Vengeance

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Cynical comment,” he said. “Place I’d like to go is Galapagos Islands. You know Darwin was always seasick on a boat?”

  “No,” I said.

  Gwen Two put the hot plate of food in front of me. The eggs were over very easy. Orange marmalade for my rye toast. I had become a semi-regular. Listening to Tim, having Gwen Two know what I wanted, helped take some of the horror out of the morning. I ate, paid attention to Tim and checked the clock.

  Caroline Wilkerson had a less than modest house just over the north bridge leading to Siesta Key. Siesta is smaller, more ambling and less upscale, less high-rise and less resort-lined than Longboat Key. Siesta still has the sense of lush greenery and the memory of village. That’s not to say Siesta has less wealth that the longer, thinner finger of its rival to the north. Siesta’s money, generally, is more tastefully secluded.

  The home of Caroline Wilkerson was big and new. Eight steps led up to a large double door with frosted-glass square windows etched with fleurs-de-lis. On each side of the doors were two white pillars, which probably did nothing to hold up the floor and enclosed balcony above. The house itself went for a balance between almost-orange brick Florida and Mount Vernon. It was about the right size and shape to decorate the back of a new U.S. Mint coin. Yes, a commemorative pink, Florida half dollar, the Wilkerson house on one side, a flamingo on the other.

  It was still raining and thunder rolled, but far away inland.

  I parked in the brick driveway behind a red Jaguar, hurried up the steps and pushed a well-hidden white button. A hum, somewhat like the musical sound made when Harvey turned on his computer, sounded inside the house.

  Caroline Wilkerson opened the door. She was in pale blue tights, a towel around her neck, her white hair a bit frizzled, her face pink, handsome and without the trace of a line or wrinkle. She hadn’t gone to any trouble anticipating my visit.

  “Come in,” she said.

  In I went, following her across pink terrazzo floors to a patio beyond a living room, dining room, kitchen and a big, cozy-looking library. The patio was under a room above it that provided a roof. There was none of the screened-porch look to this house. It was open. The bugs that plagued the houses inland did not come in from the gulf on the keys. In front of the broad terrazzo patio was a swimming pool with a Jacuzzi and a small waterfall from it to the pool. Beyond the pool was a broad inlet. I stood watching a long-necked white bird glide through the rain, looking down for a feast of fish brought to the surface by the rain.

  I was feeling poetic. I was feeling as if I had just eaten a large breakfast. I was feeling like not thinking about what I knew I had to do.

  The table was white wicker with a glass top. The chairs were matching wicker.

  “Will this take long?” she asked. “I’m running late.”

  “Nice house,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she answered, making it clear that the opinion of a short, balding Italian process server would not make her day. “Please have a seat. Coffee, tea, juice?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, sitting.

  She toweled off and sat.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Why did Dr. Green tell me to come see you again about Melanie Sebastian?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’d ask him when I see him, but we’re not really on social speaking terms.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think he’s given Melanie particularly good advice,” she said. “Excuse me.”

  She got up nervously, went into the house and left me sitting and looking at the rain now coming down more reasonably but still hard. The rain had not cooled the morning. When she came back, Caroline Wilkerson was without towel and carrying a glass of clear, white liquid.

  “Water,” she said, seeing me look. “I don’t drink.”

  “None of my business,” I said.

  “You’re quite right,” she said, sitting and looking at me.

  “Mrs. Wilkerson,” I said. “I’m trying to find your friend. I think she’s in some kind of trouble. The way she’s acting just doesn’t make sense. Does she have a history of emotional problems?”

  “Did you discuss this with Carl?”

  “Not yet. I’m just following up Green’s suggestion.”

  “Why not ask him, then? He’s the psychiatrist.”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. Patient confidentiality. That may be why he sent me to you.”

  “Oh God,” she said, looking into the sky. “I hate this.” Pause. “Melanie was depressed, profoundly depressed, probably still is. She even talked to me several times about suicide. She was supposedly working through it with Geoff Green.”

  “What was she depressed about?”

  Caroline Wilkerson ran a finger over her moist upper lip, looked at the moisture and said,

  “I don’t know. Maybe something from her past. She didn’t talk about her past much. Just before she ran away she had visited a relative up north, an aunt or something, her last living relative I think. Melanie’s older brother had died in Vietnam. Her father died when Melanie was a baby. Her mother, I don’t know, Melanie didn’t talk much about her but from a few things she dropped from time to time I got the impression that her mother had some serious mental problems.”

  “You think Melanie may be …”

  “Disturbed,” she said.

  “Suicidal?”

  Her head went down.

  “Yes. I talked to a doctor friend. From what little I could give him, he thought the problem might be chemical imbalance, inherited. I think it very possible that Melanie might do something to herself if you don’t find her soon.”

  “And Carl Sebastian loves his wife?” I asked.

  She gave me a look that suggested she was examining a demented lower species.

  “Adores her,” she said. “You should have seen them together. Melanie is Carl’s life. He’s a remarkably strong and resilient man for his age, but I think if Melanie … if you don’t find her, he won’t survive long or, if he does, he’ll be a broken man. My husband always said Carl was a genius, that Carl had an instinct for the right deal, the right moment. Carl helped make my husband wealthy. Find Melanie, Mr. Fonesca.”

