Cutting Loose in Paradise

by Mary Jane Ryals

  “Mary’s—twenty years? She’s how old?” he said.

  “Fourteen. That is, she was fourteen when it started,” I said. Silence on the line. I went on. “She’s married to his brother, Cooter, you know.”

  “Well, that explains the abortion or false pregnancy, and the mental ward. Possibly the alcohol habit, although that’s a chicken-and-egg question and a personality-type question, too. What kind of knife did she come at Cooter with?” he asked.

  “How am I supposed—okay, can you find out?” I said with a sigh. “Can you track down her health records for the past decade or two?” I said.

  “Sure, only, what, seven thousand days of possible medical problems, give or take? No problem,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, I just . . . I’ll go get the fax. Anything you can do would be helpful,” I said. He’d been more than just helpful. Someone in the background slammed a desk drawer and shouted at someone else. He’d told me before that at any law enforcement office, emotions could get high. “Jackson, thanks. I mean really. Thanks.”

  “Sure thing, LaRue,” he said. He lowered his voice. “You’re still not so sure about me, huh? You know this case is extra. But it’s important to me.” As an afterthought, he laughed and said, “Let’s see what instrument of cruelty Mary is capable of using on poor ole Cooter.”

  I blurted out, “Want to go to the Full Moon party at the Cove? Next weekend?”

  “Hmm. Sure. I happen to be off, and have a case or two in St. Annes that need looking at. The weather report says it’s supposed to clear up soon.”

  “I hope so,” I said, hung up, and crossed the street catty corner to Laura’s office. What was I thinking, complicating my life any more?

  I shook the rain mist from my hair and sweater before I walked into the newspaper office, a converted one-story wooden home on the corner. Laura had made it homey-professional with two beige sofas, a rectangular tile table between them, loads of fluffy pillows, and a fake bear rug underneath. The house smelled faintly of cedar wood. Laura wore her signature working clothes—a bright red long dress with arty earrings to match.

  “How’s it going?” Laura said, ushering me over to her desk in a corner of the living room. “Seems like forever since I saw you. It’s funny how a few days can sometimes seem like a lifetime.” She handed me the coroner’s report that she hadn’t looked at yet. I sat down across the organized desk from her. She had piles stacked all over her wide, deep desk. She probably knew what lay in each pile, too. Her eyes behind her big black glasses looked quizzical.

  “Sheesh,”’ I said. “Don’t even ask.” But I told her anyway. About Jackson’s being busy, about Tay blowing half of Main Street out electrically. About the horrid school conference. About my asking Mac and then Fletch about ECOL. About Mary and Fletch’s sordid, long-term tryst. About the Mexico thing. The blood types on knife and bunker on the boat matching and proving to be human blood.

  With each bit of news, her eyes got bigger. She shook her head and her red earrings danced.

  “I’m totally disgusted,” she said. Like me, she focused on the child-porn aspect to Fletch first. “Mary at fourteen? And Fletch married? And Trina’s second son died while Fletch was with the kid? Surely Trina knew about Mary. I’d have committed hari-kari, not—”

  “Oh, my god,” I said, standing up, staring at the coroner’s report.

  “Now what?” she said, staring up at me.

  “I can’t be absolutely sure, but I’d swear this was Tiffany’s signature. Pretending to be . . .” I squinted, then threw down the report. “How original,” I said waving my arms, voice dripping with sarcasm. “She—if it is she—she signed some Indian name to it.”

  “You mean she said Trina was Indian? Native American-Indian or India-Indian?” she said.

  “India-Indian, of course. No, not Trina’s name. The doctor’s signature. How many Native Americans in Florida are doctors? Probably approximately one, though Granny thinks she’s the medical authority of north Florida,” I said. Kidding around about Indianness made people feel less uncomfortable about having to be politically correct. I’d seen real Indians do this with finesse. They had the best sense of humor in the world.

  “How can you tell it’s Tiffany’s signature?” Laura said. “You have to be so careful about these things.”

