Black Widow (14 page)

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 Kath
leen
, 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.”

I said gently, “Take it easy, Shay. The blame’s not all yours. I’ll print out some stuff I researched and bring it to the hospital in the morning. I was right when I said you were targeted by pros.”

“That’s what
I
think. Those lowlifes!”

I had returned to the computer. On the screen was an article about a party drug known as “Icebreaker.”

Now was not the time to tell Shay.

I listened to her say, “Know what those pretty boys deserve? What Dexter Money would’ve done. Daddy would’ve tracked them down and shot the sons of bitches dead. You know who feels the same way? Beryl. We talked about it — we’re going into attack mode. She’s so pissed off about what Vance did, she’s been trying to get him on the phone to unload. He won’t answer, of course. She didn’t tell you tonight?”

Through the window, I heard the shower stop, along with a woman’s muted humming. I said, “No. Beryl didn’t mention it.”

“Beryl was at the party, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“I bet she was all over Eddie now that her engagement’s off. I told her I liked him a lot, so it’s practically guaranteed she’ll hit on him.”

An interesting friendship, these two women had.

I said, “Maybe they talked, I’m not sure. Eddie said to give you a hug.” He’d also said some things I wasn’t going to repeat to an engaged woman — Eddie had a thing for Shay, too.

“I don’t blame Beryl, it’s just the way she is. Probably because of what happened.”

“What’s that mean?”

There was a silence — Shay getting calmer as her brain began to put things together. “I . . . I got the impression she was going to take you aside and have an honest talk. I told her it was the best way — you’re big on honesty.”

Cupping the phone, I said, “Beryl mentioned it. Thanks.”

“But she didn’t tell you anything . . . personal? She said she would. I told her you should know where she stands. Beryl and I feel the same when it comes to the three pretty boys. All bullies, period, and guys who victimize women. If the cops don’t do their jobs, hey, what’s the alternative?”

“Beneath those beautiful faces, you both have hearts of steel.”

“Don’t make jokes. It’s the way a woman has to be. With me, you understand because you met Daddy. With Beryl, though, it’s because of something that happened when she was thirteen. It took her a long time to recover — that’s the reason she started college late. But if she didn’t tell you what happened—”

I interrupted, “Actually, she brought it up. She said you’d tell me if I asked.”

“
I’d
tell you?”

“Yes, that maybe you’d give me her background. So I’m asking.”

I listened carefully — also hearing a woman’s bare feet on the deck outside — as Shay said, “Well, it was on the national news, so it’s not like some deep, dark secret. Think back — it was a long time ago. Fifteen, sixteen years — you might remember. Beryl was abducted from her bedroom. Some man, they never caught him — this was in Colorado. He kept her for three days. A couple of Boy Scouts found her wandering in a state park near Boulder. That’s why her family moved to Florida.”

I was thinking,
Woodward ... Colorado ... schoolgirl missing
, picturing the headlines, but possibly confusing her abduction with others. One missing child is a tragedy. Hundreds of missing children, year after year, is a statistic.

I said, “No wonder she left it up to you to tell me,” turning to get a glimpse of the woman through the east window, wearing a towel like a sarong, using another to dry her hair.

“Thing is, she doesn’t mind talking about it. She doesn’t get into the details, of course. But generally, how the legal system should deal with men who do that kind of sick crap. That’s why Beryl’s the way she is.”

“Tough, you mean.”

“Yeah, tough. But also . . . well, she’s different—” Shay lowered her voice. “When it comes to men, I mean. I don’t know how Elliot put up with it for as long as he did. I don’t know if I told you, but Elliot and I were close friends.”