Skinny Dip

by Carl Hiaasen

  Chaz lapsed into an unplanned coughing jag. What if the lame-ass detective isn’t wrong? he wondered despondently. That meant the ocean currents had carried Joey’s body from the remote perimeter of the search-and-rescue zone into the bull’s-eye.

  “Heck, you might be right.” Chaz cleared his throat. “My brain’s so scrambled today, I couldn’t tell the sun from the moon.”

  “I understand completely. You get some rest,” Rolvaag said, and headed out to his car.

  Chaz shut the door and leaned wearily against it. Of the millions of people who weren’t sure which direction the Gulf Stream ran, he was probably the only one to hold an advanced degree in a marine science. He had a fleeting urge to phone one of his former professors and settle the question, but that would have invited scorn that Chaz was in no mood to suffer. It was one of the rare times that he regretted having been such a slacker in school.

  Quickly he returned to the chore of removing his late wife’s belongings, consoling himself with the knowledge that sharks off the coast of Miami Beach were as indiscriminate in their feeding habits as the ones in the Keys. Joey undoubtedly had been gobbled by one, the strongest evidence being the absence of a corpse.

  When Ricca phoned, though, Chaz couldn’t restrain himself from asking, “Honey, which way does the Gulf Stream go?”

  “Is this a quiz? What are my choices?”

  “North or south,” Chaz said.

  “I got no idea, baby.”

  “Shit.”

  “Well, don’t get mad at me,” Ricca said. “Aren’t you the one s’posed to be the big-shot scientist?”

  Which is exactly what Karl Rolvaag was thinking about Charles Perrone on the way to the Coast Guard station.

  Corbett Wheeler had moved to New Zealand at the age of twenty-two, believing that if he stayed in America he’d spend the rest of his youth battling to hide his inheritance from his gummy-fingered aunt. Corbett had begged his younger sister to flee the States with him, but Joey’s heart had been set on Florida. He had not been surprised when she married Benjamin Middenbock, but he was astounded when the stockbroker proved to be an upright, honest fellow with no overt interest in Joey’s money. It was only later, after Benny had been flattened by the sky diver, that Corbett learned his sister had never educated her adoring husband about the family fortune. Corbett then began to suspect that Joey could take care of herself.

  By that time he’d grown to love New Zealand, which was as vast and glorious as California, though without the motoring hordes. He had developed an improbable interest in sheep farming during a period when the East Friesian breed was being introduced from Sweden. East Friesians were the most prolific milking sheep in the world, and crossbreeding with New Zealand strains produced a bounty of chubby, fuzzy lambs. Corbett Wheeler had done very well for himself, though profit had never been a motive; he simply possessed an innocent fondness for the husbandry of sheep. Nothing gave him more joy than sitting on the porch of his farmhouse, toking on a joint and gazing out upon verdant slopes speckled in pewter with rams, ewes and lambs.

  One night, Joey had called excitedly to report that their late mother’s twin sister—the avaricious harpy who had raised them—was being sent to prison for authoring fraudulent insurance claims. Dottie Babcock had been working in Los Angeles as a professional accident victim, racking up two or three imaginary collisions per month in league with a crooked physician. For every alias used by Dottie Babcock, there was a corresponding crushed vertebra, shattered hip or detached retina. A newspaper had tracked her down and plastered on the front page a photograph of her Rollerblading with her Pilates instructor in Santa Monica. Authorities had been obliged to take action, and a judge slapped Dottie with eight to twelve years. Joey had delivered this bulletin in the hope that her brother might consider a return to the States, but Corbett had declined. From such a distance (and filtered through the leery eye of the BBC), American culture appeared increasingly manic and uninviting. Moreover, Corbett Wheeler couldn’t imagine a life without lambing.

  He had come back only once, for Benjamin Middenbock’s funeral, and had lasted barely forty-eight hours. The blinding vulgarity of South Florida was too much; total sensory overload. Corbett had flown home to Christchurch, resolved to hunker down and tend his flock. He spoke regularly to his sister, and in that way had learned of her growing doubts as to the faithfulness and rectitude of her second husband, Dr. Charles Perrone. Still, Joey had said nothing in those conversations that even hinted she feared for her safety.

