1 Margarita Nights

by Phyllis Smallman

  Styles looked like he had indigestion. “Your husband’s truck is still in the parking lot at the boat launch. You can move it now. We’re done with it.” “What about the Hollidaze?”

  “I’ll check it out.” He stood up and reached into his suit jacket. He laid a small brown envelope on the table in front of me. “The truck wasn’t locked. We found these under the floor mats.”

  I smiled. “Jimmy never locks anything.”

  “He’s dead, Mrs. Travis. And right now you’re the only one with a reason to kill him. You can drop the ‘my husband’s still alive’ act.”

  The black-and-yellow cruiser dropped me off at the public boat ramp where Jimmy’s cherry red four-door Ford pickup sat in the empty parking lot. The sun glinted off the ton of chrome lining its sides, running board and dual exhausts. It yelled, “Hey, look at me”—bold and exciting just like Jimmy.

  Seeing the truck, a huge emptiness opened up inside of me. I turned away from the last tangible piece of Jimmy. Crossing my arms tightly over my chest, holding myself together, looking everywhere but at the stupid truck Jimmy loved, I walked over to the concrete ramp where people backed their boat trailers into the Intracoastal Waterway.

  It was a day designed by the board of trade to lure tourists and their money from the snow up North, a clear fine day, a good day to be out on the water with temperatures in the seventies, warm for January. The incoming tide gently lapped at the shoreline at my feet. I stood there between clumps of seagrapes and searched the water, looking for some sign that would tell me what had happened, why a ball of flame had shot into the sky. A light breeze smelling of saltwater and fish was blowing, but I was sure I could smell gas and burning wreckage. Only the remains of a horseshoe crab at my feet spoke of death. There was no debris. No charred remains of boat or man. No sign left on the water of the Suncoaster, or of Jimmy—just sunlight dancing off water nearly as blue as the sky. A brown pelican flew north up the Inland Waterway towards Jacaranda, its wings going up and down in the same unhurried peaceful rhythm all pelicans seem to use, like they’re going to fall out of the sky at any second if they didn’t flap harder.

  The truck cab was hot as hell. Careful to avoid any scalding hard surfaces, I slid onto the old towel Jimmy had thrown over the vinyl upholstery. Jimmy sure hadn’t gotten any tidier living alone—there was more flotsam and jetsam in the cab than along the waterline. The passenger’s seat and floor where covered with fast-food containers, dirty clothes and empty cigarette packs, the miscellany of his life.

  Who did the truck belong to now? Likely the bank or a lease company; for sure Jimmy hadn’t paid for it. I started the truck as the police cruiser pulled slowly out of the parking lot.

  The radio was playing a song about a guy that was a long time gone. The witch must have been shaken by Jimmy’s music choices. Jimmy had even less class than I did and, whether his parents liked to acknowledge it or not, Jimmy was even more of a redneck than I was.

  Outside my door a basket of white lilies waited. The card said “Thinking of you,” and was signed Cordelia and Noble.

  I let myself in, leaned back against the door with the pungent lilies cradled in my arms and listened to the emptiness. Evan, sweetie and good housekeeper that he was, had closed all the windows before leaving my apartment. A cloying smell of floral scents assaulted me. I opened the sliding door and waved a tea towel madly about to move the air.

  I showered and dressed in what the witch would call my white trash clothes—a cropped stretch top in pale pink, with a heart cutout edged in red glitter to show maximum cleavage, and ragged-ass cutoffs, low enough to show off my navel ring. I looked like nobody’s idea of a grieving widow, except maybe the grieving ho widow from hell. I should stop by and see Bernice . . . see how she was coping.

  I headed for Big Red with a garbage bag. Styles said the police had checked the truck and hadn’t found anything, but they didn’t know Jimmy like I did. Somewhere there had to be a clue to what he was up to.

  I checked all the crumbled bills and receipts I found in the glove compartment before I dropped them in the bag. In a plastic sleeve behind the visor on the driver’s side I found an old picture of me in my red cheerleading costume. I threw it quickly in the trash and then just as quickly retrieved it and shoved it in my back pocket. It was a picture that had been in Jimmy’s wallet for years.

