Eye of the Storm: Rum Runners' Chronicles, #3

By Sherilyn Decter

Her illicit empire is growing. But it isn't the police this rum mistress fears most…

 

Florida Coast, 1933. Edith Duffy is determined to fortify her business to protect those she loves. And a liquor partnership with powerful women is exactly what she needs for trade domination. But she couldn't have prepared for the white-hot rage still boiling in the local preacher's heart.

With Prohibition's days numbered, Edith is desperate to secure above-board revenue for the family she's built. But one misstep could see her religion-wielding adversary's animosity turn deadly.

 

Will Edith survive a bitter man's seething hatred and reinvent herself on the right side of the law?

Eye of the Storm is the thrilling conclusion to The Rum Runners' Chronicles, a fast-paced historical women's fiction trilogy. If you like female empowerment, heartrending conflict, and vivid Depression-era settings, then you'll love Sherilyn Decter's grand-slam finale.

 

Buy Eye of the Storm for the final showdown today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sherilyn Decter
• Release date: Jan 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9781777127756

Sherilyn Decter

The Roaring Twenties and Prohibition were a fantasy land, coming right after the horrors and social upheaval of World War I. Even a century later, it all seems so exotic. Women got the vote, started working outside the home, and (horrors!) smoked and drank in public places. They even went on unchaperoned dates (gasp)! Corsets were thrown into the back of the closets, and shoes were discovered to be an addictive fashion accessory after hemlines started to rise. And thanks to Prohibition, suddenly it was fashionable to break the law. The music was made in America- ragtime, delta blues, and of course jazz. Cocktails were created to hide the taste of the bathtub gin. Flappers were dancing, beads and fringes flying. Fedoras were tipped. And everyone was riding around in automobiles (aka struggle buggies and I leave it to your imagination why- wink.) The novels I've written grew out of that fascination. If you haven't had a chance to visit my website, wander over and check it out at https://sherilyndecter.com. On it you'll find my blog with posts about 1920s fashion, history, as well as interesting research tidbits that have tweaked my interest. Growing up on the prairies and living next to the ocean, I am a creature of endless horizons. Writing allows me to discover what's just over the next one. My husband and I have three amazing daughters, two spoiled grandchildren, and two bad dogs.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Home.

The word hammers in his head. It catches in his throat; a lump he can’t breathe around. He gulps, blinks back tears. The world blurs.

Home.

Bare feet slap on soft, green ground. Mud oozes between toes. A slim branch whips across his cheek. It stings.

Home.

That word. That place. A joyous, elastic band pulling tight. His feet can’t get him there fast enough, his heart never left. When they took him away, it got stretched tight. Now, it’s snapped back and is pulling him... home.

Another breath, chest squeezed tight. Another gulp of warm, wet air. He shoves rough branches aside. They are the last curtain between him and home.

I’m coming, Cassie. I’m coming home.

*  *  *  *

Secreted away in the Florida Everglades is a small campsite with two canvas lean-tos crowding the edge of the clearing; a cooking fire, ringed with stones, sits in the center. A cypress tree’s spreading branches shelter a sleeping-tent. The other side of the camp is the chickee: an open-air gazebo with a thatched roof and raised wooden floor.

It’s a melancholy place; silent and lonely despite being surrounded by the songs of swamp life: noisy birds and insects, creatures that slither and crawl, animals that scurry and stalk. It’s a home built for two but missing one. The hollow space—twice left behind, first when the boy was sent to expand his life, second when evil-doers snatched the boy—is now only fit for memories.

A statuesque Miccosukee Seminole, Cassandra Osceola, stands by her campfire, regal and aloof. From the dark hair piled like a crown on her head to the ropes of colored beads that hang around her neck like chains of office, she’s every inch the queen of all she surveys which, she admits, isn’t a heck of a lot—just a rough camp in the middle of the bush.

When you’re off on your own, spending all your time talking to yourself in your head because there’s no one else to talk to, well, sometimes you hear things that aren’t really there. It’s happened before.

Cassie stirs the contents of a pot that hangs over the fire. Maybe happening too much this last little while.