  “You have no idea where she might be?” I asked.

  “None,” she said. “I have no idea why Geoffrey Green sent you to me.”

  “You know a little man who looks like a bear, not much hair, tough face, drives a blue Buick?”

  “No.”

  “When did you lose your driver’s license?”

  She turned her head away and then back to me.

  “How did you know I lost it?”

  “My job.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Melanie used it. Got her picture pasted over yours, laminated it. She’s you when she wants to be.”

  Caroline Wilkerson tapped the red fingernails of her left hand on the glass top of the table.

  “What does Melanie Sebastian like to read?” I asked.

  “Like to read? I don’t know. What has this got to do with … ?”

  “She have a favorite food?”

  “I really never noticed,” she said with some irritation.

  “Maybe if I know these things I can check them out, see if she’s bought a new book, gone to a restaurant where they serve her kind of food.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Her favorite movie or movies?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Is she a Democrat, Republican, Libertarian? None of the above?”

  Caroline Wilkerson shook her head.

  “I wish I could help, but we never talked about such things.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Clothes, people, you know, gossip, what happened at a party. It sounds superficial, but we had more substantial things we did on our own.”

  “Like what?”

  “What do I do?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do volunteer work at the Women’s Ce
nter. I serve on the boards of … This is really none of your business.”

  She was definitely not pleased with me.

  The rain was stopping. I wished it wouldn’t.

  “What did Melanie do? Substantial, I mean.”

  “Children, she worked with children. Raised money, gave money to local groups that support abused mothers, children. She couldn’t have children of her own.”

  “Why?”

  “Some illness,” Caroline Wilkerson said, running a narrow manicured finger around the rim of her water glass. “I don’t know what it was. She didn’t talk about it. I have to go.”

  I got up and said, “That’s about all I have for now. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I hope so.”

  Now she got up and looked at me without the contempt I’d felt since she first opened the door.

  “Find Melanie,” she said. “Find her quickly.”

  “I will,” I said.

  She put out her hand. I shook it gently and she walked me back through the house and out the front door.

  Melanie Sebastian and Caroline Wilkerson might have been best friends, but Caroline knew very little about her buddy. Maybe Melanie wasn’t the kind who shared. Maybe Caroline made it clear she wasn’t interested in getting too close and knowing too much.

  There are people who live on the surface. They don’t want to get below their own veneer and they certainly don’t want to get below the surface of others. There is something behind the face we show the world that threatens the life of people like Caroline Wilkerson. Caroline Wilkerson would remain plastic surgery, diet, exercise and makeup handsome to the last second and then she would repaint the veneer with peach self-deception.

  The truth was that I didn’t know what I was telling myself. It was a fantasy that felt true but might be a lie. It probably came from my having a surface that hid almost nothing, at least nothing I was aware of.

  I drove off. When I left the Key over the north bridge, the reality of Dwight Handford hit me again. I had put it away, but it wouldn’t stay down. I had to make the rounds. I had to ask questions that risked my losing the few friends I had.

  Well, Lew Fonesca did hide his gargoyles and demons and he told no one about his grandfather’s mandolin. Why hadn’t I told Ann Horowitz about them? Reminders of guilt and pain soothed by a childhood memory of an instrument now plucking out “The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise,” my grandfather’s arthritic fingers moving madly. There are some secrets we want to hold on to, cling to—the last piece or two of flotsam that keeps us afloat in our private sea of doubt. Did the Handfords of the world have secrets, doubts? Did he take some piece of jagged driftwood memory to his grave? I hoped not. We, at least I, need monsters. Without monsters there are no heroes. Something has to be black and white.

  Ames had told me he hadn’t killed Handford. Ames wouldn’t lie. He would know that I’d never turn him in. I knew I’d never turn in one of my other friends if they had killed Dwight. I just had to know.

  First stop, Flo Zink.

  The sun had come out when I was about halfway to Flo’s. I knew it was now hot and humid, sweat-drenching hot and humid, just outside the air-conditioning of the Geo. A little old man in a big new car swerved out of his lane and almost forced me off of Tamiami Trail. I looked over at him. He was hunched over and looking dreamily ahead. He had no idea what he had done. I accepted this hazard of Florida life and drove on.

  Flo was home, waiting. She opened the door, the voice of a man behind her sang about the Texas wind and Flo announced, “One drink so far today,” with pride. “I’m shooting for four a day. How do I look?”

  She was wearing a beige knit skirt and matching top with a brown sweater. Her hair was brushed and her earrings small and silver.

  “Fine,” I said. “What’s the occasion?”

  “I thought we were going to see some people about that foster parent business?” she said.

  “I haven’t worked out the details yet.”

  “There’s a phone. Work it out.”

  Flo didn’t sound or act like a woman who had shot a man a few hours ago, but maybe she was in a mood for celebrating after having done a righteous deed.

  “Flo, Dwight Handford is dead.”

