By then, I was close enough to confirm the Lexus did not contain Lonnie Chatham, and took a breath. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here,” I said. “It’s a silly rule I have about getting into cars with strangers.”
The Hemingway beard matched the face and his wide, wry smile. “Did Harney give you that lecture, too?”
Harney. Aside from Loretta, I didn’t know anyone who’d been on a first-name basis with the late lieutenant governor.
“You were friends?”
“Better. We were confidants.” This was said with the inflection used by those who take the word seriously.
“I didn’t see you at the funeral last week.”
“Nor did I see you—or your mother. I suppose that’s because none of us wanted to draw attention. Isn’t that right? Sometimes, it’s better to blend in.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Loretta and I had stood among trees, far from Mr. Chatham’s casket of mahogany, while a hundred people in suits and black dresses kept their backs to us, listening to the minister read their good-byes.
The man said, “I have a business proposition, Captain—that’s what Harney called you, by the way: Captain Hannah. Now I can see why. It’s the way you handle yourself, I think, not just because you’re tall and . . . by god, attractive, too. I thought he might have been exaggerating about your looks.”
A man who used his age to camouflage flirting as harmless fun. With him, maybe it was.
I remained blank-faced while he handed me his card. I was speaking with Sabin Martinez, of Brickell Avenue, Miami, with a second office on Disney Way, Orlando.
I slipped the card into my jacket. “It doesn’t say what you do.”
“No, it does not,” he replied. His voice had an elegance even while slamming doors. “My offer still stands. You don’t want to be late to church.”
I wasn’t getting in the Lexus no matter who he claimed to know. “Are you here because of Mr. Chatham? Or his wife? A friend just called and said she wanted to contact me, for some reason.”
“Lonnie? I’ll be darned.”
He shunned profanity, I noted—or, at least, was careful about it.
“You weren’t aware?”
“I’ve never met the second Mrs. Chatham. It’s one of the few mistakes Harney made, I think.” He toyed with his copper bracelet, and let me ponder that, before adding, “You’ll like what I have to say. It won’t take long. Harney trusted me with—how should I put it?—delicate matters. Come on . . . You can even drive, if you like.”
I looked from the house to the Lexus, then at the dock. “I can spare ten minutes,” I said, “but we’ll talk here, not in your car. If that’s not acceptable, it’ll have to wait.”
The man followed me to my boat.
• • •
I memorized the plate on the Lexus as it pulled away. Only then did I remember church and that I was late—too late for heavy Sunday traffic. Cars would be backed up for a mile on the causeway to Sanibel.
Truth was, I was a little dazed after thirty minutes of listening to Sabin Martinez. Once again, intuition told me I could trust the man—he was a churchgoer, like me, and we had a respected friend in common. But tragedies that had befallen my three namesake aunts urged caution.
On the other hand, the thick leather satchel Martinez had given me was real. So were the contents.
Call me if you need help with anything, he’d said as he left. Anything. I’m a problem solver from way back.
What I needed was someone to help organize the thoughts spinning through my head. I also needed to make up my mind about church. Driving to Captiva was out of the question. If I was to get there in time, I’d have to cross three miles of rough water by boat. Attendance wasn’t mandatory, of course, but I am happier if my week is grounded by ceremonies attached to my faith. It is a personal matter. I don’t push religion on people, nor do I shy away if derided by the arrogant few who view faith as a childish cliché.
There was another option. Aboard my boat, I jotted down the license number of the Lexus, then carried the satchel across the road, up the hill, to the house. Loretta was getting ready to attend services with her friends at Foursquare Gospel. Every Sunday, she awaited the church bus like a child eager to attend school. When she came out of the bathroom, I said, “How about I call Mrs. Hendry and the girls and drive you, for a change? With this wind, I’d be soaked through by the time I got to Captiva.”
“The girls” is how she often referred to her three widow friends.
