I just had to make it until the night was dark enough to hide the insane thing I was going to do.
At Tom Hale’s condo, he was in his wheelchair in the living room reading the real estate section of the Herald-Tribune. Billy ran to kiss my knees when I let myself in, and Tom raised his head and smiled hello.
He said, “A friend just left me a bag of fresh-picked mamé sapote. They’re in the fridge. Want one?”
Offering a sweaty Floridian a taste of ripe mamé sapote is like offering warm blankets and hot chocolate to somebody just pulled from the icy waters of the Bering Strait.
I gave Tom such an eager “Yes!” that Billy Elliot gave me an injured look. No matter how many legs we have, we all think our needs should come first, and Billy didn’t want to wait for his run.
Tom rolled into the kitchen and got a brown paper bag from his refrigerator while I got two dessert spoons and a sharp knife.
Mamé sapote is a fruit about the size of a soft ball, with a tough leathery skin. The flesh is deep orange in color, with a flavor that’s a combination of chocolate and pumpkin and ice cream and delicate spices not yet discovered.
Tom cut a brown globe in halves and handed me one. We spooned its cold sweetness straight from the rind.
Tom said, “I love this stuff.”
I said, “Todd and I had a mamé sapote tree in our backyard.”
The minute I said it, I wished I hadn’t. Remembering that tree made me remember how thrilled we’d been when it first bore fruit. One night we took the fruit to bed to eat while we watched TV. We didn’t watch TV long. With our lips coated with flesh from the mamé sapote, we fell on each other like bears after honey, inhaling each other’s scent and eating each other’s taste. Christy was conceived that night, and Todd had always said that when she was a grown woman he would tell her that I’d been too turned on by mamé sapote juice to take time to put in my diaphragm. Unless he and Christy are somewhere in heaven together, she will never hear that story.
With an effort, I pulled my memories away from that night so my heart wouldn’t crack in Tom’s kitchen.
Tom said, “I was just reading that a penthouse condo on Siesta Key sold for seven million dollars. The sellers had to reduce the asking price from eight million because times are so tight right now.”
I said, “My heart bleeds for them.”
Tom waggled his hand. “It’s all relative. To a billionaire, a million is like a hundred to everybody else.”
I tossed my fruit rind in Tom’s kitchen trash and rinsed my spoon. As I put it in his dishwasher, I said, “I know a woman who has a million in cash in her home safe.”
He raised a CPA’s suspicious eyebrow. “Legitimate money?”
“Yeah. Her husband’s an oil trader, whatever that is.”
He grunted, and I went to get Billy Elliot’s leash. Billy had waited long enough.
Billy and I ran around the oval parking lot track like banshees on holiday. When Billy was happy and I was pouring sweat, we rode upstairs in the cool elevator. Tom was at the kitchen table working on papers of some kind. Before I replaced Billy’s leash in the foyer closet, I went to the kitchen. Tom looked over his glasses at me. Probably thought I was going to ask for a second mamé sapote.
I thwacked the end of Billy’s leash against my open palm. “Tom, exactly what does an oil trader do?”
He shoved his glasses up on his nose. “Crude or paper?”
“Crude, I think.”
“Then he sells oil, big tankers full. Say he represents an oil producer in Norway. They notify him that they’ve filled a tanker with oil, and he seeks out a buyer. Maybe the buyer is a refiner in Japan, so he strikes a deal with them and notifies the tanker to sail to Japan. But maybe on the way, a refiner in England wants the oil and is willing to pay more. So he strikes a deal with Japan to sell the oil to England, and notifies the tanker to change course. He can do that over and over, and every time the oil changes owners, he gets a percentage of whatever the selling price is, plus fees from both the sellers and buyers for handling the sale. Traders spend their days looking for people willing to pay more or sell for less. It’s a lucrative business, but nerve-racking.”
Brilliantly, I said, “Hunh.”
He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “No cash gets exchanged in a business like that. It’s all wire transfers.”
