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Synopsis
She never asked to be a hero. Heroes seldom do.
Nearly a century ago, a treasure of unimaginable value was lost beneath the tropical waters of the Florida Keys.
But when a ruthless real-estate developer threatens Shark Key Campground and Marina, former journalist Kate Kingsbury must find it before her friends and neighbors lose the only homes they know.
It’s taken Kate two years to find peace after her husband was killed in a home invasion. Now she’s found her refuge, living the free and easy boat life at Shark Key Campground and Marina. Except that nothing in life is free. Or easy.
Shark Key is home to a rag-tag group of folks, scraping to get by on an island known more for its lively night-life and exclusive vacation homes than for stable jobs or affordable living. In fact, Kate quickly learns that the average local cobbles together a living from three or more jobs, just to afford their rent. She’s grateful to have Danny’s small pension and a home on a derelict houseboat named Serenity.
Shark Key’s owner, Chuck Miller, is a third generation Conch who’s committed to giving single moms a safe place to raise their kids. Until he gets a little behind on his payments and shady Miami slumlord Monty Baumann swoops in to steal the tranquil little island out from under him.
Shark Key’s last hope is an unbelievable legend from Chuck’s grandfather, a former gangster who worked for the infamous Al Capone. And when the only clue they have is stolen by one of Baumann’s hired thugs, the Shark Key family must band together to retrieve it and find the treasure.
But can they recover it before it’s too late?
This fun, Jimmy Buffett meets Indiana Jones style adventure will keep you listening all night. And Fans of Travis McGee or Sam & Remi Fargo will love Kate Kingsbury and the crew at Shark Key Campground and Marina. Listen to Book 1 in this new action-packed series today!
Release date: June 13, 2019
Publisher: Nile River Media
Print pages: 406
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Lost Key
Chris Niles
Prologue
October 1931
Tommy and Gigi started making plans when the judge replaced the whole jury.
For weeks, Al Capone’s crew had worked to guarantee every juror was on their side. Even if twelve brand new jurors sat in the box, the Outfit would find a way to win them over, too. The Boss would beat these charges. He always beat the charges.
But this time was different. And Tommy and Gigi knew it.
When the jury announced their verdict, runners sprinted down the streets of Chicago. Every boy in town wanted to be first to shout the inconceivable news. “Hey! The jury found him guilty! They’re takin’ him straight to jail. The Boss is goin’ to jail!”
In the Lexington Hotel, a young boy’s breathless cries echoed through the sweeping marble lobby. Barrel-chested henchmen looked up from behind their newspapers, shook their heads, and waved the boy away. No one believed the feds could make anything stick to the great Al Capone.
When Scarface walked the streets, children flocked to his side. He built schools so neighborhood kids could get an education. Later, after the market crashed, he built soup kitchens so they wouldn’t starve. He created jobs and protected his employees. Charmed the women, joked with the men. Paid his employees well for their loyalty. Chicago belonged to him.
But as the news trickled in and people realized it was true, men gathered in twos and threes, then more. Working girls ran down to the lobby wrapped in robes — none of them would be doing any more business that night. Company cars filled the street in front of the building and the alley behind as Capone’s guards and enforcers congregated at the Lexington headquarters. The crowd grew louder, and everyone speculated about the future of the organization.
In the chaos, Gigi slipped into the lobby wearing a simple dress. She clutched three small shopping bags in one hand and grabbed Tommy with the other, then tugged him into a narrow stairwell.
“It’s time, baby. We gotta do it now, or we may never get another opportunity.”
Tommy followed her down the steps into the basement. The two dashed through a maze of brick corridors. Mildew stank up the cool damp air, and Gigi stopped to sneeze.
“Gigi, shh!” Tommy scurried around the corner into Capone’s storage vault. He pushed aside a stack of crates holding empty bottles. “It’s still here. Babe, there’s a latch beside that big mirror. Feel it? Up a little … yeah, there.”
