Swan arrives right on time. She’s tall, blond, and stunning; Irene puts her at thirty-five or thirty-six. She’s wearing white pants, a formfitting white T-shirt, a slender gold watch, and gold hoop earrings. Irene peeks behind her in the driveway and sees an ivory Land Cruiser.
“Hello, Mrs. Steele, I’m Swan Seeley.” Nice handshake, smile; she’s wearing makeup and she smells divine, some kind of expensive perfume. Maybe Swan thought tonight was going to be more formal than it is?
They sit at the dining-room table. Swan pulls a Moleskine notebook out of her supple leather hobo bag. This woman is smooth, polished. Wealthy. She’s the Mavis Key of St. John.
Irene offers Swan wine—“Yes, please”—and sets out a plate of the lemongrass sugar cookies, which turned out splendidly. (Brandon’s suggestion to undercook them by two minutes was spot on; they’re pale golden and have alluringly crinkly tops.) Irene offers the plate and Swan takes not one but two—oh, Irene likes this woman already.
Irene says, “I’m not sure what Baker told you…”
Swan’s head swivels around. “Is Baker here?” she asks. “I saw his Jeep out front.”
“He’s reading to Floyd,” Irene says. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
“He’s such a good father,” Swan says. “Not just a good father but a good parent. My ex…well, this time of night you could usually find him in front of the slots at the Parrot Club.”
Irene suddenly understands that Swan’s presence here has little to do with Irene and much to do with Baker. Does Swan know that Ayers is pregnant with Baker’s baby? Maybe that doesn’t matter. Baker and Ayers have hardly seen each other at all. The week before, Ayers’s parents came over and Ayers stayed home. Irene figures she’d better state her case before Baker comes downstairs and distracts Swan.
“I want to start my own fishing charter,” she says. “Here’s what I’ve found out…”
Swan agrees the three-hundred-and-sixty-day requirement is a bummer and means it’ll be another year before Irene’s charter is up and running.
“I would hire you as a mate on my boat,” Swan says. “But it looks like I have to sell it to pay off my ex.”
“Divorces are tricky,” Irene says. She’s had a glass and a half of wine, so she nearly adds, But better than staying married and finding out your husband has a secret family!
“I’m confused about why you’re not working for Huck anymore,” Swan says. “He’s such a great guy. Such a wonderful grandfather. Completely devoted to Maia.”
“That he is,” Irene says.
“You know, I saw him on Friday night out at Skinny Legs.” Swan sips her wine. “He was with a woman, a very pretty redhead. I saw them leave together, so I think maybe Huck got lucky!” She leans in conspiratorially and bumps Irene’s shoulder.
Irene nearly falls over in her chair. “A redhead?” she says. “Was she his age?”
“Younger,” Swan says. “Closer to my age, I’d guess. Go, Huck!”
The wine and cookies churn in Irene’s stomach. Her neck flushes. She has to get out of there.
“Hey, ladies.” Baker saunters into the kitchen. “I don’t mean to interrupt—”
“Baker!” Swan says. She jumps up from the table to give him a hug. Here is Irene’s way out.
“Thank you for all your help, Swan. I’ll let you two kids chat. I need to hit the hay.”
“Hit the hay,” Baker says. “Can you tell we’re from the Midwest?”
“Are you sure, Irene?” Swan says. “We didn’t get to talk about my marketing ideas. I have a bunch.”
“We’ve got plenty of time,” Irene says. “I hope you’ll come back once I buy a boat and get closer to my hours…”
“You don’t have to run off, Mom,” Baker says. His expression seems to be asking Irene not to run off.
Sorry, Baker, she thinks. You’re an adult. You deal with your romantic entanglements and I’ll deal with mine. “Enjoy the cookies,” Irene says.
Very pretty redhead. I think maybe Huck got lucky! Go, Huck!
The living room, where Irene is sleeping, is too close to the kitchen to be private. Irene slips through Floyd’s room to the bathroom and sits on the edge of the tub in the dark.
Huck was out with Agent Vasco. She’s a redhead, about Swan’s age, very pretty. Well, Irene thinks, very pretty might be overstating things, but yes, she’s attractive. She’s also the person who took away Irene’s house. She took my house, Huck, and you two are out canoodling at Skinny Legs!