  “I’m not certain, but the way she pulls out the ends of some words when she writes? I’ve seen her do it when she writes checks or in the office. She’s left me notes at the house. And that classic way she makes her small “e’s.” I leaned across the desk to show Laura. “And the way she’ll write an ‘i,’ dot it, then swipe the ‘i’ towards the next letter, like this. That’s totally Tiffany.” I leaned across the desk to show her the “i.” Laura stared. Then she opened a drawer and pulled out the Tallahassee phone book.

  “Spell that Indian name for me,” she said, wryly. “I think I need to go to a Tallahassee doctor. I’m feeling pretty darn sick.” She picked up the phone, frowning.

  I was pacing in front of the desk now, thinking. OV, the garbage man. What had Madonna said that OV had told her? She said OV had been tooling around in his little oyster boat, he’d been working on it, and he took it out for a spin before sundown the night of the suicide. He says he swears he saw Trina on Fletch’s boat. I reminded Laura of this as she dialed. As the phone rang, she thought through things.

  “Okay, so that’s hearsay, but let’s assume it’s true. Was she steering the boat? Who else did OV see on the boat? Where exactly were they? And at what time?” She held the phone to her shoulder as she numbered these things off on her fingers.

  “Well, we can ask the source to ask the source,” I said. “Where’s Madonna right now?” I peered out the fogging window looking down the cowboy-Western street. I whirled around. “Hey—has Fletch tried to frame me and tried to kill Mac himself?” How close I’d stood to Fletch this morning cutting his hair!

  “Possibly,” Laura said in her flat calm way. “Let’s conjecture, but don’t assume anything. I’m getting a recording.” She jotted down the number where the doctor could be reached. She scanned physicians in the yellow pages, looking for another way to get ahold of the guy. “And then there’s Mary, who I can easily picture going at Trina with a knife. If Trina were out of the way, she’d have everything she ever wanted.” She looked up at me. “We need to get Mary’s alibi.”

  “Oh, Laura, I should never have mouthed off to Fletch,” I moaned aloud, squeezing my face in my hands. Laura hung up the phone and scribbled notes. “He’ll try to poison me next,” I added, putting my head in my hands.

  “Hold on. I’m thinking. . . . You know, Fletch may not know anything,” she said, looking thoughtfully past me. She was so analytical that every time I got in a nervous snit, she calmly talked me out of it in a roundabout way. “Mac could have been poisoned by the Miami connection. How would we know?” She was making circles with her hands, the pen in her right hand now. “The wedding party came from out of town. Someone from Miami or Mexico or Honduras could easily have mixed in with the bunch of us—locals and wedding party.” She shrugged and went on. “Who’d have known? Probably not, but in other words, it could be anyone. How about that funeral guy? He could have arranged the whole thing. Don’t assume anything.”

  “God, I’m confused,” I moaned. “And my kid’s in trouble.”

  She looked at me placidly, got up from the desk, and beckoned me to go sit on the sofa with her. “Look,” she said, sitting next to me. “My mom always told me to pretend—it was in reference to men, of course, but it still applies here—she said pretend you’re not concerned. Act cool. For you, it means meditating on the idea that you’re on a low dose of Valium.”

  I started to protest. She put her hand up. “I know, I know. But you sometimes just want to be subtle, blasé, and quiet as a cat. Let’s have some graham crackers and brie. Best dessert lunch in the world. I’ll make some tea. Let’s just chill, as Daisy loves to say. Breathe, deep breaths.” She
disappeared into the kitchen area. She always had lunch on hand, having a big kitchen at work. She rarely stopped work to go home for lunch, and just ate what was in the kitchen. She kept it stocked. I could hear plates and metal and the pantry door squeak open. Breathing deeply did help. And domesticity was calming.

  “It’s a French picnic lunch,” I said when she set a plate of cheese, crackers, and sliced apples on the tile table. The fragrance of apple suddenly filled the air. She sat down beside me. “My mother would be proud,” I said, having no idea what my mother would really have thought.

  In walked Madonna. “Just in time!” she said, grabbing a slice of apple and sitting across from us on the other sofa. “God, you look terrible,” she said to me. Laura laundry-listed all the reasons I couldn’t relax.

