Black Widow (9 page)

“No,” she interrupted, already ahead of me, “it’s better if I call their cell phones. If the three of us are in here alone, the guys will think we cooked up a story.”

I smiled. "Okay. Call them. Then go to sleep. Spend the next few days getting healthy.”

“But what happens next Friday? It’s the night of our rehearsal dinner. If we don’t pay the money—”

“Friday’s a week away. A lot can happen in seven days.” I turned, my hand on the edge of the privacy screen. “Maybe I’ll fly down to Saint Lucia, take the ferry to Saint Arc, and try to reason with the guy.”

“Try to . . .
reason
with him?” Shay said the words slowly, testing them for euphemism.

“Why not? The island has a reef system . . . and there’s a species of sea jelly I’m interested in. It’s rare — a dark blue medusa, so dark it’s black. I can do research.”

“Research.” Her tone was the same.

“I’ll need help on this end. We can stay in touch by e-mail. And someone has to look after the lab — Ransom’s going to Seattle with Tomlinson. He’s teaching at a retreat.”

“Just like that, you’re ready to go.”

“Why not? It’s not like you to quit. Remember the night we saved your chocolate Lab?”

The reaction was instant. She smiled, and I had her attention again.

“He was such a sweetie. Davey Dog. Daddy’s pit bulls got him, but we pulled him through. I see what you’re saying. He never gave up.”

“That’s better. You’re a tough woman, sister. Smart. The poor bastard on Saint Arc has no idea who he’s dealing with.”

The smile broadened. Then it faded as her eyes began to tear. She found a tissue and used it, studying me. “My dear, sweet mysterious biologist. I wish to hell now I hadn’t asked Bill Woodward to give . . .” Her voice caught. “. . . to give the doctors hell if they don’t take good care of Corey. I should’ve put you in charge.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “If he mentions it at the wedding, I’ll pretend not to know.”

BERYL WOODWARD was in the parking lot arguing with her fiancé when I walked outside into the sodium glare of security lights.

I didn’t make the association right away. I’d been awake for twenty-four hours. I hadn’t worked out or gone for a run, and my swim with the whales wasn’t exactly therapeutic. Birds were testing darkness with an experimental twittering that inflamed nerve endings in the back of my brain. But because her silhouette was unmistakably female, the woman registered on an instinctual level that never tires. Unconsciously, I noted height, hair, heft of bosom as I walked.

It was a coincidence my old Chevy pickup was parked a few cars away from where Beryl and her fiancé stood. They were nose to nose, voices hypercharged but so low I was on them before sentence fragments revealed what was going on.

“. . . October wedding? Why the hell should I? You go off for a girl’s weekend, then I find out . . .”

“. . . you believe Vance? You accuse me?”

“Something happened on that island, goddamn it . . .”

“. . . hold it! You get
caught
making out with one of my best girlfriends. But now I’m the one who can’t . . .”

“You have changed! You’ve been acting so freaking weird . . .”

“. . . I had fun! That’s a big change, I agree.”

By the time I realized it was Beryl, she’d recognized me, so it was too late to do a polite about-face. But I slowed my pace and made a show of concentrating mightily on something in my hand. Truck keys. I had nothing else. When their voices went silent, I filled the silence by whistling a tune that didn’t resemble the Buffett song playing in my head.

I pretended not to hear her fiancé whisper, “. . . and I’ve had enough of your Ice Queen bullshit.”

I pretended not to hear Beryl reply for my benefit, in a voice almost cheery, “Understandable. That’s fine, Elliot. I’ll give you a call later from work. Okay?
Okay
?”

Elliot snapped, “Okay!” as a Corvette beeped and taillights flashed. He slammed the door and revved the engine. Because I didn’t want to get run over, I waited until Elliot was accelerating toward the exit before continuing to my truck.

BERYL WATCHED ME APPROACH. She leaned to take a remote key from her purse, eyes momentarily holding mine. Behind her, a convertible beeped and blinked, a Volvo, maybe. The engine started remotely. She could leave anytime she wanted.

“Dr. Ford? I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

I said, “Hear . . . what?” Then I noted the way her head lifted and tilted, so I amended, “Which is bullshit, and we both know it. Don’t apologize. I’m sorry you recognized me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. It was just getting good.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?”

