Seduced

by Randy Wayne White

  A truck, it sounded like, but the vehicle was gone by the time I got to the parking area.

  Lonnie Chatham, however, was there. She was adjusting the collar of her blouse after exiting the barn, the double doors open wide to the shady space within. Inside was a tractor and other mowing equipment. Plenty of room to hide a car, or a truck. I got the creepy feeling she had been interrupted again and it was her lover’s vehicle I’d heard.

  I waited by my SUV. She pretended to be unaware of my presence until, finally, she did a perturbed double take. “Excuse me—do you have an appointment?”

  I replied, “I was told you were trying to get in touch with me, Miz Chatham. I called earlier. There was no message machine, and I happened to be in the area anyway, so—”

  “Who are you?”

  Did she really not remember our meeting on the day Harney Chatham died? Highly unlikely, but I played along and introduced myself. Her three-fingered handshake communicated distaste—until a look of reappraisal registered, as did my name. Everything changed. Suddenly, she was delighted to meet me. “You’re the fishing guide! I’m so sorry. My husband was very fond of you, Hannah. And Harney wasn’t a man given to compliments. Not in private anyway.” There was a wink in her delivery.

  I’d expected a confrontation, not a welcoming smile, or a gracious attempt at an embrace, which I fumbled badly. We nearly conked heads.

  Laughing, she said, “I wish Harney could see the two of us together. Finally, after all these years. We’re going to miss that man, aren’t we? All his friends will. Especially us female admirers, huh?” There was another wink, the way this was said.

  “I didn’t know your husband well, but he was always kind to me.”

  “Oh, I bet he was! That Harney, he knew how to work a room of adoring women. Would you like some iced tea? Come on”—she directed me toward the barn—“let me give you the nickel tour. If you brought a jacket along, I’d grab it. We have a lot to talk about.”

  This was all very strange. The woman obviously had a reason for pretending we were new bosom buddies. There must be something she wanted from me . . .

  I followed her, saying, “Talk about what, Mrs. Chatham?”

  “Call me Lonnie, and don’t play coy. You know—and, if you don’t, then I’ll have the fun of telling you—Harney said you were good at doing that Southern thing. Same with him: his good ol’ boy act. He’d pretend not to understand some complex issue when, in fact, he was the smartest guy in the room. Smart enough to listen until he knew damn well where everyone stood.”

  She spun around. “And I suspect it’s the same with you, isn’t it, dear? Are you saying you don’t know that Harney left you half of our citrus groves in his will?”

  That threw me. I couldn’t hide the truth. It was in my reaction.

  “If we’re going to be partners,” she said, “there’s something you should know up front. I hate being lied to. Save the cat claws for social events, Hannah—what fun would they be without friendly competition, right? But not when it’s just you and me. Understood?”

  In black riding boots, with her blond hair piled in a loosely braided updo, the woman was as tall as me. We stood eye to eye. Her focus lingered on the few faint acne scars I no longer obsess about disguising by the careful placement of my hair.

  “We don’t know each other well enough to make promises,” I said. “As to lying, that’s not my normal practice. But Lonnie? If we stick to the truth, it’ll have to go both ways.”

  • • •

  After a ride in a golf cart, Lonnie Chatham led me into an office off the barn. It smelled of leather and hay—a load of freshly baled clover had just been delivered, she said. The walls were covered with ribbons and pictures of livestock, mostly horses, but a few bulls. One was the massive Brangus that Reggie had called Jessie James.

  The wall above a walnut desk was Lonnie’s personal space. Sun stains from previous photographs told me it had been recently cleared. Hanging there now were memories of her college years; photos and ribbons, glassed and framed. She was the buxom cheerleader in various uniforms. A more elegant Lonnie smiled at me as Miss Florida runner-up, no date on the brass tag below.