  The Ford had a crew cab and the seat was piled with a dozen boxes of new golf shoes, stock probably belonging to Windimere. I opened every box and took a good look inside. All I found was a bill with the supplier’s name on it. A name and telephone number was written at the bottom in Jimmy’s handwriting. It went into the pocket of my shorts with the picture.

  After I finished emptying out the truck, even looking under the seats and running an old T-shirt of Jimmy’s over the interior to take off the dust, I wasn’t any the wiser. The hinged cap that covered the bed of the Ford was locked but its key was on the ring with the ignition key. The box contained mismatched golf clubs, fishing equipment, the spare tire, a plastic garbage bag containing what looked and smelled like dirty washing, and a cooler with crushed Coors cans, melted cold packs, as well as some food thing gone green and slimy that I didn’t even want to think about. I didn’t find any travel brochures for South America.

  Upstairs, I ignored the blinking message light and called the number Jimmy had written on the bottom of the bill. The wall clock read a quarter to five. If it was an office number they might not answer but if it was a cell phone I might get lucky. A man answered and identified himself as Bill Jackson.

  “Mr. Jackson, my name is Sherri Travis. My husband Jimmy has some shoes that you supplied.”

  “Look, Mrs. Travis, I am sorry to hear about your husband but this has nothing to do with you. I supply Windimere with product and if someone on your husband’s staff is padding the cost it isn’t my problem. I told him that two days ago when he called. There was no need for him to fly off the handle like he did. He had a real mouth on him.” “Which staff member is doing the fiddle?” Silence thundered down the line. At last he said, “I think that’s all I have to say, Mrs. Travis. Goodbye.”

  If someone was skimming off the owners out at Windimere and Jimmy was about to blow the whistle, was that a good enough reason to make the Suncoaster disappear?

  And did I have anything better to do with my time then take a trip out to Windimere? The shoes were a perfect excuse.

  It was getting dark. Everyone would either be gone or about to leave. I’d have to hustle. Nothing happens on a golf course after dark—well, nothing good.

  Chapter 15

  I climbed into the pickup. Until someone came to claim Big Red he was all mine and I planned on enjoying him.

  I turned to a Tampa rock station and drove back over the bridge and out Killman Road to Windimere, out where slash pines grew above undergrowth so thick not even the longhorn cattle raised out there can make their way through it. Starting in early February, the male pinecones produce yellow pollen to blow down and cover cars and boats and mobile homes. You can forget about trying to keep anything outside clean around here in the dry season. The pollen seeps into houses and into cars, turning every surface and every piece of upholstery yellow. The pines are always the first things to go when the developers move in.

  But development hadn’t spread to this little wilderness between I-75 and Ta miami Trail. Here feral pigs, longhorn cattle, snakes and birds of every description ruled. Only the golf course infringed on this backcountry. Windimere was owned by a group of businessmen and professionals, lawyers and doc tors, who sank every spare cent of change they could beg, steal or borrow into this bet on the future. So far they only had a great golf course, but one day soon gated communities will surround it. Already, red stakes with yellow plastic ribbons fluttering on them had been driven into the ground along the western boundary. Things were about to happen out here.

  The manicured entrance, with stone pillars and tropical flowers, divided deep jungle on
either side of the drive. A bevy of quail scurried across the road in front of me and disappeared into the thick brush. The winding drive opened to a parking lot, empty except for three cars and the huge clubhouse with the golf course behind it.

  The Windimere owners hadn’t stinted on the landscaping. A full-grown Jacaranda tree, with beautiful silver bark, had been planted in the center of the parking lot. In early April it would turn periwinkle blue with flowers. The flat-roofed pro shop sat under bottle bush trees, heavy with their distinctive red flowers. I’d stayed away from Windimere because of Jimmy’s connection to it, so this was all new for me. In the soft light of early evening, it looked magical. But without people coming and going it had a lonely feeling and wild untamed nature crouched around the perimeter of its carefully tended area waiting for the owners to fail so the jungle could reclaim its own.