Gigi jumped as the mirror swung aside to reveal a hidden staircase. She climbed through the hole in the basement wall then ran up the steps, reappearing seconds later. “There’s a delivery truck right outside, and the alley is clear for now. Hurry!”
Tommy handed her his Thompson machine gun, then Gigi stood watch in the alley while he rushed up and down the stairs, lugging crate after crate and stacking them in the vehicle. Finally, he slammed the alley door behind him. After flinging the last crate into the back of the truck, he ran around to the cab. “Get in!”
Gigi leapt into the passenger’s seat while Tommy started the engine.
They cleared the alley onto 21st Street then zig-zagged through the narrow streets toward freedom. The two drove through the night, Gigi singing songs to help Tommy stay awake. When they ran low on fuel, Tommy hid the truck down a wooded side road, and the two lovers curled together under Tommy’s jacket to wait for morning.
“I think we made it, kid.” Tommy tucked a curl behind Gigi’s ear.
“How much do you think we got?”
“I dunno, but I know my arms are gonna hurt tomorrow.” Tommy peeked through the window, counting the heavy crates lined up on the floorboards in the back of the truck.
“We can count it later, baby. Right now, I want to get some sleep. In the morning, we’ll get gas, then get as far away as we can.”
For the next three months, Gigi and Tommy wound a path throughout the eastern United States. Tommy taught Gigi to drive, and they kept moving, stopping in small towns along the way. He built a false floor in the truck to hide their cargo. Gigi counted the crates. She counted the gold coins and gemstones inside the crates. Then she counted them again, just to make sure.
“We’re rich. Tommy. We’ll never have to work for anyone else, ever again.”
Tommy kissed the top of her head. “I never liked you workin’ the way you did. But we need to be careful. We gotta hide this loot. We can’t go throwin’ it around. Boss might be in prison, but he still got a lot of friends in a lot of places.”
“But babe, I want nice things. I want a big house and new hats. I want to ride the Queen Mary to Europe and meet dukes and princesses.”
“You’re all the princess I need, Gigi. We need to watch our backs. If we dump these all at once, or even in big batches, we’ll be dead within a week. We gotta lie low a little while longer. Just be patient. When the coast is clear, I promise I’ll buy you the most beautiful house with the most beautiful view in the whole world.”
Tommy sold off a few of the smaller stones one by one — for less than they were worth but more than enough to fill the truck with gas, pay for meals and rooms along the way, and build up a little cash reserve. But living on the run wasn’t Gigi’s cup of bathtub gin.
One evening, in a hotel in Chattanooga, Tennessee, she pressed up against him. “Baby, you need to buy me a real home, or one morning me and that truck are gonna be gone.”
“I should have never taught you to drive.”
She wrapped her lips around his earlobe and teased it with her teeth. “Buy me a house and you’ll never have to worry about a thing.”
The next day, Tommy found a buyer for ten coins — the most he dared sell at one time. He tucked $200 in his front pocket then drove south ’til the road ended.
Chapter 1
Present Day
Kate Kingsbury brushed a sopping hank of curly bangs from her forehead. Her sports watch beeped. She wouldn’t make the Olympic team, but the little screen showed her heart rate was right on target.
A school bus idled with its lights blinking in front of Shark Key Campground and Marina. As children climbed off the bus and ran across the highway, the driver waved out the open door at Kate. She crossed in front of the bus then paused at the driver’s window.
“You coming out for sunset?”
“Not tonight, hon,” the driver replied. “Rick’s working late all week. Gotta take all the overtime we can get since the rent went up again.”
She reached up high and patted the orange panel below the window, hot under the late afternoon sun. “We’ll miss you, but I understand. Do what you gotta do, Lily.”
Kate jogged across the highway. After passing a little boy, she spun, jogged backward alongside him, then waved. “Good day at school, Colton?”
“It was, Miss Kate! I had ’Panish today with Señora Royse!”
“Oooh. Make sure to come by and teach me three new words at sunset, okay?”