Just as Irene was starting to soften a little and wonder if she should let him know she read his letter.
Vasco!
I think maybe Huck got lucky!
Did he take her home? Did he sleep with her? Irene can’t let herself imagine this. The night she and Huck went to Shambles, he kissed her. It could have gone further but Irene stopped him. She was right to stop him, because when she read the diaries, she realized how wrong it was that she had become friends with Rosie’s father!
Irene’s face is wet. She’s crying. She quit the boat and moved out of Huck’s house because she was hurt by Russ, angry at Russ. And now Huck is with someone else. He’s had the hots for Vasco this whole time; he’d admitted as much, this could hardly come as a shock. The letter said he missed their friendship. Apparently, he’s getting his “friendship” somewhere else now!
She’ll never speak to him again, she decides.
Should she call him right now? It’s nine thirty. He’s asleep.
Irene cracks the door of Floyd’s room; she hears Baker and Swan talking. She lies down on the other half of Floyd’s king bed and falls asleep.
When she wakes up in the middle of the night, she has no idea where she is. Then she hears the steady purr of Floyd’s breathing and remembers.
Her mouth is cottony; she’s still in her clothes. She brushes her teeth in the bathroom and applies her nighttime moisturizer. Her reflection in the mirror is unforgiving. You messed up.
The house is now dark and quiet. Irene grabs her pillow and blanket from the closet and heads to the sofa.
She needs to see Huck tomorrow, she thinks. She isn’t going to lose him to Vasco. Nope, sorry. She has lost too much already.
She wants to be waiting for Huck by the Mississippi in the morning but there are the logistics of cars. Baker needs his Jeep to drop Floyd off at school and then get to work. Cash has to be at Treasure Island by seven. If Irene had let Cash know the night before, he would have dropped her at the National Park Service dock first, but she can’t spring it on him now.
She says to Baker, “Is it okay if I borrow your Jeep after you pick up Floyd from school? I have errands.”
“No problem!” Baker says. He’s unusually chipper. He has made Floyd banana pancakes for breakfast. “Would you mind watching Floyd tonight? I have plans with Ayers.”
“Ayers?” Irene says. “What about Swan?”
“Swan?” Baker says as though he isn’t sure who Irene is talking about. “Oh, we’re just friends.”
Just friends. Maybe Huck and Vasco are just friends as well. Maybe Swan misunderstood the situation at Skinny Legs. Oh, please. Oh, please! Irene isn’t sure how she’s going to make it until three o’clock. She would text Huck right away but she knows he’s out on the boat. She’ll be waiting when he pulls back in. If, God forbid, Agent Vasco is also waiting for Huck on the dock, Irene will…push Vasco in.
I’m crazy, Irene thinks. Crazy about him and just plain crazy.
She sits by the pool with her captain’s-license study materials but she can’t concentrate on characteristics of weather systems or lifesaving equipment. She heads to the kitchen. She isn’t hungry, but what about a drink? The bottle of wine she opened with Swan is gone, but Irene has plenty of other bottles. What if she starts drinking now, at eleven o’clock in the morning, and shows up at the dock completely blotto?
This is so out of character, she’s tempted to try it.
She still has a few Ativan left. Should she
take an Ativan?
I think maybe Huck got lucky! Go, Huck!
She hears a car in the driveway. Yes? No. Yes—a car door slams. Did Baker come home for lunch? Irene goes to the front door and sees a black Jeep with tinted windows in the driveway and a small woman with a limp brown ponytail approaching. Probably she’s lost. Hikers come out this way looking for the start of the Reef Bay Trail coastal walk, but that’s up the hill.
“Can I help you?” Irene says.
“Irene Steele?” the woman says.
Irene blinks, looks again at the Jeep. Didn’t Huck say something about a black Jeep with tinted windows? Yes. He saw one loitering on Jacob’s Ladder.
“I’m sorry,” Irene says. “Do I know you?” The woman is wearing a plain white short-sleeved blouse and khaki capris. She has a pale, round face and brown eyes. FBI? Irene wonders. They’ve taken everything she has. If they ask for anything more, she’ll give them the Christmas ornaments.
