1 Margarita Nights

by Phyllis Smallman

  I started to smile. “You’re going to be way late for that weekly meeting you hold so dear.”

  He grinned broadly over his shoulder at me. “They’ll have to get by without me.”

  “Is there anything here you can’t leave?” I inquired as I undid his silk robe and let it fall off my shoulders and down to the floor.

  With one hand Clay reached to turn off the stove while the other hand tipped the frying pan into the sink.

  Clay couldn’t skip out on all his meetings, that would just be asking too much of him, so here I was, dressed again in his silk robe and alone in fantasyland. I was going to enjoy it.

  Everyone has to be good at something. Snooping is something I excel at. I walked through the apartment, opening closets and drawers. Clay must have had twenty suits hanging in a walk-in closet and double that number of shirts, neatly laundered and hanging exactly the same distance apart.

  In the den the walls were covered in a material that looked like men’s gray pinstripe suiting and although the other rooms were more glamorous, this room was most like him.

  Photos hung on the walls. There were pictures of a teenaged Clay riding in rodeos and another of him accepting an award. On a table were family pictures, smiling and happy pictures. I studied them. His father was like Clay—dark with high, flat cheekbones that said somewhere in Clay’s background was an ancestor who didn’t come over on any Mayflower. Those hard angles were native grown.

  Clay was raised on a cattle ranch east of Lemon Bay that had been started back during the Civil War by his family. They’d shipped boatloads of cattle north to the Confederacy, and the Union navy had sailed up the gulf to stop those ships from feeding the rebel army. Since then, Clay’s family had fought to survive in the Piney woods off the mangrove swamps of Florida’s west coast. They’d overcome hurricanes, disease and snakes, but in the end it was the cancer of development that spread inland and ate into their holdings, taxing and zoning them out of business. When Clay realized there was more money in houses than food, he’d joined the development side with a vengeance, turning the last hundred acres of the thousands his family had once owned into homes for the people pouring into the state, and becoming a rich man.

  I sat down in his huge leather swivel chair behind the desk, twirling to take in the room. I reached out my hands to stop the spin. My flat palms landed on a spiral-bound folder. Gridiron Developments was printed in gold on the cover. I opened the cover and Hayward Lynch smiled up at me. I started reading.

  The project was big, really big. Over a thousand acres. In the back of the prospectus were some loose sheets with calculations in Clay’s handwriting. There was also a letter on Hayward Lynch’s financial situation from an investigating firm. What it came to was Lynch was going to lose the whole development if he didn’t get new funding, so Lynch was willing to sell half of his share to Clay for about a third of the real value. I closed the folder and pulled open the lefthand drawer. It was full of files. The first files, all blue, were household and personal financial files. I hurried on by. The next files in red were about the ranch Clay still owned east of Sarasota. Snooping through his private papers was even too much for me and I was going to close the drawer, honest, but at the back was a single buff folder.

  I took it out. Jimmy’s name was on the outside. A maggot of fear gnawed at me.

  I opened the folder. It was a report from a private investigator.

  Chapter 38

  There were pictures of Jimmy—Jimmy on the Suncoaster and pictures of Jimmy with women. There was even a picture of Jimmy coming out of my apartment. Wrapped in a white towel, one bare foot resting on top of the other, I leaned in the open door to my apartment, watching Jimmy walk away.

  There wasn’t much doubt what had being going on there.

  And there were pictures of Evan and me—pictures of us out sailing, shopping and eating on the deck out at Big Daddy’s Oyster Bar. It looked like a romance. And I looked like a busy girl. The truth was, other than Clay, Jimmy was the beginning and ending of my love life, but that’s a secret I’ll defend until death. I’ve worked hard for my reputation and I’m not willing to give it up. Like the ladies always say, “The only thing a girl has is her reputation.”

  Why had Clay hired a private investigator to take pictures of Jimmy? I read the written report carefully. All of Jimmy’s tricks were laid out there, chapter and verse, it could have been a book called Cheating and Other Sins. Some of it even I hadn’t known about.