The little boy nodded before running to join the group of kids waiting beside the little resort’s faded sign. The bus’s blinking red lights extinguished, the stop sign folded back against its side, then it proceeded up the road.
Kate turned and jogged up the lane. For a hundred yards, stands of mangroves crowded both sides of the narrow road like a runway to a magical land. Just as Narnia had its wardrobe, and Wonderland had its rabbit hole, the long stretch of nature separated the little island from the troubles of the outside world. The thick trees muffled the sound of traffic behind her, and the scent of the brackish water replaced the exhaust and blacktop of Highway One. Shark Key was Kate’s sanctuary.
Where the mangroves gave way to open grass, the gravel lane serpentined left then right. A wooden gate hung open, worn by the salt air and wind, secured to a post with a frayed length of old gray dock line. Farther along, a couple travel trailers and a fifth-wheel that hadn’t moved since she’d been at Shark Key sat between widely set posts. The campsites ended where their low seagrape hedges met the shallow azure waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
Across the lane, a series of narrower sites lined a small lagoon, and beyond it, another row of oceanfront spots stretched along the east coast of the long island. Palm trees dotted the low landscape. Shark Key was home to a few full-time residents, many with permanent decks, satellite dishes, and small storage sheds, but in the off-season, nearly two thirds of the sites sat empty. In another two months, after the heat broke and the snowbirds flocked south for the winter, it would fill to capacity until spring.
A few minutes later, Kate jogged past the sturdy concrete shower house and laundry. A guy in his early twenties with shoulder-length dreadlocks was covering the little building with a fresh coat of bright white paint.
“Justin!”
“Hi, Kate!”
She pointed to the eastern sky. “That storm’s gonna wash all your paint off.”
The young man shrugged. “Nah, it’s just a little pop-up cloud. It’ll blow off to the south. Besides, I’m almost done.”
“Suit yourself.”
She crossed the crushed coral parking lot then bounded over the seawall onto an ancient wooden dock. With each footfall, her steps echoed off the still water below. The marina’s owner, Chuck Miller, had been planning to update all the marina’s docks to aluminum planks, starting with the bigger, deeper slips on the sunrise side of the island. Eventually he’d get to Kate’s on the cove side, but she was glad hers was last on his list. There was something about the weathered wooden planks that felt peaceful, like a secret refuge — a haven from a bygone time.
Most of the empty slips would stay that way for another couple months, just like the campsites. A sixty-foot Hatteras named Tax Shelter gleamed at the end of the long dock. In the two years she’d lived at the little marina at the tip of Shark Key, the Tax Shelter had only left its slip twice. She’d heard the owner was a developer from West Palm, but no one she knew had ever seen him. A few slips closer, a pile of dive gear sat on the dock. Steve Welch was scrubbing the deck of his flats skiff, which he had tied up beside a bright white catamaran that had arrived a couple days earlier. Steve normally kept the skiff alongside his custom dive boat on the deeper side of the island, but the water was calmer in the western cove.
Kate waved at Steve, then trotted toward Serenity, her 46-foot steel-hull houseboat. Not long after she’d arrived in Key West, she used most of her savings to relieve a disillusioned midwestern couple of their little money-pit. She’d lived onboard ever since. Her slip was nearly impossible to pilot a boat into, so shallow the boat’s hull rested on the bottom at low spring tide. But with Serenity’s blown engine, sailing those waters wasn’t even an option. She’d had to have her new home towed into the cove, then Steve and Chuck had helped her pull it into the slip with ropes. But the upside, as Kate saw it, was she only had to do it once. And it helped that Chuck refused to take any slip rent.
She hurdled the low gate to the boat’s stern deck. Whiskey, her seventy-pound German Shepherd, rose from a shaded spot by the door to nuzzle her, tufts of his loose hair sticking to her sweaty belly.
“Hi, buddy. Let’s get you some dinner, okay?” Kate grabbed Whiskey’s empty bowl from the deck and slid the glass door open with her foot. No need for locks with Whiskey aboard.
