The woman’s eyes were glassy, alone in some distant place. After a moment, she said, “The answer is here in the diary. Yes, they had a tremendous amount of leverage. They also had a gun.”
The Germans had been watching this house, Chestra said. Secretly. They knew that Frederick sometimes visited late at night. They also witnessed something that Marlissa didn’t want anyone to know. Especially Frederick.”
Marlissa had been experimenting with other men.
Chestra stood and motioned me to follow. There were more photos to see.
M arlissa Dorn wasn’t made for the 1940s. She was a free-thinker, outspoken, uninhibited.
“In those days, women had to pretend to follow the rules or they were ostracized. Sometimes crucified. Marlissa lived a secret life. A lot of strong women did.”
Frederick was one of her secrets. Her friend Vincent was another.
Once again, we were standing at a wall covered with photographs. I was looking at a shot of Edison and Ford, the two surprising mystics, as Chestra said, “It was only a few years ago—I was reading some book about the history of Sanibel—that I realized who Vincent was. Marlissa mentioned the name so often in her diary. ‘Vincent has composed a hilarious poem. Vincent has such brilliant ideas about politics, and social reform.’
“My godmother was very impressed. Vincent influenced much of her thinking about women’s rights, racial equality. Morality, too. Vincent was…open-minded. Marlissa was already too opinionated and free-spirited for women of that time. Vincent encouraged her.”
Chestra pointed to a photo. Vincent was Edna St. Vincent Millay, the internationally admired poet and Pulitzer Prize winner. It was the photo with Frederick in the background, holding a towel. The poet was wearing the flapper’s hat, smoking a cigarette, staring into the camera with her fierce, intelligent eyes.
“Vincent’s husband, from what I’ve read, was as open-minded as his brilliant wife. All that puritanical nonsense about sex being sinful, dirty, and about women being subservient to men. Vincent lived the way she wanted to live. Sanibel was her escape.”
According to Chestra, the diary contained no hint the women had a physical relationship, but Millay’s opinions and open lifestyle validated Marlissa’s own instincts.
Marlissa’s sensuality was more than skin-deep, Chestra told me. “She was never promiscuous, but she did experiment once or twice with other men—what could be more natural for someone like her? A young, healthy woman alone in this house, with the beach, the moonlight? What is it about the tropics, Doc, that makes sin so delicious?”
I said, “Maybe it’s the baggage people leave behind,” before asking if Frederick was as open-minded as Millay’s husband.
“She never told Frederick. She couldn’t. Besides, it wasn’t another man she wanted. It was the experience; the fun of it. Sex is healthy, we know that now. Marlissa believed it then. You’re the scientist—sexual activity changes our brain chemistry somehow. It keeps us young. She was decades ahead of her time.”
Marlissa also experimented, Chestra said, because it was a freedom she’d never experienced.
“Imagine what it’s like to be pursued relentlessly. Your every move watched by men who want more than your body, they want to possess you, even your most private thoughts. No woman can live up to the expectations of that kind of beauty. To choose a partner on her terms? That was freedom. Enjoy sex because she wanted it, that was the allure. But it had a price.”
Chestra read from the diary. “Tonight, H.G. threatened me. Blackmail is the word in English. He saw P.J. enter the house three nights ago. It was an innocent visit; he’s an old friend of the family, and often does yard work at Southwind. No matter. H. somehow knows I’ve strayed, and is threatening to inform. I would rather die than hurt my dear Freddy.”
On the wall was a photo of two of Chestra’s great-uncles posing with an alligator they’d apparently killed. In the background was a good-looking man with shoulders, and a saddle-brown face. He wore bib overalls; looked to be in his midthirties. It was Peter Jefferson, Chestra said.
The next entry in Marlissa’s diary contained the news that someone had gone to Jefferson’s moonshine still, poured liquor on the man, and set him afire.
Once again, Chestra read. “I know it was H.G. I rejected him. He despises me because of it. Only he has that much hatred and evil inside. I am lost as long as he is here. Maybe lost, now, forever. Poor, poor, dear Peter.”