“Irene.” The woman checks their surroundings as though she thinks they’re being watched. “May I come in? I need to speak to you confidentially.”
“About?”
“Your husband,” the woman says. “And Todd Croft.”
“Are you with the FBI?” Irene asks. “I’d like to see some ID.”
“I’m not with the FBI,” the woman says. She takes a step closer to the screen door and lowers her voice. “Irene, we’ve spoken on the phone. I’m Marilyn Monroe.”
Irene’s hand flies to her mouth. Marilyn Monroe was the person who called Irene on New Year’s Day to tell her Russ was dead. She was Todd Croft’s secretary, but it seemed like she’d dropped off the face of the earth.
She looks nothing like the famous Marilyn Monroe. Under other circumstances, Irene might find this amusing.
Irene holds the door open, then locks both the screen and the solid wood door behind Marilyn. Turns the dead bolt.
“Yes,” Marilyn says, as though this is a necessary measure.
“Can I offer you anything—”
“We just need a quiet place to talk,” Marilyn says. She looks around the Happy Hibiscus. “He hasn’t gotten in here, so it’s safe.”
“Who?”
“My husband,” Marilyn says. “Todd.”
“Todd Croft is your husband?” Irene doesn’t mean to sound incredulous but she’d thought Todd Croft, with all his money and power, would have a trophy wife. Someone like…Swan Seeley. Polished, put together, a woman who wears five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfume and carries a two-thousand-dollar bag, someone who owns a cigarette boat so she can zip over to Virgin Gorda for a facial at Little Dix. This woman looks like she drives in a carpool, then heads home to scrapbook. She’s neither fat nor thin, neither pretty nor ugly. How would Irene describe her to the police? Round face, clear skin, a nice straight part in her brown hair. She wears a gold wedding band next to a diamond engagement ring; her nails are filed into pretty ovals, though they’re unpolished. She has leather thong sandals on her feet and a gold anklet so thin it’s almost imperceptible. Irene can’t recall the last time she saw anyone wearing an anklet. Her sorority sister Sandra, maybe, back in 1985. She must be Irene’s age, maybe a few years younger. Fifty-two or fifty-three, Irene would guess.
“Yes,” Marilyn says. “We’ve been married for twenty-five years.”
“So before all this started.”
“Todd started Ascension the year after we got married,” Marilyn says. “My family owns marinas and boat-building concerns in Florida. My father got Todd set up in business.” She nods at the sofa. “Okay if we sit down?”
Yes, yes. Irene leads Marilyn into the living room but the midwesterner in her will not be quieted. “Are you sure I can’t get you any coffee, tea, or…will we be needing wine?”
Marilyn doesn’t smile at that, and Irene starts to worry. “I’ve been trying to talk to you alone for a while now. But you were always with the captain.”
“Huck,” Irene says. “Yes.”
“And then, suddenly, you weren’t. I thought I’d lost you. I thought you left the Virgin Islands.”
“No, I moved in here with my son. You found that out somehow?”
Marilyn nods. “I asked someone close to you.”
“That narrows it down,” Irene says. “I know only five people.”
“I have things to tell you, things I wanted you to hear directly from me. When I leave here, I’m meeting the FBI to turn state’s evidence against Todd.”
Irene lowers herself down to the sofa inch by inch, as though Marilyn has a gun trained on her. Where is Irene’s cell phone? She wants to record this conversation but she doesn’t want to frighten Marilyn away. “You are?”
“After I do that, I’ll go into protective custody—assuming he doesn’t find a way to kill me first. But it’s been eating at me since I spoke to you on the phone in January, the wrongs that have been done to you. And your sons. And the captain. And the girl.”
“Maia.”
“I feel like I’ve been carrying all of you around on my back,” Marilyn says. “But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”
“No, by all means,” Irene says, “start at the beginning.” Where is the beginning? she wonders.
