Licensed to Thrill: Volume 3

by Diane Capri

  While he was sleeping, I had decided to act like nothing untoward had happened between us, so I just said “Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?”

  “No, not really,” was all he said in reply. He looked out on the water and appeared to be concentrating on some inner conflict, but he didn’t say what it was and he didn’t talk any more.

  Determined to wait him out, to let him explain things to me when he was ready, in his own way, I went back into the house to make more coffee before I finished the papers.

  When I came back with two carafes on a tray, one for him and one for me, George said, “Do we have anything planned for today? I’d really like to go out to see Deborah, if that’s alright with you.” He lowered his voice so that it was hard to hear him over the gentle lapping of the waves below. “I’d like you to come, too.”

  It was the first time George had asked me to do anything with him in quite a while. I felt the grip of fear that I’d been unwilling to acknowledge begin to loosen. This was George, my beloved. He was coming back to me.

  I reached over to kiss his rumpled self, holding his scratchy cheeks in both hands. He tasted just as he always had, and he returned my kiss as longingly. We’d made it, I thought. We’ve gone through the dark place and come out on the other side.

  “Of course, I’ll go with you. But,” I stopped, not quite sure how to word my thoughts delicately and unwilling to destroy the renewed warmth between us with bickering.

  “What?” he asked me gently.

  “We haven’t really known Deborah for several years,” I said, tentatively. I didn’t need to remind him of the harsh words he’d said while throwing them out of the restaurant the last time we’d seen Andy alive.

  George winced. “I’m sorry about that now. Andy and I were close once. I respected him then and I’ve always liked Deborah. I need to pay my respects.” He spoke quietly, almost to himself. “You don’t have to come along, but I’d like it if you would.”

  “Of course I’ll go with you. It’s the right thing to do, anyway. I’m not sure we’ll be welcome?” I put a little lilt in my voice, to make it a question. He didn’t respond. “But I suppose we just come back if we’re not wanted.”

  He gave me a weak smile that pierced my heart one more time.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tampa, Florida

  Sunday 3:30 p.m.

  January 23, 2000

  LAKE THONOTOSASSA IS AN old community about fifteen miles east of downtown Tampa, out in the country. The Andrews house was built on land leased to him by a local University in a sweetheart deal several years ago. It was a good public relations gesture to practically give the ten-acre estate to Andy when they were trying to get him to agree to become president of the university after he retired.

  Andrews declined the presidency, but he kept the land. Rumor was that he paid a fair price for it when his memoirs were published last year.

  We had to park George’s silver Bentley about half a mile down the two-lane road and walk up to the house. Media vans were parked along the public road, as close to the driveway as they could get without actually trespassing.

  As we approached the driveway, Frank Bennett, who seemed to be everywhere these days, spotted us. With a photographer behind him and microphone in hand, he requested a statement he could broadcast on the evening news.

  “I don’t think this is the time, do you, Frank?” George asked him. “Besides, we don’t know anything. We’re here to pay our respects, that’s all.”

  Frank looked at me beseechingly, but I backed George up on this one. I didn’t feel overly friendly toward Frank after Friday night. There was no reason to make a bigger circus out of such a tragic event.

  I don’t believe the public has a right to intrude on grief, depriving loved ones of privacy they need when they’ve suffered the ultimate loss in death. Even when the deceased was a Four-Star General and a Supreme Court nominee.

  But Frank wouldn’t give up. His camera was rolling; he started talking. “Tell me this, Judge Carson. Do you believe General Andrews committed suicide?”

  I opened my mouth to say that was a police matter when the gremlin inhabiting George’s body resurfaced.

  “No, Frank, she does not. That’s unthinkable.” The tenor of his voice was harsh, offensive. “General Andrews was a war hero and one of the bravest men alive. He would not kill himself.” George turned to take my arm. “Now turn that damn thing off and have a little respect, will you?”