  I shoved the pictures back in the folder and into the drawer, slamming it shut.

  In the car I started to cry. Tears dripped off my chin and the cars coming towards me blurred and shimmered. I pulled off the road at Heron Point Beach and gave into bitterness and anger and hurt. I’d got it wrong again. I’d thought Clay was the last of the good guys. Fool that I am, I thought I was too wise to be taken in but my passion had turned into this disaster.

  Why had Clay checked up on Jimmy? Jimmy had said he was in a land deal. Was it with Gridiron Developments? And what was Clay to Gridiron Developments?

  The cold winds coming down from the north had been pushed away by a sweep of southern air giving us another sunny day. I watched a shrimp boat, with its nets held out on each side like graceful arms, dance up the Dresden-blue gulf and I dreamed of running away.

  The librarian showed me how to go through back newspapers, searching for anything I could find on Gridiron Developments. There were lots of articles on Hayward Lynch—he hadn’t exaggerated about his face being all over the papers. One picture showed him appearing before the municipal board for a zoning change.

  “Bingo,” I said aloud. I had it.

  There, over Lynch’s shoulder, was a face I recognized from Jimmy’s tape. The face belonged to one of the county commissioners.

  One thing was certain, I needed the video. I went back to the motel where Andy still watched TV. He was calm and quite rational but I didn’t want to be alone with him. “How about going for a burger?” It would be fine. Sure it would.

  Three blocks away at the hamburger joint everything changed. He stopped just inside the door and looked around. A low keening noise began. I pushed him into an empty booth. “Wait here,” I said and ran for the counter.

  “Make it very fast food, will you?” I told the plump server in the too-tight navy uniform. “My friend isn’t doing so well.” I figured it was just having people so close to him that was freaking him out, but things would be better soon. Tables were emptying rapidly on all sides of him.

  I got the order, grabbed a bunch of the packets of condiments and ran to Andy. “Do you want to eat in the truck?”

  He reached for a burger without answering and began piling on the ketchup and mustard, ignoring the other diners. They, on the other hand, were all too aware of him.

  He ate like a starving man but halfway through his burger, it all went wrong. Someone dropped a tray.

  The soda flew out of Andy’s hand and he was on his feet and running for the door before the cup hit the orange table.

  I raced after him.

  He hit the lock button and then buried his head in his hands. His whole body was shaking.

  His head jerked up and he yelled, “I can’t stand it anymore.” He slapped his hands against the side of his head, beating on himself. “Can’t stand it.”

  “Stop, stop,” I begged, trying to hold down his arm. He buried his hands deep in the thick mat of his hair, yanking on it. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Then take the med . . .” I didn’t get a chance to finish.

  “No,” he screamed, “. . . poisoning me with chemicals.” He threw me away from him. My head slammed against the window.

  He raised his right fist.

  He meant to hit me. I could see it in his eyes. Clenched jaw, muscles quivering, it took every fiber of control he still possessed to keep his fist from slamming into my face. He swung away and drove his fist into the glove compartment instead. The door popped open and paper
s spilled out unnoticed.

  “All right.” With shaking hands I reached for the ignition.

  “All right.”

  “Why don’t you help me?” he wailed.

  “Refresh my memory here.” I backed carefully out of the parking space and started forward. “What’s happening?” “I’ve been chosen. You have too but you won’t listen.” At the street, I waited for the traffic to clear. “You won’t listen to the voices,” he accused.

  “I can’t hear them.” As the truck moved forward into traffic, Andy threw open the door. Horns blared around me as I slammed on the brakes and clung to the steering wheel with both hands, waiting for the feel of the human speed bump. I was sure he was under the wheels but through the rear window I saw Andy zigging and zagging between cars. I leaned over and closed the door.

  Chapter 39

  To make an all-round great day even better, Styles came down the steps from my apartment as I pulled into the Tropicana and parked the truck. Another minute and I would have missed him. I debated reversing out of there but he’d likely send cruisers after me and things were already exciting enough in my life without adding a police chase.