Marilyn takes a deep breath like she’s about to jump into cold water. “Back when my father gave Todd the seed money, ten million, Todd’s investing business was legit. Todd is…good-looking and quite charismatic, so his main strategy in building a client base was to court new widows, especially the gold diggers who’d hit it big, and there are an endless supply of those women in Florida. Todd was a savvy investor, and it was the heady first days of the internet bubble. Cisco, Oracle—everyone was printing money. Todd brought me to the Virgin Islands on vacation, we stayed at Caneel, and while he was chatting with someone at the bar there, he heard about the EDC, the Economic Development Commission, which offered tax incentives to lure businesses down to the territories. Todd immediately applied. He could work from virtually anywhere, and he wanted the tax break because it freed up that much more capital for him to invest. And, too, he loved the Virgin Islands.”
She pauses, checks that Irene is still with her. Irene bobs her head: Yes, yes. She can’t believe Marilyn Monroe is sitting here. She can’t believe she is hearing all of this in what would look to an observer like a regular social visit.
“I was ambivalent about the EDC. I thought it sounded shady, though now I know it’s perfectly legal, but also, I wanted to start a family, and I wanted to do that at home, in Miami, where the schools were good and my parents were nearby. No problem; Todd had to spend only a hundred and eighty-three days per year in the islands, according to the EDC guidelines, so he bought a simple villa on Water Island, which is undeveloped, deserted, overlooked. That’s the way Todd wanted it, and he traveled to and from Florida by himself.
“Well, I didn’t get pregnant, probably because we rarely slept together. I quickly realized Todd was using his time down here for more than just business. I also became aware that Todd had one client who, among his legitimate business interests, owned marijuana farms. This gentleman had a high net worth, and Todd didn’t want to lose him as a client, so he found a way to shuffle the dirty money deep into the deck. That, as far as I know, was the first time he hid a client’s money.”
“Marijuana farms seem nearly quaint,” Irene says.
“They call marijuana the gateway drug, which was true in this case,” Marilyn says. “In 2005, Todd hired Stephen Thompson, an attorney from the Cayman Islands who had a lot of experience with offshore accounts. Stephen brought along clients who were big dirty-money guys—the human traffickers, the exotic-animal dealers, the gem smugglers—but both Todd and Stephen were looking for a third partner.” Marilyn clears her throat. “A fall guy.”
Russ, Irene thinks.
“Todd bumped into you and your husband at the Drake Hotel in Chicago. He remembered Russ from college and the arrangement they had where Todd sold alcohol to the underclassmen while R
uss looked the other way in exchange for a part of the profits. He ran a background search on Russ. He found out Russ’s salary with the Corn Refiners Association, learned about his membership in the Rotary Club and his position on the school board. He got information about your house, your cars, what they were worth, what you owed, and even the ages of your sons, who he assumed would be heading to college in a few short years. Todd decided Russell Steele would be the perfect front man. He was both respected in your community and strapped for cash—overextended beyond what you probably even knew. And he had that history with Todd. Todd knew Russ would be willing to look the other way while someone else broke the rules.
“Todd called Russ, brought him down to the Virgin Islands, wined and dined him on his new yacht, Bluebeard, and at Caneel.” Marilyn stops. “Todd had a local man working for him named Oscar Cobb.”
Irene’s breath catches. Oscar Cobb! Oscar Cobb worked for Todd Croft?
“I know of him,” Irene says. “He was Rosie’s former boyfriend.”
“Well.” Marilyn shakes her head. “Is it okay if I continue candidly?”
Irene nods. It can’t be worse than what she read in Rosie’s diaries. She hopes.
“When Todd and Stephen brought Russ down to the Virgin Islands, they didn’t mention any of their sensitive clients. They let Russ believe that Ascension’s dealings were on the up-and-up—which they were, for the most part—and that Russ’s job would be to capitalize on his natural charm as a salesman and his trustworthy persona as a midwestern husband, father, and citizen. Ascension’s clients were investing tens and sometimes hundreds of millions of dollars. They wanted a friendly face who would answer when they called, who would lose to them at golf, who would make them feel safe and comforted.”
“Yes,” Irene says. “This is exactly the way Russ explained the job to me.”
“They planned to ease into the black money so gradually that Russ would become acclimated to it bit by bit.” Marilyn shakes her head. “Like the old frog-in-a-pot-of-water myth where supposedly if you raise the temperature a few degrees at a time, the frog won’t realize it’s boiling.”
Troubles in Paradise Page 23