My mother and I had been at denominational odds for years, so I didn’t expect a cheery acceptance. “You might be disappointed,” she said, returning to the mirror for a final look. “We don’t play guitars and worship crystals—or whatever it is you do at that hippie church. You’d have to actually bow your head in prayer. And sit with common folks, too, not your rich beach-people clients. I wouldn’t want to put you out.” Her eyes locked onto the leather satchel. “What you got there?”
I wanted to wait until after church. Her friends were all solid and sweet, but, as people age, gossiping becomes a favorite vocation. I tested the water by saying, “Did Mr. Chatham ever mention a man by the name of Sabin Martinez?”
“Why would he introduce me to a Mexican?” she asked. “True, he had a fondness for illegal citizens, and other outlaws, but you know I don’t speak Spanish.”
I said, “Mr. Martinez is Cuban, I believe, but that’s not what I asked. He claimed he was a close friend of Mr. Chatham’s. Do you remember hearing the name?”
She remained fixated on the satchel. “Maybe. Depends on what’s inside there. If you’ve got Mexicans bringing you presents, dear, I should know before allowing contraband into my house. If it’s a new purse, keep it. You might like masculine things, but it’s not pretty enough for me. Now, go wash your hands.”
I gave her the satchel. “What’s in there is confidential—that’s what he told me. You know what that means, Loretta. You can’t tell the girls, or anybody else, until Mr. Martinez says it’s okay. Are you sure you’ve never heard of the man?”
“Who? I told you, I don’t speak Spanish.” She unzipped the bag, looked in, then looked up at me. Her wild blue eyes took on a glow. “My lord . . . is this all mine?”
I was smiling at her. “Most of it,” I said. “There are two envelopes in there with legal documents—but only copies. It’s complicated. The will Mr. Chatham left when he died has to go through a probate proceeding, and some other stuff. It all has to be done and read to his heirs within thirty days of his death. That’s the law, which means there’re less than two weeks left. But his wife got a look at his will somehow. She’s already hired an attorney to fight for what she thinks is rightfully hers. Mr. Martinez came to warn us in advance.”
My mother’s face colored. “That pom-pom cheerleader harlot. She’s contesting my inheritance?”
“Loretta, don’t tell me you actually expected anything.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I put in a lot more miles than she ever logged. That woman only wanted one thing from Harney, and it wasn’t kept between his legs or his ears, neither. Liked to broke that man’s spirit, she did. Is it any wonder he come crawlin’ back to me for solace? It was that slut who killed him—not his new thingamabob, which is quite an invention, I’ll tell you. Or them blue pills.”
The medical examiner had listed the cause of death as cardiac arrest, perhaps exacerbated by conflicting medications.
“Let’s not get into that,” I said, and carried the satchel to the kitchen counter. Inside were stacks of hundred-dollar bills, some stiffened by saltwater. This suggested they dated back to the pot-hauling years. “Ten thousand dollars. He wanted us to have this up front. He knew there’d be legal fees—if Mr. Martinez told me the truth.”
One by one, Loretta was sliding five stacks her way. “Of course he told the truth. A man like Mr.
Martinez wouldn’t lie to us. Sometimes, Hannah, I worry about your suspicious nature. It ain’t fair to judge others, least ye be judged—that’s Scripture, by the way. You’d know that if you attended a real church. As to legal fees, do what you want with your money, but I ain’t givin’ mine to no damn lawyer.”
I clenched my teeth until I had calmed. “You might change your mind when you see this.” I opened an envelope. “He left us his hunting cabin and a hundred acres of citrus. You, me, and Reggie; divided equally. Then we get into some complicated areas that an attorney—”
“Salt Creek Gun Club?” she interrupted. She’d spent time there; I could tell by her dreamy expression. “That’s the prettiest place there ever was. That river path, where the moss hangs so soft and cool? Many’s the time I told Harney we should be . . . we should be buried—” Her voice broke; she grabbed the second envelope and ripped it open and quickly regained control. “This must be for me, too. By god, this is better than Christmas.”