Watching intently, he waited as Kate shredded fresh meat from last night’s rotisserie chicken then mixed it in with his kibble. She set the bowl on a stool in front of him. He held her gaze. She waited until she saw a good puddle of drool on the vinyl tile below him, then she nodded once. Whiskey tore into the bowl like it was a delicious, coconut-covered criminal while she wiped his slobber from the floor.
Kate grabbed a Modelo and a slice of lime from the fridge, packed two more in a small cooler, then climbed to the roof deck. A single zero-gravity lounge chair sat near the port rail. She pulled a tattered Travis McGee paperback from the dry box beside it before settling in. A soft breeze rustled through the mangrove leaves behind Serenity’s stern, carrying the familiar briny sea scent in off the flats to the north.
Home.
She smelled Whiskey’s dog food breath as he climbed the bow stairs. He ambled to the back of the deck, spun around three times, then settled beside the rail with a clear view up to the parking lot and down the dock. Whiskey had never really taken to retirement.
Kate sipped her beer and read until the sun dropped low on the horizon. As the sunset blazed and the shadows lengthened, her dog jumped to attention, barking once at the sound of footsteps approaching on the dock below.
“It’s okay, Whiskey. Just me,” Steve said. “Ahoy, Captain! Permission to come aboard?”
Kate laughed. “Come on up! You boat people are so formal, I might never get used to it.”
“Only pirates and police board without the captain’s permission. I’m neither.” He climbed the stern ladder then leaned against the west-facing railing over Serenity’s bow. “You might have the worst slip, but you’ve got the best sunset view in this blessed place.”
“I knew you had an ulterior motive, stopping by like this. Beer?” She opened the cooler beside her chair.
“Don’t mind if I do.” He popped the cap and took a long pull. “Got a charter on Wednesday, if you wanna work it.”
“Will I want to?”
“Long day. Starting at the Vandenberg. Photographers, and they want to take a few lobsters when they’re done.”
Lifting her eyebrows, she gazed over the top of her sunglasses.
“Okay, okay. It’s three fifty-something midwestern dudes with about ten dives between them. They’ll be awful, but they pay well.”
“Then why did you even ask me?”
“Because I always ask you, even though you almost always turn me down. Hope springs eternal.”
“Justin will be glad for the work.”
“He will. And they’ll love him. But he couldn’t tease a lobster into a bag if he was starving.”
She laughed.
“Ya know, Kate, I envy you. Sure, your boat don’t run, but you only work when you feel like it and you never run low on beer or dog food.”
“Here’s to living the dream.” She clinked her beer bottle against his.
The two faced west and watched the horizon pull the sun under.
Chapter 2
Mid-morning sunlight filtered through the thick hedge of seagrapes, dotting Serenity’s stern. Whiskey lay curled against the sliding door, one eye half-open facing the transom gate, while Kate repaired the utility sink on the boat’s fish-cleaning table. She leaned hard against the wrench, then it slipped through her sweaty fingers.
“Ffff-Fox Mulder!” Kate squeezed her left toes, hopping and cursing the heavy tool. As the sting subsided, she tested her weight on the foot. Satisfied it wasn’t broken — probably — she gingerly returned the wrench to her toolbox.
After tapping her phone and watching a few seconds of a how-to video, she examined the leaky faucet, its parts spread out on the threadbare green rug on the stern deck she referred to as her back yard.
“Ahoy!”
Kate toppled backwards. “Dammit, Steve.”
Captain Welch leaned over the transom to offer her a hand. Kate waved him off, tucked her feet under her, then pushed herself up, wincing a little.
“You might want to get some ice on that.” He pointed at her swelling left middle toe.
“I’m good. It’s nothing a little time and a long run won’t fix.”
“Tough girl.” He scanned the parts strewn everywhere. “You really could let me help you replace that.”
“No, I can get it. But thanks.”
“Really, Kate. I don’t have a charter today, and I’d like to help. I replaced the deck shower on the Hopper a couple months ago. Me and boat plumbing are old buddies.”
