“South Florida has had tragic deaths from parasailing providers, Jet Ski rentals, and now in Riggs Beach, stand-up paddleboarding rentals. These companies and their equipment should be inspected on a regular basis. And right now, that’s not occurring. My rules would change that. We need to protect our citizens and the good name of Riggs Beach as a family vacation spot.
“If companies like Sunny Jim’s Stand-Up Paddleboard Rental can’t follow safety procedures, they don’t deserve to be on our beach.”
“See? I told you,” Jim said. “The Riggs Beach City Commission is going to vote to take my license and my spot near the pier. They’ll do anything to ruin my business.”
“Even kill an innocent woman?” Phil asked.
“What better way to get rid of me?” Jim asked. “That poor lady was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Phil flashed Helen a look over the top of Jim’s head that told her he thought their client was astoundingly self-centered.
Helen heard an engine pulling up to the emergency room entrance, then a short, sharp horn honk. A yellow cab was waiting outside the door.
The emergency room’s inner doors swung open and Daniel burst into the waiting room. Sunny Jim stood up and approached Daniel carefully, as if an energetic movement could cause the newly bereaved husband more pain.
“Daniel, I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, his voice a mournful whisper.
“Get away!” Daniel shouted. “You killed my wife.” He pushed Jim in the chest. “Get out of my way. That’s my cab.”
“No, that’s not true,” Jim said, but he backed away. “I didn’t kill Ceci. Her death was an accident.”
“An accident?” Daniel gave a harsh, ugly laugh. “You endangered my wife’s life with your reckless policies. You failed to provide her with proper training and safety equipment.”
What? Helen thought. Daniel had mocked his wife when she put on a life jacket. He sure didn’t sound like a grief-stricken husband. He was using legal language.
“I’d give anything for your wife to be alive,” Jim said. “I’d rather it was me who died than Ceci.”
“Yeah, right,” Daniel said. His thin lip curled like a cankered leaf. “By the time my lawyer finishes with you, you’re going to wish you did die.”
CHAPTER 8
H elen and Phil straggled through the gate at the Coronado Tropic Apartments a little after six that night. Phil’s paddleboard T-shirt was stained and wrinkled. Helen’s hair hung in limp strings, and she felt ridiculous in her swimsuit and cover-up. At least she was thawing out after the hospital’s chill air.
Margery Flax, their landlady, was stretched out on a chaise by the pool, white wine in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. She looked like a giant lavender butterfly in her caftan. She was seventy-six and wrinkled as a linen summer suit, but Margery’s wrinkles seemed like awards for distinguished living.
“You two look like particular hell,” she said. “You need a drink. Let me get you a beer, Phil. Helen, pour yourself a white wine. The box is on the umbrella table.”
“You are a goddess,” Phil said. “Don’t get up. I can run to my apartment and get my own beer.”
“You are a humanitarian,” Helen said, filling a plastic wineglass from the box of wine. She took a long sip. “Hey, this is actually good wine.” Usually, Margery’s box wine tasted like Kool-Aid with top notes of tile cleaner.
“Got it on sale,” Margery said. “The label says it has strawberry notes and a dry, slightly floral finish.”
Helen took another sip and said, “My sensitive taste buds can detect that it’s cold, wet and has alcohol. Tastes good, too.”
Phil was back with a cold Heineken and a big bowl of popcorn.
“What a man,” Margery said. “Good-looking and you cook.” She helped herself to a generous handful of popcorn. Helen grabbed some for herself.
Before they settled into serious munching, Margery said, “Who
“If companies like Sunny Jim’s Stand-Up Paddleboard Rental can’t follow safety procedures, they don’t deserve to be on our beach.”
“See? I told you,” Jim said. “The Riggs Beach City Commission is going to vote to take my license and my spot near the pier. They’ll do anything to ruin my business.”
“Even kill an innocent woman?” Phil asked.
“What better way to get rid of me?” Jim asked. “That poor lady was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Phil flashed Helen a look over the top of Jim’s head that told her he thought their client was astoundingly self-centered.
Helen heard an engine pulling up to the emergency room entrance, then a short, sharp horn honk. A yellow cab was waiting outside the door.
The emergency room’s inner doors swung open and Daniel burst into the waiting room. Sunny Jim stood up and approached Daniel carefully, as if an energetic movement could cause the newly bereaved husband more pain.
“Daniel, I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, his voice a mournful whisper.
“Get away!” Daniel shouted. “You killed my wife.” He pushed Jim in the chest. “Get out of my way. That’s my cab.”
“No, that’s not true,” Jim said, but he backed away. “I didn’t kill Ceci. Her death was an accident.”
“An accident?” Daniel gave a harsh, ugly laugh. “You endangered my wife’s life with your reckless policies. You failed to provide her with proper training and safety equipment.”
What? Helen thought. Daniel had mocked his wife when she put on a life jacket. He sure didn’t sound like a grief-stricken husband. He was using legal language.
“I’d give anything for your wife to be alive,” Jim said. “I’d rather it was me who died than Ceci.”
“Yeah, right,” Daniel said. His thin lip curled like a cankered leaf. “By the time my lawyer finishes with you, you’re going to wish you did die.”
CHAPTER 8
H elen and Phil straggled through the gate at the Coronado Tropic Apartments a little after six that night. Phil’s paddleboard T-shirt was stained and wrinkled. Helen’s hair hung in limp strings, and she felt ridiculous in her swimsuit and cover-up. At least she was thawing out after the hospital’s chill air.
Margery Flax, their landlady, was stretched out on a chaise by the pool, white wine in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. She looked like a giant lavender butterfly in her caftan. She was seventy-six and wrinkled as a linen summer suit, but Margery’s wrinkles seemed like awards for distinguished living.
“You two look like particular hell,” she said. “You need a drink. Let me get you a beer, Phil. Helen, pour yourself a white wine. The box is on the umbrella table.”
“You are a goddess,” Phil said. “Don’t get up. I can run to my apartment and get my own beer.”
“You are a humanitarian,” Helen said, filling a plastic wineglass from the box of wine. She took a long sip. “Hey, this is actually good wine.” Usually, Margery’s box wine tasted like Kool-Aid with top notes of tile cleaner.
“Got it on sale,” Margery said. “The label says it has strawberry notes and a dry, slightly floral finish.”
Helen took another sip and said, “My sensitive taste buds can detect that it’s cold, wet and has alcohol. Tastes good, too.”
Phil was back with a cold Heineken and a big bowl of popcorn.
“What a man,” Margery said. “Good-looking and you cook.” She helped herself to a generous handful of popcorn. Helen grabbed some for herself.
Before they settled into serious munching, Margery said, “Who
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