Chapter 7: Trouble in Paradise

I arrived at the crosswalk that traversed Gulf of Mexico Drive near the south end of the Key. It provided access from the sidewalk that ran along the perimeter of Country Club Shores to a beach access point. The people who lived in the neighborhood had petitioned the town commission to install a toll box to keep the riff-raff off the crosswalk. While that was under consideration, they assumed they had a right to use the crosswalk at their convenience, and expected traffic to stop whenever they started to cross. The Occupy GMD had something to demonstrate against, the toll, and the New Yorkers saw an opportunity to take out a few more islanders.

My name is Jake Bass, and I’m the detective in the major crimes division of the Longboat Key Police Department. It seems that somebody had blown up a portable toilet put at the crosswalk to accommodate the demonstrators who’d gathered there when someone blew up their toilet near the Centre Shops.

Some of the neighbors, including several women wearing fur stoles and high heels, had gathered and were shouting accusations at the Occupy GMD people. All of them were covered in, uh, the product of the explosion.

I spotted Charlie Goins on the far side of the crowd. He was holding a leash connected to Jeremiah, his pet camel. A contraption consisting of a 55-gallon drum on wheels and what appeared to be a mechanical arm attached to a scoop was harnessed to Jeremiah. The apparatus looked a little like a front-end loader, and as I studied it, I realized that it was arranged so that the scoop would deposit whatever it picked up into the drum. A man wearing a suit and tie and holding a briefcase stood next to Charlie. They were engaged in an animated conversation.

I walked over. “Been here long, Charlie?”

“Not long. I was headed for the beach when the toilet exploded. Thankfully, I was out of range of the, uh, debris.”

“Was anybody in the toilet when it exploded?” I asked.

“I don't think so, although that Canadian peacock killer was standing just out of range of the, uh, debris," Charlie said. "He could have used a remote control device to blow the thing up.”

I turned to the man in the suit, flashed my badge. “And you are?”

“J. Hudgkins Smyth-Marblestone, Esquire. Call me Mr. Smyth-Marblestone.”

“And what brings you out to our island on such a lovely day?”

 “He’s a member of the animal rights section of the Florida Bar.” Charlie said. “He’s with me.”

“Why?” I asked

“It’s about animals on the beach. We were headed across the street with Jeremiah to test the anti-animal beach ordinance,” he said.

“What’s that thing you have harnessed to Jeremiah?”

“My pooper scooper. I want to show the town commission that I’m a responsible pet owner.”

“Excuse me,” the lawyer said. “I need to go over and castigate those women with the stoles.”

“What about?” Charlie asked.

“That’s animal fur they’re wearing,” the lawyer said.

“I thought you were here to help me with my animals on the beach crusade?” said Charlie.

“One has to take cases where one finds them,” the lawyer intoned. “Those little minks had a right to live out their lives without becoming a stole.”

“I think most of those stoles are muskrat,” I said.

The lawyer harrumphed. “Muskrats are people, too,” and left to engage the fur wrapped ladies.

A low rumbling sound began to assault my ears. It got louder, rising in pitch and tone until it sounded a bit like a large dump truck that had lost its muffler. “Is that Jeremiah’s stomach?” I asked.

 “Yep. Gotta go. Jeremiah had some left over peacock wings for lunch. I don't think they agreed with him," Charlie said.

“You sure that pooper scooper is going to be big enough?” I asked.

“Probably not.”

A ruckus was developing on the other side of the crowd. One of the neighborhood ladies appeared to be stuffing her stole down the throat of J. Hudgkins Smith-Marblestone, esquire. The lawyer was harrumphing and swinging his briefcase at the head of his attacker, a big-haired, blonde real estate agent. The briefcase just bounced off the hair. A barefoot hippy-looking girl had jumped on the back of the blonde and was trying to bite her ear, but couldn't seem to find it amid all that stiff hair.

I was about to go to his rescue when I saw a jack-booted phalanx of women followed by two men marching to the rescue. The woman in the vanguard was carrying a flag emblazoned with logo of the VLDC. The Volunteer Librarians Defense Corps had arrived.

The group had been recently organized by the volunteers at the Longboat Key Library to thwart any attempt by the Town Commission to make the library part of the Sarasota County system. Their militancy had grown over the months, and there had been some talk of kidnapping the vice mayor and holding him until the commission agreed to drop the proposed library merger. They gave up on that idea when it became apparent that nobody cared whether the vice mayor was kidnapped or for that matter, hanged.

Now the VLDC was on the move and appeared to be going to the rescue of the lawyer. I was baffled by that because I couldn't figure out what interest the library would have him. I was about to intervene when Charlie appeared next to me.

“The lawyer’s on the board of the county library system. I think the VLDC is going to kidnap him. Give them some leverage with the county library system.”

“I thought they were planning to kidnap the vice mayor,” I said.

“We don't need a vice mayor, but the county library board needs a lawyer," Charlie said. "This will get some action.”

“Where’s Jeremiah?” I asked.

“I left him on the beach. He’s taking a little sun,” he said.

“The pooper scooper?” I asked.

“Not working. Are you going to stop the kidnapping?” he said.

“Nope," I said. "I’m in favor of the independent library.”

“I better go check on Jeremiah," Charlie said. "I’m not sure he can swim.”

I watched the VLDC drag the trussed-up lawyer into a white van and disappear down GMD. I headed for Tiny’s bar. Maybe the big-haired FDLE terrorism agent posing as a preacher would have some ideas about the explosion.