C hestra closed the diary. “For years, I assumed everyone aboard died the night Dark Light sank. I was wrong.”
A year and a half ago, she said, her uncle Clarence Brusthoff’s office received a letter from a Wisconsin attorney, saying he represented an admirer of Marlissa Dorn.
“It was from the same law firm that sent this”—she indicated the FedEx envelope—“but it was from a different attorney. Not an attorney named Goddard.”
I didn’t understand why that was significant but let her talk.
In the first letter, the attorney wrote that his client was terminally ill, and wished to include Marlissa in his will. If Marlissa was no longer alive, the bequest was to go to Marlissa’s oldest living female heir—provided she meet certain terms.
I said, “You?”
“That’s right. This house was deeded to my uncle’s company after our families stopped vacationing on Sanibel. It paid for itself many times over as a rental. My second husband died ten years ago, and I began coming here, always in October, and always alone. It’s like heaven to me. A little less than two years ago, though, when Uncle Clarence’s business was in trouble, and it seemed real estate couldn’t go any higher, the house was sold to a Florida land company.”
Marlissa’s anonymous benefactor bought the estate. There were conditions to the man’s bequest.
“If I lived in Southwind for six months,” Chestra said, “the house would be available to me for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t own it. The estate would remain deeded to my benefactor’s company, which was responsible for taxes and normal maintenance. So it was better than owning it, in a way.
“It was a gift of time, not property. Those were the terms. My uncle thought it was some kind of horrible con. I was suspicious, but I can’t resist adventure. I adore this place, plus I had to find out who my godmother’s secret admirer was. It was a mystery! What did I have to lose?”
I said, “It’s an unusual gift.”
Women employ delicate understatement when dealing with topics they believe men are too naïve or insecure to handle. It’s part survival mechanism, part kindness. “Doc, it might surprise you some of the gifts I’ve been offered during my lifetime. Some of them from men who were supposedly friends of my husband.
“I was offered the deed to a villa in Majorca if I agreed to spend a month there each winter. I’ve been offered the use of private planes and apartments. A gentleman once showed me a magnificent eighteen-carat emerald pendant on a chain of Mayan gold. He said it was mine if I would spend the weekend with him in Paris. Instead, I spent the weekend with his wife, helping her shop for his anniversary present.
“In comparison, the only thing unusual about this gift was that I couldn’t keep it. But at least there were no strings attached.”
Through her uncle’s attorney, Chestra accepted. A Sanibel real estate agency that specialized in rentals opened the house to her and gave her the keys.
“Uncle Clarence brought boxes of family pictures; put them up personally to make this old gal seem like home again. The poor man wept as he hammered away. That was in March. I returned here last month, after the hurricane.”
Her benefactor died around the same time, and his name was finally revealed.
“It was Frederick Roth,” Chestra said. “I couldn’t believe it. That’s why I want to find out what’s among the boat’s wreckage. If there are no human remains, it tells me that maybe my godmother’s lover really did survive. I’m not being made a fool by some elaborate hoax.
“But it also leaves a terrible hole in w
hat I’ve always thought of as a beautiful, romantic story. If Frederick loved my godmother, why did he leave her? The first letter was addressed to Marlissa—he didn’t know she was dead. Why did he never return? It was such cold behavior for a man who was so gentle and decent.
“Yesterday, this arrived, addressed to me. From the same law firm, but signed by Jason Goddard.” Chestra touched the open FedEx envelope. “They know I’m her only heir; we had to get that straight before I moved in. Have a gander. I’m still in shock.”
Ms. Mildred Engle, As executor for the estate of the late Frederick Roth, and acting on Mr. Roth’s wishes, I write to make amends for a regrettable oversight. Many years ago, Mr. Roth borrowed money from Ms. Marlissa Dorn and purchased several hundred hectares of Florida real estate, much of it waterfront. In good faith, Mr. Roth signed promissory notes, using properties he’d acquired as collateral. Due to circumstances, my client never satisfied these debts, nor paid interest on monies due.
