Seduced

by Randy Wayne White

  “You disappeared a month ago, so what do you expect?”

  “I didn’t disappear, I was traveling,” he reminded me. “Now, out of the blue, you call to tell me the oranges in your citrus grove are dying. Why ask me for advice?”

  “They’re withering,” I corrected, “with a sort of green mold on the skins, and the fruit’s bitter.”

  “The entire grove?”

  “The ones I care about. The honeybells and grapefruit, all my favorites. You can tell by the leaves. They start to curl up, with yellow streaks.”

  “But not all?”

  “I didn’t think to check.”

  “You should. If some of the trees aren’t infected, I’d step back and ask myself what’s different about them? Less shade, more sun—a different soil or rootstock? But if the entire grove is diseased—”

  I said, “It’s not big enough to be called a grove; not really. Just a few dozen trees my grandfather planted way, way back.”

  “I know. All I’m saying is, you must have ties to people in the citrus business who can give you better advice than me.”

  Again, my eyes moved to the black limousine. “Some of the biggest,” I replied, “but I do miss our talks. You’re a biologist, and it’s been a while, so I thought maybe you’d heard something new.”

  This, he found humorous. “The parasites that spread citrus greening don’t have fins, and they don’t swim. I’m a marine biologist. All I know is, they’re exotics, and they’ve damn near ruined a billion-dollar industry. Is that really the reason you called?”

  I was about to cover my deception by shifting topics when I saw Loretta charge out of the house wearing a housecoat and fluffy pink slippers. Her mannerisms were frantic as if she were being chased, or had suffered a second brain aneurysm. She bounced on her toes and flapped her hands in my direction, then charged back onto the porch.

  “Something’s wrong,” I said.

  “Nothing we can’t fix, Hannah, if you’re willing to—”

  “Not us, my crazy mother,” I interrupted, and went out the cabin door in a hurry.

  • • •

  The former lieutenant governor was either dead or in a bad way. I knew it when Loretta blocked me from the porch, saying, “Even as a child you had a selfish streak. Now you refuse to do me this one little favor?”

  The favor she had demanded was, “Go away, and, for god’s sake, don’t call the law. It’s too late to save your mama from sinning . . . But you didn’t hear that from me. I’m not gonna confess to anything.”

  I felt a little dizzy when I heard those words. “Where is he, Loretta?”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t think I recognize his car? If Mr. Chatham is sick, we need to do something. Please tell me something terrible hasn’t happened.”

  She stared at the Lincoln Town Car and hyperventilated.

  “Loretta, move. If Reggie’s sleeping in the backseat, go bang on the window and get him up here. I’ll look for myself.”

  Reggie was Mr. Chatham’s limo driver.

  “Not until I think this through,” she snapped, and squared herself in front of the door. Loretta isn’t a large woman—not compared to me, her only child—but she has a magic way of puffing herself while her bright blue eyes catch fire. “For once in your life, do something to make me happy, Hannah. Just go away and leave us be.”

  “I’m not leaving until—”

  “Do as you’re told, young lady!” she hollered, and glared with those wild eyes of hers.

  For an instant, I was a child again, standing in the same doorway of the same house that hadn’t changed much since my mother had stung me with similar words many times, over many years. But that girl was long gone, along with her timid nature. “If you don’t move, I’ll go ’round to the back door. Or pick you up and carry you to the couch. Is that what you want? The two of us wrestling around like crazy people while we could be helping?” Then I called over the top of her head, “Mr. Chatham! Everything okay in there? It’s me, Hannah Smith.”

  On the mantel above the fireplace is a cherrywood clock my great-grandfather made when he wasn’t fishing mullet, or selling rum and egret plumes. The clock’s ticking was the only reply.

  “My lord,” I murmured. “Loretta, talk to me. Please tell me you did not do something crazy. You didn’t stab him, did you?”

  “Stab him! ’Course I didn’t. In my own bed? What do you think I am?”

  “My lord,” I said again. “Is that where he is?”