Or, when you want something really badly, your mind plays tricks on you: whispering in your ear, phantom sounds from phantom people. Like right now, at the campfire, Cassie is sure that she can hear Leroy calling her.

It’s impossible, because Leroy is in Coconut Grove. No way is that darn gal from the Children’s Home going to let him out of her sight.

Another branch beyond camp snaps. Her brightly patterned skirts swirl when she turns toward the sound.

Cassie, Cassie.

She freezes, holding her breath. Her skirts settle. Fate is too cruel if this is a dream. She holds her fist against her mouth, afraid to call out.

Cassie, I’m home.

It’s gotta be real this time.

"Leroy?"

She sucks in a ragged breath and holds it tight; squeezes her eyes shut against hope.

Cassie. It’s me. I’m home.

An eleven-year-old boy bursts through the dense mangrove forest, running headfirst into the camp and landing in her arms.

"Leroy. Oh, my goodness. What are you doing here, Koone?" His solid body is hot and damp with sweat, his heart pounding against her own. She clutches him close until he squirms away.

I couldn’t stand it no more. I’ve come back home, Aunt Cassie.

Who knows you’re here? What about that Children’s Home woman? Does she know? Cassie asks, her words wet with tears. She looks over his shoulder into the forest, expecting searchers, pursuers.

Nobody knows. I just snuck off when everybody was sleeping. Didn’t even stop to see Miz Edith. Came straight here. Leroy takes a step away, peering up into her face. You’re not mad at me are you?

And then he gives her that saucy grin that makes her world explode with joy, as his nose twitches and his eyes go to the pot on the campfire.

Say, is that gumbo? Leroy asks.

Cassie laughs and steps forward to give him another squeeze. Yup, she says, clearing the emotion from her throat. Grab a plate and help yourself.

He scampers over to a wooden chest under the lean-to and roots around inside.

Where’s my plate, Cassie? I can’t find it.

Keep looking. It’s in there.

It takes a minute for Leroy to find what he’s looking for, buried underneath pots, pans, and other cooking utensils. Cassie had tucked Leroy’s unneeded cup and plate away at the bottom of the storage box—seeing them every day when she got her own out was a cruel reminder that he was gone.

The pair settles at the table under the chickee. Leroy is ravenous for the taste of home; can’t stuff the gumbo inside fast enough.

"Gosh, it’s good to see you, Koone, Cassie says, reaching out to touch the boy. I can’t believe you’re here."

It’s been a while for sure, he says between mouthfuls.

It’s gotta be six weeks at least.

Leroy looks up and grins again. Six weeks is a long time. I bet when Miz Edith sees me she’ll say I growed a foot.

Tell me everything, Leroy. Did the Carmichaels not look after you? Is there something wrong?

Leroy shakes his head. No, it isn’t them. Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael are swell. I just didn’t want to be there no more. I remembered what you said about dogs not able to track through water, so I came home. That’s right, ain’t it? Water will keep the dogs from finding me here?

That’s right. But why, Leroy? You told me you wanted to stay in town. Why did you leave?

Brother Silas came by. He’s a nasty fella, all right. I just got worried. His words are punctuated by spooning, chewing, and swallowing. A steady stream in and out. He pauses, gumbo midway to his mouth. There is something weird about him. I got all goose-bumpy when he looked at me, like I was his lunch or somethin’. The spoon disappears into his mouth. Did you know he doesn’t have any eyelashes? How weird is that?

Leroy scrapes the bottom of the bowl and then leans back and belches, which makes them both laugh. And besides, I missed you.

Cassie smiles and gets up to refill his bowl from the cookpot. Leroy yells after her. And you saw those shoes they made me wear to school. Some stuff was okay, but I’m not cut out for school. I brought my shoes with me though. They’re tied to my pack.

Leroy attacks the second bowl; Cassie returns to her chair. I’m glad you’re back, Leroy. But I’m not sure what to do about it. With you here, there’s going to be a whole heap of trouble coming this way.

Leroy looks across, his face pinched with doubt.

"Not to worry, Koone. Ain’t nothing we can’t handle." She attempts to chase away the worry she sees in his frown.

