Page 66 of Betrayal In Calusa Cove
“Hey. None of us did.” Hayes rested his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up. Besides, we wondered if he was keeping things from us. We could see something behind his eyes, like something was eating at him, especially the last year of his life. For all we know, he was caught between a rock and a hard place his entire life.” Hayes lowered his chin. “Massey could’ve been holding something over his head when he was a teenager. Everyone who knew he’d been dealing said they thought he’d stopped. But we don’t know what he had to do to get out. And we don’t know the circumstances under which he really met Julie because that doesn’t track.”
“I can no longer make excuses for him, and it sucks that he’s dead because I can’t even confront him.” Fletcher pushed from the vehicle. “Keaton’s waving frantically. We should head in.”
Fletcher nodded and moved slowly across the parking lot. His heart hammered in his chest. Winning this bid wasn’t just about him and his buddies opening another business. It wasn’t just about their livelihood. This was about Calusa Cove. It was about the people and what their community represented.
The town meeting room in Calusa Cove’s modest municipal building smelled faintly of pine cleaner and old paper. Rows of folding chairs had been lined up with military precision, their metal legs scraping softly as residents shuffled into their seats. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed with a faint whine, lending a sterile glow to the room that clashed with the tension humming beneath the surface.
Fletcher stood near the back, arms crossed over his chest, scanning the space. The turnout was bigger than expected. Locals from every corner of the Cove had shown up—some curious, others concerned. He spotted Silas leaning against the far wall near the fire exit, eyes narrowed, looking like a snake ready to strike at the first hint of danger. Chloe, Trinity, and Audra sat together in the second row, heads close, whispering behind their programs. Keaton was near the aisle, stone-faced, while Hayes stood by the window, his stance deceptively casual.
And in the back corner, hunched slightly and pale, sat Decker Brown with Pete. Decker looked like hell—pale, drawn, still weak from the poisoning—but his eyes were sharp. Determined. He gave Fletcher a faint nod, and Fletcher returned it. This afternoon, everything needed to change.
Mayor Ruth Talbot, a stern woman with a no-nonsense haircut and a louder-than-necessary voice, banged the gavel. “Let’s come to order. The first and only item on the agenda: finalizing the redevelopment of the Old Crab Shack parcel.”
A few committee members—Marge Elder, who ran the Cove’s historical society; Tony Whittaker, the owner of the gas station; and Glen Morris, a retiree who never missed a town vote—flipped open their binders. They all had expressions that couldn’t be read. Not a furrowed brow. Not a cracked smile. Nothing.
“The committee received two proposals,” Ruth announced, glancing up. “But I’ve just been informed that one of them is being withdrawn.”
All eyes turned toward Decker. He stood, slowly, using the back of the chair for support. “I’m officially pulling my bid from consideration. I…believe the other plan better serves the town’s interests.”
Ruth blinked. “Mr. Brown, you’re certain?”
“Absolutely.” He looked toward Fletcher. “And I’m offering my services as a contractor for the project, if accepted.”
A low murmur swept through the room.
Ruth gave a curt nod. “Very well. That leaves the proposal submitted by… Parks and Recreation Director Fletcher Dane and associates.”
Fletcher stepped forward, unfolding a large rendering of the proposed site plan. “We’re proposing a dockside restaurant that incorporates the existing foundation of the old Crab Shack. The design keeps the original footprint but adds additional docks, a covered patio, and an outdoor stage. It’ll be a place where residents and tourists alike can bring their catch, have it cleaned and cooked on-site, and enjoy live music from local talent on weekends. It will create jobs, and it won’t take away from the landscape that’s been in place for decades.”
Tony scratched his beard. “So, it’s not some corporate chain?”
“Not even close,” Fletcher said. “This stays local. The people, the food, the music—it all comes from Calusa Cove.”
Marge adjusted her glasses. “The exterior? It keeps the same waterfront feel?”
“Absolutely,” Fletcher confirmed. “Nothing flashy. Wood siding, muted colors. Even the signage will reflect the old-style charm. It’s all in these plans.”
Glen Morris gave a low grunt of approval. “Sounds better than that monstrosity they wanted to build a few years ago.”
Hayes stepped forward, handing out copies of the permits and zoning applications. “All the documents are in order. Our lawyer, Enzo Hudson, filed them this morning.”
“Hudson?” Marge looked impressed. “Doesn’t he have a cousin that’s an FBI agent or something?”
“Former agent and now a sheriff in Oregon,” Keaton added. “Her name is Greer, and she worked with Chloe a few years ago.”
More murmurs.
“And you boys are willing to pay the town the full asking bid?” Glen asked with his glasses lowered to the tip of his nose.
“We are,” Fletcher said. “All the financials are in order. The bank has approved a building loan. All we need is the town’s approval.”
Ruth looked around the committee. “Unless there are objections, let’s take a vote.”
All hands went up. Unanimous.
“Motion carried,” Ruth said. “Congratulations, gentlemen. The Crab Shack property is yours. We’ll fast-track the permitting process.”
The moment the meeting adjourned, the crowd began to dissipate. Fletcher slipped outside, where the night air felt thick with salt and humidity. Dawson, Hayes, and Keaton joined him near the sidewalk, the streetlamp casting a golden halo around them.
