Storm Season. Charlotte Douglas

you don’t use the shed…” I prompted Violet in hopes of ending the bickering.

      Bessie answered. “Mr. Moore mows our grass when he does his yard. He’s very thoughtful.”

      “Thoughtful, my eye,” Violet said. “He got sick of looking at the jungle over here.”

      While Bessie searched for a suitable comeback, I plunged into the void. “What did you find in the shed, Bessie?”

      “Come and see for yourself.”

      I set aside my glass of tea, pushed to my feet from the ancient metal glider and followed Bessie out the screen door. Violet, amazingly agile for a centenarian, dogged our steps as if afraid she’d miss something.

      We followed a path of popcorn stone, set in thick St. Augustine grass, to the shed, constructed of the same concrete block as the house and apparently built at the same time, around 1940. The wooden door showed signs of rot, and several asphalt shingles were missing from the roof. A square of cardboard replaced a missing pane in one of two sash windows visible on the side of the shed that faced the house.

      Bessie knocked on the door. “J.D., you home?”

      When no one answered, she tugged open the warped door, reached inside and flipped a switch. Light from the bare bulb, which extended from a cord in the center of the ceiling, illuminated the opposite of what I’d expected.

      Instead of a jumble of old tools, broken pots and other junk covered in dust and spiderwebs, the space was immaculate. The concrete floor had been recently swept, every surface dusted, the windowpanes sparkled in the sun and tools and garden implements hung in an orderly array on makeshift wall pegs. On an ancient wooden workbench in front of the east window sat rows of healthy green herbs in small pots. Next to the herbs were a single-burner electric hot plate, a battered but clean saucepan and a few cans of beans and franks. Beneath the bench stood a jug of drinking water and an old but sturdy Igloo cooler.

      On the opposite side of the shed, under the west windows, a rough bed frame had been constructed from scraps of plywood and old lumber. Several ragged and faded blankets, neatly folded, lay beside a stained pillow. On a peg above the bed hung a heavy army jacket.

      Either the Lassiter sisters had staged an elaborate set for their delusion, or the mysterious J.D. wasn’t a figment of their imagination but real flesh and blood.

      My concern for the frail and elderly ladies skyrocketed. “Have you called the sheriff’s office?”

      “Oh, no,” Bessie said in a horrified tone.

      “We wanted to,” Violet said, “but police make J.D. nervous, poor man.”

      “So you want me to evict him?” I thought I’d finally gotten a handle on why the sisters had summoned me.

      “Evict him?” Bessie’s eyes widened with alarm. “Of course not. That would be inhospitable.”

      “We want you to find out who he is,” Violet explained in the same exasperated voice she used on her sister. “He’s such a dear man, we’re sure he has a family somewhere who love him and miss him. In the meantime, we’re happy to have him stay with us.”

      “We even offered to share our meals,” Bessie added, “but he didn’t want to impose.”

      “How does he support himself?” I asked.

      “He doesn’t beg, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Violet said sharply.

      The old lady was quick. That J.D. was a panhandler, at best, was exactly what I’d been thinking.

      “He’s too proud,” Bessie said. “He’d never take charity. He insists on doing odd jobs around our house to pay his rent. He stopped our faucet from dripping, planed a closet door that always stuck and mended a window screen. He also trims the shrubbery and weeds the flower beds. And as soon as we can afford a new pane, he’s going to repair the shed window.”

      “He has an old bicycle,” Violet added. “He rides around town and collects aluminum cans. Then he takes them to the recycling center and sells them.”

      “I’m sure J.D. is very…nice.” I was trying to be tactful. “But are you sure he’s not dangerous?”

      Violet drew herself to her full height, very imposing since it included six inches of braided coronet.

      “Young lady, I didn’t get to be a hundred years old without learning a few things. I am an excellent judge of character. J.D. may have forgotten who he is, but he hasn’t forgotten what he is.”

      “And what’s that?” I asked.

      “A kind and gentle man who’s temporarily lost his way,” Violet said. “We asked you here to help him find it.”

      “Will you?” Bessie asked. “As much as we like having J.D., we do want him to find his family.”

      Faced with the Lassiters’ sincere concern, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that J.D. was most likely one of a vast army of homeless, many of whom, due to mental illness, had chosen life on the streets rather than deal with the strains and stresses of a normal life. I only hoped he wasn’t also the type who suffered bouts of violence because he wasn’t on medication.

      “I’ll have to meet J.D. and talk with him,” I said. “Then I’ll see what I can do. Can you call me when he’s here?”

      Bessie looked embarrassed.

      Violet squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “We had the phone taken out. Never used it, except to answer calls from telemarketers.”

      I knew better. The Lassiters’ fixed income hadn’t stretched to include the monthly phone bill.

      “Maybe your neighbor, Mr. Moore, will call me?” I suggested.

      “That’s a good idea,” Bessie said. “He’s already volunteered to call 9-1-1 if we ever need help. I’m sure he won’t mind calling you.”

      I said goodbye, hurried to my ancient Volvo and cranked up the air-conditioning. I hoped J.D. returned soon, so I could meet him and decide whether to call the police, despite the sisters’ objections, for their own safety.

      As I drove away, I knew I wouldn’t bill them for my time. As Bill always said, pro bono work was good for the soul.

      Especially if it kept two lively old ladies out of harm’s way.

      CHAPTER 2

      Darcy Wilkins, our receptionist and secretary, greeted me with a distracted wave when I returned to the office. She was eating lunch at her desk and watching the noon news on the small television in the waiting area. Roger, my three-year-old pug, showed more enthusiasm at my arrival and followed me toward my office.

      “Look,” Darcy said around a mouthful of yogurt, pointing to the TV with her spoon, “there’s Adler.”

      Dave Adler had been my partner during my final months with the Pelican Bay Police Department. When the city had disbanded the PD and the sheriff’s office had taken over, Adler had gone to work as a detective with the Clearwater Department.

      I stopped midstride, pivoted and almost tripped over Roger in my haste to view the screen. Young enough to be my son, but already a stellar detective, Adler always evoked a certain maternal pride. Gazing at the screen where the Clearwater PD spokesperson was being interviewed, I could see Adler and his current partner, Ralph Porter, in the background, carrying evidence bags to their car, just as the news segment ended.

      “Did you hear what was going on?” I asked Darcy.

      “Murder on Sand Key. Some woman was shot when she got out of her car inside the gated lot at her condo.”

      My skin prickled at her words. But this homicide was Adler’s problem, not mine, so the hives that usually erupted at the mention of murder remained dormant.

      “It’s