Leroy shrugs. Miz Edith will know what to do. She always does. He starts eating again, but slower.

She’ll probably be able to figure something out, Cassie says, beginning to plan.

I’d better get Edith or Darwin to let that Mary Carmichael woman know that Leroy is all right. I’ll do it soon, maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. The boy just got home, after all. She resettles her shoulders as a twinge of guilt flutters across them. Nobody was too worried about me and how I felt when they snatched him. They can wait a few days.

Can we go over and see Miz Edith tomorrow? I bet she’ll be surprised to see me, Leroy says, dropping his spoon into the empty bowl.

Don’t be so quick to bother Miz Edith. She’s got a lot on her plate right now with that blind-tiger saloon she’s running.

Leroy’s eyes widen with excitement. Goodtimes is open again? Whooee. I bet they need me to help set up and stuff. I can hardly wait to see Lucky; he makes great gumbo.

Jealousy sinks a small claw into Cassie’s heart. She reaches across the table, laying a hand on his arm. We should wait. There’s a good chance Miz Edith might not even be at Goodtimes. I think she’s off to the Bahamas on a business trip or some such.

The Bahamas? Like she went before? Is Captain McCoy back?

No, it’s her and that other lady, Cleo Lythgoe. They’re business partners now.

But Darwin, he’s still there, right?

As far as I know. And that Chinese fella, too.

Well, great. Let’s go see them, then.

... the claw tugs ever so gently.

I said no. Goodtimes will be the first place they look for you, Leroy. Best if you stay hidden here with me for a bit.

But, I wanna—

... and twists inside.

Cassie shakes her head. No, you don’t want to be leading trouble to Miz Edith’s door.

Arms crossed in front of him, Leroy slumps back in his chair and scowls. Yes, ma’am.

Cassie tries to coax him with another smile. Besides, I want you all to myself for a while. It’s been ages since I had a chance to feed you up, Leroy Osceola.

A grin escapes Leroy’s pout, and he pats his tummy. I could sure go for some of Lucky’s huckleberry pie right now.

... ripping a small tear that bleeds.

*  *  *  *

First light breaks over the camp. The air is thick with mosquitos. Slap. Under the chickee, Cassie listens to Leroy’s snores from inside the sleeping-tent. Her heart is full to bursting. So much joy it hurts.

Leroy is home.

With trembling hands, she spreads out the tarot cards, not wanting to be shown bad news, only good. Leroy’s home and who knows what trouble will come chasing after him. The cards laid out in front of her will have the answers.

Forewarned is forearmed. Nobody’s going to take my sister’s boy again.

Cassie closes her eyes, needing to get past all the emotion to a quieter place. Leroy. Silas. Edith. She shakes her head to clear it, and takes a deep breath, chasing out all other thoughts that crowd around.

Searching for stillness, her mind rings with Leroy’s laugh. Somewhere inside is her focus and she works harder to find it. She needs a strong, unwavering connection to do what needs to be done.

Cassie takes another deep breath, holds it, and exhales. Then, calm and centered, she lets her hand hover over the spread of tarot cards. Her eyebrows shoot up when she sees the first card she draws, the Ace of Pentacles.

Well, isn’t this the day for surprises. Not what I was expecting at all. She studies the face of the card. A gold coin rests in the palm of a hand stretching out from a cloud. The garden behind the extended hand is lush with growth and possibilities.

Now who might you be? Sure ain’t anyone I know. Not Edith Duffy, nor anyone in town. Okay, let’s get you read and over with so I can get back to Leroy, and what to expect now that he’s home.

Eyes closed, she sharpens her focus, reaches deeper, and speaks aloud in low tones. There’s a whole lotta spirit and intensity here. A regular tornado or hurricane traveling through life with leaps and bounds.

Cassie chuckles as she looks at the card, her worry over Leroy lifting with the intense joy the card implies. Who cares if there’s a bit of broken crockery along the way? Whoever you are, I like your attitude, girl. You don’t give two hoots if danger lies ahead – in fact, if it does, then all the better as far as you’re concerned. Always looking for a few more thrills and excitement; another adventure just lights you up.