  With a dazed look, she turned toward the hall, her bedroom beyond, then appeared to wilt and stepped away. “When the law comes, I suppose you’ll tell them the governor ain’t the first man I killed.”

  Kilt is the way the word is pronounced in the small fishing communities of Southwest Florida.

  “He’s dead?”

  “I believe he is,” was her cryptic reply, “but Harney’s not the type to give up all at once.” She began to sob.

  I rushed into the house to where Loretta’s recliner faced the TV, which wasn’t blaring soap operas for a change. Nearby was her walker. It was covered with a caftan as a vanity. Aside from confiding to a few women friends, she won’t admit she needs help getting around, not even to our handsome UPS man, let alone a former lover. I slid the walker within reach and hurried down the hall, calling the governor’s name.

  The door to my old room was open, nothing I recognized on the walls or desk. Loretta’s door was shut tight, which was normal. As always, I could feel the privacy of shadows and forbidden drawers radiating from within. Twice I knocked, then bumped the door open. After a look, I hollered, “Call nine-one-one. Hurry!” but didn’t budge for a moment because my legs felt watery, like in a bad dream.

  In life, Mr. Chatham was an imposing man with oversized accomplishments. He favored Western-cut suits, string bolo ties, and the only time he removed his hat was when entering a house, or greeting a lady, or before sliding into the back of his limo.

  His cowboy hat—“my John Wayne Stetson,” he called it—was the only reason I knew for certain the man who lay there, toes up and naked with vomit crusted on his chin, was the former lieutenant governor. My mother, despite her panic, had had the good manners to place the hat strategically over his pelvis. The Stetson tilted, as if on a peg, the man’s two long, heavy legs sticking out. I charged in and did what I’d been taught in a CPR course I had to take when I’d upgraded my captain’s license. Mr. Chatham’s neck was as white and cool as clay when I felt for a pulse. Glassy eyes failed to respond to my shouting, nor when I hammered a fist on his chest.

  Next step: clear the airway, then begin mouth-to-mouth. Practicing on a CPR dummy had not prepared me for the realities involved. But I did as I’d been taught. Billowed two breaths into his lungs, then shouted out the compressions in a robotic way while I pumped his chest. This helped stem a blooming nausea.

  “Mama—you’d best be dialing that damn phone! Carry it outside while you talk, and bring Reggie fast as you can.”

  There was no need to add this because the chauffeur was suddenly beside me, hands on my shoulders, and cooing in his gentle Southern way. “You done what you could, Miz Hannah. Go on now, girl, an’ leave the rest to me.”

  I stepped back and brushed hair from my face. “He’s got no pulse. Did Loretta call nine-one-one?”

  Reggie, a tiny, wiry man, was wearing the same blue cap he always wore. “All taken care of,” he said. Then he removed his driving gloves and yelled, “Governor! Wake up, sir. This is ain’t no place for this to be happening.”

  He plopped down, grabbed the man who’d been his employer for decades, shook him by the shoulders, and looked up at me with wide eyes. “Lord God, he’s cold as death, Miz Hannah. His heart done stopped. I knew this was gonna happen.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “Cold as he is? Honey
, he’s been gone a while.”

  “We have to keep doing compressions until—”

  “I know, I know,” the little man said, yet sounded resigned. “I took that course for my chauffeur’s license, but the governor wouldn’t like it, you seeing what I gotta do first.” He glanced at the Stetson, as if to convey his meaning, then hunched his back and continued CPR. Between breaths he told me, “Leave us alone, girl. It’s what he’d want.”

  I was duty-bound to stay but suddenly in need of air. In the bathroom, I left the water running to cover the sound of my nausea, then washed my face and went searching for my mother. She was on the porch, rocking and staring past the mangroves that fringe our dock. It was a cool, bright afternoon in February, with the sky too low for soaring gulls and frigate birds. When I covered her legs with a blanket, she spoke in a monotone. “No need to badger me, I know it’s my fault. He warned me often enough.”

  “Don’t fret about that now.”

  “I’m being punished for doin’ what I knew I shouldn’t do. I, by god, deserve whatever hell has to offer, ’cause that’s where I’m headed.”

