Scavenger Tides

By Susan Hanafee

When Leslie Elliott quits her public relations job to move to a small island in southwest Florida, her dream of becoming a mystery writer threatens to become a nightmare as buzzards lead her to a headless dog carcass and a human body rolls in with the summer storms and then disappears, only to re-appear and vanish again. Leslie's search for answers and her run-ins with the sheriff take her on a journey that involves a fisherman with too many secrets, a local couple struggling to survive in a millionaire's playground and dangerous men who will stop at nothing to protect their lucrative criminal activities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9781735698823

Susan Hanafee

Susan Hanafee is an award-winning former journalist whose career as a reporter for The Indianapolis Star spanned three decades. She formerly headed corporate communications for IPALCO Enterprises and Cummins Inc. She resides in southwest Florida. Hanafee's blogs can be found on www.susanhanafee.com. Her previously published books include Red, Black and Global: The Transformation of Cummins (a corporate history); Rachael's Island Adventures (a collection of children's stories); Never Name an Iguana and Rutabagas for Ten (essays and observations on life); Leslie's Voice (a novel) and the Leslie Elliott mystery series, including Scavenger Tides, The End of his Journey and Deadly Winds.

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This book is a work of fiction created by Susan Hanafee. All names, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or living or dead persons is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

Copyright © 2024 of second edition by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Cover design by Jim Hartman.

ISBN 978-1-7356988-1-6 (print)

ISBN 978-1-7356988-2-3 (e-book)

Scavenger Tides

When Leslie Elliott quits her public relations job to move to a small island in southwest Florida, her dream of becoming a mystery writer threatens to become a nightmare as buzzards lead her to a headless dog carcass and a human body rolls in with the summer storms and then disappears, only to re-appear and vanish again. Leslie’s search for answers and her run-ins with the sheriff take her on a journey that involves a fisherman with too many secrets, a local couple struggling to survive in a millionaire’s playground and dangerous men who will stop at nothing to protect their lucrative criminal activities.

What Readers Say

A romantic fisherman. A suspicious, flighty foreigner. A creepy, misdirected real estate agent. A snoopy former P.R. executive. And, a dead dog. All play major roles in this intriguing, tense new novel by the gifted Susan Hanafee. Set on a small island of affluence, the explicit characterization and carefully woven plot schemes are compelling, making one anxious about living the life of a self-appointed investigator. Leslie, the main character, is bent on looking into situations she should leave alone. At war with the local police, Leslie keeps going beyond her modus operandi until she finds that a much bigger issue threatens the community.

Bob Elliott, author of Make Your Point

I loved it! Read it in one sitting with a break for dinner and then back to Scavenger Tides. The plot moves quickly, the characters are realistic and believable and the dialogue funny as well as accurate. The writer captures the essence of southwest Florida: tropical blue waters, local working people who are the backbone of the community and seventy-year-olds who have discovered the fountain of youth. 

Stephanie Williams, Sleuth Book Club of Boca Grande

The cruelest lies are often told in silence. – Robert Louis Stevenson

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 1

The sign in front of the little island church promised eternal life. The man inside had death on his mind. It consumed his thoughts as he and Pastor Billy Cordray walked to the altar at the front of the sanctuary. It stayed with him as he lit two candles to open the service. He took a seat near the organ and tried to focus on the pastor’s words. Gracious and loving God . . . But his eyes wandered to his watch. Ten minutes. The son of a bitch better be on time. No excuses either.

When Pastor Billy lifted his Bible into the air and walked into the congregation to read the scripture, all eyes turned toward him. It was time. The man slipped out the exit door near his chair and through the sacristy. Outside, he surveyed the alley across from the church.

Where the hell is he? Maybe he wants to weasel out of the deal.

As if responding to a summons, a tall figure in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, like the kind worn by local fishermen, stepped out from behind a row of bushes. A cap and sunglasses obscured his face, but he walked like a man with nothing to hide. He carried a paint can.

What’s that? the man asked as he handed the figure a thick envelope.

A souvenir. The tall figure removed the lid and thrust the can forward. Inside was a dog’s head: Yellow fur matted with blood, tongue hanging to one side of its mouth, and eyes glazed.

The man shuddered. "You sick bastard. What am I gonna do with this? You were supposed to take care of—»

I did. You wanted a message sent. This is your receipt. The figure stuffed the envelop into his pocket and disappeared into the hedge.

The man grunted, then chucked the open can into the trash bin. He re-entered the sacristy, and when he heard the organ and the shuffle of people standing, slipped back inside the church sanctuary and stood in front of his seat by the organ. His alto voice joined with the others. So, I’ll cherish the old rugged cross, till my trophies at last I lay down . . .

A prideful smile crossed his face, but it faded when he saw a gray-haired woman in the front row staring at him and scowling.