Fondly patting the ace as she puts it aside, she pulls another card from the spread.

Ah, the Knight of Wands. I guess I’m not surprised you’re part of this. The knight card says you have the feeling you can take on the world. Your confidence is like a skyrocket on the Fourth of July.

Cassie closes her eyes, stroking the card. Act first, think later.

A frown gathers. She coughs and then speaks slowly. The alien words that bubble out are foreign on her tongue. "Actuar primero y pensar déspues. Now, why in heck would I say that?" Cassie works up a mouthful of saliva and spits it on the ground, running her tongue over her teeth to get rid of the strangeness.

She shakes her head to clear it. Cassie puts the knight on top of the ace and turns back to the cards, a fierce scowl on her face. And now to you Mr. Preacher-Man, or should I call you Mr. Gangster-Man, now? A breath and a selection reveal a reversed Six of Swords.

The hairs on Cassie’s arms stand up. The breeze that has been blowing stills and there is no sound beyond her pounding heart.

She sits back. The Six of Swords shows a gray sky and turbulent waters with an adult figure and a young child being rowed across a body of water towards a nearby land. A mother and child? The woman sits huddled, her covered head suggesting sadness or loss as she moves away from something in her past. Her child nestles in close to her body, looking for safety and comfort as they make this journey together. In the boat six swords stand erect, tips down. The woman and child are seated, backs to the seer. They appear to be carrying either memories or baggage from their past into their future—maybe one and the same.

Cassie taps the edge of the card on the table with such force the corner bends. "What’s this all about? It looks like those troubled waters are choppy. Stormy weather ahead? This just ain’t no weather report. And who is the grieving figure? Could be Edith, of course, fighting a change she doesn’t want. Change that’s been thrown at her. Yup, there could be a whole lot of Edith-woe in that boat: that husband of hers that died, and whatever is left between them. Or her business, always first in her mind. Could even be that guilt for letting Leroy get took. Those Swords mean conflict, ah-ma-chamee. Watch what you say when you’re dealing with whatever is on your mind. You could cause enormous damage if you are not thoughtful about how you speak your piece."

Cassie peers closer at the card, frustrated that the faces are hidden. She grips it tightly, trying to see beyond the reality of the tattered card.

Or maybe I’m the person in the boat? Unfinished business? I’ll say there is. Consider my bag packed, and I’m ready to go, Mr. Preacher-Man. Can you feel me coming? Leroy says you make his skin crawl but he don’t know the half of it.

Something about the hunched shoulders, the woman—so solitary and alone, wrapped in grief—worries away at the back of her mind. Something... What? So many threads to pick at.

She gathers a shaky breath, fighting the tide of panic that rises within her. "Or maybe it ain’t no person at all. Maybe it’s Lady Fate herself riding there next to Koone. Leroy, looking for safety on the other shore."

Her heart leaps and she almost throws the card down. I sure don’t like that the child in that boat has got to be Leroy. No sir-ee, I don’t like that at all.

Her words, caught by the breeze, disappear.

Or maybe the figure ain’t a lady at all. Gracious, maybe it’s Silas himself sitting there huddled against the storm? What would the unfinished business be that you’re struggling so hard against, Mr. Preacher-Man? It ain’t love or money that would be weighing on your mind. Are you on some kind of spiritual journey? Reversed Six can mean that you’re looking for something and getting overwhelmed—the boat is rocking on them waves and everything and nothing is making sense.

Cassie grimaces as she draws her power inward, searching the shrouded alleyways in her mind for a familiar foe. Remember the ace and knight that showed up first thing this morning, Mr. Preacher-Man? Their energy is part of the glorious chaos that’s to become part of the story. There are forces being arrayed against you. But what of the sad little craft floating on a sea of hurt?

Cassie shifts her position and focuses more.

That figure sitting there wrapped in a shroud could also be my sister, Cecilia, and Cissy won’t rest easy until you get what’s coming to you. Watch out—whoever those forlorn folks are in that boat on choppy waters—whatever it is they’re going to on the other shore, their journey’s almost over.