  Frank didn’t have time to close his gaping mouth before George turned us sharply and escorted me quickly through the gaggle and up the long driveway.

  The Andrews’s driveway was rough and uneven, but lined with orange and live oak trees. Spanish moss hung down from the branches and a dense blanket of kudzu covered most of the ground. Someone had cut the kudzu vine back on either side of the driveway to keep it from smothering the entire area, but any surface was fertile for the vine that strangles everything it touches. I stepped lively, imagining all the snakes that must be living under there.

  We walked the length of the quarter mile distance, all the way up to the house, past limousines, army vehicles and every imaginable type of car and truck. That current status symbol of the middle aged white American male, Harley Davidson, was also well represented. Who would ride a Hog to a condolence call?

  Eventually, we reached the front door of the Andrews’s Georgian-style home. George rang the bell and in less than thirty seconds, someone I didn’t know managed to open the oversized oak door. The room teemed with people wedged as close together as brick pavers. We struggled to plow our way through. Whether we’d even be able to find Deborah, let alone speak with her, seemed doubtful.

  The room and the whole house for that matter was filled with both familiar and unfamiliar faces. Some were dressed in various military uniforms, and others donned dark clothing to show respect for the dead and comfort the bereaved. From experience, I knew that the bereaved couldn’t be comforted by anything a mourner wore, or anything one said, for that matter. Only the passage of time made such loss somewhat bearable.

  We stood a little uncomfortably in the living room for a few minutes until George spotted Police Chief Ben Hathaway across the room, heading in our direction a little too purposefully for my comfort.

  Ben is a big man and I always have the impression that he won’t be able to stop his forward momentum in time to avoid walking right over whoever is in his way. That quality made the sea of mourners part for him as he pushed forward. Hathaway is not only tall, but heavy. Yet, he maneuvers like a ballerina. He’s clever. And secretive.

  Ben has been a cop too long to betray his true intentions, which made me even more wary of him.

  “Hello, George,” he said, extending his hand. “Willa,” as he nodded toward me. “This certainly is a mad house, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t expect to find so many people here. What’s going on?” George asked him.

  “Most everyone likes Deborah. People are shocked. It’s hard to accept that the general killed himself.” Ben was trying to speak softly. The trouble was that everyone in the room was speaking quietly, which created a low rumble over which truly quiet voices could not be heard.

  “I’m certain he didn’t.” George said, with the same vehemence he’d used with Frank Bennett outside.

  Ben looked at him curiously. “Why?”

  “I knew Andy for twenty years. Served under him in the army, did you know that?”

  “No, I guess I didn’t.” Ben said, a little cautiously.

  George’s army career isn’t something he usually talks about. I was surprised he’d bring it up here.

  He said, “Well, Andy would never have killed himself. He thrived on adversity. He thought suicide was the coward’s way out. There’s no way he did this to himself. No way.”

  I hadn’t noticed Frank Bennett enter the house, but now he stood nearby, listening intently. Frank was a friend and a local celebrity, as Andy had been. We all
knew him. He was entitled to pay his respects just like the rest of us.

  But Frank wouldn’t leave anything he overheard out of his professional life, either.

  Ben’s attention focused on George. A small crowd gathered. Some had their backs turned, pretending they weren’t eavesdropping on our conversation.

  “Did you ever talk to him about it?” Ben asked.

  “Yes, years ago. One of our mutual friends committed suicide; Andy wrote him off as cowardly.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Andy thought the man should have shown more courage in the face of adversity; that the issue was a small one and he should have been above it.”

  I glanced around uncomfortably. The crowd had grown larger and they’d become quiet, listening intently now, and not bothering with pretense.

  “Anything else?” Ben asked George.

  I didn’t like his tone or the question. Not at all.

  “Andy never believed any of the suicides reported in the media actually happened. He thought that Vince Foster was murdered, for example.” There was a shocked murmur rippling through the surrounding crowd now.

  I spied Deborah Andrews a few feet inside the house. I turned to George and took his arm.

