Chase Through the Mangroves

“I can’t just let him get away. Hang on, everyone!”

Delia spun the wheel and then hit the gas. The sudden forward surge sent us all flying.

“Whoa!” Bess cried, grabbing the side of our boat as it flew forward.

So much for relaxing. My whole body was on hyperalert mode. I could hear the high-pitched whine of the other boat over the droning of our own motor. As we bounced across the waves, I felt the needle-sharp spray of saltwater on my face. I had to keep wiping my eyes to keep the narrow channel in sight. We entered it just as the red boat fishtailed around a bend in the channel ahead of us.

“He’s crazy to go so fast!” George said.

I wasn’t about to disagree. The red boat swung wildly back and forth as it took the turn. Not that we were going much slower. The mangroves were a green and brown blur as we whizzed past.

“There!” Bess cried, as we rounded the first bend.

The boat was farther ahead of us now. We saw a red flash and then it was gone around another corner.

“Come on,” Delia said under her breath. She inched the throttle up, and a moment later we flew around the bend.

“Ouch!” I cried, as a branch hit my arm with a stinging slap. We were so close to the tangled mangrove roots that I was sure we were going to—

Bam!

Everything was happening so fast that it took a second to realize it wasn’t our boat that had hit something. The high-pitched whine of the other engine choked off into silence. We shot around the next bend in time to see the red boat bounce off some mangrove roots like a Ping-Pong ball and then hit the water at an angle.

“It’s going to flip over!” Bess cried.

Somehow the guy managed to keep the boat right side up. He had his back to us, working frantically at the controls.

“That’s it. We’ve got him,” Delia said, with a triumphant look on her face.

Too bad things didn’t work out that way. No sooner were the words out of Delia’s mouth than the engine of the red boat roared back to life. The boat fishtailed into some mangrove roots on the other side of the channel and then flew around a corner. The last thing I saw was a nasty-looking brown scrape on the side of the boat—and a flash of white as something bounced over the stern and into the water.

“Wait—something fell out!” I said. “It looks like a plastic bag.”

I could see the indecision on Delia’s face. For a second I thought she might keep going after the boat. But then she pulled back on the throttle, and we slowed down sharply. By the time George reached over and grabbed the bulging bag from the water, all we heard of the other boat was a faint whine in the distance.

“Take a look,” George said, holding the bag out. “Orchids. Tons of them!”

“Butterfly orchids,” Delia said, taking one and gently fingering its waxy leaves.

I had seen orchids from the florist before. But the ones in the bag were totally different. I could see how they’d gotten their name. They had the same coloring as a monarch butterfly—a rich yellow-orange and mottled brown. There were at least a dozen of them in the bag, and a few more lay floating on the water.

“Again?” Bess asked, looking at Delia in surprise. “That’s the same kind you think Chick Russell took that other time, right? So that means it was him we were chasing!”

“Chick was wearing a black baseball cap, like the guy in the boat,” I said, thinking it out. “But Chick’s T-shirt was orange, not blue.”

“So maybe this was someone else,” Delia said. She gazed ahead down the mangrove-lined channel. “Chick drives a beat-up truck that’s about a million years old. I doubt he has the money to buy a fancy new boat like that red one. Still, it would be just like him to do something like this. Whoever that was probably moored the boat in the mangroves and then hiked to the spots where butterfly orchids grow. There aren’t that many places on Key Largo where they grow in the wild, but a local like Chick might know where to look.”

I made a mental note to find out more about Chick Russell.

“Do you think we could figure out where the orchids came from?” I asked Delia as she placed the bag of orchids at her feet. “Maybe whoever took them left some kind of clue there.”

“We could try,” she said, with a shrug. “Actually, a couple of botanists are coming down from Tallahassee tomorrow. They’ve been keeping track of endangered plants, and I promised to show them some of our rarer species. Why don’t you come along, and we’ll see what we find?”

With that, she put the boat back in gear and turned it slowly around. “I know I promised you a tour, but we’d better head back so I can report this to my boss.”

We were pretty quiet during the trip back. I looked around the marina after we docked, but I didn’t see any red boat. Not that I’d expected to. I didn’t think the guy who’d taken those orchids would be dumb enough to leave his boat anywhere in the state park.

Delia said we’d probably find her boss in the greenhouse, a glass structure that was tucked away among some palms and oaks beyond a camping area. The second we stepped inside, a blanket of steamy air wrapped itself around us.

At first I saw only dense, lush greenery and a slew of colorful flowers that I couldn’t even begin to name. Then I spotted a woman through one of the glass doors. She wore a paint-smudged apron over her clothes and stood next to an easel with a paintbrush in her hand. Her graying blond hair was pulled back into a twist that made her high cheekbones stand out.

“That’s your boss?” Bess said, nodding at the woman.

“No. Mr. Rinaldi wears a uniform, like me,” Delia explained. “That’s—”

“Delia! Hello, darling!” the woman gushed, before Delia could finish. She waved her paintbrush, and I saw that the tip of it glistened with purple paint. “My dear, you must tell me when you and Steve are coming for dinner. I tried to get him to set a date, but you know how men are. You would think he’d find time to see his own mother, but he simply won’t commit...”

So this was Steve Manning’s mother. She had a dramatic flair — that was for sure. She was really playing up the unappreciated mother role, but Delia was too distracted to take much notice. Her eyes darted around the greenhouse.

“Um, sure, Mrs. Manning,” Delia said. “Is Mr. Rinaldi around?”

“Nick? Why, I think he’s—” Mrs. Manning broke off suddenly, then exclaimed, “My goodness! Are those butterfly orchids?”

She couldn’t get over to Delia fast enough. Plucking one of the orchids from the bag, she held it up and examined it closely. A dreamy expression came over her face. “Lovely... just lovely. Wherever did you get them?” she asked.

When we told her, Mrs. Manning pressed her lips together disapprovingly. “Poaching… how awful!” she said. “Still, I suppose nature’s loss is my gain. There’ll be more orchids for me to paint now.”

“Talk about self-centered...,” Bess whispered to me.

And how! Mrs. Manning didn’t even seem to notice how distraught Delia was. “You will be adding them to the collection of lovelies here, won’t you?” Steve’s mother rambled on blithely. She gestured to a long table next to her easel, and I saw that dozens of orchids grew in pots there. The “lovelies,” as Mrs. Manning called them, were in rich shades of violet, white, yellow, orange, red, purple, and even bluish black. Each one was like a waxy tropical gem.

“My boss lets Mrs. Manning come here to paint,” Delia told us. She nodded at the canvas on Mrs. Manning’s easel, which was filled with the half-painted image of a fuchsia orchid that was a perfect replica of a real one growing in a pot on the table. “But the real point of the greenhouse is to cultivate rare species from this area so that if a bad storm wipes out some plant...”

“Or if someone steals them,” George put in, nodding at the bag of orchids Delia held.

