“And what about his daddy?” I said.
“He still don’t claim nothing of his daddy,” she said, looking at me like I’d better not talk about it. “Greedy old man.”
“Can you tell me about how you came to raise Trina’s son—Preston?” I asked.
“Oh, she was so young, Trina. Sixteen. Too young to know what to do with a child. That man had brought her down here with him, and then left her to her own resources when she got in the family way. Said she couldn’t prove it was his, he couldn’t have no babies, said he was sterile, and claimed maybe she was doing some hanky-panky,” Mrs. Parsons said. “Can you imagine a man saying such a thing? He’s become a politician now.”
“I met her pregnant five months and just about to turn sixteen in the health clinic where I worked then,” she said. “I was Mrs. Moser then. Mr. Moser, he run off, and I took back my own name then.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I did the same thing when I left my ex-husband. It was one way to forget.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Don’t want no ghosts hanging round.”
“So you met her at a clinic?” I asked.
“Yeah, and we got to know one another. That man was paying for her apartment and claiming he wasn’t no father. I want you to know, how can somebody’s words be louder than they actions?”
“I hear you,” I said. “And you agreed to raise the boy?”
“Well, yeah. I offered,” she said. “I didn’t have nobody. Daughter was gone off to Thomasville where she got herself a job nursing. Good money in that. And I felt for Trina, you know? Just a child. She came from up Atlanta way, and she didn’t treat black people like they was less. I respected that she wasn’t ignorant like so many white people was back then. No offense, baby,” she said.
“None taken,” I said. “I respect your being so open yourself, to bring a white child to your neighborhood.”
“Trina treated me like a friend. I figured half the boy’s genes wasn’t bad. So I said I’d raise up the boy if she’d help me out. People around here talked. Oh, lord, they talked. But we did all right. After while, nobody talked no more, ’cause that boy grew up good.” A door slammed and a middle-aged man walked down the sidewalk and waved and nodded at Mrs. Parsons.
“Do you know about the younger boy, Mr. Lutz’s natural son?” I asked.
“Child that died?” she said, sipping her tea, narrowing her eyes at something across the road. “They say he drowned. They say it was an accident.” I decided to leave it at that. She was running out of steam and things to say.
“Did Preston resent that his real mother wasn’t raising him?” I said.
She looked at me. “That boy know right from wrong. He know you got to get inside somebody else’s skin to know how they feels. He’s probably too much that way. Too nice, you ask me. He hasn’t ever asked nothing of that man. His own daddy. Nothing.”
“What man’s that?” I said.
“The man that’s his daddy,” she said. She gave me a look again that warned me not to go there.
“Right,” I said. “Well, there’s a letter Trina wanted her boy Preston to get a copy of that she didn’t have time to send. I need to get it to him. In person.”
“You not looking for trouble?” she said, leaning in towards me. Her brown eyes had a milky ring around them. Kind eyes, but protective.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “In fact, can I trust you about what I’m about to tell you?” I knew I could. I sat back in the rocker. “I think Trina Lutz was murdered.” Mrs. Parsons sat back in her rocker.
“Lord have mercy,” she said. “So that’s why he been acting so strange,” she said. “Preston, he always kept things close. You reckon he thinks the same?” She looked at me again in the eyes. “Don’t you let my boy get in any danger. You hear me?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. If he was in trouble, he’d gotten himself into it, I decided. “So I can find him at the funeral parlor?” I’d finished my tea and set it on the tiny side table between us.
“Reckon so,” she said. I stood up, and shook her hand.
“I’ll be praying for you, baby,” she said. “You a tall one, ain’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Got it from my tall Indian daddy’s side, I guess. Thank you, Mrs. Parsons. I’ll need it.”
THE FUNERAL PARLOR looked the same as always. Like it wasn’t what it was: a place to make dead people look alive and sleeping. I fiddled with the envelope, not knowing what to say to Preston Edwards. Maybe surprising him with the letter would catch him off guard.