  “Don’t ask the year,” she said. “That’s one subject where lying is always allowed . . . Cigarette?” She fitted a Virginia Slim between her lips. Didn’t light it until after looking me up and down as I took off my jacket. “The only reason I started was, my pageant coach—this was for Miss Tangerine Bowl, way before college—she told me smoking was the best way to stay thin. She was right. I’ve never needed to diet, or wear baggy shirts to hide a body I was ashamed of.” She offered the pack. “Sure you don’t want one?”

  A pattern had emerged during our ride in the golf cart. Her subtle slights and insults were packaged as kindly observation. Pity was her favorite disguise for criticism. She gazed at me with concern while smoke framed her face. “How’s poor little Reggie getting along? I worry about that man. He was never the brightest bulb, but Harney had a soft spot; let him get away with incompetence he would’ve fired anybody else for. I can’t keep him on here—the man’s useless at everything but washing that damn car—and, at his age? He’s either senile or drunk. Even Walmart wouldn’t hire him. Any ideas, Hannah?”

  We had toured the estate, from riverfront to the road, and this was the first she’d broached a serious subject or asked my advice.

  “I don’t know what’s in your husband’s will except what I’ve been told. Reggie seems happy doing what he’s doing.”

  Her focus narrowed. “Really? You haven’t seen the will? Who told you that you inherited the gun club acreage?”

  Not flustered, I replied, “A man who worked for Mr. Chatham stopped by the house today. He asked me not to discuss the matter or mention his name. I agreed. Hope you understand . . . Lonnie.”

  “Ah-hah,” she said. “The mysterious Sabin Martinez. Am I right?”

  I gestured in a noncommittal way.

  “Thought so. He’s yet to show his face around here, but I’ve seen him in a hundred of Harney’s old scrapbooks. Always somewhere in the background like a shadow, or . . . I don’t know, a raven in those movies where you know something bad’s going to happen. Early on, I figured Sabin was just a bodyguard, but he was a lot more than that, turns out. Is he still trying hard to look like Ernest Hemingway?”

  “I’d have to see the photos, I guess, to understand what you mean,” I said.

  “Smooth; you’re pretty good.” She smiled and brushed back a curl. “Last week, I started to organize Harney’s personal correspondence. Sabin Martinez, turns out, did what some might call Lysol work. A cleanup man. Men with money and power always need someone like Martinez, but Harney despised the guy. I don’t suppose he mentioned that. Harney didn’t trust him, Hannah. But why tell you? You’re too smart to fall for whatever bullshit scam he’s pulling.” She reached for an ashtray and took a long, last drag. “Hope I’m right about that.”

  “I thought you wanted to discuss the citrus groves.”

  “We are. If you won’t level with me about Martinez, let’s get back to Reggie. I’m curious. Did he tell you I blackmailed Harney into marriage because of something that happened a long time ago? Wait—” She focused on my handbag, which was on the floor. “Turn your phone off. I want to see you do it.”

  Something big was coming. Why else would she go to such extremes to be nice instead of ordering me off the property?

  “In that case, we both should,” I said, then waited to speak until she had complied. “Did your husband mention that I run a small investigation agency? My uncle started it, but now that he’s dead—”

  She waved me off. “The way this works is, I talk and you listen—for now anyway. I hope that doesn’t offend you. I’m about to share something I’ve never told anyone. Not out of guilt. I want us to trust each other. Understand?”

 
“I think you’re rushing things. We’ve barely met.”

  “In a way, but not really. The law firm I pay way too much money has a team of investigators, so I know more about you and your mother than you realize. Don’t worry, I’ll leave Loretta out of it—for now. This is about us, you and me. There’s something we have in common. Something that if a woman hasn’t experienced it, she can’t understand. Are you with me now?”

  I sensed where the conversation was heading. Lonnie Chatham had read about my past. Now she was probing, testing for empathy, before risking details about her past and, possibly, a murder she had committed more than twenty years ago.

  SEVENTEEN

  Lonnie already suspected Reggie had told me what happened on that New Year’s Eve night long ago. Perhaps she also suspected he’d shown me the cement weir where she’d left a handprint and signed her name. I had neither confirmed nor denied what the chauffeur had confided, but she would know if I appeared too eager to talk.

