A small, rusted sign about a mile past the bridge read WELCOME TO PALMETTO ISLAND, even though it was still a few miles ahead. Driving at the thirty-five mile per hour speed limit allowed her to glance at the unique shops along the way. There was an art gallery painted aqua blue with purple trim. The Blue Crab Bar and Grill was painted red and pink, with a giant sign in the shape of a blue crab. A tiny chartreuse building housed the Rainbow Row ice cream shop. Alison found it all colorful and unique as she continued her drive. Reaching a fork in the road, she had the option to turn right onto Dolphin Drive or go left onto Trafalgar Avenue. She opted for Dolphin Drive simply because she liked dolphins. To her right, she was surrounded by canals, more mangroves, and palmetto trees. There were also cabbage palms, or swamp cabbage, trees she remembered seeing in Tampa. She wasn’t sure of the names of the various types of palm trees, though it was more than obvious Palmetto Island’s name suited the surroundings.
Alison drove slowly down the stretch of road, surprised there was no traffic, no scooters or bicycle riders, no tourists as there had been at Matlacha Pass. Reaching the end of Dolphin Drive, she again had a choice to go right or left. This time she took a left onto Loblolly Way. About a dozen upscale homes faced the Gulf of Mexico. She could see a strip of beach in front of the houses. Unsure if this was a private beach, she made a U-turn, hoping for a sign, anything to indicate whether the area was off limits to the public or not. Desiring the feel of the warm sand on her feet and the briny salt water against her skin, she pulled into the parking lot of a souvenir shop. There were no cars, so she assumed the place was closed for the day. She grabbed her sunglasses from the visor, along with her small cross-body bag that held a bit of cash and her gun. She placed the .22 under the seat, confident she wouldn’t need to carry a weapon for a stroll on the beach. Locking up the Jeep, she walked across the parking area to the main road. Seeing a grassy path between two houses, she made her way to the beach.
There wasn’t a single soul on the beach, so this had to be a private area. She kicked off her shoes, letting the salty water caress her feet. The warm breeze blew her hair away from her face. For a minute, she closed her eyes, imagining what it would be like to live in a house right on the beach, a dream she’d had since leaving Ohio. Before she was caught, she retraced her steps back to the path.
“This is private property.”
Alison stopped. She turned around to see where the voice was coming from.
“Up here,” came the voice again.
She looked up and saw a man standing on the deck of one of the houses.
“Sorry,” she said, hurrying toward the main road.
“Wait!” the man said.
Frightened, she bolted toward the road as fast as she could. Alison heard footsteps behind her as she sprinted across the parking lot to her Jeep. Heartbeat racing, she unlocked the door. As she swung the door aside, a hand grabbed her. She whirled around to face the man from the deck.
With forced bravado, she spoke. “Don’t you touch me again, or I’ll blow your frigging head off!”
The man stepped away from the vehicle, both arms high in the air. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Then what the hell are your intentions?”
“I saw you on the path between my place and the Dubois house. I was going to show you another way to get to the beach without trespassing on anyone’s property.”
Shaking, she held her ground. “Sure you were.”
“Next time you come to the beach, take Dolphin Drive all the way to end, turn right at Loblolly Way. There’s a parking area—it’s hard to find if you don’t know it’s there. It’s not a private beach.” He stepped forward, holding his right hand out to her. “I’m John Wilson. I own the bait and tackle shop. I was about to head to the shop when I spotted you.”
“So you could chase me down, scare the crap out of me?” She shouldn’t have spoken of her fear. But it was too late now. She gave him a once-over. The man was probably mid to late thirties. Dark eyes, dirty blond hair, built like a brick shithouse. Not bad looking, probably just an overgrown beach bum in need of a shower. She waited for him to continue.
“I didn’t mean to,” he explained. “Most islanders know their way to the beach. I assumed you didn’t live around here; that’s why I called out to you. When you ran, I didn’t want you to think I was some kind of weirdo.”
Alison shook her head. “Too late for that,” she said.
“Sorry, I’m outta here,” he said, then walked away while giving a half-hearted wave.
So far, her first impression of Palmetto Island was not a good one, as John Wilson had spoiled it for her. She cranked the engine of her Jeep, revved the accelerator, and peeled out of the parking lot. On Dolphin Drive, she stopped at the four-way stop, unsure if she should return to Matlacha Pass or drive down Trafalgar Avenue. Deciding on the latter, she drove slowly, continuing to check out the local shops. She passed Terri’s Diner, a nursery, and a large marina. She pulled into the marina’s parking lot so she could turn around and was surprised when she saw John’s Bait and Tackle across the street. Okay, so he owned a business. At least that’s what he wanted her to believe. Didn’t give him the right to chase her down. He could be a serial killer, for all she knew. Alison was tough, hardened by life, but a strange man chasing after her in an unfamiliar area still had the power to frighten her.
No longer enthused at the prospect of the going to the mango festival, she backtracked, heading back to Pine Tree Road. Maybe she’d stop at the Rainbow Row ice cream shop. She checked the clock on the dash. 7:33. As she drove back, the bridge was opening for another fishing boat. Possibly a shrimp boat; they all looked the same to her. She waited in traffic for ten minutes and watched the oncoming traffic grow bumper-to-bumper. Once the bridge was lowered, she carefully crossed the wooden slats, relieved when the paved road was beneath her tires again.
Alongside the road, people were setting up tents and tables, and from somewhere, loud music blared from speakers. Apparently, the festival was off to a late start. She pulled over to the shoulder where other vehicles were parked, careful to lock the Jeep before heading in the direction of the music. Laughter, an occasional shout, and an outboard motor could all be heard in the distance. Alison felt the vibes of the small community come to life. Where were all these folks when she’d driven through here half an hour ago? She walked to the bridge and inched her way through the throng of tourists. Several boats below were decorated with flags—skulls and crossbones, some with gold flags with red lettering, though they were too far out for her to read. Another boat had a flag with a white star encircled against the black. She leaned in closer, hoping to get a better look. She couldn’t read what the flag said, but it looked evil, out of place. Probably someone with nothing better to do. This place must be a gathering spot for boating clubs. Maybe. She watched the boats for another five minutes, then headed back to her car. This wasn’t much of a festival, she thought. She’d expected lots of mangoes.
“Hey, wait up,” a familiar voice called out.
She turned around before John Wilson had a chance to grab her by the arm again. “Are you following me?” Certain that he was, she turned her back, running to her Jeep. Unlocking the door, she reached under the driver’s seat for her gun. Spinning around, she faced him, though this time, she dangled the loaded gun from her hand. “I’ll ask you again—are you following me?”