Black Widow (12 page)

Escaped slaves, pirates, gunpowder. On an island with that kind of history, blackmail would be considered a benign enterprise.

I went for a short run, stopped at the beach at the end of Tarpon Bay Road, and swam two laps around the NO WAKE buoys before returning to the computer. I still had to book a flight.

I could fly Air Jamaica out of Miami, switch planes in Montego Bay, and be on Saint Arc by early tomorrow afternoon, depending on whether I took a boat or a private plane from nearby Saint Lucia. Or there was an Avianca flight that stopped in Bogotá, but got in two hours later . . .

But how the hell could I take the weapons I needed on a commercial flight?

I’d figure out something, I decided, or buy what I needed locally — which meant taking another five thousand euros from the floor safe.

Because Jamaican airports are a nightmare, I booked a commuter flight to Miami, then a first-class seat on Avianca departing 12:35 a.m.

I’d have to be on the road early, so I finished packing, then cleaned up the mess left by Vance Varigono. As I did, I thought about Shay and her attempt to apologize for not asking me to give her away at the wedding. I hadn’t considered it a slight until Michael mentioned it.

Now, though, it made sense. There were reasons enough for a success-oriented woman like Shay to keep her distance. My occupation had to be guessed at, though never openly. To Shay’s friends, I was kindly, bookish, and weird.

But Shay was savvy enough to assemble the truth about me even without the help of concrete details. No wonder she’d asked another man to give her away. No wonder she’d never introduced me to her prospective in-laws. To finesse that without alienating anyone took a hell of a lot of thought and effort. I admired her unsentimental approach.

Hadn’t I constructed the woman’s caricature to reflect my own conceits?

It didn’t cause me to doubt her loyalty. I was the man she came running to when she needed help.

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
W
s and
O
s. 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 come 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?”