AN HOUR BEFORE SUNSET ...
Through the window, I could see the encampment of buildings that was Dinkin’s Bay Marina. Fishing guides were in for the day, hunkered together at the picnic tables outside the Red Pelican Gift Shop. Probably eating fried conch sandwiches and debating where to fish the next morning.
The Friday night party was taking shape, too. Mack, the owner, was lugging a tub of beer to the docks. Three new lady live-aboards—Jane, Deanne, and Heidi—were his cheerful, smiling overseers. Guys in Jensen Marina’s beach band, the Trouble Starters, were testing speakers, and it looked like Danny Morgan and Jim Morris were sitting in.
Big night—the summer solstice. A few people would be wearing Druid robes; almost everyone would be behaving like heathens. A good night for Beryl to crash the party, except for one thing—the woman I’d been dating would be at the party, too.
Well . . . sort of dating: Kathleen Rhodes, Ph.D. A fellow marine biologist and a former love interest who seemed determined to make me her current love interest.
Through the window, I could see the pretty trawler Kathleen called home. The Darwin C. White hull, green trim. It was moored at the deep-water docks between a soggy old Chris Craft, Tiger Lily, and Coach Mike’s thirty-eight-foot-long Sea Ray, Playmaker. The trawler had been at the marina only a few weeks, so still caught the eye.
I’d met Kathleen a couple of years back when she was a research biologist at Mote Marine. We’d had a relationship so intensely physical that the emotional component never caught up. There were always sparks of one kind or another. It made it easier for both of us when she announced she was leaving Florida to cruise the coast of Mexico. Her farewell letter to me was touching but also uncomfortably honest. It was in the fireproof box along with other important papers.
Seeing the Darwin C. brought back memories of the nights I’d spent aboard. It brought back the shape and scent of the woman; the qualities of her intellect; and her lucid, scientist’s view of life. But having the boat moored so close to home also made me jumpy.
Kathleen had arrived unannounced. There are marinas on the islands that are better equipped and easier to access, but she’d chosen Dinkin’s Bay. No accident. Why?
My marina neighbors include a tight little group of women who aren’t shy with their opinions, especially about female outsiders. The ladies had taken me aside at parties; they’d stood on tiptoes to whisper advice in my ear.
Kathleen had reached The Age, they told me. The woman was single, childless, and ready to nest. It didn’t matter how many college degrees Dr. Rhodes had, they said. Didn’t matter that she was bright, independent, and financially set. Maternal drive is a powerful force. It was controlling her behavior and her scruples.
I chided them gently for trivializing their own sex, saying, “You talk like she’s under a primitive spell.” But the lady live-aboards only blinked at me, shaking their heads. How could I be so damn naïve?
“Primitive spell” described the transformation perfectly, they said.
No wonder I was jumpy.
I’d taken Kathleen to dinner a couple of times. Went to a concert at Big Arts. But the line that allows old lovers to meet comfortably as friends is a dangerous border. Sex is the only basic human function that can complicate the hell out of a human life.
So I was taking it slow—too slow for Kathleen, although she hadn’t said it.
She would, though. Maybe tonight, if Beryl showed up. Two power-house women at one small marina. How smart was that?
Hmm.
But Kathleen had no claim. And Beryl hadn’t signaled a romantic interest, and probably wouldn’t. So . . .
I went outside and did pull-ups. Did descending sets 15-14-13-12 . . . Did them until I couldn’t do any more. Then I showered, changed into clean khaki shorts, and selected a black guayabera shirt recently purchased in Panama.
Before leaving, I checked myself in the mirror.
So let the two ladies meet. See what happens ...
BECAUSE OF THE PARTY, cars lined the shell lane that is the terminus of Tarpon Bay Road, but only a black Mercedes was occupied. Two people, front seat. Female with beehive hair on the passenger side.
I spotted the car while checking for Beryl’s Volvo convertible, but I would’ve noticed anyway. Beryl’s car was parked near the gate. She’d already joined the party. Why hadn’t the couple in the Mercedes?
