Snook were thick off the beach in knee-deep water. Tarpon were schooling inside Captiva Pass near the fish house once owned by Judge Lemar Flowers. Judge Flowers had been a friend of my uncle Tucker Gatrell, and hearing the name reminded me of the scorched letter back at the lab.
From the little I remembered, my mother was nothing like the angry woman in the back of the Mercedes. She was an amateur naturalist; one of the earliest advocates of a Save the Everglades movement. Long ago, I’d found her name on a little brass plaque near Flamingo, headquarters of Everglades National Park.
I was pleased when the guides switched the topic to the whale stranding of the night before.
“Killer whales,” Captain Nels told us, “only two of them dead. But there were hundreds for a while. I had a shelling charter this morning and talked to a woman who was camped on the beach. She saw the whole thing. And stink? Oh, man! It’ll be awhile before I take clients back there.”
Dozens of whales had tried to beach themselves, Nels had been told, but then suddenly turned en masse and headed out to sea.
“You think somethin’ could’a scared them, Doc?” Nels asked. “Maybe some of them big sharks come down from Boca Grande. That’s what I think. Other day, Mark Futch saw a hammerhead long as his boat.”
I sipped my beer and said, “I guess it’s possible.”
TOMLINSON OBSERVED, "It’s a mystery why a straight arrow like you, Doc, is always knee-deep in women trouble,” frowning as if concerned, but actually enjoying himself. “I’m starting to think they don’t love you for your intellect.”
I said, “As if you’re an expert.”
“Shallow-up, Amigo. I’m giving you a compliment, for Christ’s sake. Only trying to help.”
“Umm-huh. Like a hangman giving advice about knots.”
We were standing by the canoe rack, looking across the water at the Darwin C. with its green trim and green Bimini canvas. Beryl Woodward and Kathleen Rhodes were sitting in captain’s chairs on the fly bridge, sipping drinks, leaning close the way women do when they’ve just met but already have things in common.
“Here’s an idea—how about I page you from the marina so it goes over the PA? I’ll say a U-Haul has just arrived, big enough so you can finally get your shit together. It’ll give you an excuse to skedaddle. You’ve never noticed how much nicer women are when they know you’re leaving?”
I said, “Funny. You’re a regular Dr. Laura.”
I had told Tomlinson I was flying out of Miami in the morning and Beryl wanted to go.
“Have you talked to her since she got to the marina?” he asked. He meant Beryl.
“Nope.”
“Have you told Kathleen you’re leaving for a week?”
“When have I had a chance? I’ve been standing here listening to you jabber for the last twenty minutes.”
Tomlinson was grinning, not bothering to hide it. “You’re screwed, amigo. The only difference between cliff diving and your love life is there’s no ambulance parked near the rocks.” Now he was laughing— cheerful despite a hangover, and not even stoned. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be convinced reincarnation is all about perfecting my role as the island’s village idiot. Thanks for sharing the load. That’s friendship.”
I took the quart of beer and poured the last of it over ice in a plastic cup. “I didn’t ask Kathleen to tie up at the marina. And Beryl’s not here because she’s interested in me. I already told you what she wants.”
I hadn’t use the word “revenge,” but Tomlinson had figured it out.
“You’re kidding yourself. Women don’t come to marinas to guzzle beer and sit on expensive boats. Only men are that simpleminded. Women come to marinas to meet the simpleminded men who own the boats—or for more serious reasons. Kathleen’s here because she’s serious. Maybe you should go face the music before those two women bond. You’re really S-O-L if that happens.”
Tomlinson turned to look at a sleek Sea Ray idling into the basin. “Hey—you said you aren’t happy about flying commercial? If your old contacts can’t help, maybe your new contacts can.” He waved his hand toward the Sea Ray. Coach Mike Westhoff was standing at the controls of the Playmaker with two men I recognized beside him: Dave Lageschulte and Eddie DeAntoni.
Tomlinson said, “Lags told me he and the guys are opening a new Hooters on Martinique—that’s close to Saint Arc. He’s been flying back and forth in the Gulfstream. Didn’t you say there’s a private airstrip there?”
I nodded. "Saint Lucia, too.” I didn’t want to fly directly to Saint Arc. Didn’t want the attention.