The envelope was addressed in masculine pencil to Darling Lorrie—Loretta’s nickname used only by the former lieutenant governor. In it were dozens of photographs—the oldest, black-and-white prints with scalloped borders. Thirty years of photo technology was in that stack, including faded Polaroids, and color shots so bright, they looked as if they’d been painted. My mother got through a few, saying, “Here’s me and Harney at the first moon launch . . . Here we are in Times Square . . . This here was took in a country I can’t pronounce—no . . . it was Paris. Yep, by the Arch of Trumpets. I can tell by the pigeons.”
“Paris,” I said. “In Europe? Where was I while you were jet-setting around?”
“Damned if I know—probably on a camping trip with your Uncle Jake. You expect me to stay housebound while you’re out having fun? Thick as thieves, you two—and never did thank me for that tent I patched so you’d have a place to sleep. Neither one, even a word.”
My jaw tightened again while her quivering hands chose another photo. “Aw . . . this was Christmas at the Biltmore. You wouldn’t know the name—it’s a big, expensive hotel in Asheville. Don’t Harney look fine in that suit? That’s where he . . . that’s where Harney . . . where we went after the first time he proposed . . .”
My mother’s emotions got the best of her then. She gave a great, shuddering yawn, then broke down, sobbing. I got an arm around her and sat her on the couch. With me, I brought the photo taken years ago at the Biltmore Hotel. While I held her close, I looked into my mother’s secret past. Mr. Chatham had been a big, confident man with curly hair and a Don’t cross me smile. Loretta, who was now a little bird of a thing, had once been a beautiful woman. Proud of it, too, judging from her fashionable jeans and tight snow-bunny sweater. On her face was a sly, territorial smile, her lover’s hand cupping the underside of her breast. I might have been looking at the photo of a woman I’d never met.
Strange how the eye is tricked more often by memory than light.
I said, “Go freshen your makeup. The girls will get on the church bus if I don’t call them soon. You still want to go to church, don’t you?”
She sniffed, and rubbed her eyes. “Every Sunday, I ask the Lord for forgiveness—all the sins Harney and me committed over so many years. I don’t know why I bother. I truly don’t. The Lord, He knows what’s really in my heart, and, truth is, I don’t regret one single moment I spent with that man. Not one, Hannah. In fact—you really want the truth?—my only regret is, there were times we could’a been together, but I said no out of conscience. All those lost moments of happiness we could have shared! You don’t think God knows? He does. So today, I’ll put a hundred-dollar bill in the plate, and buy the girls pizza. You go on, dear. There’s no need to drive us.”
What Loretta meant was, she didn’t want the awkwardness of having her daughter around when she had so much good news—and five thousand dollars—to share with her friends.
I said, “At least let me help you with your makeup. It looks like you’ve been crying coal dust.”
FIFTEEN
When the door to the church bus hissed shut, I headed for the dock but stopped halfway. The black catamaran skiff was drifting just off the channel, while the driver leered at me over his Yosemite Sam mustache. When he was sure I saw him, he thrust out his arms, as if inviting a tango partner, and yelled something about cold weather, then, “Wanna dance instead?”
His name was Larry Luckheim, according to my deputy friend Birdy, who had shared the information over a glass of wine. He’d moved to the area from Canada via Okeechobee, where the Bass Pro circuit had dumped him for cheating. Quaaludes might have also played a role. Now he was fishing light tackle out of Placida and trying to rebuild his reputation as Buddy Luck, Native Guide.
Birdy had told me some other details as well. Twice, women had filed restraining orders against him. There’d been several assault charges related to bar fights, and a court order had mandated two weeks of psychological evaluation. It was three months before Luckheim was released. Bipolar disorder, was the vague diagnosis.
Equally as disturbing, Birdy’s background check turned up zero information prior to the man’s twenty-fifth birthday. No driver’s license or voter’s registration, and no arrests.
On the bright side, it was illegal for Luckheim to buy, own, or possess a firearm.
What Birdy didn’t have to tell me was, the man was a bully. I strode toward him, determined to establish the boundaries of my personal world—the dock, my skiff, and the boat that was beginning to feel like home.