  “Maybe there is a God,” she said solemnly. “Makes things a lot easier. Who killed him? Forget it. I don’t care.”

  “I had the idea that you might have done it,” I said.

  She put her hands on her hips, cocked her head to one side and said, “Lewis, I’m flattered. But I didn’t kill him. How did he die?”

  “Lots of bullets from a handgun.”

  “Sounds like what I’d do if I did it but I didn’t. Can you make whatever calls you have to make now?”

  “Who’s that?” I asked, looking at the tape player.

  “Roy Acuff,” she said. “Not much of a voice, not much emotion, but he sounds like the real thing and the words get to me. The phone, Lewis.”

  I called Sally on her cell phone.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “It’s Lew,” I said. “When can you set something up for that foster placement for Adele? I’m here with a very expectant lady.”

  “My office, one P.M. I’ll have someone there who can take care of it.”

  “I have to talk to you, Sally,” I said.

  “Can’t talk now,” she said. “I’m in a client’s home. See you at one.”

  She hung up.

  I hadn’t told her about Dwight Handford’s body up in Palmetto. I knew why. I wanted to catch her off guard, see how she took the news. She had sounded normal on the phone, but that didn’t mean much.

  “One o’clock,” I told Flo. “You sure you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”

  “Lewis,” she said, touching my cheek. “You sure you know what I’ve been through in my life? Someday I’ll tell you some stories. Right now I’d like a drink, which means it’s up to you to take my mind off of it.”

  “Let’s go to Mote Marine,” I said.

  “Never been there,” she said. “Fish.”

  “It’ll take your mind off of human life,” I said. “I like it there.”

  We went to the Mote Marine Aquarium on City Island between St. Armand’s Circle and the bridge to Longboat Key. We smiled at a shark, grinned at a giant grouper, examined eels and searched for alliteration in the clear seawater tanks.

  “You’re right,” Flo said. “It’s … a different world.”

  The blue angel was there, in his car not far from where I parked. I wanted to invite him in. I had the feeling he would like the fish, several of which resembled him. Some probably resembled me. I also wanted to talk to Angel about the death of Dwight Handford.

  “Lunch?” Flo asked when we had finished the cycle and seen every fish and sea creature.’

  “Had a late breakfast,” I said, “but I’m up for salad.”

  “Columbia?” she asked. “They have a mean house salad.”

  “Sure,” I said, and we walked back to my car. I let her in and asked her to wait for just a second.

  “Mind if I turn on the radio?”

  “No,” I said, and moved toward the blue Buick.

  I knocked at the driver’s side window and he rolled it down and looked up at me. No music played in his car, but there was a pile of magazines on the passenger seat. The top one was the latest Cosmopolitan. He said nothing.

  “Dwight Handford is dead,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “The guy who tried to beat me up. The guy you saved me from. The guy who shot a hole in my window last night.”

  He nodded, accepting the information.

  “You followed him last night after he blew my window out.”

  He shrugged.

  “You kill him?”

  “No. What’d I tell you yesterday? Do your job.”

  “I’m doing it,” I said. “What’s your job?”

  He rolled his window closed. I couldn’t see through the tint. I gav
e up and went back to Flo, who had found a country-and-western station on the radio.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, nodding toward the Buick.

  “An angel,” I said.

  She seemed satisfied.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, nodding at the radio.

  “Eddy Arnold,” she said. “Got all his CDs. They ran a special on television a while back.”

  The Columbia, a Cuban restaurant on St. Armand’s Circle, wasn’t far. The original Columbia was opened in 1908 in Ybor City in the heart of Tampa. I’d been there once to serve papers on a computer salesman. Old, big, authentic, lots of colorful tile, lots of big solid wood tables. Zorro country. The night I served the papers there was a quartet of flamenco dancers. My wife would have liked it. She would have liked the sense of stepping into the past.

  The Columbia in Sarasota was modern with lots of light and the house special 1908 Salad, which I ordered.

  Flo was hungry. She ordered the seafood paella. It took twenty minutes to prepare, but we were in no hurry. I looked through the window at the passing traffic and across the street at the large circle surrounded by sidewalks around trees and bush-lined paths with benches where tourists could eat their ice creams from Ben & Jerry’s or Kilwins.

  A man was standing on the concrete path on the circle across from the Columbia. He was looking through the window at me. Cars passed in front of him. Through one break in the traffic, he motioned to me.

  “Flo, I’ve got to do something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “The guy on the circle?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, getting up. “He’s a client, Carl Sebastian.”

  “Just happened to be there and saw you?” she asked, reaching for her second warm, crisp roll.

  “I doubt it. I’ll make it fast.”

  “Take your time,” she said. “I like it here. You think a glass of wine would be …”

  “A good idea,” I said.

  The air outside the Columbia was warm and after-rain muggy. There were puddles and patterns of water in the street and on the sidewalk. I crossed between cars and faced Sebastian on the path.

  “I knew some of the people,” he said. “The ones who have stars.”

  The concrete sidewalk around the circle was embedded with stars honoring famous circus performers, much like the stars on Hollywood Boulevard. These bronze stars included information on the performers.