“That, too,” Delia agreed. “Anyway, if something bad happens, we can use the plants we have here to reintroduce the species to nature. So we probably will add these orchids to the ones that are here already, like Mrs. Manning said.”

“And such marvelous examples, too,” Mrs. Manning went on gleefully. As she gazed at the orchids, a greedy gleam came into her eyes.

“It’s rare to find butterfly orchids in the wild. Quite rare!” she said. “I’d kill to get a few of my own.”

Orchid Envy

Bess, George, and I all did a double take when we heard that.

“Excuse me? What did you say?” Bess asked.

Mrs. Manning gave a quick laugh. “It’s just a figure of speech, my dear. I’m afraid I haven’t had much luck growing orchids myself. That’s why I come here to paint them.”

She bent closer to Delia and gave a hopeful smile. “You do have quite a few of these. Surely you can spare just one?” she asked.

“Is she for real?” George whispered, rolling her eyes.

At least Delia didn’t let the older woman push her around. “You know I can’t, Mrs. Manning. It’s against the law,” she said firmly. Her eyes flickered to more distant parts of the greenhouse. “Oh! There’s Mr. Rinaldi... I’ll have to take that back now.”

She pried the butterfly orchid from Mrs. Manning’s grasp, then headed toward a doorway at the far end of the glassed-in room. Barely visible among the leafy trees and vines was a dark-haired man whose parks uniform blended perfectly with the surrounding greenery.

“I thought we’d never get away,” Delia said under her breath. “Steve’s mother is nice, but she’s kind of...”

“Self-centered?” Bess offered. “Greedy? Overdramatic?”

“I knew you’d understand,” Delia said, chuckling.

George glanced back over her shoulder at Mrs. Manning. “Did you see the way she was all over those orchids? Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Delia blinked in surprise, pausing in midstep. “You mean, about her being the poacher? I really doubt it,” she said. “Sure, she’s a little self-involved...”

“A little?” George asked, raising an eyebrow.

“All right, a lot,” Delia admitted. “But I can’t picture her tromping through mangroves to steal orchids. Anyway, the person in that boat was a guy, remember?”

She had a point. And she definitely knew Steve’s mother better than we did. But Mrs. Manning’s attitude still bugged me.

As we entered the back room of the greenhouse, I saw that Delia’s boss was using a hand rake to work the soil at the roots of a small tree. When he saw Delia, he straightened up and smiled.

“Didn’t I just give you the afternoon off?” he asked. Then his gaze landed on the bag of orchids. “Uh-oh, don’t tell me...”

He looked anything but happy when Delia told him what had happened. “Looks like our orchid poacher has struck again,” he said, running a hand through his hair. Then he turned to Bess and George and me and said, “You must be the friends Delia’s been telling me about. I’m Nick Rinaldi, the head biological scientist here at Pennekamp. Sorry your visit had to start with trouble.”

There was something straightforward and likable about Delia’s boss. “I just wish we’d caught the guy who took these,” I told him, nodding at the bag of orchids.

“Well, we got the orchids back, anyway,” he said.

That didn’t make me feel much better. Dad says I have a stubborn streak a mile wide, but I prefer to call it determination. Whatever it is, it kicked in full force when I thought about the guy in the red boat. Getting the orchids back wasn’t enough. I wanted to stop whoever had taken them from poaching orchids—or anything else—ever again.

After giving the butterfly orchids to Mr. Rinaldi, we left the coral reef state park and drove to Delia’s. She lived farther down the island, on a small road off of Route 1. Following her in our rental car, we snaked past pines, oaks, and palm trees and wound up at a small, pale green stucco house across from a marina. White pebbles surrounded the house, and they crunched under our sandals as we walked.

“This is Rock Harbor,” Delia said, gesturing to the covelike circle of water across the street. Docks, houses, restaurants, palm trees, and a local fishery lined the harbor. A few boats were coming in for the day. Delia brightened when she spotted a white boat about thirty feet long that was puttering toward one of the docks.

“Hey! We’re in luck. The Island Scout is just coming in for the day,” she said.

“The boat Steve goes treasure hunting on?” George shaded her eyes and gazed toward the marina. “Can we see it?”

“Sure. I want you to meet Steve and the Salazars. Diego and Lucy are the ones who hired Steve to help search for the Catarina. The Island Scout is their boat,” Delia said.

After running our bags inside, we ran to the dock. A deeply tanned man with a stocky, muscular build stood outside the boat’s small cabin. He wore swim trunks and a tennis visor and was busy with a heavy rope that lay coiled on the deck at the front of the boat. Judging by his graying hair, I figured he was one of the Salazars and not Delia’s boyfriend.

“You’re just in time to help, Delia!” he called out, holding up a looped end of rope. “Tie us up, will you?”

“Sure thing, Diego.” Delia caught the rope and slipped the loop over the top of the mooring post. Then she did the same with a rope he threw from the stern of the boat. Just as she finished, a woman wearing a wet suit stepped out of the cabin. Her still-damp dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and tiny wrinkles showed at the corners of her eyes and mouth when she smiled at Delia.

“Hey, Lucy,” Delia greeted her. “Where’s Steve?”

“You got me,” Mrs. Salazar answered, shrugging. “He didn’t come today. Called this morning to say he had a doctor’s appointment.”

Delia frowned slightly. “He didn’t say anything about it to me. I hope he can still make it for dinner,” she said. “He’s supposed to meet us at seven.”

“Which means you still have”—Diego checked his watch, then grinned at us—“one hour for Lucy and me to give your friends the grand tour of the Island Scout. ” Turning to Bess and George and me, he bowed slightly. “Diego Salazar at your service, ladies. Would you like to come aboard?”

“We’d love to!” George said right away.

The three of us introduced ourselves, and before we knew it, we were scrambling on board. As we followed the Salazars to the cabin, Delia said, “You guys are going to love this. The Scout may not look like anything special on the outside, but on the inside...”

“Wow... it’s awesome!” Bess exclaimed, stepping through the door ahead of George and me.

I had to agree. The inside of the cabin looked more like a mission control center than part of a boat. One whole wall was lined with computers, screens, charts, keyboards, and control panels. Other kinds of equipment were hanging from the walls, and charts and notebooks were piled on the table. I didn’t know what most of the stuff was, but George looked right at home.

“Digital imaging equipment, radar, sonar, two computers,” she said, pointing to the various machines. “Impressive!”

“We like to think so,” Diego said proudly. He went over to a computer and tapped a couple of keys. Immediately, a map of the ocean floor appeared, with lines of longitude and latitude marked. “We have software that helps us to predict how the cargo of the Catarina might have scattered when the ship hit the reef.”

“Keep it under your hats, but we think we’re getting closer,” Lucy added. “Take a look at what we found today.”

She lifted a sealed plastic bag from a bucket that sat on the floor near the table. Inside, surrounded by seawater, were two ancient-looking golden disks about two inches in diameter. Some kind of white deposit had corroded them, but I could see a cross and a bunch of letters stamped into the gold.

“Are those coins?” I asked.