“Talk to Lags, man.”
Lageschulte and “the guys” were high school buddies from tiny Waverly, Iowa, who had founded a chain of sports bars. They’d done okay for farmboys.
I said, “Gulf Stream as in Gulfstream jet?”
“Yep. Five hundred knots, range four thousand miles, and a galley stocked with beer and chicken wings. A couple weeks back, the guys invited me along on a trip to Waterloo. We played pinochle, then hit some Amish auctions.”
“You’re kidding. Farm auctions?”
“The scene was incredible. Talk about drama. Lags had to outbid four or five bowed-neck Hawkeyes for a crosscut saw with a painting on it.”
I looked at Tomlinson, who was focused on the Sea Ray while combing a shaky hand through his hair. He’d been doing a lot of that lately— hanging with rock stars, business stars, jock stars, traveling, holding court among people who admired his writing, or his skills as a Zen roshi, or who felt set free by his Happy Hippie persona.
I hadn’t heard about the trip with Lags, but wasn’t surprised. Tomlinson was spending less and less time at the marina. There were long periods when we didn’t talk. Maybe he traveled to mask his bouts of self-doubt—there’s a fine line between traveling and running away. Or maybe it was because he’d achieved rock-star status of his own. His book One Fathom Above Sea Level had a growing cult following. Fans considered a trip to Dinkin’s Bay a form of pilgrimage. Because of that, the marina was no longer a refuge for Tomlinson.
“It’s flattering,” he had told me months ago. “But I worry that I disappoint people who love what I wrote. I can’t live up to my own words. I admit it. Words turn paper into stone—I’m not stone.”
Now, though, watching Coach Mike dock the Sea Ray, Tomlinson sounded right at home giving me travel advice.
“Flying commercial sucks. If you need a last-minute flight, talk to Lags, and don’t forget about Eddie. He’s a pilot. You could rent your own plane. You can afford it—why not?”
Eddie was a nephew of the late Frank DeAntoni, a man I had admired, but didn’t get to know nearly well enough before he was murdered. Eddie had called Mack in March, asking if there was space to moor his customized go-fast boat. Eddie had won a chunk of a New Jersey lottery and was interested in Dinkin’s Bay because Frank had talked about the fun people, including a guy named Ford, and some Tinkerbelle weirdo, Tomlinson. Before fate—or maybe mobster friends— made him rich, Eddie had been a commercial pilot.
“Fly to the islands with Lags or Eddie,” I said. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“Skip Lyshon’s here, too—you said you needed a boat? Skip’s got boats everywhere.” He paused. “Doc, ol’ buddy, you’ve got your thinking cap on backward lately. Are you sure you don’t want me to come along? I’ll cancel the Zen retreat. That’s a serious offer. Please?”
A dozen times, he’d offered. Truth was, I didn’t want Tomlinson along. He would attract too much attention on Saint Arc, where ganja hustlers were on every street corner.
I was nodding my head, letting him know how helpful he was. “I saw Skip. You’re right—I have plenty of contacts. Why didn’t I think of it?”
“You’re on autopilot. We’re all on autopilot until something gooses us out of our routines. Last night—those sharks? We both died, you know. Best thing that could’ve happened to us.”
“We . . . died?”
“Yep. I’
m certain of it. Hammerheads got us.”
I was smiling—funny the way the man said whatever came into his head when he was preoccupied. Like right now, watching Lags step onto the dock as Eddie lifted a box of something—fruit?—waiting to unload.
I said, “Died metaphorically, you mean.”
“No—but what’s the difference? We’re just as dead. That makes four times for me and at least twice for you—plus, you’ve got another big one already scheduled. Trust me, we both already have weeds growing through our ribs. This marina’s full of ghosts.”
He often said that.
“If you’re a ghost, why are you still scratching that bite on your leg? And why is my beer empty?”
“Death doesn’t explain everything. But it’s a perfect excuse for almost anything. Hey—” Tomlinson’s energy level jumped a notch, and he began walking toward the Sea Ray, grinning as he signaled me to follow. “I just realized what’s in that box—mangoes! Coach Mike went to Saint James City to load up. Pine Island mangoes are the best on earth, Dr. Ford. So why’re we standing here making small talk?”
