A Deep Deceit (35 page)

For forty-five dollars we rented a spotlessly clean room, which I gathered was small by American standards, but boasted a seven-foot-wide, king-sized bed around which we had to walk sideways while also negotiating the obligatory fridge and TV. I sat on the bed with my feet on my suitcase while I phoned the police station and asked for Detective Theodore Grant. I was told he had retired but the officer I spoke to was helpful and informed me that Theo Grant ran a boat charter company a couple of miles down the coast. I was all for taking off there right away, but Mariette said she wasn't going anywhere until she had had something to eat.

I allowed her to tempt me into the Sundowners bar and restaurant next door, where we sat on a wooden terrace overlooking the bay while I discovered for the first time what a sandwich means in America.

By the time we had ploughed our way through a mountain of food, which would probably have been presented in the UK as a three-course dinner, I realised I had managed to get myself mildly sunburned. The weather in Florida at the end of June and beginning of July can be stiflingly hot, I had been warned, and the sun very dangerous, but in the Keys a deceptively refreshing breeze blows almost all the time. After we had eaten Mariette consented to drive to Theodore Grant's boatyard.

Grant was a heavily built man with a head of thinning white hair and a wary look in his eyes, which probably came from years in the police force.

When I explained who I was and why I was there he didn't seem very happy about it. ‘Messy case. I'd hoped it was ancient history,' he muttered. But he invited us into a room full of rusting filing cabinets, which apparently served as his office, and even offered us a beer. We sat by a window overlooking the bay and he talked freely enough.

‘One of the nastiest motor accidents we've had around here. They found the girl's body half in and half out of the car,' he told us, taking a long pull at his bottle of Budweiser. ‘But her head was twenty yards away on the grass verge. Harry was sitting next to it stroking the hair. It took our boys several minutes to get him to leave it and let the medics cart it away along with the rest of her.'

Grant shuddered and had another drink of beer.

‘The accident was completely his fault. That was the worst of it for him, I think,' he went on. ‘No other car involved, simply going too fast, driving like a madman. Harry blamed himself totally, from the start, but actually being charged with manslaughter was the final straw, I suppose. He took off right after we charged him. I got a lot of shit because I'd not impounded his passport. Tell the truth, it didn't occur to me Harry would do a runner. I'd known him for years. We were buddies . . . well, till almost the end, that is . . .'

He stopped, but I got the feeling that he hadn't finished what he had intended to say. I waited for him to continue. He didn't.

‘What kind of a man was Harry Mendleson?' I asked.

He looked at me curiously. I had told him I had lived with Carl for many years in England. It must have seemed like a strange question. But this was the first person I had ever met who had known Carl before I did, who may even have been close to him.

After a moment or two Grant shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Mixed up, like the rest of us in this Goddamn country,' he said. ‘Likeable and weak, that's the kind of man he was.'

And I'd always thought he was so strong. Strange really.

‘His wife didn't find him likeable, though. He drove her round the bend. That's why . . .'

His voice trailed off.

‘She had an affair, didn't she?' I prompted him. ‘There was someone else. That's why she wanted to leave him.'

‘That's not the only reason.'

He didn't seem inclined to say any more, in spite of Mariette and me both encouraging him to.

‘Harry was always, you know . . .' He paused again, as if searching for words. ‘Harry was always . . . different, always a bit of a strange one. After the accident he completely lost it. Still, none of us round here did much to help, that was for sure.'

His tone of voice surprised me. He sounded more than concerned, almost as if he felt guilty. The caring side of the Florida police department or something more? I had no way of telling. It was just that I had begun to question everything in my mind, to look beneath the surface all the time: a new way of thinking for me.

‘Where's his wife now?' I asked.

‘Islamarada. Remarried. Wexford Barrymore, a hotel keeper.' Grant sighed. ‘Loaded, of course. Makes more in a year than I will in my lifetime, I reckon.'