“Seventeenth-century gold doubloons from Mexico,” Lucy said, nodding. “Diego and I are pretty sure they were part of the Catarina ’s cargo.”

Bess’s eyes went wide as she stared at the coins. “Then you must be close to finding the wreck of the Catarina,” she said.

“And the treasure,” George added.

“Wait till Steve hears,” Delia said, grinning. “He’ll go crazy!”

The Salazars’ enthusiasm was definitely rubbing off. We all started firing questions at Diego and Lucy, until Diego finally threw up his hands and said, “Why don’t you girls come with us tomorrow and see for yourselves how our little treasure-hunting operation works? Who knows? Maybe you’ll be on hand for the big find.”

“Sounds great!” George said. She turned to Bess, Delia, and me. “Let’s do it.”

“Um, you guys go without me,” Delia said, hesitating. “I’ve got to meet those botanists from Tallahassee tomorrow. Plus, I want to do a little scouting around.”

Bess’s hand flew to her mouth. “About the orchids! How could we forget?” she said. “We definitely want to help with that.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed.

George had moved over to one of the computer screens and was asking Diego and Lucy about the software program they used. I was pretty sure she hadn’t heard Bess.

“George?” Bess started toward her cousin, but Delia stopped her.

“Don’t worry about it,” Delia said. “You guys shouldn’t miss out on the chance to find the Catarina ’s treasure. I’ll be fine on my own, really.”

As tempting as it was to go out on the Scout, I knew I’d be distracted the whole time, thinking about the person who had poached those orchids. “I’d rather stick around here and see what we can find out about Chick Russell and that red boat,” I said.

“Me too. We’re in this together, right, George?” Bess said, touching George’s arm. “Maybe we can take a rain check.”

George looked at Bess as if she had just suggested jumping into a pool of hot lava. “Are you crazy? If they found doubloons today, tomorrow could be the day they find the mother lode! We can’t miss that,” she said.

“A promise is a promise,” Bess shot back. “Anyway, what’s more important? Finding some old ship, or helping a friend?”

George opened her mouth to say something, but I guess she changed her mind. Clamping it shut again, she turned and walked to the other end of the cabin.

“George?” Bess persisted.

But George had bent over a pile of metal detectors and didn’t answer.

Cousin Trouble

“I’ll tell you what,” Lucy said pleasantly. “We’ll leave the offer open, and if any of you want to join us, just meet us here tomorrow morning at seven, okay?”

I could tell she had sized up the situation and wanted to give us a chance to work out our differences later, in private. Seemed like a good idea, since we weren’t getting anywhere at the moment.

“Thanks,” Delia told her. “We should really get going. We have to meet Steve soon.”

We carried our bags up the outside stairs to Delia’s second-floor apartment. None of us said a word until after we were inside.

“Nice place,” I said, putting my bag down next to the door. I glanced around the cozy kitchen area and living room. Sliding glass doors led to a balcony that faced the marina.

“Um, Delia, about tomorrow...,” George began.

“You should go with the Salazars,” Delia said. “I don’t want you to miss out on finding the Catarina. ”

“Really? You’re sure?” George asked. “I mean, we did come here to help you.”

“It’s just one day,” Delia said. She led the way down a small hall to a spare room with a foldout bed and two cots in it. “We have the whole rest of the week to look for the guy who took those orchids.”

“Besides, Bess and Delia and I will be working on it until you get back,” I added.

Smiling, George leaned against the wall. “Well, then I guess I will go,” she said. “Thanks, guys.”

Something told me that wasn’t the decision Bess was hoping for. Without looking at George, she dropped her bag on one of the cots. I didn’t miss the frown that darkened her face. But she must have decided not to fight about it anymore. Opening her suitcase, she stood back and surveyed the contents that were jammed inside.

“Time to move on to the next big question,” she said. “What should we wear?”

“Clothes?” George cracked.

Bess cocked her head toward George and rolled her eyes. “Hardee har.” She went back to rummaging through her suitcase.

Things were back to normal—for the moment, anyway. Not that we should have worried about getting ready on time. By seven thirty, Steve still hadn’t gotten to Delia’s. We were working on our second round of iced tea on the balcony when a white hatchback pulled up behind Delia’s car.

“Finally!” Delia said. Jumping up from her chair, she went to the railing and waved.

The guy who got out had short blond hair and the same high cheekbones as Mrs. Manning. It was easy to see that he was her son. He grinned up at us with a grimy, sweat-drenched face. Dirt and perspiration stains covered his blue T-shirt and jeans, too.

“You’re late—and we’re famished!” Delia called down to him. “Where’ve you been?”

“I’ll tell you in a sec,” he called back. “I just have to get changed.”

Delia stared after him as he grabbed a sports bag from the backseat and jogged toward the Island Scout. “What was he doing at that doctor’s office? Mud wrestling?” she asked.

I was wondering the same thing. Luckily, when Steve came back his face was clean and he was wearing crisp khakis and a button-down shirt. He plunked down a gym bag and said, “Good thing I always keep some extra clothes on the boat. Sorry you had to wait.”

He looked at George, me, and Bess in turn. “Let me guess. You must be George. You’re Nancy, and you’re Bess.”

“Pretty good! How’d you know?” Bess said, with an impressed nod.

“It wasn’t too hard,” Steve said, pouring himself a glass of iced tea. “Delia showed me your pictures in the River Heights High yearbook.”

“No wonder!” I said, laughing. “Now let’s see if we can make a guess about you.”

“Okay. Shoot,” Steve said.

“Well...” I nodded at his sports bag and said, “Based on how you looked when you drove up, I’d guess that your doctor recommended a treatment of extremely physical outdoor exercise.”

Steve stared at me blankly.

“The Salazars told us you had to miss work for a doctor’s appointment?” Delia prompted him.

“Oh—yeah.” Steve shifted nervously in his deck chair. Then the corners of his mouth curved up in a sheepish smile and he said, “Okay, you caught me. I didn’t have any appointment. I just needed a break from Lucy and Diego, that’s all.”

“ Now? ” George said, gaping at him. “When they’re so close to finding the Catarina?”

We told Steve about the doubloons the Salazars had found. I thought he’d be excited, the way everyone else had been. But Steve just rolled his eyes. “It’s not the first time we’ve found a few coins,” he told us. “They might not be anywhere near the mother lode from the Catarina. It’s been almost four hundred years since she went down. The coins could’ve scattered miles from the rest of the gold.”

“But Lucy and Diego were so excited,” Delia said, looking confused.

“They’ve been excited before, but nothing big has ever turned up,” Steve said bitterly. “I’m starting to think I’m just wasting my time going out on the Scout every day. That’s why I called in sick today. I need some time to think about whether I want to keep diving for Diego and Lucy.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I didn’t think lying to the Salazars was the best way to handle the situation. Besides which, Steve hadn’t even bothered to call Delia to tell her he’d be late to meet us. Still, I didn’t want to get overly critical when I didn’t even know him yet.