I kept an eye on them as I exited the boardwalk, aware I was being watched through tinted glass.
The driver’s door opened. A man got out: basketball-tall, early thirties, wire-rimmed glasses, blond hair styled to appear thicker. It was Shay’s fiancé, Michael Jonquil.
“Dr. Ford? Have a minute?” As he closed the door, I got a peek at the passenger—his mother.
I replied, “Of course,” but glanced at my watch to let him know I was in a hurry. I don’t like surprises. Michael could have asked Shay for my number. Why hadn’t he called?
“It won’t take long. Do you mind sitting in the car?”
“Why? It’s a nice evening.”
“My mother would like to speak with you.”
“No problem.” I turned and smiled at her silhouette: heavy forehead, small chin. “She can roll down the window.”
“I’m afraid that won’t do.”
I said, “How about my lab? That’s private.”
Jonquil said, “So I’ve heard,” meaning something, I didn’t know what. “But she prefers the car.”
I looked at my watch again. “Well, life’s full of little disappointments. I’ll give you my number, we can arrange a meeting. But if it concerns Shay and it’s important, I guess I could—”
Jonquil gave a private shake of the head, and silenced me with his eyes. He faced the Mercedes, shrugged—I tried—then told me, “I’ll be right back.”
I waited as he leaned into the car and spoke to his mother. I got another quick look at the woman: dark dress, hands on lap, black hair that framed the familiar scowl.
“Sorry about that,” Jonquil said as returned. He sounded relieved, not disappointed. “Mind if we talk? Confidentially, I mean.”
“Confidential as in exclude Shay? Sorry, can’t agree to that.”
“Good for you. Isn’t it irritating how many people say yes automatically? No idea what they’re being asked to keep secret, but it doesn’t matter because their word’s meaningless.” He’d put his hand on my shoulder and turned me so we were walking with our backs to the Mercedes—a politician’s device. “Listen to what I have to say, then decide. Okay?”
I answered, "Okay,” aware of his mild accent when pronouncing Ws and Os. A man who’d spent his summers in Europe speaking French-Swiss.
I listened to Jonquil say how shocking it was, Corey’s overdose. And what a close call for Shay. He regretted not getting to know me better, and looked forward to the two of us hanging out. When he sensed my impatience, he got serious.
“Truth is, I’m glad you didn’t talk to Mother. It’s good for her not to get her way occasionally.”
I said, “If it’s only occasionally, you’re mother has lived an unusual life.”
“You couldn’t be more right. She comes from old money, she and her six sisters. Royal bloodlines—I suspect you know what that means in Europe. On the paternal side, her grandfather was an international industrialist. My own father was a brilliant man, Dr. Ford. I wish you could’ve met him. But the fortune that he . . . well, let’s say the success my father enjoyed doesn’t compare to mother’s family. My aunts are strong women. They didn’t approve of my father. Some of mother’s family still don’t, even though it’s been two years since he died.”
I said, “Then your engagement to Shay must be quite a shock. Does your mother know Shay’s background?”
“The investigators she hired gave a full report. A father who was a convicted felon. A mother who, as you know, was a . . .” He hesitated, then left the sentence unfinished. “So of course Mother doesn’t approve. But I think she’s c
ome to admire Shay in her own way.
“Shay’s a leader, and a hell of a good organizer. Mother can’t intimidate Shay—you have no idea how rare that is. But Mother also realizes that politics is a damn tough business. I need a strong wife. So, in a way, she does approve of the marriage. Or did—before the girls had their weekend on Saint Arc.” He let that settle. “Do you care to guess what Mother wants to discuss?”
I said, “I’m a biologist. We’re not supposed to guess—it’s in the handbook they gave us at biologist school.”
He chuckled. “Shay-shay never mentioned you had a sense of humor. But seriously—” He cleared his throat. “Mother’s heard rumors about what the girls did down there. She knows you flew to Saint Arc to make some kind of deal with a man who’s blackmailing them.”