Pastor Billy, in his first year of ministering to a flock of wealthy Southwest Florida retirees and assorted other island residents, left the church with his Bible in one hand and a bag of trash in the other. His words from the pulpit had been inspiring, he was sure of it. It appeared that no one nodded off, and he thought he’d even heard a whispered amen now and then.

He considered putting out the trash a demeaning job for a man of the cloth, but the church sexton, whose job it was to clean up after the service, had phoned in sick. Someone had to dispose of the pew programs and Styrofoam coffee cups from the Fellowship Hall. Yes, he thought, he could humble himself to do this part of the Lord’s work.

When he lifted the top of the trashcan near the church office he gasped. Staring back at him were the lifeless eyes of a bloody devil dog. The blasphemy was out of his mouth before he could stop it: Jesus Christ!

Chapter 2

It was early October in southwest Florida: The air was oppressive and pungent with the aroma of dead fish. But it wasn’t the smell that put Leslie Elliott off her stride, it was the black buzzards that she saw landing on the second-story porch of a house under construction and filing through what looked like an opening for a double door.

When she returned to her condo after her morning walk, she attempted to capture the scene in her writer’s journal before the horror of it faded: The smell of death called them to this place. It wafted through the opening and into the morning air. It was irresistible. First one, then another landed. They walked through the doorway and into the area where breakfast was being served. They stuck their beaks into the rotting hulk and began ripping off pieces of flesh.

Kind of gory. Grotesque. Who knows? Going with it for now, she thought as she closed the journal and tossed it onto a nearby Adirondack chair.

Another day in paradise, she said aloud. There was no one around to hear the sarcasm in her voice or see her yawn. It couldn’t be boredom. Not in this beautiful place. Maybe it was the slow pace of life, she mused.

It was only five months ago when she walked away from a lucrative and frenzied public relations job at a Midwestern utility and, at the same time, ended a marriage and a subsequent relationship that made her want to swear off men. Forever. Again.

Her destination was an island where she hoped to live a simpler life as a writer and mother to her twenty-one-year-old daughter, Meredith. She was in her junior year at college and would be joining Leslie for Christmas.

One of the first things she did after moving in was to set up a writing table with a view of the Gulf of Mexico. On the wall to the left of her desk, she hung a small plaque. It was a picture of an old-fashioned typewriter with the words: You must not come lightly to the blank page. Stephen King.

She hadn’t even opened her first ream of printer paper when she realized that a mental haze had descended on her creativity. She had a journal full of ideas but nothing else. No plot, no characters, no storyline. She wasn’t going lightly. She was going nowhere.

It wasn’t the same for her mother, Ruth Harvey. She was a widow of twenty years, who moved south with Leslie into her own condo close by. Ruth played bridge, took mah-jongg lessons and had a calendar full of luncheon and dinner dates. She was on such a social fast track that some days it felt like Leslie needed an appointment to say hello.

Leslie also suspected that Ruth and her friends had bonded over Leslie’s writer’s block and then exaggerated her frustration level. Poor Leslie’s not writing. She’s not fitting in. She’s not happy. What can we do about it? Leslie could see the pity in the older women’s eyes when, on the rare occasion, she was invited to join them for lunch.

She checked her watch. More than an hour had passed since she spotted the buzzards. She picked up her cell phone.

Sheriff. The raspy voice that answered and listened to her story was perfunctory. Prob’ly a dead animal. We’ll check it out.

She thanked him, wondering if someone would show up anytime soon. And if it would be okay for her to be there when that person did arrive?

Her next call was to the realtor who sold her the two condos; one for her and one for her mother.

This is Gordon Fike. Let’s make it happen.

It was his usual greeting, and every time she heard the sales pitch come out of his mouth, the more annoying she found it to be.

She turned on her upbeat persona: Gordon, it’s Leslie Elliott.

Leslie! How’s the novel coming?

He sounded genuinely happy to hear from her. With Gordon, Leslie realized she couldn’t be sure.

Like fishing for tarpon in September. Nothing much on the line, she responded.

He laughed a little too long. That’s a good one. What can I do for you? In the market for a house for you and your mother? Uh, such a charming lady.

Ruth had sized up Gordon the day of her condo closing and decided she didn’t like him. She gave no reason why; she said it was one of her feelings. While his attempts to charm her proved useless, Leslie was sure he never complained publicly. Unpleasant or not, the two women would always be potential buyers and sellers in his mind.

Mom’s still unpacking, if you can believe that. I did call about a property, but not one I’m interested in buying. It’s the yellow house on Oceanview Drive. The one that looks like someone stopped work halfway through the project. I see it on my walk every day.

Leslie thought the lingering silence on Fike’s end was way out of character.

Sorry. Don’t know anything about that house, he finally said in a tone that reflected none of his earlier enthusiasm.