A secretary in an outer office with wide open doors smiled at me, got up, and ushered me to a sofa before asking me what she could do for me.
“I need to see Preston Edwards,” I said, shoulders high, head high.
“May I tell him who’s calling?” she said, not paying much attention.
“LaRue Panther. I have something Trina Lutz wanted to give him,” I said. Nothing on her face showed she knew anything. She disappeared.
He appeared before me, stone-faced, that Elvis haircut, the aristocratic nose, the smooth skin, the nerdy glasses. “Mrs. Panther?” he said.
“LaRue,” I said. “Ms. Panther.”
“LaRue, then,” he said, holding his hand out with some stiffness. “We’ve met here before, but I don’t know that we’ve been properly introduced. Preston Edwards.” A very white name to have been reared by a black woman in a rural Southern town. But that was stereotyping, which only keeps us from the truth. We shook, and he invited me back to his office.
The office had carpeting and licenses framed on the wall. A photo of Mrs. Parsons sat on a bookshelf. I looked for a photo of Trina and didn’t see one. He offered me a chair across from his desk and sat down himself. His hair was lovely, black and thick. If only he didn’t slick it back like Elvis. I could put gorgeous layers into hair that thick. He had broad shoulders and stood about six feet tall.
“You have something for me?” he asked, folding his hands on the desk.
“Yes,” I said. “Your mother left this in her drawer.” He glanced at me nervously as I handed him the letter. He opened it slowly as if to fend off the bad news that was coming. He read silently. Then he refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
“This is ancient history,” he said. “Why would you show it to me?”
“What do you mean, ancient history?” I said. “Who owns ECOL?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t really care,” he said. A chill went through me. He handed the letter back to me.
“Mr. Edwards, you know as well as I do that there’s something fishy about what happened to your birth mother,” I said.
“Ms. Panther,” he said, standing up. “I think it’s time for you to leave.” He opened the door for me without a word, and waited for me to head out. I left without turning around.
IN THE CAR, my back to the funeral home, I was too freaked out to think about what had just happened. What had I stepped into? He’d acted icy. As frigid as my Norwegian neighbor in grad school, the old lady next door who always said nothing except to talk bitterly about others, even her own children. Steely blue eyes you. Just thinking of her gave me the shivers.
I picked up the cell as I headed back to the islands and called the principal at school, expecting to leave a message. But she answered.
“Ms. Glick?” I said, unbelieving. “LaRue Panther. I can’t believe you’re in—I mean, I’m not even sure why I called this late, but—”
“Oh, I’m here. Lots of work to do. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a workaholic,” she said. “Are you calling about Taylor?” My stomach went thud.
“I’m returning your call. Is there something going on with Taylor?” I said.
“Well, yes. Yes, there is. Do you think you can come over here to the school Monday morning? That way, we’ll all feel refreshed, and we can have a good face-to-face conversation,” she said.
“Okay, sure,” I said, sounding like a bouncy soccer mom. “What time is g
ood?”
“How’s eleven?” she asked, but by her pushy tone, I knew the answer I needed to give.
“Oh, that’s fine,” I said.
“I’ll meet you at the office, then.” She sounded confident and disconnected while I had seemed needy and worried.
Great, I said to the air as I clicked the phone off.
WHEN I ROLLED into town, a few tourists had made their way down and were wandering on Dock Street. The water looked choppy, but the day had cleared, not a cloud anywhere. Still, it was cold, and I wanted a big glass of water.
I cruised down Dock Street. Most places were closed except for the restaurants. I headed straight for Mac’s real estate office. I parked at the side of the building and noticed the light slanting onto the small wooden porch that led to the red front door. The sun can prove relentless in a Florida island summer, but even for a minute or so in winter, it’s healing. I stood outside and basked, looking at land and homes posted for sale in the window.
Tiffany sat in the office with her shoulders slumped. Her hair needed a cut. Had she never heard of texturizing shampoos? Her hair sat so limp on her scalp. I walked inside. “Hey, there,” I said, smiling.