“It’s just a washer. I’ve got this.” Kate turned back to the array of parts. She picked one up.
“Try that one.” Steve pointed at a section of pipe with a flange at the end, then reached over the low railing to pick up the length of plastic. He ran his finger along the edge of the flange, then pulled out a half-disintegrated rubber washer. “This might be your problem.”
Kate sighed and flopped into a deck chair. “Thanks. I guess I’ll run up to West Marine and grab one this afternoon.”
“Chuck might have one in the hodgepodge he calls a shop. Check with him before you make a special trip.” He rested his hand on the gate’s latch and looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Really? Fine. Come aboard already.”
He sat in the other deck chair. Whiskey eased up and moved to Kate’s side, positioning himself between Kate and the visitor.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just annoyed. Seems like everything on this bucket is breaking at the same time.”
“I can take care of it for you.”
“I appreciate the offer. I really do. But I’m on my own now and I need to learn to take care of things myself.”
“But you’re not on your own, Kate. We all look after each other around here.”
“I know. I do. And I’m grateful, but it’s not the same as having a hus— it’s just not the same. People can’t always be there. Sometimes you have to do for yourself. I have to do for myself. So it’s best I learn how. Besides, YouTube lasts forever. And it usually gets me there in the end.” She rubbed her bare toes.
“Well, Captain Steve’s first rule of boating is that something is always broken. So, get used to that. Second rule? Never try to repair anything in flip-flops.” Steve laughed at his own joke and pushed himself up out of the deck chair. “Seriously, if you change your mind, I’ll be polishing the rails on the skiff. Just come get me.” He latched the tiny gate behind him then ambled down the dock.
Kate dropped back down to the rough turf. Whiskey nuzzled her, and she wrapped her arm around his neck. She fished through the parts then grabbed the one Steve had pointed out as well as another marred by a long crack. Then she dropped both into the deep pocket of her cargo shorts.
“Guard, Whiskey.”
The dog’s ears straightened, and he squared himself off directly opposite the gate, his back against the sliding glass door. With a full view of the boat’s stern and the approaching dock, Whiskey had the perfect vantage point. Kate stepped over the transom then crossed the dock to the seawall. She passed through the thick hedge that encircled the whole island, limping up toward the low block building painted the hue of sunshine that housed the marina’s office and workshop. An old bell, corroded by the salt air, jingled when the door opened.
A long counter covered in stacks of yellowing paperwork and fronted with fake wood paneling divided the room. Behind it, a cash register sat on a low bookcase below a plate glass window. Against the far wall, Chuck’s 1940s-style metal desk rested against the wall. A high bank of jalousie windows invited a breeze to pass through to a matching set on the opposite wall. The right half of the room was fitted with mismatched shelving units displaying island necessities like toilet paper, coffee filters, and cases of bottled water. A rusting cooler groaned in the back corner, filled with soda, Gatorade, milk, and a small selection of canned beer. Sunlight battered the blistered tinting film that coated the wide front windows.
The boy from the bus stop stood at the counter with a half gallon of milk, writing a note. Kate peeked over his shoulder.
Colton Dawson. Milk $1.25. Thank you, Mr. Chuck.
Colton waved at Kate, hefted the milk into the crook of his arm, then ran across the parking lot toward his mom’s Winnebago with four flat tires.
Kate crossed the room and peeked through another doorway into a dark, cluttered workshop.
“Chuck? Are you back there?”
A man’s voice drifted through a doorway across the room. “Kate, is that you?”
“Yep. You missed Colton. He stopped in to pick up some milk.”
“Didn’t miss him. I saw him waiting in the bushes. He’s embarrassed to ask for groceries when his mama can’t pay. So we have this little system. I see him, I come back here, he comes in and gets what he needs, and leaves me a note. It works for him.”
“He shops for them? He’s in second grade.”
“His mama works three jobs. Makes a kid grow up quick. Babette and I both keep an eye on him, and he knows to come up here if he has a serious problem. Sometimes after I close up the shop, he comes up to the house to keep me company. Does his homework at my kitchen table and watches Jeopardy! with me. He’s a good kid.” Chuck lived in a little concrete block house just behind the shop.