“An attempt. It’s also the truth. You never eavesdrop?”

“Of course. But I at least try to be discreet.”

I pointed. “That’s my truck. It’s not like I was sneaking up.”

She said, “Ah, a truck . . . so I see,” looking at my old Chevy, emphasizing her distaste by making an effort to hide it. “I guess people don’t go into marine biology to get rich.”

“No. But when I start to get bitter, I remind myself how much I’ve saved on psychiatrists and expensive women. It keeps me grounded.”

Along with the keys, Beryl had taken a pack of gum from her purse. She held a piece between her teeth for an instant, letting me see it, then began to chew. “You must be a guy’s guy — you’d have to be to drive a vehicle like that. So let me ask you a guy’s question. Do you think Elliot believed me?”

“Can’t say. I didn’t hear enough.”

“Hmmm. That’s not very helpful.”

“Were you lying to him?”

“If I was, it wouldn’t be the first time. But it’s the first time Elliot didn’t pretend to believe me. I’ve never seen him so pissed off. And his questions—” She grimaced. “Was my lover older, younger, bigger, better-looking, was he better in bed? What is it with you men? You’re a scientist. At what age does a human male mature emotionally?”

I shrugged. “You’ll have to ask a human male a lot older than me. Sorry.”

Beryl raised her eyebrows, shielding a smile, then held out the pack of gum. I took a piece. Cinnamon.

I said, “You didn’t tell him what really happened on Saint Arc.”

“If I answer, does that mean we’re confidants?”

“We’re confidants whether you answer or not.”

“Okay. No, of course I didn’t tell him. Nothing incriminating, anyway. Why would I? Now it’s your turn. Did you hear what I said about Elliot and a friend of mine? Any of it?”

“Not as much as I wanted. But enough.”

“Hear any names?”

“Nope.”

“True?”

“True.”

I let her consider that, returning her stare before adding, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask who the friend was.”

“She’s still a friend. No need for the past tense. Elliot, on the other hand . . . well, maybe he’s right. I’m different since the island. Everything that’s happened has been so . . . shitty. Quite an awakening. But maybe some good will come of it yet. I just talked to Shay on the cell. She told me about the conversation you two had.”

I waited.

“It’s a good thing Elliot didn’t recognize you, Dr. Ford. Our guys think we made a pact with the devil, trusting you, not them. They can’t decide if you’re part of the drug mob, or a secret government assassin.”

I laughed, letting her know how ridiculous it was. “Shay has an imagination. She actually says things like that about me?”

Beryl replied, “Oh, she’s said a lot about you — more than you realize. Yes, that girl can get carried away.”

Was that a veiled cut? Shay, I suspected, was the girlfriend she’d caught with Elliot.

I let it go.

“No matter what your fiancé thinks of me, trust shouldn’t be an issue. You have nothing to hide. Same with Shay and the other girls. Right?”

“Ah,” Beryl said, “the official story. I haven’t gotten used to it yet. The video doesn’t exist. The night on Saint Arc never happened. But you have the tape, Dr. Ford. You saw what went on in the swimming pool.”

“Wrong. If the tape was in my hands — and it isn’t — I wouldn’t watch it. And I didn’t.”

“Oh, please.” I received the tilted withdrawal, like a horse shying.

I put my hands out, palms up.
Honest
.

“You admit you enjoy eavesdropping.”

“That’s right. But there are lines I won’t cross.”

“You don’t strike me as the Boy Scout type, sorry.”

“I’m not. My lines have lots of curves and angles. What about yours?”

The woman had a gift for draping sarcasm in encouragement. Or vice versa. “I don’t discuss my boundaries in public. But I can tell you this — I’m trusting you, damn it — I’m way too curious to have that kind of willpower. Especially after seeing some of the clips from that tape —
my God
. I would’ve watched. I’d pretend like I hadn’t, but I would’ve watched from beginning to end.”

“Because you’re in it? Or because you’re not?”

“Make up any answer that pleases you. That night’s sort of foggy and dreamy, and maybe I want it to stay that way. I still don’t understand why we did what we did — I’m referring to the party we didn’t have, by the way. On the night that never happened. Elliot would’ve been shocked.”

“You’re a quick study.”

“Really? Then why did it take me so long to figure out that I’ve wasted the last two years of my life?” The woman checked her watch. “I don’t suppose you’re hungry?”