“Hey,” she said, lips pursed, glancing up. She was pale.
“Tiffany, are you feeling okay?” I said.
She was finishing up a letter on the computer. She punched save and said, “Sure. I’m just tired.”
“Are you getting enough sleep?” I said. “And enough to eat?” My mother voice wouldn’t turn off. “You know, you need a certain number of fruits and vegetables every day to stay healthy.”
“I’m fine,” she said, standing up, and then sitting back down heavily. She sighed and hit the print button. She started clearing off her desk.
“Well, then, maybe you’ll tell me what you know about ECOL,” I said.
She froze in the middle of opening a drawer.
“I have a letter that Trina had meant to send before she died,” I said.
She said, “Well, um . . .” and then she shut the drawer.
“I didn’t know you knew about ECOL,” I said. “So you do.”
“Not really,” she said, lifting one shoulder and dropping it. “I’ve done one letter for them.”
“Does it state who’s in the corporation and what they’re about?”
She pushed away from her desk. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really sorry, and I’m not feeling so good.” She put her elbow on her desk and rested her head in her hand.
“What are you sorry about?” I said.
“I don’t feel so hot. I’m a little queasy and tired,” she said.
“Go home,” I said. “Get a nap. I’ll watch the office for you. I can’t do anything, but I can sure tell folks about St. Annes. I’m not likely to poison anybody here.”
She laughed despite herself. “Are you sure?” she said standing up, holding her stomach.
“Of course,” I said. “Now go!”
“But what if Mac comes by?” she said.
“I’ll tell him I’m watching the office,” I said. “Look, go on. It’ll be fine. Mac’s in Tallahassee, though, isn’t he?” I opened the door for her.
“No, Mac’s in his Cove office,” she said.
“Shoo,” I said. “Go rest.”
BEING ALONE in the office felt oddly relaxing and unsettling at the same time. I took a deep breath and then I got to work, first locking the front door. I opened the letter Trina had cc’d to her son and looked closely at the numbers. Then I started rummaging through files. Letters to clients about home sales. Home sales all over, the main business in St. Annes. Finally I saw the commercial real estate file drawer. I opened it, and started looking. Mostly boring crap about sales in Tallahassee, Tampa, and Miami. I slowed down in the Miami batch.
When I found a file with a lawsuit attached, I took it out and set it down on the desk. I sat down with the thick file stamped MISTRIAL on the front. I started reading through its pages. Inside, the case read “The State of Florida vs. Martin MacKenzie Duncan.” Lots of trial stuff—depositions, interviews, and court reportage. I slipped the file into my big purse and zipped it shut. Then I went back to the filing cabinet.
The next file drawer down, I discovered the pattern of the numbers. The middle four numbers represented the year a folder was created; the letters in front represented the main names involved; and the last four or five letters or numbers represented the location by road. Maybe I was running down a deadend alley, I thought. Then I found it. ECOL: HPK2000SR347. A handful of beige folders sat within the larger green ECOL file. And someone was knocking on the door. I shut the drawer and straightened up, sticking a smile on my face.
A couple, Canadians. “Kinda warm, eh?” the man said.
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, no. Not if you’re from Florida,” I said. I’d make a rotten real estate salesperson.
“We thought Florida was the sunshine state,” the woman offered. “But we didn’t know it meant hot in winter.” She began taking off her sweater. I had to admit, the humidity was uncomfortable, and the day was warm.
“Yep, that’s us, the hellshine state,” I said, peering out the window. “Usually this time of year it’s chilly to us all the time. Stays dark long, too.” Their faces fell.
“We were looking at the sign out there, the one for the condo behind the KOA?” the man said. “Could we take a look at it?”
“I’m just substituting today,” I said. “I don’t even know where the keys are. Do you think you could come back tomorrow?” Boy, I’d be fired as a lousy salesperson by the Florida Tourism Board. In fact, I realized right then: I didn’t want anybody else coming to Florida. We were full and overflowing with people, problems, and legislators who didn’t give a damn.
