Crocs, page 4
Embarrassed, Luke looked at the floor while the biologist typed at the keyboard. Now on the computer screen was a satellite photo of Sanibel Island. The cursor zoomed in on Dinkins Bay. The marina buildings and the lab’s tin roof were familiar markers.
“I’m interested in those gravestones you found. I’ve lived here a long time, and it’s not common to find graves in the mangroves. It happens, yeah. Especially if there’s a shell mound in the area.”
The man rolled his chair away from the computer to make room. “Point to the exact spot. Camping is illegal on most islands. They’re wildlife preserves. We can’t let you break the law.”
Maribel stepped forward. She traced her finger along a narrow creek near the mouth of Dinkins Bay. The tiny island was in an area called Ladyfinger Lakes. It was a speck of high ground only a mile from the lab but screened from view by trees.
The biologist was suddenly more interested. It was as if he’d just had a good idea. “I know that little spot. Never went ashore like you kids did. It’s not part of the preserve. And it’s not an island. Not really.”
“But there’s water all around it,” Maribel said.
“Sometimes, if the tide’s high enough,” Doc said. “See how it’s connected to land by swamp? There used to be a shack back in there, near Woodring Road. Did you notice a cluster of pilings sticking up in the shallows? Big thick timbers, solid as stone.”
Maribel said, “I did. Seven of them. They weren’t marked with reflectors. I remember thinking it would be dangerous to run a boat in there at night.”
“Good memory. Those pilings are all that’s left of the shack. Bones Gate, people used to call it—maybe because so many boats hit them. Or could be there’s a burial mound nearby. If so, stay away. They’re protected by law. Plus, that’s all private property. These days, no one goes back in there.”
He zoomed the satellite view closer.
“Yep, that’s the place. The lady who owned it was the first female fishing guide in Florida—one of the best in history. Her name was Esperanza Woodring. Esperanza was a great lady. She died a long time ago.”
“Who owns it now?” Luke asked.
“Uh … let’s just say an unusual woman. She lived in this area when she was a girl, then went away for a long, long time. No one knows where—almost like she disappeared, some claimed.”
“Disappeared?” Luke didn’t understand. “Ran away, you mean. Or maybe her folks moved.”
Doc shook his head. “Years later the woman came back and became a fishing guide. Folks thought that was a little strange, too. By then she was already in her sixties. But right away, she knew more about this area than just about anyone. The history, all the secret little islands. Kind of mysterious, really.”
Luke paid closer attention.
The biologist explained, “Most people, it takes years to learn these waters. Not her. She ran daily charters until she had a stroke a while back. A blood clot in the brain.”
Luke winced. His mother had died of a stroke.
Doc explained, “The woman recovered from the surgery faster than most, but she doesn’t charter anymore. And she doesn’t like visitors.”
Maribel frowned. It was Doc’s warning tone. “Is she … uh, mean?”
“Didn’t used to be. But people can change as they age. Now she seldom speaks to anyone. Even me, she won’t say more than a few words. Her name’s Poinciana Wulfert. She has to be close to eighty years old now.”
“That’s kind of a weird name, isn’t it?” Luke said. He was sounding it out in his head: Poin-see-ANNA.
“Poincianas are some of the most beautiful trees in the world. They bloom in summer,” Doc told them. “Occasionally in the late fall, too. But that’s rare. You’ve seen them—bright scarlet blossoms.”
“Poinciana,” Maribel repeated softly. “The woman’s lucky to have such a nice name.”
“She didn’t think so,” Doc said. “In the old days, tourists didn’t like the idea of a hiring a woman fishing guide. So she went by her nickname—Pony Wulfert. It sounded more masculine than Poinciana, I guess. In private, though, she claimed she wasn’t pretty enough to be named after such a beautiful tree. Either way, the nickname stuck.”
“That’s sad,” Sabina said. “I want to meet her. Maybe you could call her on the phone.”
Maribel sensed they were being tested when the biologist replied, “Doubt if she’d answer. She’s what you might call reclusive. Do you know what that means?”