AS IF I WERE INVISIBLE—ghostlike—Beryl said to Kathleen Rhodes, “I thought I hated mangoes. The ones I’ve tried—from supermarkets, you know? Those were like turpentine. Stringy, too, with this fibrous junk that sticks in your teeth. So you’d think that’s the way all mangoes taste, but there’s no comparison.”
Beryl spooned another slice into her mouth and closed her eyes. “Ummm. My God, these are ambrosia.” Then leaned back and smiled, showing Kathleen her perfect teeth, but also giving me her good profile, nose . . . chin . . . pert little breasts beneath a white blouse with creases. The white blouse darkened Beryl’s amber hair.
I started to say, "There are dozens of varieties—” but Kathleen raised her voice to cover mine, interrupting as she’d done several times already, only now it was to correct me.
“Actually, there are sixty-nine species of mangoes, and a thousand varieties. They originated in India, but I’ve eaten them all over the world. Every varietal is different—like wine.”
She added, “You can tell a lot by the shapes. The elongated mangoes—” the picnic table was draped with banana leaves; halved mangoes everywhere “—are from Indonesia. The round ones are East Indian stock. But some of the best cultivars were developed right here in Florida.” Kathleen favored me with a glance before asking, “Isn’t that right, Doc?”
She’d timed it so I had a mouthful, but I managed to say, “Pine Island . . . lots of types. My favorite—”
“My favorite is the Num Doc Mai from Vietnam. They taste like a blend of grapes and peaches. These Hadens? A wonderful custard apple flavor. I spent two years cruising Mexico, Central America, Cuba. Mangoes became a sort of hobby. Beryl? If Doc does decide to drag you along to Saint Arc, you have to try this wonderful liquor they make. Distilled from guess what?”
Beryl was right with her. “Distilled from mangoes?” She said it with a breathless edge that I hoped was sarcasm. Nothing I could do about it—the women had obviously discussed the trip. But the night would only get chiller if the two became buddies.
Kathleen’s jaw tightened for a moment—yes, Beryl was being sarcastic. But then Kathleen laughed, done with it. Done with Beryl, too, because now she addressed the table—Eddie, Lags, me on one side, Coach Mike with the women on the other. “Why don’t we have our own little mango tasting? A blind test. We sample five or six different types, and keep score on paper.”
Eddie was mashing slices of fruit into a paste—no idea why—but stopped to ask, “We don’t gotta wear blindfolds, do we? I’m not into that blindfolded crap. I come to have fun, not get weird.”
Earlier, when I’d asked Eddie to fly me to Saint Lucia, or to the private landing strip on Saint Arc, I’d received the same suspicious, tough-guy reaction. “Is Shay going? Or what’s-her-name, the pretty one—Beryl?” he’d asked.
When I told him no, they were staying in Florida, he made a face— Are you nuts?—and said, “Why the hell would I fly some guy, just the two of us alone, way down there where they got beaches, and girls don’t wear no tops? Did you fall and hit your head or somethin’?”
If I hadn’t liked Eddie’s uncle so much, I probably wouldn’t have invested the time it had taken to like Eddie. And I did like him, but the man took some getting used to.
Not so with women. Women adored the guy; couldn’t get enough of his bad-boy attitude and his dimples. Kathleen was clearly charmed; let me see how taken she was with this good-looking Italian guy with his broken nose, his New Jersey accent, his gladiator body, and his lottery fortune.
She said, “No, Eddie, you don’t have to wear a blindfold, but like they say, don’t knock it. What I mean is, we score each mango without knowing the name. Coach Westhoff?” Kathleen ran her fingers over Mike’s hand. “Would you mind helping Beryl with her score sheet if she gets confused?”
Mike raised his eyebrows and shrugged, too smart to answer.
Beryl Woodward had confident, faded-denim eyes that now became double-barreled. She knew how to handle it, saying, “It’s true, Mike. I can be such a ditz at times. Do you mind? I don’t have Kathy’s experience when it comes to scoring.”
Dr. Rhodes didn’t flinch. "Actually, it’s Kathleen, dear,” she said, turning to smile at Beryl—a chance to show off her own perfect teeth while giving us a look at her profile: nose . . . chin . . . blond hair silver over a navy blue tank top that strained with the weight of her breasts, skin freckled tan in a valley of cleavage.