  “Will you excuse us, Ben? We need to pay our respects to Deborah.” I started walking away, pulling George with me and the crowd of frankly curious onlookers parted for us to walk through. Deborah’s back was turned to us; I leaned over to whisper to George. “You need to curb your views while we’re here. It’s not the time or the place.”

  He squeezed my arm gently to emphasize his agreement while people we didn’t know continued to look at us, pretending not to stare.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tampa, Florida

  Sunday 4:06 p.m.

  January 23, 2000

  DEBORAH ANDREWS HAD BEEN polite since birth.

  I noticed, as I hadn’t on Friday night, that her brown hair was streaked with grey and her blue eyes were faded. She’d added a few pounds over the years and she looked every nano-second of her age, which I guessed to be about sixty-five.

  Today, she wore a black silk dress with short sleeves and a jewel neck. The obligatory pearl choker adorned her neck and small pearl earrings were clipped on her lobes. Deborah’s only other jewelry was her wedding ring, the plain gold band Andy had put on her finger over thirty years before. The way arthritis had swollen her knuckles, she wouldn’t have been able to get the ring off if she’d wanted to. Which, we all knew, she didn’t.

  Standing next to Deborah Andrews in the darkened living room of the large, unkempt, rambling house, was her daughter, Robbie. Nothing about Robbie resembled her mother, physically or temperamentally. Had that always been so?

  Robbie glared at us with unconcealed malevolence that startled me into defensiveness. She was taller and about a hundred pounds heavier than Deborah, but nothing about Robbie was soft or compliant. Her hair was highlighted and cleverly styled. She wore chic glasses that made her round face appear even fuller than it was. She had three chins and each one of them seemed to be lifted in sharp defiance. Robbie held onto Deborah’s arm as if Deborah would fall without the support, as if Deborah needed to be shielded from us.

  When I’d known Deborah Andrews, she would never have needed support from Robbie. If anything, it had been the other way around; Robbie had been the flighty one.

  Today, Robbie had cried off all her makeup, if she’d had any on to begin with, which was unfortunate. The uncharitable thought that sprang, unbidden, to mind was that Robbie had the kind of face that needed every bit of a makeup artist’s skill. She stood there, as if she was lost and without any clue as to what had happened to her father, but she’d be damned if she’d let any of us get close to Deborah. Robbie seemed especially hostile to George and me, but I might have been projecting a little.

  I remembered the chasm I’d fallen into when I lost my mother and, if Robbie had lowered her emotional armor just a tiny fraction, my empathy for her would have overwhelmed me. As it was, her attitude was jarring. I gripped George’s arm a little tighter, trying to hold onto my lifeline.

  Deborah, gracious as always, held out a hand to George, who took it, kissed her cheek and murmured something privately into her ear. I bent over to give Deborah a small hug, myself. She seemed to need the contact. Or maybe I did. The house smelled strongly like cats, but I didn’t see one. Not that anything on the floor would have been visible in this crowd.

  “Hello, George, Willa. It’s so good of you to come. I wasn’t sure you would.” Deborah said quietly.

  “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve, after the way you behaved,” Robbie said with more honesty. “If it wasn’t for you, my father would still be alive.”

  Well, obviously I hadn’t been projecting Robbie was openly hostile to us. All charitable thoughts I might have had for her situation immediately evaporated.

  Deborah turned to her smoothly and patted Robbie’s hand. “Robbie, dear, George was justified in protecting Willa. Your father would have done the same for me.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and he knows it.” She pointed her chin at George, defiantly. “He was the one who led the opposition to Daddy’s nomination. Without him, Daddy would be on the Court by now. He’d have had no reason to kill himself.”

  Her spite was palpable. It oozed off her like lava flow, causing me to worry about a potential violent eruption.

  “George did what he thought was right, Dear. We can’t hold it against him now.” Deborah, always generous of spirit and kind to others, was a woman who loved too much. Or maybe she displayed the kind of mannerly conduct that George’s Aunt Minnie would have called breeding.