What’s happened? Did the owner run out of money? Did he die? she pressed.

Don’t know.

Com’n Gordon. You know everything that goes on around here. She laughed. Especially when it comes to real estate.

More silence. Leslie decided to push on.

This morning there were buzzards walking in an open door on the second floor. I called the sheriff.

That statement seemed to loosen his frozen tongue.

The sheriff? Listen, Leslie, people around here like their privacy. It’s best to mind your own business. His manner was now uncharacteristically brusque, almost angry.

A realtor should care about those things—vultures in a house—even if he doesn’t know anything about the property, she thought.

I see. She paused for what seemed like an eternity to give him time to respond. Hearing nothing, she ended the conversation. Sorry to have bothered you, Gordon. Have a nice day. She clicked end, wondering what his problem was.

Besides irritating her, Gordon Fike’s warning made her want to know more. There was no ignoring the fact that buzzards entering an open, vacant house was odd. And the house itself? When a place meant for life is empty, they say it has no inner spirit. She had to see what it was in a lifeless house that the convention of vultures found so compelling.

Chapter 3

Tattered black plastic on the construction fencing around the yellow structure danced in the Gulf breezes. Volunteer palmettos that had staked their territory in the front yard bobbed and twisted, and a little dust devil stirred up and made its way toward Leslie from a pile of stones, drywall, and timber that formed a monument to days when this had been a more productive worksite.

There was no sign of the sheriff. Leslie looked around, saw no one watching her, and squeezed through an opening in the fence. A few skittish buzzards, gobbling up remains of something near the house, darted their beady eyes in her direction but kept on eating.

She worked her way through the construction debris to a door on the lowest level and reached for the knob. It turned, opening a crack to an area that looked like it would be used for storage when finished.

Leslie remembered that when she was little her mother was full of warnings. Don’t touch the stove, it’s hot. Don’t cross the street without looking both ways. As she prepared to enter, she could hear the spirit of Ruth saying, Don’t go in that door.

When she did open it fully, bits of foam insulation, cigarette butts, and Mountain Dew cans skittered across the cement floor with the incoming breeze. Men at work. You worried for nothing, Mother.

Leslie was surprised to see the newest edition of The Island Sun, the weekly newspaper on the ground, its front page rustling in the wind as she shut the door behind her. It was an indication that the birds weren’t the only recent visitors. She picked up the paper, stuck it under her arm, and headed for a makeshift stairway.

The steps to the next level were on the east side of the house. The scavengers had landed and entered from the west. If they were still there, she didn’t want to disturb them. They were large birds and outnumbered her. Several days ago, Yahoo carried a story about black buzzards killing calves in Tennessee. A sidebar told of vultures attacking feral pigs on the island of Cayo Costa, Florida. Buzzards are normally nature’s clean-up crew, not the aggressors. Still, she didn’t want to chance ending up like one of the eyeless victims in Alfred Hitchcock’s movie The Birds.

The door at the top of the stairs opened to Leslie’s left, blocking her view of the kitchen where she suspected the buzzards might be having breakfast. Across a hallway were more stairs leading to the third level, which she chose to explore as a safer option. When she reached the top step, she glanced down and noticed reddish-brown dots in the construction dust. She pulled a Kleenex from her shorts pocket, moistened it with her tongue and rubbed it over the area. Could it be a clue or did her mother read too many Nancy Drew mysteries to her when she was a child?

The first door she came to on the third floor had a lock and a brass handle that wouldn’t budge. The door across from it led to an unfinished bathroom. A dirty green towel was draped over the edge of a sink. Behind a half wall was a toilet, lid up. The area was in need of sanitizing but offered no clues.

In the larger room at the end of the hallway, a row of windows overlooked the island’s North Pass—the gateway to the Gulf. The view included a shell path that wandered from the house through a mangrove swamp and ended up at a long dock. Lush palm trees and ferns lined the walkway. An egret patrolled the area, stalking in slow motion in hopes of sneaking up on a delicacy nestled among the tropical greenery. Leslie stood for a minute just for the wonder of where she now lived. I will never tire of it, she thought.

The room was empty except for a dozen paint cans stacked in a pyramid along one wall. A few of them had drips of the same reddish-brown color Leslie had seen on the stairway. She grabbed the thin metal handle of the can at the end to get a better look. It came off the ground so easily, she almost lost her balance.

Satisfied there was nothing else to discover on the third level, she took the can with her and retraced her steps down the back stairway, yelling and stamping her feet in hopes of scaring off any remaining buzzards. For good measure, she reached around the wall and heaved the paint can into the room toward the west side of the house. It bounced, banged, and rolled, then fell silent. As she rounded the door, she saw that it had come to rest against a mass on the floor.