As if it made a difference, I said, “This oil trader I know is from South America.”
“Venezuela is one of the largest oil producers in the world. I think it supplies about a fifth of the world’s crude.”
“Hunh.”
Tom seemed to have run out of things to say about oil trading. I couldn’t think of anything to say that might explain why my unnamed friend with an oil-trading husband had a million dollars in cash in her home safe.
I said, “Well, okay then. I guess I’ll be on my way.”
Tom nodded, his eyes bright with something he wanted to say but was holding back. I gave Billy Elliot a smooch and hotfooted it out of the condo. All the way down in the elevator, I wondered where that money in Maureen’s safe had come from. Even for superwealthy people, a million dollars in emergency cash seemed excessive. It also didn’t seem likely that she and her husband had pulled it out of a bank account to keep close at hand. But if they hadn’t got it from their bank, where had it come from?
For the first time, it hit me that Victor’s wealth might be from something illicit. All I knew about Victor was what Maureen had told me, and Maureen could have lied. Even more probable, Maureen might not know herself. Or care. She wasn’t the curious type. All she cared about was what Victor’s money bought.
At my Bronco, I got inside and bounced my forehead off the steering wheel a few times.
Out loud, I said, “It’s not illegal to pay off kidnappers. And delivering money to kidnappers won’t make me a criminal, no matter where the money came from.”
But inside my head, a little voice said, “Are you sure about that?”
I wasn’t the least bit sure.
The Buddhists say, “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.” I felt enlightened by my conversation with Tom, but now what?
I started the engine and headed for my next pet client. Before enlightenment, empty litter boxes, walk dogs. After enlightenment, empty litter boxes, walk dogs. I’m a professional. I meet my responsibilities. Even if I’m planning to do something incredibly stupid and possibly illegal, I take care of my pets.
But after I’d taken care of all the cats on my list, and before I headed for Big Bubba’s house, I drove to the village and parked in front of Ethan Crane’s office.
I needed legal advice.
12
If I had a lick of sense, I’d have thrown myself at Ethan Crane the moment I met him. By any woman’s criteria, Ethan is high on the desirability list. He’s honest. He’s sharp. He cares about things that people should care about, like the environment and the community and dogs. Add all that to the fact that he looks like an underwear model and you have one of the world’s best men. Add to that the fact that he and I had a strong attraction from the first moment we met, and you have the world’s most stupid woman, because I kept turning him away. And the worst of it was that I turned him away because I was even more drawn to Guidry, who wasn’t half as direct as Ethan about wanting me. Not even a fourth as direct, as a matter of fact.
The last time I’d seen Ethan, he’d made it clear that the next move was up to me. He’d also made it clear that he wasn’t offering a commitment, but an invitation to explore what we felt for each other and see where it led. I had left vowing to myself that I wouldn’t give him any more mixed messages. I wouldn’t make any excuses to see him again unless or until I was able to do so without bringing any emotional baggage with me. And yet here I was, baggage and all, coming to him for advice.
Ethan’s office is in the oldest part of Siesta Key’s business district. His stucco building is as old as
the streets, with corners rounded and walls pitted by age and sandy sea breezes. The flaking gilt sign on the front door originally named Ethan’s grandfather, ETHAN CRANE, ESQ. Ethan hasn’t seen fit to modernize either the sign or the building, so stepping into the minuscule foyer and ascending the worn stairs to the second floor is like stepping back in time to a century when people were more civil and formal. Just the odor of furniture polish and old law books and leather chairs makes me want to live up to a higher standard of conduct.
Ethan’s door was closed, and his secretary was busy at a computer in a side office. She wasn’t the same secretary I’d seen at his office before. The other woman had been older and dignified, probably another inheritance from Ethan’s grandfather. This one was middle-aged and plump, with severe sticking-up hair dyed the color of eggplant. When I stopped at her door, she gave me a scathing once-over.