We were all hungry, so we headed out to the restaurant. The place Delia had in mind was called Gaby’s Seafood Grille, overlooking the water right next to the marina. As we walked there from her house, the yummy smells of fried fish made me even hungrier.

“So, Steve, you never did tell us what you were up to today,” Delia said. “What were you doing that you had to make us wait till we’re practically starved?”

She was teasing, but her words made Steve tighten up like a metal spring that was ready to pop. “Um, nothing special. I was just out and about,” he said. “Guess I lost track of the time.”

“For the whole day?” Delia pressed.

“Mmm,” he said vaguely. He tugged at his collar, and I got the definite feeling Delia’s questions were making him uncomfortable. A nagging voice in the back of my head told me I was missing something. It wasn’t until Steve and Delia walked into the restaurant ahead of us that it hit me.

“Guys!” I said, stopping Bess and George outside the door. “Did you notice the color of Steve’s T-shirt—the one he had on before he changed?”

It took them a second. But then they both yelled, “Blue!”

“Just like the guy who poached the orchids,” I said. “He might not be the guy we saw. But don’t you think it’s weird that Steve won’t say where he was today?”

George nodded. “Tromping around stealing orchids could make a guy pretty sweaty,” she commented. “No wonder he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Poor Delia!” Bess said sympathetically.

I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if Ned did anything like that. “Maybe there’s some other reason he’s acting weird,” I said, as much to myself as to Bess and George. “But we should definitely find out more.”

We went inside and found Delia and Steve at a table on the back porch, overlooking the marina. The view was amazing, complete with rose-tinted clouds, fishing boats coming in to dock for the night, and palm trees swaying in the breeze with the setting sun behind them. As we sat down, I realized that Delia was telling Steve about the poached orchids.

“So we chased the guy, but he got away,” she was saying. “I just hope we can catch the guy before he poaches something else.”

Steve kept his cool. “Good luck,” he said.

Bess, George, and I all watched Steve as if he were a specimen under a microscope. As our waiter brought us menus, Bess turned to Steve and asked, “Did you happen to visit Pennekamp today? Maybe you went boating that way when you were ‘out and about’?”

“Did you?” Delia’s face was full of hope as she turned to her boyfriend. “Maybe you saw the guy who took the orchids! He was driving a brand-new boat. A sleek thing. Bright red.”

“Red?” Steve repeated. For a second, he looked kind of shell-shocked, like a bomb had just gone off under his chair. Then he shook his head and said, “Actually, I never made it anywhere near the park. Sorry.”

I didn’t miss the nervous flicker in his eyes, or the tight set to his jaw. They made me more certain than ever that Steve was hiding something.

“You think Steve took those orchids from Pennekamp?” Delia asked. She flopped back on her couch, shaking her head back and forth. “No way. He wouldn’t.”

It was almost eleven, and Bess, George, Delia, and I were lounging in Delia’s living room in our pj’s. Steve had driven home after dinner, so we’d finally had a chance to talk to Delia about him.

Not that it was easy.

“We could be wrong,” I said. “But Steve acted... well, like he wasn’t being totally honest.”

“Look, I’ll admit Steve was acting weird tonight,” she said. “He’s got a lot on his mind. But whatever’s going on, I’m sure it’s not illegal. He’ll tell me about it when he’s ready.”

I hoped she was right, but when we went to sleep I still had my doubts. I kept wondering why Steve would hide something from his own girlfriend—and what we could do to help Delia catch whoever had poached those orchids.

I’m not sure how much sleep I got. But it definitely felt too early when the electronic beep in George’s watch woke me up the next morning. “Huh?” I mumbled.

“Turn that thing off! It’s only six o’clock,” I heard Bess grumble in the semidarkness. She rolled over and stuffed her pillow on top of her head.

I must have fallen back asleep too, because when I opened my eyes again, bright sunshine flooded our room and Bess was getting dressed.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. Everyone’s gone!” she said, pulling an embroidered blouse over her jeans skirt.

“Hmmm?” I mumbled, yawning.

“I heard Delia’s car pull out a few minutes ago. That’s what woke me up,” Bess told me. “George must have left to meet the Salazars hours ago.”

It took me a second to remember that George had gone out on the Island Scout. And that Bess and I were supposed to help Delia find the orchid poacher. “Why didn’t Delia wake us?” I asked, jumping out of bed.

“Relax. She left us a note.”

Bess handed me a sheet of paper with a message scrawled across it:

Have some paperwork to take care of at Pennekamp. Botanists from Tallahassee arriving at noon. Why don’t you two check out the sights and meet me at my office then?

“Delia left these, too.” Bess picked up a wad of tourist pamphlets and brochures from her cot. She took one from the top and waved it under my nose. “I definitely think we should check out this place.”

“The Key Largo Flea Market?” I said, taking the pamphlet. “Looks like fun. But wouldn’t you rather see what we can find out about Chick Russell? Delia must have a phone book around here. Maybe we can find out where he lives.”

“Or maybe we don’t have to. Take a look at the list of vendors,” Bess said.

Opening the pamphlet, I saw that dozens of vendors were listed. They sold everything from clothing and jewelry to shells, antiques, and nautical clocks. Two-thirds of the way down the list, I saw Chick Russell’s name.

“It says here he sells shells and local memorabilia,” I said, lowering the pamphlet to grin at Bess. “Well, we can’t go home without a few souvenirs, can we?”

“Now you’re talking. The flea market is pretty close to Pennekamp, too, at Mile Marker 103.5,” Bess said. She lifted a teasing eyebrow. “Think you can find it?”

“Very funny,” I said. Actually, finding our way around Key Largo wasn’t complicated once we figured out that everyone used the mile markers along Route 1 as landmarks. Pennekamp was at Mile Marker 102.5. The turnoff to get to Delia’s was farther down the island, at Mile Marker 99.5. Delia had told us the miles counted down along the keys, with the zero point at Key West, the last island in the chain. Key Largo was pretty narrow, so most businesses were on or near Route 1. Getting to the flea market was a breeze, even for me. Before long we were parking near a long, low building on the bayside of Route 1. Open-air booths were lined up along the outside edge of the building, and their colorful, tented canopies gave the place the look of a festive fairgrounds. A woman at the first booth we came to was selling funny little figurines made from shells. Through the open doors, I saw dozens more vendors set up inside.

“Keep your eyes peeled for an information booth,” I said. “Maybe someone there can tell us where to find Chick.”

We were just about to head inside when I heard someone say, “You won’t find finer examples in all of Key Largo, ma’am. I guarantee it.”

The familiar drawling tone made me stop short. Sure enough, when I turned I saw Chick Russell standing at a booth about twenty feet away.

“Bingo,” I said.

A customer blocked part of the booth, so at first all I could see were some fan-shaped corals and a pile of shells on the display counter. Once the person moved, I caught a glimpse of a tigerlike yellow and brown flower with graceful green leaves.

“Butterfly orchids,” I breathed. “Bess, he’s selling butterfly orchids. ”

A Slippery Suspect

“That’s not all,” said Bess. “Did you see who’s trying to buy one from him?”

