Coconut Cowboy by Tim Dorsey

Author:Tim Dorsey
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE NATURE COAST

A chopper thundered away from Neon Leon’s.

Serge pulled out his camera as they passed a restored two-story cottage with an oversized veranda on the waterfront. “The old Homosassa Lodge, landmark sportsman’s paradise,” Serge said into his helmet mike. “My favorite painter, Winslow Homer, first visited this area in 1904, taking a steamer up from Key West. While here, he’d stay at the hotel, where some of his finest watercolors emerged, including the iconic Red Shirt, depicting a tiny man in a canoe wearing such apparel as he fishes along the tall palms guarding the banks of this river. Now housed at the National Gallery of Art. Watercolors are the best! I just realized I like some colors way more than the taste. Avocado.”

“Can we stay at the lodge?” asked Matt.

“Negative,” said Serge. “It’s now a private residence, which is why I refuse to divulge the address because I’m all about privacy. The nearby state park is another matter. They’re paid to be pestered, and I’m all about getting bang for my buck.”

They circled back to Highway 98 and followed the signs before entering a parking lot filled with out-of-state plates.

“Look at all the tourists!” said Coleman.

“The ones with taste.” Serge grabbed a clipboard from his knapsack and led them inside the welcome center for Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park.

A young man in a smartly pressed uniform greeted them inside the door.

“What’s your name?” asked Serge.

“Kevin.”

Serge jotted on his clipboard. “Kevin, what’s ‘Homosassa’ mean?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Native American for ‘place of many pepper plants,’ ” said Serge. “Where’s the Winslow Homer display?”

“Who?”

“That was another test,” said Serge. “I already know where it is. It’s the small room at the end of that hall on the left with a barely noticeable sign because it’s tragically become an afterthought. Please get that fixed. There’s a framed photo depicting how the old fishing lodge looked in the early part of last century, along with a page from the guest register that indicated the famous artist paid eighteen dollars a week. He was from New England, but I’ll give him an honorary Floridian waiver just for Red Shirt alone. You need to know this in case the tourists ask, and if they don’t, tell them anyway because it’s important. Are you getting all this?”

“Excuse me,” said Kevin. “Are you with the state?”

“You have no idea how much.” Another notation on the clipboard. “I’ll check back with you in a month and expect a full report . . . Come on, guys . . .”

The three companions neared the end of the hall.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “I think we have trouble.”

“Why?”

“It looks like the kid back there is talking with his supervisor and pointing at us.”

“Let him.”

They went inside the room.

“You’re right,” said Matt, bending his neck close to the wall. “Here’s his lodging receipt. Looks like he hired a boat for three dollars and bought lunch for his fishing guide.”

“And here’s a letter to his brother Arthur.” More scribbling on the clipboard. “Bragging about the climate and catching trout.

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