Godsend

by Barry Knister

  Along the right ran a brick passage. He started along this and glanced in the first window. It was curtained, as was the next. He now reached the back of the house and walked along a two-story screened cage. Inside, a no-edge swimming pool formed a blue rectangle. Big palms hung motionless in planters.

  He turned away and saw Brenda on the fairway.

  She was looking down, absorbed. His vantage point was three or four feet higher, and he studied her movements. She was holding back her hair, moving slowly toward the house, looking down for something in the grass. It touched him, her intensity, even when doing something small. Looking for an earring, or a ring of keys, he thought. Head still down, she turned and moved slowly back out into the fairway. But she turned quickly and looked up at him.

  Brenda straightened, arms at her sides. What was it? She had on a beige camp shirt and white shorts, and he saw she was without shoes. “That’s not a good idea,” he called.

  “What isn’t?”

  “Your feet. This is Florida. Didn’t anyone tell you about fire ants?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  “You don’t want the experience.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes.” Schmidt laughed. His answer had come without thought.

  “Do you believe I love you?”

  “That’s why I’m here. We need to talk.”

  “I met a man on the plane.”

  “So I heard.”

  “You went to the house? You saw Rayette?”

  “She sent me to the greenskeeper, he sent me here.”

  “This man, Charlie. He was very nice, his story—” Brenda didn’t finish.

  “Is this about something he told you on the plane?”

  She shook her head. “I learned it here. His wife killed herself.”

  Schmidt looked above her, to the fairway. Sweeney, that was the name. He looked back at her. “The neighbor told me he disappeared. You were the last person to see him.”

  Steps led down. He took them and moved to her. When he was near, she grabbed his hand to pull him close. It reassured him, because that, too, was her way. She kissed him and let go to look at him. But she wasn’t happy.

  Still holding his hand, she drew him close again. “We were out here last night,” she said. “He’s a golfer. He put on lights after dark, we hit golf balls. His house is there—” She pointed across the fairway. “When I left, he said he’d clean up. This morning, they found everything still out here—”

  A transformer hummed, and Schmidt turned. At the back of the pool cage, shimmering glass panels were moving.

  “I don’t care, Jason, I have what she said…”

  The glass panels were still moving as a man stepped outside. “No, Jason, that’s bullshit, they are absolutely admissible… Of course she didn’t know, that’s the point of recording her calls…”

  He began marching along the pool, phone clamped to his ear. He had not seen them, and Schmidt studied him. Walking with his free hand in his pocket, wearing striped suspenders with his tie and collar loosened, he was nodding slowly, the way you nodded to show boredom. He’s acting, Schmidt thought. Being dramatic. All alone, he was acting for himself. He reached the end of the deck, still listening, and rounded the pool. At eye level with Schmidt, feet in tassel loafers marched past. The man shook his head.

  “No, she didn’t, she did it out of spite. A fucking nurse’s aide she gives a Jasper Johns lithograph… Jason, the woman’s dumb, she’s not a moron. Rivera? Not yet…”

  He rounded the next corner. At the open glass panels, he stopped to look inside. “Jason? Jason? Shut up a minute, this is what it is. He put up a painting of a toucan on a Chevrolet. No, buddy, I wish you were here, I really do. Between a Larry Rivers and a Lichtenstein—”

  Now it registered—people on the course—and he turned to look out. “Can I help you? Are you letting people play through to hear this?”

  Schmidt heard the squeak of brakes. He turned to see a couple in a golf cart.

  “Is that your car in front?” Schmidt turned back to the pool deck. “This isn’t a tourist attraction,” the man called.

  “We’re looking for someone,” Brenda told him.

  “No shit? I know all about that—” He held the phone away but was still acting for Jason.

  “His name’s Patrick Sweeney,” Brenda called.

  “Nope, no go, wrong guy. If it’s James Rivera, definitely I’m interested. Otherwise, please leave.” The man turned away and went inside.

  “Wait!” Brenda moved to the cage. “What about Rivera!”