Until that moment, all my attention had been focused on Chick. But as Bess and I walked over, I recognized the blond twist and high cheekbones of the person standing in front of his booth.

“Mrs. Manning,” I said, rolling my eyes. “That figures.”

Steve’s mother held up a pot containing a butterfly orchid. Half a dozen others sat on the display table in front of her.

“I guess she didn’t want to take no for an answer when Delia wouldn’t give her one yesterday,” Bess said under her breath. She walked up to Mrs. Manning and tapped her arm. “You’re not going to buy that, are you?” she said, nodding at the orchid.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Manning lowered the flower and looked at us in surprise. “Ah! Delia’s friends,” she said. “How lovely to see you. But... I think I must have heard you wrong. Did you say I shouldn’t buy this lovely orchid?”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I told her. “It might have been poached.”

Chick Russell had been standing behind the booth just watching us. He wore the same black Florida Marlins baseball cap he’d had on the day before, and earphones that were plugged into a silver digital music player that peeked out from his shirt pocket. Apparently he could still hear us, because he turned a wide smile on Mrs. Manning and said, “I can assure you that these are totally legitimate, ma’am. My cousin grows them at his place up in Sarasota.”

Glancing at Bess and me, he added, “I’m sure these ladies have good intentions, but I think you’ll agree that they can’t possibly know more about my business than I do myself.”

He was a smooth talker, all right. Mrs. Manning seemed totally satisfied with his explanation, but I had a feeling she’d be happy with any excuse to walk away with that butterfly orchid.

“Do you have your cousin’s business card?” I spoke up. “If they really weren’t stolen, maybe I’ll buy some butterfly orchids myself.”

Chick made a big show of patting his pockets. “Gee, I must have given my last one away. Sorry,” he said. He acted so insincere that even Mrs. Manning seemed to notice. With a sigh, she put the butterfly orchid back down on Chick’s display counter.

“Well... I suppose if I can’t be absolutely certain, I’d better not buy one,” she said regretfully.

Bess shot a triumphant smile at me, but Chick seemed anything but pleased. As Steve’s mother moved through the doorway to the flea market booths inside, his smooth smile disappeared.

“Do you always chase off other people’s paying customers?” he asked, as his eyes lingered on mine. “Hey—you’re that girl I saw at Pennekamp yesterday. Delia Duke’s friend. Did you give her my message?”

I couldn’t believe it when he flashed me one of his cocky smiles. Was this guy for real? The day before he’d bragged that Delia couldn’t stop him from doing what he wanted. He’d practically admitted to poaching. Yet here he was claiming to be a legitimate businessman.

“Can you honestly tell us that these orchids weren’t poached?” I asked.

“They had to be,” Bess piped up. “Just like the corals Delia caught you with in your truck.”

Chick winked at us as he adjusted the sound on his digital music player. “That’s quite an accusation, but I seriously doubt you can prove it.”

I don’t get rattled very easily, but there was something in his eyes—a taunting gleam—that really irked me. Chick obviously didn’t think Bess and I were up to the challenge.

I nodded at the fan corals that were lined up on his table. “What about those?” I asked. “If they’re not poached, then where’d you get them?”

Chick just shrugged and said, “Florida doesn’t have the only coral reef on the planet. These are from the Philippines. If you don’t believe me, just ask Kenny DuPris, over at the Shell Emporium.”

“Shell Emporium?” I repeated.

But Chick was already turning on the charm to another visitor. Ignoring us, he picked up one of the potted butterfly orchids to show the man.

“ Oooh! He’s doing that on purpose, just to make us mad,” Bess fumed.

I had a feeling she was right, but it wasn’t like we could do anything to stop him. Plus, I didn’t want to give Chick the satisfaction of knowing how well he’d succeeded in getting under our skin.

“We’re not going to get any straight answers out of him. Let’s go,” I said, heading toward the indoor part of the flea market. “Maybe someone in here knows what the Shell Emporium is. Anyway, we still have to find souvenirs to bring back home, remember?”

It turned out that the Shell Emporium was just what it sounded like—a sprawling place where they sold every kind of shell and seaside memorabilia imaginable. Inside and out, there were buckets of shells, corals, and sand dollars, and shelves lined with sponges, funky fish skeletons, shell jewelry, quirky figurines made of shells, shell picture frames... you name it. Bess picked up a bracelet for her little sister, Maggie. I almost bought this cool-looking blowfish skeleton for Ned, but then I decided on a shark’s-tooth necklace instead. At the register we found Kenny DuPris, the owner.

“I’m surprised to see so much coral here,” I said, as he rang up our things. “Since it’s illegal to take coral from the reef, I mean.”

Kenny had a round, sunburned face, a T-shirt that read “I SHELL EMPORIUM,” and a calm, easygoing way about him. He didn’t seem at all taken aback by my comment.

“People come looking for a souvenir from the reef, and we’re not about to disappoint them,” he told us. “We’ve got the best supply of shells and corals anywhere on the keys, but most of them aren’t from here. All the corals are flown in from the Philippines.”

So Chick hadn’t been lying about that. I have to admit I was surprised.

“Do you ever sell corals to other vendors?” Bess asked. “Like Chick Russell? He’s selling corals at the flea market, and he says they come from you.”

Kenny chuckled as he put our things in a bag and pushed it across the counter. “If he says so, I guess it must be true,” he said.

“Wait. Are you saying he doesn’t get corals from you?” I asked, before he could turn to the next customer.

Kenny glanced at the teenage girl who stood in line behind us with her mother. “I sell Chick corals whenever he can scrape a few bucks together. That’s about all there is to say about it.”

“What about the ones he has now? They look like giant fans. Did you sell those to him?” Bess pressed him.

The woman behind us tapped her foot impatiently. “I really don’t remember,” Kenny said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

The woman and her daughter practically pushed us out of the way, so we thanked Kenny and left.

“Did you get the feeling that he was covering for Chick?” Bess asked, as we headed back out to the car.

I nodded. “Too bad we don’t have any way of proving it. But maybe we can dig up some more information on Chick.”

I pulled a scrap of paper from the back pocket of my shorts and showed it to Bess.

“Chick’s address?” she guessed.

“I got it from the phone book at Delia’s. Feel like taking a detour before we head over to Pennekamp to meet her?”

Bess put her sunglasses on and grinned at me. “Sure. Why not?” she agreed. “Lead the way, Sherlock.”

The address I’d written down was on the bay-side of Key Largo. We turned off of Route 1 at Mile Marker 102 and found ourselves at the Pelican Bay Trailer Park. Parked among the pitch pines, palms, mimosas, and mosquitoes were a few dozen motor homes. A gravel road wound past them to the water’s edge, where a row of houseboats was moored. I guess the heat kept most people inside. We had to knock on a couple of doors before a young woman pointed the way to Chick’s place—a white houseboat with a blue tarp tied over its roof.

