuff.”
I chose not to follow up on Musgrove’s character assessment. “And the engineer?”
“No idea. Lindstrom said the fellow was crackerjack and offered to make a call. The chap was available and willing to travel.”
“When do they arrive?”
“By Friday.” Musgrove’s lips tightened into a wry smile. “Hopefully.”
“Unless someone throws a spanner in the works,” I said.
“Unless that.”
Unsmiling, Musgrove refocused on her phone.
A few miles later, she offered to treat me to dinner once I’d had the opportunity to shower and change.
I expressed a preference for takeout and early bed.
Looking relieved, Musgrove told Gardiner to swing by a place called Cocovan. In due course we pulled up beside an airstream trailer surrounded by outdoor tables.
“What do you like?” Musgrove asked.
“Anything that isn’t puffy.”
“Seriously?”
I nodded. Irrational, I know. But unless it crunches, I dislike airy food. Cheetos, okay. Chilean sea bass and omelets, not my thing.
Musgrove disappeared, returned shortly with a grease-stained paper sack, which she handed to me. Then we were rolling again.
The sack’s contents smelled like something that might have earned Gordon Ramsey another star. Or maybe it was simply that I was starving. I couldn’t wait to arrive at wherever I was being taken.
Still, I felt a hint of unease.
Musgrove had never described my housing.
The Cocovan sack held duck tacos and gorgonzola fries. Paired with a can of Goombay Punch that I found in the fridge—think bananas and pineapples—the meal was a Caribbean delight.
I needn’t have worried about the accommodations.
Parked smack in the middle of Grace Bay beach, the Villa Renaissance describes itself as a boutique resort featuring elegantly styled one-to-seven-bedroom condos. Niceties include daily maid service, a pool with a waterside bar, tennis courts, a fitness center, and a spa.
I learned all of this by flipping through the management’s propagandamaterials while enjoying my island repast. But I was already aware of the amenities. I’d stayed at the complex before. In a rented condo two stories up.
My sister, Harriet Brennan Jeter Howard Daewood Crone, currently single and living in Houston, has been married four times. Thus, the impressively long list of names.
Harry wed her teen sweetheart, Brad Jeter, before the ink had dried on their high school diplomas. Brad aspired to ride the rodeo circuit but developed a severe allergy to horses. You can imagine how that worked out.