  In the pro shop, a foursome was at the cash register. A handsome man behind the counter, who was handing over a bag to one of the golfers, looked my way at the sound of the door. His smile faded.

  The other men turned around to follow his stare. Their faces were a whole lot friendlier than the guy’s behind the counter. But this late in the day, after an afternoon of golf and a few beers, these guys would be friendly to just about any female. I wasn’t exactly dressed for golf, more dressed for a night of mud wrestling out at Big Daddy’s. My wooden platform sandals, with the Chinese red toenails sticking out, struck loudly on the ceramic tiles as I moved to a display rack. A soft whistle came from behind me. I held up a 250-dollar rainsuit as a shield. I was still studying it when the four guys left.

  “Hi, Sherri.”

  Surprised, I shoved the hanger back on the rack and clacked up to the counter. The guy was smiling now. The smile worked well. Tall, dark and athletic-looking, he was wearing a soft pink shirt with black trim on the collar and sleeves. He and Jimmy must have been quite a pair with the ladies’ membership.

  “Have we met?”

  “No, but I know you’re Jimmy’s wife.”

  I smiled and told him, “I haven’t been Jimmy’s wife for a long time.”

  “I . . .” His response was cut off by the door opening behind him. An older man, dressed in work clothes, came through the half-opened door and said, “We’re done. See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Lock the back door on your way out.”

  “Sure,” the man said and closed the door.

  We were all alone.

  “I’m Tony Rollins, by the way,” handsome said and went to lock the front door to the pro shop. “I’m the assistant pro.” He came back towards me, moving in too close, stopping inside my comfort zone. I eased away. “I had a call,” he said and gave me a strange little smile. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

  Private? We were surrounded by hundreds of empty acres, just us and the wildlife. It didn’t get more private than this.

  Alarm bells started jangling but I clattered along behind him. That’s the amazing thing a bout dumb people like me— we go on making the same mistakes over and over, trusting to luck or divine intervention. Since everyone had left for the night and nobody would be coming out here after dark, if things went wrong divine intervention was the only thing I could count on.

  I followed him through the merchandise, down a hall running past washrooms to a door at the end, trying to remember what Jimmy had said about him. There was something evil bouncing around in my head but I couldn’t identify it.

  Chapter 16

  “This is Jimmy’s office.” He stood aside for me to enter. A faint memory of expensive cologne hung in the air, bringing Jimmy back.

  A big desk sat in the center of the back wall. Beside a dead computer screen, a large silver-framed picture of Jimmy and me sat on the desk, which explained how Tony Rollins recognized me. Jimmy’s normal chaos was at work here as well. Bills and invoices floated to the very edge of the desk.

  “This room looks like Jimmy.” Half stockroom, half office, the room was crowded with boxes of shoes and clothing. Golf clubs and bags, new and used, were stacked on top of each other or leaning up against the walls.

  Tony Rollins laughed. “No one could ever find anything in here but Jimmy.”

  “Not the tidiest person in the world was Jimmy.” Watching Rollins carefully, I asked, “ Have the police been here?”

  A small nod, “Yesterday. They came out and looked through everything and asked a lot of questions.” He didn’t look worried so they hadn’t asked the right questions. “They said it was just routine.”

  Either they hadn’t known it was murder when they came or they weren’t spreading it about yet. I walked around the room taking it all in. “Did they ask about Jimmy’s extracurricular activities?”

  Tony Rollins didn’t answer. I glanced back at him. He looked uncomfortable.

  “Don’t worry.” I gave him a bright smile, pushing my shoulders back and jutting out my chest. “I have no illusions about Jimmy.”

  “They didn’t seem to have anything in mind, just nosing around.” He hoisted a hip unto the desk. “I hear you made a call.”

  “I want to get rid of those damn shoes.”

  “Bill Jackson called me to say he’d heard from you.”

  “They’re taking up space.”

  “That’s all?” He polished the edge of the scarred desk with a forefinger. “Jimmy hasn’t been sounding off about things around here, has he?”