  “Hot damn,” Madonna said, cutting a big hunk of brie. “We kick ass as 007, don’t we? Blood types match!” And though I didn’t feel her sense of accomplishment, I smiled when she high-fived me. She held up a cracker with brie. “God, I love this stuff.” She crammed a big cracker with a mammoth hunk of cheese into her mouth.

  “I don’t think the French would approve of your manners, Madonna,” I said. Brie was squeezing out the sides of her mouth. Laura pointed at her and started chuckling. Then I was laughing. Then Madonna had to empty her mouth to laugh. Sure, it was stupid, but there we were, all laughing uncontrollably, tears running beside my big Seminole nose. Finally we stopped, gasping for breath.

  We got quiet in that way deep friendships can. We ate and did not discuss murder or poisoning. We um’d and ohm’d occasionally, especially when Laura brought out a chocolate cheesecake. We each sat back and sighed afterwards. Madonna wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and then licked it. “Sex without sex,” she said, then tilted her head and put a serious look on her face. “I have to say, Ruey, I hope you won’t mind, but I went through Tay’s junk at your apartment.”

  I looked at her with alarm. “It’s a good thing we’re friends,” I said.

  She shrugged defensively, and said, “I was worried. I went through his room. He’s got nothing. Not even a pack of cigarettes. I found one girly magazine. It’s my opinion that he’s just hanging with the wild ones right now. But I did find this.” She stood up and pulled out an envelope from her purse with a letter scrawled in Trina’s hand. I looked at her. “Didn’t read it,” she said. “Just saw it. In Tay’s undies drawer.”

  For a moment, I thought I was going to throw up. Too much was happening. “Well, okay,” I said. “Now we’re both thieves.” I shoved the envelope in my purse. “I can’t deal with this right now. I’ve got appointments this afternoon.” I picked up the coroner’s report and stood. “I gotta get back to work, you guys.”

  “Enjoyed lunch, especially the brie squishing out Madonna’s cheeks,” Laura said. We all laughed again.

  “Maybe we can meet at the Hook Wreck tonight, before it gets busy?” I asked. We agreed.

  “Maybe we can’t figure out what from which, but I got a drink that’ll go right to your elbows and knees,” Madonna said. “So nobody better need to drive home tonight.” Fair warning, I decided.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE NEXT PERSON to walk into Cutting Loose wanted cornrows. A college kid passing through, a backpack on her arm. Tedious job, but it paid well. And I had a tiny TV to listen to and glance at. Drilling experts revealed on the news that BP had valued speed over safety in the oil rig disaster, the news caster was saying. The screen flashed a picture of a raccoon looking into a camera, puzzled, as it walked through the sludge at the edge of a Louisiana marsh. “How to explain to a raccoon why this is happening, man,” the college kid said.

  Next a tourist came down wanting foil highlights. I decided to give the brunette woman some gold streaks. You tend to forget about the brunettes and the fun that can be had with their color. I used a 20-volume gold coverage on her. Thunder muttered outside. While the client was “cooking,” I handed her some trash magazines and a cup of tea. I slipped out, walking the three blocks in the misting rain to the white post office building.

  A rain started up and was spitting sideways, so the fishermen had come in early. A line had formed at the P.O. with people buying stamps and beginning to send Christmas gifts. I nodded and waved at a few locals and pushed the glass door into the postal box room, about the size of a living room. Rows of metal boxes lined three walls. The smell of gummy paper permeated the place. My box was situated in the corner. I had nothing much but bills and “buy our stuff” catalogs.

  I pulled out the coroner’s report from my pocket again as I stood at the box, my back to the door. Was anything else odd about it besides a signature that looked like Tiffany’s? A heavy loud clap of thunder shook the place.

  “A letter?” said Mac over my shoulder. I turned around, and he stood just behind me. Instinctively, I folded the report.

  “Hmm, from a sweetheart?” he said. I shook my head no. “Why so secretive? Still playing Nancy Drew?” I glanced at the large window, the fourth wall of the room. It began to rain harder. I sighed. I hadn’t brought an umbrella.

  “Why? You see something familiar?” I said, stuffing the report into my pocket. He was at eye-level, a small advantage a tall woman sometimes has. I could smell his aftershave, a lemony cedar scent.