  Schmidt turned to the couple in the golf cart. The man wore Kelly green, the woman pink. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” the woman said. “He’s upset about his father.”

  “He died Friday,” the man said. “In that swimming pool right there.”

  “It was an accident,” the woman said. “We saw him all the time, didn’t we?” The man nodded. “You could tell he was frail, but he always waved. He seemed fine. They say he was taking a dip, and the aide went in to bring out lunch.”

  “He seems angry about some painting,” Schmidt said.

  “Is this the one with the collection?” The man shrugged, and the woman turned back. “He may have found something missing,” she said. “I think he collects art.”

  The couple waved and moved off. No longer sure she was glad to see him, Schmidt waited for Brenda to face him.

  “You know these people?” he asked.

  “I met James Rivera.”

  “I thought the name was Sweeney.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “If you’re looking for something, I’ll help you.”

  “I’m just looking.”

  She bent to scan the grass. But now Brenda, too, seemed to be acting. For his benefit or her own, he wasn’t sure. “You say this Sweeney disappeared—” He said it to make her look at him.

  When she did, her face was serious. She straightened, arms at her sides, like a prisoner, or a witness about to be sworn in. “I’ll show you,” she said.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  They drove without speaking. When he had to stop for carts, Schmidt said, “Who’s this Rivera?”

  “He has a business called All Hands on Deck. He looks after old people.”

  “He must work for the guy back there.” She nodded. “And the guy thinks Rivera stole a picture.”

  Schmidt moved forward. When he had to stop again for carts, he glanced over. She was staring ahead, not seeing as people waved. It got to you after a while, the waving. He felt like flipping them the bird, but waved back.

  “Rivera’s cousin did some work for Marion’s mother,” Brenda said. “She arranged for Rivera to pick me up at the airport. Pat Sweeney lives here. We gave him a lift.”

  Maybe that’s when you set up the golf lesson, Schmidt thought. The last cart cleared the road, and he moved forward.

  “Turn left—” She pointed. “Why didn’t he tell us?” she said. “Someone dies right here, he learns about it with us in the car. He goes there right after dropping us. I asked him, ‘Nothing serious?’ All he said was, ‘It goes with the territory.’ You’d say something more, wouldn’t you? Then, the very next day, they find another dead All Hands on Deck customer, on Marco Island. Hilda Frieslander.”

  Told us. The rest of it Schmidt couldn’t follow, but the us pissed him off. “What’s he like?” Schmidt asked. “Rivera, not Sweeney.”

  He sensed her looking at him, having heard the edge in his voice. “Very anxious to please,” she said. “In his late twenties. Mexican. He’s an illegal alien, but when you first meet him, it throws you. You have a certain expectation, probably it’s racist. He fits no stereotype.”

  They reached the cul-de-sac and turned left. “It used to happen to me as a kid,” she said. “When I rode the subway in New York and heard blacks with British accents, from former colonies. Rivera’s like that. Perfect American English. Figures of speech, colloquial expressions. Not a tra
ce of Spanish accent. Middle-class clothes, manners.”

  Riding the subway in New York. It was a small detail from her past, about growing up. It softened Schmidt toward her. Almost a year had passed, and he still knew next to nothing about her. They had both done everything but learn about each other.

  She pointed again. “Here.”

  Schmidt swung up the paver drive of a ranch house identical to those on either side. He cut the engine. “Charlie?” He turned in his seat. “My call on Wednesday was stupid,” she said. “You can’t know how glad I am you’re here.”

  “Good.”

  “Nobody but Rayette knows this. Something’s very wrong, I can’t figure it out.”

  “All right, show me.”

  They got out. He followed her up the walk and waited for her to pull open the door. Brenda led him inside. “I drove over about seven—”

  He looked in passing at the entry-hall table and mirror, good quality, then through open doors. “We had a drink and went outside.” They passed a dining room, Danish modern, with some kind of fancy light fixture. Everything suggested good taste, and it irritated him to feel threatened by furniture. He followed her out an open glass door wall, and down. The deck was wet, the swimming pool too full.