  “He actually pushed you off the ship?” Corbett Wheeler’s hand was shaking as he gripped the telephone. “How? And why, for God’s sake?”

  Joey told him the story of what had happened that night. He managed to laugh when she got to the part about the bale of grass.

  “Who found you—the DEA?”

  “Not even close.”

  “But you’ve been to the police, right?”

  No reply.

  “Joey, what’s going on?”

  “It would be my word against Chaz’s,” she said, “and he’s a good actor, Corbett. Better than me.”

  Corbett Wheeler thought about that for a few moments. “So, is there a plan?” he asked.

  “There will be. I might need your help.”

  “You name it,” he said. “Where are you now?”

  “On some island,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s terrific. Are you alone?”

  “I’m staying with the man who rescued me.”

  “Aw, Joey, come on.”

  “I trust him,” she said.

  “You trusted Chaz, too,” Corbett Wheeler said. “I’m chartering a jet first thing in the morning.”

  “No, not yet. Please.”

  His little sister had her weak moments, Corbett knew, but deep down she was a tough cookie.

  “What exactly are you up to?” he asked.

  After Joey got off the phone, she went outside and found Mick Stranahan fishing from the seawall, Strom dozing at his side.

  “How soon can Chaz have me declared legally dead?” she asked. “We’re talking, what—weeks? Months? When there’s no corpse, I mean.”

  “State law says five years,” Stranahan said.

  Joey was glad to hear it, although she didn’t intend to spend that much time stalking an asshole husband. She was looking for something quick and dirty.

  “Corbett is calling the sheriff’s office,” she said, “to tell them it wasn’t a suicide or an accident.”

  “You want the cops leaning on Chaz so soon?”

  “The more the merrier. Besides, they can’t prove he did it. You said so yourself.”

  “Not without your testimony, they probably can’t.”

  “So they’ll just ask lots of questions and make him a nervous wreck, which is fine by me.”

  “Him lying awake every night, wondering what’s next,” Stranahan said.

  “Yeah, exactly. Staring at the ceiling.”

  “But then how does it finally end?”

  “I’m not sure,” Joey said. “You got any nifty ideas? I’ll bet you do.”

  Stranahan reeled in a snapper and tossed it in the bucket. He said, “You’re entitled to some hard feelings. The guy tried to kill you, after all.”

  “Mostly, I need to find out why,” said Joey. “Whatever else happens with Chaz, I can’t walk away until I know the reason he did it. Did I mention he was younger than me?”

  “No.”

  “By almost five years. Big mistake, marrying an arrested adolescent.”

  She paused, worrying about one possible implication of what she’d said. Pointedly she added, “That doesn’t mean I’m going to suddenly start dating older guys.”

  “Oh, darn my luck.” Stranahan never took his eyes off the water.

  Joey frowned. “Sarcasm is not attractive. Chaz specialized in it.”

  “Grand larceny isn’t exactly my idea of a turn-on, either.”

  “What!”

  “You st
ole my boat, remember?”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Joey said.

  She was trying to lay down a few simple rules, that’s all. She didn’t want Stranahan to get the wrong idea about their relationship. The cornerstones of her revamped approach to men would be candor and clarity, and Stranahan was the first test case.

  “Mick, I want to pay you for your help. Plus expenses, of course, including room and board.”

  “I still can’t promise I won’t try to sleep with you,” he said. “That’s how I often behave when I meet someone attractive. It’s only fair you should know.”

  “I appreciate the honesty. I do.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll see me coming about a mile away. I’m not real slick.”

  “No?”

  “French wine, moonlight and Neil Young, strictly acoustic. Don’t laugh, I know it’s hokey.”

  “Depends on the wine,” Joey said.

  She was remembering the way he’d kissed her hand while the Coast Guard spotter was eyeballing them from the helicopter. She was wondering if it had been more than a show.