“I can’t help with real estate, but I can recommend several restaurants in the area.” Their faces grew long.
“Good seafood, you say?” the woman asked. I sent them on their way with directions to the Cove, Mac’s place, the best hotel for a nice overnight condo stay and food, and a promise that someone would be available tomorrow. I locked the door and went back to the ECOL folder.
The main owners included Senator Fielding, Mac, Fletch, County Commissioner Eli Sturkey, Patrick Monahan, a name I didn’t know, and Carl Vickery, head of the Magnolia State Bank. Not Preston Edwards.
I pulled out a file called PENDING. In it was a map of all the property between the fork in the road that led out to Dad’s place up to Leon County between the Magnolia and St. Annes Rivers. It showed about twenty square miles worth of property, thousands of acres of swamps and small islands, including the federal preserve. Certain parts were yellowed with a highlighter, none in the preserve. Some blocks of property, and some individual properties—mostly on the opposite side of the highway from Dad and closer to the river area—were shaded yellow.
The yellow highlighted areas included the property that the long-haired loners owned, the ones who’d died in hit-and-run accidents last year, the Holy Rollers’ property, and Mrs. Colton, who’d died six months ago of lung cancer. A huge block was yellowed out over by Magnolia Gardens.
Then I ran across a file that was sealed in plastic. PERSONAL was written in red on the outside. I lifted it out and muttered, “My personal business.” I put it, too, in my big purse.
I glanced at the clock. Nearly five. I headed over to the Cove real estate office, condos and restaurant.
THE FRONT OFFICE of the Cove Restaurant and Condo Rental rivaled going into a real real estate office in a real town. The glass, the neon lights, the corkboard on a stand that told all the activities available, offering a free tour of the area if the attendees agreed to listen to the spiel to buy a condo. A small bribe for whoever was willing to take it. I took little comfort in the fact that I’d sent the nice Canadians here.
I ducked past the cork board and got to the front desk, an obstacle, a bar you couldn’t go past unless you were somebody. Loreen McBride, who lived on Seventh Avenue, was tend
ing the front, so I waved and headed into the back area.
“Do you have an appointment?” Loreen said. She was eighteen, and probably just doing her job.
“No,” I said. “But I have business with Mac.” I wound around, then headed to the very back where his private office was. The door stood open, so I waltzed in.
“Hi, Mac,” I said as I entered. “Hope you don’t mind my walking in like this.”
“LaRue.” He frowned, sitting at his desk. “You’re not supposed to barge in here. I’m expecting a phone call. If you’ll wait out front, I’ll see you as soon as I can.” He shifted in his seat.
“Oh, thanks, Mac,” I said. I didn’t look at him, but stared around at his office for the second time in a month. He had a collection of stuffed fish. All over the room. My body was swinging its tall nervous self, noticing one wall, the next, the next. “Tell me, Mac,” I said, “do you have a deep hidden desire to be a deep sea fishing expert?”
He smiled, looking a bit like an aging movie star. Handsome, slick, white-haired. “You’ve turned into an analyst? If you’ll just sit in the lobby, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Instead, I sat down on his white sofa, a piece of furniture I could only dream of owning. I was such a slob though. Maybe not.
“I don’t want to buy a condo,” I said.
He chuckled. “No, you wouldn’t,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve got the prime real estate out off the highway with twenty acres and that two-acre spring-fed pond.”
“Did you like the cookies?” I said. “Your hair’s still looking good.”
“So you’re here to talk about hair?” he said, cocking his head at me. “Because I’m expecting an important call.”
“I need to talk to you about business. Yours, mine. Both. If that’s okay. I won’t be long.”
He grinned. Smile creases deep. Teeth a bit yellow-brown with age. “I don’t know about hair styles, LaRue,” he said.
“That’s okay,” I said, scanning the room. Another photo of the six guys. Mac was holding up a mammoth sailfish he’d apparently caught in the Atlantic. A shot of Mac and Tiffany, arms around each other. A man nearly dad’s age dating someone my son’s age.
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