Free Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide by Michaela Thompson Page A

“Let me ask you something, Kimmie Dee. Did you slip an envelope under my door while I was gone this afternoon?”
    “Nope.”
    The reply was offhand, without hesitation. The girl seemed to be telling the truth. “Did you see anybody else come down here?”
    “Nope. Toby and I were watching TV.” Kimmie Dee pushed the leaf, which wobbled and capsized. “Oh, shoot.” She retrieved it and said, “When do you think my daddy will send those boots? I need them pretty soon.”
    “He couldn’t have gotten the letter yet.”
    “Fourth of July. The talent contest. My old ones don’t fit.” She stood, kicked off a sandal, and stuck out a mud-streaked foot for Isabel to inspect. “My toes are too long.”
    The light dawned. “It’s majorette boots you want?”
    “Well, sure.”
    Kimmie Dee knelt to play with her leaf boat. She made a charming picture, squatting there by the puddle with her bony knees in the air. Isabel turned to a fresh page. “Has your father been… gone for a long time?”
    “Pretty long. He’ll be coming back, though.”
    “When?”
    “When they let him out.” She picked up sand and added it to the leaf’s freight. “He did something stupid and wrong, so he had to go to jail for a while. That’s what he told me. Stupid and wrong.”
    Isabel was sketching, her pencil flying. “Sounds like he’s sorry for what he did.”
    “Oh, he is. Real sorry.” The girl crossed her arms on her knees. “They took his boat away and everything. They aren’t even going to give it back.”
    “That’s a shame.”
    “Yeah. He brought some marijuana over from Westpoint in it and they caught him.” Kimmie Dee gave her a suspicious look. “Are you drawing my picture?”
    “Yes. Do you want to see?” It was rough, just a few lines, but Isabel was pleased.
    Kimmie Dee looked. The sketch showed her crouched by the puddle, her hair falling forward. “You can’t even see my face,” she said, sounding disappointed.
    “You want your face in it? I’ll do another one. Go back over there.”
    Kimmie Dee returned to the puddle and posed, her face stretched into an unnatural “Say cheese” grin. To dissipate it, Isabel said, “You can go ahead and talk to me. I’ll tell you when to be still.”
    “Talk about what?”
    Isabel had meant to ask Kimmie Dee about Ted Stiles.
I don’t like Mr. S.
“Oh, about your mother, Toby, Mr. Stiles…”
    All semblance of a smile had vanished. “It’s
our
house, not his,” Kimmie Dee declared. “He bothers us all the time.”
    “Bothers you how? What does he do?”
    “He comes over and eats, and drinks beer and smokes cigarettes. He piled a bunch of diving stuff in our utility closet and broke Toby’s train.”
    “Does he go diving?”
    “I don’t know. And he asks me questions.”
    Isabel studied her sketch. “Questions about what?”
    “What I’ve seen on the beach. Who’s coming and going. I don’t like to talk to him, but Mama gets mad if I won’t.”
    Kimmie Dee moved, and Isabel gave up. She didn’t like the second sketch as much as the first. Doing it had given her an idea, though. Kimmie Dee, with her sharp little face, would be an ideal model for Marotte. Marotte was a villain, the evil foster sister, in
The Children from the Sea.
If Kimmie Dee would pose, it could give the book some needed vigor. Isabel said, “Let me ask you a favor. Would you let me draw your picture for a book I’m working on?”
    Kimmie Dee wrinkled her nose. “What kind of a book?”
    “It’s a kids’ book. A fairy tale.” No need, at this point, to tell her she’d be the model for the villain. “I was thinking— if you’ll pose for me a few times, I’ll buy you the majorette boots.”
    The girl shook her head. “I already asked Daddy. He’ll send them.”
    Her faith was touching, but privately Isabel wondered. “I’m worried he won’t get the letter in time. This way, you’ll have them for sure.”
    Kimmie Dee hesitated, but Isabel could see it was no