I said, “I’m a friend of Ethan’s. Is he busy?”
She wore dark ruby lipstick on oversized pillowy lips, and when she pursed her lips the effect was a bit alarming. Like they might have suctioning ability that could vacuum me in.
She said, “Does it look like he’s not busy?”
The woman obviously saw herself as Ethan’s protector, there to guard him against door-to-door salesmen, scam artists, and women with cat hair on their shorts.
I said, “Sorry, I should have called before I came.”
Her big lips did that scary thing again. “Yes, you should have.”
She had the charisma of tofu.
I said, “So I guess after I leave, you can just tell Ethan that a good friend was here and left because he was too busy to see me. Better yet, I’ll tell him myself and save you the time.”
Some of the air went out of her lips, and her eyes narrowed. With a glance at a light on a phone setup on her desk, she said, “He’s on the phone. When he’s off, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
I gave her a phony smile and she gave me one back. I had won this round, and we both knew it, but sports-womanship kept me from gloating. Thus do women communicate with one another, our little versions of power plays that remain largely invisible to men.
She went back to whatever she was doing on her computer, and I leaned against the doorjamb and waited. From where I stood, I could see the yellow light on her phone board, and when it went out I cleared my throat and pointed.
I got an evil glare, but she punched a button and spoke into an intercom. “Mr. Crane, you have a visitor. She says she’s a friend.”
It was clear from her tone that she didn’t believe he could have a friend like me. She didn’t seem to realize that since she hadn’t asked for my name, there wasn’t much he could do but see me. I wondered how long it would take Ethan to fire her.
In a few seconds, Ethan opened his office door. When he saw me, he looked pleased. I was sorry the pillow-mouthed woman couldn’t see his expression from her desk.
Ethan is tall and lean, with high cheekbones, smoldering dark eyes, and glossy black hair from Seminole ancestors. He had on lawyer clothes—dark pin-striped trousers, crisp white shirt with onyx cuff links, a dark rose-hued tie.
He said, “Dixie! What a nice surprise.”
He beckoned me into his office and stood aside as I entered. I thought about kissing his cheek and decided not to. He seemed to have the same internal debate, so there was a moment of eye contact at the door that asked questions for which neither of us had answers.
He shut the door and waved me to one of his grandfather’s old dark leather chairs. Sitting down behind his desk, he said, “Is something wrong?”
I flinched at the question, but it was fair. Every time I had reached out to Ethan, it had been because I needed help.
His suit coat was on a wooden hanger hooked over an arm of a mahogany hall tree, the kind you only see in antiques stores. The tree had an umbrella holder at its base. I imagined the countless times his grandfather had hung his own coats on that hall tree, imagined the hundreds of clients shaking out damp umbrellas and sliding them into the holder. All that solid tradition behind Ethan was part of what made me trust his advice. It was also part of what put distance between us.
I said, “Ethan, is it illegal to pay off kidnappers?”
His eyes widened. “Why do you ask?”
“A friend needs to know.”
One of his thick eyebrows lifted, and I felt my face grow hot. A friend needs to know has the same ring of truth as The dog ate my homework.
I said, “I have a friend whose husband has been kidnapped. She’s planning to pay the ransom. Is that against the law?”
“Not in this country. If she lived in Colombia, she’d be arrested if she paid.”
“What if the husband is from Colombia but lives here?”
“You have a friend whose husband is from Colombia, and he’s been kidnapped?”
“I’m not sure where he’s from. It could be Colombia.” I felt stupid saying it, like a receptionist who had failed to get a visitor’s name.
“Kidnapping is such big business in Colombia that the government has made it illegal to pay a ransom.”
I said, “But he lives here, and the kidnappers are here. My friend refuses to report it to the police because she can easily pay the ransom, and that’s what her husband has always told her to do if he’s kidnapped. She just wants to be sure it’s legal.”
My voice quavered a bit when I said that, because Maureen didn’t give a gnat’s ass whether it was legal.