Cassie puts the Six of Swords aside, covering it with the palm of her hand. Sitting tall in her chair, she stares into a future only she can see, and makes a pledge.

Know this: I will be there on that shore, too. Because there’ll be no satisfaction in vengeance unless you have time to realize who it is that is guiding the hand that strikes you down, and why retribution is come upon you. Your time is coming, Mr. Preacher-Man, and I aim to make sure I’ll be there to laugh.

Chapter 2

The small town of Coconut Grove hugs the southern Florida coastline along Biscayne Bay. Like a lot of small towns, it knows who belongs and who doesn’t—although there’s always debate about who gets to decide.

Just outside of town, way out in the bush at the end of a dirt road, is a bit of sophistication and style which is at odds with its rustic surroundings. Goodtimes is not like anything the good folks of Coconut Grove are used to, and that fact alone rankles its residents. As far as townsfolk are concerned, fitting in is always more important than standing out.

The other thing that rankles is the owner, Edith Duffy. She always wants to stand out and be noticed and, with her good looks and bravado, that’s not hard. ‘Just who does she think she is?’ is a whisper that follows her like the scent of her perfume.

Outsiders invite curiosity... and suspicion. With the oft’ heard ‘you ain’t from around here, are ya?’ the first and last brick is placed in an unscalable wall.

Goodtimes, Edith Duffy’s club and private residence, is reminiscent of the New Orleans French-Quarter style. It’s a tropical dream of tangerine and green, surrounded by palms and mangrove forests.

Strong mid-day sun streams through the arched French doors in the barroom, casting patches of light on the gleaming wood floor. Chairs are stacked on the tables that fill the room, and the small stage on the other wall is silent and empty, waiting for the next performer to bring it to life. Along the back wall is Goodtimes’ pride and joy, a pecky-cypress bar. Its sponge-like holes make it the room’s centerpiece.

Behind the bar, a frosted glass door is ajar. Two stubborn people are squaring off in the small office. Anger and frustration roil about like thick fog. Edith Duffy is beautiful: flashing eyes and dark chestnut, marcelled hair. She stands toe-to-toe with a handsome looking fella in a Panama hat complete with gator teeth tucked into the hatband. His chin is thrust out and muscular arms are crossed.

Of course I’m going, she says, eyes narrowed.

The Bahamas? Be reasonable, Edith. You could be gone for at least two weeks. We’ve got the Dixie runs and you have Goodtimes to manage. You can’t be away that long. Darwin throws his hands up in frustration. I really hate it when you drop everything to follow some whim and expect me to step in and pick it all up for you. We should at least discuss it, first.

And I really hate it when you’re being stubborn. This isn’t a whim, Darwin. It’s a business opportunity—a big one. Business is everything, and business is why I’ve got to meet Cleo in Nassau. We’ve got to firm up that liquor order. The Dixie runs are getting too big to stock from a list you take out to the side of some black ship on Rum Row. We can’t rely on the hope we’ll find what we’re looking for in their cargo hold. That’s no way to run a business, Darwin, and you know it. And besides, there’s someone Cleo wants me to meet.

Darwin’s arms remain crossed. That lady rum runner? I don’t like the sounds of her.

The lady rum runner has a name—Marie Waite. What’s wrong with her, anyway? Cleo’s vouching for her, and I trust Cleo.

Spanish Marie’s got a terrible reputation, Edith. I’ve heard she’s a fickle, dangerous woman with morals as free as the four winds.

Don’t be such a prude, Darwin. None of that has anything to do with rum running. She has an outstanding reputation at what counts: smuggling. Her ships and crews slip past any blockade or pirate. Cleo says she’s brilliant. With Bill McCoy out of the business, and given our volume, I need a rum runner I can trust. I’m not operating a small-time, penny-ante operation anymore, you know.

Okay, fine. But I don’t get why you need to work only with Cleo. There’re lots of wholesalers out there. Why not spread the business around?

Edith ticks off her fingers. One: I trust her and, in this business, that’s rare and valuable. Two: exclusivity gives me the chance to negotiate the best price and the right stock for Goodtimes and our Dixie customers. To do that, I need to be there in person. And three: I need a break from all this.

