The visitor I was expecting was a woman. Ten-thirty sharp, drinks and a late dinner, she’d told me in a familiar businesslike voice. Then she had to go. Lots of work to do.
I wanted to be shaved and dressed before she arrived, so I was headed for the shower, towel knotted around my waist, when the open box on the dissecting table, return address General Forensics, White Plains, NY, caught my eye once again. I stopped, checked my Rolex— 10:10 p.m.—then reread the last few paragraphs of Merlin Starkey’s shaky hand.
... your daddy was a good man, Marion. A sight better man than your uncle Tucker Gatrell, although Tuck had a genius, which even I will admit.
If I wasn’t sure you already knew what it is I’m about to write, I’d warn you it might hurt. But I am sure.Your mother was a well-educated woman. She liked music and things, art and such, and she knew all the birds, which your daddy didn’t. People can get lonely inside their own heads. Maybe it’ll happen to you, one day. It happened to your mother.
She had an affair with a young museum professor, an expert on plants or maybe trees, who come down here from Chicago. The museum fella, he fell in love with your mother. Your mama didn’t fall in love with him. He was good-looking, I reckon, but he was a damn bad man.You know his name, Marion. No need for me to write it.
He disappeared seven months after the boat blew up and killed your parents.You couldn’t have been sixteen years old at the time.The museum man was out in the swamps, slogging around with his notebook, and he just disappeared. Murdered. I know, ’cause I investigated that murder, too.
I don’t know why you blamed that shit-heel uncle of yours. Maybe you wasn’t sure. Maybe something up in your head was blocking the truth. So that’s why I’m writing to tell you.
You got the right man, Marion.You did it real smart. I wish to hell I was still alive so you could tell me what you did with the professor man’s body....
The clanging of the bell on the deck below snatched my attention away—a good thing. This was the third time I’d read the letter, but the first time I’d felt an uncomfortable surge of emotion. I was ridiculously close to tears.
I went to the porch, holding the towel around my waist, thinking, What the hell, this is the tropics, and looked down into the smiling face of a good-looking woman dressed for business—dark skirt, white blouse, dark blazer.
“Welcome to Sanibel,” I called to her. “Ready to de-ice?”
The woman had a sense of humor, thank God. She laughed. “Looks like you already have, Dr. Ford. But the only ice I want is in a tall glass—I hope I’m not being presumptuous.”
I said, “Not at all. I’ve heard your voice so often on the phone, Senator, it’ll be nice to talk face-to-face.”
Black Widow Page 34