  “No,” he said, backing away a step. “I just thought that since you feel free to look through my real estate files, you wouldn’t mind my seeing your lemon-scented love letters.” He was smirking, looking with piercing blue eyes. I looked at him right back.

  “Gotta get back to the shop,” I said. “I’m in the middle of a foil highlights.” I felt trapped in the stuffy room, but said, glancing at his umbrella, “If you wouldn’t mind walking me down?” I didn’t want him to think I was afraid.

  “I wouldn’t mind accompanying a pretty lady,” he smiled, opening the glass door for me. Outside, we stood under the eaves. Rain was clattering on the sidewalk and street. It felt sharply chilly.

  “Mac, you flatterer,” I said. “I’m tall and intimidating as a French cathedral. And this nose could hook a twenty-pound grouper. Forget buttering me up. It’s okay. We’re cool.” I straightened up as he opened his umbrella.

  “You tall girls underestimate yourselves,” he winked. “Well, I do want to tell you something, clear something up,” he said, offering for me to walk under his umbrella.

  “About your trial?” I said.

  “That was years ago,” he said, waving his hand casually. “It’s best left in the past. At any rate, it was a mistrial. The company I was working for fired me. Unfortunately, almost took me down, because they were going down.”

  He glanced at me, and we crossed the street where the old decayed ice cream parlor one block from my shop sat empty. Its overhead porch offered shelter from the rain. Then we continued to walk down the covered sidewalk. “They had cooked the books. It’s why I hired Trina Lutz. She was a straight shooter. We didn’t agree on everything, but she was honest. I respected that in her. And in you.” We were passing the only grassy lot on Main Street now, which fronted the sewage system and sometimes smelled like, well, like a sewer. I thought of the fishing widow who’d lived in the little house next door there for years before she died. Then my thoughts went back to Trina on a boat, dead before she had time to think.

  “Do you think she was happily married?” I said as we hurried past the vacant lot next to my apartment building.

  “I have a sense that they had their problems, like any couple. LaRue,” he said, stopping to look me in the eye. “I believe she was an unhappy woman. Depressed. The world wasn’t . . . perfect for her. And you know how emotional some women can be.” Weary, I ignored the sexist remark.

  “Affairs?” I suggested. “Someone else in love with Fletch who wanted Trina dead?” He looked at the sidewalk and guided me by the arm towards the salon.

  “LaRue, we’ve all got to let her go. She died. She killed herself, and I deeply regret that. I wish she’d reached out more
. Maybe—” He stopped in front of the salon and stared at the ground. “I know you’re distraught about the possibility that you could be charged with attempting to kill me.” His eyes softened. “I know you wouldn’t. I know you feel frustrated. I’ll be happy to loan you a couple of thousand dollars to get you through if a court appearance ties you up.” In the three-second silence that meant No, a local fisherman hollered at the four-way stop at another fisherman about party plans. I turned and looked at Mac straight on.

  “Someone tried to kill you,” I said. “Aren’t you worried they’ll try again?” He shrugged. “Do you think Fletch would want to kill you?” He had been looking back at the ground, and for a moment his eyes flickered as he looked into mine. Then they went back to their steady gaze at the ground.

  “I’m leaving it to the police. They’ll figure it out.” He shrugged. “Meanwhile, you and I need to move on. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that we all have to pick up and look forward, not back.” He peered out over Main Street and up into the steely sky. “Figured you’d be too proud to take money from me.” He smiled and opened the door for me.

  “Hello, there,” said the tourist woman with silver foil layered all over her head.

  “Hello, Mrs. Banks,” Mac said, nodding.

  “You were right, I needed this! She’s giving me a little gold blonde!” she said.

  “I sure hope this clears up,” I said. “The weather, I mean.” So Mac was still referring people from the condos down to me. I smiled and waved as he turned to leave.

  I had two more local appointments after Mrs. Banks. One was an Ootz who lived next to Dad and Grandma. I liked Matteo Ootz, an Italian-German mix whom we all grew up calling Matt. But he had a gorilla in a cage for a pet. He smelled of zoo.

  The other, a church lady, would quote Bible verses and talk about the blood of the lamb. I had my serious reservations about church. I headed to the coffee pot in the shop.