Free Death Rides the Surf by Nora charles Page A

understatement of the greatest magnitude. For years, tourists traveling to the Breakers or Worth Avenue would pass through the tiny hamlet of Rainbow Beach and marvel at its trailer park abutting the Atlantic Ocean, and just minutes away from Mar-a-Lago, the former Marjorie Merriweather Post mansion, now also owned by the ubiquitous Trump.
    Annette Meyers, a New York City transplant who’d lived in the Rainbow Beach trailer park since 1972, wasn’t about to let her home be destroyed without a fight. She’d rallied the other residents and, twenty-nine strong, the trailer owners filed a class action suit against the city of Rainbow Beach. The problem here, as with other inland trailer parks in Broward and Palm Beach Counties, was that the parks’ residents owned their trailers, but not the land they were on. The city of Rainbow Beach owned the park and was executing its right of ownership. Six months ago, during a town meeting, Meyers had shouted the New York more graphic version of “horsefeathers,” and then hired the aging but still blustery attorney H. Lee Daley.
    Marlene and Kate wondered where Granny Meyers had gotten the money. H. Lee Daley didn’t come cheap.
    She turned right toward the sea into the quaint beach colony, its pastel trailers equipped with white picket fences and tiny green lawns. No trailer trash here, just a spectacular ocean view and the best trailer park in the universe.
    An elderly man—anyone who appeared to be five or more years older than Marlene qualified as elderly, though according to Medicare, so did she—tended a rose garden in front of his trailer, the first “house” on her left.
    “Hi,” she said, oozing charm. “Could you please tell me where Annette Meyers lives?”
    “Who wants to know?” His gray eyes were wary and his body language indicated distrust and, maybe, disdain. She wished she’d worn something sexy, instead of the most tailored pantsuit she owned, but she’d wanted to be low key. She could hear Kate laughing at her for even entertaining the notion of appearing low key. And it wouldn’t have made a difference if she were stark naked; this old guy wouldn’t have even noticed.
    “An old friend and a sister member of NOW.” She lied.
    “One of them, huh?” He pointed to the east. “Keep going. Ms. Meyers is in the first house off the beach on the left.”
    The trailer was pale aqua, the exact color of its owner’s eyes, Marlene noted as she opened the door. Annette Meyers had broad shoulders, a robust body, and stood straight and tall, taller than Marlene, which put her at almost six feet. She wore her gray-streaked black hair like Gloria Steinem’s, only shorter and sleeker. Her plaid shirt was well pressed and her jeans stretched over ample hips, though not nearly as ample as Marlene’s. She was barefoot and her toenails were painted cherry red: a feminist with flare.
    “Come in, come in, I’ve been expecting you.” Granny Meyers’s voice was as robust as her body.
    Marlene, puzzled but pleased to be inside, looked around the comfortable living/dining area. Charming. And its to-scale picture widow had a view of the sea.
    “You’re a little early. Can I get you a cold drink?” Annette Meyers walked over to a small bar. “Beer or soda?” Like Marlene, she added an r to soda.
    Since it was not yet eleven and she hated beer—a margarita might have been a different story—Marlene said, “Soda, please,” and went back to wondering who the hell Annette thought she was.
    Her hostess reached for a glass, and then peered at Marlene. “Aren’t you a bit overdressed? We’re forming a human chain on the ground; you might be dragged off to jail.”

Seventeen
    It occurred to Kate, and not for the first time, that her daughter-in-law Jennifer could be a prissy pain. On Jennifer’s mother’s side, the family line went back to John Adams and any history buff knew what a prig he’d been.
    Kate, all too familiar with Nick Carbone’s tactics and how