  “Don’t say such things. Do you mean Mr. Chatham mentioned he had heart problems? I think that’s what happened. He had a heart attack.”

  “It wasn’t him who warned me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. The governor’s problems always started way south of his heart. We was both that way, God help us. That’s why he had that thingamabob installed. I knew we was playing with fire but couldn’t stop myself.”

  Rather than endure further details, I offered to make a pitcher of sweet tea. My mother rocked and stared.

  “Earthly pleasures are a trap, Hannah. Chastity might seem its own punishment—until you accept a man from the spirit world. That’s when our behavior is supposed to change. Oh, I knew what I was doing.”

  There is often no making sense of her babbling. I hugged my mother close as she cried, her shoulders bird-like. “I’ll call the home health nurse and have her come early. Or would you rather I have the ladies come keep you company?”

  I was referring to Loretta’s friends from childhood, Epsey Hendry, Becky Darwin, and Jody Summerlin—all widows. Once a week, they would gather on the porch, with cookies, or a pie or brownies, and wait for the church shuttle to carry them to bingo.

  There would be no bingo on this Friday night.

  I gave her another hug, called Becky Darwin without explaining why she was needed, then went inside to check on Reggie. In the hall, I stopped out of respect. He was weeping, but in an angry way, and speaking in low tones to his former employer. Eavesdropping is not something I normally do, yet what I heard was so unexpected, I found myself drawn toward the open door.

  I heard the chauffeur mutter, “Where the hell is the damn shutoff valve? I ain’t gettin’ paid to put my hands on your . . . no, I ain’t. I warned you, Governor—by god, I warned you—now here we are. And who gonna explain this to that bitch you married if I can’t . . . ? Shit fire! How’s this damn contraption work?”

  I peeked in and wished I hadn’t. Mr. Chatham was faceup, no sheet over him, and his Stetson was on the floor. I’m not sure what I said—more of a gasp, I suppose—which caused Reggie to swing around and say, “I told him what would happen if a man his age got an implant, Miz Hannah. And takin’ them damn blue pills of his, too. Please”—this was said with urgent deference—“we got to leak the air out of this damn thing and get the governor home before his wife finds out he’s gone.”

  Again, I am uncertain of my response—another gasp, no doubt, albeit indignant, and something about waiting for the EMTs.

  Reggie, who had tended to his employer’s secrets for more than forty years, replied, “The governor ain’t leaving here in an ambulance, and”—he motioned for emphasis—“he ain’t going home lookin’ like that. What would people think?”

  What Loretta had termed a thingamabob was, indeed, a startling image to behold. Not that my eyes lingered. There is a sad, clinical starkness to an old man who lay as if staked to the bed by a porcine rod through his hips. A wicked thought darted through my mind regarding my mother, who, even in my childhood, had often walked around with a dazed expression on her face.

  I backed into the hall. “What are you suggesting, Reggie? We can’t move a dead body. That’s against the law.”

  “The governor never cared nothing about the law. It’s what he’d want.”

  “Are you telling me the ambulance isn’t coming?”

  The little man ignored that.

  I said, “We should call Joel Ransler. He’s an attorney.”

  He was also Mr. Chatham’s illegitimate son by yet another mistress.

  Reggie shook his head while leaning over the dead man. “Joel wouldn’t help. Those two ain’t shared a word since the fool almost got you killed. Besides, Joel moved to Jamaica for the winter—which proves he is a dang fool.”

  “We can’t do this on our own,” I said.

  “Why not? There weren’t nothing about transporting dead clients on the chauffeur’s test. Doubt if the topic was mentioned in your captain’s test, neither. Transportin’ folks is what folks like you and me are paid to do.” Reggie’s back was to me, a blessed screen from the explorations of his searching, uncertain hands.

  “I’m not just a fishing guide,” I argued. “My Uncle Jake’s investigation agency is still doing business, and I’m licensed by the state. I took an oath, for heaven’s sake.”

  Reggie, bending closer, replied, “Where the hell the doctors hide that thing? I’m running out of places.”