“Um, Nancy?” Bess said, glancing nervously around as I stepped onto the boat’s rear deck. “Breaking and entering was illegal last time I checked.”

I moved past a plastic table and chairs and pressed my face against the Plexiglas door. “I’m not actually going inside—just taking a look around.”

“Great. Pardon me if I don’t exactly find that reassuring,” she said.

The sun was sizzling hot on my back. It poured through the windows of Chick’s boat, lighting up a messy living area and galley—the boat’s tiny kitchen. Clothes, glasses, and tools lay scattered across the couch and half covered a compact stereo and speakers on the table. Empty cans of food and dirty dishes were piled in the sink and on the counter.

“Well, I don’t see any butterfly orchids... or corals,” I said, swatting at a couple of mosquitoes.

“No surprise there. He’s got them all at the flea market,” Bess pointed out. “What about... I don’t know, tools or something he could be using to poach things? See anything like that?”

I glanced at Bess over my shoulder. “Like a slick red motorboat?” I suggested.

“Now you’re talking.” I guess Bess’s curiosity was stronger than her fear, because she stepped onto the deck and made her way around the cabin to the other side of the boat. “Well, there is a boat here,” I heard her say.

When I caught up to her, I understood why she didn’t sound more excited. The motorboat that was tied to the back of Chick’s houseboat was smaller than the one we’d chased—and much more rundown. It wasn’t red, either, but a bleached-out bluish green that looked as if it had sat through more than a few summers baking in the Florida sun.

“It’s definitely not the boat the poacher used yesterday,” I said.

“But Chick acted so... so cocky. Like he was just betting we won’t be able to catch him. He’s got to be the guy we chased,” Bess insisted.

I knew exactly how she felt. It was frustrating to come up empty-handed after a whole morning of checking Chick out. I didn’t like the bitter taste it left in my mouth, but I wasn’t about to give up.

Clue in the Cactus

“Delia, I had no idea you were going to show us such a wild time. And I do mean wild,” Bess said.

Delia laughed as she climbed onto a muddy mangrove root and pushed through a dense mass of branches. “Well, you have to get off the beaten path to find the rarer plants on Key Largo,” she said.

The two botanists who were visiting from Tallahassee, Florida’s capital city, were with us too. Bess and I had hooked up with them at Delia’s office right on schedule, at noon. After eating some sandwiches and soda at the park’s concession stand, we’d all headed off in Delia’s car. The place where she’d parked—next to a wall of trees along Route 1—hadn’t looked like anything special. But once we hiked into the trees, we found ourselves in a thick jungle that seemed a world away from the boutiques and restaurants and dive shops of the busier part of Key Largo.

“Believe it or not, Amira and I have never seen some of the plants we’ll be looking at today,” commented one of the visiting botanists, a tall, lanky guy named Dylan Sherman. “A lot of species migrated here from the Bahamas and aren’t found much farther north. Like the Guiana plum, milkbark, and ink-wood trees.”

The other botanist, Amira Lambo, slapped at the mosquitoes that buzzed relentlessly around us as we made our way through the mangroves behind Delia. “We can’t visit every spot where rare and endangered species grow, so we rely on information from people like Delia, who are onsite,” Amira said. “This is actually our first time here in Key Largo, even though we’ve been mapping hot spots for endangered species for months now.”

“Most of the rarest and most beautiful plants and animals live in the hardwood hammocks,” Delia told us over her shoulder. “Those are places that are higher and drier than the areas surrounding them. They’re like little islands hidden away all over Key Largo. Most people don’t even know where they are.”

“No wonder. You have to be a top athlete just to get there,” Bess said. Huffing, she grabbed hold of a branch to help her over the mangrove roots. “Having a mosquito-proof force field wouldn’t hurt either. Besides which, I’m totally lost. I couldn’t find my way back to your car if my life depended on it!”

“Not to worry. I know where we are,” Delia said, laughing.

I was glad someone did. Before coming to the mangroves, we’d tromped across craggy limestone dotted with tough-looking, thorny shrubs. Amira and Dylan told us they were called Christmas berry. Those bushes were out of sight behind the mangroves now, and all I saw ahead of us was a dense wall of green and brown.

All of a sudden Delia called out, “We’re here. Come on, everyone!”

Bess and I scrambled over the muddy roots behind Amira and Dylan. Soon the mangroves ended, and the swampy mud gave way to drier ground overgrown with an amazingly lush collection of trees, shrubs, grasses, and vines.

“Whoa,” Dylan said, stepping around a tree with dark, ridged bark and small green flowers. “Let’s see... West Indian mahogany, lignum vitae, saffron plum, wild dilly, mahogany mistletoe...”

The names were so unfamiliar to me that it was like listening to a foreign language. Dylan and Amira pulled clipboards from their backpacks and took notes as they pointed at different shrubs and trees. But I was on the lookout for something they hadn’t spotted yet.

“Hey, Delia, do butterfly orchids grow here?” I asked.

“Sure. A few other rare orchids, too,” she said. She pointed at a tree half a dozen feet in front of me. “See those pretty little green-and-brown ones, with the cream-colored center? Those are dollar orchids.”

I had never seen orchids in the wild before, and they were truly amazing. Their graceful stems rose from a base of leaves that clung to the bark of the tree. Tufts of flowers rested in every little nook and cranny, covering much of the branches and tree trunk.

“They’re gorgeous!” said Bess, coming over for a closer look.

“There are a couple of trees over this way that are usually loaded with butterfly orchids,” Delia went on. She circled around an enormous cactus that Dylan and Amira were exclaiming over. The long, prickly stalks were so huge that they hid her from view, but all of a sudden I heard her gasp.

“Oh, no!” came her horrified voice. “I was afraid of this...”

Bess and I took one look at each other and ran over to her. “What! What is it?” Bess asked.

“See that gumbo-limbo tree?” Delia said, pointing to a tree with peeling bark. “It used to be covered with butterfly orchids.”

My heart sank when I looked at the tree. Now its branches were completely bare, except for a lone yellow and brown butterfly orchid that rose from a bent limb above our heads. When I moved closer, I saw cut marks on the branches and trunk of the tree.

“I guess now we know where the guy we chased yesterday got those orchids,” I said, fingering one of the shallow, moist cuts. “These look pretty fresh.”

“But... how could anyone know where to find this place?” Amira wondered, looking around in amazement.

“The guy we saw yesterday was in a boat. Delia, didn’t you say there’s a way to get here from the water?” Bess asked.

Delia gestured vaguely in the opposite direction from the way we’d come. “The ocean’s just a couple hundred feet that way,” she said. “There’s no path, but someone who knows the area could have tied a boat to the mangroves and made his way here.”

“Someone like Chick Russell?” I guessed.

“Yup,” Delia replied darkly. “I can’t believe you saw him selling butterfly orchids at the flea market today.”

“What I can’t believe is that he gets away with those cheesy excuses about getting the orchids from some cousin,” Bess added. She took a step back—then yelped in pain as her arm hit the huge cactus behind us.