  Stranahan said, “If you were my sister—”

  “Or daughter.”

  “Christ, I’m not that old.”

  “Go on,” Joey said.

  “If you were my sister—honestly?—I’d tell you to get your butt off this island as fast as possible.”

  “Because . . .”

  “Because for all you know,” he said, “I could be president of the Ted Bundy Fan Club. I could be a serial killer-slash-rapist-slash-fill in the blank.”

  “Now you’re just tryin’ to sweet-talk me,” Joey drawled.

  Stranahan pulled in another snapper and declared they had plenty for supper. He got up and whistled for Strom to follow him to the fish-cleaning table.

  “He loves to hassle the gulls,” Stranahan said.

  “You eat fish every night?”

  “No. Sometimes it’s lobster. Sometimes stone crabs.”

  “You don’t get lonely out here?” Joey asked.

  “Makes up for all the years of foolish companionship.”

  Stranahan unsheathed a narrow curved knife and went to work. It was a delicate enterprise because the snappers were small, but the blade was steady and precise in his large weathered hands. Joey found herself watching with an odd sort of reverence, as if gutting a fish were some sort of mystic rite.

  “One night maybe we’ll take the skiff up to Key Biscayne,” he was saying. “There’s a few decent restaurants—”

  “Mick, do you have a gun?” she asked.

  “This is Florida, darling.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. The head of the Miami Chamber of Commerce used to keep a loaded Uzi under her bed,” Stranahan said. “So the answer would be yes, I own a firearm.”

  “Will you show me how to use it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Just in case Chaz gets wise?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Okay.” Joey thinking: A half-wit baboon could learn how to shoot.

  “What exactly does your husband do for a living?” Stranahan asked.

  “I told you. He’s a biologist.”

  “But doing what?”

  “He works on the Everglades project for the state water-management district.”

  “He any good?” Stranahan asked.

  “I wouldn’t know. Science is another universe to me,” Joey said. “I was the jock in the family.”

  “What do they pay him?” Stranahan tossed a handful of fish entrails into the water. A gull dove on the splat, ignoring Strom’s fevered barking.

  Joey said, “Chaz’s salary is sixty-two thousand a year. The only reason I know is because he got audited by the IRS.”

  “Can he get to your money? This is important.”

  She assured Stranahan that her inheritance was safe.

  “And Chaz signed a pre-nup anyway. Every so often he’d hint around like he wanted me to tear it up, but eventually he gave up.”

  “Doesn’t that seem strange?”

  “No, because he had a nest egg of his own. I didn’t pry,” Joey said, “because he didn’t pry. Money wasn’t a huge issue in our marriage, if that’s what you’re getting at. We split the bills down the middle. Filed separate tax returns.”

  “Money is an issue in every marriage, Joey. Ask any divorce lawyer.” Stranahan lobbed a glistening fish skeleton into the basin. It sank slowly in a wisp of crimson.

  “Are Chaz’s parents rich?” he asked.

  “His dad was the greenskeeper at a country club in Panama City,” Joey said. “He got sick from all the pesticides and went insane is what Chaz told me. Woke up one day and decided he was Gen. William Westmoreland. Drove down to the docks and attacked a shrimp boat with a Ping putter and a bunker rake. The captain and the crew were Vietnamese immigrants—”

  “Whoa. Chaz told you this?”

  Joey nodded. “He saved the newspaper clippings. Bottom line, his father’s institutionalized. His mother works at Target and she’s remarried to a retired fighter pilot from England.”

  “So where did Chaz’s ‘nest egg’ come from?” Stranahan had finished cleaning the fillets and was hosing off the table. “Is he a big spender?”

  “Not usually,” Joey said. “But, like, three months ago he went out and bought a brand-new Hummer H2. Not financed, bought. Bright yellow, too. Said he needed a four-wheel drive for his fieldwork out in the swamps.”

  Stranahan chuckled. “Beautiful.”

