Chapter 30

“Florida?” Bobby exclaimed in an interrogative manner.

“Florida.” I said. “I bought a house.”

“For why?”

“Oh ... place to practice ... gym to stay in shape ... a sauna to sweat our pores, a spa to soak in after the sauna, a walk-in wine cellar ... What?”

“Wine cellar? Karen. You’re allergic to grape. What are you going to do with a wine cellar?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“You could refrigerate it and keep kegs cold,” said a nosy parker at the counter.

That got agreement from the entire counter ... and the waitress at the till.

“I know,” I said. “I can have the staff serve wine to guests watching the movies.” Absolutely brilliant!

“What movies?” Bobby said.

“What guests?” said the nosy parker hopefully.

“Who ever I invite to watch movies at my state of the art home theater. I can cruise the beaches and bring home Spring Breakers.”

“Cruise the beaches?”

“On my 65 foot Nautor Swan sailboat. I can go pick up hunks and babes and bring ‘em back to my four hundred foot long deep water dock on the intracoastal ... wine ‘em, dine ‘em and stick ‘em in the guest house if they get too rowdy. The girls can all over tan by the private pool.

“Anybody not wanted,” I gave the nosy parker a significant look, “Can be kept out by the gate guards.”

Everybody laughed.

“Seriously Karen, where you been?”

“Out.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Nothing.”

Home was still in the woods next to the creek ... the four tipis were still up ... although one of them had a note pinned to the door.

“For Sale?” Call Jo at 6o7-2929. Eaton’s Ranch.

“Jo?”

“Karen Post.”

“You left a note pinned to one of my tipis.”

“Yes.”

“Make me an offer.”

“Fifteen hundred? Yes ma’am. For that I’ll deliver. Eaton’s Ranch?”

I took the pinned one down, loaded it on the Dodge and took off. Wolf Creek south to Soldier Creek west to the Wye with Beckton Road. Beckton sorta south to the Tee with Eaton’s Ranch Road. Turn right. Half way down ... or up ... Eaton’s Road, the gate guard waved me down. Since Wolf is the address on my drivers license, I was allowed in. At the office, it’s the Post Office, too, I stepped down and went inside.

“Mrs. Jo Baker please. I have a delivery for her,” I told the Post Mistress. Eaton’s Postal Authority and clerk is a fourteen year old girl ... one of the various Eaton offspring. Post Master is a political appointment so little Miss Postal must have a great deal of political pull.

“You’re Karen?”

“I am,” I replied.

“Emily Eaton, we have some mail for you. It was supposed to go to your house box but somehow ended up here.”

“I’ve got a tipi delivery for Mrs. Baker.”

“Let’s get your mail settled first, shall we?”

Some mail ... it was twenty-six big boxes ... each had to be opened and the contents inspected and signed for. Tooling ... for the lathe ... in Sheridan. About a thousand pounds worth of chucks, gunsmith tailstocks, collets, live centers, drills, boring tools and a rifling jig. The thousand pounds weight explained why the post lady didn’t deliver.

Nothing I had ordered.