Sabina nodded. “It means she doesn’t care what other people think. That’s the way I’m going to be when I’m an adult.”
Luke was thinking, You already are.
“Does she live alone?” Maribel asked.
“By choice,” Doc said. “She grew up on an island near Sanibel before there were paved roads and electricity. She never did tell me exactly where. But she’s as smart and tough as they come. A great storyteller, too—until she, uh, got sick. Captain Pony used to be a lot of fun.”
“Then she’ll love us,” Sabina said. “We’re fun, too.”
The man liked the girl’s confidence. “If you want to meet her, fine. This might be good for all of you. Pony still raises chickens and a pig or two, and catches fish. It can’t be easy for someone her age. The thing is…” The man frowned, thinking about it.
“What’s wrong?” Maribel wanted to know.
“Well, thing is, Pony Wulfert has a heck of a temper. And she’s not afraid to speak her mind. She won’t accept help from anyone. If a person stops by and offers, she runs them off her property. In the last few years, she’s gotten sort of strange—out of loneliness, some say. Others blame her health problems.”
“Runs them off how? Does she have a gun or something?” Luke asked.
The biologist chuckled. “I did hear a story about her chasing a salesman with a broom. Some claim it was a pitchfork, which I don’t believe.”
“A pitchfork?” Luke and Maribel didn’t like the sound of that.
“Pony wouldn’t need a pitchfork,” Doc said. “She has something better—what islanders used to call an ‘attack goose.’ Trust me, a great big aggressive goose is enough to scare most people away.”
Sabina was unfamiliar with the animal. “What is a goose?”
“Un ganso,” Maribel translated.
“It’s like a really big duck with a long neck,” Luke added. “Never raised any, but I’ve seen them. Shoot, geese don’t scare me one little bit.”
The biologist chuckled. “Well, you’ll find out. If you really want to camp there, you have to go to Captain Pony’s house and ask for permission. All of you. In person. Do that, and I’ll talk it over with Hannah, then speak to your mother.”
“That’s not fair,” Sabina started to protest. But then her fingers found the blue-and-yellow shells of her necklace. Her eyes narrowed. “You want us to meet this old woman. And her giant ganso. Why? There has to be a reason.”
Doc, who was kind and often quiet, also had a mysterious side. He ignored the question with a secretive shrug. His chair spun toward the computer and the photo of the Nile crocodile.
“First we need to know for sure what kind of crocodile is out there. If it’s a Nile croc, you’re not going anywhere near that place.” He was about to say something else when his desk phone rang. With a wave, he requested privacy, saying, “That’s my friend, the croc expert.”
The kids wandered outside to the porch. Rain poured down off the tin roof. Thunder vibrated across the bay while a patch of clear sky promised the storm would soon pass. Pete thumped his tail once in greeting. The osprey was gone.
A few minutes later, Doc came out carrying something he’d drawn on a piece of paper. “My friend is pretty sure it’s an American crocodile. When he has time, he’d like you kids to help him tag it for his records. Maybe in a few days, if he can get away.”
“Tag a crocodile?” Luke said. He was grinning. “That thing has to be twelve feet long. Do you tag a croc the same way you tag sharks?”
“It’s a little more complicated,” the biologist said. “Don’t worry about that now.” He handed Maribel the paper. “Here’s a map to Pony’s house. It’s not far. It’s closer by boat, but it will be more polite if you ride bicycles to her front gate and ring the bell.”
There was something else.
“That woman has a temper. And she’s had some health problems, so mind your manners. Address her as Captain Pony. Or Ms. Wulfert. You could learn a lot from someone like Poinciana—if you can get past her goose.”
SEVEN
HAUNTED BY A HEADLESS GHOST
Woodring Road was a dirt lane, with water on one side and mangrove trees, thick and gnarled, on the other. A gate blocked the entrance to a sandy stretch of beach. On the gate were warning signs in sloppy red paint:
Keep Out!
Beware of Goose!
No Tourists Allowed!
My Pig Bites!