Ethan said, “It’s dumb, but it’s not illegal.”
I said, “So I guess actually delivering the ransom money to the kidnappers, like putting it where they said to put it, is okay too?”
“I didn’t say it was okay. I said it wasn’t illegal.”
My lips squinched together to keep from asking what I wanted to know. Then I blurted, “Does it matter where the money came from? I mean, if the ransom money came from something illegal, does that change anything?”
“Let me be sure I understand this. You have a friend from Colombia, which just happens to be a huge exporter of illegal narcotics, and he’s been kidnapped. By a happy coincidence, his wife just happens to have a bunch of possibly illegally obtained money, and she’s going to use it for ransom. Have I got the facts right?”
I didn’t answer. The way he’d put it made it sound a lot worse than anything I’d been imagining.
Ethan sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Dixie, what the hell are you mixed up in?”
“I’m not mixed up in anything.”
“You’re going to help deliver ransom money. Possibly dirty ransom money.”
My chin jutted out. “I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what you’re planning, isn’t it?”
“You just said it was legal.”
“I said paying ransom was legal. I also said it was dumb. Whether they get paid with clean money or dirty money, kidnappers aren’t nice people. Paying them ransom money isn’t like handing cash to somebody at the Taco Bell drive-through.”
I stood up. “Thanks, Ethan. I’ll pass the information along to my friend. I didn’t know anybody else I could ask.”
He stood too. “Don’t do it, Dixie.”
I said, “This is an attorney-client secret thing, right?”
“It’s a stupid thing to do.”
“It’s my friend’s husband. Her decision. I’m not really involved.”
“That’s what people say just before they get into deep shit. Don’t do it.”
This time I kissed his cheek as I left. His cheek was hard and smooth, with a clean, healthy, testosterone-laden scent laced with a musky aftershave. My hormones all stood up and cheered when my lips touched him. I was a fool to leave without throwing him to the floor and doing delicious things to him.
It was nearing sunset when I finished with all the four-legged pets. Big Bubba would be my last call, but first I swung by Hetty’s house to see if she’d heard from Jaz.
She was happy to say
that Jaz had returned.
She said, “I was afraid she’d never come back, the way she ran out this morning, but she came back in an hour or two. We made cookies.”
Before I could ask if she’d got information for Guidry, she said, “I was afraid to push her, Dixie. She seems so scared. Any little thing spooks her. Something has traumatized that child.”
I said, “If she’s been involved with a gang, that would be enough to traumatize her.”
“She’s a sweet girl.”
“Something is weird about the whole situation, Hetty. Just be careful.”
She said, “It’s weird, all right. Her name is a secret. Where she lives is a secret. Why in the world would it be a secret?”
All the possible answers I could think of were too disturbing to voice.
I said, “Is she coming back tomorrow?”
Hetty looked guilty. “She may come back later today. She said she would try to.”
“Hetty, she knows gang members wanted for murder. Lieutenant Guidry really needs information about her.”
“I know. I’ll try, but I’ll have to wait until the time is right. If I push her, she’ll leave and I’ll never learn anything.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I also couldn’t argue with Guidry’s belief that Hetty was probably the only person who could get information from the girl. As a minor who had done nothing wrong, she was not somebody he could take in for questioning. All he had was the fact that she had behaved strangely when pressed for information about where she lived, and that gang members had asked for her by name.
At Big Bubba’s house, I put fresh water and a new millet sprig in his cage, along with some apple slices and half a banana. While I did that, he ran around on the lanai and squawked at the wild birds outside. Big Bubba is bilingual, which is more than I can say for myself. They squawked back, so I suspected he was saying rude things in bird language.
After his food and water were replenished and his cage tidied, I got out some of his toys and we played together. When it was time for me to go, he allowed himself to be returned to his cage, and I draped his nighttime cover over his bars.
Raining Cat Sitters and Dogs Page 9