I had spoken to Beryl Woodward maybe a dozen times since Shay finished her master’s degree. She’d struck me as a one-dimensional mall diva. Too much money, a daddy’s-girl ego, and too attractive for life ever to require that she risk an encounter with reality.

Not now. But Beryl had never invited me to breakfast before.

She’d told Elliot she would call from work, so I asked, “Isn’t your boss expecting you?”

“I manage the spa at Naples-on-the-Bay Racquet Club. I’m the boss — which means I work twelve to fourteen hours a day. I’ll write myself a note.”

Ten minutes later, we were drinking coffee at First Watch on U.S. 41, six lanes of asphalt jammed with commuters hurrying into this new summer day.

VANCE HAD USED Merlin Starkey’s letter as a torch . . . Starkey’s letter along with unopened bills, and the envelope containing my lab results.

I found the remains on the kitchen floor a couple of minutes after walking into the house, hurrying to clean up the mess before my 10 a.m. meeting.

The front of the envelope was the color of burned toast, my name and address unreadable. The back had flamed through. Hold a match to tissue paper, results would be similar.

I opened the envelope to find out how much of the letter had survived. The paper began to crumble. A flake came off in my hand, and I saw the date. It was written in pen by Starkey.

I tried again, even though I knew it shouldn’t be rushed. A larger flake broke off. I read, “
Howdy, Marion. If you’re reading this, I reckon it means I’m dead, which is a disappointment to me, being outlived by the kin of that snake Tucker Gatrell .
..”

The paper that remained was as delicate as ash. Was there a process to restore stationery after it had burned? Had to be. Somewhere at a museum, or some forensics lab, there was an expert who knew how to do it. Now was not the time to experiment.

9:35 a.m.

I had twenty-five minutes to clean up Varigono’s mess, finish a ream of unfinished paperwork, shower, and change. The place stunk of kerosene and smoke, and I hadn’t even touched the lab yet — which was okay, because I’d left it in pretty good shape. But the house was a disaster.

Impossible.

Well . . . maybe the team flying in from D.C. would be late — the weather had been terrible up there, stormy and cold even though it was June.

No, they were early.

I was placing the letter inside a Ziploc bag when I heard a decisive
ding-ding-ding
. Then a woman’s voice called, “Dr. Marion Ford? Do we have the right place?”

I went out to the deck, pulling the wooden door closed behind me. I would usher them straight to the lab, and spare myself explaining why someone had tried to torch my house. Two men and a woman stood near the brass ship’s bell, looking up from the lower platform. Efficient, professional, humorless. Exactly what I’d expected.

My new employer was one of the best-known U.S. intelligence agencies. The organization recruited heavily from the Ivy Leagues. These three had the look. They’d put in their time, had moved up the corporate ladder, and they were dressed for business. Briefcases and suits. I was wearing khaki shorts and a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to my forearms.

I was buttoning one of the sleeves as I called, “Welcome to Sanibel. Ready to de-ice?” I smiled, trying to set the tone for what awaited them.

Pointless to try. I had no idea . . .

AS I HELD the screen door open, the woman, whose name was Margaret Holderness, stepped into the lab, then stopped, forcing the two men behind her to stop.

“My God,” I heard her say, “is that a cadaver?”

What?

I slipped past them and took a look. Tomlinson was lying on the steel dissecting table, eyes closed, hands folded on his chest, wearing nothing but one of his idiotic sarongs. Black silk with red-and-yellow surfboards. No underwear, as usual — obvious.

I told the woman, “It’s not a cadaver, but he’d make a good one,” attempting the same nervous smile, which she didn’t notice because it was impossible to look anywhere but at the dissecting table.

I crossed the room, calling, “Tomlinson? Hey! Time to wake up,” which was overly generous. The man was passed out, not asleep judging from the empty rum bottle at his elbow. Nicaraguan rum, Flor de Caña.

As I removed the bottle, I said, “At least he has good taste. If you ever get a chance, try this rum. Really excellent,” playing it cool like this sort of thing happened all the time here in the subtropics, so why not relax, enjoy it?

“Tomlinson . . .
Tomlinson
.” He stirred when I shook him, then sat up, wide-eyed as if he didn’t know where he was — which he didn’t. It took a few seconds.