I couldn't quite see the relevance. I waited patiently until he continued to speak.

‘She's had Harry declared legally dead. She won't be too happy about his resurrection, our Claire, you can be certain of that. Wouldn't be too pleased to see you two, either.'

Like you, I thought. You're not pleased to see us. None the less I persuaded him to give us the name of the hotel – the Bay Point. Mariette and I checked the mile marker on our map. It was about half an hour's drive away we reckoned.

We decided to call in there the next day on our way down to Key West.

From the moment we arrived at the Bay Point I could see what Theo Grant meant about its owner being loaded. The hotel was set in extensive, beautifully tended grounds with its own golf course and tennis courts. Accommodation was in a series of individual luxury bungalows and it took us a while to locate reception. Anything as common as an office obviously had to be camouflaged. The place just oozed wealth and I felt ridiculously nervous when we eventually approached the front desk.

If Mariette felt the same way, she did not show it. She strode forward boldly and with apparent confidence addressed a young woman receptionist who was so perfectly made-up and so extraordinarily even-featured that I did not think she could be quite real.

‘We'd like to speak to Mrs Barrymore, please,' said Mariette in much more cut-glass English tones than she normally used. ‘We have a mutual acquaintance in the UK who asked if we would look her up.'

As the receptionist obediently picked up the phone I stared at Mariette in amazement.

‘Well, it's almost true,' she hissed under her breath. ‘A shared husband or as near as damn it has to qualify as a mutual acquaintance, surely.'

I said nothing. The receptionist told us that Mrs Barrymore would be out directly and asked us to take a seat.

My first sight of the woman who was probably still Carl's legal wife shook me rigid. I was aware of Mariette stiffening by my side. Claire Mendleson Barrymore was dressed in a cream silk trouser suit straight off the pages of
Vogue
, and radiated elegance and sophistication. She was smiling when she strode confidently towards us, but the smile slipped when she saw me. Not surprising.

We were so alike we could have been doubles. Even her elaborately coiffured hair, with its shimmering reddish tint, and so many layers of immaculate make-up that they paled the receptionist's efforts into insignificance, could not disguise how alike we were.

I falteringly introduced myself, although something told me I didn't need to. Neither of us commented on our tremendous physical similarity, either then or later, but it was breathtakingly obvious. Only the window dressing differentiated us. I fancied that the receptionist was studying us curiously, too.

‘I was with Harry in the UK,' I said ambiguously. ‘Something happened there. I don't know if you know anything about it . . .'

She interrupted me sharply. ‘More than I want to. You'd better come into the office.'

Grant had been quite right. She was no longer smiling and was clearly not pleased to see us. Neither was she going to discuss her private business in a public area of the hotel. She led us to the privacy of a small computer-filled room at the back of the reception area and closed the door firmly behind us before speaking again.

‘I really had hoped he was dead.' Anger bursting from her, she almost spat out the words.

I flinched. Mariette put a hand on my arm. I still didn't speak.

‘What do you want with me anyway?' asked Carl's wife.

‘I wondered if Carl, I mean Harry, had been here, been in touch with you,' I replied, and realised as I spoke how feeble I sounded.

‘No, thank God,' she said. But she didn't sound angry any more. Just weary. And sad. I could identify with that well enough.

‘The cops have been on to me, of course. Wanted to know that too,' she went on. ‘I can't believe he'd dare face me ever again. And you? I know what he did to you. Surely you haven't come here looking for him, have you?'

I nodded, if a little tentatively.

‘You must be out of your mind. I never want to set eyes on the son of a bitch again. He killed my daughter and he's still doing his best to wreck my life.'

I could understand her feelings. Not only had she lost a child, in horrific circumstances, but she thought she had escaped from her past. I was beginning to realise that nobody ever can. She had thought she was Mrs Wexford Barrymore. Now she wasn't so sure any more. The Florida police had notified her when it had been discovered who Carl really was after his arrest in Cornwall, and contacted her again when he had escaped from custody it appeared. All of it had been seriously bad news for her, the very worst.