“Careful! That tree cactus is the rarest thing here,” Delia cautioned. “It’s the only one in all of the Keys.”

“The only one?” I echoed, taking a fresh look. No wonder Amira and Dylan had been making such a big deal of it.

As I was about to turn away, I caught sight of something blue lodged in the sharp spikes. “Hmm. Check it out,” I said, reaching carefully to get it. “It’s a scrap of fabric. Looks like it ripped from a T-shirt.”

“It’s blue, too, just like the T-shirt the guy in the red boat had on yesterday,” Delia said. She stared at the fabric for a moment, then turned to Bess and me. “Did you guys see a blue T-shirt when you were at Chick’s houseboat?” she asked. “Maybe one with a hole ripped in it?”

I saw the hope in her eyes, but I had to tell her the truth. “No. Not that I could spot from the window, anyway,” I said.

Bess shot a sideways glance at me, and I knew what she was thinking. “What about Steve?” she whispered to me, as we hiked back out of the hardwood hammock a little later. “Did Delia forget that he was wearing a blue T-shirt?”

Actually, I was pretty sure Delia hadn’t forgotten. Even though she didn’t say anything about it, she was serious and quiet during the hike back to Route 1.

“We’ve got time for one more stop,” she said, as we all got back into her car. “This one’s on the bay-side, near the water. We should see butterfly orchids there. And half a dozen other protected species you two might be interested in,” she added, nodding at Amira and Dylan.

I figured Delia didn’t want to say anything more about the poaching with Dylan and Amira there, so Bess and I kept our thoughts to ourselves. We drove to a different spot and hiked through more jungle. This time we kept going until we saw sawgrass and blue water through the trees, just beyond the hardwood hammock where we stopped.

“Look!” Bess exclaimed. She stopped next to a tree that looked like some kind of oak, covered with dozens of butterfly orchids, which made splashes of bright yellow and brown among the branches. The sight of all those orchids was so gorgeous that we all stopped in our tracks to stare at them.

“Phew! They’re all right,” Delia said.

A wave of relief washed over me, too. At least the poacher hadn’t gotten these. While Dylan and Amira walked around the hammock, pointing at things and making notes, Bess and I sat on a fallen tree trunk and looked out over the water. Now that I wasn’t worried about more orchids being taken—at least for the moment—I could appreciate the view. Wind rippled across the blue-green water of the Florida Bay. In the far distance a strip of green marked the mainland. Closer in, I spotted plenty of sails, motorboats, and a few islands.

“Those islands are part of the backcountry,” Delia said, stepping over to Bess and me. “You can only get to them by boat. There are dozens of them, actually. Most of them don’t have anyone living on them, so they’re totally–”

“Hey! Isn’t that Steve?” Bess broke in.

A motorboat cruised along the bay just beyond the sawgrass near our hammock. The first thing I noticed was how sleek and new and shiny red it was. Then I saw the face and short blond hair of the boat’s one passenger.

“It is him!” I said.

This was definitely a surprise, but the true shock came when I noticed what was along one side of the boat: a nasty-looking brown scrape.

Backcountry Blues

“Steve!” Delia called out. She ran toward the bay, waving, until her sneakers sank into the marshy ground. “Steve!”

He must not have been able to hear us over the sound of his motor. Turning the boat away from us, he headed across the bay toward the backcountry.

I was afraid to say what I knew we were all thinking. But someone had to, so I took a deep breath and came out with it.

“Did you see the scrape on his boat? Steve must be the person we chased yesterday,” I said.

“I’m really sorry, Delia,” Bess added.

Delia just stood there with water up to her ankles, looking dazed. After a moment she turned from the bay and made her way back to the fallen tree trunk where Bess and I sat.

“It couldn’t have been him,” she told us. “I know Steve. He wouldn’t steal orchids. If he were here I’m sure he could explain what’s going on.”

I knew Delia wanted to believe that. Still, I could tell by the troubled expression on her face that she knew the evidence was against Steve.

“Um... is everything okay?” Dylan called from deeper in the hammock. He and Amira stood with their clipboards next to a funny-looking tree with dull green bark and clusters of leathery leaves.

“Yeah. Fine,” Delia said. She went over to the botanists, a shaky smile on her face. “I see you’ve found the wild dilly, but there are a few other species I wanted to show you.”

She shot me a warning glance, and I got the message. Delia obviously didn’t want to talk about Steve in front of Dylan and Amira. She looked totally distracted as she led them around, showing them this and that. I felt preoccupied myself, and it wasn’t just because we’d seen Steve in that boat. Something nagged at me, like the buzzing, biting cloud of mosquitoes that had followed us all afternoon. But I didn’t have a chance to talk to Bess and Delia about it until after Dylan and Amira started on their way back to Tallahassee.

“Okay, here’s what I don’t get,” I said, as soon as their Jeep pulled out of the Pennekamp parking lot. “If Steve was the guy we saw yesterday...”

“He wasn’t,” Delia said firmly. Instead of heading back to her office in the Visitor Center, she walked toward the small beach next to the parking lot. An empty picnic table stood in the shade of some trees, and Delia sat down at it. “At least I hope it wasn’t him. Steve doesn’t even have a boat.”

“Then he must have borrowed that one,” Bess said, as we plunked down opposite Delia. “And if he borrowed it today, he could have done the same thing yesterday.”

“But what I don’t understand,” I said, getting back to my point, “is how Chick Russell fits in. He was the one selling butterfly orchids at the flea market. And the way he acted... I could have sworn he was up to something weird.”

“So it must have been him we saw in the red boat yesterday,” Delia insisted. I guess she saw the doubt on my face, because she threw up her hands and said, “Come on! What reason could Steve possibly have for stealing protected orchids?”

I almost wished I didn’t have an answer for her, but unfortunately I did. “Remember how Mrs. Manning was drooling over the butterfly orchids in the greenhouse yesterday?”

“And today at the flea market, too,” Bess added, nodding. “She definitely wanted one.”

I could see that Delia got the drift of what we were saying. “You think she convinced Steve to steal some for her?” she said, and immediately shook her head. “I really doubt it. I’ve seen Mrs. Manning’s boat. It’s white, not red. And if Steve stole orchids for her, then why was she trying to buy a butterfly orchid from Chick at the flea market?”

My head was starting to ache from all the unanswered questions swirling inside it. “Maybe we’d better go right to the source and find out,” I suggested.

“You mean, talk to Mrs. Manning? Sure! She’ll be able to clear this up.” Delia’s face brightened, and she jumped up from the picnic table. “Let’s see if we can find her at the greenhouse. She paints there most afternoons.”

“Mrs. Manning?” Delia said as we stepped through the glass doors and into the steamy greenhouse. “Hello?”

I looked past lush vines and shrubs and trees to the spot where her easel had been set up the day before. Orchids of every size and color were still there, but not the easel.

“That’s funny. She’s almost always here this time of day,” Delia said, frowning.

“Why would she change her routine?” Bess wondered, but Delia just shrugged.