Maribel stopped her bicycle and waited for the others to catch up. “Wow, that’s sort of a scary sign. Doc might have been right about that stroke affecting Ms. Wulfert’s brain.”
Once again, Luke winced at the mention of the woman’s illness.
Beyond the gate was a dock. On a patch of sand was an old wooden house raised above the water on cones of pioneer concrete.
Immediately, Sabina made the connection with the grave markers they’d found.
Luke noted a bunch of chickens scratching in the yard. No sign of a big, mean goose. But there was a garden, with corn growing, and a fat pig sleeping in the shade.
On a dock at the water’s edge, a person was trying to start the motor on a little green boat. It was a woman. She wore a baggy shirt, coveralls, and a ragged straw hat. Over and over, she yanked on the starter cord, but the little outboard only coughed and spit, and refused to run.
“Must be her,” Maribel said. She cupped her hands and called, “Hello? Ma’am? Are you Captain Pony Wulfert? If you could use an extra set of hands, we’d like to help.”
The woman looked up and glared. “Don’t need nothin’ from a bunch of kids,” she hollered back. “Go watch television or whatever it is you do on those little phones y’all yak on. I’m in a hurry.”
Several more times, the old woman yanked on the starter rope. The motor chugged and sputtered, then died. She was getting tired. It was obvious from the way she rubbed her arm that her elbow hurt.
Maribel tried again. “We know a quite a bit about boats, ma’am. And Luke here’s almost an expert when it comes to fixing engines.”
Another icy glare was the response until Sabina spoke up. “It’s true. We fish together a lot. And Luke grew up on a farm. He learned how to work on tractors and stuff. All sorts of small motors. Didn’t you, Luke?”
The boy looked away while Captain Pony stood and wiped her hands on a towel. “Grew up on a farm, huh? There ain’t no farms on this island. Haven’t been since I was a child. First you interrupt my work. Now you’re lying to me.”
Luke cleared his throat. “A small farm in Ohio, not here,” he said. “I’m no expert. But I might be able to get that motor running.” He paused and remembered to add, “Ms.… uh, Captain … ma’am.”
“Ohio, huh?” The woman walked toward the gate, scattering a dozen chickens. She was tall but seemed taller because of her long strides and wide shoulders. It was hard to believe she was close to eighty years old. “You know something about farm animals and engines and such?”
The boy nodded. “A little.”
Captain Pony flashed a frown. “Come to me tellin’ stories, you best know more than a little. Answer this for me, and don’t take time to make up a story—does a cow sleep standing up or lying down? If you really did live on a farm, you’ll know.”
Luke was startled. He wasn’t good at tests. “Uh … a cow?”
“You heard me,” the woman scoffed. “Kids today don’t even know what a cow is.”
“I raised a couple of Angus steers,” Luke said. “They mostly slept lying down, I think.” He paused to picture them in his head. “Yeah, with their front legs sort of folded under. When a cow gets up, it’s always butt-first.”
The woman hadn’t expected the correct answer. But she wasn’t convinced. “What about a horse?”
“Sleep, you mean? Standing up or lying down doesn’t seem to matter to a horse.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty sure,” Luke said. “We had a Morgan gelding until it bit a chunk out of my stepfather.”
This creased the old woman’s face with what was almost a smile. “Hooray for the horse. The fool probably deserved it.”
“He sure did,” Luke agreed.
The woman seemed to like that, too. But she wasn’t done. She gestured to the chickens that had scattered. Their red feathers looked metallic in the afternoon sunlight. “If you lived on a farm, you’re bound to know what kinda chickens those are.”
Sabina whispered, “Ask her about that mean goose.”
Luke ignored her. “A bunch of little bantams, looks like to me. At the county fair, there were all types of breeds. I’m not gonna guess.”
“Banties, we call them here,” the woman corrected. “What color eggs they lay?”
“Brown, ma’am,” Luke replied.
Captain Pony nodded but was still looking for an excuse not to open the gate. “Are you kids selling something? ’Cause if you are, just skedaddle yourselves out of here right now.”