  I leaned out the window and yelled, “I left you a message.” The shells crunched under his feet as he came to me and leaned down on the open window. “You missed our appointment.”

  “I just couldn’t make it. Sorry.”

  “I’d like you to come down to the station and make another statement, Mrs. Travis.” “About what?”

  “Just come with me.”

  “I’m working tonight and I’d like to catch a little sleep. I haven’t had much the last couple of nights.” He opened the truck door. “It won’t take long.”

  The police department was one street off Main and shared parking space with the post office. Everyone going into the post office sees who’s walking into the police station. It would be all over town by nightfall that I’d been seen going in for a second time. Once, I could get away with. Not twice. That plus the news the Suncoaster had been tampered with and I wouldn’t be considered a grieving widow for long, a new and interesting addition to my already colorful reputation.

  Styles led me into the same tiny room as before and switched on the tape machine. The first questions he asked were easy. Finally he asked the big one. “Were you on the Suncoaster last Tuesday?”

  “I’ve already answered that question and signed a statement.”

  “Just answer it one more time please.”

  “No.”

  “Did you tamper with the Suncoaster in any way?”

  “Of course not.” Now I was indignant. “I know what you think I did but I didn’t do anything.” Anger was a comfort and safer than fear.

  “Did you cause your husband’s boat to explode?”

  “God no. I loved that boat.”

  “Did you have anyone else fix the Suncoaster so it would blow up?”

  “Never. I didn’t cause my husband’s death nor did I have anyone else do it.” I leaned towards him. “Be sides, I’ve already told you, over and over, Jimmy wasn’t on that boat. Why don’t you figure out who was and then you might be closer to finding out who rigged it.” I had a sudden inspiration. “Maybe the guy who was fixing it up to explode made a mistake and blew himself up instead.” Styles said nothing.

  “It’s possible,” I added lamely.

  “Can you explain why two witnesses put you on board the Suncoaster the very day it exploded?” “Two? They made a mistake, that’s all.”

  “They’re very reliable witnesses. Their testimony will stand up in court.”

  “Was there any insurance on the boat?” I asked, desperate to change the topic.

  “No.”

  “Figures. Well there must be some reason Jimmy has disappeared. What was in the locked drawer of his desk?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Tony Rollins. What was in it?”

  “Pictures.”

  “Pictures?” I repeated, getting that sinking feeling. “Was there a videotape?”

  A small smile teased his mouth, about the first I’d seen on Detective Styles. “No video, just pictures. Pictures of you, Mrs.

  Travis.” “Shit.”

  It wasn’t a small smile anymore. “I want them back.”

  “They’re evidence.” His voice was prim and pious.

  “Of what? How many pictures?”

  “Six.”

  I was so sure I’d found them all. I longed to ask how bad they were but he was already enjoying this way too much.

  I changed the subject, “I don’t know why Jimmy has taken off but that son of a bitch is probably somewhere sunny right now, playing golf and romancing some rich tourist.” “We have reason to believe he was on that boat.”

  “Yeah, right. You told me, his truck was there. If you check you’ll probably find out that that someone is coming to repossess it. Every time I park it I’m surprised when I come back and find it still sitting there.”

  There was something that had been bugging me. “We weren’t legally divorced. I keep wondering if I’m responsible for Jimmy’s debts. Do you know?”

  “You’d have to speak to a lawyer about that, Mrs. Travis.”

  “I’m already drowning in debt without legal fees. Any new people wanting money out of me can just get in line. And it’s a long one.”

  Styles sat there, turning a pencil around and around in his fingers and watching me. “Do you know a Mr. Huff?” he asked.

  “He’s been calling me but I don’t know him.”

  “Mr. Huff is with Northern Fidelity Insurance.” I didn’t like the way he was watching me. Like a vulture checking out dinner. “Your husband was insured for a quarter of a million dollars.”