  She crossed to a screen door and opened it. Schmidt followed her outside. “The golf balls, his clubs.” A bag of clubs was propped against the screened frame. He looked at the blanket. “That’s what they used to collect the golf balls,” she said.

  “I’m glad you had that,” Schmidt said, feeling more irritated. “What’s in the trash bag?”

  “Paper plates and cartons,” she said. “We ate Chinese.”

  “What did you order?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Just asking.” She looked at him. “Subgum lo mein?” Schmidt asked. “That’s what you usually have.”

  “Some kind of chicken,” she said. “Szechuan beef, fried rice, egg roll and hot-and-sour soup. It wasn’t very good.”

  “The whole thing, or just the soup?”

  She turned away and walked along the screened cage. Schmidt followed. When she reached the end, Brenda pointed up. Floodlights fitted to the aluminum frame were still glowing. “He put them on,” she said. “We were out here until about ten-thirty.”

  “That’s a real lesson,” he said.

  “All right, Charlie—”

  “I’m just saying three hours is a long time to practice anything.”

  “I left and went home. I got up early, I was working on my notes. I was on the internet. Rayette had told me about his wife’s suicide, so I Googled him. He’s a retired lobbyist, there was a lot about him.”

  She told him the story, and it was very bad. Awful. The kind of story anyone would be moved by. He asked no questions, listening as she described how everything had been found that morning by the groundskeepers.

  She took him back inside the cage. “That’s called a pool blanket—” She pointed to a mound of quilted blue plastic heaped on the patio table. She went up the shallow steps, Schmidt after. Turning left, he now stood in what would be the master bedroom. She turned on the ceiling light, walked to the back and waited for him. The light and ceiling fan worked together, and the fan began to turn. Heaped on the bed were men’s clothes still on hangers, piles of shirts. “We found a shotgun on that chair—” Brenda pointed. “I took the gun, it’s in Mrs. Krause’s car.”

  Schmidt stepped to the back and looked in.

  “The pool blanket was in here,” she said. “On the floor and tacked to the walls. He had the chair in the middle with the shotgun on it.”

  “But he didn’t do it.” Schmidt looked at chipped places on the drywall where the tacks has been pulled free. “Maybe it was the Szechuan beef.”

  A cheap shot. Overkill. It had just come out. When he finally looked at her, she was regarding him, thinking or rethinking something. He wished he could take it back, but it was already out. He returned her stare, ready to apologize if she said something, but not ready to volunteer it.

  She walked behind him. Schmidt took a last look before moving out of the room. He thought to turn off the light but didn’t. It wasn’t his business.

  George Ivy had left a message with the answering service: Return my lithograph today, or I call the police. Rivera had called back to say he would be there at five with the picture.

  And the Marco Island police wanted to talk to All Hands about Hilda Frieslander. A judge had waived the rule requiring next of kin to approve an autopsy. The medical examiner had raised questions about the deceased’s physical ability to do what she was supposed to have done. Plus, there were bruises on her hands.

  Yes, a very bad patch. But as Rivera neared the Donegal entrance, he still felt confident. Suicides could overcome handicaps, and blood thinners made people susceptible to bruising. But Arnold Kleinman was right: you had to adapt. You hoped for the best and prepared for the worst.

  He turned at the entrance and approached the gatehouse. The guard waved and raised the barrier. As he drove in, Rivera thought of the picture. His picture. It was behind him in the van’s cargo space. He knew where Sweeney lived from Friday, plus he now had Sweeney’s keys. And the redhead from Friday, she too had left a message:

  “Hello, James, it’s Brenda Contay. Do you remember Patrick Sweeney? He rode with us from the airport. He lives across the fourteenth fairway from the Ivy house. He was out on the course last night. The gatehouse log says you came to the club just before eleven. You went to the Ivy house. Did you see anyone out on the course? Please call me at this number.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  At Sweeney’s he got out, opened the tailgate and lifted out the lithograph. Anyone watching would see a man making a delivery. Rivera stepped to the front door and knocked. He waited, looked in both directions. Seeing no signs of life, no one walking a dog, he now tried the door. Unlocked. He let himself in, closed the door and quickly opened the one to the garage. Sweeney’s car was a red Mazda. Having Sweeney’s keys meant Rivera now had a plan B. It was a small car, leaving plenty of room for his van.