But why bring Spanish Marie into it? What does she add to the pot?

Edith growls in frustration, her hands clenched at her sides. You’re being deliberately dense, Darwin McKenzie. I don’t only want the best wholesale price, I want the best shipping price, too. The best rate means more profit. I’m expanding north along the Dixie Highway. I need a reliable supply.

Dang it, Edith. You’re always pushing. Ever since they took Leroy away, you’ve been busier than a fan at a funeral. But just stop, okay? You don’t need to be rushing off chasing this northern Dixie Highway idea. Goodtimes and the south Dixie run are already raking in the money.

Leroy has nothing to do with it. This is business pure and simple. Cassie read my cards, and she said that it’s time to let go of the past and go for the future. Which is the north Dixie run.

Tarot cards and fortune telling. Humbug. Any fool can see what you’re doing and why.

Fine, if that’s the way you want it, then let’s be honest and call a spade a spade. If I was more successful, if those people in Coconut Grove respected me more, they wouldn’t have taken Leroy away in the first place. That kind of stuff doesn’t happen to powerful people.

Oh, Edith. It was because of Goodtimes they took Leroy away.

How can you say that? Edith says, brushing away angry tears. I closed this place down to keep them away from him.

Darwin’s chin juts out further. But it was too late by then, wasn’t it? You waited too long. You lost him because you had a death-grip on this business and wouldn’t let go. And if you’re not careful, you’ll lose me, too.

Edith staggers back, as if struck. Then, like any good fighter, leans forward into the fray. What do you mean by that?

Darwin swallows and shoves his fists into his pockets. His voice is deeper and slower. Exactly what I said. If you take off for the Bahamas, I’m not going to do Rum Row, the south Dixie run deliveries and whatever else you’ve got cooking along the north highway. All that and look after Goodtimes, too? It’s too much, Edith, even for me.

You’re not by yourself. You have Lucky and his two cousins.

Darwin glares.

Oh, all right, I’ll ask Mae to come help out again like she did last time.

Darwin throws his hands in the air again. That’s no solution. You’re too hard on your friends, Edith. Mae Capone has her own life. You can’t treat her like unpaid help, at your beck and call.

You mean like I treat you? Is that what you mean? There’s a dangerous glint in Edith’s eyes as she’s back standing toe-to-toe with Darwin.

It’s one thing to try to work yourself to death, but I’m not going to let you work me to death, too. If you plan on this expansion, then you’ll need to bring in more help.

I’ll bring in more help when we can afford it. Building up those Dixie routes is the right thing to do. We both know it. I’m going to Nassau and nobody’s going to tell me otherwise.

Can they ever? Fine, suit yourself. But be prepared for the consequences.

Edith snorts, tossing her head. I always am. Now, get out of my way. I’m going to pack.

Chapter 3

Ah, romance. Turquoise water and pink sandy beaches, tropical trade winds and balmy nights. Magic fills the perfumed air in the Bahamas, turning everyday life into a glorious, romantic haze.

Inside the Lucerne Hotel, the ceiling fan turns lazily, stirring the liquid air. A breeze rolls in off the ocean and through the open archways into the bedroom, leaving a refreshing kiss on bare shoulders or a naked chest.

In the dark night, moonlight unveils the glistening, long limbs of two bodies entwined—lost in a tangle of sheets, legs, backs, and arms. Lush, thick, dark hair flows across pillows. The air is ripe with the scent of flowers, sweat, love, sweet rum, and cigarillos.

The woman shoves the man away and rises, pulling on a loose silk robe. It clings to her curves. She gathers and lifts the mass of hair off her damp neck, then releases it into a cascade to her waist. Grabbing a glass of amber rum and fruit juice, she moves to the balcony that overlooks the garden and the ocean beyond, breathing in the vastness of it all—the horizon, the sea, and the endless starry night sky. The moon drips diamonds onto the water, leaving a trail to follow. She yearns to travel it and see where it goes—the bedroom walls close her in, and the arms of her lover are snakes squeezing the life out of her.