I stopped walking and turned to face Jonquil. “Who would tell her something so ridiculous?”
“It wasn’t me. But Vance Varigono is a fraternity brother of mine. So I know it’s true.”
I smiled; shook my head and waited.
Jonquil maintained eye contact. Pale blue eyes larger because of his glasses, and half a head taller, so I had to look up.
“You’re going to deny everything?”
“I didn’t know I was on the witness stand. Along with my great sense of humor, Shay also forgot to tell you I’m not known for my patience. No more questions until you get your facts straight—okay, Michael?”
“Patience? It was never mentioned. But I heard about the dangerous temper.”
“Dangerous? Me? That’s funny; not something I often hear—I look through a microscope for a living. Maybe a rumor like that will improve my image.”
Jonquil said, “You have no image, Dr. Ford.” Seeing my reaction, he added quickly, “Mother doesn’t hire local hacks when she needs a private investigator. She uses a London agency with contacts at Interpol, and probably organizations they’d never admit. Your name was red-flagged because almost no information was available. What was the term . . . ? A significant pattern of chronological gaps. Yes, it was highlighted. The investigator used an interesting phrase. He said you were like a ghost in front of a mirror.”
I replied, “Selling marine specimens to schools isn’t a high-profile occupation. That’s why I like it. It’s not because I have something to hide.”
Jonquil was shaking his head. “You may look like a college professor, but I’m willing to bet you deal in more than microscopes and fish. Haven’t you wondered why Shay didn’t ask you to give her away at the wedding? It’s because she feels there’s a potential for embarrassment— violence, too. You scare her.”
“Shay would never say that about me.”
Jonquil’s amused expression read, Didn’t she? But he replied, “She didn’t have to. You caught Vance in your house this morning. He told me about it. You scared the shit out him—and not because you almost broke his arm. When the police took him in, they didn’t scare him as much as you did. I’m not condemning you; I admire you for it. Dr. Ford, what you don’t understand is, I don’t want Mother to find out the truth about Saint Arc. I want the whole goddamn problem to go away. I’m offering to help.”
The profanity sounded out of character. So did his earnest manner.
I said, “The only problem you have is your pal Vance. He has a personality disorder. He invents stories to justify his behavior. Tell your mother that.”
“He’s a liar, sure. Vance lies so often that it’s easy for someone who knows him to spot the truth. His wife did get an e-mail demanding more money. The videotape’s real. Shay won’t discuss it, and I wouldn’t allow Mother to question her because of the accident. But Mother will. That’s why I’m asking you to level with me.”
His mother—why did he keep referring to his mother? There are people so poisonous that prolonged exposure ensures contamination; their unhappiness is shared by osmosis. She was that type, apparently.
I said, “I have leveled with you. Now you should stand up like a big boy and tell your mother to mind her own business. Doesn’t it bother Shay that she’s the only one with balls in your relationship?”
The man’s eyes glowed, his nostrils widened. He had a temper, too. Before he got it under control, he said, “If you’re not smart enough to read between the lines, I’ll make it easy. I don’t care about what’s on the tape. The girls went away for the weekend and had fun. Good! What’s the term? Sport-fucking? Shay spent a night with some island jock she’ll never see again. Who cares? I’m not an insecure man. Apparently you can’t relate. I spent summers living in France, so I don’t have all the American hang-ups about monogamous sex.”
I said, “Shouldn’t the German army get credit for that?”
For an instant, I thought he was going to take a swing at me. “This isn’t a joke, goddamn it! I don’t want my mother to find out the truth because she’ll sabotage the wedding. I love Shay. I want to protect her. If there are men on Saint Arc who are blackmailing her? Personally—” Jonquil’s voice dropped. “I think they should be dealt with privately. I think they should be . . . put away.”
“Put away?” I said it slowly, gauging his reaction. “Jailed, you mean.”
“No. I mean put away—permanently. My family’s done business in the Caribbean for years. There’s no justice on an island like Saint Arc unless you buy it. I’m willing to buy it. I’ll pay the right man to do whatever needs to be done. Or to arrange it—I don’t care how.”