“You’re a softie, Chuck.”
“Soft is what my old body is getting. Come in here and help me get this pump down, will you?”
Kate paused, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Shelving units piled with random supplies and parts stretched from the concrete floor to the ceiling joists, blocking what little light streamed through the shop’s dirty windows. Damp hung in the air, and the smell of mildew blended with oil and dust into a distinctive Florida-mechanic’s-shop scent. Kate closed her eyes and pictured a wider, tidier shop with the same smell. In her memory, an antique Indian motorcycle sat propped up on jacks, its engine spread across the gleaming floor. She shook off the memory then turned to see Chuck struggling with an oversized pump on a shelf high above his head.
“What are you doing, trying to get that by yourself?” Kate’s calves burned as she stretched up on her toes to pull the pump down for the older man.
“Thanks.” Chuck placed the pump in a little wagon and rubbed his shoulder with a tanned, leathery hand. “Sometimes I forget I’m not quite as young as I used to be.” He winked at her before tugging the wagon back into the front office.
“But you’re not old yet. How’s your shoulder doing?”
“Better, thanks. Most days it feels fine, as long as I don’t try to reach for anything over my head.” He glanced up to the empty spot where the pump had been. “They released me from physical therapy last week. Doc says this is probably as good as it’ll get. Says swimmin’ is good for it. Maybe I’ll get Steve to take me out lobstering to keep it moving.”
Kate smiled. “That’s a good way to keep in shape for sure. You still using that antique regulator?” She nodded at the small pile of dive gear resting on a cluster of tanks.
“Kept me alive this long. No reason to change now.”
“He’s got a group going out to the Vandenberg on Wednesday.”
“I heard. Justin’s gonna go since someone here didn’t want the ride.”
“News travels fast, huh? You know tourists and I don’t mix well.”
“You picked the wrong place to live, kiddo. Ain’t nobody makin’ it around here without ’em.”
“I’m doing fine, thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow as the corner of his mouth ticked up in an impish grin. “Well, yeah, since you ain’t got slip rent to worry about.”
“You’d be miserable here without me. Your place’d get broken into every other day without Whiskey keeping people honest. Besides, you’d never get anyone else to give you three dollars for that mudhole you call a slip anyway.” She winked. “So, I need a couple lengths of PVC and a washer for my deck sink. Got anything along these lines hiding back there? Save me a trip to town?”
He looked at the parts in her hand, then shuffled off to the back room muttering to himself. He returned with a faucet kit box in his hand.
“Chuck, I just need the pipe and a washer.”
“Take the whole thing and make some room in my shop. Please.”
Kate slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. It was all she had in her pocket. “I’ll give you more after Danny’s check comes in.”
He pushed the bill back toward her. “It was collecting dust back there, anyway. Take it.”
“No. You let me dock here for free, and I appreciate it. But if I need a part, I’ll pay for it.”
“Kate, honey, I don’t ‘let’ you anything. The Good Book says care for the widows and orphans. This is my way of doin’ that.”
Kate squirmed.
“Besides, you’re right. Ain’t nobody givin’ me a cent for that slip, anyway. But the ponies were rough on me last weekend, so if you insist …” He winked at her and tucked the twenty into his pocket. “Oh, hey. Got a new guy name of Branson Tillman playing on the deck tonight, and whatever’s fresh’ll be on the grill.”
“Save me a seat at the bar.” Kate tucked the box under her arm then started toward the front office. The door jingled as a wiry form filled the doorway.
Chuck tensed.
Kate glanced at the new arrival. The man’s hairline was receding, and brand new Oakleys perched on the bridge of his narrow nose. From his perfectly-starched open-collar to the smooth leather dock shoes, the man screamed Miami. She hadn’t been a cop’s wife very long, but Danny had taught her to size people up quickly and slot them into Friend or Foe.
And nothing about this guy looked friendly.
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