“What do you mean, ‘Myrtle’s in jail’?!”
Louisa had dropped her news as she ferried eggs and important breakfast support items inside from her weekly shopping adventure.
She wiggled through the screen door with her cargo, and my question hung in the air like an afterthought, following the screen door’s slap as it closed.
Inside I heard Kona chittering like an angry squirrel, and the muted responses from the others. Their words were indistinct and frustrating at the same time.
I slapped my Macbook closed and made overtures to leave my wicker throne when Louisa and crew steamed through the door, headed east.
“Hang on!”
The gaggle braked to a stop, Kona still chattering about prison fashion as I finally made it to my feet.
“Weesa. What?”
“I, uh, ran into Tony at Publix. He said she got arrested. Big sale on cantalopes, and I nearly got strip searched by three old guys who saw yesterday’s stream on swim strokes for therapy.” She looked pleased at this last item in her report.
Catching you up - Officer Anthony Tabor and Louisa share a special bond of Pursued (Louisa masquerading as an F1 driver in her cart) and Pursuer (Tony in his cruiser, when on duty). It’s a game they both seem to enjoy. Tony is also one of the several Key West cops that has a thing for Louisa. Along with the two or three million fans that seem to find her every time she goes anywhere.
I may have snapped my fingers. “Focus. Details. What happened?”
“Myrtle’s in prison,” Kona said. “And Weesa Buns has a date.”
“Not a date. It’s a jet ski thing on the ski games day.”
I closed my eyes and counted to six.
“Let’s start over. Myrtle’s in jail. You have a date….”
“Karl too. And it’s not really a date.”
“You have something that has nothing to do with Myrtle being in jail. Why is she in jail?”
“Tony said she was charged with drug smuggling, kidnapping, human trafficking, and resisting arrest.” She ticked the charges off, counting with her fingers. “I don’t think Karl is involved, but they’re together anyway. He said it’s a big collar, catching the kingpin.”
“What are you going to wear?” Kona asked, tapping Weesa’s shoulder.
“Kingpin!? Myrtle?!” I squeaked as my reality turned into some parallel universe thing.
“Not much,” she replied. She struck a pose as she pirouetted.
“Tachafepthht!” Sharon swatted away Weesa’s flying ponytail from her face.
“Drug smuggling! Kidnapping!” I may have reset a time or two.
Myrtle, you probably know, is one step away from using a walker. She’s lived at least three lives already. She’s fond of poking people with a broom handle to save having to leave her chair. She’s irreverent. She drinks. And she runs our soundboard when we stream. She’s a loose cannon. She leads sit-ins about parking rules. It was not a stretch to believe she knew drug smugglers. It was impossible to believe she was one.
“I have frozens. Help carry?” Weesa pulled Kona toward the porch stairs. Sharon made a face, hands still wiping away the imagined residue of Louisa’s mane.
This was how Friday of last week went from peaceful paradise to madcap hijinks in the space of three minutes.
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