I glanced at the Mercedes, forty yards away. I looked toward the marina. Lots of empty cars on the shell lane; a few people on the other side of the gate, but none close enough to hear.
I said, “Michael, you watch too many movies.”
He leaned closer, his pale eyes focused. “I am totally serious. I have the money. A hundred thousand dollars. A hundred and a half? What’s the going rate? I don’t want that video hanging over our heads after we’re married. I’m running for the Florida House, for Christ’s sake!”
Suddenly, I understood. I had warned Shay about what the video could do to the man’s political career. But he seemed unconcerned what it could do to Shay’s career.
I knew what he was suggesting. But I had to ask, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to convince Shay she can trust me with the truth—”
“I see!” My tone said bullshit.
“—and because I think you’re the man for the job. You’re the closest thing Shay has to family. You can be trusted. And she’s talked about you enough that we both understand you’re not in a . . . a conventional line of work.”
I laughed, my tone now saying, I can’t believe this.
“I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty thousand cash, plus expenses. Plus whatever else you need. We have a corporate jet. We’re vested in a company that owns part of a marina and resort on Saint Lucia—that’s only a few miles from Saint Arc. Fly in, take care of business, fly out.
“Ford—” He reached to put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll go with you. Some son of a bitch is hurting the woman I’m going to marry. I would do anything to protect her.”
I rolled my shoulder to free myself of his hand. “As a wedding present, I’ll pretend we never had this conversation. I’m a marine biologist. That’s all. My research takes me to a lot of places, including the Eastern Caribbean. It’s a coincidence. Give Vance credit—he used what I do to make up one hell of a story.”
“Damn it, Ford, at least consider my offer!”
I shook my head. “Your mother’s waiting.”
11
AS JONQUIL AND HIS MOTHER pulled away in the Mercedes, I was thinking, Private jet? It was exactly what I needed. There were a couple of private airstrips on Saint Lucia, and at least one on Saint Arc.
But I couldn’t risk accepting the guy’s offer. Professionals only deal with professionals. Michael Jonquil was a rich kid, adult-phase. He was believable. Maybe he had a good heart. Maybe he really wanted to protect Shay—and his career, too, of course.
If I’d gotten into the Mercedes, would his mother have made the same offer? I gave it some thought—hide a tape recorder under the seat and hope I jumped at the money. Why else insist I get in the car?
The woman was a puppeteer. If the offer was her idea, I’d find out soon enough.
I ducked through mangroves to get around the marina gate. Mack locks the thing every Friday at closing time. It’s become ceremony. The gate keeps the outside world out, while sealing visitors and live-aboards in. The sense of security it creates encourages excess in all forms.
After the last twenty-four hours, fun and excess seemed well-deserved. But I also reminded myself that locking locals and visitors into a space with narrow docks and unlimited beer could be volatile.
Kathleen would be there. Beryl, too. Tricky. The same was true of the marina’s parties. They were a tradition, but no two were the same. Each had its own pace and mood.
I knew from experience the marina’s parties could be dangerous. They had ended marriages and partnerships, engagements, too, but they had also prompted spur-of-the-moment weddings. The party had hosted receptions, and many conceptions, although the number was impossible to track. It had brought together people who would be friends for life, and a few who would remain lifelong enemies because of drunken arguments and an occasional fistfight.
Years ago, Mack gave the party a name: Dinkin’s Bay Pig Roast and Beer Cotillion. But it’s been shortened to Perbcot as a spoof on Epcot, the Orlando tourist attraction. “I took the kiddies to Perbcot” is island code that explains disappearing for the weekend without risking details.
I decided to enjoy myself but stay on my toes.
I stopped at the marina office, said hello to Mack and Eleanor, and dropped a fifty-dollar bill into the donation bucket. Then I took a quart of beer from the cooler and carried it outside to the bait tanks, where I listened to the guides trade stories.
Black Widow Page 10