  I gave a snort of disgust. “Jimmy and I weren’t talking.” I flashed him my biggest tip-generating smile. “At least not about shoes. I have them in the truck.” He was happy now. “Good.”

  “But Jimmy wasn’t too pleased about your scam, was he?” His head jerked around to the closed door. We were the only people in the building but still he didn’t like me talking about it.

  “It’s all right,” I assured him. I flexed my shoulders and his eyes went back to the cutout heart of my top. When in doubt pull out the big guns. “It’s nothing to do with me but it sounds like a pretty good gig.” I put my hands on my hips and pushed my shoulders back to hold his attention.

  “Everyone does it,” he said, his eyes never leaving my heart.

  “The accounts show one invoice but you pay a lesser one and keep the difference, right? Jimmy found out about the double invoicing and he didn’t like it.”

  He frowned. “He just went crazy. Said a whole bunch of stuff there was no need to say. He was acting weird lately.” “Maybe he wanted in on the action.” He shook his head. “I offered him that.” “Did the police ask about it?” He was on his feet. “No.”

  “Hey, don’t worry.” I was backing up as I said it. My hands were out, palms up trying to calm him down and take the scary look off his face.

  “Keep it to yourself, okay?” The tone of his voice made it somewhere between an order and a threat.

  “I’m cool. They aren’t going to hear about it from me.” He sat back against the desk, arms crossed and legs stretched out. “I don’t know what was wrong with Jimmy. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have some things of his own going on.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Poker games. He used to hold poker games here after hours. He picked up some nice change at those games.”

  “Who was the big loser?”

  “Not Jimmy.”

  “Did he leave some unhappy players?”

  He shrugged, not interested in poker. “He shouldn’t have ragged on me like that.”

  The memory trying to dig its way out of my mind finally made it to the party. “What about drugs?”

  “Jimmy didn’t have anything to do with drugs.”

  “But Jimmy told me you sold great stuff,” I said softly.

  “You should be careful what you say.” He was on his feet and I was backing a way again.

  “No worries.” I was suddenly conscious of how quiet it was in the building and how black it was outside the window.

  He loomed over me. “Who else have you been spouting off to?”

 
; I edged further away. “Nobody.” I gave him my big warm “come to Mama” smile. “Do I look like I care?” Sexual heat and preconceived notions about a girl in cutoffs and a tight top are a great boon to a girl on a quest. “ Don’t worry about me,” I said, jutting out a hip. “A girl like me knows how to keep quiet.”

  His eyes dropped to the cutout for reassurance.

  “I was just wondering if Jimmy was using again.” I told him. “He’s been known to in the past.”

  “Naw.” He waved away my suggestions and gave me a warm smile. “But if you need anything I can get it for you. I know how to take care of my friends.” He moved in closer, not touching me but his body covering mine just the same.

  I tried a little laugh. “I’d have thought Jimmy would be your best customer.”

  Rollins shook his head. “He was going around like my mother, having a hissy fit over a little pot.” He looked flabbergasted and confused at this failure in Jimmy. “Purer than the pure! Very uncool.”

  “Jimmy didn’t like you dealing? That doesn’t sound like the Jimmy I knew.”

  He swung away from me. “Well it was the Jimmy I knew.” Agitated and angry, he picked up one of Jimmy’s golf trophies from the desk and wrung it between his hands. “These last few months he’s been a real pain in the butt, riding me about everything.” His eyes were on me but his hands didn’t stop working on the trophy, twisting it between his hands like a rag and he was getting every last drop of water out. “Jimmy changed over this last year. Actually, he was doing a good job.” Jimmy’s reformation came as quite a surprise to Tony Rollins. It came as a revelation to me as well. After a lifetime of being irresponsible and out of control, this was a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn for Jimmy.

  “He just didn’t want the stuff around anymore. I never had anything to do with hard stuff, but that didn’t matter to Jimmy.” The nameplate came off the marble base of the trophy and fell to the carpet. Tony Rollins didn’t notice. “He told me he would break my fucking neck if he caught me dealing drugs here again.” Indignation fought with stunned disbelief on his face.