  “When I asked how much it cost, he kind of snapped,” Joey recalled. “And I wasn’t nagging. I was just curious about what he spent. The same way he’s curious when I come home with a new dress or a pair of shoes. But this time he told me to mind my own goddamn business. Called me a nosy bitch.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “I told him if he ever spoke to me like that again, I’d reach down his throat and pull out his testicles one at a time,” Joey said. “I’ve got a temper, okay?”

  Stranahan promised to keep that in mind.

  “So that night we’re lying in bed,” Joey said, “and Chaz says he’s sorry for blowing a gasket. This while he’s trying to climb on top of me. Tells me he won a big settlement from being in a car accident.”

  “When?”

  “Long time ago, before we met. He got T-boned by some drunk Kiwanian up in Tampa and seriously screwed up his back. Said he was on crutches for, like, six months.”

  “And you’re married almost two whole years before he mentions this traumatic, life-altering event,” Stranahan mused.

  “Maybe he thought . . . I don’t know.” Joey shook her head. “Maybe he was embarrassed because he got the money from a lawsuit.”

  “I’m sure. Probably wanted you to think he’d won a Nobel Prize, or maybe a MacArthur grant.”

  She was feeling more foolish than ever. “In other words—”

  “Assume everything your husband ever told you was bullshit,” Stranahan said. “How much would you guess that new Hummer cost?”

  “Nearly sixty grand, with all the bells and whistles. I checked on the Internet.”

  They heard a yelp and turned around. Strom was floundering miserably in the basin under a swirl of teasing seabirds. Stranahan calmly jumped in the water and gathered the big dog in his arms. Joey hurried to fetch a towel.

  Later, while the fish was frying, Stranahan opened a bottle of wine.

  “Don’t worry,” he told Joey. “It’s from California, not France.”

  “So this isn’t one of your smooth bachelor moves?”

  “Give me a little credit.”

  “But isn’t that Neil Young we’re listening to?”

  “With Buffalo Springfield, that’s right. You’re pretty darn sharp for a youngster.” Stranahan filled her wineglass. “How about tomorrow we get off this rock?”

  “Good idea. Wait’ll you see that Hummer,” Joey said.

  “What I’d real
ly like to see,” said Stranahan, “is anyone on a state salary who can pay cash for a sixty-thousand-dollar set of wheels.”

  The petty officer’s name was Yancy.

  “Here’s what I was talking about,” she said.

  The four bales were laid out in a row on the floor of an empty holding cell. The sodden weed gave off a strong sickly-sweet smell.

  Yancy was pointing at the third bale. Karl Rolvaag crouched to get a closer look.

  “Weird, huh?” the petty officer said.

  The wrapping was damaged in two places. Rolvaag carefully probed at the puckered fabric with the capped tip of a ballpoint pen. Each area was characterized by a series of slender longitudinal furrows, several of which were deep enough to have punctured the burlap.

  “Can I ask a favor?” The detective motioned Yancy forward.

  The petty officer did as she was asked. Rolvaag lifted her left hand and placed it over one of the divots in the bale. Then he took her right hand and covered the other. The alignment was nearly perfect, each of Yancy’s fingers matching a rumpled groove in the cloth.

  “How about that,” Rolvaag said.

  Yancy went rigid. “Sir, it wasn’t me. You have my word,” she said. “This is what it looked like when we found it.”

  “Relax,” the detective said. “I believe you.”

  “You asked us to report anything unusual that we saw or found,” she said. “Anything out of the ordinary is what you said.”

  “Yes, and this is very helpful. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “We’re glad to be of assistance, sir.”

  “And whereabouts was this one found?”

  “Angelfish Creek,” Yancy said.

  “No kidding? That’s a long haul.” It meant that Joey Perrone had gone in the water long before her husband said she did.

  “I need two small favors,” Rolvaag told Yancy. “You ordinarily burn the grass you confiscate, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir, we turn all contraband over to the federal task force. They incinerate it,” the petty officer said.

  “This bale here? Tell them not to,” Rolvaag said. “Mark it as evidence and put it in a safe place.”

  “Evidence. Yes, sir.”

  “Also, have you got a pair of tweezers and a Baggie?”