  I tried to laugh. “That’s crazy. He didn’t have insurance on his boat, why would he have insurance on his life?” I leaned towards him and spoke clearly in case he’d gone suddenly deaf. “He didn’t have life insurance.”

  “Oh, but he did, Mrs. Travis. All paid up and with you as the beneficiary.”

  I went off like a rocket, jolting to my feet and sending the chair slamming against the wall in the tiny room. “That slimy son of a bitch, I knew he was up to something.”

  I yelled at Styles. “He probably thinks he can show up here a month from now and collect his money.”

  “Insurance fraud is against the law.” Styles’ disapproving air said being illegal should preclude anyone from trying it. “Don’t tell me. Tell him. I’m not involved in this.”

  “Why would he risk going to jail?”

  I planted both hands on the desk and leaned down towards him. “Jimmy is nuts. Besides he probably didn’t think he’d get caught. Jimmy never does. He likely thinks he has it all figured out.” I turned away as rage made way for depression.

  Styles rose to his feet and picked up the overturned chair along with my bag, which had been hanging on the back of the chair. Setting the chair down firmly in front of the table, he said, “Sit down, Mrs. Travis.” He dropped my black leather bag on the table.

  “I can’t believe that he let his parents go through this.” I combed my hair back from my forehead with my fingers. “All those people coming to his memorial.” Tears filled my eyes. “Well, I won’t be there. When people find out, they’ll think I was part of it.” I collapsed onto the chair and sunk my head onto my hands.

  Styles spoke softly. “Your husband is dead. This isn’t some sort of plot. The insurance was taken out years ago, when you were first married.”

  I raised my head to look at him. “Jimmy is involved in something.” I told him about the video and the SUV, about my apartment being broken into, about Andy, about the last two days with Andy. All of it. Then I told him about losing Andy.

  When I ran down, we sat there, with me sniveling, while he thought about it.

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked at last.

  “Not yet, Mrs. Travis.”

  “Then I’m going home. And the next time
you want to talk to me call my lawyer, Brian Spears.” I got to my feet. “Innocent people don’t need lawyers, Mrs. Travis.”

  “My bet is they need them even more than guilty people.”

  Chapter 40

  I ran through the shower and pulled on some clothes. Like it or not, I had to go to work, which meant I had to face Clay.

  I wasn’t looking or feeling my best when I got to the Sunset. When I brought Brian his drink he pointed out just how badly I looked. The others confirmed it.

  “Forgive me,” I said. “My beauty routine has failed me.”

  “You’re still beautiful,” Clay told me. “You just look tired.”

  “Well, a night without sleep can do that to you.”

  His eyes shifted sideways to the other guys. He was probably hoping I wouldn’t tell them he’d taken the bimbo home. I wanted to tell him I got it. It wasn’t a life-changing experience, no undying love but only a response to a basic need. Ruth Ann’s parting shot was working on my imagination.

  I lifted my hair off my neck. “Anyway, where do I stand in all this, Brian? Is Styles going to arrest me?”

  Brian looked worried. I don’t like it when a lawyer looks worried but then Brian always looks worried. It’s his nature.

  “Tomorrow you have to get a good lawyer and tell him everything,” Brian advised. “You’re a good lawyer.”

  He shook his head and waved my words away with his hand. “You need a criminal lawyer.” He adjusted his glasses, shifting his weight from side to side and looking uncomfortable. “If Jimmy really left his insurance to you, it makes you the prime suspect.”

  Actually I’d figured that out for myself.

  I made it through the night by sheer determination. The last person had left the bar, the last dirty glass had been racked; now all I wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed with the covers over my head.

  January is usually the driest month in Florida, but not this year. It was raining when the door swung closed behind me on the Sunset. Not just rain, that didn’t describe it. Buckets, sheets and torrents were more what was happening and the drainage system didn’t have a prayer of keeping up. Already every culvert was overflowing and water lay inches deep over the parking lot as I splashed out of the alley.