The buzzards had vanished, but the stench that attracted them hadn’t; it came from the clumps of yellowish-white fur and bits of red meat clinging to exposed bones. The mass on the floor looked to be the partially decomposed body of an animal, likely a dog. There were pads on the end of paws, the remnants of a tail, but no head. It appeared sliced off on the spot, hopefully after the poor creature was dead, Leslie thought. Everywhere were large patches of the familiar reddish-brown color. There seemed to be no question that it wasn’t paint.

In a corner was a blue denim dog collar with two silver tags. Leslie walked over and picked it up. The name Whalen and a phone number were embroidered in white. There was little wear and no sign of blood. As she slipped the collar into her pocket, a sense of fury overtook her.

My God. What sadist did this?

Whatcha doin’ here, lady? The voice was raspy, as if the speaker needed to clear his throat. Whoever it was had entered quietly, surprising Leslie. Her hand went to her heart.

Oh, Sheriff, she gasped as she turned around to see a slight man in matching tan shirt and pants. You startled me. I-I’m Leslie Elliott. I called about the buzzards. I-I think I spoke with you.

During her short time as an island resident, Leslie had never seen the sheriff or any of his deputies. This man had an emblem on his sleeve, a badge attached to his breast pocket and a holstered firearm. He wore no hat, and his slicked-back brown hair was long enough to brush against his shirt collar. His rugged face, lined by what must be excessive sun and years of smoking, didn’t look happy to see her.

Ya shouldn’t be here. He retrieved a small tin from his pants pocket, opened it, and smeared a greasy substance under his nose. Then he thrust the container Leslie’s direction. Since ya are, want some? Helps with the god-awful smell.

She reached her forefinger into the box and smeared some of the substance under her nose. It smelled like Vick’s VapoRub, the substance coroners use to lessen the stink of death.

Yer trespassing. Just because you called, don’t give ya the right to be here. I won’t do anything but don’t come back, he said as he reached for a thin notepad in his back pocket and started writing.

I wasn’t trying to create problems, Leslie said, trying to sound contrite, even though she didn’t feel that way.

Folks here tend to keep to themselves. You’ll learn. He kept his eyes on his writing as he issued her the second warning of the day on island etiquette and minding her own business.

Since yer here, I’ll ask ya some questions. When did ya see the birds and was there anyone else around?

About 8:30. I usually walk by here at that time. There was no one else. So, when did the work stop?

He looked up and, to Leslie’s surprise, provided an answer. Ten months. A year. Nobody paid much attention ‘til the weeds started growing. Then we got complaints. How many buzzards did ya see?

It’s hard to say. Ten. Fifteen. I’m not sure how many were already inside. The owner. Did he die or run out of money or what?

He shrugged. Haven’t seen him around lately.

Didn’t you say the house was abandoned?

Said the owner stopped work. Didn’t say he was gone. I’ll ask the questions. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

Oh, sorry, Sheriff. Being new to the area, I’m interested in learning about my neighbors.

His lips spread into an exaggerated grin that exposed a gap in his smile, a couple of teeth back from the two in front. He’s not yer neighbor yet, is he?

Leslie wanted to keep the conversation going to see if she could glean any more information from the recalcitrant law enforcement official. She also didn’t want to alienate him completely.

Do you think it’s a dog? I mean, it seems obvious that it was at one time. Unless it was a coyote or something. Did the owner have a dog?

He paused and flipped through his notebook. Yeah. I thought so. Got a call from the pastor about a dog’s head in the church’s trash. Might be the same animal. Like I said, no need to go nosing around. I’ll figure out what happened.

I’m sure you will, Sheriff, she said. Body one place, head in a trash can by the church. I’m not sure that’s a mystery you can solve, but maybe I’m wrong.

It’s Deputy. Deputy Bruce Webster. If ya see anything else when yer walking by, call me. But don’t come in the house again. It’s not safe. He handed her a card with his name and phone number and a fingerprint that appeared to be part of the design.

Sure, Deputy. Leslie took a piece of paper and golf pencil from her pocket and scratched her name and cell number on it. Call me if you find out anything.

She reached for the paint can she’d pitched in the buzzard’s direction. This can was upstairs. Empty. I’ll put it in the recycling bin at my condo, she said, trying to sound as though it was no big deal. To her surprise, Deputy Bruce Webster did not object.

Back in her condo, Leslie pulled the dog collar out of her pocket and ran her fingers over the embroidered letters. How did poor Whalen meet his brutal end? How long had he been there? And where was his owner?

She picked up her cell phone and punched in the number on the collar. After a dozen rings, it switched to a man’s voice.

Leave a message. I’ll get back to you.

It was hard for her to say the words. She pictured Whalen whole again, running in and out of the Gulf waves, his yellowish-white fur ruffled by the wind. He was digging for sand crabs and scattering flocks of terns and seagulls. His throaty bark was cutting through the sound of the surf.