Maribel reached into her bag and produced one of the wild oranges. “We want to ask you about this. You know Dr. Ford, the biologist who lives next to the marina? He said this orange came from somewhere on your land. We found it this morning, but we couldn’t find the tree.”
“Marion Ford? Doc Ford?” The woman’s scowl faded, then reappeared. “What were you kids doing snooping around my property? I don’t tolerate trespassers. Where on my property?”
Maribel pointed bayside, where a halo of tall trees was visible above the mangroves. “Over there, I think. We thought it was an island. We didn’t know you lived so close.”
“When the tide’s up, it is an island,” the woman responded. “Bad things happen to people who go ashore there. Even me, I stay away. That there’s your last warning.”
“I bet I know why,” Sabina said. “Because of the gravestones.”
The old lady took a step back from the gate. Her face went pale. “You saw those?”
“I found them,” Sabina replied. “One of the markers was decorated with little shells—a girl named Periwinkle. She was almost the same age as me when she died. Did you know her?”
The woman was so deep in thought, she didn’t hear the question. Or didn’t want to answer. Finally, her milky brown eyes seemed to clear. She refocused on Sabina. “You’ve got some sort of foreign accent. Where you from?”
The girl got off her bike. She used the kickstand and faced the old fishing guide, hands on her hips.
Luke recognized Sabina’s stubborn expression and thought, Uh-oh.
“My sister and I don’t have foreign accents,” Sabina said tartly. “But almost everyone else in Florida does. We’re from Cuba.”
“Cuba.” Captain Pony whispered the word as if it meant something to her. The first soft lines of a smile appeared. “Young lady, you got some fire in you. I like that. My daddy moved here from Cuba a long time ago. My family has lived and fished on these islands for a century.”
“Do you speak Spanish?” The girl was hopeful.
The woman proved it by offering a warm Cuban welcome in Spanish to her “new little friend.” After apologizing for her old-fashioned Havana accent, the woman switched back to English with a Southern twang.
“Two little Cuban girls,” she said. “Makes sense you were the one to find those graves.”
Sabina’s quizzical expression asked, What do you mean?
“Chosen by them that’s buried there, maybe,” the woman said in a spooky way. After a few seconds of thought, she nodded. “Yep. Has to be. Folks ever tell you that everything in this world happens for a reason? Well, that there is pure donkey dung. Bad things happen to good folks every day. But it is true that, when the timing’s just right, people sometimes meet for a reason. Don’t ask me how I know. But I do.”
Captain Pony stared into Sabina’s face. “Cuba, yeah, I can see it. You’ve got a light of the magic ladies in your eyes. The santeras. You know about them?”
“The women dressed in white,” Sabina replied. “Yes, they liked me. I’d sneak away from home and they’d teach me things.”
The old fishing guide nodded her approval. “I bet they did. You wouldn’t have found those graves otherwise. In all my years here, no one has bothered to care. Or had the nerve. Being who you are, you’ll understand—that island you found? It’s haunted.”
Sabina felt honored. “That is so cool. Dead people choose me all the time. Haunted how? By the dead girl, you think?”
“By an Indian king,” the woman replied.
This was a surprising thing to hear. But Pony Wulfert was serious.
“That’s right, a king used to live there—until Spanish explorers cut off his head. That was five hundred years ago. Now the king’s ghost has come back and is causing me nothing but…” Her voice faded when she noticed the strange look she was getting from Luke.
“Stop your gawking,” she muttered. “I might have had brain surgery, but I’m not bat-daft loco.”
Crazy, she meant.
“Of course you’re not, ma’am,” Maribel said.
Luke didn’t agree but nodded anyway.
“Even if you are,” Sabina said, “who cares? People say I’m crazy all the time.”
The woman made a coughing sound, trying not to laugh. “I’m starting to believe that’s true about both of us. But I got no time to stand around jawing with a bunch of young’uns. I got a mess of mullet to smoke, and wood to chop—and that dang little motor of mine’s busted. Already said I’m in a hurry, sweetie.”
“I’m not sweet. And we’re not young’uns—whatever those are,” Sabina countered politely.