  I said, “Like every woman, I’ve had experiences I don’t feel comfortable sharing. I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  Her glare accused me of playing dumb. “A traumatizing event. The kind most women don’t have to deal with, thank god. What happened to you made the news, for christ’s sake. Does that help?”

  I let down my guard in a visible way by unfolding my arms. “It’s not an easy subject,” I said, “but I figured that’s what you were getting at. This has to do with the man who attacked me. You read about what happened.”

  “The man you shot, yeah, but only wounded. Thank god. I was starting to think you’re one of those Xanax twits who needs to be coaxed like a child. I want to ask you something, and there’s a reason. Did you shoot the guy—I forget his name—did you shoot him after he . . . ? What I mean is, did he get his hands on you first?”

  “He tried,” I said, aware of what she wanted to know.

  “But he didn’t . . . ?”

  “No,” I said. “Never touched me. I didn’t give him a chance.”

  A glossy fingernail tapped another cigarette from the pack. “It must have been close, though, if you’re reluctant to talk about it. Consider yourself one of the lucky ones. Rape is a hell of a sad way for a girl to lose her virginity. I’m not talking about you, by the way. From the stories—you were never quoted in the articles—but they gave the impression you were so scared, you might have pulled the trigger accidentally. Is that true or just some bullshit they fed the jury?”

  She was seeking an ally regarding her own attacker, I realized—an event that had taken place decades ago. “Every person has a right to defend herself,” I said. “Guilt doesn’t apply when you have no choice.”

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “I hoped that’s what you wanted to hear.”

  Lonnie Chatham’s arrogance vanished, replaced by a surprising sadness and vulnerability. “What I was hoping for was, someone who’d talk openly. We get so few chances, but it’s obviously none of my business. I guess I’m as wrong about you as you are about me.”

  I reconsidered, while she reached to gather her purse and cigarettes. “Hold on a minute,” I said. “My attorney told me to never discuss it, but I’ll tell you this much: pulling that trigger was no accident.”

  This earned her attention, and a wilted smile. “Thank you. I know that wasn’t easy. I hate to press, but are you willing to tell me a little more?”

  I said, “Most of what happened was in the papers. The guy we’re talking about had assaulted several women. I’d been hired to track down a girl who was still running from him. He caught me in an open area—my boat had broken down and . . . well, it’s a long story. When he came at me, I aimed for his thigh, hoping to knock him down. The pistol was new to me; I’ve spent a lot of time at the range since then. Anyway, I shot high and the round clipped his pelvis. Afterward, I could’ve killed him. Maybe I should’ve.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t a matter of having no choice, although I didn’t, I suppose. That’s not the way my mind processed it at the time. He came at me; I shucked a round, took aim, and fired. No . . . Truth is, that’s not the way it went. First, after I got the gun up and steady, I told him I would count to five if he didn’t back off.”

  “You actually did that? Counted out loud?” She lit the cigarette and sat back, enjoying herself.

  “He had to be warned,” I said. “Yes, I counted. Well . . . I started at five but skipped to the end because he said something so crude, I won’t repeat it. That’s when I shot him.”

  “Skipped some numbers, you mean? Like what? Five, four—bang? That’s so damn cool.”

  “I think I made it to three. Then I had to make another decision when he get got up and hobbled off. He was yelling things; threats, mostly. I could’ve shot him in the back, but . . . I don’t know, it didn’t seem right. On hindsight, I’m glad. I might be in jail now.”

  “Jesus, Hannah, that is so very, very ballsy. Five . . . four . . . three, and you did it.” Somewhere in the woman’s mind, the scene was playing out as if in a theater. “Hold on, tell me the truth—you aimed at his thigh? The chest area, center mass, that’s what I was taught. Are you sure you weren’t aiming at his crotch? I can see a girl like you doing that. First, make the bastard wait while you count down from five, then pow. You shoot his balls off.”

