I smile at the memory and a wave of sadness drowns the happy thought. I look down at the pancakes and suddenly they don’t seem so appealing. Not today, not on my own without Luke or the girls. I push the plate away, pay the bill and leave.
Sitting in the rental car, I take my phone from my bag and look in my saved notes for the postal address of Alice Kendrick and input it into the sat nav. It tells me the location is forty minutes away and I take my time as I drive on the freeway for the first time, paying close attention to the directions, the traffic ahead and the traffic signals, remembering that you can go on a red light if you’re making a right turn and nothing is coming. It’s a little unnerving, but I manage it. Soon I’m travelling over the bridge that connects Amelia Island to mainland Florida. It’s a small island of just thirteen miles in length and a population of less than twelve thousand. It’s a popular tourist resort yet, according to the tourist board’s website I read earlier, maintains a small friendly town atmosphere.
It’s not long before I pull off Jasmine Street and follow directions to a small cul-de-sac, where the sat nav announces I’ve arrived at my destination. It’s a detached bungalow in a road with similar properties, some detached and some semi-detached, but all looking very well kept and modest. Nothing flashy or ostentatious here. Tall trees offer plenty of shade from the blazing sun, which dapples the road with spots of golden light. Long threads of Spanish moss hang from the trees, reminding me of tired party streamers the morning after New Year’s Eve celebrations.
Looking at the house, it’s hard to tell if there’s anyone home. The street is very quiet and there’s no sign of life from any of the houses.
I climb the porch steps and knock on the door. I listen intently for any sound of life, but there is none. I haven’t come all this way to be put off by an empty house. I take a glance up and down the road, but there still doesn’t appear to be anyone about, so I make my way around to the side of the house. There’s a gate and when I try the latch, it’s unlocked and opens inwards, allowing me access to the back garden. It looks as if it was kept nice and tidy at one point. Perhaps that was Patrick Kennedy’s thing – maybe he liked gardening.
I peer through the glass of the back door into the kitchen. Nothing is out of place. There are no cups or plates on the side waiting to be washed up. There’s no tea towel flung carelessly on the worktop or fruit sitting in the bowl waiting to be eaten. It looks like a show home. I try the handle to the back door but, unsurprisingly, it is locked. I rattle it all the same, just to be certain. I can’t see into any of the other rooms as the blinds are shut.
There are two bins by the side gate. Feeling like some sort of amateur detective, I go over to look inside them. It might give me an indication of how long it’s been since someone was here. The first looks like the recycling bin, with a few empty food boxes and drinks cartons lying in the bottom, but as I open the second, the smell that hits me almost makes me want to vomit and the buzz of flies that evacuate the bin makes me squeal, drop the lid and jump back.
There’s a piece of bamboo cane propped up against the fence. Picking it up and standing at arm’s length from the bin, I flick the lid up. The hum of flies and waft of something rotten assaults me but I’m more prepared this time and with my hand over my nose and mouth, I take a step closer. I peer into the bin from as far away as possible. There must be several full bin bags piled on top of each other, the last one to go in the bin sitting right at the top. White maggots, their colour a stark contrast with the black bin bags, wriggle and squirm their way around the plastic. With the bamboo cane I poke at the bag. It hasn’t been tied properly and I manage to flick it open.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see in there. Maybe my imagination is running away with me, but I’m relieved when I see food and drinks cartons. On the top is what looks like a piece of rotting meat, which would explain the flies. I flick the bin lid shut, relieved that it was nothing more sinister and then chide myself for an overactive imagination. What did I expect to find in there? A dead body?
Unexpectedly, a face pops up over the fence. A woman who looks to be in her seventies, with her hair neatly combed around her face and a small dash of red lipstick across her mouth, looks at me.
‘Are you from environmental health?’ she says. ‘About time you turned up. I’ve been calling you for days. That there bin hasn’t been emptied for weeks. Downright disgraceful. It would never have happened when Mr Kendrick was alive. It’s a health hazard.’ She eyes me again and produces a pair of glasses, which she perches on her bony nose. She has another look at me. ‘You ain’t environmental are you?’
‘Er, no. Sorry,’ I say. I have already rehearsed my story in case I spoke to any of the neighbours. ‘I’m actually a relative of Alice Kendrick. I’m from England and haven’t seen her for years. I’ve come over as a surprise.’ I smile broadly. It’s pretty near the truth.
‘A relative, you say? Of Ali Kendrick? I don’t remember her or her father ever talking about a relative in England.’
‘Oh, our families lost touch a long time ago,’ I say. ‘Didn’t even realise I had a cousin until recently.’
‘Well, you may be on a wild-goose chase. I don’t like to disappoint you, but Ali Kendrick isn’t here. I haven’t seen her for several weeks now. All that business must have been too much for her and she decided to get away for a while.’
‘Oh, no. Do you know where she is?’ The disappointment and hope are both genuine. By all that business, I assume the neighbour is referring to Patrick’s death.
‘She left me a note to say she was going travelling around Europe. Now, I’m surprised she hasn’t gone to England to find you, seeing as you’re long-lost relatives.’
I can detect the suspicion in her voice as she emphasises the long-lost bit.
‘Like I said, our families weren’t good at keeping in touch. You don’t happen to know where I can find her stepmother do you?’
‘Funny how you know she has a stepmother when your two families weren’t talking all this time.’ The neighbour might be old, but her brain is young and nimble.
‘We heard that Patrick had died from his wife’s family,’ I say, grateful that my brain is able to match hers for agility. ‘Her daughter sent me a message via Facebook. You know, the Internet.’
She waves me away with her hand. ‘I know what all that is, I’m not stupid.’
‘No, of course you’re not.’
‘Daughter, you say? Well, here’s the rub. Roma doesn’t have a daughter. Just a son.’
Shit. I’m sure Alice spoke about a stepsister once. I quickly try to remember what the stepbrother was called. ‘Nathaniel,’ I say. ‘Nathaniel sent me a message. Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’ve been travelling for hours. Can’t think straight.’
The neighbour appraises me once more. ‘Yeah, the kid was called Nathaniel. If you’re trying get hold of them, why don’t you message him back on Facebook?’
Bloody hell, she’s proving quite a match for me. Why wouldn’t I do that? From nowhere I manage a fast response. ‘We weren’t friends on Facebook and I can’t find him again. You know, all those privacy settings. You don’t happen to have their address or a phone number?’