‘I have a new husband, two young sons and a new life,' she went on. ‘I will never ever forget the daughter I lost, nor how I lost her . . . but . . . life goes on . . .'

There was a catch in her voice. She paused as if unable to continue for a moment. When she spoke again she did so quite calmly and deliberately. ‘Harry was a raving lunatic. I didn't know it when I married him. You didn't know it either, did you? We both found out, though.'

Theodore Grant had hinted at her being mercenary and perhaps self-seeking. Well, who could blame her? She had built a new life out of the wreckage of one she wanted only to forget and she didn't want it spoiled. She had tried to bury the terrible hurt of her previous life. I could relate to that. I studied her for a moment before we left. There was genuine pain in her eyes. She may not have been the kind of person I would choose for a friend, she did not exactly ooze warmth, but then, why should she to Mariette and me? She was another very American painted lady, but beneath the overdone layers of apparently obligatory make-up she was, more than likely, a perfectly ordinary, probably perfectly nice woman. And she had suffered. There was no doubt about that.

I didn't like her, though, for all that. But then, I suppose I wouldn't, would I?

I had just one request to make before we left. ‘If you do ever hear anything from him, would you let me know?'

She laughed humourlessly. ‘He really got you under his spell, didn't he?' she remarked. ‘He did it to me once too . . .'

She was right, of course. I had been under Carl's spell. He was that kind of man.

‘Look, Suzanne Adams, or whatever you call yourself, if the bastard ever walked into my life again I don't know what I would do. And that's the honest truth of it. I'll tell you one thing, though, he's wrecked my life once. I'm not going to let him do it again . . .'

Her words were strangely chilling. Her façade of sophistication could not mask the turmoil she was so patently experiencing. There was desperation in her voice. Her eyes glazed over as she spoke. I wasn't sure at all what she meant and suspected it might be better for my peace of mind that way. Certainly, I found myself hoping that if Carl was in America he would not try to contact his real wife.

Desperation can make people dangerous, as I knew only too well. Carl had been desperate when he had forced me to hide away with him back in Cornwall, and kept me locked up in that dreadful hut. I had considerable sympathy for the painted lady and all she had suffered, but I couldn't help wondering how far she would go to protect her new life.

There was no sense in hanging around at Bay Point. Even with my inheritance we couldn't begin to afford a room there and it didn't seem very likely that the management would invite us to stay as their guests. We climbed back into the hire car and headed on down to Key West.

‘Wow,' said Mariette. ‘I couldn't believe how much that woman looks like you. You saw it, didn't you. I know you did. You couldn't miss it . . .'

Uneasily I muttered my agreement.

‘They say men always do that, marry the same woman over and over again. Looks are the only thing you have in common, though, I reckon, thank God. She's a bit of a hard case, isn't she?'

I smiled grimly. ‘After what she's been through, what do you expect?'

I was, however, deeply disturbed by my meeting with the woman with whom Carl had shared years of his life, the woman who had given birth to his child. I suppose that was natural enough, but my feelings went way beyond jealousy or resentment or anything like that.

‘There's something nobody's telling us, I'm sure of it,' I said. ‘Something that has caused Carl to be the way he is.'

We had called ahead to Key West and booked into the Artists House, home of the painter who had played such a part in Carl's childhood. Mariette insisted that I needed to calm down and relax. She was probably right. The Bay Point experience had made me very tense indeed.

She drove in a leisurely fashion and managed to find a wonderful roadside fish restaurant for lunch, which someone back home in Cornwall had recommended. Even if you knew the mile marker it was hard to spot Monte's, little more than a shack by the roadside, but as I tucked into fresh prawns and deep-fried soft-shelled crabs I was very glad we had managed to find it. I had learned to enjoy fresh seafood in St Ives, but had never eaten stuff like this – and out of cardboard cartons with a plastic knife and fork.