  I left the room, confirmed that Loretta was still on the porch, a rocking catatonic, then returned with my mind made up. “We’re not moving him and that’s that,” I said. “I’d risk my license.”

  The little man’s reply was a muffled question, which might have been a request for a flashlight.

  “A what?”

  “You can look now. I pulled a blanket over the both of us, but the lighting ain’t good. Try the wall switch.”

  “No! I’m warning you, you can’t do this. It’s crazy. We have to contact the authorities.”

  “Don’t pick at me so, Miz Hannah. Please. We can’t let the governor be found in this condition. The coroner’s gonna take one look and know what killed him. You ever met the governor’s new wife? There’d be hell to pay, there purely would.”

  This was said with sinister implications, and a hint of fear.

  “You don’t really think a doctor would blame Loretta for—”

  “How else you gonna explain it?” Reggie asked, then exclaimed, “Hey—found it, I think. Hear that hissing? But don’t ask me where the air’s goin’.”

  I peeked to see the little man exit what appeared to be a makeshift tent. He stood, bowed his head for a moment, then pulled the blanket over his former employer’s face. “Gonna miss you, you ol’ fool, I surely am,” he murmured, then focused his red, watery eyes on me. “Miz Hannah, you telling me you ain’t willing to keep a secret for an old friend like the governor? And with your mama’s reputation at stake?”

  “I’m bonded by the state of Florida,” was all I could think to say. I was shaken by the chauffeur’s sadness, and the prospect of Loretta somehow being dragged into this mess.

  “What about if’n the governor was your client? In ol’ Jake’s agency. Was there something in that oath you took about protecting a client’s privacy rights? I expect there was. Confidentiality—that’s the word the governor always liked to use when reminding me to keep my mouth shut.”

  The wiry little man accurately interpreted my reluctance to speak. “Then it’s true.”

  “Even if Mr. Chatham had hired me as a private investigator, I’d have to check with an attorney. Do you realize how crazy it is, what you’re suggesting?”

  “You could prete
nd he’d hired you. Only us two would know.”

  “Me knowing is one too many,” I countered.

  “You are a stubborn woman, Miz Hannah. We got to hurry and get this thing done. Please . . . take this”—he produced car keys and some crumpled dollar bills from his pocket—“This’ll make it all legal. The governor’s good for whatever else we owe.”

  “I can’t take your money.”

  “You already did,” Reggie said, and gently squeezed the bills and the keys into my hands. “You’re working for me now, and here’s what your new client wants you to do. While I get him dressed, you pull the Lincoln up close to the rear of the house and open every door on that car. And not a word to nobody.”

  The little man’s rheumy red eyes sharpened. “Doesn’t that sound better than the governor and your mama making headlines on the television news?”

  TWO

  We had crossed the Sematee county line and were into citrus-and-cattle country when, from a dirt road, a sheriff’s vehicle, green on white, appeared in the rearview mirror, and came up fast, until it was a car length behind.

  “Shit,” I said, which is a profanity I often think, but seldom say aloud.

  “I’ll be go to hell,” Reggie agreed. “God sure is testing us on this dark day. You’re going too slow, Miz Hannah, I done told you. Cops ain’t never seen the governor’s car when it weren’t speeding. Ain’t that true, Governor?”

  The little man had been doing that for thirty miles, speaking to his dead employer, often in a confidential way not meant for my ears.

  “I’m going almost sixty as it is.”

  “That’s what I’m saying! Honey, mash that pedal like you got nothing to fear or the deputy’s gonna know something ain’t right.”

  “This is nuts,” I replied, but sped up a bit anyway.

  I was driving because I had insisted on driving. The alternative was to sit in the back with the late Harney Chatham, who was belted into a reclining seat that didn’t recline far enough. Our hope was, if his John Wayne Stetson stayed put, it would appear as if the big man were dozing, except his lifeless neck shifted with every turn in the road. So Reggie had to use a hand and his shoulder to maintain the desired effect. Thank god, the windows were tinted.