Many of these properties are still titled to Mr. Roth’s Florida land holding company. It was my client’s desire to leave this world with a clear conscience, and so I write to inform you, as Ms. Dorn’s heir, you may be due reasonable compensation. You may have claim to some assets associated with the company which owns real estate worth in excess of nine hundred million dollars.
The wording of the promissory notes, signed by Mr. Roth, is important, as well as date stipulations, if any. It’s my understanding that you are in possession of these documents. Please notify me when and if you have them available. You will then be contacted at this address by a company representative.
This representative is a trusted family member, personally selected by Mr. Roth. It was my client’s hope that you two will engage in private negotiations, on behalf of a man and woman who were once friends, and thus avoid the complex legalities and expenses involved.
The letter was signed: Jason Goddard, Executive Assistant to Frederick Roth.
I asked, “Do you have the promissory notes?”
Chestra had been pacing nervously, using her scarf to carve the air. “Yes. I’m sure I do. But not here. They’re in New York, although I can have a friend ship them down. I’m not so sure I should, though.”
“Why?”
“Do you see how the letter’s signed?”
“Yes.” I still didn’t understand the significance.
“The man Marlissa writes about in her diary, H. G. Goddard, begins with a G. Don’t you see? His name could have been Goddard. Don’t you find it frightening? Frederick Roth and H.G. on the same boat that night. Now both names reappear so many years later…”
I watched her twirl the scarf, aware that she was omitting information. Was she being unreasonably fearful, or did she somehow know H.G.’s last name?
Her expression became hopeful when I said, “Goddard and Roth are both common names. It can’t be the same man. A Wisconsin attorney? There’s no way—” I was interrupted by a determined knocking on the door below.
I waited as she descended the stairs, then heard her call, “Doc!”
It was Tomlinson. The instant I saw the stricken look on his face, I knew something was wrong.
Javier Castillo, he told me, had been shot and killed. His body found floating near Indian Harbor Marina.
35
The EMTs and medical examiner’s people didn’t leave with the Cuban’s body until after sunset, and it was nearly eight by the time the cops finished questioning Moe and Bern. They’d kept the men separated, interviewing them in unmarked detective cars that smelled of plastic and electronics.
The cops wouldn’t tell them, but a local fisherman said the Cuban had been shot in the meaty area just under the arm near the armpit. Not a bad place, if there’s help around, but the Cuban had headed for the water for some reason, trying to escape through the mangroves, and bled to death because the bullet nicked an artery.
Before the cops had arrived, Bern had said to Moe, “Tell the story exactly as it happened. Only difference is, when the black guy jumped out of the boat you thought he had a gun, so did I. You fired a warning shot, the guy maybe stumbled and fell. We’re not sure. It was dark. He ran off. We searched for a while before I called the cops.”
Moe was feeling better about things after reading the newspaper article four or five times. He said, “We thought Javier had a gun, and we were standing our ground.”
“Damn right we thought he had a gun. The asshole already threatened to shoot somebody if he didn’t get his boat.”
“The warning shot—did I fire it into the ground or up into the air?”
Jesus Christ, Bern knew running backs who were smarter than this guy. “You hit him and killed him. So why don’t you say you shot in his direction. At his feet, maybe, wanting to scare him. You shoot up in the air, and what? The bullet comes straight down, hits the guy on top of the head, and comes out his armpit? Back there in French Lick, I’m thinkin’ babies get dropped a lot. Your doctors must be missing fingers; some kind of genetic deal.”
It was eight-thirty now as Bern walked into his condo and noticed the FedEx package from the old man’s assistant, Jason Goddard, on the desk. He still hadn’t opened it, and thought: Why not? His luck was improving—one witness dead, one witness to go, and a new self-defense law that seemed custom made for Bern, considering how many times Moe had nearly killed him.
The Hoosier’s time was nearing.
He found scissors and sat.