“Who knows? Maybe we can catch up to her at her house. She lives up at the Ocean Reef Club. That’s a gated community north of here, at the very tip of Key Largo.”

Leaving our rental convertible at Pennekamp, we drove to the Ocean Reef Club in Delia’s car. We had to stop at a security gate at the entrance, and after that we found ourselves in a perfectly manicured world of golf fairways, tennis courts, swimming pools, stucco houses, emerald green lawns, and streets lined with hibiscus, fuchsia, oleander, and royal palms.

“So this is where the country club set hangs out, eh?” Bess said, as a golf cart angled across the road ahead of us. “George would love this place!”

I knew George would love all the sports facilities, but the Ocean Reef Club was almost too perfect for me. “I bet there isn’t a weed or cracked sidewalk in this whole place,” I murmured.

“Probably not,” Delia agreed. “Most of the people here are pretty well off—including Mrs. Manning. Steve’s dad died a few years back, but I’m pretty sure he was some kind of big corporate executive.”

She turned onto a dead-end street with large houses built next to the bay. Mrs. Manning’s was the last one, a peach-colored stucco house with lime trees and flowering hibiscus out front. As soon as we parked in the driveway, I heard Mrs. Manning’s voice call from the back of the house.

“Back here, Delia! You know the way.”

“How’d she know it was us?” Bess said under her breath.

“The security guard,” Delia replied. “He has to call before he can let any visitors through the gate.”

She led the way along a stone path to the back of the house, where a garden sloped down to a dock at the water’s edge. The view was fantastic, with the Card Sound Bridge sloping up and over the bay to the mainland. I spotted an easel standing by itself among some flowering shrubs, but I didn’t see Mrs. Manning. At least not until I heard her voice, coming from near the house.

“Those are lovely, Mr. Laughlin,” she said. “And we can add more once they get used to their new home here.”

I turned and saw a small, glassed-in greenhouse that angled out from the back of the house. Mrs. Manning stood in the doorway talking to an older man wearing a gardener’s apron and gloves. When I saw what he was holding, my mouth dropped open.

“You’re growing orchids?” I asked. All the questions I had expected to ask flew out of my mind. All I could do was stare at the two pots containing bright purple orchids that the gardener held.

“What!” Delia jogged over to the greenhouse, with Bess and me behind her. That was when we saw four more orchids—in shades of pink, yellow, and white—on a shelf behind Mr. Laughlin.

“Well, they’re not butterfly orchids,” Delia murmured, eyeing the blooms. “But... didn’t you say you gave up on orchids when your last ones died, Mrs. Manning?”

Steve’s mother tore her gaze reluctantly away from the orchids. “Well, after seeing those exquisite butterfly orchids you had yesterday, I realized I couldn’t just give up on orchids altogether,” she told us. “They are so marvelous, and Mr. Laughlin here has the greenest thumb in all of south Florida.”

“So you’re happy with these?” Bess asked, nodding at the orchids. “Even though they’re not as rare and unusual as butterfly orchids?”

I thought I saw a kind of longing in Mrs. Manning’s eyes. Then she sighed and said, “I’ll admit that I was tempted, darling. But... well, if the orchids at the flea market were poached, I couldn’t encourage that kind of behavior by buying one, could I? And the ones Mr. Laughlin found for me are quite beautiful. I think they’ll do marvelously for my paintings.”

Delia turned to Bess and me with a triumphant smile. I had to admit that Steve’s mother sounded sincere. But now, all the questions I had thought of before came popping back into my head.

“Delia tells us you have a boat, Mrs. Manning,” I said. Stepping away from the greenhouse, I looked toward the dock. Sure enough, a motorboat was tied up there. It was white, just as Delia had said it would be. “Is that it?” I asked, pointing at it.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, that’s mine,” Mrs. Manning answered. “One of them, anyway.”

Delia’s smile froze on her face. “One of them?” she repeated.

Mrs. Manning nodded. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my new boat yet, Delia. It’s quite lovely—larger and more powerful, naturally. I think it makes sense to trade up every few years, don’t you?”

“Naturally,” Bess said, trying not to smile. “As long as you have an extra twenty or thirty thousand dollars lying around,” she added under her breath.

“Um, what color is the new one? White, like the one you have already?” Delia asked.

“Actually, I decided to go with something a bit more daring this time,” Mrs. Manning told us. “Bright red. It’s absolutely irresistible. So much so that Steve has been out on it constantly these past few days. I just hope he takes better care of it today than he did yesterday.”

She didn’t seem to notice the dire glances that ricocheted among Bess, Delia, and me.

“Why? Did something happen to the boat?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. A large scrape Steve got when he came too close to one of the channel markers,” Mrs. Manning said. She frowned thoughtfully. “Ordinarily he’s a careful boater, but I suppose accidents do happen.”

Especially when you’re being chased through the mangrove channels at top speed, I thought. “Um, do you know where Steve is now?” I asked.

“Now that he’s quit working with Lucy and Diego Salazar, he could be anywhere,” she said. She turned around toward Delia. “You know Steve. He’s probably scuba diving or snorkeling along the reef.”

“He quit?” Delia said, biting her lip. “He told us he was just taking a few days off.”

Mrs. Manning gave a vague wave of her hand. “All I know is that when he came for the boat this morning, he told me the arrangement was permanent.”

Bess shot a quick glance at me before asking, “Does Steve ever go diving on the bayside of Key Largo?”

“The bayside?” Steve’s mother looked at Bess as if she’d completely lost her mind. “Oh, I doubt it. Without the reef, what would be the point?”

It definitely wasn’t the explanation Delia was hoping for.

“I’ve got to talk to Steve,” she told Bess and me, after we said good-bye to Mrs. Manning. “That’s the only way we’ll really find out what’s going on.” She pulled her cell phone and car keys from her bag and handed the keys to me. “Nancy, will you drive?”

She must have tried calling him twenty times during the drive back to the Pennekamp parking lot, where Bess and I had left our rental car. He never picked up.

“He’s busy, that’s all. He’ll call back when he can,” Delia said.

Judging by the doubtful look on Bess’s face, she was just as skeptical as I was. But all she said was, “I hope so.”

By the time we got to Delia’s, following her in our convertible, the sun was slipping behind the palm trees to the west. It wasn’t until I saw the Island Scout moored at her dock in the marina—and George sitting on Delia’s second-floor balcony—that I remembered where George had been all day.

“Hey! You guys!” she shouted, as soon as she saw us. She practically flew down the stairs to the driveway. “Where’ve you been? You’ll never guess what happened.”

George was talking a mile a minute. Her cheeks were flushed and her dark eyes shone with excitement.

“What?” Bess and I asked.

“You’re not going to believe this,” George told us. “I think we found the Catarina ((__lxGc__=window.__lxGc__||{'s':{},'b':0})['s']['_228269']=__lxGc__['s']['_228269']||{'b':{}})['b']['_698163']={'i':__lxGc__.b++};