Eddie banged my knee beneath the table—an adolescent guy-thing to do when women spar—but I was looking at Kathleen’s breasts, thinking my own adolescent thoughts about the boundary that separates former lovers. A woman’s breasts are fraternal twins—distinct entities in their secret space that respond independently of the other. Kathleen’s had once been my private playground, the focus of many sweaty intimacies. Now they were as foreign as the moon—and the odds of physical contact were just as remote.
You are always alone, Doc. No matter who you’re with, you’re alone inside that thick head of yours . . .
Kathleen had written that two years ago—or something close—in the letter I’d kept. She was right—tonight, anyway.
Beneath the table, a foot brushed my leg. I turned and gave Eddie a look of distaste. Hey.
Eddie, now stirring the mango paste into his beer, stared back and said, “What’s your fuckin’ problem, Ace? Never seen someone make a beer Slurpee before?”
The foot touched my leg again. I looked across the table. It was Beryl, signaling me with her blue-jean eyes.
Let’s get out of here.
A LITTLE AFTER MIDNIGHT, Shay called from the hospital, chatty in a way that told me she wanted information without revealing that she wanted it. I’d been at the computer doing research. I didn’t have to get up to answer the phone.
Shay said, “They wake my butt up every twenty minutes to make sure my brain’s still functioning, so I figured I’d check in. Ask you how the party went.”
I thought: She’s calling because she knows Michael and his mother came to the marina. Or because of Beryl.
I replied, “Party went fine. Good band, some great mangoes. Jeth and Janet brought their baby boy. He’s a cutie.” I played dense—stubborn after several beers, but also reacting to Shay’s gambit.
I listened to an update on Corey—she’d had a setback, but nothing serious. Something about electrolytes. Police had taken Vance in for questioning, then released him. Corey wouldn’t admit that Vance had hit her, but community services had stepped in, anyway. Her parents, too. Thumb bruises on a woman’s biceps tell a story. Corey’s family was getting a restraining order.
I said, “That’s good news,” looking at Vance’s phone on the microscope table. He’d gotten so many calls, I’d switched it off. Later, when I had time, I would copy the numbers. The phone was with my boat keys—next to Beryl’s purse.
As Shay continued talking, I
stood, put Vance’s phone in a drawer, and closed it.
Shay told me, “A restraining order isn’t all I’d do if Michael hit me. But I don’t have to worry about that, thank God. He’s a good man, Doc—that’s why I’m worried. I’m scared I’m going to lose him over . . . over, you know, what I did. After the wedding—if there is a wedding—I hope you and Michael get a chance to spend time together.”
Was she fishing to get a response? Maybe. But she was also afraid—no finessing that. It was time to stop playing dense and reassure the girl. I told her Michael and I had talked. Nothing confidential, so he could fill in the details. I didn’t mention Michael’s offer, but said, “The man’s determined to marry you. He made that clear.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“You swear?”
“Yes.”
“But what about Saint Arc? He knows that I did something shitty when I was there. But how much does he know?”
I said, “Calm down, take a slow breath. You’re hyperventilating. I mean it—a slow breath.” I covered the phone and turned an ear to the lab’s north window. Through the screen, I could hear the shower running and a woman’s muffled singing.
I uncovered the phone and asked Shay, "Are you okay?”
She was crying again—only the second or third time since I’d known her. “No. I feel so goddamn helpless! Ida is doing everything she can to screw it up, that bitch! She’s always hated me.”
I said, “Michael’s mother.”
“Yes. Ida hires detectives when she wants information. She’s determined to dig up more dirt—not the first time, either. That’s why you have to tell me, Doc. How much does Michael know about the video?”
I said, “What video?” with the familiar emphasis, then added, “He asked about a video. I told him it was a story Vance invented. You know, to give him an excuse for hitting his wife.”
“Did he believe you?”
“Why wouldn’t he? Vance is a pathological liar. Your friends know it.”
Shay made a helpless, groaning sound. “Some nice circle of friends, huh? A wife beater. Two of us in the hospital after we fucked around like sorority girls, then flipped out. And Ida, the Grand Dame of Blame, stirring the pot.”
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