Come back to bed, Marie. A low voice rumbles from the bed.

Marie shrugs but doesn’t turn.

Marie. The rumble rises in pitch to a whine. Ma-reee.

Her ruby lip curls in distaste and she shudders as the sound slices down her back. Why doesn’t he shut up? Every petulant word he utters is another cut. She whirls around, blue eyes flashing. "Basta! Vete mucho a chingar a tu madre," she snarls, tossing her drink and then the empty glass at the bed.

The man curses and dodges the glass as it shatters against the wall.

"Carina... Marie," he says, leaping from the bed amid the broken glass.

Marie strides around the bedroom, grabbing at his pants, his shirts, a sock. She flings them off the balcony.

"Basta. Enough with your whining, Diego. I am sick of it and sick of you."

Diego reaches for her, but Marie swats his octopus arms. I said enough.

He pushes her back against the railing, his warm mouth on hers. "I don’t think so, carina," he growls.

She’s as tall as him, maybe taller. Her arms wind around his head, pulling him closer. She relaxes, then twists her body to position Diego against the railing. She moans, and he leans into her. Her hands travel down from his hair to his shoulders to his muscular arms... and she shoves. Hard. He topples over the railing, the bougainvillea below breaking his fall.

Marie laughs, looking down at him and his clothing lying draped over the bushes like laundry. "Out with the old in with the new." She leans further over the railing and shouts down, Coño, para con tu comemierdura.

Diego curses her and her mother in Spanish as he carefully climbs off the prickly bush.

"Adios, Diego." Marie blows him a kiss as he scampers butt naked across the lawn.

Turning, she takes a deep breath and blows it out. She rolls her shoulders, stretching her arms above her head, relishing the empty room. It was time. He had become boring. Besides, Cleo is bringing a new friend to the Bootleggers’ Ball. That should be amusing.

Striking a match, she lights a slim cigarillo, blowing a cloud of blue smoke over her head. She pours another glass of rum and drinks deeply.

Cleo says the new business will be dangerous. Cleo is an old woman. Marie smiles. Risky business is the best kind.

*  *  *  *

Deep in the Everglades, that same silver moon shines down on the chickee in Cassie’s camp. The kerosene lantern hosts its own dance for flickering shadows. After all this time of wishing him here, the strangeness of his presence has Cassie mindful of Leroy’s snores and his muttering.

He’s restless tonight. Even asleep, he can feel the flow of fate’s currents. That boy has a powerful gift. Better than me.

Laying out her cards, Cassie draws the Two of Wands and sits back. "So, things are falling into place, ah-ma-chamee, she says, muttering to herself. And it’s an interesting plan that is forming. Now that you have more trust in the vision of the cards, we should talk about this some more when you return."

Although I hope that isn’t for a few more days, at least. It is so nice to have Koone to myself. Just the two of us, like the old days.

She sits forward and stares, as if the empty chair across is occupied by Edith, looking at the card and nodding. Cassie slips into her fortune telling patter. This plan of yours will take you to a place you’ve not been before, Edith, but this card means you have the courage and confidence to set out to discover what’s on this new path.

Cocking her head to one side, Cassie sniffs a warm floral breeze and hears a woman’s laughter. She looks around the camp and into the dancing shadows. Who’s there? Her words are soft on the breeze.

Cassie listens closely but hears nothing beyond night sounds. Must have been a bird, she says to herself and to the imaginary Edith.

"The past was your lesson. The present is your gift. The future is your motivation, ah-ma-chamee. Now that Leroy’s back, will you ease off, even just a little bit? Last time you set out on a grand plan, things didn’t work out so well for my boy. Learn the lesson, appreciate the gift, and be cautious of your motivation. Sometimes after a storm, folks say there was no warning. But there was. There always is. They just weren’t paying attention."

Leroy mutters and Cassie looks back to the tent where he’s sleeping. Be careful on this journey of yours, Edith. Leroy is precious to us both.

Chapter 4

Parishioners gather in front of the church in Coconut Grove talking excitedly, glancing at the sky. It’s a beautiful, sunny Sunday. Not a cloud in