Black Widow (13 page)

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.”

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.

But it was also possible he was baiting me. If I agreed to go after the blackmailer, it proved the blackmailer and the video existed. A backdoor way of confirming his fiancé had been unfaithful.

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.

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.