Inside the FedEx package, there was a cover letter that stank of mothballs, just like the tight-assed attorney who’d sent it. Bern didn’t bother to read the thing. He went right to the contents, two more legal-sized envelopes, which he ripped open, staring out the window at the sky, which was graphite streaked with orange and pearl.
He stopped for a moment. He could see darkness beyond pools of security lights—empty docks, the canal, and a hollow-looking space that he knew was the bay. Something was missing from the deepwater seawall.
Where the hell’s my boat?
He’d been so busy dealing with cops, he’d forgotten about Augie and his butt-buddy taking the Viking out to go scuba diving. They should’ve been back a couple of hours ago. Unless Augie had decided to stop somewhere for a drink, brag about what a hotshit he was in the fancy boat that he didn’t own, and that—Bern was just deciding this—Augie would never ever use again in his life.
Bern needed that boat in case his luck hadn’t changed, although he was pretty sure it had.
A moment later, though, after he’d leafed through the contents of the first envelope, he whispered, “Shit,” and dropped the papers on the desk.
Maybe his luck was the same. Still bad, getting worse.
W ritten in his grandfather’s shaky hand: “Bernie, I kept a file on your recreational activities. I recommend you cooperate with Jason.”
Bernie. Jesus Christ, he hated that name.
Attached to the note were copies of dozens of newspaper clippings: the Milwaukee Journal, the Madison State Journal, the Baraboo News Republic, and several weekly papers.
The clippings dated back to Bern’s troubled adolescence, one headlined:
BARABOO TEEN EVALUATED
AFTER ASSAULT WITH HAMMER
It was not surprising the old man had kept the article. He held grudges for a lifetime, so why not keep them in a scrap-book like scalps?
The other clippings were more troubling:
ASSAULTS PLAGUE BARABOO PARK.
COPS HUNT RAPIST DUO
These were from his high school and college days; a time when he was first experimenting with a game a buddy of his called Caveman. They’d walk in from the backside of Devil’s Lake State Park—a popular place for campers; neckers, too—and hang out along the Ice Age Trail, a famous Wisconsin nature path where granola munchers loved to hike. Around sunset was the best time: pretty, with the lake in the distance, trees on rock ledges above. Wait for some doper girls to come jiggling along and introduce themselves.
I
f the doper girls were friendly, he and his buddy would have fun. If they weren’t, they still had fun. Grab them by the hair—like cavemen—and pull them down the hill to a place where they already had a blanket laid out and a couple of six-packs of beer.
How did the old man know it was him?
Spooky.
One clipping was headlined: LOCAL AUTHORITIES SEEK OUTSIDE ADVICE. It said an FBI expert on criminal profiling had been invited to Baraboo to help decipher a pattern in the timing of the assaults. Bern remembered reading this story, and thinking: Uh-oh. Time for the Cavemen to hit the showers.
His grandfather had circled the headline in red, and scribbled: “Idiots never checked local football schedule!”
Bern thought about that for a moment. What did playing Caveman have to do with football? Well…maybe the old man had something. They’d started grabbing girls when summer two-a-day practices ended, and went to the park only on weekend nights they didn’t have a game.
By then, he and his buddy were being referred to as “the Devil’s Lake Stalkers.” Funny. All fired up on steroids, with no practice, no game, and tons of boyish energy to burn.
Once, a couple of local cops stepped out of the bushes as they entered the park; said they were staked out, waiting for the rapists, and wanted to ask a few questions. Bern’s buddy—a defensive end who later started all four years at Grinnell—told the cops, “This is quite a coincidence, officers, we looking for those bad boys ourselves. If they’re lucky, you’ll catch ’em before me and my man Bernard get our hands on ’em,” speaking in the funny way black guys did.
They spent the next hour with the cops, talking football, telling them Baraboo could beat any high school team in Milwaukee or Madison, bring them on.
That was their last visit to the park.
Bern took the time to read one of the articles and nearly smiled. “Descriptions of the stalkers are consistent in that both men are described as ‘huge,’ but otherwise vary greatly. Victims have described both as ‘white, Hispanic, Afro-American, and Asian.’”
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