  He snapped on the garage light. A pool vacuum and gardening tools hung from the wall. Bulging plastic trash bags were stacked in front of the Mazda. He got out his phone and tapped Ray’s number. “It’s James. Got a pen?”

  “Yeah, I got a pen,” Ray said. “You got a girlfriend?”

  “Why?”

  “The woman you drive from the airport. The one bring me back on Saturday. She called.”

  “What about?”

  “She coming out here. She want to talk to you about someone named Sweeney.”

  “Call her back, Ray. Tell her I don’t know anything.”

  “Yeah, I give her your number. You should talk to her, she’s a reporter. She could maybe do us some good. When you going to Marco?”

  “Later. I have a problem with Ivy’s son. I need you to give him a message.”

  “He come down here to get his father?”

  “He came down, Ray, that’s enough. He thinks I stole something. I’m meeting with him to show him he’s wrong about me.”

  Ray was silent. Then he said, “This is something off the books, right?”

  “Just call him. It’s because of his wife. She promised me something, but Ivy found out she’s cheating on him. So now he’s angry and decides the Mexican must be stealing. Just tell him I’m on my way, and that I have his picture here at Donegal.”

  “You was doing better without the women,” Ray said.

  Rivera pocketed his phone and stepped to the red Mazda. He opened the driver’s door, reached in and unclipped the garage-door remote. Quickly he went back into the dark house. A bedroom stood open. He carried his picture to the dining room and leaned it against the table. On the wall hung a painting of a sunset. He lifted it down and hung the lithograph in its place. He returned with Sweeney’s own picture to the open bedroom. Stuffed animals and dolls lay staring up on twin beds—a children’s room. He set the su
nset behind the door, then let himself out.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  Chimes echoed inside. Rivera now heard Ivy coming through the house, talking.

  It was something he remembered from their few meetings: George Ivy was always on the phone. Always shouting and walking, never really where he was. Still talking, he had now stopped on the other side of the door. Rivera prepared himself. The door swung open.

  “—Rache? Hey Rache…Sweetie? Will you shut up for one second? If that’s true—” Turning away, Ivy cuffed for Rivera to follow “—Yes, he told me, but here’s the deal—” He marched toward the great room “—If that’s true, it isn’t going to make any fucking difference.” Rivera closed the door and followed. “No, and would you like to know why? Because if the recordings aren’t admissible in a court of law, I will make copies and send them to the court of public opinion. That’s right, Rache, to everyone you know. And every newspaper within a hundred miles of Westchester County. And Naples, Florida, and Snowmass, Colorado—”

  When Rivera reached the big room, he looked to the wall. The bird painting was still there. The 5 picture is mine, he thought. Who has more right to it? Not some shouting fool who can’t control his trophy second wife.

  “Rache? Rache?” Ivy was shaking his head as he listened. “Rache, I don’t give a shit,” he said. “Because everyone knows already. How am I going to be a bigger schmuck than I am already? See what I mean? But you… Rache?”

  Facing the wall of pictures, Ivy dropped the hand holding the phone. “Take it down,” he said. “You put it up, you take it down. Put it back where you found it.”

  Rivera took off his boat shoes. “I checked it out,” Ivy said as Rivera climbed onto the console. “I suppose you planned to roll up with a moving van and haul everything away. ‘They’re yours, Jimmy, all of it. All the furniture in his room. There’s an oriental rug in there I think might be worth something, the Hummels.’” Ivy was using his wife’s raspy smoker’s voice. “But that’s not the good stuff,” he said in his own voice. “The good stuff’s a Jasper Johns lithograph. ‘Oh, hell, fine. If he goes ballistic, I’ll tell him he shouldn’t be so petty—’”