  “I threatened him,” I said, not smiling, “but I didn’t do it to be cruel. I was as scared as I was mad. I just wanted him to go away.” Before she could ask more questions, I said, “Was it the same for you when you shot Raymond Caldwell?”

  The question surprised her, but not as much as I’d hoped.

  “Who told you that? Was it Martinez, or that little worm, Reggie? No matter, they weren’t there that night. They don’t know a damn thing about what really happened. But I am curious about how you came up with Raymond’s name.”

  “I started to tell you,” I said. “My uncle opened an investigation agency for his wealthy clients—they had to be careful about hiring part-time help. He was a detective in Tampa before he went into fishing and was good enough at both to open a small office. I worked for him all through school, so it wasn’t hard to narrow down what might’ve happened. You, a college cheerleader; him, a football star who was about to stand trial for sexual assault, but the football star disappeared. The timing seemed about right. Can I ask you something?”

  “Fire away.”

  “Was a drug of some type involved?”

  “In those days? Always.” Her smirk suggested I was naïve. “You know Harney was in the pot-hauling business. They brought in all sorts of stuff on those boats. Your mother was, too, from what I’ve heard.”

  I refused to take the bait. “This is different. The typical date rape drugs didn’t come along until later, but I found articles on a dangerous one called Devil’s Breath. There are other names. It’s a powder; tasteless, and looks like cocaine. If that’s what happened, you—no woman, I mean—has a reason to feel guilt for what she might have done to get away.”

  She gazed at me while her mind worked on how to respond. “You do your homework, I’ll give you that. Okay . . . okay. I’ll tell you what happened—not all of it, but some. First, we need to come to an understanding about our business matters.”

  She opened a drawer and brought out an expensive-looking ledger, several notebooks, and some papers bound in a folder. “If I’d actually been blackmailing Harney, I did a piss-poor job of it. Judge for yourself. He left an estate worth close to a hundred million, but all I got was a chunk of his life insurance and the remainder of the citrus grove he didn’t give you and your mother. Oh, and Reggie—he’s so easy to forget.”

  “A partnership between just us,” I said. “Is that what you’re proposing?”

  “I’ve got to find some way to provide for my future. Any idea what a hundred acres of dead orange
trees are worth in this part of Florida? Not jack shit, compared to what I have here”—the ranch, she meant—“which all goes to his kids. Me? I’m out in the cold. How old are you, Hannah? Ten, maybe fifteen years younger than me? I know you’re single, that you have no children, and you have to hustle to pay bills at the end of the month. Isn’t that right?”

  She was closer to twenty years older, but I let her talk.

  “Almost all women end up alone. That’s just the way life is. Sooner or later, we have to look out for ourselves, and I’m not going to end up some sad old woman in a roach-infested nursing home. Think about that while I show you what I have in mind.”

  She continued talking while I glanced at a plat map, and a couple of other documents. It was difficult to separate the woman’s bitterness from her attorney’s advice, which was to fight her husband’s last will and testament in court. Equally difficult was gauging her sincerity when she said, “If I drag this through the legal system, it’ll take years, Hannah. Do you know what that means to you and your mother? You won’t see a cent. None of us will—except the attorneys. Do you really want that to happen?”

  It was a mild threat, I assumed, to be exchanged for confidentiality regarding the missing football star.

  I was wrong.

  She opened a folder, saying, “That’s why I hired an expert to comb through every asset I can legally claim. My hope was, he’d come up a brilliant idea about how to turn what Harney left me into real money. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Either way, you and I are better off working together. Here, I’ll show you.” She flattened more papers on the desk and waited for me to scoot my chair closer.

  “Mind putting out that cigarette?” I asked. “It’s hard to get the smell out of my hair.”

  She complied, but not without saying, in her subtle, superior way, “I remember girls like you in high school—not many, but a few. I bet you played in the band, and dated nice boys. I always wondered what they did for fun.”