“I bet you’re more of the clogger type, aren’t you?” he hollered. “You’ve got the look of hillbillies and whiskey in those legs of yours. Oh . . . and catfish. I bet you’re death itself on saltwater cats.”
I ignored him, while battling to keep my skirt down and my demeanor aloof despite the fact I was barefoot.
“Hey, I found my copy of Florida Sportsman. Those pictures don’t do you justice, but at least you were wearing shoes. Hell . . . I’ll buy you shoes—if you give me your autograph, and let me take you dancing.”
He twirled an invisible partner and attempted a sultry looked as “they” dipped. The effect was grotesque.
This was not the first man I’d dealt with who was jealous of magazine pieces written about me, a woman guide who taught fly casting and whose clients had won tournaments. Thanks to good photography—and, for all I know, Photoshop—the stories had gotten a lot of attention, most of it pleasant, some not. But this, by far, was the craziest man to take offense.
I went into my cabin, locked the door, drew the curtains, and changed clothes. When I came out, I was wearing khaki shorts and a navy blue sweatshirt. The man was still there, within casting distance of the dock, separated only by the cleaning board and a gooseneck lamp. I took out my phone, let him see me do it. As I dialed Birdy, he grabbed a bait-casting rod and freed a fishing lure that rattled with treble hooks. “Who’re you calling? You’re not the only one who’s got cops as pals. You’ve been checking on me, girl. That’s not right, us being in the same profession and all.”
We were close enough now, he didn’t have to yell. Instead, he spoke in a cheery, conversational way—then suddenly snapped a sidearm cast. The lure, with its silver gang hooks, came at me like a bullet, threading the space between the lamp and the cleaning board. Before I could flinch, he thumbed the spool and stopped the lure inches from my face. The lure plopped into the water at my feet while I finally did react in a lurching, clumsy way. Embarrassing—which is what he wanted.
“Why’d that scare you? Hell, I’d choose a Shimano over any sniper rifle in the world. You’ve never seen an expert fisherman cast before, have you? Here, honey, watch this.”
He did it again. Again, I ducked away from the lure. It was a reflexive reaction I couldn’t control, yet I kept the phone to my ear while Birdy’s recorded voice said, “You know the drill.”
I straightened to
my full height and pretended as if she had answered. “Deputy, yes, it’s me again. You were right about that restraining order. Yeah . . . same guy, but on my own property this time. Threatening me, he sure is . . . Hang on.” I covered the phone. “Your name’s Larry Luckheim, right? Or would you prefer to be arrested as Buddy Luck? Give it some thought—your picture might finally make the magazines after all.”
The insult took some air out of his swagger. To compensate, he deployed his fake Cracker accent. “You got a mouth on you, girl, but ain’t your lips a tad too round for jokes? Here’s what’s funny—take a guess how many clients you lost to me this week. Two. An old married couple who wanted to pick oranges, not fish. Like I said, it’s all about marketing. I told them, ‘The only reason you prefer fruit to snook is because you never fished with a real guide.’” He aimed a hairy, bulldog grin at my stunned reaction. “Don’t ask their names. Us pros don’t give out shit like that.”
Underhand, this time, he flicked the lure. Something in me snapped. I threw my arm out and caught the line as treble hooks whistled past my ear. I stepped back and yanked. There is no stretch to Dacron fishing line, and that’s what Larry had spooled. The rod flew into the water while steel hooks pierced the back of my wrist. I pretended not to notice. Hand over hand, I towed the rod to the dock, then picked it up, with all the cool I could muster, and began cranking up slack.
“The magnetic spools on these Shimanos,” I said, “they’re okay for beginners, but don’t you lose distance when you cast? I can teach you how to avoid backlash, if that’s the problem. You know how to reach me, don’t you, Larry? What with stealing my clients, I assume you looked me up.”
The man recoiled with benumbed expression. “Goddamn, lady . . . you’re nuts, that’s what you are. I could’ve ripped your arm off, if I wanted to—”
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