  Robbie glared at us both, but kept further opinions to herself. She didn’t allow us to talk with Deborah alone, though.

  “We’re very sorry about Andy, Deborah. Neither one of us can believe it,” I said, in a serious bit of understatement.

  Deborah’s eyes glassed up and tears welled in her lower lids, threatening to spill onto her face where earlier tears had left tracks in her makeup.

  “I can’t believe it either, Willa. I’ve known Andy all my life. We lived next door to one another from the time I was born. I don’t know what my life will be without him.” Her voice broke and I was afraid she’d break down completely.

  Robbie, took over, thanked us for coming and said her mother should go lie down for a while. They headed off to one of the other areas of the house.

  Offering condolences to Deborah had been more difficult than I’d imagined. After that, I needed a little time to myself, too. I left George in search of the bathroom.

  Unfamiliar with the layout of the house, I blundered into what must have been the general’s den. The room felt like an alien place to me, somewhere that I would never have been invited, where I didn’t belong. It held the allure of the forbidden. Perhaps, I’d find a powder room here.

  My nose wrinkled up almost involuntarily at the cat smell, which was close to overwhelming. Still, I didn’t see a cat.

  The room was dominated by a large wood desk and the brown leather armchair behind it. It was filled with army paraphernalia: Flags, guns, plaques, framed certificates and photographs. Lots of photographs depicting Andrews with national and world leaders.

  I wondered whether Andrews had written his memoirs here. The rooms where writers work had always fascinated me. I loved to read and I viewed the writing process as near magic. Someday, I planned to learn to write novels, but that day was far off in my future.

  Andrews’s memoirs had caused quite a stir when he published them a year or so ago. He’d kept extensive notes of his army experiences and he used those notes to write his autobiography. He was sharply criticized for taking official army documents and using army personnel for the project.

  He used the U.S. Army as if it was his personal corporation, they said, acting like he was the CEO. He denied any wrongdoing, offered to return the documents and pay for the personnel. But th
e damage to his reputation had already been done.

  Recalling the scandal, I realized it hadn’t driven him to suicide, lending further support to George’s disbelief of the official explanation for Andrews’s death.

  A dirty fireplace, a couch and two chairs fronted the massive desk. The weather would get quite cool out here in the country on winter nights. A fireplace would make the evenings cozy. There was a soft antique Iranian rug in front of the hearth and several other souvenirs of lifelong military travel.

  A man’s man lived here, the decor seemed to say. Nothing soft or feminine about any of the furnishings. I wondered if Deborah had felt excluded from most of her husband’s life, and how she’d dealt with that.

  To the left side of the desk, a door led to the outside of the house, which, when I thought about it, made sense. The general would have wanted to admit visitors for private meetings without disturbing his family.

  Finally, I found what I’d been looking for. The head, for I’m sure General Andrews would never have called it the powder room, was just opposite the private entrance. It wasn’t the cleanest bathroom I’ve ever been in, clearly the province of a man. I ducked in and took care of things.

  As I was leaving the bathroom, careful to return the seat to its original up position, I heard two guests talking in the general’s den. I waited a moment to avoid disturbing their privacy.

  “Deborah said Andy was sitting up reading in here Friday night around eleven. They have separate bedrooms so she didn’t know what time he went to bed,” one of the men said.

  The other guest, a woman, replied, “They’d been arguing and she went to bed angry. How would you like to have to live with that?”

  I’ve never been a comfortable eavesdropper. Thankfully they moved on, and I let myself out to the hallway before someone else came into the room.

  I wandered around the house for a while, looking for George, and eventually stumbled into the large country style kitchen that overlooked the small brown lake. Here, too, the house could have used a good cleaning and some maintenance. The cat smell was stronger because of the litter box in the corner. The lake and the dock in back of the house were visible out the French doors.